Monday, June 20, 2011

Me and the BFG

I have (for the past few weeks) been afforded the luxury of a drive to and from work. That is, that for ten days Ginger Beard has taken me forth into the morning chaos of the city aboard our orange dragon, without so much as the chug of a passing train. Yesterday, he informed me, that due to an early meeting, I would have to go back to the unwelcoming, dirty bosom of Network Rail, tail between legs, and once more share the same fetid airspace of the ten or twenty who only brush their teeth at night.

By the time the train moved, I was sweating. Cue Mr Business suit, oh is my Metro in your face, forcing me back against the bin. Cue, the brief, holy pit stop at Cottingley, where the doors faint open and we are briefly doused in breeze. And of course the five passengers who would rather tenderly press their bodies against one anothers and mine, then take the dreaded walk down the aisle. We continue like this, grazing, stretching, heating up, and thinking on early teenage fumbles which were less intimate.

When I'm asked if I want a ticket by (incredibly) a conductor who doesn't feel like engaging the carriage in a chat about how shit his job is, I take out my earphones, and hold them in my left hand. Now, one of the dangers, of which I've always been aware, of putting your Ipod on shuffle, is that at an inopportune moment, a song comes on which shows you in a particularly odd light. Thankfully, mine was only the full volumed remix version of Backstreet Boys, Everybody.

I spot the barriers, awash with frantic worker bees. I can do this. I can survive this. I spot a woman on  crutches, and make sure to head in a different direction. My ticket is in. My ticket is out. The doors open and I'm heading through. But no! From the corner of my eye, I see the woman on crutches has dropped her ticket. She ducks down, the crutches fly up, and I take one sharply to the knee. The barrier's decide to close prematurely. I turn to the side, and am struck in the gut. But I. Am. Through.

I look at myself in the mirror of the office toilets, hair dishevelled, mascara spotted under my eyes, my pale, sallow, traumatised face. And I know, that just like Beyonce once sang, I'm a fucking survivor.

Last night (because I like to provide the occasional, delightful insight into my broken mind) I dreamt that I was sexually propositioned by a giant. He picked me up from my doctor's appointment, let me travel through the city on his shoulder, dropped me on a bench, and licked my leg. I told him I had a boyfriend. The moral of the story is, that even when faced with the most likely of events, do the right thing.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Recycle your bicycle

'Tis a sad day for the world - The untimely death of my mouse hand. After battling for a week or so with its whingeing, I have finally had to admit defeat. It woke me up several times in the night to tell me of its suffering. I've switched the mouse over to the left side, and my left hand has become a bit retarded. I am amused to watch it try and master the mouse, and also note that it is scared of becoming like the original mouse hand.

It's off to the Doctor's for me on Wednesday, and hopefully, I can even stretch this to get out of driving. Ginger Beard is fast becoming my chauffeur, and I'm finally treated with the lifestyle I deserve.

I'm also joining the ranks of my fellow drivers with road rage targeted at cyclists. When I couldn't drive I liked cyclists, I occasionally was a cyclist. Now, I hate cyclists! What do they think they're bloody doing on their bikes, on the road? Huh? Outrageous. But when I'm a pedestrian, I want them off the pavement. Get on the road you bloody cyclists! I genuinely don't believe there is a place for them, apart from the rare bicycle lane. No bicycle lane, no bicycle son. And all motorcyclists are suicidal. Luckily, when I was learning to drive, every time one came within five meters of me my instructor screamed, "Think bike! Think bike! Think bike!". I would scream "Where?" take my my eyes off the road, and check the backseat of the car.

Also, no one indicates. Cars let off a very fragrant whiff of 'Look, I'm going where I'm going'. And we politely continue to follow the instilled 'proper' driving ways of our test. Well except when I forget to drive with my glasses on. Oh, and going through that red light. And maybe the flat tyres weren't great. 1.6mm tread did not occur.

