A Weekend of Domestic Pleasures

A photo from about a month ago in Aldwych. Doesn't London have such charming lampposts? I'm really getting into the photography thing. On Thursday I found a stray pair of number plates and I've been taking lots and lots of pictures with them. At the moment its part of the furniture and my family have been duly contacted and concerned. Dad thinks I'm pregnant. Never mind that I'm a lesbian, whenever I eat weird things like peanut butter and banana sandwiches its his natural reaction...

I've spent quite a bit of time with him this week, with my doctors' appointment and the last two days. On Friday I saw my wonderful friend Anna and made her my nut-nutella cake which got lapped up. I got a bit drunk and was home by midnight which I think is pretty sensible for someone about 6 weeks away from her 18th. (How scary is that? Me, a walking and talking real-life, responsible adult.) As my title said, it was dedicated to home life. I tidied my room, made stir fries, got my own freeview box (a sort of satellite-lite), two pairs of trainers. Dad got his plant pot and his freeview box and scart plugs and some more bulbs.

This weekend of domestic pleasures has given a lot to think about, not to mention my Dad. He's turning 47 on Wednesday (any ideas for a present?) and then off to America for a job he hates. He realises that frankly, he's hated all of his jobs since he was 16 and needed to help pay Grandma's mortgage. The weekend has always been too short, the rewards never substantial, the free time fragile and almost imaginary. Dad tells me that now this is the first time he has real free time, where he is not simply pressing for survival among other, smaller domestic pleasures. I mean, domestic pleasures make everything that little bit easier, and frankly its more manageble than any of that true love and friendship stuff. So I'm thinking up hobbies and drawing up a booklist to have him read for pleasure (this conflict had started with my late Aunt Jenny). Shall he read books or learn landscaping? Would languages or photography show him what he's been missing? Dad has no idea. He's at a new chapter, and I'm certainly watching that space.

For me, this weekend of domestic pleasures. Now that I can see it so clearly it feels foolish to descrie my time before its realisation, so foolish...

It's easy to say that time runs away from me. It is traumatised, terrified of me, wary of I, pitiful and confused. That must be why time moves so fast - why the afternoon only last a few given moments, how weeks meld into a few golden shite moments. And I panic because the faster it moves the less I can keep up. How can I compete with time and ill mental health? If you're fat, or a slow walker you'll understand how damning and isolating it is when you can't keep up with the pace of the people you're walking with at their pace. How you can't engage in real conversation because you're all breathless, and you can't take photographs of your walk and sometimes they don't even realise how fast they're walking. When you try to piece back moments they're all blended and you can't remember; theres nothing to take from it. And that is my life. A fat girl who can't keep up and ends up missing out on everything as life and golden moments and snapshots and events blunder by on a rolling stone. And there is nothing I can do with that gem, although I see more clearly than I've ever done before. It's time to accept this fat girl and take life at her own pace, methinks. I think this poem I wrote a couple of weeks ago helpa. You can skip this bit, but I can write.

I’m not myself and I don’t know how to be;
I’ve locked myself in, I don’t want to be free -
Please -
Let me live and love myself
Intermittently, randomly, unproductive yet vibrantly
I’m not entirely sure how I got this way
But I found myself lost in a sea of faces
In the blank tornado of time, and I’m on the brink
Precariously, constantly backtracking to the mess
Behind me
Wondering when my life is real or when it’s
Just a dream
As I recline back on a chair or whatever else,
Lazily philosophising on my own...
No, I’ve not grown at all.

There, that wasn't so bad was it? My life has been otherwise eventless. My thoughts otherwise blurred and ergo pointless, but the music has improved. I'm now listening to Led Zepplin, Lily Allen, The Kooks and Wolfmother along with the eternally delectable Regina Spektor. I've also bagged my birthday treat of Hyde Park Calling (Razorlight, Roger Waters, Texas, The Zutons - should be a good couple of days.)

And now, we have a new feature. Favourite All-Time Snaps of the Day (FATS). Just to show off my *erm* photography prowess. FATS 1 -

Gorgeous 16th century church and graveyard. Black and white digital filter. Good weather. What more can you ask for?

I really like this one because its blurred at the edges, which makes a little mystical and these gates look ancient. They're always open, waiting for someone to come in.

And finally, our Unassuming Bus Passenger. (Great subjects for a rookie like me. Unassuming, casual and fun.)

I'm a little annoyed it didn't focus properly but I think it has an emotional value to it. And here ends thy blog. I hope you liked the photos, poem, etc. Let me know - I am a comments whore!! Hahahaha

Back to Blogland Part 1

Miss me?

