One of the best things about having a blog is that, unlike Facebook or Twitter or whatever else all the cool kids are using these days, you can type whatever you wish and know that people are only going to be reading it if they actively choose to open your page. You are in absolutely no danger of clogging (what a great word) up somebody’s newsfeed, uninvited, with any of your nonsense… so you can say whatever you wish, as much as you wish. (Plus, you don’t have to worry about any confusing and unnecessary changes to the layout… the new Facebook timeline, anyone?! Yuck.)
… And something I have always wanted to proclaim is that: I love mid-1990’s dance music.
Don’t most of us, who are in our mid-twenties or older?
For the most part, it seems to be down to an element of nostalgia. Hearing the likes of Snap! or Corona in a bar these days isn’t enjoyable just because of the tunes themselves, but for the memories they conjure… being a kid and hearing those same songs: Saturday-afternoons at the bowling alley in celebration of a classmate’s 9th birthday party; watching Top of the Pops on a Friday evening after spending the day at school practicing your times-tables; or simply through the foam headphones of your suitcase-sized Walkman as you listen to the chart compilation cassette you got for Christmas on a car-journey to visit the grandparents.
Hearing these songs again, in the (slightly different) environment of twenty-first century nightlife, takes us back to those days, back when we were four-feet high and had nothing to worry about besides one of the beads we’d got free inside a packet of Monster Munch snapping off from our bicycle spokes, or whether or not we were going to pass our latest swimming test. What a blissful time it was; but all we seemed to want to do was grow up and be an adult!
Whilst browsing through some charity shops this morning, I discovered and purchased a dusty old second-hand c.d for £1.50. Dance Zone ’94 – a compilation of chart-hits that I remember wanting to own as a 9-year old, when it was first released, but not having the money to buy it. Today it has been the soundtrack to the rest of my day of doing work, entrapping me into a time warp, making me half-believe that John Major is still prime-minister; Oasis and Blur are still battling it out at the top of the charts, and that my responsibilities in life are little more than a picture I have to colour in for homework.
What else can I say but: feel the nostalgia, kids!
These days in between Christmas and New Year feel like that somewhat sombre few hours right after all your guests have left a party at your house. Weeks of excited anticipation and frantic preparation culminated in a lovely evening of celebrations with some of your nearest and dearest… but before you even had time to pour yourself a drink, time jumped forward a few hours and now your guests are gone, back to where they live, some place far away, and all you’re left with is the odd half-eaten sausage roll to sweep up from the floor and red wine stain to tackle from the carpet. When just a few hours ago, the desk was vibrating below a speaker blaring out ’90s tunes and the room was full of laughter and chatter, you are now left with a silence which taunts you loudly: “Party has finished! Get back to work!”
And this is the feeling that seems to define these December days. The festive spirit had engulfed us over the past month, sending it’s magic through the streets. The Christmas shopping on grid-locked high-streets may have left us in strong need of a caffeine pick-me-up at times, but overall the season of goodwill was exactly that: a wonderful few weeks which were all about loving, giving and being able to eat a million mince pies without feeling guilty for it. A few days ago I was receiving Christmas cards in the post. Today, I was receiving a P45 from an old employer and the usual friendly letter from the Student Loans Company reminding me that I owe them several thousand pounds. Hi ho, back to a life pre-destined by paperwork we go!
Though wait, despair not, an encore appears on the horizon! New Year’s – one final frolic before we really have to get back to down to it, but it’s not just about having a party and blowing your loudest *PHEEEEP* through a party-whistle whilst singing Auld Lang Syne. It’s more than that. To me, New Years is about both celebrating the good that has come from the past 12 months, and thinking about all of those things that we could have done better. It’s an opportunity to plan out what our aims and dreams are for the year ahead. 2011 wasn’t a bad year for me, but it wasn’t the best either, and I’m hoping that the lessons learned from it can help me make the year 2012 a whole lot better than it’s predecessor.
This is a time of year for celebration and positivity – for new starts, new challenges and a new you – stronger now from the things you’ve achieved or any problems you’ve overcome in your previous year.
And so it is with this entry I would like to wish all my family and friends a wonderful New Year. 2012. The number alone sounds nicer and is less awkward to say than, “two-thousand and eleven” (*breathe*), and I hope the year itself reflects that way for all whom are reading this. Let’s hope 2012 can be a good one for us all.
