Last night, I ventured along to Borders at Teesside as part of their 'Borderlines' event. Thank God I got a lift, as I would probably be wandering the mean streets of Teesside if I had braved the train (never a good thing, I am told). The thing I continue to love about book launches and readings is there really is no way of estimating the number of people who will show up. It was a lovely evening, which could mean that the store would be packed with people using books as fans and slurping Magnums, or that the general public thought 'screw Borders, I'm going to play football in the park'. As it was, we apparently were contending against a live football match - I won't embarrass myself by pretending to know which match, or who was playing, but one of the 'lively' audience members felt the need to shout it out, so I thought I would give it a mention.
After many confused wrong-turns, and a pick-up point in Blaydon, we meandered along to the retail park in record timing. I have to say, a reading in a book-store is rather bizarre. Based at the foot of the stairs, you could listen to the poet as they performed, and also catch the embarrassed grins of the people ascending to the Starbucks in the sky. The slightly sadistic side of me was desperate for somebody to trip, as I inevitably would have in their shoes. However, it was not to be, and the reading passed without a hitch. We had some pretty exciting hip-hop MCs, which were greeted with delight (and shock from the little old lady sat in the front row). If somebody had mentioned previously that there was an open-mic session, there is a chance I would have been more prepared...as it was, I was thrown in at the deep end, and read 'Bitcherel' from the Staying Alvie anthology I bought in my first-year of Uni. Although I am pretty certain I resembled a sweating tomato, I did not trip on cables, headbutt the microphone or even drop my book! It was, in my own definition, a success, and I even got heckled!
Anyway, my point is - support local book-launches! Honestly, they're good fun, and you get to meet some hilarious, eccentric, talented and very very friendly people. Once the first couple of people have braved the mic, a torrent of readers surged the stage (by stage, I mean corner of the floor separated by velvet foot-stools). I even heard a rather erotic ode to the Wicked Witch of the West. However, my favourite poem of the night was actually the one I have completely forgotten! The idea was that each word had to have a certain vowel in it, and the man who read chose the letter 'e'. The poem was really fantastic, and so this morning, live and kicking in my Sunday-leggings, I decided to have a crack at one myself...read below, and have a go yourselves, it's really fun!
***
We creep
Fleeing sleep, we venture deep
The streets are clean when evening steals
The people home.
Silent feet, we peel the dreams, filter
The real
Feel, feel
The heat, sweet metronome, the incessant
Bleat the heart
Beats.
Cheap beer, fire embers rise
Weeping smoke engraving eyes
Ashes scatter, leave the pile neat
Head home, cruising streets
Leap the fence, creep
The key, the key, silver, sleek
Silence reigns.
Thursday, 28 May 2009
Saturday, 23 May 2009
Exam Day
I am not a great fan of exams. I know this because in every exam I have ever taken I get panic-fuelled heart lurches and extreme palm-sweats whenever one is fast approaching. No matter how many times I promise to revise, I always end up with the 48-hour cramming session, where I prise my eyelids open in front of the page, eating only cereal and muttering incoherently. This is because I fear preparation. Preparation seems endless; the fools who plan months in advance must therefore work solidly for said months, lest they lose invaluable information two days prior to exam-day. Instead, I rely on my brain to get me through this hysterical period, promising that next time, I will draw spider-diagrams, mock questions, lists and charts with the very best of them. The thing is, I can't help thinking that a good, healthy dose of panic sets you up pretty well...when the power-hungry invigilator says 'go', I am like a rocket. The curve in my finger where my pen sits is crimson, I am furiously scribbling, wrenching my hair back from my face and refusing myself even the merest sip of water until I've written eight pages. It's almost brutal, yet it works. My brain, bullied into submission, delivers at the crunch, and thus far I haven't fared too badly come results-day. However, I shouldn't be complacent - instead of setting myself up for a fall, I have purposefully selected all the final-year modules which select essays over exams. This seems to be the general consensus throughout my course, hence they are all over-subscribed and next-years exams will consist of five people grouped together, sweating copiously and promising themselves that if they pass, they will read a book a day for the next year-and-a-half.
