"This is no declaration, I just thought I'd let you know goodbye..."

"...Said the hero in the story"

Hello Easter Monday! 

You join me on my bed in my pyjamas, hair scraped back, surrounded by chocolates (and choco wrappers) with a treasured cup of tea (containing the last of the milk). Perfect setting to do some Facebook Culling. (Please accept the use of 'unfriend' and 'defriend' as actually words for this bloglet. Also the word 'bloglet'.) 

*Dips tiny chocolate egg in tea*

I have just unfriended about 20 people. These people are (mostly) lovely, but I asked myself two questions:
1. Would I want to meet up for a cup of coffee with this person? (I would meet for a cup of tea with almost anyone so we have to specify coffee here)
2. If I saw this person on the street/on a train, would I go up and say hello, or would I keep my head down and hope they don't see me? 

*Slurps tea*

If NO to #1, I seriously consider whether I want to actively share my digital life with them. Sometimes this is a clear cut decision but sometimes it's a little more complicated. Say they were someone I used to know, or worked with, who I really liked but haven't seen in a year or so. Therefore no to coffee but not necessary a removal. 

*Unwraps and nibbles egg*

Move on to question #2. If this is AVOID, I unfriend them. Why am I classing myself as a digital friend to someone I wouldn't want to acknowledge in public? Sometimes this is awkward. Sometimes it's the friend of someone you like, or someone you used to be close with but just don't have need for in your life anymore. Sometimes you get a message from them days later asking how they are and saying how weird it is that you're not Facebook friends when they "swear we used to be! LOL!"

Though it's nice they're trying to resurrect the friendship, I find it creepy when someone I don't speak to often notices when I unfriend - I don't post a lot so if you notice we're not friends it means you are Facebook Stalking me. Reinforces the decision to defriend. Sorted. 

*Checks empty mug for more tea*

*Sadface*

If someone defriended me (and I actually noticed) I might be hurt (depending on who they were) but I would ask myself the last time we actually had any contact more than a 'like' on a status or something. If I want to keep people in my life I need to make the effort to keep them, and I hope that my Facebook friends do the same. 

If not, next time I'm too lazy to get dressed and go out they'll be for the chop - mwahahahaha! 


*Quote from Belle & Sebastian 

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead..."

"...I lift my lids and all is born again."

Today on the way to work I finished “Mad Girl’s Love Song”, a biography of Sylvia Plath.

I loved it; I found it very insightful, very gripping and very thought provoking. However, as it ended with her meeting Ted Hughes (as the latter part of her life has been well documented elsewhere) I have been left hungry for more.

It feels very odd to be hungry for a person. I wish to devour them, mind and soul. I want her letters, her words, her thoughts inside me, in my stomach to churn and digest.

I’ve always loved Sylvia Plath, and the more I read of her work and about the woman herself the more I feel an affinity to the ill-fated poet. She looked for doubles and I see her as mine. In the grip of a depression her words resonate with me, in exhilaration only mania brings I see her fevered soul in my eyes.

Is this dangerous? To identify so closely to a woman who took her own life, who indeed seemed destined to do so? My Mother once told me she foresaw and dreaded the day I would abscond from my life, disappear without a goodbye, unable to continue to try and solve the problems I saw with living. Well, she didn’t say it anywhere near as prosaically or as pretentiously as that, but you catch my meaning.

I don’t want to give up on life, but I don’t want to bury that side of me; sometimes at my most broken I feel like my most authentic self. How twisted is that?


*Quote from Sylvia Plath

"'Hallo Rabbit,' he said, 'is that you?'..."

"...'Let's pretend it isn't,' said Rabbit, 'and see what happens.'"

I've never been a pet person. You know how some people class themselves as animal lovers? Yeah, I'm not one of them. I've got nothing against animals, I think they're very cute and I like having a cuddle, but I've always been happy to hand them back afterwards.

We never had hamsters or a dog or anything, but I remember our family cat when I was a tiddler (under 6). I remember her trying to sit on my lap and doing that thing that all cats do - kneading your thighs to get comfy. I found it unbearable. You know the sensation when someone jabs you in the sides and it kinda tickles, kinda hurts, but basically makes you squeal and jump away? That's what it was like for me. And obviously with me tensing up and trying not to squirm underneath, the kitty never gets comfy and just spends longer doing its torturous massage. Inevitably it ends with kitty sinking her claws into my tender legs and me jumping out of my seat cartoon-style.

