Tuesday, June 26, 2012

You're my hero

I was walking down the road. A man came off his motorbike turning the corner before me, and slid across the tarmac.

I've always asked myself, 'What would you do? Are you the kind of person who would jump right in there, cape billowing at your shoulders, a red S stitched across your chest? Or would you just stand there, helpless, struck dumb?

I stood there.

For a few seconds, I watched other people, better people, run over to him.

The road was puddled with purple oil, and it terrified me. It made me think of blood.

When I made it over, the better people were already asking the right questions:

'Are you okay? Can you move? Should I call an ambulance?'

The better people helped him up, and held him up.

What did I do? I took his helmet and gloves off the road, and put them on the wall. And then I too, desiring to be one of these better people, resenting my slowness, furious that I had fallen victim to a paralysing shock, attempted to be a better person. I peeled his jacket off, not very effectively though, my hands were shaking.

Under the jacket, his left arm had begun to swell and bruise. He didn't want an ambulance. He wanted to call his girlfriend and say, 'I've come off my bike, but I'm okay.' Because in his near-death, he was suddenly very alive. He wanted his own voice to reinstate him as very much here, a boyfriend, a father, survived.

The other people left. I said I'd wait with him. I don't know what we were waiting for. We watched his arm. It grew worse with every minute, black from his wrist to his elbow, angry. His ribs were suffering too. He asked me what I thought. Are you supposed to lie? Maybe yet again, a better person would've said, 'It will be fine.' I said:

'God, it looks awful, horrendous. We need to get you to the hospital.'

When Ginger Beard arrived, he helped move the bike out of the road. The man wouldn't accept a lift. We weren't far from the hospital and he wanted to walk.

I didn't blame him. I bet everything looked instantly incredible. I bet he wanted to be with his working legs, his working brain.I bet he wanted to call everyone and announce himself as a small miracle.

Mostly, we find ourselves saying, 'It could've been worse', about everything we face. And it could have. Luckily there wasn't a car to collide with, lucky the bike didn't end up on top of him. Lucky, lucky, lucky. Probably just a broken arm and a second chance.

Other than making me realise that my reactions to emergencies are somewhat lacking, it also inevitably fills you with a 'live for the moment' whim, a kind of appreciation.

So take it, do something you wouldn't normally do. Don't take it all for granted. Try harder. We all need reminding that it's short, and it's special, so make something of yourself now.


Friday, June 22, 2012

Into the jungle

If you live in Leeds, you'll probably know about Tropical World. And I highly recommend that on some lazy Sunday, you grab your kids (or someone elses' - it's just important that children accompany you.), and mooch over to let the fun begin. It's £3, and I'll tell you exactly what you'll get for your money:

*Prams, everywhere. Prams of every colour and configuration - mostly manned by people who really shouldn't be parents (I know this, because although it's difficult to pin point how to go about being a great parent, it's very obvious to spot a bad one). And trying to hit a giant butterfly with your baby, while your wife chases you with a Kodak, is not a good start.

*Heat, 40'c to be exact. It was never going to go well for me. When I was eleven, my family and I travelled to America. The moment we left the air conditioned airport, I decided I couldn't breathe, and panic attacked/screamed/cried my way into the hire car.I don't like hot air - air so hot, that you can't feel the oxygen entering your body, and the carbon dioxide escaping it. It's like someone's holding a pillow over your face. Well, in Tropical World, your skin melts. Your skin turns to wax. The denim of your Jeans becomes one with your thighs. Enjoy.

*Assault - You and everyone else is packed in there. Don't know that strange man over there very well? You do now! You've never been this close to anyone! Now you know what his hair tastes like. Yum.

 The children are the worst. They walk over your shoes. They use your arms and hands as hanging vines, and swing their way through crowds. I'm sure children have their good points - but what most of them lack, at that young, E number riddled age, is manners. Squeezing their skinny bodies in between you and the glass, banging their sweaty fists on the wood and shouting at the Meerkats. Will someone please restrain this monster? No, no one will, because kids will be kids won't they. I don't think they will, not if you leave them in the car (recommended).

