Day 117: Pip Blammer

Last night I could not sleep.  I was tired when I turned the light off and settled down, but annoyingly after ten minutes it became apparent that I wasn't going to drift off effortlessly.  Can't bear waiting restlessly for sleep, so I bailed and snuck down to the sitting room.  Read for a couple of hours.  Made myself a makeshift nest on the sofa, and eventually dozed off at an improbable twisted angle. 

Goldfrapp - 'Stuff' happened

Woke with pins and needles, and the memory shard of a dream.  A cameo appearance from a university friend, who I've not seen in about a decade.  He was on edge, wild-eyed, pacing and twitching.  Wearing underpants and a blanket draped over his shoulders (natch).  When I asked whether everything was OK, he looked me in the eye and said. 'It's Pip Blammer, and that stuff with the Goldfrapp album'. 

Hooray!  I love that my mind, when left to its own devices and with the logic button switched off, comes up with something so incredibly specific.  I don't know anyone called Pip.  Or Blammer, for that matter.  Not been listening to Goldfrapp.  Not thought about that particular friend.  But my mind has happily and effortlessly rung up that obscure combination, like a glorious mental fruit machine.

Although it's a fragment and very little actually happens, this dream intrigues me, way beyond those more apparently-meaningful ones.  The sort in which I do terrible Freudian things.  Like starve horses (accidentally).  Dispose of bodies (deliberately).  Get chased round cathedrals by tall figures wearing bells round their ankles (gothically).  Go on stage and realise that I'm naked from the waist down (predictably).  The usual.

Never got to meet Pip Blammer, or find out what the 'stuff' was.  Maybe tonight.  Might be worth another night's cramped contortions on the sofa to find out.       

Day 116: Obeying Jane

I have a satnav.  And friends who are proud to own no such thing.  Who prefer to rely on sextant, chronometer and trade winds.  Fine for their leisurely road trips on holiday to Cornwall or Suffolk.  But I rarely work in the same place twice.  Pre-satnav I regularly risked life and limb, driving with a crumpled AA route planner printout plastered over the steering wheel - more as a talisman than a guide, as it was totally unreadable on dark winter mornings.  I'd get to my destination with my navigational ego intact ('No, no - no problem at all.  It was still dark, so I simply followed the stars.  Easy peasy.').  But with my shoulders tensed up to my ears. 

So I am incredibly grateful for the headgirlish tones of 'Jane' as she sternly guides me through the unknown.  But even prefects make mistakes, and occasionally she has tried to take me down a one-way street, or cross-country over a field.  And sometimes she just picks a bum route, and I know better.  On these occasions I override her instructions.  She takes this in her stride, treating me with calm disapproval, and a crisp action plan.  'U-turn ahead.  Turn around where possible!'.  Maybe, Jane...  Maybe not... 

I am being slightly unfair.  The main reason she tries to take me off-road is that my map is way out of date, and there's not enough space on the memory card for the updated version.  It's been this way for years.  Recently I nearly missed a job, having been guided down a lane to a dead end, a five-bar gate, and the confident words 'You have reached your destination'.  Aplomb 10/10.  Navigation 0/10.  Life Metaphor - awaiting death bed to score accuracy.



So I finally take action, and order a new memory card.  What shall I get?  I need 1.7GB of space, so a 2GB card would be sufficient.  I decide to err on the side of generosity and large portions, so go for 4GB.  Room to grow, as the woman in Clarks used to say, as she prodded the empty space at the ends of my Sunsplash school sandals.  One day later the 4GB arrives. I feel slick and efficient.  Not like a person whose life would end in a metaphorical five-bar gate. 

Jane spits the new memory card out immediately.  She doesn't even give a reason - just a big red cross on her screen.  This time I cannot override her.

So the 2GB is on its way to me.  I hope Jane will be happy.  Again, I am presented with a lesson in moderation.  1GB too small.  4GB too big.  2GB just right. 

(On that basis - not booby, not boobiest, but boobier.  TV's BOOBIER Babes.  (See Day One Hundred and Thirteen).)

Day 115: Buck Up

Home after a long day - tired and hungry.  Nothing left in the batteries as I slump on the sofa, mouth slack and eyes glazed, watching the news.

