bokker

Right, the brace-free pics have been a long time coming. The reason being that in all the pictures of me taken since I had brace removed, I looked, well, ridiculous. This weekend, I managed to look like a human being in some pictures with my teeth showing. But then our laptop had a nervous breakdown so we can't upload them.

So FINE THEN. I'll just post a photo from G's party, just a day after Betty was removed. It's a profile shot, and G looks like a bit of a boof. He's being sacrificed on the altar of vanity: as I explained below, I'm vain now, and the fact that I don't look mad in this photo wins out over it's profile-ness and G's boofus.  

Lick my teeth

What fictional character do you relate to most and why?

When such subjects are being discussed, the temptation is always to flaunt one's knowledge (or lack thereof) of The Great Works. "Ah yes, I most relate to x from War and Peace" (have never read it) or, "oh, I do relate so to Heathcliffe" (only via Kate Bush). When the truth is, for me, the most relatable characters are not in this canon of "classics".

My first English Literature seminar at university was a case in point. Our tutor asked us what our favourite book was. As my colleagues (compatriots? What is the term for a group of students? A gaggle? A slump?) nodded seriously and proclaimed that their favourite work was Jane Eyre or Catcher in the Rye or similar, I didn't think before blurting out "Bridget Jones' Diary".

Oh the tumbleweed.

Thus I set a precedent for an unbroken record of always, always, saying something embarassing in meetings. But it was true: my favourite novel was and is Bridget Jones' Diary. And, much as I shake my head in disbelief as I now approach actual Bridget age, as an 18-year-old I totally identified with BJ (she would be horrified, and withering, at the thought). Now I'm more au fait with the biological clock (tick tick tick), the wine-fuelled evenings, the career dilemmas and such. And perhaps I'm in denial about my innate Bridget-hood, now that it's a reality. But I'm leaning back towards my first literary role model: Jo from Little Women.

I think any young girl growing up with books around her can relate to Little Women. Were you dutiful Meg, who was kind of boring but ticked all of life's boxes; sad Beth, the tender flower in all of us; or pretty, feisty Amy? Well, I've never been the Amy, much as I would love to be blonde-ringleted and princess-like. No, Jo is who I most relate to. Kind of boofus, creative and with dreams that even she can't quite grasp. And she grew up to be a writer. A writer.

Maybe some day.

I have a little Moleskine notebook in my handbag, so that  I can look pretentious in public jot down story ideas, observations and thoughts, for future writing projects, or films for work. This is very strictly my *grinds teeth in artistic frenzy* creative notebook, quite distinct from my practical list-book, which bears shopping lists, to-do lists, room measurements for cupboard-buying in Ikea, etc.

(Incidentally, all the notes I ever make are dated. Meticulous date-keeping is one of the more useful habits one keeps as a “journalist”- the word makes me cringe, but I am what I am- and it’s lovely to see, in my practical lists book, that on 22^nd Dec 2007 I was buying chestnuts, stollen and brandy, for example).

Most of my jottings stay in the leathery confines of the notebook, and what's the point of that? So maybe I'll put some on my blog; save myself the bother of thinking of anything new to write.

A short caveat: I confess that I am usually- though not always- inspired to write in the Moleskine when I am slightly drunk. The below was written on a flight from Southampton to Manchester. The gin was medicinal, OK?

17/01/08

You can spot the people who are scared of flying. Their window blind slides up, down, up, down. They can’t decide whether they want to see their certain fate or live in petrified ignorance. Slowly they push it open, then as the plane tilts and the distant lights below tilt terrifyingly out of view, they snap it shut.

Even on a flight they stop the trolley in its tracks: another gin and tonic please, and make it quick.

They’re the people who watch the security talk intently, exasperated at the nonchalance of their newspaper-rustling, ipod-shuffling fellow passengers. As a nervous flyer I can’t help but feel that these nonchalant, besuited types are just fronting. As they crossed their legs in a relaxed manner, I itch to remind them that it would be very difficult to disentangle said legs in the event that they should be crushed beneath crumpling metal.

Now as we hurtle through Manchester’s customary grey blanket of cloud, and the plane lights flash most alarmingly against its clumpy, bumpy layers, I’m wondering whether this notebook will survive the crash, and my last, slightly drunken thoughts be recorded forever.