ALSO, because I'm sure you miss hearing about my train journeys as much as I miss talking about them: I had a right belter last night. First, I approached my seat to find three people discussing it.

Man: Oh, no, please, you take it.
Woman: I couldn't possibly, go ahead (to woman 2)
Woman 2: It's fine, really, I'm getting off at the next one.
Man: (gesturing to woman 1) I insist.

What I then said was:

Me: Sorry guys, that's my seat.

And strode past assaulting each in turn with either one or a combination of the items I was holding: lap top rucksack, water bottle, handbag.

Now, judging by the subsequent glaring, I can only assume what I really said was,

'Look, you mole-eyed degenerates. IT'S MINE;'

And finally, if you want to read an incredibly well written book, about a woman who forgets who she is everyday (and as Ginger Beard rightly suggests, is pretty much 'Memento' on the page), then pick up 'Before I sleep.' I read it in a few hours, and had horrendous nightmares. But it really does make you appreciate your working noggin, and the writer can really spin one hell of a story. WriterAtLunch stamp of approval.



Good news for you, if like Ginger, you can't read:





Monday, June 18, 2012

Officer, I've never seen this gun before in my life

At the moment, I'm spending a rather odd amount of time with the Police.

Now, as much as I'd love to tell you why, I can't. Because I'd have to change my name to Billy Bob and move to the American outback.

The first thing they wanted to know yesterday, was what we'd had for dinner, as the array of leftovers present on the table baffled them (I almost suggested that they send away the remaining crumbs for testing - such is the technology at their disposal, but did not wish to impose). Regrettably, I told them the truth, which was, 'Soup with Pizza.' I then tried to justify the combination, but I could see their training kicking in. It didn't help that the room is covered in bunting and hanging paper things (in preparation for a party), and the largest object is a giant pink and black hula hoop (exercise). Also Ginger Beard has tied my hair up while I was doing the washing up, and has done a poor to awful interpretation of what a bobble's for.

After this, it was hard to have a nice conversation. We looked like mentals. The very same mentals they were hunting.

They keep leaving me voicemails, and when I phone back, no one's ever heard of the Officer in question. This makes me the worst prank phonecaller ever:

'Oh. hello, I was just returning the call of a PC Jones.'
'PC Jones?'
'Yes.'
'Reference number?'
'Um, I wasn't given one.'
'Why not?'
'It was a message.'
'Well, they would've left a reference number, and besides we don't have a PC Jones.'
'Okay.'
'We have a PC Mcendrick.'
'Right.'
'But she doesn't work Mondays.'

SORRY FOR BLOODY TRYING TO HELP. WHY DON'T YOU JUST ARREST ME?

Yeah, so before this call they caught me in my grey. furry slippers, green pyjama bottoms, and maroon hoody, then the call, then the soup with pizza.

It's like when the Police walk past me in the street, and my face automatically arranges itself in the exact expression which projects, 'Not only do I have drugs, but I killed a man, and cut him up, and the bits of him are in my pockets.'

I automatically assume a position of guilt.

Why?


 I forget how to be normal as soon as they're around. I don't stand a chance. I'm going to get 15 to 20, in an all women unit with packet mash and ill fitting shoes. I'm getting dandruff, and a nail to scratch the slow passage of days into the floor, and, AND I'm going to have to be someone's (inevitable) bitch.

Write to me.





Thursday, June 14, 2012

The ageing process

I've got a new best friend, she's called Touche Eclat, and is, by nature, a rather highly regarded concealer (literally).

Touche and I have formed a strong bond over the past few weeks, one which Ginger is increasingly jealous of.

