Street Fighting Man

Something happened on Saturday that is still giving me pleasure. I am turning it over in my mind, and admiring it from every angle. I was walking home from town, past the back of the multi-storey car  park when I stumbled across a bit of argybargy.  The air was full of the odd nervy energy that a heated exchange between strangers generates. A stationary car was blocking the traffic, and the driver was standing in the road, all veiny and tense, shouting at a man on the pavement, who was doing his best to shrink into a laurel hedge. His hand-knitted jumper, beard and glasses proclaimed him as probably not the fighty sort. Pretty easy to guess the rough details of what had happened. I reckon Beardy-Knit had been trying to cross the road, and Blood Vessel, frustrated and tail-gating to get into the car park, had not let him across. The one thing that is definite is that BK called BV a wanker. BV wasn't happy about this, and for a few moments things looked like they would escalate. But BV had second thoughts, and turned to get back into his car. But he wasn't leaving without the last word. His final flourish?

'If my wife wasn't with me, I'd come over there and show you what a wanker REALLY is!'

I don't think he'd thought it through...

(No images for this entry. Use your imagination.)

Chameleons and Stars

This morning at Bank station a middle-aged businessman has collapsed. He is curled on the platform, pale and vulnerable, like a shell-less snail. A woman is stroking his arm and station staff are hovering with radios; paramedics are on their way. Everything is in hand, there is nothing I can offer. But as the tube slides out of the station, I can't get the image of his face out of my mind.

The actual chameleon .  The actual road. 

A week ago I was on a Greek island, reading, meandering and snorkelling. I stared at stars, counted bats and saw a chameleon cross the road (ten fantastic minutes of crazy chameleon gait, rocking backwards and forwards like a VHS tape on pause).

Readjusting to normality has been uncomfortable. But I can still read. The weather is pretty good at the moment, and I relish autumn anyway. No snorkelling or chameleons, sadly. But the thing I miss above all else is the soft freedom to be as I want; not having to please anyone else or dress a certain way. Not having to prove my worth. I couldn't sleep on Sunday night, facing a day at the Cabinet Office on Monday. Watched as the hours crawled by, knowing that I needed sleep to be on my game, and knowing that thinking like this would only push it further away. A dog resisting a bath.

Optional

I'm over the adjustment now. I can feel my shell growing back. And I think that's why the man this morning strikes me. On that busy platform, amidst the hard carapaces of suits and job titles and trolley bags, he is a moment of unguarded humanity, soft and exposed and real. I wish him well, and am grateful for the reminder that the shell is a choice.

More chameleons, stars and snorkelling. Actual and metaphorical.

Lord of the Ring

Today someone I know posts a video on Facebook.  Mobile phone footage that she'd taken of a Bey Dance workshop held in Edinburgh's Bristo Square, where members of the public were encouraged to join in and learn the moves of Beyonce's iconic routines. After the first few seconds, the framing closes in on a middle-aged man in a red t-shirt.  Dancing out of time, arms flying in contrary motion to the rest of the ensemble. The sniggers of the phone-wielder are the only commentary, as she invites us to join with her in laughing at this sad sap.

Except that's not how I feel. At all. I think this man is EPIC. He's lost in the moment, giving it his all, a single
lady right here and right now. I am angry that someone feels it was appropriate to film and share this footage. Observing but not participating. How many people would see this and think twice before running the risk of stranger-ridicule? Another step towards bull-shitty self-consciousness.

Hooray for this man. Long may we all dance badly and in public without a care. I like it. I put a ring on it.

Dead Poet

Disproportionately sad about Robin Williams. The gap between the experience of life and an onlooker's perception is so great. In the midst of the Fringe, I'm so aware of the need of every performer to connect with their audience - to be valued by them. Few performers can hope to connect or be valued as much as Robin Williams. Although that's the grail that most of us chase (performers or not), it appears that it's not enough when you get there. External validation doesn't quieten that insidious internal monologue.

I once heard Russell Brand say that he found peace when he performed, because the intensity of his connection with the audience and his material silenced the voice in his head.

