Day 36: Dust Slut

Woke at 3.30am - brain buzzing and fully alert.  Don't know why.  Thought I might as well make the most of it, so I sneaked downstairs, lit a candle, swathed myself in a blanket and meditated in the solitary darkness.  Like one of those hardcore Vipassana dudes (except they'd probably have been in pants with no blanket).  Then I finished my book.  A productive night.  Quite like being up and active when most people aren't (got to be careful with that - my grandmother was completely nocturnal, like a lemur, so I may have a genetic propensity).  Finally fell asleep, contorted on the tiny sofa, as dawn broke.  Weird, vivid dreams - probably due to the perilous angle of my neck.

Morning fuzziness soon dispelled by the walk to get a paper - bleached sky, crisp frost on the grass, and cold air making my teeth and eyeballs ache.  Then to the gym.  Where I actually heard a personal trainer say the words 'You snooze; you lose'.  Seriously.  He meant it seriously.  It pleased me immensely.

Stupid enough to go into M&S - the food bit.  Never good on a Saturday, but in December it's ridiculous.  People feverishly buying marinaded king prawns and individual yule logs.  Like they're necessities.  There's a store gimp whose job involves rounding up stray baskets, trolleys, discarded items - a Mobius strip of a task.  He's unbelievably stressed, because his natural pace is fast, and his path is constantly blocked by bimblers and bad trolley management (I feel his pain).  He's red in the face, and rigid with suppressed rage.  He needs an internal Ipod.  I've had far less supermarket rage since I started playing reggae on mine. 

Serious cleaning this afternoon.  Rounded up all the dust mice under the bed and behind the furniture.  (There was a sizeable colony - it's been AT LEAST a year...).  Which is brave and foolish as I am very  allergic to dust.  (On the positive side, I have a robust medical excuse to live like a dust slut - brilliant).  Tomorrow my eyes will be like slit kiwi fruit.  It will not be a good look.  But worth it for the deeply satisfying vacuuming experience.  The ANNUAL vacuuming experience (don't go getting the wrong impression).

Henrique Hilario.  He's a footballer.  Whatever.  It's his name I'm interested in.   

Day 35: Poor Effort

Today I had two jobs - one at 9.30 in the morning; one at 4.00pm.  Both relatively unpleasant (I say relatively, as there was no actual violence, decomposition, or juggling - so not seriously unpleasant).  The sort of situation which leads to an in-the-moment out-of-body sensation.  Like I'm standing above and behind myself.  And always the same question - 'How have I come here?'  I've asked that question too many times recently.  Take heed, self.   

In between the two unpleasances, with time on my hands and the option of cinema or Christmas shopping, I took the obvious route.  The choice?  'Midnight in Paris' or 'We Need To Talk About Kevin'.  I chose Kevin.  I've read the book.  I didn't expect eggnog and Jennifer Aniston.  But I wasn't quite prepared for the impact of the film.  Tilda Swinton's haunted, wintry face.  That slight hint of hope in the final frame worthless in light of the wreckage preceding it.  Beyond bleak. 

Talking of which, lunch at Leon on Old Compton Street.  A nutritional 'up yours' - a slap of rice, a smear of sweet potato, a wipe of yoghurt.  An insult with a napkin on the side.  Five pounds only.  No, Leon.  I want to like you, but you make it impossible. 

So.  Reasons to keep on breathing.  1.  The moon - it's back and almost full (tomorrow) and it's the most beautiful thing I've seen today.  Hooray, hooray, hooray for the moon.  2.  Tomorrow is Saturday.  3.  That days like this are necessary to prompt change.  4.  That there was no actual violence, decomposition or juggling.  So far... 

(I know.  Poor effort.  2/10.)

Day 34: IMMORTALISE Me On The Net!

Before

After

In most towns there is a house that goes overboard with festive decorations.  We have one.  A serious contender, and no amount of utility bill hikes are going to get in the way.  Back in late November preparations were starting (left).  I passed again today, and laughed out loud(right).  Horrific but also truly brilliant. 

