In the school corridor one April some years back, possibly 2003, a friend and I burst into hysterics when we noticed a teacher pinning drawings of bunny rabbits onto a display-board that featured photos from that term’s Drama production of Greek tragedy Antigone (in which yours truly had been cast a typically bit-part role as King Creon’s Servant #12 or something like that, and had still managed to royally muck up her lines). But it wasn’t the photos that amused my friend and I, more so the caption across it, “Spring Into Drama”, and the way the teacher, ‘Dr. Wazza’ as we fondly referred to her, was gleefully pinning the bunny rabbit cartoon drawings across her display, clearly proud of her pun. We laughed about this for a good while, especially whenever we passed by it in the weeks that followed.
I’m not quite sure how or why I still remember this hardly life-defining moment of laughter, but each time Spring rolls around I find myself thinking of it as a season of freshness, movement and fun, and then I think back to that caption and become slightly more appreciative of Dr.Wazza’s sentiment.
Spring IS a season to do new things, to have longer days and find things to fill them with, to re-acquaint ourselves with fresh air and blue skies. There’s something about it that just makes me want to be everywhere doing everything with everyone in every moment – to make the most of those days, weeks and months that appear all too fleetingly before the darkness will once again descend. To really start afresh.
And I very much like this feeling.
I very much like Spring.
Song of the Day: Wonder Stuff – Piece of Sky
This song is a pretty scary 25 years old… but it still sounds so fresh, and is still one of my favourite tunes to listen to at this time of year.
So with a relatively important piece of work to be getting on with on this pleasantly Spring-like Saturday, I did what most people do when they’ve a billion better things to be doing and logged onto Facebook for a bit of voyeuristic procrastination. Whilst scrolling down the Newsfeed, expecting not to see anything of any real importance, I saw that WWF’S Earth Hour – United Kingdom had posted a link to an intriguing sounding video – a timelapse filmed from the International Space Station as it passed over continents and cities at night.
The concept of space and the Universe has always been one to absolutely stagger me. Despite wanting to, I just can’t understand the science or enormity of it all. There are so many things I’d love to know about the solar system, but each time I try to learn I become lost within an intimidating wave of terminologies, equations and measurements that I simply can’t even begin to process. So, for me, space is just that. A limitless and mysterious yet fascinating mass that has long preexisted mankind and will longer still outlive it.
Thankfully, you don’t need to have an intellectual understanding of space to be able to enjoy this video. In fact, limited knowledge of the subject only serves to make this video all the more fascinating. How strange to see our planet from this angle. How strange to see the Western US coast as just a mere black landmass splattered with lights – no sign at all of its cosmopolitan cities and suburbs which brim with movie stars, mansions, beaches, beauty salons and bubble-tea bars. How strange to see Europe without seeing continental breakfasts, Alpine rivers and roving valleys. How strange to see the Northern Lights flutter above the planet like emerald ribbons in the wind… quite a contrast to the view from ground-level – rooted to a hill North of Reykjavik in freezing evening winds, salopettes flapping against shins, faces gazed up waiting for even the briefest of views of those green flashes… How strange just to see the World without seeing that which constantly beavers away to keep it going, and keep those lights lit – its people…
Imagery like this fascinates me because it reminds me of just how big the world truly is. It’s funny to think of all of the things that were going on below the recording equipment that were just too minute, too obscure, to be picked up: people cooking dinner, catching buses, watching television, brushing teeth, embracing, getting married, giving birth, fighting wars, passing away… all things which are significant to us individually, but appear not to be acknowledged in Space…
No wonder its size is so hard to comprehend…
Song of the Day: Tennis – Deep In The Woods
“The smoke in the night the ash on the light I think that it might be the last thing in sight I know now I am right to let you be consumed by the smoke in the night the ash on the light
I sometimes wonder how much time we collectively spend, simply trying to ‘figure things out’
Figure our evening outfits out.
Figure our weekend plans out.
Figure our weekly menus out.
Figure our finances out. Figure our feelings out. Figure our lives out.
I will always be one to advocate the importance of opportunities for personal thought and reflection, but lately I’ve found myself considering the idea that maybe in some situations the only real way of figuring something out, is to just do it before the opportunity has passed by during all the time you spent contemplating it. Maybe some things are just not meant to be figured out. Just do it, and see what happens,
Maybe it will turn out that a bit of extra thought could have prevented a mistake.
Maybe nothing will come of it at all.
Or maybe, it will turn out to be the best decision of your life.
But at the very least, you’ll know, and that knowledge will make future decisions that little bit easier to make.
Song of the Day:Public Image Ltd – Rise
This was one of the signature songs of former Sex Pistol, John Lydon’s next musical project, Public Image Ltd. Released in 1986, the track served as a comment against the apartheid which was still prevalent in South Africa at the time. When I listen to Rise, I do not only hear – but feel – the resentment towards apartheid and the general socio-historical context of that specific time period… something which is nowhere near as evident in today’s generally meaningless chart music.
But that’s not the main reason for posting. I just generally enjoy this tune.
2013 was one of the first years in which I didn’t really set out any particular aims or targets at the beginning, and given that I’m still sat in my same old chair in my same old room – it shows. 2012 had been a very good year, in a number of different aspects of my life, and so I didn’t really see fit to change anything in the New Year – 2013 – other than to just carry on, and keep smiling. Throughout the course of the year, such targets did begin to emerge more and more, and I did try and work towards them, but here we are now at the end of the year, and I haven’t really achieved any of them. The moving-out-of-home thing hasn’t quite come into fruition yet (which is especially gutting since the amount of money I’ve spent on driving tests – another thing I was hoping to achieve this year – could probably be enough to purchase a small mansion!), and I’m still infuriated by South Eastern Trains on a regular basis. Generally speaking, not a lot has changed, and whilst that’s not necessarily a bad thing, it does leave me feeling a little underwhelmed at the end of the year, and disappointed that I haven’t achieved more, even if I have had a lot of fun.
But then I started to think about all the things beyond the surface. I started to look at things in greater depth, and I realised that whilst I may not have necessarily achieved very much this year in terms of what general society tend to define as ‘symbols of success’ (a relationship, children, a house, promotion at work, car), I’ve still learned a lot of things from life, that have helped me grow as a person, and right now… I consider that to be a success in itself…
Here’s what 2013 taught me…
1) The Value of Mistakes
Nobody likes to make mistakes. We fear the repercussions, and when those eventually manifest they have the ability to completely stifle us. We can feel guilty and stupid and disappointed in ourselves, especially if our mistake has let others down. It’s never a nice experience, but if a mistake we have made truly affects us then we will always do our best to learn from it, and try to ensure that it never happens again. I have slowly become to appreciate my mistakes more and more. I’m not afraid to acknowledge any of those moments when I know I need to get my arse in gear following any errors I’ve made – be it something specific, like forgetting to do something at work – or something a little deeper than that – like when I’ve perhaps jumped to unfair conclusions, or judged somebody too quickly. Guilt can be a rough ride but all mistakes can make you a better person, provided you don’t allow your pride to get in the way. They teach you how you can do things better.