Song of the Day: Jukebox the Ghost – Good Day
An incredibly happy sounding song about… a good day, from Philadelphia talents Jukebox the Ghost. Chorus includes bonus tongue-twister. Did everybody say what a good day that it was for everybody who said what a good day that it was?
It must have been a moment of pure madness that convinced me that it would be a good idea to go and start my Christmas shopping on a busy Saturday afternoon in the town. Whilst you set off in good spirits, preparing for the annual unleash of your inner-Santa and contemplating what you can buy for everybody, by the end you have ultimately morphed into Scrooge – you too would be up for banning Christmas if it meant never having to experience the horror that is Saturday afternoon Christmas shopping ever again!
By the time I reached the town centre this afternoon my feelings of festivity had significantly dwindled. I’d passed a man angrily hitting his girlfriend over the head with a roll of Christmas wrapping in a subway that is affectionately known as ‘piss alley’, been angrily tooted at by a bus at a zebra crossing, and been stuck behind a trio of friends walking s…l…o…w…l…y and swinging their cigarettes behind them as they sauntered along (I seem to be much less tolerant of cigarettes now that I’m an ex-smoker, than I was before I even took up the filthy habit!)
The first thing I had to do was pick up some plates from the china shop. These plates had been specially made for my nephews’ christening in a fortnight, with each plate beautifully decorated with their names. I watched the lady wrap them in tissue paper and, considering I was wearing a boot with a broken heel (reason number 45367536 for needing some paid work a.s.a.p!), debated asking if she could use a couple of extra layers, just in case I tripped up. I didn’t though, possibly because I seem to lack brain cells from time to time.
With plates in hand I leave the shop and walk back along the High Street. Town is extremely busy and I’m like a fast-flowing river, meandering rapidly around everybody so that I can get home as soon as possible. Just as I become distracted by a stall selling scarves, Broken-Boot defies me and sends me crashing to the floor, scraping my knees and sending my shopping bags flying. “LOOOOOOOL” jeer a small group of teenagers behind me, their sympathy knowing no bounds. THE PLATES, THE PLATES! I think to myself, and scuttle into the nearest shop to check on their welfare. With a combined cost of around £100, they best not have broken or I’d probably be selling my left hand to Science in exchange for money to refund the replacements as we speak. To my relief, the plates are fine, but the whole episode has left me feeling even less festive than before.
I run to a cafe for an emergency caffeine fix to help me recover, and realise that now, all I can do about it is laugh, because it’s far more fun that way.
And that’s what the new ‘Cartoons’ section on this website is all about – trying to see the funny in the otherwise undeniably ridiculous or embarrassing. So, please check it out by clicking here or by choosing from the menu above! Thank you!
Happy Saturday one and all.
Song of the Day: Hey Marseilles – Rio
A wonderfully uplifting song about the wonder of travel from Seattle band Hey Marseilles. This song just makes me want to sack off all the things that bind us – work, housing, relationships, taxes and just travel for the rest of my life… hey, a girl can dream, right? Enjoy.
Love is a hazard in Lower Manhattan, You cannot escape and mustn’t be saddened, By men who abandon your eyes for another’s, There’s always Brazilian boys to discover!
Set your sights straight now, don’t forget pain, Drink til the morning becomes yesterday, Think of the shorelines you have yet to see, Men who will hold you with eyes you believe.
On the way, I will go. Where the days left to breathe, Are not gone, are still long, I am travelling on!
This is the first week of the year in which it has really felt like Autumn.
The last couple of weeks of September were so abnormally hot – maybe on a par with June’s weather – and so it has only been over the past few days that temperatures have noticeably dropped and the darkness has become more apparent. I’m writing this at 18:30 and the sky outside is already a hazy shade of ash with the moon glowing through, when just a few weeks ago it would have stayed light until 21:30.
Since schooldays, Autumn has, to me, always been about new starts. It is when the lethargy of the Summer heat suddenly transforms into a more fresh, vibrant energy – new ideas, new goals and new plans of action. At school and University, this normally involved joining a new club or society for the academic year, or buying a new set of stationery or bed-linen and meeting new flatmates. Nowadays it’s not quite as marked or fun as that, but its still useful as a time to review our plans and get ourselves back into the fast-lane towards our ambitions, just as society starts waking up again from it’s Summer slumber.
