GRANDADDY FANS AND FANS OF GRANDADDY
This
week was weird. I think I made it weird, actually.
There
I was, sitting in the sweatiest, hottest, gig in London, swooning from a big
glass of wine, completely and contentedly solo amongst the crowd and awaiting my
favourite band, ever, in the world, just staring at people.
These
are people I have something in common with. They’re fans of the band too. A
band that unformed and reformed and unformed again at the end of the night – a
band that unformed and reformed my adolescent soul and entire adult musical
predilection (Wham! being the exception).
There
we all were, eagerly awaiting a moment we thought we’d never see – the band
back together – and all I could see were twatty specs.
Please,
someone, tell me when it became the mode for all regular glasses to look like
you were lining up at the IMAX about to visit some 3D screening of the latest
Hollywood blockbuster. Whatever happened
to a nice, rounded pair of tortoiseshell frames?
Oh.
And
there it was. That moment when you realise you’re a type. Right now I’m sitting
here, stood up by a friend that frankly, I’m a little worried about, in a
Clapham North pub on Friday night (eugh) drinking red wine and blogging about
what? Glasses?
Holy
crap. It’s like a little egocentric freezeframe just happened. If this were a
movie then it would probably start moving again as I get over myself. However,
it isn’t, and I’m just a tad drunk already.
Anyway,
back to the point of this, which believe it or not, was NOT twatty ‘I work in media’
glasses. It was rather, on how I got to thinking how very, very important the
band Grandaddy have been in my emotional formation, and how very important they
had been in the emotional formation of almost every other sweaty little bumpkin
at that gig.
I
couldn’t quite understand how people look so very different – some ordinary,
some very good-looking, none downright odd - outwardly and yet share such
fundamental good stuff on the inside. It was warming, really! And even if they
just liked the band a little, or just went along for a bit of fun, or were
dragged, it still felt nice to be reminded of how much you can have in common with the person you
least expect.
THE NIGHTHAWKS
Later,
on the journey home, I stared ruefully at the various slumbering victims of
night-tubing. Where was their stop? Would they make it home? Or would it be the
night bus from the middle of nowhere?
I
found myself noisily trying to stir them at various stops (socially
demographing all the while… it’s amazing how telling that pashmina can be) I
know I’d appreciate the same, having ended up in Colliers Wood a multitude of
times when I lived in Tooting. It’s not far on the tube. It’s a bitch on the
night bus, especially when you’re worried you’ll fall asleep again.
But
the night bus isn’t all bad though. When I moved to Sydenham last year, I
stubbornly continued with my social life around Clapham, Balham, Tooting and
their environs, which entailed the late bus to Elephant & Castle, and a
late bus back out of town to get home.
I
do not enjoy this bus. Especially not in the middle of winter, but it was here
that I met Eddie. Eddie was wearing a puffa jacket, I wasn’t wearing enough. We
fell asleep on each other, on that long, toe-numbing trundle to suburban
London. It was just before Forest Hill when we both awoke, sedated by booze to
discover we were sharing body heat on one of those intimate two-seaters on the
top deck.
Now,
I’ve no idea what Eddie was talking about, really, but we talked. I told him
about being a radio producer and excitedly, he told me about what he does.
Everything. Everything? I asked. Everything. He replied. Somehow, I took this
to mean music, and told him I was always looking for new and custom stuff to
use in trails and competition beds, if he had a PRS registration.
And
that’s how I ended up with ‘Eddie Does Everything’ in my purse, and a mobile
number. Why I’ve kept it these all these months, I’m not quite sure. It’s just
funny to open your purse and be reminded that if you really want to you’ll find
some random, stupid connection with anyone. Even if you just invent it.
Heartwarming a la my Grandaddy gig experience.
Whilst
we’re on the subject of late nights, let’s extend this to early mornings. I’ve
decided that there are some benefits
to being that douchebag at work – the one who’s in before everyone else, the
one’s who’s there after everyone else, the one that just generally trumps the
lot when it comes to hardcore work-based dedication. It’s just generally not
quite as good as the benefits of NOT being in work all the time.
The
douchebag is usually me. There are lot of pathologically pathetic people in my
company who also feel inadequate should they start work at 9am / leave at
5.30pm / take a lunch break. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing that people care
so much about doing the perfect job, but let’s face it…. There’s a point where
it becomes more about your self-opinion than the work you’re getting done.