I try and imagine a world in which nobody ever makes mistakes, and all I can imagine is a place where complacency has diminished peoples’ values and appreciation, and where comparative ease has slowly removed the incentive to take risks or try and improve at things. I think I prefer the way we have it here, even if it is a little harder.
2) The Value of ‘Shitty Times’
Aaaaand similarly. Most of us will have experienced shitty times at some point or another, albeit to varying extents or reasons, but we all know what they’re like. Shitty times are those wonderful moments, perhaps days, weeks (or maybe even more!) in which we feel that nothing we can do is right, that we’re never going to achieve anything, that the world is made up of 95% horrible people and that everybody hates us. For us women, we often like to attribute this to our monthly cycle, (a.k.a, ‘The Monthly Nutfuck’) but it’s not always that vague or general a feeling, sadly. Tragedies are more than just a genre of ancient old Greek stories, they actually do happen – and suddenly. Life does not always deal a fair hand. None of us are immune from being hurt or heartbroken. Being kind to others does not always mean they will be kind to you. Shitty times can spawn from all of these damning realities, and some in particular can be exceptionally hard to deal with. There is no quick fix, nor magic potion that can ever make any of these experiences easier to bare, but there is a value within them somewhere. And this is it: Whenever you manage to overcome a shitty time, no matter what kind, you become so much more than the person you were before. You are wiser. You are stronger. You find appreciation in the smallest things… but perhaps even more pertinently, you know you can get through it should it happen again, and that’s a little bit less fear to live with, at least…
Similarly to how I imagine a world in which nobody makes mistakes, I am just as underwhelmed by what comes to mind when I think about a world in which everybody is happy all the time and nothing bad ever happens. I am underwhelmed because I don’t think it could ever exist, even with the aid of all the magic needed to eradicate all the despair in the world. That’s because without shitty times, we don’t really understand happiness. Without shitty times, happiness means nothing.
I can’t pretend that I enjoy shitty times. I dread them with a passion and hate the way they make me feel, but deep down I do see the purpose in having them every once in a while. They can remind us of our focus and values, and sometimes even instigate the changes that deep down we know will make us happier but for whatever reason have been reluctant to go through with.
3. “If you don’t like something, change it; if you can’t change it, change the way you think about it. ”
When something doesn’t quite match your expectations, you can either run yourself – as well as others around you – into the ground with ongoing whinging or negativity, or you can shift your perceptions in order to focus on the positive aspects of it all. If you don’t think there are any positive aspects – search for them. If you still can’t find them – try and create them. If you can’t do that still, then accept that it is not something you’re destined for and do whatever you need to do to escape, but don’t let those around you also be brought down by your negative sentiments. I appreciate that this rather simplistic idea cannot be applied to all circumstances, but it certainly could during the experience that prompted me to take this away as one of the key things I’ve learned in 2013.
Ometepe Island, Nicaragua – October 2013
4. The Value of Just Being Yourself
Okay, I actually realised this several years back, so it’s not a new lesson learned as such, but in 2013 I’ve become an even bigger believer in this. There’s an all too infamous quote by Gandhi; “Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony.” I’m sure you’ve all seen it before (probably in the form of some kind of twee internet meme) but in recent years I’ve understood this sentiment to be so true. There is simply little point in pretending to be somebody that you are not, for whatever reason may be behind that.
For many years I tried to deny to myself that I have a bit of an anxiety problem. It’s hardly anything uncommon (basically – I’m just one of those people that has the ability to over-analyse and worry about particular things way too easily, and when I do I tend to go very quiet and hide myself away without explanation, probably appearing as distant or nervous to others). Thankfully, it doesn’t interfere with my life as often anymore, but it’s still a part of me that for many years I was too ashamed to acknowledge – even to myself. It was that failure to acknowledge it that caused it to have more of a noticeable and negative impact on my life. Through feelings of guilt about being affected by something that I considered just ‘a stupid problem’, I tried so hard to pretend to myself that it didn’t exist – but pretending – as I discovered, was just a huge and tiring waste of energy which could instead be used on actually combating the issue. My experiences with anxiety are still not the kind of thing I’ll shout about unless asked, even to my loved ones – some of whom I know regularly read this blog – but I have definitely benefited from acknowledging it within myself. And that’s been the most important thing. Now that I’ve acknowledged it, and started to try and both understand and combat it completely, I’ve stopped giving myself as hard a time about it, because I know I’m aware of it now, as opposed to trying to sweep it away.
It’s so much easier just to be the person you are than the person you think that others think you should be – like feeling comfortable in something larger rather than trying to squeeze into an ill-fitting dress that hasn’t seen the light of day since 2007. (Likewise, as much as I enjoy glamming up, I see little point in doing it just to reign in the opposite sex with a Clinique-inspired mask that doesn’t accurately reflect the buck-toothed scarecrow face behind it)
Much of society opposes the concept of public nudity. I agree that it would probably be a bit inappropriate for everybody to walk around naked, but it does seem a slight shame that our most natural state of being is also one so commonly met with disapproval. In a superficial world like ours, where one’s possessions, wealth, number of social media ‘friends’, visual qualities of partner and whatever other stupid things there are out there, have – so horrifyingly – become the symbols of ‘success’ as perceived by society at it’s shallowest, it seems that many have taken the instruction to “Cover Up!” way too literally. If everybody could just focus on self-acceptance and being content with themselves as they are, there’d probably be far fewer instances of self-esteem issues than actually exists and is responsible for so many incidences of Depression existent in British society today. Be real and be raw and don’t waste any precious time on people who can’t like you for who you really are. The likelihood is they’re covering up too much too.
5. Think Before You Throw…
There aren’t many things in life that can’t be replaced somehow. In many ways this is a good thing, but in another sense, I fear it sometimes leads to needless disposal.
