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JulesRants
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Passing the time of day
Happy Birthday Dad
Today would have been my father's 72nd birthday. Despite almost 20 years passing since his death (can it really be that long??), I still miss him. I miss not being able to ask his advice, or tell him a joke I've heard.
I love my step-dad to bits, but he's not my dad. I really wanted to talk to a new (female) friend about this today, but she's taking one of her last courses of chemotherapy for Hodgkin's Lymphoma (scans clear already) so isn't feeling well enough to do anything much, including making my small problems feel that way. So I'm blogging, for the first time in several months. It wasn't the only thing I wanted to talk to her about, of course. I wanted to arrange to see her again. I wanted... I don't really know what I wanted, altogether, I just know that I wanted it really, really badly and I wanted it from her. I'm talking about it in the past tense as if I don't want these things any more. Which is rubbish. Of course I do. But I don't want to hassle her at all. She's quite seriously ill, for one thing. For another, I've made that mistake too many times before - coming on too strong, too soon in a new relationship. So I'm going to carry on pretending to be as strong as usual, even though I don't feel it just at the moment. And I'm going to keep my fingers crossed and hope that she'll get in touch when she feels better.
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Let's knock the rust off, shall we?
So, here we are. I'm sitting here in the UK typing, while the minutiae of the US Presidential Primaries form the bulk of the broadsheet and non-tabliod TV news stories. Shurely shome mishtake? I mean, it's a big story - of course it is. But is it really the sort of story that the British media should be spending quite so much time on? Isn't there something else that could or should be given airtime? I don't know what that something should be, natch - if I did I'd be a news editor, not an armchair grumbler. I can't help feeling that what's really going on - givne the way that the Democrats have so far dominated the coverage this side of the pond - is some sort of vicarious thrill that the GOP is going to finally "get theirs", as it were. No doubt they are, but I'm not sure the Dems are going to wave any magic wands and make the "liberal intelligentsia" feel all warm and cuddled. Not least because it ain't the Yanks or the Neocons or any of our cherished lefty bogey-men that's fucking the dearly-held principles of woolly intellectuals like me (you know, like habeus corpus, freedom of information, the right to privacy, rolling back the worst excesses of consumerism rather than extending them into every sector of public life). Nope. It's our very own Labour government (I draw a distinction between the NuLabs in Westminster and the party, because the party long ceased to have much influence over what happens in Government. We probably had more in Opposition.) that's doing all of that, and the Tories are, at least initially, unlikely to do anything to rock the boat. Worse, they'll start undoing the few good things Labour has managed to do as soon as they've lulled us into the false sense of security we'll (by then) have, off the back of relief at getting rid of a tired NuLab government. They'll want to cut back on "waste", naturally. So bye-bye Arts funding, one of the few things that has kept the middle classes quiet these past 10 years. "Well, the country might be going to shit, but at least we can go and see Sir Iain on the South Bank/go to the National Gallery/etc." And the "waste" that's been pissed away on the Public Sector under NuLab (and there has been collossal amounts - not on "poltical correctness" or even on bureaucracy but straight into mostly off-shore company accounts under the banner of PFI) will be cut back. PFI contracts themselves will be untouchable (the fucking bloodsuckers made damn sure of that) so all new investment will be frozen. Most of the management consultancy drones that are ruining every part of public life vote Tory, or at least they will if they sniff a tax cut on their MBA-bloated salaries, so they won't touch their gravy train. No, it'll be nurses, teachers, and other people likely to vote some way other than Tory that get fucked over, just like it was last time. Give it a parliamentary term or two, and we'll be right back where we started. The whining classes won't be writing to the Daily Mail to whinge about the postcode lottery in NHS-funded plastic surgery clinics, and at-death's-door people won't be on the teatime news complaining that the NHS won't fund their homeopathic remedy of distilled water with an expensive label, or the experimental cancer drug that hasn't even been cleared for testing on animals yet, or the extra tuition for little Shanxi's recently-diagnosed syndromia madeupica ad explanitium ex being-a-little-shittico et obtainicum-mea-feei. Nope. We'll be back to the good old days, when public sector complaints were about the rats running around everywhere and the fucking great big holes in the ceiling of the local clinic/classroom/waiting room. Maybe then we'll be happy - the best bit about being in opposition is you can rant and rave and protest all you like and it doesn't do anything dangerous like change anything. Then, when you get back into government, you can be utterly timid because you're scared that if you do what you really know you should, something will break. ... Blimey. That was all over the place. I told you I was rusty...