So we say: Goodbye Summer, Hello Autumn:
Goodbye Summer
Streets splattered in the reddy-orange hues of the changing leaves; Adjusting our eyes to the brightness of the house-lamps that were redundant over the light Summer months; The resurgence of Saturday night t.v as something to do in the colder climes; Coastal bus-rides in the pouring rain underneath transparent skies; Dusting off hot-water bottles and re-introducing them to your mattress; Re-discovering socks, boots and that extremely annoying, yet cosy, winter-jacket with all the feathers stuffed inside that keep poking out and getting stuck to your cardigan.
Hello Autumn.
Song of the Day: Matt Pond P.A – Halloween
I love Matt Pond and his ever-changing backing band of merry men (and possibly some women too at some point, I don’t know) – the artist is in my opinion Pennsylvania’s consistently best produce since 1998. I just love him. If I could, I would even send him a Valentines Day card. I’m not entirely sure what this song is about but all I know is that I can listen to it over and over and never get bored and unsurprisingly, given the title, it reminds me of Autumn, hence being this post’s song of the day. This song makes me smiley inside and jumpy in the wet Autumn leaves and puddles!
Any 25-year old female who has a million and one things on her mind deserves at least one relaxing afternoon in a park to escape from it all and read a book. That is my belief anyway, and it has been that way ever since I moved to Canterbury and first caught glimpse of the picturesque Dane John Gardens– a lovely, historic park enclosed within the city walls, adorned with beautiful, colourful flower beds and a pathway lined with lime trees. “I simply must sit and read a book there one sunny day”, I have been saying to myself for the past three months, each time I pass it’s gates on the way into town.
The rather idyllic plan finally came into fruition today, when the early morning sunshine convinced me that today should be that day in which I fulfil my vision, before the impending Autumnal weather dashes my opportunities to. I dressed and headed towards the town, and looked forward to an afternoon of sunshine, a good book, and perhaps a punnet of fresh fruit to complete an altogether rather sophisticated scenario.
Wait, sophisticated? Me?
The reality is – I forgot to bring my book, the blanket I brought to sit on keeps blowing about in the wind, and creepy-crawlies are snooping around the pack of cocktail sausages I’ve purchased from Marks&Spencer (fruit had been an option, but ultimately I succumbed to my stomach and not my head). I feel the very opposite of a sophisticated young lady right now, more like a lumbering mess who’s fringe cannot withstand the wind.
Thankfully, I have a notepad and pen in my bag, so at least I can write. It’s time for another hour or two of earthly observation!
Pen at the ready!
There’s a man to my left who looks very serene. With his hat tilted over his face he lies back, relaxing against the grassy verge that slopes down from the city wall. You wouldn’t for a moment think that just a few yards behind him, over the wall, is a traffic-laden ring road.
This park is also situated right next to the train station, and when a congregation of people appear sporadically, pulling their suitcases through the limetrees, you can tell that one of the London trains has just pulled in, as is the case now. Visitors, or perhaps you could even call them ‘pilgrims’ make their way into the city centre, for what? A holiday? Studies? Visiting family, perhaps?
I just love how touristy Canterbury is. I love walking through the streets and feeling like I could be anywhere in the world. Watford was diverse, but not in the same way that Canterbury is.
A teenage girl strides across the grass wearing a pair of headphones that are clearly based on the retro models, with the frame that goes around the head. She is headed towards the bandstand, where a group of teenagers are sitting, making the most of what’s left of the school holidays.
Serene old man has risen from his afternoon slumber and re-gains his bearings after an hour or two in the luxury of his subconscious.
The wind is doing my head in, and I battle to keep my food covered and my rug on the floor. When it rains, we have umbrellas. When it’s sunny, we have sunglasses, but what protects us from the wind? Maybe one day, somebody will invent something that does just that.
The biggest hula hoop I’ve ever seen passes by on the shoulder of a young girl who walks in tandem with a man clutching a bunch of bright green skittles. I assume they must be from some kind of theatrical school. Oh please, stop and perform! They look to be headed towards the bandstand but the group of teens remain seated and I feel a tinge of disappointment that I’m perhaps not about to be witnessing any displays of acrobatics afterall! I also notice that one of the teens who is sitting in the bandstand has bright pink hair.
I want some candyfloss.
What is it about people-watching that captivates so many? There may not be a great deal going on, but this is infinitely better than watching Eastenders or that silly programme I caught last night about single women competing for a relationship with Gavin Henson. I guess it’s because, this is real life. Forget actors, forget those who seek fame and fortune by masking who they really are and forget television programmes: If you want to enjoy an authentic slice of real life – go outside and look at it.