Ginger: What's that?
Me: It's my touche a la touche.
Ginger: What are you saying?
Me: It makes my eyes look better.
Ginger: I think your eyes look fine.
Me: No, come here. Look, I'm getting old. It's horrific. Bags, dark circles, awful.
Ginger: They're fine! Look at my thirty year old eyes, tired, bags, dark-
Me: Oh my God you're right - Would you like to use my Touche Eclat?

*Cue tantrum*

Have you joined in the Graze box craze? It's amazing! You pay £3.50 for a box full of bird seeds in four sections!

ALSO

I accidentally went to the gym in my pyjamas. In that I grabbed what I thought was my gym kit off the dresser in the morning, and found out was my lacy PJs (thanks Topshop). Now, some people would've stopped right there, and said, if someone sees me I'm going to look like I have a dirty fetish to sweat in silk. But I just manned the frick up, and went for it. The only person I ended up having to justify myself to was the cleaner in the lift, and she hid behind her mop. Turns out that I was like soooo comfortable during my run. Highly recommended.

What else? Oooohh I pressed the little button thingy on my new umbrella that makes it big, and it shot out of my hand and hit a woman in York.

AND Ginger Beard rapidly sat back on the sofa, hitting my elbow, which was attached to my arm, which was attached to my hand, which was holding a glass of juice, which punched me in the face. Luckily, it only caused internal bleeding in my mouth. Unluckily, this has resulted in zero attention. I hate it when something hurts and no one can see it. How can anyone feel sorry for me without a proven visual? I'm considering putting my face in a cast, or making some kind of face sling. I also might fall on my face, just to gain the attention I truly deserve.




Friday, June 01, 2012

When did you get so random?

Is anyone else really struggling to get the Ghostbuster's theme out of their head today?

I just want to call them.

I'd tell them there's something wrong in my neighbourhood, and it's called David Cameron.

I KNOW, I GOT POLITICAL.

That's enough.

Because truth be told, my Dad was a Labour man through and through, and raised me as such (supporting Labour, not as a man. Though come to think of it, I was made to watch a lot of football.) Unfortunately I've absorbed all of his enthusiasm and none of the principles. My outlook essentially boils down to:

Labour Good!

Conservatives Bad!

And I throw myself wholeheartedly into alcohol fuelled debates concerning the state of the nation, only to be exposed as a tad thin on the details:

Me: Yes, exactly, and Cameron sucks. He like totally sucks, and I hate him, and he's practically murdering the UK.

Them: Oh, so you're a Labour supporter. Well then what about the NHS; Labour royally fooked the NHS.

Me: Did not! And Cameron looks creepy. He looks like he'd take someone's children.

Them: So essentially, your political standpoint is he can't be good for us because of his face.

Me: Yes. And he steals from the poor to feed the rich. Robin Hood will be pissed.

And so on.

So every now and again I force myself to pick up Ginger Beard's Private Eye, or watch the news. But in Private Eye, they just chuck loads of stats at you in really small print, and I start thinking about the 20% off sale in Oasis and drooling. And on the news, everyone is always dying. I used to watch it every morning during breakfast, and end up depressed all the way to lunch. It's not that I don't think it's important to keep tabs on what's happening in the world, but it seems like only bad things happen, or half an hour is dedicated to the cat that can tap dance.

The one thing I am really interested in is the Holocaust. But that's not the best thing to bring up at a dinner party. Ginger says that I always find a way to drop it into conversation when I'm in a crowd. As in:

Crowd: So, what's your job?
Me: Funny you should ask. By day I work in an office, but my true occupation is unearthing and sharing the human suffering stories from the Holocaust.
Crowd: Right.

I don't do that! Okay, sometimes I do that.

I can't help it. Every year I read Anne Frank's diary, and am completely dumbfounded. The idea of this girl, trapped in an attic, loyally recording time, and you're right there with her. Incredible.

How did this go from David Cameron to Anne Frank?

I suppose you could say that Anne Frank was fucked, and Cameron is fucking us.

Oooohhh - link.