Today I thought I'd mix things up by meditating at my desk.  Because I don't have room for a special meditation space/chair/alcove, and I find sofas and beds too squashy.  So I need to use what I have.  Interesting results.  About two minutes in, my ego starts jumping up and down hyperactively, offering a non-stop stream of alternatives, suggestions and distractions in a most transparent and ridiculous way.  'Ooo - you NEED a cup of tea, your throat is ALL tickly!  INVOICES!  Those need doing too!  AAARRRGGGH - you're expecting a call in thirty minutes!  What happens if it comes early and disturbs you?  NOOOO!  Is your phone on silent?  IS IT? Check!  Go ON!  This is HILARIOUS!  Look at me distracting you!  You could WRITE about it!  In your BLOG!  Quick!  Make some notes, before you forget just how funny I'm being!  IMMORTALISE ME ON THE NET!'

(It makes me think of Bo - the Staffie pup my ex-flatmate used to own.  A total wriggler - devious and energetic and demanding.  Like a hot licky bullet with fur and needle sharp teeth.  No discipline.  No boundaries.  No bladder control.)

When I was on the retreat, I didn't get this inane chatter.  Distractions, yes - but not this level of coke-fuelled blether.  The difference is that I'm at my desk - the realm where my ego rules and is used to having dominion.  So, of course it's going to kick off. 

But this is the first time I've felt my ego (as in meditational terminology, not Freudian) as something definitely distinct and separate from the rest of me.  I think I've always thought that internal monologue WAS me.  But today the monologue was like sleeve-tugging from a third party.  A very annoying (if unintentially funny) third party.  After a remarkably short time it got bored, and settled down in its basket.  Suspect that it's not beaten, just regrouping.

'CINEMA!  Yessss!!!  You NEED to see a film!  YOU know - for your emotional INTELLIGENCE!  Perhaps you're HUNGRY?  How much protein have you had?  That's NOTHING - you will LOSE brain cells!  Have you checked under the sofa for missed delivery cards?  I BET there are several under there - all REALLY IMPORTANT.  When did you last GIVE BLOOD?  For FUCK'S SAKE - people are DYING out there.  Have some CHEESE.  NOW.  Is Masterchef on yet?'

Day 33: Hawksmoor 1: RBS 0

A cold day with a keen wind that plasters my hair into my mouth and blows my coat open.  I could do the buttons up, but I don't like the restriction.  To Spitalfields and old, dark streets overlaid with crude plate glass edifices of commerce.  I stand in the shadow of the hulking RBS building.  Facing it, Hawksmoor's incandescent Christ Church stares back boldly, straight down the barrel of Brushfield Street.  It has the edge - morally, aesthetically and historically.  Hawksmoor 1: RBS 0.

I wander into Spitalfield market for lunch.  A group of small children in Santa hats are jigging up and down, shouting a Christmas song.  What it lacks in musicality it makes up for in enthusiasm, as is evidenced in the rattled-bucket donations.  Spitalfield market is very sanitised now.  Expensive shops, and stalls that look like expensive shops.  It's nice enough - in an expensive way.  But I miss the raffish, hand-made, exciting vibe that it had in the early days.  Felt free and fluid and full of possibility.  Before the developers horned their way in, and set it solid in plans and blocks and leases.  Hooray for the Sunday Up Market at The Old Truman Brewery.  Keeping the flame burning.      

I stick my nose into Montezuma's, but retreat quickly - who knew a man with a plate of free chocolate could feel so aggressive?  Goes to show that anything shoved in your face without warning is disconcerting, however nice it may be (kittens, a hand-knitted scarf, scented candle, success etc). 

I have just looked for an accompanying image (settled on this - above right) but in my search for 'kittens candle' I was delighted to find this (see left).  Yes.  A limited edition Atomic Kitten 'Greatest Hits' devotional candle, to inspire prayer and deep thought.  (Hawksmoor 1: Atomic Kitten 1). 

Those of you not getting a yarn necklace (see Day Twenty-Nine) or a tractor cushion (Day Twenty-Four), strap in and prepare.  You know what's coming your way, and you'd better have a lighter ready.   

In a day of small irritations, these things have been my pleasures.  I feel 'Whole Again'.  Do you see what I did there?

Day 32: Zorro and Bolo

Today has seen me rolling sixes with the transport dice.  This morning I step onto the platform just as the train glides to a halt in front of me - the split of the doors directly in line with my nose.  I feel like a rail Zorro, all precise and agile.  This afternoon I leave Angel in cavalier fashion, with scant time to get to St Pancras before my ticket becomes invalid.  The green man is with me at all the pedestrian crossings, but time is running out as I pick up the pace through King's Cross.  As I near St Pancras my watch tells me it's going to be too late, but strangely hopeful I run through the station, and dart through the barrier with TEN SECONDS to spare.   A ticket fumble away from an excess fare.  Down the escalator, straight onto the fast train as the doors close behind me.  Slick.  Rail Zorro.  For a day.
 