In 2013 I came very close to throwing something special away on the basis of a couple of things that had occurred within a proportionately small period of time and upset me. Knee-jerk reactions paved the way for belligerent opinions and fabricated insistence that I didn’t need this thing in my life anymore; that I was happy enough without it. Life is busy and we don’t always get the time to sit and think properly about our thoughts and actions; and often we make decisions based only upon the whimsical emotions prompted by the irritable fatigue that can come about as result of our hectic daily routines, and prevent us from thinking properly. It was only when I did take that time out, that I realised the magnitude of difference between those belligerent, knee-jerk opinions… and how I truly felt deep-down. I realised that I didn’t want to let go of this special something after all, as it had meant so much for so long, and instead I wanted to try and repair it. By simply waiting a while, and reviewing the situation from more angles, I prevented myself from making a huge mistake.
We are lucky that in this part of the world we have access to so much which is good, and that we have so much choice and freedom; but that shouldn’t allow us to lose grip on the relationships and possessions which truly mean the most to us. We shouldn’t be any more willing to dispense of something on the basis of impulsive reaction and the belief that it can be easily replaced with other wonderful stuff, because all that ultimately does is question the value of everything else that we will ever hold dear. I’m not saying that we should never release ourselves from particular things, but if we do then it should be on the basis of a timely and fair assessment, not just a whimsical reaction.
And so there we have it, five of the main lessons that were either learnt or reiterated in 2013, and will be used to combat 2014. Hopefully this year I’ll achieve a bit more than I did last year, and maybe those five lessons will be the thing that help me do it…
Song of the Day:Swing Republic – On The Downbeat
A final epiphany of 2013 was the discovery of a musical genre of which I had previously never heard: ‘electro-swing’ – which is basically a fusion of early to mid 20th century swing with 21st century beats. This is a great style of music to listen to during the daily commute!
…With Christmas almost upon us, I felt that really it’s about time I went ahead and submitted an appropriately festive post. I had a few ideas… some short, some long, some deep, some…just ridiculous. In the end I went down the slightly more personal route. I began by asking myself what Christmas represents to me, personally, rather than what it may mean to society as a whole.
I found myself having flashbacks to Christmases gone by, and from those I noticed no singular meaning become apparent. I realised that Christmas only means as much as those random memories of it which have remained, and the best ones I’ve ever experienced were as a child, when the excitement was real and raw and there was more time to enjoy it all. Since adulthood, Christmas has pretty much been about the same thing: a hangover, a day off work, food, spending lots of money on presents, and just having good times with the family and friends… which is all very nice, but arguably, a bit same-y too.
Below are the main memories from some of the first Christmases I ever experienced and can remember, from the ’80s, ’90s and ’00’s, written down just as they appear in memory (with a little help from the diaries). The recollections are brief, with details missing here and there to the extent where they may not even make sense, but these are the things that have stuck… are they similar to your first Christmases, too?
Merry Christmas everyone 🙂
Christmas 1988 – The first one I can really remember, aged 3. Spend the time bouncing up and down on my new trampoline at our house in Rickmansworth and intertwining pieces of purple and green plasticine to form ‘snakes’ with which to try and scare mum. Watch Raymond Briggs’ ‘The Snowman’ and fail to understand why he disappeared at the end as not old enough to know about the various ways in which water can change states. Enjoy the imagery, though!
Christmas 1989 – Enjoy arranging Christmas tree with older siblings. Annual appearance of god-awful decorations that have been a part of the Kemsley family Christmas since the 1970s. Much laughter ensues following the emergence from the decorations box of ‘Moody Fairy’, who we ceremoniously prop at the top of the fir once the rest is complete, ready to glare down upon us for the rest of the season.
Left: ‘Moody Fairy’ a.k.a plastic, flame-haired angel with stern eyebrows, produced from gluing turquoise feathers onto a blue cone. Probably purchased from Woolworths in 1971. Right: ‘Grey-haired lady in car’ a.k.a ‘Pauline from Eastenders’ aka most un-festive tree decoration ever. Still features each year to this very day.
Christmas 1990 – I receive a set of marker pens, colouring-in book, and my first ever Walkman, which for the first year or so will play nothing beyond my Winnie the Pooh cassette during road trips to Kent. Creep into sister’s bedroom at 2am to open our stockings. Sister delighted with New Kids on the Block album and variety of new floral scrunchies. Tuck in to the token giant tube of Smarties before taking a quiet trip down the stairs to see whether or not there are any presents under the tree. Yes! Unable to get back to sleep due to excitement. The first one to be awake and dressed, for the last time ever…
Christmas 1991 -Starring role in the infant school nativity as ‘Narrator #2’. Also have an additional musical responsibility; clear instructions given on at what particular moment to tap single xylophone key to add dramatic effect to virgin birth. Dozens of six-year olds all running around using the word ‘virgin’ with no idea what it means, but consider it most probably linked to mode of transport experienced in recent Summer break. Mrs M’s face turns a shade of puce when asked how the baby Jesus came into being. Show starts. Mum sits proudly in the audience, probably at the back due to insignificant casting of daughter. Mary and Joseph’s parents most definitely along the front row.
Spend Christmas Eve watching ‘Father Christmas’ cartoon the whole country is raving about. Looks and sounds like big fat Barry who lives next door. Start to wonder if Santa is my neighbour…
Christmas 1992 – A Boxing Day trip to Kent to see the grandparents. In Sittingbourne, Grandma B is plumping up the cushions as we arrive. Her second husband, the retired army major, sits slumped on the settee in a mustard coloured knit jumper looking thoroughly fed up with the company and itching for us to leave. We eventually oblige.
On to Faversham next, to see Grandma and Grandad L. Smoke from Grandad’s tobacco pipe filtrates around the whole house. He plays The Entertainer on his organ, as the rest of us sit around on the claret velveteen sofas tucking in to a tin of Quality Street. The fudge diamond lures me in with it’s pretty cerise foil wrapper, so emblematic of Christmas in its own little way. To me, anyway.
Finally we stop off in Seasalter to see Nana and Grandad D. It’s the last time we’ll share a Christmas with Grandad D although we don’t know that at the time. Nana is preparing one of her roasts and repeatedly suggests I go and help myself to a chocolate from the tree, which looking back was probably just a ploy to keep me out of the kitchen and out of the way.
Cousins are in the bedroom playing Super Mario on the Nintendo, and the bungalow reverberates with a regular chorus of the menacing sounding 8-bit music whenever Mario goes underground. Serious, studious faces fixated on the screen to match. In retrospect, how the hell did people who played or witnessed this game not end up institutionalised from the insanity provoked by overexposure to this particular sound? Offending musical piece below:
Christmas 1993 – Annual attendance at the Christmas Eve service at St Peter’s church in Rickmansworth. Fusty smell, much like the one in the old hall in which we do Brownies, engulfs nave. Parents and sister whisper away about people they recognise from living there in the eighties before moving to Watford. Knock the knitted hassocks that are hanging on the hooks of the pews in front with my feet due to boredom… don’t understand a word the vicar is saying. Yawn. Want to go home… Do go home – eventually. Brother – who didn’t join us in attending church – has had an unfortunate incident with the chip fryer. House smells of chips and there is a smattering of grease on the ceiling, which in fairness may help with Santa’s descent into the house. Brother goes out to a party and the rest of us eat ham and chips and bemoan the smell.