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Irregular around the margins
I know it - I'm not the world's most consistent blogger. I need to be more conscientious about posting, rather than waiting until I have a burning need to post, or just for work to be slack/dull/in need of avoidance enough to get around to it. My main hobby is drama, and I'm generally keen to participate. I do take time out on occasion, if the play in production doesn't grab me if if I know other commitments (work, holidays, etc.) will clash with it. But mostly, I am involved in some way and the continual practice makes me better at acting, directing, lighting or whatever it is I'm doing. But I also enjoy drawing and painting. As solo pursuits, there's not the sense of obligation to others to make me pick up the pencil/brush that I get when I'm in a show. It's always possible to postpone. Then, when I do want to create something, I find I'm out of practice, and the end results are not as good as I know they can be. Same with exercise - there doesn't seem much point in joining up to a team sport that I know I'd enjoy when I know I need to get my base fitness level up first (not least so I don't injure myself on the first outing). But solo sports, or gym work, are postponeable. Such are the dilemmas that arise from a fundamental lack of self-discipline. Based on a lack of self confidence, I guess - if something is 'just for me', there doesn't seem to be as much point doing it as if I'd be letting someone else down by the omission. Can any amateur psychologists out there think of ways to trick myself into drawing, exercising, etc?
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And lo... it was still
Well, nothing happened. The girl I blogged about in my last entry was off on hoiday abroad for a month shortly after we met. Plus, she doesn't live locally anyway. Once I'd had my panicky moments of "does she like me?", and at least come to the conclusion that she doesn't hate me, I was out of touch for a month or more. By the time she was back, the urgency to see her again had receded. There are two proverbs that are often employed for long-distance affairs - Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and Out of sight, out of mind. I find a third proverb most accurately sums up my attitude: Absence diminishes little passions, but strengthens great ones I find that I get equally passionate about people (and about most things, in fact) in the first flush of interest, whether they turn out to be fleeting interests or lifelong obsessions. Time and distance are the only way I can tell the difference. The older I get, the more I notice that other people - even those who know me well - don't seem prepared for such mercurial moods. I will rant and complain about something that is upsetting or annoying me at the time; it helps me to get over things. Indeed, that's usually why I rant and complain. For example, an ex girlfriend of mine dumped me a month or two after we'd got together. I wailed and tooth-gnashed to other friends about how low I felt, how depressing it all was, how unlikely it seemed I'd ever get to meet someone I could form a long-term love with etc. And, yes, I bitched a little about the ex. After a while, once I'd calmed down (the wailing and tooth-gnashing and bitching being the pressure valve that allowed me to do so) the ex and I remained good friends, and still are. The other friends, to whom I'd vented, remain cold, unfriendly and suspicious towards my ex now. I've spoken to them about it, and "find it difficult to forgive her for treating you (i.e. me) so badly". I have replied that with hindsight, most of the venting was just because I was upset. Yes, objectively there was some bad-treatment. But it wasn't all one-way, for I know I did & said some hurtful things myself. But I got over it, why can't they? I thought that these two particular friends were perhaps especialy protective and/or literal-minded, but other situations with other people make me think I'm just a particularly mercurial person. The stormclouds gather quickly, and lash rain and fury, but are gone just a quick. Similarly, the sun can bathe the landscape with a warm glow for a time, but the clouds always come. Most people's moods are like this, I guess, but my emotional climate seems to be more in the mould of the four-seasons-in-one-day British weather than the hot-as-hell-for-six-months, spectacular-leaf-fall-for-a-week, cold-as-hell-for-six-months, spring-thaw-lasting-for-a-week climate that most other people seem to have. It's not that I'm particularly moody; my default setting is a laid back but generally sunny disposition, if tinged with less tolerance for ignorance or stupidity than some people. It's just that, when I do veer to an extreme, it doesn't seem to last for long. Even my closest and oldest friends seem to get caught out by these rapid outbursts (good ro bad) followed by rapid reversals. Maybe because they are rare. I'd love to meet someone who complimented me in this regard - whose moods were as mercurial, and whose baseline outlook was as laid back. That way, most of the time we could rub along in comfort; when she needed to scream at the injustices of the world, I could offer bemused support, and vice versa; and on the rare occasions where we both needed to blow up at the same time, the sparks would keep us warm for years. But the advice I seem to get from friends (and books etc.) is more that maybe I just need to learn to bite my tongue more, and maintain my placid exterior even when I want to be declaring undying love or screaming undying hatred. (Both of which have, so far at least, tended to die within months, if not hours.) Which seems a pity; the intensity is such a buzz.
