Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Intern-al Monologue
- Henry James The Awkward Age (1899)
This summer I was presented with the opportunity to partake in that time honoured student pastime; The Internship. Every year the capital is descended upon by University students who, upon finding themselves at a loose end over the summer months, decide that the best possible way to fill this time is to spend hundreds of pounds of Mummy and Daddy's money on living in London while working more hours in a week then they have put in all year at uni for zero financial gain. All this in order to add those all important inches to the CV. Interning being the solution, it seems, to the ages old paradox that employment begets the experience necessary to gain it.
The relationship between established companies which require someone to open the post and make the tea and wary undergraduates desperate to rise above the pack when applying for the professional occupations for which, these days, it seems that a degree is simply not enough, is pleasantly symbiotic. They are over the moon that they didn't have to pay someone to complete these menial intern - worthy tasks and we are positively euphoric that (insert name of reputable London company) have deigned to let us boil the kettle for them. Because we desperately require this experience for our impending launch into today's job market.
As a result, time spent interning is enhanced by a steadying feeling of self satisfaction, a sense that one is making an assault into the 'real' world. And it doesn't get any more real than joining the commuter rat race on the London Underground.
Anyone who has ever leapt out of bed, filled with enthusiasm for the day ahead, skipped down to the tube station grinning at everyone they encountered along the way and swiftly realised the error of their ways when people begin to cross the street to avoid them will realise that there is a particular lack of camaraderie between rush hour travellers in the capital. Nobody wants to talk to you, nobody wants you to smile at them and NOBODY wants to dodge around you on the platform while you engrossedly study your tube map. The novelty of tube travel has long worn off for these seasoned Londoners; they know where they're going and they just want to get there. Woe betide you if you get in the way. If looks could kill Victoria Station at 8.30 on a Monday morning would probably be the murder capital of the world.
But you live and learn. I found, on day two of my internship, having completed the previous day's crash course in underground etiquette, that I was really beginning to develop an affinity for London life, hostility and all.
My work placement, for a major publishing house, was genuinely useful. I was able to help out with 'proper' jobs such as editing manuscripts and the experience has definitely cemented my desire to be an editor. But what I learned most from the experience was not how to stop amateur authors' grammatical errors but how my life is likely to turn out if I get onto my preferred career path. Professional life could not be more different to uni life, especially for an idle Arts student like myself; in London you have to put the hours in. Travelling is time consuming and draws out the working day from 8 hours (if you're lucky) to around 11. Outside of this time you are faced with a choice between sleeping and actually having a life.
That life can consist of trips to world famous theatres, taking in unrivalled night-life, celebrity spotting or just trying to visit every single restaurant London has to offer (not a chance). You won't get bored. And London is the place to land that awesome graduate job which will pay for it all.
So it's no wonder that everyone is a bit edgy on the tube in the morning - they're all absolutely shattered. But from where I'm standing they're also living the dream.
So it wouldn't hurt to crack a smile now and again would it?
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Fires of Anticipation and Ambition
Darling, darling Chloe;
A hectic two weeks of relentless travelling hindered production of this essay, which has almost doubled in size in order to include the events post-dating it's primary inscription. I can only apologise for this, as though I had ample time between the illegally acquired internet decided to take it's revenge and restrict any contact in the down-time available between flights.
The past two weeks have included a sum total of eight flights, seven cities and countless rendezvous which have done nothing but increase my happiness levels to an immeasurable high; although I do predict substantial flooding in Santiago after this weekend; the bottled up tears (which surprisingly have not been released for at least a month and a half, an incredible acheivement in my dry-eyes...) will be unleashed on an unprecedented scale as I bid adieu to Santiago and my Spanglish cronies for a month in the south sans internet connection. This, however should pose no grand issue in terms of contact, as due to my fantastic new contract I have 900 minutes reserved for your beautiful ears...
I have played host to my Daddy and his girlfriend, and shown them both Santiago's sights and nearby beaches in a short but sweet visit, allowing for some serious tourism photography, aswell as several shots I am rather proud of when me and Tommy decided to climb a nearby hill in the rain as a hangover cure - it worked fantastically until the sound of nearby motorcross riders had a detrimental effect on our on-edge brains and we utterly convinced ourselves about the existence of a man with a chainsaw through the trees who preyed on Sunday afternoon tourists. I was on the point of ringing my mother to say my goodbyes when we saw the bikes, and even then the inbred visage of the rider had us rooted to the spot as we were convinced he had gone to find his brother/cousin/uncle rolled into one and beat us to a pulp. Happy times. The view from the top, (see above) however, was unbeatable, and the choice of taking the road home eased our troubled minds...