In
the scheme of things, I’m all for integrity and high personal standards, but
when you’ve been flat out on adrenalin, deadlines and resolving unpredictable, last-minute
problems for 14 hours, everyone else has come to work, finished work and gone
to the pub, and you still don’t feel quite content with things… YOU HAVE GOT TO
FUCK IT OFF FOR THE NIGHT.
Frankly,
it’s easier said than done, but worth doing anyway. The empowerment of just
resuming your own goddam life heavily outweighs the benefits of the moral high
ground, the late-night reduced section of the Co-op, AND even the promise of pouncing
upon some M&S Food goodies after the sticker man has been round.
This
week, I’ve rolled in at 9am every day. I’ve felt guilty, I’ve felt out of
control, but basically nobody has given a crap, and I’ve got the work done. A
LOT of work. I’ve been waking at 5am, switching the alarm off, waking at 6am,
switching the alarm off, then waking at 7am by sheer chance. Exercise has been
off the table. I think I must be a bit ill.
It’s
either that, or frank awareness that however much I love my job, there are more
important things in my life right now. My sister, our family, my friends,
namely. Perhaps, also the rather wonderful man I appear to be seeing. Yes, a
real man.
THE SUMMER THAT NEVER CAME
Come
with me now…
….
You’ll have to imagine the birdsong.
This
picture was taken on Thursday. I’ve taken my sister’s post-chemo days off for
the rest of the treatment in case she wants some company or whatnot, but in the
morning I went running at a nearby Ash plantation at Beckenham Place Park.
There
I was, galloping along, a little hypnotized by the album I was listening to,
when I was struck by the feeling I’ve been waiting for. I’ve been waiting for
it for a long time.
It’s
September – it’s a chill in the air, a moisture and however warm that sun is,
it’s perceptible. It feels like a lifting of something heavy just above the
eyes. It’s change, it’s movement, it’s relief.
I
was racing along with the sun in my eyes and it felt like I was dancing through
the patchy woodland light. My heart was soaring, my feet barely seemed to touch
the ground. I was just running outdoors, free as a lark in the September
sunshine, and it felt AMAZING.
It
made me realise that such an everyday delight had been gone from my life for so
many months! It’s just the simple joy of being alive.
I
may have mentioned before that August, perennially, is my depressed month. It’s
no big deal, but I feel as gloomy as sin at the end of August – numb of mind
and spirit – so that when the change comes – usually with one lot of rainfall, and
the air changes, I’m elated and alive again in September. It’s my most creative
month. I come to life in the Autumn. I write prolifically, run, draw, talk,
revel in music, enjoy all the things that have slowly ebbed away from me over
the hot, confusing summer months.
This
year has been different. Spring is my other opus-time, but the natural pattern
of things has been scattered throughout 2012.
This
is how it has gloomily been, on reflection:
January…
heartache, writing escape, further heartache. Small dramas about money, friends
etc.
Easter…
Heartache pales in comparison to cancer. Realisation that the most important
people in our lives are NOT invincible.
June…
The whole world has changed and will never be the same. But we are doing OK,
together and we will not take each other for granted ever again. Heartbreak:
The finale.
August…Falling
in love. Quite unexpectedly.
September…Waking
up. A little more bad news so far. Not going to share it. Can’t really, as it’s
not my news to share. But I’m going to do everything I can to make it OK.
And
here we are, thick with resolve, brazening emotions high and low, swooping like
migrating birds into the season. This feels like the summer that never came,
for there has been more than a hole in the year, this year. There has been no
summer, no season, for although they took that cancer out of my sister and she
is strong and fighting, it has changed everything.
It
has been like one world ended, and another has begun. In this new one, my eyes
are open and I know, every day, with a nagging fear and swelling love, how
lucky we are, how fragile life is and how we must cherish each other. That is a
big, stinking cliché, no doubt. But that is what cancer does to families. It is
clear as day and true and real as any stinking cliché. That’s WHY a cliché’s a
cliché and not a platitude.
So
I’m calling this the summer that never came, because the shift has taken place.
This feels like a brand new world and this month of change, always so bright,
beautiful and poignant, makes it all the fresher. The blackberries are
beginning to ripen – I already saw a woman out picking. The shadows are longer,
making everything look like a picture postcard. I ran into a field and came
across ten dogs being walked in a group. It was a little dog-party and it made
me feel so happy. But then, dogs do. It’s just their sunshine outlook.
OH. THAT HAPPENED FAST
That
was my sister’s measured comment on the phone, when a clump of newly grown hair
made the jump from head to hand.