A report from Kabul, looking at families living in poverty.  Children up at dawn, working fourteen hour days, scavenging for discarded plastic and metal to sell, and grazing their sheep where they can (on rubbish tips).  School a distant memory. One meal per day.  One room per family.


Doesn't mean I'm not tired; doesn't mean I'm not hungry.  But I get a meal, and a bed with a goose-down duvet.

Tired?  Yes.  Hungry?  Yes. 

Fortunate?  Unbelievably, randomly so.

Time to wipe the dribble off my chin and BUCK THE FUCK UP.

Over and out.

Day 114: Adore and Endure

Morning spent mooching around Brick Lane.  Past the new industrial-chic Box Park, and the racks of stolen second-hand bikes, and up towards the Truman Brewery through the food market.  Smells amazing - smoky and sweet.  I am particularly taken with the 'Mr Spicy' jerk drum with its registered trademark.  Plagiarists, beware!

Great Eastern Street is wearing a provocative message.  'Let's ADORE and ENDURE each other'.  I once saw a Japanese girl on the tube wearing a jacket with an embroidered motto - 'Through Pride Onfidence' (sic). This slogan has a similar not-written-by-a-native-English-speaker vibe.  It feels odd.  My mind is tussling with it.  'Let's ADORE each other' - OK, if a bit gushy.  'Let's ENDURE each other' - OK, if a bit grim.  Together?  At the same time?  I can't make is work in my head.  Hmmm.  At least it's made me think about it.  Perhaps that's mission accomplished as far as the artist is concerned.

More art at Bermondsey White Cube.  Go in just to use the loo (a white cube, obvs).  But then stay to look at the Anselm Kiefer exhibition.  Post apocalyptic landscapes accessorised with dead flowers, bedraggled goth wings, decayed books, measuring scales and alchemical powders.  It's all VERY DARK.  I enjoy myself immensely playing Interpret The Art (adore). 

On leaving I pick up a leaflet telling me what it all actually means (endure).

Who is the boobiest of them all?

Once I get home, things take a dive towards the low brow.  I spot a magazine in the garage that's promises to reveal 'TV's Boobiest Babes!' 

(Tall, taller, tallest.  Booby, boobier, boobiest.  How booby are you?  Boobier than average?  Or perhaps the boobiest of them all?) 

This is the most hilarious use of language I've seen in ages.  It is also horrible.

Is it possible?  Am I adoring AND enduring at the SAME TIME?

So confusing that I've lost onfidence in myself.   

 

Day 113: Getting Some Stick

The day starts with a squirrel throwing a stick at me.  It's a direct hit, launched from the top of a pollarded lime with so much brio that it's impossible to be offended.  In fact I feel privileged.

I like it when creatures with a serious size disadvantage stand up for themselves.  Once saw a cicada pushed too far with the taunting jabs of a piece of grass.  It simply grabbed the offending blade with two tiny cicada 'hands' and held on.  Incredibly tightly.  Suppressing the teasing.  There was a strong sense of 'Enough now - seriously.' 

And then the crab defending its territory.  Standing in the shallows of a clear river, registering disapproval at my approach.  Drawing itself up to full crab height (about three inches) and shaking its crabby fists.  Hooray for you!  You mad valiant fool.

Sometimes when you're snorkelling, a tiny fish will swim up to your mask and bead you - eye to eye.  Nothing to gain.  (Not like a pigeon sidling up when you're eating a sandwich.)  Just curiosity and fearlessness. 

Better than the squirrel, the cicada or the crab.  Not cross, or defensive.  Just VERY interested.

Day 112: Character Patina

Today has been a day of paying out.  Road tax.  Public liability insurance.  Accountancy fees.  Car service*. 

Then I got a call about government grants for the elderly, from a man who was pretty insistent that I was a) a man and b) a pensioner. 

Then I made some flapjacks. 


Oh, the impossible GLAMOUR of it all.  I'm giddy from spending too long on the rollercoaster of dreams. 

* Barely recognise the car when it's returned to me.  I eye it suspiciously.

Suddenly I work out what's wrong.  It has been WASHED. 
A full twelve month's of character patina has been carelessly removed.  Philistines.