Despite the tristesse of goodbyes, I believe the Erasmus year has run it's course and shall be glad to return to England's fair shores. This is by no means unaided by the spontaneous internal combustion of excitement which next year is causing. This has served to light a fire of ambition under my previously happily sedentary Erasmus behind; a force of energy, which shall be much helped by the introduction of a routine at the camp. The 9 'til 12 days of constant exercise shall slim and tone my beer rounded frame, and I shall return free of my lazy attidue. As we have planned, and as shall be strictly followed, our routine of library and gym attendance shall sculpt our minds and bodies into work-free, intellectually stimulating goddesses at the weekend, smoke-less and lighweight.
After Pangea, and minimal sleep, I made my insomniac way to the airport, and spent the five hour break in Madrid in the glorious sunbathed park, planning the year to come and deciding that I, and hopefully if you should so wish your delightful self, shall plunge full-steam ahead into forging our future careers - I intend to contact the Big Issue North offering my services, and spend any non-studious time in the library writing for them and the student paper. This, of course, after the mandatory perusing of The Times and completion of the crossword.
My visit to Alicante, as well as a break from the harrowing routine of late, drunken nights, opened my eyes to my detiorating attitude to boys. Six of the three of us were happily married, two of us unhappily single. Lauren the third is recently and contendly single, and her stance on the situation left me reconsidering my own. The three in relationships had not been in search of their media-naranja, and had happened upon their soulmates by chance. Their butterfly-filled lives reaffirm my faith, whilst leaving me slightly envious. However the stark contrast between the singleton desperately in search of butterflies and she who is happy with her situation decided for me the position I would rather be in. Despite the slight longing for affection there is no doubt in my previously cynical mind that I shall find butterflies along the road, and searching for this where and when possible is only making me lose faith. On this note I journeyed to Barcelona and had the most incredible night at sonar, with not a whisper of boys on my mind, and decided this is the key to contendedness...
On an utterly different note, I am halfway through a Salman Rushdie novel, The Ground Beneath her Feet and strongly recommend it's perusal. I don't know if you are familar with Midnight's Children or The Enchantress of Florence, but if not I shall bring both to our literary abode next year and force them upon you. I have yet to read The Satanic Verses but it is next on my list, and if it lives up to the previous quality of writing and storyline I expect it to be a masterpiece.
Tell me all your news my lovely, only the hope of our lovenest next year is keeping the pain of completing my time here at bay.
Yours adoringly,
Hannah xxx
Monday, May 18, 2009
Testing Times
I have spent my weekend blissfully unaware of the hustle of the city, employing only the trappings of the 21st century which would make the time more comfortable and gleefully shunning all those which masquerade as a convinience in my everyday life but in fact are simply a means of intrusion for all those that I am routinely trying to evade ie University lecturers, Internship coordinators of dubious authenticity and anybody trying to tell me which Disney princess I most resemble. Thursday afternoon, as the ink was still drying on my final exam script (not really, I used a biro, I just love the imagery) I packed up, turned off my laptop - all the way, not just on to stand by so I could still open it and have it booted up instantly ready to yield information for my 4am pre exam freak outs - and left for Cornwall.
To go from the dog eat dog hotbed of anxiety and despair that is the university library at this time of year to a rural cove which can inspire nothing but awe and calm in the beholder was precisely what I needed.
The view was the kind preserved in Keats and Blake, that awe inspiring stuff which hints at divine orchestration and reminds us of how small we are, and how insignificant our concerns. Walking for the sake of walking, taking in the air, eating around a table, talking and laughing rather than shovelling hastily in front of that all knowing screen was like tasting a freedom to which I'd forgotten I was entitiled.
Forget the pontifications of various journalists who are keen to assert the viewpoint that exams these days are getting easier; one's ability to come up with the answers to various questions is only about half the battle, the real test comes from dealing with the overwhelming stress of exam season and mananging to keep enough of your sanity intact to be able to revise, retain the information and then enter the exam hall without suffering some sort of breakdown.
Because we all know that we can pass exams; we wouldn't be at university if we couldn't. But putting the better part of your future at the end of a pen, we can't all do that. There are no lectures or seminars or textbooks that tell you how.
So this weekend was an offloading of all the panic I've been carrying around for the past few weeks and for that it was perfect.