Well I was always told that this reaction was because I was so young and my legs were a bit too small for our cat to get comfy. THAT WAS A LIE. I still cannot abide the sensation of a kitty walking across my lap. I like it when they settle and you have the warm furry ball to stroke, but rarely can I engage in mind-over-body mediation long enough for that to happen. I have to employ the services of a cushion, which really isn't as successful in attracting cat attention. Kitty wants warm legs, not a still cushion that either sinks in the middle or topples to the side if not perfectly balanced. All in all, I am happy to remain pet-free and thus free of negotiating the traumatic experience of lap sitting. Not to mention the lack of responsibility and cost... 

So when we got the green light from our landlord to get rabbits, I was fairly nonplussed. Never had rabbits, never wanted them. Obviously thought they were cute, but really never saw the attraction. Imagine my surprise when I got home from a weekend away yesterday to two darling little fluff-balls and fell in love. One is a teeny tiny sandy coloured bunny, and one is a slightly bigger grey lionhead bad boy. Fucking adorable. The whole house can now be found regularly sitting round the garden cooing over the new additions, overreacting at every nibble and every whisker twitch.

But you know the best bit? They are officially my housemate's so I don't have to clean them, feed them or pay for them. Genius. Why has no one thought of this before? Difficult to orchestrate, I grant you, but the best arrangement certainly.

*Quote from A. A. Milne

"We Hobbits ought to stick together, and we will. I shall go, unless they chain me up..."

"...There must be someone with intelligence in the party."

Recently I watched a Channel 4 documentary-type-show on the fans of One Direction. It was eye-opening. I remember being pre-teen and keen on a few boybands (namely Boyzone, 911 and Peter Andre (I-know-he’s-not-a-boyband-but-that-is-not-the-point)) but I think the extent to my fandom was a topless Andre doll, a animatronic dinosaur named after the muscled hunk, a couple of Boyzone concerts at Wembley, and me and my sister knowing all the words and the harmony parts to The Journey. Not a casual interest, it’s true, but nothing that could be classed as obsessive.

These girls though…they were generally older for a start, more akin to the 1D lads’ age, so maybe that changes thing. They were more of a sexualised age than I was in my Boyzone heyday. Plus the obvious elephant of social media – if you feel you are directly linked to your hero I would imagine that sharpens the obsession. I suppose it’s that link that leads on to the “stalking” - waiting outside hotel rooms, accosting anyone with a security badge, threatening to hurt yourself for their attention, bombarding them with twoots…you know the like. They know the band can see their message and that personal link could be established, but there are too many messages for theirs to stand out; they have to take it to the next level.

I discussed the fandom with my housemate, who pointed out that many people were obsessive in their youth, just not always about a pop band. “Interesting point” I thought, “was I obsessed with anything at 14?” And then it hit me.

My One Direction was Lord of the Rings. How utterly pathetic.

My obsession started when the first film came out. A quick Google tells me that was in 2001 so I would have been about 13. I don’t know what it was that hooked me to be honest; I had read and enjoyed The Hobbit, sure, but not fanatically. After seeing FotR for the first time I pretty much swallowed the books whole and vomited up stacks of posters - a mixture of artistic illustrations based on the books, really big movie posters, and collages of faces I had printed from the internet. I named all my friends after the characters - I was Pippin, my sister Merry. Two of my closest friends were Frodo and Sam despite the two of them not being close. In fact looking back a lot of the names given didn’t really make sense… Some people refused to be named, others asked eagerly to be included, and one person was thrilled just to be given the name of one of the horses after all the good names had run out. I created scrapbooks of film tickets, interviews from magazine, clippings, toys, any paraphernalia I could cram into my lever arch files (I had three).

But it wasn’t just Tolkien’s lore that had me; I was besotted with the actors too. I knew all their names, not just for the main 9 but all the named characters (I don’t know who played the Witch King however). My friend (Frodo) and I found chat room records of a conversation including Billy Boyd and Dominic Monaghan (Pippin and Merry) and would quote them at each other. Things that made no sense: “Who are you and why do you have the power to cancel the internet?” “ Dom, cause I am God”. We would use a very scientific method (MASH) to calculate the percentage of our love match with each actor, varying the spelling of our names and theirs in order to get a bigger score. I plastered my school planner in pictures and quotes and random runes and Elvish script. I wrote out every poem in the FotR by hand into a customised notebook; I would have continued but thankfully my sister bought me a properly published version and saved me the hassle.