Of course sometimes patina does not add character.  Sometimes it is just plain insanitary**.

The Chinese meal I eat for supper has patina. 

** Pleases me to realise that from 'plain insanitary' you can get both 'patina' and 'sarin'.  OK, OK - I know.  That still leaves you with i, n, l and y.

That's fine.  They're LEFTOVERS.  Like those rancid prawn crackers. 
 

Day 111: Coat-Free

Today is fast-track spring.  I am coat-free in the park, and all the birds are very excited.  I don't speak bird, but I think it's fair to say that they are pretty content with the way the day is panning out. 


Underfoot, a cheery carpet of crocuses. 
(I suddenly want to eat some Cadbury's Caramel.  Weird.)   


I sit on a tree-stump up at the top of the park.  Away from the obvious pull of the lake, and the playground and the cafe, it's where people thin out and you can sit undisturbed.  The sun is hot on my back and if you filter out the distant traffic hum and toddler shrieks, you can clearly hear nature expanding in the warmth.  I'm not being fanciful - there is a distinct low-level creaking and seeping.

A woodland guru once invited me to 'listen' to a birch tree in early spring.  I thought it was a spiritual vibes-thing, and although happy to go with it, didn't expect much.  Very surprised to hear a pulsing whooshing noise when I pressed my ear to the trunk.  The sap literally rising.  And even inanimate things expand in heat.  I was brought up in a timber-framed seventeenth century house which creaked comfortingly in the sunshine like the rigging of an ancient ship.

It's only been two weeks since there was ice on the inside of the windows, and I couldn't imagine sitting on grass or walking barefoot.  And now it's too hot to wear a coat. 

I spend most of the afternoon wandering around the park, expanding and creaking. 


In searching for pictures, I come across the image for the new, updated Caramel Bunny.  It's a depressing business when this (above) is turned into this (left). 

Old-style Bunny - surrounded by flowers and friends, smiling and with a gently rounded tummy.

New-style Bunny - dead-eyed, trout-pouted, newly-waisted Katie Price lookalike.  Nothing there to interact with except for Bunny's swaggering self-interest, and a host of suggestive pillows.  'Still got it'.  No.  You lost it.

Day 110: Pigeon vs Rat

In a quiet basement coffee shop, with windows looking out onto the dank well between buildings.  No-man's bin-land.  Pigeons and litter and moss-stained walls.  I'm with a friend, and we gradually become aware of a horrible squealing counterpoint to our conversation.  It grows more insistent.  We wonder whether it's a rat (in that wherever-you-are-in-London-there's-a-rat-in-your-pocket type way).  Suddenly I notice a correlation - every time the pigeon swoops down and disappears from sight, the squealing starts.  Disregarding public embarrassment, I leap to my feet, shouting 'PIGEON ON RAT!' and run to the window. 

As expected I see horrible scufflings in a dark corner, all wings and feet.  It looks bad.  But then the pigeon backs off, and I realise there is no rat.  But there IS a big fat pigeon toddler, shrieking for food.  Disappointing.

An internet search suggests that Pigeon vs Rat is not unusual.  And a pretty even match.  Rat: special weapon - big teeth; special power - aggression.  Pigeon: special weapon - beak; special power - flight.  It is interesting (if unpleasant) to note that a rat will actually attempt to eat a live pigeon given half a chance.  A pigeon will not attempt to eat a rat.  (Note: both parties prefer anything from Subway.)  

Today has been a day of potential drama NOT unfolding.  Go to Pret (not Subway - I'm not a pigeon/rat).  Huge overreaction from the guy on the till when I try to pay by card.  HE CANNOT TAKE CARDS AT THIS TILL!  I pay with cash (drama averted).  It starts to rain as I walk to the pitch meeting where I am meant to look presentable.  I HAVEN'T GOT AN UMBRELLA!  It stops raining (drama averted).        

There's a company based in Brooklyn called 'Rat vs Pigeon'.  They make messenger bags for cyclists, and their slogan reads 'Ride fast, take chances'.

What I thought might be a Rat vs Pigeon day turns out to be more Pigeon vs Pigeon Toddler.

'Ride slow, take sandwiches'.