This exam was almost laughable. There was a ripple of tension, mingled with pre-elation at it being the last exam we will ever take. Ever. Hence, amid the visible nerves and furious riffling of notes, people are still laughing and joking. The atmosphere extends into the cavernous exam hall, set in the somewhat unsuitable Premier Inn, Newcastle. People were actually checking in and out during our two-hour stint of scribbling. Tourists looked terrified at three hundred students bursting out of the conference suite, screaming with relief at breathing fresh air (well, more so than the stuffy confines of exam-hall). The sun is shining, which we all take for a good omen, as we all were drenched from the torrential downpour preceding the exam. Now, people who wouldn't even nod at each other in corridors are embracing, drunk on their own freedom, and boasting about Summer plans involving more alcohol than is available in the entire Bigg Market. I feel relief mingled with a hollowness which I feel has less to do with hunger for lunch, and more to do with a fear that I really did not study hard enough. Unfortunately, my bedroom is chock-a-block with distractions. Even if I manage to ignore the Internet, radio and phone, I find something. This time around, I even cleaned the bathroom to avoid my hideous anthology. When I finally sat down to revising, I drifted off into some dream-like torpor, where I woke to find myself curled around my many books, an ink imprint of Ezra Pound plastered against my cheek. And, despite my close proximity, the knowledge did not seep into my brain. A good friend swears by a night's sleep with three or four critical essays tucked underneath his pillow - his other revision consists solely of information gleaned from Wikipedia and Sparknotes...he rarely reads the primary texts yet without fail receives a solid 2:1. I find this distinctly unfair, yet anybody who can slumber atop a hard-backed mouldering library book deserves credit. I personally stack my books by my bed, so when I stagger to the bathroom in the morning (I'm showing off here, I rarely emerge before lunch-time) I can stub not just my toe, but my entire calf. This generally hits the spot, and I enjoy casting the books aside after I skim them and take appropriate notes.
So, when I receive the ominous brown envelope in the post mid-July, I refuse to be disappointed with my mark. It was the final exam, and whatever revision I did or did not achieve, my mark will be a reflection of the day itself. Which probably means I failed, as I only remember counting the number of people excused to go to the toilet. It was 23.
This exam was almost laughable. There was a ripple of tension, mingled with pre-elation at it being the last exam we will ever take. Ever. Hence, amid the visible nerves and furious riffling of notes, people are still laughing and joking. The atmosphere extends into the cavernous exam hall, set in the somewhat unsuitable Premier Inn, Newcastle. People were actually checking in and out during our two-hour stint of scribbling. Tourists looked terrified at three hundred students bursting out of the conference suite, screaming with relief at breathing fresh air (well, more so than the stuffy confines of exam-hall). The sun is shining, which we all take for a good omen, as we all were drenched from the torrential downpour preceding the exam. Now, people who wouldn't even nod at each other in corridors are embracing, drunk on their own freedom, and boasting about Summer plans involving more alcohol than is available in the entire Bigg Market. I feel relief mingled with a hollowness which I feel has less to do with hunger for lunch, and more to do with a fear that I really did not study hard enough. Unfortunately, my bedroom is chock-a-block with distractions. Even if I manage to ignore the Internet, radio and phone, I find something. This time around, I even cleaned the bathroom to avoid my hideous anthology. When I finally sat down to revising, I drifted off into some dream-like torpor, where I woke to find myself curled around my many books, an ink imprint of Ezra Pound plastered against my cheek. And, despite my close proximity, the knowledge did not seep into my brain. A good friend swears by a night's sleep with three or four critical essays tucked underneath his pillow - his other revision consists solely of information gleaned from Wikipedia and Sparknotes...he rarely reads the primary texts yet without fail receives a solid 2:1. I find this distinctly unfair, yet anybody who can slumber atop a hard-backed mouldering library book deserves credit. I personally stack my books by my bed, so when I stagger to the bathroom in the morning (I'm showing off here, I rarely emerge before lunch-time) I can stub not just my toe, but my entire calf. This generally hits the spot, and I enjoy casting the books aside after I skim them and take appropriate notes.