However, what there is to be said for exam period is that it eclipses all other aspects of life and occupies all thoughts, removing the such impulses and emotions as vanity and lonliness.
While Cornwall in its rural beauty and blissful detatchment from the pressures of university life offers the necessary haven for a temporary retreat, it does us no good to bury our emotions completely, lest they decide to surface, univited, at a later date.
As I write this I have just bade farewell to Joe as he embarks upon a three month sojourn to America for the summer. This has indeed proven to be the straw that broke the camel's back; the seperation anxiety with which I have dealt so well over the past year has manifested itself in despair in which I am now wallowing.
I do hope that this is it, that the last person has left me, that I have spent my last night for this year frozen in panic about exams, jobs, internships, essays.
I did have the most wonderful time in Cornwall and regret that this post is so despairing and introspective.
I miss you terribly and look forward to hearing your news which I have no doubt will lift my spirits.
Love always,
Chloe.xx
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Rock and Roll
I am, however aware that the readership of this blog often counts among itself my parents; and due to this I feel that too much detail on the abundance of sex, drugs and music in my life would be unwise (NONE, Daddy, NONE AT ALL) but suffice to say that my weekend was drunken to say the very least. I ended up, due to my female companion's promiscuous behaviour, which meant the spare bed was taken, spending Friday night in Fran's bed, and realised that I had missed physical contact an obscene amount. Although our search for that elusive intellectual must continue, I have come to the conclusion that it is not sex I need, not at all, just a little bit of affection. In a completely uncalculated but rather satisfactory manner I spent another drunken Saturday night in the same manner; harmless spooning and nothing more, and finding no inclination to make the journey to my humble, empty abode in the pouring rain that greeted us on Sunday, I made a roast dinner and stayed there again.
The contended, slothful weekend, however, has come to an end, and yesterday, though the weather was similar, bought with it the news that my Grandma had passed away. Though not unexpected, it has still bought with it a shadow of gloom to the rainy streets, and has rather sapped the aura of happiness that had enveloped me. It is rather surreal, however, the Erasmus life meaning that home feels another world away, and though I am glad I will be able to make it home for the funeral, I know that until then the sad fact will retain it's dreamlike quality.
I am now in more need than ever of your stories, and am exceptionally glad that your new boozy life will provide me with much entertainment. I also very much enjoyed the first post from our new contributor, and hope she will continue to provide my triste little head with much needed entertainment.
Reciprocating and adding to the electronic love,
Hannah xxx
Sunday, May 10, 2009
(The lack of) Sex, Drugs and Music
Dear Hannah,
It has been brought to my attention by our mutual German acquaintance that "More people would read your blog if you wrote about sex drugs and music". Far be it from to disagree with such obvious wisdom. Thus, my dear, this post marks an attempt to shift the overall tone of our publication toward the scandalous, torrid and even downright Hogarthian in an attempt to cater to the interests of the reading public.
It is at this point that writer's block begins to set in as I have very little debaucherous activity to relate. Indeed, it would appear that my mother is in possession of a much more colourful social life than myself as I have spent much of the past weekend babysitting while she pursues it. Life cannot continue in this fashion! I have dresses and shoes and fake tan and makeup and money spent on keeping my hair and eyebrows under control which cannot be wasted. I need, for want of more rhetorical phrasing, to Get A Life. And soon. I resolve that the next post will contain tales of my social exploits, of nights on the town, of new friends and hangovers. I am adamant that the next time you hear from me I shall be once again in possession of the bright demeanor and sociable attitude which occasioned our friendship in the first instance.
This week I have found myself entombed within an endless pile of revision as well as distracted by thoughts of how easy it is to allow oneself to become entrenched in a rut. It would be easy to simply blame my current social situation on my impending examinations, however, pointing the finger towards academia would be incorrect and far wide of the point. In fact it is the cumulutive impact of many factors of university life which result in my current day to day occupation of drinking coffee, watching Scrubs and staring at the four walls. To sit tight and await the end of exams, viewing this time as the point at which a social revolution will miraculously descend upon my life bestowing upon all about me the insatiable desire to drink and dance until the early hours, make new friends and generally revel in youth and cheap vodka when this is clearly not a lifestyle to which they would ordinarily subscribe is to deny all evidence as it presents itself in my current day to day social situation. As you mentioned in your last post, it does not do to look to the past with a rose - tinted nostalgia, nor does it to fix ones vision on a future which is unlikely to live up to expectations. The answer lies alongside the problem; firmly in the present.