Christmas 1994 – Santa has brought me a plethora of Playmobil, and a plush toy dwarf from Snow White. In addition, mum has bought me the video of the Disney version to go with it, but when we try to play it, it switches and jumps on the screen proffering only the grainy vision of a castle and nothing beyond. “Will need to go back to Our Price…” says mum, sorrowfully. I am secretly relieved. More interested in the Playmobil anyway. Mum only bought me the Snow White video because she wants me to be less of a tomboy. Pah to that. I have also received a strawberry-scented candle that will fumigate the whole house for the next year.
Christmas 1995 – Play Donkey Kong Country on the Super Nintendo with my sister from dawn to dusk whilst she tries to revise for her A-Level mocks. Disinterest in Christmas Dinner due to eagerness to reach next level. Sister just as enthused as I. A swift exit from the dinner table with a pause only for the Eastenders Christmas special. Frank Butcher has returned to Albert Square and the obvious chaos has ensued. Dad lets me have a little glass of Baileys provided I don’t tell my classmates. Grandma L suddenly dies a few days later, a piece of news which will be served in the form of an unexpected phone-call from Grandad during the middle of spellings practice with mum, and the fond memories of this Christmas are suddenly obliterated… the soundtrack to Donkey Kong now synonymous with funerals and tears and the unfathomable thought that I’ll never get to see her again.
Christmas 1996 – I’m in the school Christmas production, and this time playing a much more significant role, opposite Ben B. The rehearsals wear me out and I’m terrified of laughing on stage. On one occasion the laughter reaches the unfortunate point of no return. Tie pink fleece around leggings in valiant yet ineffective effort to disguise. Oh dear. Manage to keep a straight face during the live performances due to being blinded by the coloured Christmas bulbs that are strewn across the ceiling of the school hall. Can’t see a thing, which makes it much easier to perform. Get to go home from school early after watching ‘Cool Runnings’. Enjoy the consequential attempts at Jamaican accents with classmates. Spend the entire Christmas holidays watching random films on Sky, like the 1970s version of ‘Freaky Friday’ starring a teenage Jodie Foster complete with cropped nutcut. Delightfully receive bright orange Spice Girls t-shirt and silver mini-rucksack from Santa.
Christmas 1997 – My first Christmas at secondary school. Go and stay with Grandma B for a few days and have a day out in Sittingbourne. She buys me a tamagotchi and a strawberry milkshake at McDonalds. Spend the Christmas evenings listening to Ben Folds Five and start wishing I could play the piano better. Plan to ask Mr C about learning contemporary things rather than classical. Spend much of my time working on my history homework… a big old pastiche on peasants that I hope Miss B enjoys assaulting with her red biro once I’ve handed it in after the holidays. Miserable old witch. Disappointed that mum has considered the awful flame-haired fairy which has sat atop our tree for over two decades as no longer worthy of being there, and has replaced it with a boring, normal looking one. Even more disappointed that she has thrown original fairy in the bin and we will never be able to giggle at her synthetically coiffured ‘do again. R.I.P Moody Fairy.
Christmas 1998 – A seasonal German class to end term with. Teacher is a terrifying Welsh lady with luminous yellow hair moulded to her head like a walnut who spits out her consonants and shouts a lot:
“SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ‘KLING GLOCKCHEN KLINGELINGELING’!” she orders us, before firmly pressing on the ‘Play’ button of the large, angular 1980’s cassette player with her wrinkly, chipolata-like forefinger. A traditional German Christmas song starts. As die kleine Helga sings – her jovial tones muffled through the speakers of the aforementioned antiquated equipment – the class sits very still and solemn underneath teacher’s big grimace of glee. All the 13 year olds in the room agree that this is a stupid song. Lunch bell rings. Song thankfully becomes lost amidst the sound of everybody shuffling together their books and pencil cases whilst packing away, “FROHE WEINACHTS!!” spits teacher happily as we dash out the room.
Nobody able to get ‘Kling Glockchen Klingelingeling’ out of head for remainder of day. Manifests into cathartic lunchtime singing sesh the teacher would be proud of.
Christmas 1999 – Was overshadowed by the arrival of the new Millennium. Most frequently asked question of the festive period is, ‘How many L’s are there in mileninimum?[sic]’ , and everybody everywhere is planting a time capsule as though it’s the in-thing to do! In 2010, there are due to be a lot of Polaroids and Alien Babies excavated from the ground…
For the first time, the question “What are you getting for Christmas?” is asked less frequently than “What are you doing for New Years eve?”. My answer, if anyone cares: Staying over at Emily R’s house with Rupal and Emily H, eating and drinking all evening, and poking fun of the name ‘Vladimir Putin’ each and every time it’s mentioned on the news, which remains on tv in the background in order to capture celebrations in the capital. All make individual oaths to go on London Eye. Wake up in another century and realise nothing much has really changed. Physics homework still to complete. Computer geeks across the world celebrate the lack of impact of the Millennium Bug. School-kids like ourselves are disappointed, on the other hand. We were hoping all computers everywhere would die. Forever. Most particularly those ones in the IT labs at school… could’ve resulted in an easy way out of the impending test on how to use ClipArt to maximum effect.
Christmas 2000 – Sister’s (now ex) boyfriend living with us. All on best behaviour at Christmas. The entire congregation of St Peter’s nearly passes out during the Christmas Eve ceremony thanks to the never-ending nature of ‘The Shepherd’s Farewell’ – a long, grim carol being sung by the choir – for which it is compulsory to stand. Believe the song has finally reached its cessation when after a short pause in which all had slowly started to crouch down, the organ repeats arduous four-noted bridge into yet another verse. This prompts giggles between sister and I to which lady behind gives a disapproving glare which is noted by mum, who promptly nudges us to behave. Grandma B is also with us this Christmas, and she too is at the church. Her hearing Aid interferes with the induction loop and a high-pitched whistling noise can soon be heard. Grandma B oblivious… rest of the congregation very much aware.