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Be still my beating heart
Now here's the thing. This weekend I went up to London for a friend's 30th birthday drinks. The weather was hot and sunny. The beer was cool and delicious. A good time was had by all. The birthday girl was an old flame. Not THAT old, as it goes - we hooked up on an internet dating site last year. We got to the point of sleeping together (which was nice) but it turned out she was having an exploratory fling / crisis of conscience with her long-term beau. He was (and is) pretty much her ideal man, except for a long-standing aversion to having any kids, and they were going through a rough patch while she came to terms with this. Anyway, they are now back together, and he was there. Retrospectively, I can only describe it as a fling, though at the time my aspirations were for something much more substantial and long-lasting. Without the rosy glow of infatuation, and without wishing to do her (or me) down, it is a good thing that it didn't go any further than it did, and I think we're much happier apart than we would have been together. Since we split up, we've stayed in touch, and on friendly, mutually platonic terms; hence my invite to the party. I chatted away happily with my friend's mum, and an old publishing friend of hers. As the evening wore on, people swapped seats and chatted to whoever was sat next to them - which was a beer-fuelled, sociable joy. By about 9.00pm I was sat next to an old school friend of our host and getting on rather well, and flirting quite a bit too. Very pleasant. Now, I'd gone up intending to get the last train home (ok, a forlorn hope, especially once I've got the sniff or the barmaid's apron in my nostrils) but as time started ticking towards me needing to leave, echoed by similar not-too-enthusiastic noises from the publishing friend, the funny lively girl I had found myself chatting to for the last hour or two said that she had a sofa bed in her hotel room that pulled out into two singles, and that we were welcome to use it. It may be the drink, but I had the distinct impression that she was keener to spend more time in the pub (and, concievably, elsewhere) with me than she was with publisher guy, who she'd known for ages anyway. But regardless of that, we both agreed, and settled back into our conversations. My own conversations were largely focused on the school friend, and hers on me. We chatted and chatted and laughed and listened and generally got on like the proverbial domestic arson case. A few hugs and kisses were unselfconsciously exchanged - much to the apparent delight of birthday girl and, I was surprised to see, her fella. He seemed relieved that I was no longer any kind of competitive threat, after which point we found that we got on rather well too (though I didn't kiss him, nor he me). Or perhaps we both just relaxed more as were had more to drink, in our typically British, emotionally aloof way. (Any foreign readers out there? We British drink so much because our culture permits us very few opportunities to be open; and drink grants us the permission we deny ourselves without it. In case you didn't know.) By the end of the evening, everyone was pretty lubricated. Speaking for myself, I was little more then halfway to being out-and-out drunk. I was certainly in no condition to drive, but I wasn't slurring my words or wobbling - unlike our publisher chum, who was doing lots of both. The whole party left the pub together. Birthday girl & her boyfriend, her school friend, publishing man and I went towards the hotels. Birthday girl & her man went to theirs, and we went to ours. It was all quite civilised, though perhaps she & I took a little more mirth from the publishing guy's condition than absolutely necessary. So there we were tucked up in our three separate beds in the dark. And a little hand reaches out for mine. (She's quite tiny, something I've always found attractive in a woman.) Lowered inhibitions are a wonderful thing. Some more kissing, trying not to wake publishing guy (whose snores made him easy to monitor). Me joining her in the large main bed. Nothing untoward happened, for a first meeting - I believe an American assessment of progress would be "second base". Yesterday morning we woke up, back in our separate beds. Publishing guy was nowhere to be seen; he'd apparently disappeared, fully dressed, at about 3.30 am. Later on that morning we found out he'd awoken drunk in a strange dark room and decided he needed to get a cab home; I slept soundly through this, though my new friend was woken up by it. As I'd intended to travel back the night before, I was without a change of clothes or any toiletries, so I just got dressed while she showered. We mooched around in the room for a short while, exchanging text messages with birthday girl to plan breakfast. We looked out of the hotel window across at a very sunny London. And hugged some