Two men walk past me clutching picnic equipment. They meet a group of women sat next to the war memorial and the lady wearing pink seems particularly keen to see what food they’ve brought along with them. I get ya, sweet’eart!
I have to strongly resist the urge I have to roll down the steep, grassy slope behind me. Flashback to Mrs Ho telling me off for doing so during school Sports Day in year 8. Thankfully, the sight of a lady with bright green hair sidetracks my mind. Welcome to the 21st century! So men, which do you prefer, blondes or brunettes? Jet-blacks or redheads? What about greens or pinks?
The group of teenagers sitting in the bandstand are smoking and it saddens me a bit. If only they could appreciate how great it is to be young and carefree, instead of trying to be ‘adult’, and do ‘naughty adult things’. Hey kids, want to be an adult? Then why don’t we swap places. You be 25. You enjoy the headaches that come from trying to simultaneously figure out your career and settle your finances whilst feeling the increasing push to fund the move into a place of your own. You do that, and I’ll be a 13 year old again, who has no responsibilities, and can sit around eating sweets all day whilst trying to perfect my rendition of Greensleeves on the recorder in time for Thursday morning’s Music lesson. Deal?
It feels increasingly like it’s about to rain and the flash from what is obviously a very large camera held by a tourist at the top of the Dane John mound which overlooks the Gardens meets my eyes. Where has the sun gone? Out to lunch?
Parks are so under-rated these days. Modern day consumerism is gradually destroying our heritage. We have been stolen by the likes of the internet (I realise the irony of the fact that this is an online blog), plasma televisions, new shopping centres, discounted retail outlets, that we often forget about the great outdoors and the fun it has to offer. It doesn’t cost a penny to go outside, yet there is so much inspiration to see and feel here.
I debate what do next. Stay here and sway around battling the breeze or go home and face the important tasks that – EW, a bug on my shoulder. How long have you been there, darling? Say hello to my finger! Ideally I could stay here forever, but there’s paperwork to fill out and job applications to do, plus, I need to blow my nose. It seems as though I forgot to bring tissues as well as my book.
For the second time this afternoon, a fly has found its way into my drink, rendering the remaining liquid undrinkable. Want to buy me another, Mr Fly? Thought not. Cheeky sod.
I need the toilet.
The park is getting emptier. Come back, sun! We’re losing business, and I’m running out of things to write about. Mind you, I do like that girl’s yellow dress. I wonder where she got it. I’ve been looking for one like that. Oh, how I long to be able to shop again.
I look down and see a friend’s face flashing on my mobile phone. I answer the phone. You’re in town too? Cool, so am I! Let’s meet for a coffee. The notepad goes back in my bag, and, albeit somewhat abruptly, normal life resumes once again.
Song of the Day: Jim Noir – Turn Your Frown Into A Smile
Oh this song is so sublimely sweet, it’s impossible to dislike it. I was listening to this in the park at one point, and it fit so nicely. A beautiful classic from Mancunian neo-psychedelia genius, Jim Noir.
It’s raining, it’s pouring, it’s August, it’s Britain. The wind blows, the trees sway, the sky is grey… and I sit inside lumbered with a kidney infection so painful that if childbirth were to be any more painful than this, you may as well just zip me up now and start calling me the Cat Lady. Yes, this is the epitome of a perfect Summer’s day. Who needs strawberries ‘n’ cream when you can instead have the gourmet lunch of Diclofenac ‘n’ Cefalexin tablets?
There are a number of things I feel I could write about today, so rather than write about just one, I thought I’d do some shorts instead. Enjoy:
R.I.P Amy Winehouse
Last week, I was shocked to receive an instant-message from a friend informing me of the death of Amy Winehouse, 27. I can’t pretend I had ever enjoyed her music, and I had never really found her personality too appetising either, yet despite that, I was genuinely rather sad to hear the news. To me, it is a sad reflection of the ‘other side’ of fame and fortune. Without knowing myself what the celebrity culture is really like, or knowing Amy personally, it would be naive of me to speculate what exactly caused her to start suddenly rolling down the hill of drug abuse, but the biggest shame is that her death appeared to happen just as she was starting to get her health and personal life back in check. I hope that wherever she is now, she is at peace and rest.