Christmas 2001 – We temporarily have no kitchen whilst a new one is being built. Basic food for the timebeing only. Mum spends weeks working out how to manage this over Christmas. Discover incense sticks and spend a lot of time chilling out in my room under a new, blue-tinted lighting system with home-made hanging foil stars which I am exceptionally proud of even though upon greater reflection they look absolutely shite. Revise for GCSE mocks but get sidetracked by brother’s Playstation 2 and celebrity editions of ‘Who Wants to Be a Millionaire’. Eat lots of chocolate and any other foodstuff which doesn’t require cooking. Listen to System of a Down a lot and revel in being the cliche of a moody teenager who hates “aufori’ee” and exams. Send Christmas wishes over MSN Messenger to anyone who cares and try to get my head around the NEAB poetry anthology and whether or not Maya Angelou is indeed frightened of anything at all.
Christmas 2002 – Receive an electro-acoustic guitar for Christmas and do my best to try and learn some Christmas songs. Mum unaware that I have been playing the guitar secretly during the run-up to Christmas whilst she has been at work, and has clearly not spotted the fingerprints that are already all over the neck. Receive chocolate fondue set from brother’s then-girlfriend which I manage to break within the first few minutes. Awkward. Feel very foolish. Swiftly change the topic of conversation to Popstars: The Rivals and debate who will do better out of Girls Aloud and One True Voice. Trivial Pursuit is brought out again. Sister wins and takes great pride in doing so. Nobby girl.
Christmas 2003 – Go Christmas shopping with sister and mother. Young chap in Gadget Shop flirts with sister and tries to kiss her under the mistletoe in store. I go into grumpy, typical 18-year old mode and complain that it’s “always her and never me”. General self-pitying mood lasts throughout Christmas. Sister tells me off for being miserable during otherwise lovely walk around Cassiobury Park on Christmas Day. Huff. Watch childhood favourite Lady and the Tramp for a bit of nostalgia and virtually shit self at the Siamese cat song. Had forgotten how scary it is. Grumble grumble.
18 now, and Christmas is nowhere near as fun as when I was a child…
There are two personality traits that absolutely do my nut in:
– People who try taking the higher moral ground by claiming that they never judge others. At all. Ever. No sirree.
– People who are judgmental to the extent that they consider their beliefs and perceptions to be fact, regularly dictate these ‘facts’ to others, and are not prepared to consider a different viewpoint. At all. Ever. No sirree.
Maybe you’ve met some of the first kind, or second kind, or maybe you’ve even met people who display signs of both of those traits. It wouldn’t surprise me, because the practise of being judgmental is something which our modern-day society has a lot to say about.
As most already know, the UK has not always been as tolerant of diversity as it is today. Despite the vast number of improvements over the years, there are still many gaps in need of the creation of a big, cast iron bridge between them before we can really think about classing ourselves as an egalitarian society. However – we are getting there, and constantly making progress. A combination which includes – but is not limited to – passionate human rights organisations, developments in the law, and inspirational individuals have all contributed to a society that is much more welcoming of different types of people than it was say, fifty years ago. Rightly so, and long may that continue.
However, there’s a particular word, defining a particular characteristic, that has seemed to become a little misunderstood and stigmatised throughout this process. Over the years, it’s gradually turned into become of those ‘buzzwords’ that any person or organisation will claim not to be, in measure with the new movement, but which is actually a fundamental and automatic part of human nature – the trait of being judgmental.
At this point, you may be finding yourself adamantly telling yourself that you are not judgmental, but if you are, then the likelihood is that you too have been swept up into this idea that to judge others is a big no-no that is not and cannot be done ever ever ever. But when you sit and really think about it, each of us are judging others all the time. We judge anything, anybody, anytime. In the same sense that we judge the road as being too busy to cross, we find ourselves judging other people based on our interactions with them. We may judge that people are unfriendly, or beautiful, or funny, or malicious, or kind-hearted, or lazy, or *insert any other adjective here*. We don’t always acknowledge it as such, but anytime we do this – we are making a judgment, and being judgmental. It’s automatic, and it’s based on experience, but it’s still judgment – a belief based on a personal interaction with a particular person or thing. In my mind, it is verging on the impossible to be non-judgmental.
I’ve considered this idea a lot lately, and it’s been only by doing so that I’ve started to be receptive to just how often I find myself making some form of judgment about others. Like this morning on my way to work, I passed a lady who had ginger hair and red trousers. My immediate thought was that the colours clashed and it wasn’t the best of choices, and that she was foolish for not realising this. That was a judgment. A trivial one perhaps, but a judgment nonetheless. I’ve been served by cashiers who have given me the totally incorrect change. I’ve considered their basic mathematical ability and rendered them ‘stupid’ in my mind. That was a judgment.
I’ve sat next to people on the train who emanate the scents of festering filth and a voice within has narrated to myself that they do not wash. That was a judgment.
I’ve walked past Wetherspoons in Canterbury at 9:30am on a weekday morning, observed the bunch of folks consuming pints of Abbots Ale on the pavement, and questioned the integrity of their lifestyle. That was a judgment.
And when I see hooded youths walking towards me on the pavement as I walk within dark skies, I feel afraid and intimidated. That too, is a judgment.
And that’s just a few examples. On this basis, I am a very judgmental person indeed.
The prevalent theme in each of these – and other – situations in which I’ve formed a judgment, is that the judgment has often been automatic and difficult to suppress. A hunch. A notion. Whatever you want to call it, it’s there, and I sometimes ask myself where I’d be without it. Jumping into cars with strangers? Believing every single word anybody ever tells me? Thinking that a breakfast-time beer at the pub is a healthy way to start each day? Judgment can serve value, it can be a safety mechanism. If we were never judgmental, we may as well lie back and stitch, ‘Home Sweet Home’ across our chests and prepare for the rest of civilisation to stomp all over our sorry selves as we sit wondering what we really think about… well, anything at all.
But if being judgmental is an automatic response more commonly displayed than we would each like to think, what makes it such an apparent sin? How and why is the concept so widely and frequently maligned by diversity activists alike?
For me, it’s a very simple equation:
Judgment + Close-Mindedness = Bad Judgment + Open-Mindedness = OK
And that is where the difference lies. That is where the diversion occurs between people who remain judgmental in an automatic sense, and people who are judgmental in the non-forgiving, ignorant sense that has been the key catalyst in this whole ‘war on judgment’ that modern day equal rights activism has fought so hard in. This is the reason why so many are so scared to voice or even acknowledge their own opinions and judgments. They don’t want to be misinterpreted as sharing a behavioural trait in common with the kinds of people who are too blinkered to ever consider that their opinion, and their judgments, aren’t necessarily the same thing as ‘facts’.