I sat on the bus, post-brace removal (yeaaahhh), holding a copy of Metro up to my face to hide the fact that I was grinning into my camera taking endless pics of myself to send to my mum, sister and best friend. I was very, very pleased with myself. Hello, teeth! Hello, world! Hello, crusty students and kebab shops! Hello, office, even! And I had a small thud of realisation: I so rarely feel just perfectly happy about something, anything. There are many things more momentous than being brace-free: buying a house, an anniversary, getting a job, getting a pay rise, going on holiday, happy things happening to those I love. But I always have an underlying sense of anxiety when happy about any of these things. Will this good thing put other peoples' noses out of joint? Have I made the right decision? Will somebody else lose out because I have gained? The hardy perrenial: what if it all goes wrong? And the inner chant of the neurotic bereaved person: what if, because this good thing has happened, a deadly train of events has been set it motion?  This isn't just because of my loss though; I have always been like this. Distinctly eeyore-ish. Even right now, I've nothing to fret about, apart from the fact that my boss has developed a habit of seizing my notebook when we have meetings and flicking through my notes (as I suddenly break into a sweat at the thought that I might have unwittingly jotted rude pictures/abusive ditties in the margins). But I still have a slightly doom-laden feeling.

But the brace-off! I feel simply happy about the brace-off. Who can it hurt? How can it go wrong now? Who loses? Nobody! (Especially not my orthodontist, £1300 the richer). I just have straight, shiny teeth which can I run my tongue over with the greatest of ease. I'm not certain that I ought to have invited everybody else to do the same at G's birthday party on Saturday. Nobody obliged; perhaps that's for the best. The removal of the brace itself caused a great deal of anguish (a short play about brace removal, in onomatopoeia form: crunch, rip, bzzzzz, aargh), but since then, why, I should advertise for a small flock of woodland animals to dance around me as I sing in a forest, so jolly has it made me feel. I'm vain! It makes me happy!

I will post some photos. But I have to be honest. The new, vainer me is not satisfied with my appearance in the photos taken so far. Either the teeth look great but my face is deranged; or my face is fine and my teeth look huge; or my face and teeth are OK but my dress is falling off. It's a work in progress, kittens. I'll keep you posted.

I'll give you a clue; I might be singing this special song:

Take a look at me now

There's just an empty space

And there's nothing left here to remind you

Just the memory of my [...] (FILL IN THE BLANK!! IT RHYMES WITH FACE!!)

Last weekend was spent at my grandparents' house with Granny and Grandpa, G, and my brother and sister. My Grandpa is not well. He has several ailments, all of which combine to make life pretty hard at the moment- though the worst he'll ever admit to feeling is an understated "not brilliant". He is 80 years old and until now, has always been very mobile. I can picture him dancing with Granny at his 80th birthday party last October as we all looked on, both of them wearing the smile of the in love but slightly self-concious- a first wedding dance smile. As a vicar who has never really retired, my iconic image of Grandpa is of him standing at the altar facing away from the congregation in his sweeping cassock, arms holding bread and wine aloft as he prepares Communion.

My grandparents are working together to negotiate these new obstacles. The week before we stayed had been particularly hard. But on Saturday morning Granny was glowing: after having had very little appetite, Grandpa had woken up and fancied a full English breakfast. Before the housefull of lumbering twentysomethings had roused itself, Granny had dressed, driven to the nearby town and bought bacon, eggs and sausages. Happy because her husband was feeling brighter; happy because she could strengthen him with the sizzle of a pan.

After a breakfast I glimpsed a private moment in the hall; Grandpa holding Granny tenderly at the elbows
"Thankyou, my love"
"It's the least I can do for you, any time of day or night"
A kiss, her hand reaching to touch his cheek.

Like many people, in the past I've been one to fill up with tears and release an internal "awww" when I see an old couple holding hands in the supermarket. Our society puts people into boxes, and, alongside less flattering labels, the elderly are often at best popped into the box marked "sweet"; their love seen as quaint, mild- the companionship of old chums. Meanwhile, the breathless, uncertain love of the young, the newly-met, is the ideal; our aspirations spangled across cinema screens and the pages of paperbacks.