And although I never tried to find where the actors lived, never felt any strong emotions regarding their wives and girlfriends, never wrote to them or tried to contact them, maybe this would have been different if I had been able to tweet them. I definitely would have ‘followed’ them and sent tweets. If I had known they were doing any signings in London I would have attended. I believed I would be very good friends with Billy Boyd, Dominic Monaghan and Elijah Wood, if I just had the opportunity to get to know them. But I never presumed to orchestrate a meeting. I dreamt of it happening by fortuitous accident, yes, but I understood it was just a dream and I think part of me didn’t want to shatter the fantasy by confronting it. I knew I didn’t really know them, and I think I must have known deep down that a 14 year old school girl wouldn’t really have much in common with a fully grown movie star. I liked rock bands at that age too, I think I saw Biffy Clyro about 9 times, but again despite fancying them and thinking they were the coolest guys ever, I was too wrapped up in my own life to think about infiltrating theirs.

Why aren’t these teenagers more involved with their own social life than a pop band? How has an online social life replaced a real one? If you speak to half your friends online more than you do in person, is it any wonder people feel they could be friends with celebrities?

More importantly, how old do I feel right now? Urgh.

*Quote from JRR Tolkien

"Honestly, if you're given the choice between Armaggeddon or tea, you don't say..."

"...'What kind of tea?'"

I've written before about my tea habit. It has been said that I have more tea running through my veins than blood... I can't deny it -

I love tea.

So you can imagine my surprise when I found that I was drinking NO TEA for days. I had started a new job and was too nervous to make myself a cup of tea. It was my eighth day at work today and I finally took the plunge and had a cuppa at my desk. One in the morning and one in the afternoon. Obviously no one batted an eyelid, but to me it was significant; I felt comfortable enough to be myself - I felt at home.

Perhaps you don't understand how serious my tea addiction is. Many people like tea, many people drink a lot of it - probably more than I do - but they do not have the emotional attachment that I do. In my first year of uni I lived in catered halls, we got breakfast and dinner. Now judge me if you will, but most of the time I was unable to crawl out of my bed in time to make the (10 o'clock finish?) breakfast. Not such a big deal really, except I was too cheap to buy anything for lunch...  Each room had a little mini fridge that was just warm enough to keep a pint of milk for a couple of days before turning it to cheese, so I would rise about 10am and break my fast with a nice pot of tea. A little later I might feel a bit peckish. A normal person would leave their room and buy some food. Not me, oh no, that would involve getting out of my pyjamas! (The horror!) Nope, I would boil up the kettle and have another pot. And then another...and another...and another...and then I'd need to pee an awful lot.

To cut a long story short, I drank so much tea that it inhibited the iron uptake in my blood and I became severely anaemic (apparently my red blood cells were a quarter of the size they should have been). This made me more tired, which made me less inclined to get up for breakfast or to leave my room for anything other than lectures, going out in the evening, and watching dvds at my friend's room. So I ate less and drank more tea. I realised things had gone too far when I started getting the shakes if I'd gone too long without a fix, but I still can't break the feeling that each cup is my sole source of nourishment.

Now I drink a healthy amount and I think I appreciate each cup. There's something that speaks to the soul during you first real slurp (the first sip doesn't count as it's always too hot to really taste). I can feel the warmth slip down my throat and into my belly. An ease spills across my shoulders and down through my arms. I relax. The sharp edges of my surroundings soften and I'm hugged by the room. Things smell better, colours brighten. My mouth feels silky and my spit tastes sweet.

If I'm hungry, it fills me; if I'm cold, it warms. If I'm struggling with writer's block, it inspires me; if I'm tense, it soothes me. It's my wake up in the mornings, and my good night in the evening. It's an excellent post-dinner tummy-settler, and with a biscuit it's a proper good snack.

I have begun to court my love in a new work environment. We have been reunited and my life is better for it. A strong Assam, a delicate Darjeeling or a reliable breakfast brew; three faces of my beloved. Tea.

* Quote from Neil Gaiman

"All the world's a stage..."

" And all the men and women merely players."

Last week I had the pleasure of going to The Drowned Man, an immersive theatre production by Punchdrunk, with my beau (J-) and his sister (E-). I had no idea what to expect.

We arrived at this old warehouse, checked in our bags in the timber cloakroom and joined the queue for admission. We were handed a slip of paper outlining a plot, a tragic love story which I assumed would be the plot of the play. The paper was black one side and white the other. I read one side and glanced at the other. I was partly right.

I was a touch overexcited about the whole thing (and I REALLY needed to wee) so as we queued I think I was a little annoying... I felt as if we were queuing for a roller coaster. E- had just stepped off a flight from Los Angeles and had been awake for two days straight so we made interesting (if slightly opposing) companions for J-.