In the meantime, I cannot help but laugh at portions of the British press and public, who were more than happy to slate and ridicule her whilst she was alive, only to now place her on the pedestal of being some kind of demi-goddess now that she is gone forever. Such hypocrisy and mawkish sentiment is nothing if not cringeworthy, and you could even draw comparisons between this and the precedent death of ‘The Peoples Princess’ some 14 years earlier. One can only hope that, unlike with Princess Diana, the press can leave Amy to rest without needlessly regurgitating aspects of her life years down the line in order to ‘make a good story’. R.I.P Amy, you leave behind a legacy of a music enjoyed by many, but if the world can take anything from your story, please let it be the lesson that drugs are not the answer to either a problem, nor a need for ‘fun’.
Putting the ‘poo’ in ‘shampoo’
Owing to a recent move a couple of hours South, and a lack of money not helped by the extremely frustrating rarity of available work in the area, I have had to temporarily go to a different hair salon that’s more local for my usual cut and blow-dry, until money becomes available to me again and I can go back to Watford for one. It’s always strange going to a different salon when you’ve been used to attending the same one for three years, and as with any kind of ‘replacement’ you cannot help but critically compare it to it’s predecessor.
There wasn’t anything particularly wrong with my haircut itself, rather, the strange experience had whilst my hair was being washed and shampoo’ed. As I lay back with my head in the sink, trying to relax as advised by the stylist – a spindly young man in his late teens with bleached blonde hair – I closed my eyes and tried to think about soothing images to go with the gushing water trickling down my neck. For a couple of minutes I was at complete peace with the world, until the stylist started speaking; “I had to get the train to work today, and Sittingbourne Station smelt of poo. Then I got on the train, and that absolutely stank of poo too…. I wonder where it goes? Do you know where it goes when people poo on a train? Like it must just go straight onto the track or something. Ewww.” I grinned, politely, not really knowing what else to say, and the young man continued his story. By the time we had reached the second rinse, I had heard all about a school trip he had been on as a 12 year old, when the coach got stuck in traffic in Paris and a fellow pupil had thrown up into a sock because there was no toilet on board the coach, and how the coach had also smelt of poo. Something tells me that the editor of 2011 edition of, “The Hairdressers Handbook” tried to aim for an innovative new approach when it came to conversational tips. Long gone are the days of being asked if you’ve booked any holidays, or whether or not you watched Eastenders on Monday night, faeces-focused folktales are here to stay!
Memories in Waves
On Monday evening we went to the beach at Tankerton for sunset and dusk. This is the beach at which we used to own a beach-hut, some 10-12 years ago, and being back on those pebbles, looking out over that same patch of ocean I used to take my dinghy out on back in the late 1990’s, I felt a strange shiver down my spine. For fleeting moments, I felt as though I was 13 years old again – short bedraggled hair, fringe, braces. I remembered what my personal sphere had been like back then – school, lessons, teachers, my Backstreet Boys posters, my 8-strong group of best-friends. I remembered all those pre-teen dramas, some of which would be playing on my mind during our weekends by the sea. Why did so-and-so sit on a different table in Geography class – I don’t think she wants to be friends with me anymore. What will happen if I can’t find my piece of homework about Mughal India, will I need to re-do the whole leaflet? What if my felt-pens ran out? When will I next see that cute boy I sometimes pass on the way home from school? Have I been invited to Rupal’s sleepover this year?
It’s funny how when you look back you wonder why you spent so long worrying or thinking about particular things that nowadays seem so insignificant. I probably did see that cute boy again on the way home from school, but that’s all that would ever become of him – just a stranger who’d walk the Whippendell Road at the same time as me. And it was never worth me losing any sleep over my piece of homework about Mughal India – I did end up having to re-write it, and as far as I recall I got a ‘B’, but it wasn’t a piece of work that would ever had any bearing on my future.
I compared my personal sphere then to the one I have now and marveled about how life is an on-going process of change. My home has changed, my career direction has changed, my best-friends have changed. Worries have come and gone, people have come and gone, jobs have come and gone. Life is a transient motion which does not stop, and it fascinates me no end. It can also be pretty intimidating to think that things you put a lot of focus an emphasis on now may one day, 10 years down the line, mean less to you. Maybe things cannot be forced, maybe they can only be. I just don’t know, but still, it interests me… what do you think?
Song of the Day: Super Furry Animals – The Turning Tide
In line with my third point, this is an amazing little song about the fascination of change by legendary Welsh rockers, the Super Furry Animals.