So, when I receive the ominous brown envelope in the post mid-July, I refuse to be disappointed with my mark. It was the final exam, and whatever revision I did or did not achieve, my mark will be a reflection of the day itself. Which probably means I failed, as I only remember counting the number of people excused to go to the toilet. It was 23.
Wednesday, 13 May 2009
Growing Old 'Gracefully'
This afternoon, I enjoyed the pleasure of riding on a bus. To the student with no other means of transport, maybe you will understand my excitement at public transport. My only other way of mobilising myself is via my vintage pushbike, sprayed multi-colour to disguise the various dents and patches of rust. My flatmate has a car, as I'm told every home in England must have one - but it really is a car in the most loose sense of the word. Unfortunately, when I am being led through the various technical problems of the vehicle taking up our parking-space, I have a nasty habit of humming absently in my head and staring at a point over my flatmate's left shoulder. Hence, all I know is that the handbrake rattles loudly, merely to irritate me. Something under the bonnet gives off a powerful smell of rotten eggs when we drive, meaning that we spend a lot of time on the side of the road with the bonnet propped up, while the insides get a bit of a rest. Other (I'm told 'minor') issues include: the glove compartment initially refused to open, and now, after a bit of screwdriver-damage, fails to shut. The boot also denies us entry. The tyres deflate one after the other, despite much usage of foot-pumps. The car, similar to my bicycle, is an OAP masquerading as a spritely youth, and it's fooling nobody.
So back to the journey. I was venturing to the hospital, where a b.e.a.utiful Doctor-man examined my feet and generally pulled them at many different angles. The bus-ride there was rather unexciting, apart from a point where I realised I had no idea where my stop would be, and so thought it was acceptable to ask a fellow passenger. Whereas in my native-land of Lincolnshire, eye-contact on a bus usually results in a conversation lasting the entire journey, and sometimes further, it seems the North-East rules are marginally different. I selected the one person not speaking to themselves/the conductor/the window/their handbag, and was perfectly polite. But it seems that the bus etiquette means that even if you fear you are in a different county to the one intended, you must suffer in silence and pretend that all is well. The lady in question spoke in an entirely alien language with lots of mumblings (Geordie) and kept talking about a place called Blakelaw, which I KNEW was no where near where I needed to be.
The journey back was far more exciting. Chock full of pre-pubescent school kids, high on the summer heat and Mars Bars, they made me and my friend feel very, very old. We sat awkwardly among them, knowing that we would never be that young again, with yoghurt spilled down the front of their purple jumpers (although, in my friend's case, if he did like yoghurt, it would probably be all over his clothes). The bus stopped at every single stop along one stretch of road, to save their tiny little legs. One girl, the popular loudmouth, even dared to casually mock us in an American accent (my friend is New York-ean) - whereas a few years ago I would have come up with something witty and cutting to fire back, I was only able to smile benignly. This is because, in the process of leaving school-uniform behind, I have become the rusty bicycle.
The final humiliation of the journey was the approaching-of-my-stop. Now I really do get irritated at the very old people who insist on standing up before their bus-stop is even in view, and in the process of making sure they get to the front, dropping all of their bags, showing their pants, falling on the floor and generally making an entire spectacle of themselves. There is, for their protection, a SIGN affixed to the front of the bus, INSTRUCTING them to 'remain seated until the bus stops'. My grandparents are very into 'the rules', and what is and is not allowed - thus, I can only assume that OAP bus-frequenters are rebelling against the obedience system. Nevertheless, I found myself getting excited when I knew I was near home. And while the bus was still accelerating to frighten an innocent cyclist, I was struggling down the bus steps (yes I had sat on the top floor), because I was certain that the bus driver was planning to sail right past my stop. I should mention that I had actually pressed the bell, but I still am not convinced that they really work for the top level. This resulted in the bus driver braking forcefully whilst I was half-way down the steps, clutching two shopping bags - I ended up doing a spectacularly undignified half pirouette, and almost collapsing into the lap of the old lady on the ground floor. Even though I'm told buses are fitted with cameras nowadays for our personal safety, I truly believe the bus-driver wanted to cause me ultimate pain and humiliation, but I still thanked him because I am English and thus explode if I am not formal and polite at all times.
