the moment of impact

I'm just being a lazy twat. As of late, I've been having massive, long rants in my head which now involve me saying 'fuck' under neath my breath someone does something that clearly upsets my middleclass self. Latest irks all surround public transport. I could for the most part keep it stored away in my mind, packaged nicely and safe from escaping but now, even this morning when a truck was blocking the side walk and I had to step into the street, whilst stupid workers smoked fags and drunk coffee, I snickered shit at them, curled my lip and reluctantly stepped on to the street, half hoping a car would hit me and I could enter martyrdom. Oh just a police was around to issue a ticket. Seriously Hackney Road is extreme on a school day morning, especially around the bend near where it meets Shoreditch High St. I'm happy to still have the function of my fingers.

Oh and speaking of...the past two weeks I've managed to sit beside boogie flicker twice. First time: top deck, it's exciting when you get a seat, even though my bus ride isn't especially long. But there I was, didn't even need to ask the bloke to move his bag. But dear God he was digging for buried green treasure the entire bus ride. And once retrieved, he was clearly looking to bury someone on my coat because they were being flicked right on me. I refer to it as the 'boogie click', where you hear the moment of impact and pray it will slide right off. This particular topic is written with strain (I promise I just gagged reliving the experience). Is it beyond social decency to ask someone to kindly stop picking their nose? I had to get off the bus two stops before because I literally felt faint. The second time round, I did quite a few huffs, the classic clasping the bridge of your nose is despair, biting my lip as to not say a word. Again, I descended the bus early. They seem to find me.

see you

I don't mean to be awol but first two weeks of the month spent in Canada (with slow connection speed, living in the country). Second two weeks spent catching up with work, life, sleeping schedule.

I'm sure I have so many profound things to say about the home/home divide but right now my sister is visiting and we just watched three episodes of Jersey Shore and I'm pretty sure my brain is now fried. No deep thoughts- just laughter traded as collateral.

When I'm in Canada with Chris, it feels even more exaggerated as my Canadian home, and I feel more so displaced. Now that Emma is here, I feel as though being tour guide around London makes it feel even more so mine. I think my issue stands that I walk to work through an 'unLondon' part of London (if that can exist- I think it's just the white terraced housing that I build in my mind that seems to only exist in the west yet we live in the east). I remember reading that about Paris- how the city can look so Parisian and how that made no sense at all but made perfect sense.

One grotesque thing not mentioned was I took the bus home the other day and instead of standing with the plebs on the bottom, I ventured upstairs. And my payment for doing so was having to sit beside boogie picker--> flicker. Oh yes. I thought I was going to faint. I hit my pain threshold and stood downstairs three stops before but guy was getting a bit too close to my brand new coat. It still sends shudders up my spine.

I went to paris with my friend pippa

I went to Paris with my friend Pippa which was fun as it was my second time in Paris in two and half months- plus Paris is far quieter than London with about a third of the people. Unfortunately Paris was far quieter with that third of people being chopped into a further third because everyone is on 'vaccances'. So my friend Pippa used to live in Paris for nearly a year whilst at university so knew fun places, which were unfortunately closed due to said vaccances.

And even more unfortunate is getting your period on a Sunday morning to find no shops open, then getting lost amongst the diagonal streets of Paris and realising you left your iphone at the hotel. Oh look- it's nearly 12noon and you have to check out then. And you still haven't showered, or found a box of tampons yet. Oh and you're desperately lost because this is the man who approached me 10 minutes ago recoginising that you were a tourist and panicked, who insisted that his mother had just died and wanted some kind words said to him (rest assured, definitely not the case- but you did play along and say you were sad for his loss- in French no less). Ok, so let's jump on the Metro and go one stop (if you haven't been to Paris- Metro stops are quite literally a two minute walk away from each other, really close). Hmmm, Pippa has all of your tickets- let's buy a single. Oh fantastic, the person in front of you has no idea what they're doing- and your London impatience comes out of your mouth with a huge hurrumph. Oh, they recoginise you're annoyed and on the brink of tears, and you're desperately uncomfortable because you have your period, and you're hot and maybe just a bit hungover. Alright so you have your ticket. So you get down to the Metro, but it's Sunday, and the trains are 7 minutes apart. And the next one isn't for another 6 minutes. And it's 11.52am and you have to check out 8 minutes. But you still have to take a shower and cool off. And you can see your Metro stop down the station and think- should I just run down the tracks? But you don't. You wait, and think you're such a poser with your 'independent traveler' attitude, wishing you stinking husband was with you so he could have run out for the 'T run' and that you and lady time could be double up alone together. So on the Metro, run out at your stop. Quit speaking French for two minutes (thanks to your education, even 8 years in intensive French doesn't teach you how to say "I have my period, I'm very uncomfortable, I just got lost, and I have to take a shower. Please may I stay in the room for an extra half an hour?" Basically you say that, but leave out the first bit (you're coy after all). And thankfully French men take pity on young girls. So you're fine, granted extra time. And Paris was a lovely time.