The dance of my grandparents' marriage may be slower and more considered than it used to be. But- and I've always thought this, but never more so than last weekend- when I see them together, bound by a thousand strong ropes of  respect and loyalty, joy and adversity,  I don't see a love that is  "sweet" or "cute". It's fierce and passionate, and delicate too. This is what I saw: Granny caring for Grandpa because she loves him, not because that's what a spouse must do; his discomfort an anathema to her, as much as it ever would have been were they thirty years old; Grandpa's admiration for Granny blooming further as they travel this difficult terrain, as they have done a hundred hardships before.

It's a love story any of us would be lucky to live.

What's your favorite thing about being sick?

This is not a funny question for me today.

I haven't written a post on this blog for simply ages (did you notice?), and thought I would ease myself back in with a Question Of The Day. Covering more than a month of absence would an excruciatingly long post make. Much better to be targeted. Imagine my horror when I saw said question. For I am sick! And there is nothing favourite (favoUrite, thank you, Americans) about it! Surely it should read "what's your favourite thing about pretending to be sick?" or "what's your favourite thing about convincing yourself you are sick and taking a glorious day off when you're actually fine?"

I'll tell you what are not my favourite things (plural) about being sick.

Stepping out of a horse and carriage ride in Central Park (didn't quite meet my Sex and the City-fuelled dreams, if the truth be known*), nearly keeling over and wondering why, given the ride was so slow we almost rolled backwards into the Apple Store across the road, do I feel so dizzy? That is not my favourite thing about being (becoming) sick.

Spending the last afternoon of my holiday in New York in bed, with a hoody on over my pyjamas, my head under the covers and my feet bound in a pashmina, trying to beat the freezing shaky-shakes and wondering whether it was such a good idea not to wear a jumper when freezing to death on the Brooklyn Bridge that morning, is not my favourite thing about being sick.

Nor is taking half an hour to wobble ten blocks or so, as if I'd been bedbound for a decade and forgotten how to walk, to a lovely diner, only to eat two spoonfuls of chicken noodle soup and drink a hot toddy with my hands over my ears to muffle the hideous sound of people- imagine this, on a saturday night- talking and laughing, in an attempt at a celebratory last-night-of-trip meal. I can't imagine that this was my boyfriend's favourite thing about it either, as he manfully tried to haz cheezburger and enjoy a beer as I croaked pitifully "I can't, I can't manage another spoonful, arrrr, why is everyone talking so loudly, arrrr, a taxi just drove past the window and blinded me with its devil headlights, ohhh, I can't drink this hot toddy I will get a hangover on top of all the toooortuuure".

Sitting on a plane for twelve hundred hours with my throat filled with shards of glass and my head stuck between some railings (it felt like), this is not my favourite thing;  only managing  a quarter of the obligatory first-night-home takeaway, that is not my favourite thing; phoning into work to announce that after my seven days of leave, I'm now going to take a sick day, thank you very much; knowing that there are snacks in the house and not feeling like eating them; knowing that Come Dine With Me is on and not feeling like watching it; being in my cosy living room instead of toiling underneath a gigantic air con pipe, and feeling altogether meh about it. All of these things are not favourites of mine.

Being an ungrateful cow who should be writing about the fabulous holiday she just spent in New York last week- which right up until the last hours of the last day, was brilliant- instead of whining about her minor viral throat infection. Apparently that's my favourite thing right now.

No wait.

Complaining!

That's my favourite thing about being sick.

*The Magnolia Bakery, on the other hand, did meet my SATC dreams. A collection of photographs of me with my greedy snout buried in various cupcakes reveal that indeed, I have never been happier than when at the Magnolia bakery, or specifically, immediately afterwards once the box of cakes was open.

Some things are described as "Very British": self-deprecating humour, bad teeth, and a tendency to say the wrong thing then dig oneself boofusly into a deeper and deeper conversational hole, in a bumbling yet endearing fashion. Other Very British things include: rain; pubs; fish & chips on the beach in the rain; not doing very much exercise; lying in the road drunk at the weekend (in the rain) or on any night of the week if you're on the Med; a wryly cheery approach to adversity, but not in a heart-hanging-out, over-sharing kind of way.

Crap natural phenomena are Very British. Our fair isle does not do climactical extremes. Our most devastating floods do not wash away entire villages and wipe out swathes of the population; rather, they ruin the carpet and provide newsreel of vicars sailing hilariously in rowing boats to pluck dogs from the top of gateposts. High winds do not kill, destroy and flatten; but they do make your journey up the A556 a real pain in the bum, what with that fallen tree blocking the road.