I doubt it. Maybe. Maybe you did miss me. Checked my page every other day hoping for new news, new developments in this busy old life of mine. Probably not.

Do you like this photo? It's me! Betty in action after a couple of Caprihinas (yum!) in Wembely - not my hometown in Northwest London, but a British bar in Southern Italy! Most of my hiatus has been spent in the Bay of Naples as part of my college's Classics and Italian class trip. Overall I've had a really good time even though I've lost my mobile (I've a temporary one, although the whole effect has been liberating and isolating as a whole) and had chocolate melt in my bag and needs to be washed. From Monday 3 April until Saturday the 8th was spent with good old Ric who fixed up my camera so I could take more pictures, looked after me (although I smoked - twice!) and carried my bags when I let him. The trip would have been unbearable without him. We went to Rome were we visited the forum and the Colesseum. Heres the first picture I took of the trip:

Thats how Italy looked for most of the time: pure blue and rustic, and very Italian. The Italians weren't very friendly, unfortunately. Most of the street people stared at my boobs, but it may have been because I was one of the 4 black people I saw on the trip, and the darkest of those. I don't think the Italians are racist (Rics opinions differ...) just pervy! Most of the time it was "Sex, no beach, ah?" whenever I ordered Sex on the Beach. Where did we go? Pompeii, Paestum, some other Vesuvius town (that still has original glass!!!) with Hercules in the title. Ric, being Wonder Boy was my lecturer for the trip, with his extensive knowledge on Etruscans and Roman architecture and what was real and what was not and periods...Took tons of pictures, but I'm setting up a flickr account for the pictures without my full face in it that all can revel in my skilllz. And, during the day I satisfied the inner classical student, at night me and Ric went out with the other students in our year (only 4 of us) and went out drinking, having a laugh, negotiating dangerous roads because the Italians really are crazy-ass drivers - they drive out of nowhere and it takes a special sort of pedestrian to sort it out.

I loved going on walks (well...my group were always faster than me) up the streets looking for supermarkets that were small and smelt of sweet fruit. It just seemed more natural that way. And we were by the sea so in the morning you could smell it and it was wonderful even though you could never find your way down there...Some more pictures:

When I got back home, I was physically and mentally exhausted. Physically because I climbed a mountain, although dying on the way it was one of the best things I've done. Mentally because I was cutting a lot and couldn't figure out why. And because I was with Ric a lot and wanted to get deeper with him I wrote him a letter, telling him how long I've been doing it and why. I'm never so good at letters and so writing him a letter about my cutting when I feeling more vulnerable than usual was very scary. But I gave it to him. At the airport when we reached the departures hall he stalked off and left the A2s and me, confused. After buying our chocolate (and briefly losing my passport. My bad luck had been rife during this trip!) When we found him he looked more tired and distressed than usual and he was rubbing his eyes and hair. When we got a quick private moment he told me he'd read the whole thing. Should I make the connection? I don't know. All I remember of the letter is the first line - This is not a happy letter...

People flooded onto the plane and we on the opposite ends so I couldn't say anything else which was driving me mad. I ended up spilling hot tea on myself and because I couldn't clean myself up as I was stuck at the end almost sent me into shock. (no major burns, though - don't worry!) Took more pictures on the plane... But when we finally flew into England, with all the small lights and the nighttime coast, flying over Clapham and Twickenham stadium, not only did I feel at home, but my head was about to burst because I had a cold and the pressure was bloody immense. Ric cheered me up with paper aeroplanes (which hit others hilariously) and on the bus to the terminal after the wind whipped my skirt up. He had no questions - had nothing else to say really but we were good. We were better than good. When I finally found a payphone and talked to Dad after a week I almost cried, but the waterworks really sprang up when me and Ric parted ways - he was taking the train, I had a Dad to pick me up. He didn't see me cry, thank God, but I was lost and tired I really did feel lost without him helping me out. What had he done to me, the miserable sod?! (His girl wasn't talking to him - for no reason, crazy bitch)

Sigh...I was home now. Dad was, and is quite ill with the flu. He didn't go to the doctors and now he got this racking 'smokers' cough for the next few months apparently. He was coughing up blood and everything, but refused to get help because the house was messy, which I believe reflects parents the world over, right? Aaargh! It was only because the woman of the house - me - was off ignoring Italian men all week. My brother proved himself worthy against rude bus drivers and eating Whoppers and powder mash fries in front of Match of the Day (it was snowing in April!!) I felt right at home, exceptionally tired. And my bed? Just right. Globetrotting is tough shit! :)

The Bee

So, part 2 of my bumper edition blog post today is about Saturday, April Fools 2006. I'm afraid everything I'm about to tell you is true because I don't have to time right now because I haven't long to plan everything before I jet off to Italy for next week. I mean some people celebrate the end of big assignments with a cool pint; some go clubbing for all hours and some just sleep it off, yet I decide to try and plan/salvage my life - again. I have at least one or two of these days each year since...11 and I wouldn't have it any other way because I'm a closet control freak.