“The service was slow, my eyes began to grow into telescopes, that are looking out to a world of quick-sand-castles on their keep, still waiting under siege for the turning tide. Need some inspiration, time to hitch a ride on the turning tide”
Date: Thursday 9th June 2011 Time: 11:30am Location: The old Canterbury Buttermarket
I’m sat outside Starbucks with a freshly made caramel macchiato and a notepad at my table. Its a typical weekday morning in a square which, with its timber-framed buildings and lively street performers, typifies the historical and cultural aspects of this city of Canterbury.
A rather effeminate American tourist on the table next to me discusses the passers by with somebody who I presume is his boyfriend. They are laughing. The tourist came to my aid earlier when he pointed out the chair I was about to sit on was covered in tea, and brought over a new one for me. “Oh! Don’t sit there! That chair looks a little mankyyyyy, that’s why I didn’t sit on it. Here, let me getcha noo one” My heart melted like the froth on my coffee at the voluntary kindliness.
Meanwhile, a man in a trilby hat and a blue t-shirt sits beside the war memorial warbling out his remake of a Neil Diamond song on a guitar which he self-gratifyingly thumps around like a wench.
The song finishes, and the American tourist creates the sole applause and cheers before laughing and remarking to me that, “It’s almost WORSE when only one person claps”
In the background I hear the sound of a plush toy frog with inbuilt giggling sound effects emanating from Hawkins Bazaar gift shop as an excited child looks on and tries to establish where the sound is coming from.
Then there is the ice-cream seller who sits in the middle of the square, leaning against his cart, who is looking pained at the prospect of a rabble of about 20-odd French schoolchildren, shouting above one another in alien tones as they approach him.
Yet, this city is so quintessentially British.
The queue to get into the Cathedral is constant and comprises of faces from all over the globe, all of whom have come here for the same reason – to see the world heritage site up close, feel it’s warmth, and revel in it’s magic.
What I love the most is the variety of languages and voices. Two young ladies who look like they’re into equestrian sports bustle out of Starbucks with their takeway skinny lattes, talking in upper-class tones about something or other. Immaculately dressed, the comparison with the overweight, balding man in the tracksuit who sits nearby looking despondently at his ice-cream as his wife whispers something into his ear, is broad. ♪Why why whyyyyy Delilah♪ – I am pleased the busking musician is playing something upbeat but am less satisfied by the arrival of a third delivery lorry, obscuring my view of the Square. Do they not know that I’m trying to write an observational piece here?! Yet this is the hustle and bustle of this city’s life, and I love it.
A Starbucks employee is now at the table next to me, on a break, with a blood-red coloured juice drink in front of him as he taps away at his phone. I wonder who he is messaging, or what he’s saying. I wonder if he knows that the thing I’m scribbling about on my piece of paper right now, is him.
The musician breaks into a rendition of Let It Be next. ♪There will be an answer, let it be♪
I listen to him warble away to his guitar and feel a moment of awe which is swiftly spoilt by the lady next to me, coughing a loud, rasping cough.
Regardless, I’m still really warming to this musician. Who knows his circumstances – his name, age or birthplace. Who knows what brings him to this Square and who knows why he needs to make the cash from busking. Yet, there is something inspiring about his passion and drive to just keep on singing amidst the cacophony of frog noises, school children, coughing and derogatory remarks from U.S tourists.
In fact, there is passion all around Canterbury. The huge Cathedral behind me is symbolic of many things, mostly historical and religious, but to me, it is a testament to somebody’s dream, and the faith of many, 1100 years ago, to build something so beautiful without the aid of modern day construction methods and machinery. Every brick, every panel, every detail of the stained glass windows… so immaculate, so perfect. Chaucer’s pilgrims, though fictional, symbolise the millions of people who have been driven to Canterbury not by horses, planes and trains alone, but by faith and intrigue.
I begin to feel the continental breeze against my feet, sweeping in from the South-Eastern shoreline.
Two locksmiths return to their van upon completing a job. In cockney tones, they discuss how to manoeuvre their lorry out of the square, “Should be toight, but I’ll be alroight”. ♪And so, slide away, but don’t look back in anger, I heard you say♪, the musician’s repertoire is one that knows the songs that people like – the anthemic and the timeless, and knows how to juxtapose them against the ongoing movement surrounding him.