Last night we experienced a Very British earthquake. People from LA and Japan would have slept through it- in fact, it probably would have sent them to sleep. I dreamed that someone was shaking me. It lasted a few seconds, we woke up, G went looking downstairs to see if we'd be intruded upon by a giant vibrating burglar, and then we went back to sleep (after I'd inexplicably and urgently whispered did you check the kitchen? as if the food processor might have come to life, swelled to ten times its size and set itself to max power, thus causing the house to shake).

In other parts of the world, whole sections of the planet are cracked in two, stretches of road are crumpled and buildings toppled. People build special wobbly buildings to absorb the catastrophic quakes.

The headline on the BBC News website this morning? "Chimneys Topple In Large Tremor"

This does not stop people from appearing in newspapers staring balefully at cameras as they stand next to their fallen-down shelf, or telling reporters that their cupboard doors swung open most alarmingly during the "quake".

My favourite post-earthquake comment, courtesy of the news this morning: "It was hell".

Melodrama = not Very British, dear.

And yet, as one of my colleagues remarked in a dry and Very British way this morning, tomorrow we'll probably be out filming the "survivors" of the Great Quake 2008.

This is what I actually logged on to post, but was sidetracked by "ouch, charlie". Which is ten times funnier than this post will be, no doubt, but I can cope.

Theres a lyric in KT Tunstall's song "Suddenly I See". It goes "her face is a map of the world, is a map of the world". Well, my legs are a map of boofus, a map of boofus. There are purple and yellow bruises blooming across my knees, peppered with a few tiny bits of gravel. There is another smear of brusing on one of my shins, and in the middle of that bruise, there is a dark red dot- a puncture wound, not to be dramatic or anything.

The bruised knees came about on Wednesday. I left work and was running for a bus. I decided to change course and dart diagonally across the road to catch it. Unfortunately I miscalculated the angle of the swerve I needed to make, and should have realised that a) running and b) swerving were ill-advised in four-inch stack heels. My right foot tipped to the side and I managed to style it out, just about. But then came the aftershock, which sent me flying faceforwards onto the road. There was no styling that out, as my outstretched hands drove through the mud and my knees crunched onto the tarmac. Life became slow motion as I lifted my cheek from the wet ground to see cars approaching me to the front, and to the left, a man walking past staring at me with a look of total disgust on his face, as if I were a whacked-out crack whore who couldn't quite make it to the pavement before lying face-down, in office clothes, you stupid man, in a drugs-induced haze.

A little while later I made my way somewhat shakily into the restaurant where G and I were planning to eat dinner. I went to the toilets to scrape off some of the mud that was ground into my skin/nails/clothes/new handbag. Whilst there, it was only sensible to, um, pay a visit. Imagine my shock when, fresh from my road-tumbling horror, I discovered too late that the toilet seat was not screwed on at all. No sooner had I perched atop it but it was flying off the toilet and clattering to the floor, almost taking me with it and leaving me thankful that visiting the WC is usually a private affair so no styling out was required. We left without ordering.

The puncture wound/bruise combo was inflicted last night. I was enjoying a pint of Coke and my first ever game of darts in the pub (beginner's luck, or finally a sport I can actually play? I've no idea, but I got a bullseye). You can see where this is going, no? Clearly our friend Tony is not quite such a whizz with "the arrows" as he believes himself to be. During one throw, not only did he fail to score, but managed to bounce the dart off the board, from where it flew through the air and sunk into my leg. This was quite amusing, until I looked down a minute later and saw a perfect trickle of blood running down the black leather of my boot. It looked like a rock album cover, but resulted in me spending Saturday morning in an NHS walk-in centre, wondering if it would have been polite to shave my legs before finding out if my leg was about to explode.

I'm happy to report that the leg is still in tact, I have not been struck down with tetanus, the sun is shining, and I plan very much not to injure myself further before the week is out.

This video was linked from a v famous blog (hell, she doesn't need another link), so I am absolutely copying, BUT, it's probably the funniest thing I have ever seen. You know when something is so funny that you laugh really loudly, on your own, sitting at the computer in front of the window and not caring that the whole street has a profile view of you laughing on your own like a mentalist? That's how funny I found it. Watch!