Other peoples’ judgments and opinions on things never really bother me – on most occasions, they make for interesting discussions and the opportunity to see things from a different perspective. But when those judgments are over-flaunted, or combined with a nauseating bucket-load of close-mindedness, that’s when the art of being judgmental really, really, winds me up… like an old-fashioned clockwork doll, affixed with a natural expression of 19th century denunciation.
In a world so wealthy with diversity of thought, surprise and contradiction, it staggers me how confident some people can be that what they think about things, people, the universe, is the truth, and how much they think everybody needs to hear it! Not only do I find it irritating, but it completely undermines the ability of anybody else around them to make up their own minds. The internet is a great tool for these kind of people. They leave controversial comments on news stories, or create websites advocating their controversial beliefs, or post a bajillion Tweets per day just to let people know what they think, as if it really matters. I will always support people expressing their thoughts and feelings, but I have very low tolerance for those who constantly try to portray these thoughts and judgments as facts, or, at the very least, try and convert others into sharing the sentiment.
We all have our own opinions, and we all have particular reasons behind those opinions. So why do some people think that theirs are any more founded than anybody elses? And why are those same people often the ones who so seldom acknowledge the other side of any debate they are ever involved in? It’s that which embellishes stigma to the natural and automatic process of making judgments and forming opinions. It’s that which makes ‘judgmental people’ seem such a pain in the arse to the rest of us, even when the practise of making judgment itself is something which everybody does.
Do you know what? I quite like knowing that the judgments I make aren’t necessarily going to turn out as a reflection of the truth, if there indeed is a ‘truth’ (and in many instances, I don’t think there is. Most things will always be just a matter of opinion). I’ve been proven wrong about things hundreds of times about hundreds of things, and whilst they weren’t always discoveries for the better, it’s all added colour to the rich fabric of life and taught me the importance of keeping an open-mind about things, all the time. Because nothing ever stays the same, nor would we ever want it to, and just because we feel a particular way about a particular thing now, we may feel differently tomorrow. The important thing is that we allow for that to happen, and don’t let the judgments we make turn into a curse that narrows our horizons too much.
“Those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.” – George Bernard Shaw
Song of the Day: Tunng – Hustle
A nice little ditty from an English band who’s musical style is often classed as ‘Folktronica’ – definitely worth discovering!
Every time I tell myself that each big trip will be my last, on the basis that I’m “getting too old and need to save the money for things like mortgages and cars” I know that I am lying to myself, and that I am allowing societal pressure to ‘settle down’ to try and deprive me of doing what it is I enjoy doing the most.
In reality, though, I think travel is one of the most important things for anyone in the world to do. The daily routine – whether or not you enjoy yours – is an endless cycle of pretty much the same thing every single day, and it’s important to have a bit of different perspective every now and then – to look at your life from a different angle and ask yourself whether or not you’re really happy with the way things are going or perhaps if there is something in your life that could benefit from change.
Central America – with its beautiful and unique flora and fauna, tropical wildlife and colourful characters has been the perfect place in which to spend a fortnight away, and in an ideal world I would never have purchased a return ticket.
But for now I just have to treasure and appreciate the memories and look at my big ol’ World Map and work out where to go next.
Not many kinds of building will evoke emotions quite like an airport.
Primarily, airports, to me, equate to long-distance travel, and that is always a good thing, right?
Of course. You cannot travel to the other side of the world without visiting an airport first, but instead of always wanting to celebrate their existence there’s something about them that seems so wrenching to me when they come to mind.
I’ve noticed that my emotions never feel truly balanced on each and any occasion I’m in an airport, and I think it’s that – moreso than the widely maligned concept of queues and customs – that makes my stomach feel so heavy when I think about them. There’s always a hello or a goodbye involved. There’s always distance involved.
I do think there is a massive difference in one’s perception of the airport depending on whether they are travelling alone or with others. When you’re travelling alone, you have no other option but to spectate and truly absorb what’s going on around you, whereas amongst company the trajectory of thought is decided for you by your companions – conversations about what so and so said or whether or not we’ve packed enough soap. The naked intensity of the airport is tranquilised by the presence of familiar faces and discussions reflecting day-to-day life…but you don’t have that if you’re alone.
The following observations stem from my experiences of travelling solo.
We start with airport number 1. Our origin, gateway to a dream. Upon entrance our minds are full of the half a dozen things we are sure we must have forgotten to pack. We work out whereabouts we’re meant to stand and then we queue. We say sayonara to our luggage and use our newly free hands to go and grab a coffee. We wait. We watch. We look at all of the other people in the airport and wonder where they’re going and for what reason. The airport is a microcosm of diversity and we are surrounded by skins of all shades, hear voices of all accents and see whole varieties of dress. We are mesmerised by it. We remember how big the world is and smile to ourselves.
The excitement of impending departure causes us to be restless, and we pin our eyes to the Departure boards dreading the sudden emergence of bright red text next to the name of our destination which will signify that there is a problem with our flight.
Things become more real once we are motioned to the gate. We familiarise with the departure lounge and finally allow the feeling of excitement to pulsate through every single cell in our body. We think about all of the memorable things we’re going to be doing in the days ahead. New places to discover. New people to meet. New feelings to feel.
The second airport. “Finally!!” We arrive. We are jet-lagged. Turbulence has left us unable to hear a thing and the bright lights which we saw mapping out the city below us have left us feeling romanticised and our hearts beating faster. This is it. We are here. Exiting the plane, sounds become muffled. Everything seems so much more luminous. We are tired, but we are excited. Our mouths are dry and we look haggard but the thrill of being somewhere new is shuffling us towards border control.
Hello there, stern-faced man at the barriers. The first person I will speak to in this new country. Here is my passport, there is my nut on the page so that you can verify it’s me – adhering to regulations by looking completely blank and expressionless. No hair over the face. No headwear. No glasses. You look at me intensely to check it’s really me, and then you motion me onward, over to baggage reclaim, where I wait. For an eternity. Dreading that mine will be the last case to come out, or that it won’t come out at all.
Just like the panic in Jakarta July 2012, when that hand-drawn sign saying ‘End’ appeared on the conveyer belt but my suitcase was nowhere to be seen. There was panicked jumping onto the belt to expediate my journey to the other side of the room where I thought I could see my bag, security chastising me for this, but it didn’t matter because I was happy to have located my suitcase, unrecognisable from losing it’s multi-coloured strap I put there for identity purposes. Thank Heavens, they’ll get their presents, and I have enough underwear to last the trip.
And then: We leave. Out into the open air. The foreign air. The foreign smells. The foreign noises.
That wonderful feeling of not knowing where you are… and it is a wonderful feeling despite not sounding so, because it ensures that everything that is about to happen to us will be a complete surprise. We bathe in the blood-rush and this new wave of excitement will be both the fuel and the guide that our jet-lagged bodies need to reach the hotel, The adventure begins.