So, my day started at 8 am which was quite painful on a Saturday morning. But I was up and forsook breakfast packing essentials for a long day out: cash and cashcard, books for the train and a notebook and pen for whatever would happen for the rest of the day.

There's this new 'project' my friend has set up to start our own history magazine - I can't give you the name or address because then my cover would be completely blown which is a shame because I'd love people to check it out. Me my friend and these two other guys I barely know (one I know as Supreme Regina Spektor Fan so we're friends for life, and the other guy I know now is as geeky as me and lives outside of Zone 3) and went into Starbucks and had our first meeting as the "team", I guess. It involved a lorra laughs and hot chocolate and history gossip about Roman emperors and Monarchy and Hobbes and we were all on the same wavelength which made our ideas much easier and I was very reluctant to leave in the end but along with this new project I had to plan my career. Lol. I know. I 'm 17 I shouldn't have to plan this stuff but society forces us to make all these wrong choices when we don't even know who we are or what we "plan" to eat next week.



So anyway - journalist internships, heading features, big-ass media conferences, editing, working with art galleries, public speaking - its all coming up over the summer! So, on the 341 bus patting myself on the back for doing everything I needed to do when I got a text from my faghag Max and we went to the cinema in Kingston (only 30 minutes from Waterloo) and saw Failure To Launch which wasn't as tragic as I thought it would be and it was funny, but I wanted a lot more from SJP's roommate who was toxic but cool. (If I ever produced a movie it would be dark, funny and evil. Though maybe not as dark as Requiem For A Dream which fucked me up for the night).

I arrived an hour before the film and we just talked and cackled but we were both exhausted. I felt for him - he cried at this bit in the film where the Mom was talking about her husband which I understood because his Mum died last year in November (he went to school the next day. I hadn't seen him cry before then, it's just the guy he is, and he's in the year below me). Anyway on the bus we had 40 minutes to rest before we got to his house and he slept for most of it - I have a habit of chattering away too much when I'm tired and it was nice to mother him and let him sleep on my shoulder because I was always at a loss for what I could do for him. We got to his house and it was very nice, very white with fake white petals in a bowl and doilies even though its just him, his brother, sister and the gay straight-acting male ballet dancer that lives with them now. All the time I spent with him a lot of it was him trying to get me to stay over - I just don't know how deep the friendship runs so I kept saying no...it was just be us the whole night and that can get boring. I felt bad leaving because he was all alone in the house and he had no one to see you could tell he felt unloved. But I left, and got home at 11pm after planning to get home at 3pm so I could do some shopping and all of my homework. Fat chance now, I have to do it tonight, gahness. So I have to go pronto and if I don't a chance to post I'll see y'all April 9th.

Comment and stay beautiful!

My Photos: A Tiny Bit of the City

See! See! I did this! Like months ago not too far from Piccadilly, and Foyles and Tottenham Court Road next to this gorgeous shop that sold walking sticks and bowler hats and cigars in these strange place that set me straight me back in the Victorian city without the piss and the crinolines. It turned out a lot better than I thought it did.

Seems like the perfect place to get drunk and racy with Stephen Fry don't you think?

This is in-between Richmond and Kingston (South of the Thames) on the 65 bus. It's not bad and I only had one shot because my damn camera only 6 MB reserve memory and this was my last space. It's not bad...

This is the Chinese garden in Kew Gardens - its a bit expensive to visit if you're broke like me but its very lovely garden. It was taken with Ric*, Alex* and Anna* (*names have been changed) on New Years' Eve just after we went ice skating and my butt was freezing because I had fallen over on the ice. They had just tried out my chocolate-nut-and-nutmeg cake with nutella frosting (pretty divine if I say so myself) and Ric was off pretending to be a squirrel. It was one of the best days of 2005. This photo is terrible and doesn't really do it justice but hey! it's a glimpse now its time for you to find more; discover London.

I got a couple of other photos too blurry to show, but there you are: 6 MB of camera, a tiny slice of London and a mini-blog exhibition. I hope you like them. x