I think that today was a taster of the rest of my life - I could no longer associate with the young girl on the bus which saddens me, because this year I will be 20 and that signals to me a great fall into the depths of old age. Instead, I am condemned to hospital appointments to assess the state of my ankles and embarrassing falls on buses. It could be worse though...I could be subjected to the 'noise those kids call music nowadays'. Now I remember when Steps were king of the pop scene...
So back to the journey. I was venturing to the hospital, where a b.e.a.utiful Doctor-man examined my feet and generally pulled them at many different angles. The bus-ride there was rather unexciting, apart from a point where I realised I had no idea where my stop would be, and so thought it was acceptable to ask a fellow passenger. Whereas in my native-land of Lincolnshire, eye-contact on a bus usually results in a conversation lasting the entire journey, and sometimes further, it seems the North-East rules are marginally different. I selected the one person not speaking to themselves/the conductor/the window/their handbag, and was perfectly polite. But it seems that the bus etiquette means that even if you fear you are in a different county to the one intended, you must suffer in silence and pretend that all is well. The lady in question spoke in an entirely alien language with lots of mumblings (Geordie) and kept talking about a place called Blakelaw, which I KNEW was no where near where I needed to be.
The journey back was far more exciting. Chock full of pre-pubescent school kids, high on the summer heat and Mars Bars, they made me and my friend feel very, very old. We sat awkwardly among them, knowing that we would never be that young again, with yoghurt spilled down the front of their purple jumpers (although, in my friend's case, if he did like yoghurt, it would probably be all over his clothes). The bus stopped at every single stop along one stretch of road, to save their tiny little legs. One girl, the popular loudmouth, even dared to casually mock us in an American accent (my friend is New York-ean) - whereas a few years ago I would have come up with something witty and cutting to fire back, I was only able to smile benignly. This is because, in the process of leaving school-uniform behind, I have become the rusty bicycle.
The final humiliation of the journey was the approaching-of-my-stop. Now I really do get irritated at the very old people who insist on standing up before their bus-stop is even in view, and in the process of making sure they get to the front, dropping all of their bags, showing their pants, falling on the floor and generally making an entire spectacle of themselves. There is, for their protection, a SIGN affixed to the front of the bus, INSTRUCTING them to 'remain seated until the bus stops'. My grandparents are very into 'the rules', and what is and is not allowed - thus, I can only assume that OAP bus-frequenters are rebelling against the obedience system. Nevertheless, I found myself getting excited when I knew I was near home. And while the bus was still accelerating to frighten an innocent cyclist, I was struggling down the bus steps (yes I had sat on the top floor), because I was certain that the bus driver was planning to sail right past my stop. I should mention that I had actually pressed the bell, but I still am not convinced that they really work for the top level. This resulted in the bus driver braking forcefully whilst I was half-way down the steps, clutching two shopping bags - I ended up doing a spectacularly undignified half pirouette, and almost collapsing into the lap of the old lady on the ground floor. Even though I'm told buses are fitted with cameras nowadays for our personal safety, I truly believe the bus-driver wanted to cause me ultimate pain and humiliation, but I still thanked him because I am English and thus explode if I am not formal and polite at all times.
I think that today was a taster of the rest of my life - I could no longer associate with the young girl on the bus which saddens me, because this year I will be 20 and that signals to me a great fall into the depths of old age. Instead, I am condemned to hospital appointments to assess the state of my ankles and embarrassing falls on buses. It could be worse though...I could be subjected to the 'noise those kids call music nowadays'. Now I remember when Steps were king of the pop scene...
Friday, 8 May 2009
Catharsis
At the risk of causing offence, the world would be easier to navigate if everybody was just nice. Normally, I hate the word 'nice' - it covers all manner of sins, and was on the 'banned' list in my primary school English class. However, to be 'nice' would just about sum up how people should behave to one another, I feel. Not overtly generous, or polite, or kind, or compassionate...just plain old nice would do for me.