Day 109: It's a Big One

Watching 'River Monsters'.  Cool-headed Brit fisherman, Jeremy Wade, ventures into inhospitable rivers-that-time-forgot in search of fishy nightmares.

Bigfoot sighting

And FINDS them.  Unlike the many programmes I have watched on things like Bigfoot, the Beast of Bodmin, the Yeti (etc).  Blurry footage, tracks, locals yarning round a camp fire - all deeply exciting, and then a gradual and inevitable tail-off into 'Will we ever know the TRUTH about Bigfoot/TBOB/the Yeti?'  (No.  Probably not.) 

But Jeremy delivers.  With extra features.  Today as he fishes, he is stalked by a caiman, who's eyeing him like a stoner faced with a tube of Pringles.  Then he and his crew are hit by lightning - the sound guy is knocked to his feet, but saved by the insulating rubber on his massive trainers.  Everyone feels 'a bit headachey'.  That's a lightning strike for you. 

Kiss the Wolf Fish

Naughty

But this is 'River Monsters' - no time for faffing about with health and safety when a WOLF FISH needs to be caught.  (Cut to heavily-scarred locals, and tales of furious attacks, lost hands, and disembowelled dogs.)

 Jeremy has his eyes on the prize, but there's a problem.  The redeye piranhas (bitey and cross) keep stealing the bait (naughty), so Jeremy has to wait until night (aka caiman party time) to do his thing.  A frustrating caiman-related near-miss (bleep-filled angst), and it's getting to the point where I'm anticipating a flabby ending ('Will we ever know the TRUTH about the wolf fish?') when Jezza suddenly gets a bite.

Goliath Tiger Fish.  FFS.

Cue the sacred words 'It's a BIG ONE'.  And it is.  He lands it.  Peas fall off my fork as I stare.  It's horrific - beefy, and prehistoric and dead-eyed.  He puts it back, to swim lazily away.  Gone. 

But it will remain forever in the darkest creek of my psyche, motionless in the muddy depths.  Always ready to take a hand or a dog down into the murk with a swirl of a scaley tail. 

AAAAAAAARRRGGGGHHHHHH!!!!  AAAAAAARRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!  AAAARRRRGGGHHHHH!!!

I love 'River Monsters'.

Day 108: Explorarting

Red, like this.  Exciting. 

When I was little we had a vinyl recording of a story called 'The Baby Piano'.  It was narrated by a woman with a clipped voice who very correctly said 'Pee-arno'.  It was much loved, not least because it was red (unbearably exciting).  We played it over and over, and our ham-fisted handling resulted in a deep scratch, at the words 'they darted about, exploring.' 

At least that's what I guess was originally on the recording, from an adult retro-perspective. But that's not what I remember. It's etched on my memory as 'they darted about, explor-arted about, explor-arted about, explor-arted about...' .  It played in a relentless trance-like loop, until Mum heard us shouting and came to the rescue, moving the needle past the scratch.  'Explorarting' took on a life of its own.  It seemed to be dangerous - like aural quicksand. Hard to get out of, without assistance.

As an adult I found myself explorarting.  For five long years in a job that I hated.  Because I thought that I had to do it, that I had no choice.  That was my trance-loop.  Glazed-eye cage-pacing.  Then I had a completely random accident, that physically and mentally knocked my needle out of the groove.  Lucky. 

A forty-something traveller who's desperately trying to recapture lost youth on the beaches of Goa is explorarting.  Sixty-nine year old Michael Palin going around the world, insatiably curious, is darting about, exploring.  There's a big difference.


Explorarting vs darting about, exploring.  No contest. 

   

Day 107: Eagle On Eagle

A good long hike around Hengistbury Head.  Cold, cloudless blue sky and squinty bright sun reflecting off the sea.  It's a walk of many parts.  Starting with windblown sand dunes, and gorse bushes, down to the pebbled shore and the sandstone cliffs, with their eroded millefeuille strata.  A scramble up to the headland, through low-lying Lord of the Rings woodland.  Twisty old trees, ivy, hanging vines like Gandalf's beard.  Swampy marshland.  And ancient heathland.  Broom and heather and ling. 