A German teenager on a school trip has decided to stand right in front of me and munch loudly on an apple. I sometimes wonder what these foreign children make of Canterbury. Are they interested in the religion or culture, or, like most of us when we were teenagers, are they plotting the best way to escape teacher’s attention and sneak off somewhere for a game of pool and can of coke? ♪If I lay here, if I just lay here, will you lie with me and just forget the world♪ A group of pensioners walk together laughing, holding shopping bags containing recent purchases from local craft shops. I wonder what the city is like through their elderly eyes, how its changed over the years and how pleased they are that it has still managed to retain some degree of it’s charismatic vintage soul throughout the decades.
But by now, my cup is nearly empty and my macchiato nearly finished. The sun spills out from behind the clouds. The coughing lady’s Nokia ringtone takes off and I establish that she is German, “So… ja…. und… toll…. ja”. I love the cosmopolitan atmosphere of this place and feel happy to live here.
I begin to feel like I’m taking up a table someone else might need, so I put away my work, pack up my bags and root around in my purse to find some cash to give the musician. For the past hour I have been surrounded by people and things who do the things they love, and love the things they do. This is not the place to find people headlessly pursuing the things they feel they should be doing, but doing the things they want to be doing, and being damn good at it. It was an inspiration. It made my heart smile. It was one of the best cups of coffee ever.
Loves.
Song of the Day: The Avett Brothers – Kick Drum Heart
Another gem discovered from Last.Fm. An upbeat piece of contemporary pop/folk/bluegrass fresh from North Carolina. The kind of awesome song that will put you in a great mood within minutes and re-affirm the notion that music is powerful.
I had been out shopping in the morning, and had returned to get on with some work, when all of a sudden, I got the strangest sensation in my tummy. Don’t worry, I’m not about to divulge the details of any unpleasant digestive problem, although it did feel slightly similar… Have you ever had it, where a ‘bad-feeling’ has just seemed to spring out of nowhere and grab you by the stomach? Perhaps I have a sixth sense (but unlike the boy in the movie, I lack the benefit of Bruce Willis being around to help), maybe I’d just drank too much coffee in the morning, or maybe it was just…nothing at all. Either way, it got me thinking about those “unwelcome surprises” that life can throw at us. You know the ones I mean. You can be merrily getting by in your life, fulfilling a daily duty or enjoying a pleasant daydream, when all of a sudden you might find out something you don’t want to know, or see something you don’t want to see, and you get that ‘bad-feeling’, and it can then ruin your whole day, without you having a say in it.
There are very few people in the world who can call themselves psychic, and have the ability to predict the future. For those of us without a crystal ball, life is a mystery and we simply do not know what will happen next. Things can change – they can do so in a heartbeat, or they can do so over a longer period of time, in a more stealthier fashion. Unfortunately, we are unable to control what happens with a lot of things. All the planning in the world cannot prevent inexplicable events. Sometimes, the hardest thing is knowing what to do next.
But something I’ve realised… is that we can learn to be resilient to these surprises.
Resilience d0es not equate to foregone victory in a future battle, but, in keeping with the fighting analogy, it can be regarded as a ‘suit of armour’. Resilience makes you stronger, and better equipped for facing things.
What does resilience consist of?
Resilience is a form of certainty which can counteract the ongoing threat of uncertainty by acting as a constant, permanent set of rules which you can swear to yourself that you will keep to, no matter what. Should things go wrong, you can then depend upon this set of rules to help you deal with the matter. The rules may vary from person to person. I’ve decided these are mine:
No Matter What Happens:
I will keep following my heart. It might not be as logical as the head, but it adheres to my dreams.
I will continue to stand by the people who are most important to me, relentlessly. Unless they take a piss on me or something.
I will strive to find the best solution for whatever problem I face.
If there is no solution available, if something is already done, then I will just stand up, and look forward.
This set of rules will be there to give me guidance whenever I need them, and it is the certainty of that, that provides me with some resilience. It won’t prevent upset, it won’t stop the unwelcome surprises from happening, but it will give me the direction I’ll need to cope with it if something goes wrong. Do it, make your own set of rules! Think about whats important to you, and vow to hold onto it or stick to it, whatever happens. Do with an ‘ooh!’, DOOO IT!
Meanwhile, some shorts for you…
Stupid moment of the week: “Sorry, we’re going to have to leave, we didn’t realise how fishy it was going to be in here” said a friend to the waitor, as she and I decided to leave a restaurant after sitting down and looking at the menu. I guess we should have known better, it being a fish restaurant, in a seaside town famous for… seafood… and all.