more. We idly watched some morning news on television and chatted about issues raised. And snatched a quick kiss here and there (and it wasn't me making all the running). Once dressed and packed up, we headed out to meet with BG and her bloke. It was already hot at 10.30 am. We chatted some more and went on to a cafe, where we met the others. After that, the girls went off to shop while BG'sB and I wandered to the riverside, chatted in a repressed British way (which, if you ARE repressed and British, can be immensely enjoyable, and was). Just as we were getting too hot and thirsty and wondering after the opening status of local hostelries, the girls returned. My diminutive new friend needed to get a coach home from London, which meant a tube train journey in about 45 minutes' time. We went into the shade of the pub next to the station to pass the time, and then all got onto the train. BG & HB got off at their stop, and I accompanied the little one to hers. More hugs. A kiss goodbye. Lunchtime on a hot, sunny Sunday in London with no particular rush to get home is a decidedly fine thing. I decided to start walking. Initially I headed for Hyde Park, aiming for Bayswater, an area I knew well from when I lived in London myself. This took good few hours, past Speaker's Corner. It's been at least a decade since I went past here, and the Islamist/Islamophobic rants that have come to dominate international debate have, unsuprisingly, come to dominate here too. It was too hot, and the arguments from both sides too stale, to want to stay for long, so I carried on to the Baywater Road. For readers who don't know, the railings along Bayswater Road that separate it from Hyde Park have long been a place where artists (mostly painters, but a few sculptors) come to exhibit their work. By now the sun had moved behind the trees overhead, so it was a pleasantly-shaded mile or so of mostly very good art that I walked past. I stopped for a long time to watch a fat Middle Eastern man with a pastel pencil draw a portrait of a young Asian man. The model's friend stood next to me. Neither the subject, nor his friend would have looked out of place shouting about injustice and te superiority of Islam back on Speakers' Corner, but here the focus was on the artistry - this guy was amazingly good. I have aspirations to this sort of portrait talent myself (I can do it, but not first time like this guy - I have to draw and erase multiple times to get to any kind of likeness, while he got pretty much every line right first time.) so it was really interesting to see the work in progress of someone who knows what he's doing. I don't know how long I stood and watched - if I had to guess, about an hour. I only really began to focus on anything else when I noticed that I was hungry and needed to visit the facilities (as it were), so I excused myself and headed off towards Queensway and the Whiteley's shopping mall there, where I could *ahem* see some friends off to the coast and then get myself fed. I decided on sushi. I didn't eat a lot, but enjoyed what I had very much. The miso soup was especally good yesterday. In between dishes, I sent a text to my new friend to thank her making the weekend so much fun and that I'd be in touch soon. On reflection, I over-egged it by asking her to text me when she got home so I wouldn't worry. On one level - the one I intended - this was just polite concern for a (small) single women travelling for several hours alone. My feverish mind turned this into over-eager, intrusive semi-stalker oppressiveness since she nither replied to say "yes I will" nor texted me when she did get home. Which could mean she took umbrage at the impostion. Or that she secretly hates me and couldn't wait to get away. Or that her mangled body is lying in a ditch somewhere. Or (more gently) that she was just dog-tired after a hot sweaty coach trip after a fitful night's sleep and she forgot. See what I have to put up with? I know I'm supposed to be casual and friendly, and neither clingy & desperate nor callously indifferent, but my mind WILL decide to run and rerun events over and over again to wring our every possible nuance and meaning. Maybe I just should avoid reflecting. Then I went into a big bookshop and another hour or so whizzed by unnoticed as I leafed through their wares (a Hilary Swank interview in Vanity Fair - for a woman whose film career specialises in mannish-ness, she certainly scrubs up well - and then three or four of Frank Miller's 'Sin City' books) I wandered to the cinema in the mall, but nothing grabbed my attention, so I headed to Paddington Station to see about going home. My next train wasn't for 45 minutes or so, so I bought a magazine, a doughnut and some water and passed the time. The train home was hot and overcrowded (the one before had been cancelled, so two lots of passengers had to cram into one train. I did, at least find a seat, so I read some more. And