Green Tea and Sympathy

I have just dropped my biscuit into my tea. Normally, this would only be a minor crisis, alleviated by a scooping action with my finger, but today it is a global disaster. You see, my goldfish died yesterday. At the risk of sounding five-years-old, I really loved him (and yes, he was a him, not an 'it') - I bought him lots of treats, I cleaned him out religiously, I played with him to stop boredom (on both our parts). Now that he has passed onto the goldfishy heaven, there is a gaping hole in my heart, which I am filling with green tea and sympathy. Saying that, I am only drinking green tea because I have no milk to make 'proper' tea - consequently I have a funny taste in my mouth all day, but my body gets 'flushed of toxins and impurities from the inside out'. A fair trade, I would say.

I'm moving house this Tuesday, and the pile of boxes in my room now almost reach the window-sill (which is pretty high) - my bedroom has become an obstacle course, where you are likely to be bludgeoned on any number of the beautiful things littering my floor. I have shopped like no other these past few weeks, draining my overdraft like a heroin addict with his last hit. In retrospect, perhaps I did have no need for the oil and vinegar drizzlers, but they look so pretty and the girl in the shop was lovely. This is how it works for me - be nice, and I will just throw my money at you. Good job I'm not into prostitutes.

Anyhow, heartfelt sympathy from friends has travelled my way, and I am pulling myself together today. Going to bed at half past 4 in the morning hasn't done a great deal for my complexion, or sense of wakefulness, but I'm hoping this green tea will counterbalance that. Failing that, I'm sure I hid half a bottle of wine somewhere...

Pensioners into Poetry

Lack of inspiration drives me crazy. People who think writing poetry is a simple flourish of the wrist can go gallivant in a faraway field, for all the use they are to me. For weeks now, I have been desperately tugging at the creative cords wiring my brain, willing myself to unleash a flow of energy which Wordsworth himself could be proud of. (Note to self: you are not, will not, and could not ever compare)...

So, hunched over my notebook at my semi-job in the art gallery back in Lincolnshire, I bristle at a man who wrinkles his nose when I tell him I study English Literature. He sniffs as if I am leprous, taking a step back, although it could be my ghost-pale skin - I have been trying a write-by-night technique, which attempts to force my brain into submission by depriving myself sleep until I write something bearable. If we actually rewind the past five minutes he has been making conversation, whilst eyeing my electric-blue tights, you will understand why I was not his biggest fan. After casually sauntering over, watching me scribble for a few seconds, and then asking disdainfully 'you're not one of those university types, are you?', I knew our conversation was going to be 'interesting'. When I had said, as sweetly as I could with my teeth bared, that yes, in fact I was one of those 'university types', he then nodded knowledgeably, and announced 'ah, well you'll be doing medicine then'. Medicine. Is that the only degree that people 70+ think is on offer? When I corrected him, AND gave the double whammy of my study location of good ol' Newcastle, he positively flinched and walked into the next exhibition. There I could see him taking peeps at me while he recounted his wife, who seemed to be telling him off.

So, back to the drawing board. I decided that the morning's writing was a waste, as I was clearly going to be attacked on all sides by irritating members of the general public (I was accosted by a child about to urinate on the floor, a pensioner who had forgotten who she was travelling with, somebody who wanted a wall-hanging different to every single one we had in stock, and a lady asking if she could take a cutting of our decorative rope for her washing-line). It was only a few days later, when I sat down (again) at my cluttered desk, with a cup of tea and some blackberries, that I realised I had casually been sketching my accosters into my notebook. And so, I decided to work them into my writing somehow - watch this space. Suffering for your art is one thing, but turning pensioners into poetry is entirely another.

Drumming Up Interest

These past few days, I have been co-ordinating children's summer events in and around my hometown. I bridge the gap between the long, boring days of bad-weather summer, and the excitement of twenty pre-pubescents drumming on bongos in one room with no sound-proofing. In my efforts to make sure all children get to the right workshop, all registers are filled, all money is exchanged, all consent forms are provided, and all mums are satisfied...I am shattered. Bone-achingly, mind-numbingly knackered. Now I know a fair few single mums who struggle, but after a day of caring for thirty-two 8-12 year olds, I would have gladly wedged a screaming, teething baby to my hip and sung 'twinkle twinkle' until the small hours.

The thing is, children today seem so dissatisfied with life. I am not animated (apart from in the first hour, when the headache hasn't fully-formed), I do not flash different colours, I do not have an interesting name, and if you push the X button, I will not kung-fu kick my opponent. The caretaker was lovely, and I have no desire to harm him in any way.

Yes, we live in the age of the video-gaming console. Without tarring all children with the same brush, many young people speak solely the language of X-box, PSP and DS, and I am not fluent. Indeed, I am only a beginner, due my enjoyment of taking lead guitar in Rock Band. So, presenting twenty kids with large drums, which do not require a remote control or handset of any form, was bound to be interesting.

The result, I have to say, was fantastic. All of the drummers attacked with gusto, and came up with a pretty impressive sound, which could be heard on the street. I spent the first hour stationed outside the room, expecting tantrums from some of the younger participants. However, I waited in vain...even when the children emerged sweating and faint from their exertions, there was not a whimper of discontent.

Forgive the short post, but my experience this past week has been that if you take a child away from the computer, amazing things really can happen.