These first two airports of the journey will represent the best memories and emotions of the lot.
But then there’s the return, a journey we will eventually have to make, when the airport takes on a completely new context, and emanates a completely different vibe. Airport number three is the worst one. We turn up tired and the building is no longer a gateway to new dreams and memories, but an arduous formality that stinks of cleaning fluids and concentrated clusters of fast-food outlets. But we don’t really notice any of that because our thoughts and emotions have been sidetracked by a feeling of hollowness. A feeling as though we are missing something. A feeling as though we have left something remarkable behind. It could be a person. It could be a place. It could be an over-friendly street-cat that you passed each morning on your way to the market, or it could be the wistful way that the man selling roti by the side of the road looked at you in hope of your custom as he sat alongside a dozen others selling the same thing. Whatever it is, you can almost find yourself searching for it in your handbag, because it feels like it should be with you.
Airport number three brings out the worst in us. It was a hard goodbye to people who are no longer by our sides. This is the worst thing about travelling alone. At least when you’re with
other people, you can commiserate one another and reminisce the trip. When you’re alone and you’ve passed through those doors, that’s it. You have a long-haul journey ahead of you
in which you will speak to nobody… bar maybe the flight attendant when you confirm you want the chicken option, or the person next to you when you need to pass them in order to get to the toilet. That’s it.
I have to say… sometimes the goodbyes have been so hard to do that it’s made a small part of me wonder if things would’ve been easier had I not gone at all. Airports can make that moment so much worse. The harsh bright lights shining over your sole suitcase. The doors, heavy and damning. New friends waving… and then disappearing, gone, from view. Sitting having a coffee alone trying to use up the last of your foreign notes and the tears are welling up, but you’re more exposed when you’re crying alone. You cannot bury your head into the shoulder of a friend. Strangers stare at you with that expression of awkward sympathy.
When the plane takes off you look at the labyrinth-of-a-city below and wonder if the things you will always remember from that place will remember you too, or whether or not you’ll
be forgotten just as soon as the next visitor touches down. You wonder if you’ll ever set foot on those streets again and possibly find yourself promising to yourself that you will. A coping mechanism that will make this departure a little easier to bear. You get your camera out from your handbag and browse through all the photos you took just to keep the flame of this trip burning for that little bit longer.
After what seems like an eternity of floating around in the troposphere, we eventually reach airport number four. How you feel about that one depends on how long you’ve been away. If it’s been a considerable amount of time, airport number four is the emblem of a homecoming enriched with pride and excitement. Visions attached to the warming thoughts of roast dinners, hot water, English pubs and timber-framed buildings with uneven floorboards. The smell of cloves and potpourri. Family and friends.
However, if your absence has been much shorter term, we tend to attach thoughts of all the negative parts about the homeland. Rain. Dark Monday evenings in Winter. A conservative society in which saying hello to stranger as you pass them on the street is considered abnormal or overbearing. Documentaries about our binge-drinking culture. Formalities.
We still love home, of course, but it lacks that element of surprise. We know it too well. Too often it slips into the rhythm of repetitive routine, because we allow it to.
And the fourth airport is the damning rubber stamp to this realisation.
The railway line between Canterbury West and Ashford International may as well be a secondary address of mine.
As a rough estimate, I have made the journey 536 times within the past year and a half since I started working in Ashford. (That’s something like £2200 spent on the pleasure of travelling with South Eastern trains – whom incidentally I hold solely responsible for this year’s motivation to start learning to drive again). Over time the journey has become somewhat etched into my mind, and each time the train sets off from Canterbury I prepare myself to look out for the various mapping points that will define it: the creepy water tower of the former St Augustine’s asylum which looms out of the distant trees to your left shortly before you pull into Chartham, the amusingly titled Bagham Barn antiques at Chilham, the peculiar building next to the station at Wye that looks like some kind of gigantic sweetener dispenser, and the house near Ashford that has a bunch of school-lockers in the back garden, to name but a few.
By all means, it’s not an aesthetically unpleasant journey. The sun setting over the North Downs Way often serves as a wonderful way to welcome in the weekend after a busy week of work; and likewise in Winter – when the morning mist rises up from the Great Stour against a backdrop of stone-washed sky – I find myself being thankful to the fact that I am now living in the Garden of England and not the junkyard of London. The train journey from Watford into the capital was never as beautiful as this, and on those trains you also had to contend with a couple of other unpleasantries, namely the overpowering stench of the Wrigleys Orbit remains that had been idly stuck to the bottom of the seats, and a view out of a window the pane of which had been obliterated by rude words innocuously engraved into the plastic.
Yet despite the pleasant surrounds of the Kentish commute, there is something resoundingly tiresome about this journey – something that has somewhat invisibly gnawed away at me over the past few months, eventuating in my desire to drive a car to work instead – but what is it?
Recently, I have begun to identify those recurring themes; not just those permanent features on the other side of the window but those within – those things that gradually build up and start to define my daily experiences with South Eastern trains – those most annoying things about my commute.
1) People Who Have Exceptionally Loud Conversations
Either attached to a mobile phone or sat with companions, these are some of the worst kind of people to share a commute with.
I try not to let it affect me. Time and time again you’ll find me celebrating whichever entity first invented the noise-isolating earphone; but occasionally I must endure those tragic moments when the battery of my MP3 player goes flat leaving me with nothing to entertain my ears besides the warbling racket of other peoples’ conversations. I often think I would prefer to listen to an orchestral medley of chainsaws, vacuum hoovers and Adele rather than other peoples’ conversations, and here are some recent examples of overheard snippets that can perhaps demonstrate why:
“So e’s sent me this teeeeeeeext, and it says, ‘You’re so fick that if you puked up Alphabettispaghetti you still wouldn’t be able to spell a word’ “
The worst thing about the above – besides the fact it was emitted into the air at such a tumultuous, honking volume – is that it doesn’t even make sense. Errr…I don’t think that even Einstein himself had a talented knack for regurgitating pasta snacks at Spelling Bees, but whatever. What do I know! Either way, such dialogue fails to romantically juxtapose the rolling hills surrounding us, so hush to you – girl in glasses who is speaking loudly!
“SHE WAS ALL OVER ME ON SATURDAY NIGHT!!” – Caps Lock to demonstrate the volume with which one particular man on the 06:50 to St Pancras the other week declared his weekend activity to his friend. As far as I could see, the friend didn’t seem to be attached to anything resembling an auditory aid, so I can only assume that the desired audience for this cacophonous broadcast was not just him, but the rest of the carriage too. Listen up, everybody on the train! We have a studmuffin in our midst. Kent today, Playboy Mansion tomorrow!