stared out of the window, endlessly calculating the meanings and possibilities of the time I'd spend with my new friend. I am improving - most of my imaginings were limited to will she want to meet up again, rather than where would we live and what would our kids be like - but it's early days and doubtless by date three or four, if we get that far, I'll be in full-on mental overdrive. On past history, I'll be so wrapped up in the internal mental analysis of the relationship, I won't notice what's going on in the real world, won't really talk about any of it for fear of it scaring her as much as it does me, so she will get bored and/or irritated, and by the time I've passed through the mental firefighting and am ready to behave like a sensible adult (1-3 months on past form) she'll be mentally scripting the break-up. I mean - look at this entry. I've spent the last hour re-hashing it all for public view (retaining enough composure to change names to protect the innocent, though doubtless if she Googles me tomorrow, like I've done at least twice today, she'll come across it on page two or three). I've struggled to concentrate on work today because my mind has been elsewhere (a pub and a hotel in South West London, to be precise. To be even more precise, some blue eyes, some lips, a very nice toned petite figure, and skin made black against white sheets by the darkness. *sigh*) Responses are most welcome - be they constructive suggestions on how to make my mind just SHUT UP and go with my instincts, or predictions of how long it will (or won't) last. Especially from throat-stoppingly cute healthcare professionals in the West Midlands(?).
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Friends, Romans, countrymen etc.
Julius Caesar last week was good fun. I'm utterly knackered now, of course. We got a review in the local paper but the naughty tinkers haven't put it online yet. This is no particular surprise as it takes three days to get a review in the main paper. It might be there by Christmas. And it's not over yet; we've got a miniature tour of two military-linked venues to come - the Royal College of Military Science and the US airbase at Fairford in Gloucestershire, whence the nice men of the USAF helped us out with our production of A Few Good Men last year. While a couple of us had done army cadets over here, nobody was really sure how US service people move, march, salute, etc. Even though there were no US Marines around (busy doing stuff in Iraq, or something), several sergeants at Fairford really helped us out, and they turned out to the production to support us as well, which was nice. We'd wanted to do a daytime, preferably outdoor, production of Caesar on Sunday next, and our venue fell through. Someone had the idea of contacting our friends at Fairford, and they jumped a the chance. We aren't selling tickets to either, but are hoping to make a collection at both. Hopefully, these two shows taken together will make up for the poor audience turn-out at the Swindon Arts Centre, where a combination of hot weather, no air conditioning and some sort of football tournament meant that the auditorium was never more than half full. Sometimes it's hard to defend Swindon against the common outside perception that it's a cultural desert; most of the inhabitants seem to think it is, too, and would rather go to Bristol, Bath, Oxford or London for their entertainment, while local theatre withers on the vine (and in the heat!). Part of me wants to rail at the philistine population, but then the local paper is read by barely half the people (and is occasionally barely 10 pages long, so can seem a waste of money), and the local radio stations are in the same boat. Besides, most people's idea of theatre these days is either big West End musicals or an Abba/Queen tribute act. Ho hum.
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20 six has updated
This is all very new. I'll have to have a play to see what's changed. It looks nicer, but I've already come across a passworded page that doesn't let me in when I want to read my own blog. Which can't be right, surely? Not much news to report - I've finally heard from my insurers' agents to tell me what they are doing to replace my stolen gear. It sounds as if there are a few things they can't replace which will have to be paid for with a cheque - but that's no bad thing, as I could use the extra cash at the moment (my gas and electric bills were eye-watering last week). And having spoken to them, and done some jiggling about on what will and won't be replaced, they've agreed to upgrade to an XBox 360 at no extra cost. Which is nice! Got next week off work while Julius Caesar is on - I am playing Mark Antony (and, with any luck, coming away from the contest with at least a draw) - so I may be able to post at greater length then. EDITED TO ADD - Thanks Oink!
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JulesRants