I can't drive this Renault Clio. I need a BMW with the top down. I should've been a business man in accounting, a silver fox let loose on the motorway. I'm oppressed.

In conclusion, if it hasn't got at least four wheels, give it up, and get the bus. I didn't commit to an obstacle course. I'm just trying to get to work love.

Monday, June 13, 2011

Kill me now, if you'd be so kind.

I'm so chuffed that God read my last blog. He rolled up his sleeves, looked me square in the eye and said 'Right then.'

And so, initially, it was filling the car with crap for the skip, driving around unable to find the skip, and unloading the car, back at home, of the crap intended for the skip. Throw in a couple of traffic light stalls and this:

"Ginger Beard, something's not right."
"Huh?"
"Something feels weird."
"Does it?"
"Oh my God, you're driving on the wrong side of the road!!!'

And you've got yourself a nice Saturday afternoon.

Cue torrential, Noah's Ark downpour Sunday, and we decide to be a bit cultural and head for the new Hepworth Gallery in Wakefield. Now, I did promise myself that I would never go back. That I would never again expose myself to the tracksuit bottoms tucked in sock goers of The Ridings, or every shop fronted by bargain baskets. Luckily, we got lost, and after reuniting myself with all of Wakefield arrived a good hour longer than anticipated. LUCKILY, the exhibit was things with holes in. Which I happen to love. Some of the holes had string in, and were painted. And, being middle class, which a penchant for upper class sensibilities I was able to realise that strip of iron stapled to the ceiling represented the ongoing battle of the human condition, and that putting balls on top of other balls commented on our relentless pursuit of hope. I knew it wasn't a good start when I touched (barely) what I assumed to be a nicely decorated bench and a stick-up-her-arse attendant told me off.

"Hi, how are you, yeah so, you can't touch the art."
And because I am incredibly mature, I gestured wildly to the rampage of sticky fingered children and proclaimed, "Everyone is touching the art." Then I looked at her in such a fashion, as to suggest that I intended to be violently sick on her face.

I decided to sit in each room, by myself, guarding our umbrellas, whilst Ginger Beard looked around, and through the objects with holes. I was at one point engulfed by a tour guide and her group, which was very upsetting, and meant I had to listen to the claim that this wooden ball was about the relationship of the water and the land. I've never been so furious in my life. What. A. Horrific. Lot. Of. Bollucks. Is this legal? Putting pins in my eyes would've hurt less.

LUCKILY, we then got lost tracking down somewhere to eat. And then LUCKILY, got some mild food poisoning, to finish off what I can only describe as the kind of weekend that instigates a loaded gun to the temple.

Wednesday, June 08, 2011

I need a dollar

Is there anyone out there with a lot of money who would like to sponsor me to write? £400 per month can buy an aspiring writer enough food to retain her slightly overweight form, whilst at the same time funding her penchant for sweet coffee, vodka and pineapple, and overpriced Habitat goods.

Do you know that aspiring writers have to drink tap water, live in rented accommodation, and remain in constant fear of the blank page?

All it takes is one small donation to change an aspiring writers life.

TESTIMONIES

"I never knew giving could be so rewarding."

"I'm overjoyed to have finally found a worthy cause!"

"I have purchased my passage into Heaven for sure."

For an example of what your money could do, take a £10 note, drop it in the toilet, and flush.

In other news, the Leeds Gallery will have nothing further to do with me, last night I dreamt I was shot in Wagamamas, in the vagina, and Blackpool is where I'd go to commit suicide, because I would definitely kill myself.

But seriously, nothing is happening. Well, nothing that I can publicise. Gutted. Essentially I'm plodding about, consuming food, engaging in small talk, and generally being aggressive. When my parent's check in, I give them other people's updates and anecdotes for lack of my own. Should I pursue drama? Shall I start a food fight in Bagel Nash? I shouldn't complain, it's not like I enjoyed being doused in tomato ketchup or bullied by chavs. Oh okay, maybe a little.

So, until life wakes up, over and out. Knitting anyone?