“Mummayyy, I need a big toilet…Mummayyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, MUUUUUMAYYYYYYY!!!!”
For Christs sake, little kid. You may be sweet and innocent and all that jazz, but this is not the kind of vocal accompaniment that my music needs. Wait until you get to Canterbury West where, in a Russian roulette of sorts, you may pick the one toilet which locks properly, has loo-roll AND isn’t clogged up in order to relieve yourself. For now, please pipe down, and hold it in!
I would at this moment in time again like to give thanks to my MP3 player which most of the time manages to obscure the above sounds, hence making this perhaps one of the least-most annoying things about my commute.
2) Getting Stuck Behind People in Impractical Footwear
Most people want to look smart and professional in the office, I get that, but the office and the commute are two totally different landscapes, the latter of which will almost always host a whole variety of hazardous gradients and terrains. I am always baffled by women who may look the picture of professionalism in their suits and killer-heels, but who when alighting the train begin to morph into towering wind turbines that sway around, looking as though they could topple over at any minute from a misplaced step.
As they wait for the doors to slide open, you can see them nervously clenching firmly onto the handles, before stepping out slowly onto the platform. Once balanced and composed, they begin to walk on – slowly – footstep by tiny footstep. It is painful viewing; I often fear for an onslaught of wind that may blow them over completely. That just cannot be comfortable, right? Heels so high they could be lopped off and used as skewers for pieces of seasoned lamb and shallots. It becomes annoying when I find myself stuck behind these women as they totter slowly down the stairs at Canterbury West – arms outstretched to gain the kind of balance that would have any yoga teacher screaming “ASTANGA VINYASA!” in horror, leaving no room for anybody else to get past,just as I’m itching to get home after a long day… It all makes me wonder, why don’t they just do what most sensible people do and swap their shoes around then they get to work?
A pair of trainers and a comfortable power-walk home will, for me, always outweigh a need to look sexy, professional and….stupid, when stumbling down the stairs at the station.
3) Bicycles
Ok. I like bicycles. I like the idea behind bicycles. I like the dish who looks a bit like Scots musician Colin McIntyre who takes his on the 06:50 to St Pancras, who I shared an elevator with once after we both alighted at Ashford (It was not the romantic liaison it sounds, he scowled at me throughout our descent and I’m still not entirely sure why). Indeed, I sometimes take a bicycle on the train myself if I feel like cycling instead of walking either side of the train, so I’m not going to bash the idea completely.
But none of this atones for the fact that bicycles on trains can be a massive pain in the arse, particularly when their owners seem to be inconsiderate of other passengers who need to get off the train before they do, leaving their vehicles propped up against the carriage doors whilst they stay sat down, staring out the window whilst sweating into their Lycras and daydreaming about bicycle pumps.
And then later on, when leaving the station, they will choose to carry it up or down the flights of stairs away from the platform – its tyres like flailing ferris wheels that wave around mid-air, threatening to concuss any of those around them at any given moment. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this one of the reasons why we have elevators at train stations now?!
4) Automated Apologies for Late-Running Services
The saddest part is that even now, within the comfort of my own home, I can hear that sentence in my head as vividly as if I was hearing it at Ashford International station, in real-time, as I so often seem to be:
“We are sorry to advise that the *manually insert train time here* from St Pancras International is delayed by approximately *15 minutes*. South Eastern apologises for any inconvenience caused by the late-running of this train.”
I’m not sure who the lady is that records these automated messages but by Christ, what with this and doing something similar for the likes of BT and Orange, as well as announcing each individual stop on the London Underground, she must barely get anytime for herself, and any respite she does have is probably spent sat at home sucking on a throat lozenge after a busy day’s chatting shite to consumers.
I’m sure it wasn’t that long ago that announcements made at train stations were made by actual people who actually sat at the station, monitoring each of the goings on? I recall my sister telling me about the time a human voice boomed at her over a loudspeaker, instructing her not to lean against a flower-feature whilst waiting for a train at Northwick Park Underground station sometime in the late 1990s. Can you imagine such personal supervision taking place in this day and age? I for sure can’t; and those automated messages, whilst indubitably relieving the vocal cords of somebody, somewhere within England’s great rail system, only compound those feelings of frustration and rage that a tardy train can cause to the commuter.
Any enlightened individual will know that South Eastern trains couldn’t really give two flying figs about the inconveniences that have been caused in instances like this, that’s why they send generic response lady to deliver those faux-emblazoned messages of remorse. And that – more so than the additional waiting time itself – is what makes delayed train services so irritating.
5) Pointless coffee purchases
Any sketch of the modern day commuter will likely feature a briefcase in one of his or her hands, and a paper cup of coffee in the other. Indeed, in the years since trains have been a popular mode of travel by which to get to work, the barista on the platform and the paper cup of coffee have managed to evolve into a staple part of the daily commute.
If you can afford it, that is. I’m not sure of the current prices, but I do know that as of January 2012, when I became a commuter, the going-rate was something like £2 for a thimble of coffee – a shockingly deep excavation into my purse for such a small quantity of liquid. Furthermore, I couldn’t even enjoy it in the way I was hoping to. In the twenty minutes between Canterbury West and Ashford on the first day of my new job, my caffeinated thimble had still not cooled to a temperature low enough to drink without doing some serious damage to my tongue. I took my drink with me when I alighted the train and thought about how at least I’d be able to enjoy it on the walk to my new office. Unfortunately, the black ice on the pavement at the brow of the railway bridge I was crossing had other plans. Within minutes of getting off the train, my thimble of coffee was spilled out all over the pavement close to my pink earmuffs about 5 yards from where I was sat writhing in pain from a fall that has probably left me infertile. Indeed, this coffee was the epitome of a pointless purchase, and I vowed to never bother buying another again.
For me at least, that sketch of the modern day commuter rings untrue, and the disappointment that I cannot at least accompany such a monotonous journey with a cup of my favourite hot beverage forms the final of the most annoying things about my commute.
So there we are, the five things that have managed to define my daily commute through their ongoing existence in or around the train. Five of the things which I considered shortly before deciding to learn to drive again. Five of the things which – if ever I do get my driving license – I will not miss in the slightest.
I have no doubt that the A28 and I will become the best of friends.
Famous last words!?
Song of the Day: Mother Mother – Ghosting
Canadian indie-rockers Mother Mother have provided a musical accompaniment to my commute on many a journey, with this tune being particularly well-played lately.
sophiekemsley 