It seems that every day, people are so worried about offending, or upsetting somebody, or their words being misconstrued, that their whole personality becomes determined by the people they see. For example, I know people I could readily mock all day long, and they would return this two-fold, and that would be fine. We would laugh, and know that no offence is meant, and the conversation is all in the manner of good-fun. With other friends, I am the shoulder-to-cry-on...the sponge that soaks up all their worries and concerns, and spews out endless sympathies and advice. This is also fine, and the self-obsessed side of me likes feeling that I'm doing the good-turn (yes, I went to Brownies). However, with other people, it seems that I can be myself and it's not ok. I can be myself slightly altered and it's still not ok. I can be a whole-new-alien-person and it's STILL not ok. At the risk of my blog turning into one big rant, I am always told to just be yourself, and if people don't like it they know where to go. This seems to be the general rule which has been passed down through my family, through magazines, friends, teachers, doctors etc. etc. etc.
A point which I really believe, as I sit on the brink of final-year university education, is that you should not just accept yourself, but enjoy being who you are. It sounds so cliche, I know, but if you don't like yourself, nobody else is going to leap in and tell you how wonderful you are. Self-love has a lot to be said for it. Of course, egotistical and arrogant attributes of self-love often surface, and those, in my opinion, should be readily thrown out of the proverbial window. However, instead of absorbing criticism which is neither constructive nor given to help or advise you, maybe it is better to fill your ears with a buzzing sound and hum absently, until such 'advice-givers' have left the building. Really, what is the point of sitting down and having somebody voice how truly terrible a person you are? Surely, it is the most aggressive form of therapy, and unless you want to pay somebody to tear you apart, why bother? Just accept that yes, you may not be perfect, but this is fine, it is good, it is actually great, because why would we all want to be perfect? There would be no need for bitching over coffee!
So, to be nice would just be wonderful. Just for a day, or an hour even - if people didn't give significant cold stares, and pointedly leave conversations hanging awkwardly - how refreshing that would be. Of course, in that hour of niceness, I'm sure a huge backlog of hatred would build, exploding with the force of a nuclear attack and rendering everybody a quivering mess of self-loathing. In which instance, it is probably not the best idea. But one to bear in mind, should I need a good old clear-out.
It seems that every day, people are so worried about offending, or upsetting somebody, or their words being misconstrued, that their whole personality becomes determined by the people they see. For example, I know people I could readily mock all day long, and they would return this two-fold, and that would be fine. We would laugh, and know that no offence is meant, and the conversation is all in the manner of good-fun. With other friends, I am the shoulder-to-cry-on...the sponge that soaks up all their worries and concerns, and spews out endless sympathies and advice. This is also fine, and the self-obsessed side of me likes feeling that I'm doing the good-turn (yes, I went to Brownies). However, with other people, it seems that I can be myself and it's not ok. I can be myself slightly altered and it's still not ok. I can be a whole-new-alien-person and it's STILL not ok. At the risk of my blog turning into one big rant, I am always told to just be yourself, and if people don't like it they know where to go. This seems to be the general rule which has been passed down through my family, through magazines, friends, teachers, doctors etc. etc. etc.
A point which I really believe, as I sit on the brink of final-year university education, is that you should not just accept yourself, but enjoy being who you are. It sounds so cliche, I know, but if you don't like yourself, nobody else is going to leap in and tell you how wonderful you are. Self-love has a lot to be said for it. Of course, egotistical and arrogant attributes of self-love often surface, and those, in my opinion, should be readily thrown out of the proverbial window. However, instead of absorbing criticism which is neither constructive nor given to help or advise you, maybe it is better to fill your ears with a buzzing sound and hum absently, until such 'advice-givers' have left the building. Really, what is the point of sitting down and having somebody voice how truly terrible a person you are? Surely, it is the most aggressive form of therapy, and unless you want to pay somebody to tear you apart, why bother? Just accept that yes, you may not be perfect, but this is fine, it is good, it is actually great, because why would we all want to be perfect? There would be no need for bitching over coffee!
