Alice and the Universe: Part 2

Dear Universe


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

Good work.

Love
Alice

A Certain Sort of Contentment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Right"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I might be turning into my Mum a little bit.

Teenage Skin

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

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

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

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

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

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

Awkward, as in: I am.

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

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

To elaborate:

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

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

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


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

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

Beside The Sea

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

Alice and the Universe

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

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

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

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

This is where the universe hating me comes in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Remembering Dad

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

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

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

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

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

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

Busy Little Bee

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

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

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

Which is rather full of princesses

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




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




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

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

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



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



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



I am a motherfucking princess.

Having a fire relit that you thought to be out

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

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

Running

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.