Down to Christchurch Bay and along the water's edge to Mudeford.  The finger of land that boasts the UK's most expensive beach huts.  (Note: you may be able to afford the 90k for a glorified shed, but no amount of money will buy you the self-awareness to know that calling the shed 'River Dance' or 'Paws for Thought' is a dreadful act.)

Back to Peter's house for coffee, with my face tight from windburn.  Fred (four) and Ben (seven) are playing 'Eagle On Eagle'. Which is pretty much as it sounds.  Both 'Eagles' (arms outstretched, running in socked feet) are then 'On' each other.  (For 'On' read 'bundling with'.)  Dominant eagle wins; important lesson learned.  The possibilities are endless.  Pig On Pig.  Worm On Worm.  Snow On Snow. 

To the tune of 'In The Bleak Mid-winter':-

'Pig had fallen,
Pig on Pig.
Pig oh-on Pii-g.
The winner is the Pi-ig
Who is Big,
(falling echo) Is Big.

Day 106: The Genius of Your Life

Seven-year-old Benedict presents me with a raspberry.  It wobbles on the palm of his hand as he looks me in the eye and intones (unexpectedly) 'This is the GENIUS of YOUR LIFE.' 

I eye him back and counter with 'Maybe.  It could also be a FINGER WIG.'  Two minutes later, four small fingers are wearing fruity wigs.  Raspberry nan hairdos.  Less thought-provoking that the genius of your life, but more visually satisfying. 

The thought hangs in my head, long after the raspberries have been variously eaten and trodden into the kitchen floor.  What exactly IS the genius of my life? 

It's interesting phrasing, assuming that a) your life has a genius, and b) it is singular.  The point of your existence.  I have spent the majority of my life, like many many people, searching for my purpose.  (Except when I watch a Brian Cox programme and start thinking about the universe, and realise that it REALLY DOESN'T MATTER.)

I envied my closest friend at school, who was fairly competent at most things, but absolutely brilliant at playing the violin.  There was never any doubt as to the genius of her life.  She got a scholarship to the Royal College of Music - her path was clear and simple as a Dick Bruna drawing.

I desperately wished for a similar clarity of direction.  Preferably with an unambiguous signpost.

Maybe it does exist (the signpost).  Maybe I've just never spotted it. 

Far too busy putting fruit wigs on my fingers.

Day 105: Pierrot to Princess

Work takes me to the rarified air of South Kensington.  Miles of terraced wedding cake houses - all white stucco and pillars, offset by potted bay trees, and iron railings lumpy with decades of paint.  The pavement outside Bibendum smells of expensive fresh cut flowers, and champagne vomit.  Nothing changes here*.  It's an eighties time warp.  Men still wear strawberry pink jeans and blazers.  A lumpy teenage Lady Diana in a pie-crust collar wouldn't be out of place. 

I once went to a pizza restaurant in South Kensington, which was dominated by a huge oil painting of the proprietor serving a pizza to Princess Diana (see right).  Yes.  HRH as a pierrot.  We were proudly informed that she was a regular visitor, and as a close confidante, the proprietor could divulge that, like the pierrot, she was laughing on the outside, crying on the inside.  (Given that this was around 1996 - ie post-Camillagate and the Martin Bashir interview - I'd say information-wise, this was a major scoop.  Amazing.)  Please note that she looks pretty cheery here.  Probably not crying on the inside in this picture - but genuinely happy.  Healed by the special balm of pizza.  Because Princess Diana was a massive carb-head, wasn't she?  (Though I'm not sure she's looking at the pizza.  What do you think?)

From a quick search, it appears that since then the picture has been replaced by a less poignant image.  Diana in a lovely red evening dress.  There are some similarities, though.  Once again, she looks cheered by the prospect of pizza (reliable carb magic, even beyond the grave).  And Mario looks AMAZINGLY unchanged.   Same coy/noble expression.  Same posture.  Same arm.  Same pizza.  It's ALMOST as if someone realised that perhaps Dead Pierrot Diana was in slightly bad taste, and just repainted the bits around Mario to be more Dead People's Princess...  