gate

Staff meeting at 11am on Monday of this week. Business as usual...

Then our Chief Exec, who is a) a Dame b) I see as a mentor c) have the utmost respect for d) feel so badly for her when she needs to address things like this:

The topic was introduced as something that needs to be discussed because it had been addressed internally by someone to HR, and now our HR officer had started a new job elsewhere so needed to be taken up by our C.E. So sheets of paper were circulated to everyone with two columns: a) acceptable b) not acceptable. First comments made by member of staff: what are skorts?

Apparently someone had said something to HR about someone wearing clothes they felt were inappropriate (umm, did I choose the absolute wrong day to wear shorts, I spent the rest of the day hiking them down. In my defense, they're dressy, and I wore them all day with a blazer). But I don't think it was these shorts which were the tip-off, but my leather shorts (they are loose fitting, again dressy). Oh dear god. Nothing is worse then deeming Draconian law over workers in a casual attired place- and horror of horrors, jeans are deemed unacceptable. So I'm thinking a) my leather shorts have clearly offended someone b) I need to quit my job if I can't wear jeans. Anecdotes were shared on the last time, pre-2002 when our C.E. had to address a man wearing tight short shorts and she's never discussed dress code since. Thankfully jeans made it back to the acceptable list, but I'm never wearing shorts again.

I returned home from work that day (chaffing on my legs from the constant tug down the thighs), and folded up the leather shorts and put them into the third drawer of my dresser. As I closed the drawer, I heard a small wimper and a gasp for last breaths.

thrown

So as you may be aware, but maybe not, there's been this guy who shot his ex-girlfriend through a window, didn't kill her, but killed her current partner, then shot a police man, then wage war on police, he's been on the run in the north east of England, a considerably distance away. Anyway, it's terrifying, and people do truly go insane when it's hot and sunny in this country. The point is that I haven't been able to sleep very well over the past few evenings because of it, and because I'm the biggest baby.

When I was younger, it was a cardinal sin to wake my parents up, for whatever reason, fear, wet the bed, couldn't sleep because I watched the Exorcist and I was afraid the bed would convulse etc. I've very scared shitless in bed, at 12, and just had to grin and bear it until it was light outside again. I remember once hearing these weird horns and resolving myself to believe that it was ghosts in the attics. Realised the next morning it was my sister playing on this toy saxophone. But that's neither here nor there. Just an episodic replay of my irrational fear of the night.

But like most, because it's hot, I tend to have feverish dreams. So the other night, just having dropped off asleep, in my dream, I was sleeping towards the wall, and saw a man all dressed in white blending in with the paint colour. I then threw myself onto Chris, incoherently saying, Chris there's a man... So he started stroking my back so it was ok, and that's when I woke up to the feeling my heart pounding against his back. Still scares the shit out of me thinking back to that. And you can never fall back asleep after your heart races like that, and because you're afraid to fall back asleep and have a scary dream. So I asked Chris to stay awake until I fell asleep, which was of course yes. So I rolled back over, and he rubbed my back to calm me down. Not even five minutes later, I had to wake him up because he was snoring so loudly.

I emailed him the next day saying that I was really tired because I hadn't slept well. He said, oh no bad dream, don't worry, I can stay awake again until you fall asleep tonight.

one of those types

It's been an emotionally tumultuous week, part self-inflicted, part-Daily Mail readers being shitty. This is actually severely hypocritical because I utilise/depend on/enjoy dialogue of the internet, but what I theorised over a year ago, the internet allows any shitty, banal, unimportant thought that pops into your head, to post it online, anonymously without any recourse. And it can never go away.