To a greater or lesser extent, all of us have the voice. All of us. I don't understand its purpose. It achieves nothing positive - it is not us, and it is not accurate.

RIP.

Disrupted by Bertha

The weather is volatile. Thanks to the tail end of Bertha, there has been lashing rain, pinging hail, and skittish gusts of wind.  Dark vampire skies clear to strangely inappropriate sunshine. Minutes later the gloom returns. The whole business has churned up the sulky August torpor, and it's made me feel restless. Can't settle or focus. Unconstructive. As I type, I'm being distracted by the pigeon tree. Out of the corner of my eye I can see it waving in wild and extravagant swirls. For once, there are no pigeons.  Maybe they are preserving their dignity, as the tree is more bucking bronco than restful stoop.

A large moth is outside, bumbling at the window, desperately trying to
get in. What is a moth doing in daylight? And why is it trying to get in? The natural order is disrupted.

I am picking things up and putting them down and flailing about. Unlike the moth, I need to get out.

 

Don't Blame The Ball

The signs are there.  Some literal - the local PYO is displaying a board that reads 'Closed - End of Season', and the high street is full of 'Back To School' window stickers.  Some less so. On my run yesterday I noticed blackberries and fledgling conker cases.

Balls don't kill people.  Golfers do.

(I'm surprised I spotted these, given that I put on a turn of speed to get across the golf course as quickly as possible.  It's a public footpath, but dotted with sinister signs saying 'Beware of golf balls and golfers'*.  I am warier of the latter than the former.  Although a golfer without a ball is a paper tiger, unless you're within stick radius.  A ball without a golfer is entirely blameless.)

Everything's pointing to autumn.  Confusing because I have yet to go on holiday - fifteen days and counting. I will be coming back to mushrooms and jumpers.

Wrong. This is going to spin me out, man.  

Know your enemy

* I note there are no signs saying 'Careful - Public Footpath'. It's pretty clear who calls the shots round here. With a Big Bertha, no doubt.

Felled By Bow

Bow Fell.  I fell.

In early May I dislocated my finger. High up in the still-snowy folds of Bow Fell, I skidded on some loose shale, and caught my hand on an outcrop of rock. My finger looked so wrong that without thinking I snapped it back into position. It went numb and white and I thought I'd killed my own finger - bungling the relocation so badly that I'd cut off blood-supply and nerves. But before I'd had the chance to go down the gangrene-sets-in-and-the-finger-drops-off-before-you-can-get-to-a-hospital path, I started getting some feeling back. Pins and needles, and then a fair deal of pain - unpleasant but far more reassuring than numbness. Away from the fell-top cold, my finger swelled up like a sausage under the grill. The knuckle was blue-tinged, but with force it would still bend. So I reasoned it wasn't broken, and chose tea shop over casualty. Probably the closest I'm likely to come to cake or death.

Six weeks later, and it's pretty clear I should have chosen casualty. The finger is healing curled, so although I can bend it, I cannot straighten it. Belated visits to doctors and hospitals ('Why didn't you come earlier?'  'I thought it was only bent because of the swelling' etc etc). General medical consensus: my finger is fucked. Angry with self.

Go to physiotherapy in last ditch attempt to sort this out. Jermaine sucks his teeth, and makes me squeeze a tennis ball. He is surprised I've not been given a splint.

The Oval-8 - best in breed

I go online and buy a selection of splints. It's a three bears game - one is way too large; one is way too small, but one is just about right. Within days I can put my finger flat on the table. But unsupported for longer than a couple of minutes, my finger slowly starts to curl inwards again. So I leave the splint on.

Until earlier this week, when I lose it. Fear of finger curl drives me to force the small splint over my fat knuckle. Not easy or comfortable, but once on, this is a game-changer. It forces the swelling to go down and the finger to be ruler-straight.  

Why am I telling you this? Because you need to know that the best splint isn't always the most comfortable one. And that if given the choice of cake or casualty, you probably shouldn't choose cake.