Discovery-from-unintentional-eavesdropping-of-the-day: “Vanessa went with them to the Carvery, but she couldn’t find anything that she could eat, because she is a vegetarian”,explained a lady to her companion, who were walking in front of me in at an exceptionally slow pace in town… One wonders why Vanessa went to a carvery in the first place, if she’s a vegetarian, but alas, I will never find out.
Epiphany of the Day: I seem to write about food an awful lot on this. Can anyone say, ‘dinnertime’?
Loves.
Song of the Day: The Drums – Book of Stories
Bouncy indie-pop with a 1980’s feel from Brooklyn, NY.
Behold the first ‘Short’ of the Blog so far. This category of posts will be where all the ‘tidbits’ will be kept (and yes, admittedly there was a long pause between the words ‘the’ and ‘tidbits’ during which the rusty cogs of my brain tried in vain to think of a word that doesn’t sound like the name of some kind of vintage confectionary). Anyway, I digress…
i) The Price is (not) Right
Whilst walking along Canterbury’s main street this afternoon I found myself exchanging flirtatious glances with a chocolate eclair in a patisserie window. Seldom does my tongue request me to consume something sweet as opposed to savoury, so I was fairly surprised at how unable I was to divert my eyes away from the pastry. I surrendered to temptation, sat myself down, and gave my order to the waitress. Within minutes, the chocolate eclair was served up in front of me along with a knife and fork with which to finely slice the chocolatey goodness into proper sized mouthfuls (I would have preferred to have just gobbled it up in a heavily indulgent instant, but one must try and retain some degree of elegance and poise when sat in a public place). I have to admit, the snack lived up to its promise and was an absolutely delectable treat for the tongue (though perhaps an unwelcome gift for the waistline). Overall I was pleased with my decision to give in to my tastebuds. That was until they presented me with the bill. After reading the little piece of paper word for word and foolishly wondering why my female waitress had a name like Bill, I finally found the important bit, the price I had to pay: £3.35 (and, for the sake of emphasis, THREE POUNDS THIRTY FIVE PENCE). Since when has a product which consists purely of whipped cream and choux pastry cost so much! I’m convinced that the weight of the snack was even less than the weight of the £5 note I used to pay for it with. Needless to say, next time a chocolate eclair winks seductively at me from a patisserie window I will have to give it the cold shoulder. A shame, but at least the waistline will be happy.
ii) Did you want to say that any louder sweetheart?
So compared to our national neighbours (particularly the Germans), we’re generally regarded as being quite a conservative nation when it comes to sex. Unless chatting with close friends, people don’t tend to discuss their bedroom life in public and me being the somewhat traditionalist girl that I am is pleased about that. So I couldn’t help but be surprised (and also relatively amused) this afternoon whilst looking at foundation products in Boots. Nearby were the contraception counters and I was vaguely aware of a young couple perusing over the many different varieties of condom. Normally, I have my headphones in whilst I am shopping alone and that makes me blissfully unaware of what is going on around me. However, in a fleeting moment of silence between songs the pleasant sound from my headphones was replaced with the sound of the female half of the couple behind me, declaring particularly loudly, that “NO, THOSE WERE THE ONES THAT MADE MY VAG REALLY ITCHY LAST TIME” as her boyfriend pointed suggestively at a particular variety of condom. I mean, really? You think that shortening that one word in the middle is going to make your announcement any more discreet?
I will probably never see that lady ever again but now that I know she had an adverse reaction to the Durex Pleasuremax range my life has reached a whole new realm of enlightenment, so I would like to thank her for sharing her experience with the whole shop and I’m sure that the fellow shoppers who looked similarly as stunned at such a public proclamation should wish to do the same. Bravo to you, curly-haired brunette lady in the brown mackintosh…
iii) Karaoke Queen
I would like to pay homage to the tiler who was carrying out repairs on our roof this morning. A shaven-headed, tattooed man who comes across as the pinnacle of masculinity. With the radio on full blast, perhaps he didn’t think anyone could hear him singing along with Skylar Grey in ‘I’m Coming Home’ in such a high-pitched, bird-like tone, but I could. Caught ya!
That’s all for today.
Loves.
Song of the Day: She & Him – Gonna Get Along Without You Now
We all love a bit of doo-wop and today I discovered a band who provide it. “She & Him” are an indie-folk band from the U.S. This is a cover they did of a ‘6Os song. I like the positivity of it.
sophiekemsley 