There's an expression here that says: today's newspapers are tomorrow fish and chip wrappers. Or something along those lines. But unfortunately stories that are in the paper, are also posted online. And because they're posted online, they subject to ignorant people's scrutiny of something they just don't understand.

Now last week's comment of "i've maxed on being nice..." quite literally now. I work for a national charity in the press department and not that I've ever seen myself as the type to work in the third sector, but that doesn't mean that I don't think I'm a good person and have compassion for people, because I do always feel interested in anyone's story, specifically those who are marginalised. So this campaign we've been working on has now launched, and part of working for a health charity is placing case studies throughout the media to highlight their condition and their experience of living with it. So our case study was placed in the Sun, Daily Mail, Daily Mirror and the Metro. Fine, red tops, great. Story is a bit contentious that's alright. So our case study has gained some weight since her condition because she's on steroids, and she's on oxygen 24/7, and she's in a wheelchair and the only thing she can do for herself is prepare food. Everything else someone needs to help her. She's 50, and speaks frankly about how she is dying from passive smoke. Also, she's the loveliest woman, with nothing but an incredible heart and huge spirit.

So the story appears in the papers, and immediately readers start making comments about 'oh maybe she's dying because she's fat...' and it's appalling. By 12noon, there are around 90 comments, 50% of which are so ignorant, and disgusting, the other 50% are defensive towards her. She called me later that day really upset, and I got all choked up as well speaking with her. I just couldn't imagine making a comment about something I know absolutely nothing about, but jumping to cutting judgments because I can, anonymously.

Within our team, we were discussing the best course of action. I still do believe that calling someone fat, and saying they're in a wheelchair because they're fat is an abilist remark and by the terms and conditions of these papers, such comments should be deleted. But each paper is so reluctant to take down any comments that aren't either racist or homophobic (their policy) because of censorship and the issues surrounding brazen action deleting on the internet. But regardless, it never goes away. Posted online, yesterday's papers aren't fish and chips wrappers, they're a constant reminder, a tick that you keep scratching, an emotional cut on your arm.

That night, Chris dragged me to a gig that I didn't really want to go to in the first place, but it was marred by this. And by inability to protect someone. And I thought that wouldn't happen in the charity sector. But she's in much better spirits now, because she's incredible and can move on. But I'm still sitting here in disbelief and disappointment. Both in myself and in manking (or the small fraction who read the Daily Mail).

good example

In the midst of my working hell, I managed to do the ungodly task of clearing out my closet and drawers. I'm now subjected to watching football (i.e. unmanageable hell, mainly because England are rubbish) and thought I would think further about purge. This is also because it isn't so much about clothing but about the personal and professional anxieties that I need to delete from my database.

This blog is in real time, because we had the in-laws down this weekend, and I'm not coming round to stopping smiling. In all seriousness, my cheeks hurt from smiling all weekend. I did utter the words "I've maxed out on being nice" at work. I'm not a malicious person, and have always considered myself as a "nice" person, but I simply cannot be any longer. I noticed the first time at the grocery store when, I was paying up at the till, the check-out person asked how I was today, and I of course cordially replied, I'm well thank you, but did not pose the question back. And I have consciously not posed it back all weekend. When it's genuinely not a lack of disingenuine interest, I do care if the aren't well. I worked customer service and it's a wonder pleasantry when if people can at least feign interest in you. And I was ridiculed when I was younger (probably still now by my brother and sister) for being quote unquote too polite at restaurants.

Ok back to real time. E.T. is on and I can barely think of that film without crying. Still being capable of emotion is at least a positive. So this is me deleting stress, and inadvertently taking it out on other people, who don't even realise it.

Here's football, bin bags, and my Sunday afternoon.

bad example

I have been completely consumed with work and therefore have nothing remotely interesting to say. Well one thing. Only that I would like a holiday.

Next week everything comes to a head and then should hopefully calm down. And then there's another peak of work. And then hopefully by third week of July, I will have other thoughts again.

this is brilliant

Paris: the highlights from 30th April-5th May