Later,
I knocked on the front door and received no answer. Letting myself in, I
followed a steady thudding through her sun-dappled kitchen to peer into the
garden. There she was, the day after some pretty hardcore chemo drugs, pumped
on steroids, swinging a mallet and steadily breaking up the remainder of some
concrete slabs. I think she’s channeling Ripley from Alien.
At
any rate it was the most wonderful thing I’d seen in a while. For some reason,
that matter of fact disregard for any sort of victim behavior made my heart soar.
She was Scarlett O’Hara ploughing Tara. My sister, playing the good old “Fuck
Cancer” card. What a bloody legend.
And
the link here isn’t too tenuous to talk about ‘Jing’ the Chinese energy I have
learned about this week. From what I can glean, it’s the life-force that brings
vitality to body and mind. I know this only because the man I’m doing sex with
told me… and he knows Kung Fu. He went away on a 2 and a half week trip and
left me with the challenge of making some serious novel-writing progress. He
also told me that men can give the ladies their Jing with a bit of how’s your
father, so I’ve taken his parting gift to heart and been super-creative all
week (even if it hasn’t applied to getting into work on time)
Actually,
it’s quite possible my creativity is the only damn thing I can do to stop
myself thinking about him, not that I’d dream of letting him know that of
course. Novel-writing is a great distraction, it turns out.
POSH AND STINKY
This
week I ran past this charming canal… along to the parcel delivery office to
pick up what I thought was a letter. It was a massive course starter kit from
the NCTJ on this Distance Journalism course I’ve decided to do.
It
was a hot day, and had been a hot run, but I was short on time and need to get
some things from the Co op, so I braved it on the way back, and just tried to
stay away from the few other customers in there at that time of day.
It
was a quiet, but as I was queuing at the till, I’m SURE a retarded man told me
I smelt bad. I DID smell bad, by the way. I’d been running for an hour in 25
degree sunshine and was now carrying a giant box of books. I just chortled away
and agreed, good-naturedly. I had definitely gone beyond a ladylike glowing at
any rate.
But
whether or not he genuinely was addressing me, or the moon, is sort of
irrelevant to my point. The fact is I
moved to Sydenham just because I feel comfortable doing this here, and nobody
knows who I am (except the guy in Costcutter. And the staff of Penge Food
Centre).
My
flat has a group of tattooed drunks lying on the steps every day. There’s
rubbish down every alleyway and my flat – in spite of my Glade Sense n’ Spray
Air Fresheners that fart out musk at every movement – always just smells a
little bit damp. I can let the side go, and let myself go a bit, because nobody
looks fancy in Sydenham. Everyone is just a bit normal and scrappy. Loads of
people have hygiene issues, alcohol issues, debt issues, asylum issues,
literacy issues… but it’s a nice, friendly place and I don’t have to tart
around like a media bitch when I’m here. THAT is why I love it. That, and the many
trees.
So,
back home in the shower, it sort of amused me that I was scrubbing down and
buffing myself up for that Classical BRITS that evening. One of the stations I
work at was going, obviously, and I was heading along to loiter in the corners
and get to know my colleagues a bit better whilst they inappropriate and unguarded.
I
imagine most people make this transition in a day - from slob to shiny and back again. I think
this is the most tiring part of any day. I would get so much more done if I
could just shave my head and wander into work wearing jeans and a T-shirt. No
undies. Cave lady, wurgh…. And yet, I’ll never quite let myself. When it
matters, I am impeccably presented. And it DOES matter. A lot. As my mother
will tell you I’m sure, when she’s hassling you to put some earrings in /
lipstick on / show off your waist. She is completely right, of course.
AND ANOTHER THING MY MOTHER KNOWS…
Oh…
and she was right about something else this week… just quickly. Vice Versas
anyone? They’re like giant white and brown Smarties – some sort of chocolate in
a sugar shell – the reverse on the inside to the outside. Clever. Anyway,
they’re back, and I’m sure my Mum used to love them, so I got some.
Just
thought it was worth noting amongst all the other mental crap of this week. I
genuinely, genuinely wanted to call home about it.
IN SUMMARY…
In
summary? I think I have joined the world of strange people trying to tie
everything together neatly when the only true connection is my addled mind.
It’s been a weird blog post this week, but in loose
rhyme form I’ve learned the following:
You
CAN make a connection, in spite of twatty specs,
You
have to leave your work at work - make
time for love & sex
Change
is always poignant on lovely Autumn treks
A
sunny outlook changes all, just keep your Jing in check.
Oh.. and maybe....
And
there’s something quite affirming, about being a total wreck.
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