So, to be nice would just be wonderful. Just for a day, or an hour even - if people didn't give significant cold stares, and pointedly leave conversations hanging awkwardly - how refreshing that would be. Of course, in that hour of niceness, I'm sure a huge backlog of hatred would build, exploding with the force of a nuclear attack and rendering everybody a quivering mess of self-loathing. In which instance, it is probably not the best idea. But one to bear in mind, should I need a good old clear-out.
Wednesday, 6 May 2009
The Wisdom of Teeth
It's twenty-seven minutes past nine at night, and I haven't eaten my tea. Usual routine dictates that by this ungodly hour I am reading with a cup of tea and thinking lovingly of supper (bagel or Ryvita?) Tonight, I have been 'networking' at a book launch, in the stiflingly hot greenhouse that is my University Art Gallery. Although glass panelling is very now, very kitsch, it is also very very hot. Seven minutes into the launch, my hair had plastered to my forehead in a style reminiscent of the good ol' comb-over. Eight minutes in and the entire wine supply (and there was a lot - I uncorked at least ten of the bottles) had gone. Simply vanished. It's a strange world when everybody is drunk and you're not. On the occasions that I decide alcohol is the drink of the devil, and I am strictly a cranberry juice girl, I end up home in bed before TV gets remotely risque. I become paranoid that the whole world is having an amazing time, whilst I am condemned to a pit of despair and loneliness. You can easily tell the designated drivers from the stag party, because the sober one hasn't got a permanent-marker moustache, nor does he blow condoms up and burst them in bouncers' faces. Nor does he pick fights, although he is expected to rescue worse-for-wear friends, when it transpires the person they chose to argue with is a black-belt with nineteen friends. All of whom sport leather jackets.
The book launch turned out to be great though. I was given a free bottle of wine, which most likely cost more than I am usually able to afford. I was also presented with a copy of the book (and I met the poet too, and she was lovely) - really, for a couple of hours baking in the unbearable humidity, I didn't do too badly. Sometimes it's worth having a different perspective to reap the benefits. If I had embraced the free wine with the gusto of everybody else, I would probably have danced, and maybe even sang and heckled, none of which are acceptable behaviours at a book launch. I like to think my preference for orange juice was mature, and decidely un-studentlike, and because I was raring to go, I met some genuinely nice, if a little tipsy, people. And they were all so cool in the most un-teenage style of the world. They were clearly all hopelessly intelligent, dressed artfully with wild hair. I lusted after many strategically positioned felt brooches, and casually expensive charm bracelets. For my part, I wish I had changed my shoes, because I don't think ripped converse with a drying muddy puddle-splatter constitutes chic.
One more think which I feel inclined to note, as I feel this is becoming less of a blog and more of a diary, is that wisdom teeth truly are the bane of my life. Apparently, my mouth cannot house four new arrivals, and so they will niggle at my gums until the dentist sees fit to remove them. I scoured the pain-relief section of Boots for something which would destroy the pain...a mallet perhaps, or a good stiff injection of Novocaine. Unfortunately, they were fresh out of mind-numbing drugs, and so the chemist recommended Bonjela, with the weariness of somebody who hates hypochondriacs (and I am the worst kind - a splinter can become swine flu in a micro-second). Needless to say, I apparently produce too much saliva, as there is no difference to the pain in my gums, yet my tonsils are pleasantly tingling. The disappointment of failed medicine grips me. Instead, I plan to eat lots of pizza, in the hope that the melted cheese will form some layer of protective coating over my teeth. Failing that, I will whine pathetically at the receptionist tomorrow, begging to see my dentist, any dentist, even the caretaker if he has a chisel handy.
So how to provide this promise of insatiable happiness? I've given myself a bit of an obstacle there, as I will just have to grin and bear the pain. At least I can now sit and drink lots of my (free) wine, and pretend that it's medicinal. I can also order my flatmate to cook for me spontaneously, with ingredients we don't have, just so he can casually purchase a bar of Galaxy when he heads to the supermarket. And best of all, I can spend lots of time in my pyjamas and think about how wise I could have been, if only my teeth would fit in my mouth.