Lucky in transport; unlucky in cake.  Today at Tinderbox in Islington I roll a one on the cake front.  A 'Bolo de Arroz' - which sounds great, but is in fact an old lady cake (relentlessly plain Madeira) gussied up in a fancy name and an artisanal wrapper.  Might be really good straight out of the oven, but this one had been a Bolo for longer than advisable.  Won't be doing that again.  Just as well, as my cake repertoire is broad enough already.  Zorro don't need no Bolo.

Jude is with me in Tinderbox.  We sit up in the eaves with strong coffee, next to a woman with a strangely resonant voice.  It may be the acoustics, or perhaps her friend is hard of hearing - but I suspect she habitually throws her voice beyond its intended destination.  Like a child.  It's distracting so we move downstairs - just as a booth becomes conveniently free.  Booth Zorro.  This is better.  A low burrow-like ceiling and shaded light makes it feel like we are plotting (we are).  Two hours slip by effortlessly, like beads off a string.     

Home in the rain.  I walk the pretty route, along French Row, past the Eleanor Cross and down George Street.  The damp air holds the smoky ghosts of well-heeled open fires.  One of the best smells in the world.  Apple wood, and cherry.  Unmistakable.  Then some pine.  Spitty, knotty, resinous.  No umbrella, but happy to drift at an amble, careless of the wet and cold, inhaling my all-time favourite sort of incense.

Day 31: Skewer Test or Rest

The pigeons have returned!  The pair that spend every winter in the tree outside my window.  They seem to disappear in the spring and summer, but they come back around October.  This year they're late - they've only just arrived.  It's not a popular bird tree.  It's only these two who use it.  They sit on a branch, side by side, facing away from the house.  So I get to see their hunched back views - all rounded pigeon shoulders and tiny heads.  Sometimes they sit carefully on separate branches, turned away from each other.  I know it's projection, but the sense of huff is palpable.  On one occasion, it was different sides of the tree.  Very dramatic.  However, this (see right) is standard.  But sometimes it's like they're glued together.  Maybe cold, maybe plotting.  I'd like to think plotting.  It makes for good viewing.

Today I went to Staines again*.  Twice in one year is enough.
(* Shades of Daphne.  'Last night I dreamt of Manderley again'.  Perhaps not quite in the same league...) 

On the way there, Radio 4 - Mary Berry (the Ice Queen of Cookery) taking questions from listeners.  Chestnut panic!  Dry turkey dilemma!  To brine or not to brine!  Goose fat dearth!  Roast potato shame!  It seems that there is little that cannot be solved with 'the skewer test' or 'resting'.  As with most things in life.

As you can probably tell, today has been uneventful.  And I have written four posts - so am running out of steam.  Enough skewering.  Rest.

Day 30: Fiddlesticks and Flapdoodle

Another dawn meditation.  Three have fallen by the wayside, and have chosen to stay in bed.  The retreat is non-denominational, so all are fine with this new form of spirituality.  The Way of Duvet.

At breakfast my toast sets off the smoke alarm.  Not very spiritual.  The Way of Duvet followers emerge to find me flapping a cushion at the ceiling.  (Sort-of spiritual, in a Russian Orthodox swinging incense-type way.  Or that's how I'm seeing it, anyway.)   

More energy work and meditation.  Several people have profound experiences and weep.  Some see symbols of light, silver rings, rainbows.   It is hard not to compare.
 

Because I am visited by Professor Yaffle and a wrecking ball.  Probably very appropriate - if less poetic.  (I do not share the Professor Yaffle experience - not sure it will be appreciated...).

Maybe I will never get the infinity symbols or the glowing stars.  It will be a yarn necklace.  Or Monica from Master Chef.  (Actually, that would be brilliant.)

Whatever the images, this stuff works for me.  I feel calm and deliberate.  Self-reliant.  So far, so good.

A crawl home along the M3, back to normality.  And to find out how this fits in my daily life.

I suspect I know what Professor Yaffle would say.      

Fiddlesticks and flapdoodle.