Before long we were at the front. We were handed a white mask and ushered into a dark doorway. There was one man in front of me, who I was thankful for as we were in a twisting turning passageway and everything was almost pitch black. There was an almost deafening cacophony of discordant tones and the only light came from reddish-orange lights that were round the next corner -- if I had been leading I would have walked mask-first into the wall several times. Eventually we reached a room with a group of other masked people. To be honest, it was fucking scary; a group of faceless strangers all turning to look at you simultaneously? Urrgh. Even turning to J- and E- was freaky; you forgot so quickly about the masks. And you couldn't see any facial expressions, couldn't hear what anyone might be saying...there was no opportunity to crack a joke, pull a face, or find any other way to make light of your situation. It was very unsettling, and you could not make it otherwise.

After a welcome speech from (I think) one of the "owners" of the "film studio" we were at, we were told to make our way to the bar for the "wrap party" we were to attend. She then hauled open the heavy lift door, and out we blindly stumbled. I happened to be one of the first, wandering in the dark corridors, picking cryptic papers up off the floor and letting myself in to offices and various "behind the scenes" rooms.

I won't dictate everything I saw, as it's better to be surprised and I wouldn't want to ruin it for anyone who might read this before seeing it (not that anyone's reading this, but still). The audience wandered freely over 4 or 5 floors, in and out through film sets, props, dressing rooms....and occasionally you would stumble upon the characters themselves (or they would suddenly appear in the room with you) acting out various scenarios. The loud soundtrack wiped out any hope of hearing dialogue so you were forced to understand through their movements. Wonderful, confusing movements.

I saw a woman in a hag mask, another spiralling in a beautiful ballet on fake snow, a man scattering his clothes and raining sand on his naked body. I saw a heavily choreographed dance number, a drunken party, a human doodle and possibly a murder. What is "real" and what is "film"? And where did the audience fit in?

I love the immersive aspect, and I love the mystery...but I came away so unsatisfied. I wanted the whole plot. I didn't know I was supposed to follow the actors; I thought as much information could be gleaned from the sets. Once I got home I looked back at the black and white piece of paper, the one that I assumed had "the plot" on it. I remember seeing these characters, could put the bits I saw into the narrative....but who were the other characters? How did they fit in? Idly I turn the paper over. Another storyline. Different characters. A mirrored plotline. Although this solves some of my confusion (and mentally I kick myself HARD for missing it) there are still some characters left out...

I would recommend The Drowned Man, but I would advise you not to expect to "get it". You are an audience and, despite being given free reign of the internal workings of the entire set, you remain outside.

"Last scene of all, 
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."

* Quote from William Shakespeare

"Looks like I can take you..."

"Heh heh, yeah, keep looking"

It's only been a week, but I am officially A Gym User.

I go, I pick things up, sweat a bit and put them down. I walk on a machine, then run on the machine, and finish by sitting next to the machine with my head between my knees trying not to be sick. Truly I am living the dream.

But despite these obviously uplifting experiences, I seem to suffer from a lack of motivation - if I don't trot myself off to the gym first thing in the morning I will just put it off all day and have a little cloud of guilt hanging over me. I think I might be more inspired to go if I listened to the Pumping Iron soundtrack every meal time. I could wake up to it, enjoy my post-lunch cup of tea to its funky tones, and play it in the kitchen while I prepare my dinner. Pull some poses, you know? Strut my muscular stuff (NB I do not have muscular stuff to strut) And even though I fear this might trigger me talking like Arnie for a large portion of the day, perhaps it would be worth it.

Or maybe I should start my own gym, purely based on the fantastic feeling of The Pump. Hey, if it works for Swarzegener Schwartzeneggor Schwartzenegger Schwarzenegger, why can't it work for others? And boy does it work for...the aforementioned hard-to-spell individual; he is coming day and night - "Can you believe how much I am in heaven?"

So we could place a larger than life sized gold plated statue of Mr. S in the centre -- ooh ooh! which could double up as a water dispenser! A new motivational quote would be championed each day ("Milk is for babies. When you grow up you have to drink beer") and everyone would work towards achieving The Pump. We could put little speakers in all the weight machines and when you reach a certain level of "pump" (yet to be established) the twangs of Pumping Iron could filter their way into the individual's sweaty brain and they would know they had made 70's Arnie proud. And let's face it, who wouldn't want that? Is there any greater satisfaction? Well, actually, maybe the orgasm-like 'pump' we have been striving to achieve...

In any case, I need to stop muttering "if it jiggles it's fat" at fellow gym members.


* Quotes from Arnold Schwarzenegger