(* OK - don't panic.  ONE thing changed.  Pierrot to Princess.  DON'T PANIC! That was fifteen years ago.  Breathe into the paper bag.  Blazers?  Check.  Loafers?  Check.  Ray-Bans?  Check.  Aannnd relaaax.)

Day 104: Facing The Truth

A trip to Crouch End for some more mask-making with Jude.  This time the base I'm using is a plaster cast of my own face.  Which was in the damp boot of my car for a while last year - just long enough for it to attractively develop some mould pox.  Art imitating life.  (Q: What is a 'skin care routine', please?)

Being literally faced with myself gives the process a fascinating weirdness.  A completely new experience.  All I've seen before is a photo, or a mirror image or film.  But this is 3D.  My nose and chin and cheek bones as they look in reality, and from angles familiar to others but not to me.  Recognisable, but also strange and new.

Now I have this plaster effigy, it's with me for life.  I can't ever throw it away - it would seem wrong.  Like self-harm voodoo.  So unless it falls to bits, it'll be in a box, somewhere in my attic, growing more mould.  While I remain downstairs, Dorian Gray-style.  All fresh and non-mouldy.  (A: This.  This is a 'skin-care routine'.)

It must be very odd to be the subject of a Madame Tussauds wax work.  Doesn't matter how many times you've been photographed or filmed, getting a 3D sense of yourself is something else.  Particularly with that level of detail - clothes, hair, eyes - the lot. 

And then, of course, when you're no longer of public interest, you are melted down like an old stub, without ceremony.  From candle you came; to candle you return. 

I suppose at least there's not the responsibility of a mouldy cast in your attic...

Day 103: Making a Stand

Today has been a day of standing,  I deliberately take the slow train, avoiding the pushy urgency of the fast one, and looking forward to a gentle rumble into St Pancras, with seat and book.  One stop in, and here's a woman with a 'Baby On Board' badge.  Goodbye, seat.  Hello, standing (which I could have done for half the time, if I'd got on the fast train...). 

Standing on the tube.  Then work that requires standing.  Seven and a half hours of it.  Talking and standing.  Then some more standing on the train going home.  All in all, I do nine hours of standing.   

So I am particularly impressed by the man I see on the Piccadilly line this evening.  No seats available - no problem.  He's brought his own bar stool with him, on which he sits.  Self-sufficient, in charge of his own comfort.  He's looking nonchalant, and unconcerned at the attention he's getting, but I then catch him having a sneaky smile at his reflection in the carriage window.  I don't believe he always travels with his trusty bar stool.  But I very much like that he's pretending he does. 

'Yeah.  Me and mah stool.  Mah wing man.'  (In my head, he's Texan.  I have no idea why.)

Home.  My brain is empty.  My feet are burning.  I will not be speaking or standing any more today.

Me and mah sofa.  Shhh.

Day 102: Valentine vs Lupercalia

Today is Valentine's Day.  Valentine was the name of several Christian martyrs who laid down their lives for their belief in a) Jesus b) heart-shaped confectionery and c) big padded cards. 

It is of course a total coincidence that Lupercalia, the ancient festival of cleansing and fertility, took place between 13th-15th February.  (In other words, the 14th.  The main day.  The headliner day.)

And it's obviously a good thing that it has been replaced, because Lupercalia sounds REALLY boring.  This is what Plutarch had to say: 'At this time many of the noble youths and the magistrates run up and down through the city naked, for sport and laughter striking those they meet with shaggy thongs.'  Like I say - BORING. 

Today I went to visit the site of an ancient nunnery.  I've driven past it loads of times, but never had a proper look.  According to the information board, its twelfth-century founding was inspired by two women who lived together as hermits* by the river.  The Abbot of St Albans was so impressed by their pious ways that he immediately built a nunnery. 

(* Or lesbians.  With a commendable sense of privacy and self-preservation in twelfth-century Britain. 

'NO, NO!  I know it LOOKS like we are running up and down naked, striking each other with shaggy thongs for sport and laughter.  But we're not!  That would be impious.  We are SHRIVING ourselves.  Like, you know, hermits do...  That??  Oh, nothing really.  Just a wand of punishment...  Yup.  More SHRIVING.  I know!  Ouch!  Hey, thanks for the nunnery.  Bye!')