The book launch turned out to be great though. I was given a free bottle of wine, which most likely cost more than I am usually able to afford. I was also presented with a copy of the book (and I met the poet too, and she was lovely) - really, for a couple of hours baking in the unbearable humidity, I didn't do too badly. Sometimes it's worth having a different perspective to reap the benefits. If I had embraced the free wine with the gusto of everybody else, I would probably have danced, and maybe even sang and heckled, none of which are acceptable behaviours at a book launch. I like to think my preference for orange juice was mature, and decidely un-studentlike, and because I was raring to go, I met some genuinely nice, if a little tipsy, people. And they were all so cool in the most un-teenage style of the world. They were clearly all hopelessly intelligent, dressed artfully with wild hair. I lusted after many strategically positioned felt brooches, and casually expensive charm bracelets. For my part, I wish I had changed my shoes, because I don't think ripped converse with a drying muddy puddle-splatter constitutes chic.
One more think which I feel inclined to note, as I feel this is becoming less of a blog and more of a diary, is that wisdom teeth truly are the bane of my life. Apparently, my mouth cannot house four new arrivals, and so they will niggle at my gums until the dentist sees fit to remove them. I scoured the pain-relief section of Boots for something which would destroy the pain...a mallet perhaps, or a good stiff injection of Novocaine. Unfortunately, they were fresh out of mind-numbing drugs, and so the chemist recommended Bonjela, with the weariness of somebody who hates hypochondriacs (and I am the worst kind - a splinter can become swine flu in a micro-second). Needless to say, I apparently produce too much saliva, as there is no difference to the pain in my gums, yet my tonsils are pleasantly tingling. The disappointment of failed medicine grips me. Instead, I plan to eat lots of pizza, in the hope that the melted cheese will form some layer of protective coating over my teeth. Failing that, I will whine pathetically at the receptionist tomorrow, begging to see my dentist, any dentist, even the caretaker if he has a chisel handy.
So how to provide this promise of insatiable happiness? I've given myself a bit of an obstacle there, as I will just have to grin and bear the pain. At least I can now sit and drink lots of my (free) wine, and pretend that it's medicinal. I can also order my flatmate to cook for me spontaneously, with ingredients we don't have, just so he can casually purchase a bar of Galaxy when he heads to the supermarket. And best of all, I can spend lots of time in my pyjamas and think about how wise I could have been, if only my teeth would fit in my mouth.
Tuesday, 5 May 2009
First Time Nerves
What will people think? Will they like it? Will they hate it? These are the thoughts whirring around my brain this morning, lodging like a sour taste in between my spoonfuls of Tesco Value Fruit and Fibre (only the best for me). I am writing my first blog, after leeching encouragement and inspiration from the blog of my University tutor. Hence, I am apprehensive. In her 'about me' section, she lists a mere snippet of her achievements to date, all of which are astounding. Her blogs are captivating, witty and motivational. Whereas she is probably sat right now enhancing her career by writing a poem or five, I am feeding shelled peas to my goldfish, because I read somewhere that it will stop it swimming upside-down. Naturally, I think she has the upper-hand somewhere along the line.
One of my closest friends lives her life completely oblivious to the world's opinion of her, and so exists in a state of constant bliss. Well, this is what I try to convince myself. But then I think, maybe caring a teensy tiny bit what people think is no bad thing? Perhaps it is not entirely healthy to be ruled by it, as I confess I sometimes feel. But everybody loves the tingly feeling coursing through your spinal fluid when somebody compliments you. My goldfish is unlikely to ever thank me for my care (although if it would make some gesture of appreciation every now and again, I wouldn't have to constantly assume it is suicidal). Instead, I channel all my efforts into providing an interesting environment for it to swim, and buying exciting potions which promise a sleek coat (the dog and fish sections should not sit side-by-side). I purchase multicoloured pebbles to give the bowl variety, aquatic plants for that authentic pond experience. I even lovingly spent a good half-hour scrubbing a pesto jar free of its label and herbs, so as to make a little house for the fish to sleep in. My point is, although many of my loved ones believe I am partially insane, nobody can deny that I do my very very best to keep the fish alive and happy and well. I am complimented on its bright orangey colour (we gloss over the missing scales from an accident with a Lego pirate-ship). And I perform my ultimate trip, dipping my fingertip in the water so the fish swims to the top and sucks it. Now, who can say they have that sort of bond with a fish, beyond willing their salmon not to dry out in the oven?
When I first relocated to Newcastle in 2007, I spent a vast portion of the first week holed up in my room, drinking endless cups of tea and eating only cereal with one particular spoon. I was so afraid of those 'first-time nerves' of University, meeting people and starting afresh, that I simply turned my back on the whole idea and lived in my (new and uncomfortable) bed. I spent hours on the phone to my Mum, crying about everything from the colour of the curtains to the lack of oven (we really did not have an oven!) - my poor parents, in return, would suffer the embarrassment of sympathising down the phone whilst in the supermarket queue, the butchers, the dentists waiting room. I was relentless. I was probably nearing unbearable. But, everybody who promised me the homesickness would pass was right. I adapted to Geordie life, somewhat awkwardly in conversation with the tramps who moved into our bin-store. I have even started to end my sentences with 'man' and have been known to say 'howay then', although I still can't fully explain what it means.
One of my closest friends lives her life completely oblivious to the world's opinion of her, and so exists in a state of constant bliss. Well, this is what I try to convince myself. But then I think, maybe caring a teensy tiny bit what people think is no bad thing? Perhaps it is not entirely healthy to be ruled by it, as I confess I sometimes feel. But everybody loves the tingly feeling coursing through your spinal fluid when somebody compliments you. My goldfish is unlikely to ever thank me for my care (although if it would make some gesture of appreciation every now and again, I wouldn't have to constantly assume it is suicidal). Instead, I channel all my efforts into providing an interesting environment for it to swim, and buying exciting potions which promise a sleek coat (the dog and fish sections should not sit side-by-side). I purchase multicoloured pebbles to give the bowl variety, aquatic plants for that authentic pond experience. I even lovingly spent a good half-hour scrubbing a pesto jar free of its label and herbs, so as to make a little house for the fish to sleep in. My point is, although many of my loved ones believe I am partially insane, nobody can deny that I do my very very best to keep the fish alive and happy and well. I am complimented on its bright orangey colour (we gloss over the missing scales from an accident with a Lego pirate-ship). And I perform my ultimate trip, dipping my fingertip in the water so the fish swims to the top and sucks it. Now, who can say they have that sort of bond with a fish, beyond willing their salmon not to dry out in the oven?
When I first relocated to Newcastle in 2007, I spent a vast portion of the first week holed up in my room, drinking endless cups of tea and eating only cereal with one particular spoon. I was so afraid of those 'first-time nerves' of University, meeting people and starting afresh, that I simply turned my back on the whole idea and lived in my (new and uncomfortable) bed. I spent hours on the phone to my Mum, crying about everything from the colour of the curtains to the lack of oven (we really did not have an oven!) - my poor parents, in return, would suffer the embarrassment of sympathising down the phone whilst in the supermarket queue, the butchers, the dentists waiting room. I was relentless. I was probably nearing unbearable. But, everybody who promised me the homesickness would pass was right. I adapted to Geordie life, somewhat awkwardly in conversation with the tramps who moved into our bin-store. I have even started to end my sentences with 'man' and have been known to say 'howay then', although I still can't fully explain what it means.
So, in the interests of wrapping the first blog up, I should probably try and end on something uplifting and wholesome, which I will look back on and feel proud of. A statement which summarises my whole point. The only problem is, my point got lost somewhere in translation. I think the fact that I really am crushing peas and eating my breakfast cereal has stopped me from concentrating too hard on what I'm saying. I have this problem with essays - sometimes I have a lot to say, but not necessarily on the topic I am given. Suffice it to say that I do care what people think, because it helps me feel like I'm doing a good job so far with my life. And the first-time nerves only hang around until you get out of your seat and do something about them.
So, there it is - my first blog, down on paper. Well, not paper, but it makes me feel more intellectual. Now I have to go and dislodge an overly large chunk of pea from my fish's mouth.
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