It will do no good to lament the passing of last year, full as it was with hedonistic trips to Robbos, or to long for next year whereupon academic work must be allowed to take precedence over social engagements. It will only benefit my lonely, bored soul to begin searching from sort of distraction immediatly. This is my intention.
This week is to be one of discovery. While my impending sojourn to Cornwall will take up most of my post - exam free time, I intend to utilise the time I do have with trips around Manchester which take me further afield than the kitchen, further even than Starbucks as experience has taught me that there are few interesting acquaintances to be made there. I intend to explore new places, armed with both camera and revision notes and to share my exploits with you via our beautiful blog.
Hopefully my new found social gregariousness will inspire posts which are more to Benny's liking. Ha.
I would welcome your suggestions with regard to where to go and who to include within my plan for social resurrection as well as stories of your own debaucherous activities from which to take inspiration.
Take care my dear, I send you all the affection that it is possible to include within the electronic format and eagerly await your reply.
Much love,
Chloe.xxx
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
How to Survive the French
Living in Paris has made me painfully aware of the cultural differences between l'Angleterre and la France and the self-confessed superior attitude of the French towards oh-no-not-the English. This book was so rude concerning the country of which I feel so proud that I have been googling the authors' contact details ever since in order to send her a long letter criticizing the French to my hearts content.
She calls us every insult under the sun whilst trying to portray the Frenchies as perfect. Bah, non!
So with my letter I'm looking to give her a taste of her own medicine (that's one thing of which she probably already has cupboards full; the French are known to be the biggest hypochondriacs, after all).
I run the risk of boring you with my indignation over this subject so I will keep it as short and sweet - perhaps not so sweet - as possible. I shall save my profound criticisms of the frogs for my letter to this grossly misinformed woman, and shall instead give you some tips on surviving the French...
- Best to start off knowing that you, as a foreigner (and especially as an English one), are wrong. The French are right. Don't try and convince otherwise because they're just French and they're just right.
- Don't be over the top. The French are cool and highly unexaggerated. You might think something is `amazing and wonderful and.. Oh my gosh!!', but don't say it. They will immediately retort with `Yeah, it's not bad'. Making you feel, quite honestly, a bit silly.
- Never smile in the metro, this will immediately give you away as being a foreigner. Try to throw the best irritated look you can manage to the person next to you. They'll love it.
- For goodness sake, never speak to anyone you don't know. If you're wondering where that French girl got her beret (why not) from, then guess. Guess from glancing, but do not stare. Stare at nobody, whether it be man or woman. Any more than a 3 second gaze at someone will definitely provoke a `Hey, what's your problem?' from a femme or `Hey you, mine or yours?' from a homme.
- `Oui, ça va bien et toi?' This always has to be the response to the famous `Ca va ?' Even if you've lost your job, home, and had a bird do their business on you all in one day, you still have to reply `Oui, ça va'.
- Throw in some Anglicisms. `Too much' or `trendy' are some particular favourites. 'Oui, oui, c'est trendy ça'. Oh how I cringe.
- Talk about sex. In France, it is abnormal to abstain from talking about a subject so taboo in our own darling country. Sitting around a table at lunchtime with your work colleagues (yes, even your boss), the conversation inevitably leads to sex. With this, you are supposed to describe some recent sordid detail from your sex life, and nobody blinks an eye. However, blush and mumble that you have nothing to add will leave everybody in an awkward silence.
- `Bon' must be their favourite word. It means `have a good..' and it can be paired with nearly any noun (I'll let your imagination run wild..). Bonne journée, bonne soirée, bonnes vacances, bon appétit? The whole thing becomes very tiring and very confusing for us foreigners and often leaves me thinking `Oh please stop bonning me'.
Well, I hope this has given you some insight into life as a `frog' (very different to the life of an `rosbif', trust me), and I'll leave you with an `Au revoir' and a `Bonne soirée!'
Monday, May 4, 2009
"I feel the past and future pressing so hard on either side that there is no room for the present at all"
I am pleasantly surprised by the prolific and pleasing content of your last post; although you claim that your involuntary solitary confinement is having a detrimental affect on your mental health, I must comment that it seems to have given you time to digest and fully eject from your system any love hangover for ****, and this can only be good. I am indeed familiar with the notion that language is governed by thought, having studied it in a linguistics class, and from experience communicating with both english speakers from abroad and natives from other regions and have first hand knowledge of the fact. You seem to have put your superfluous time to good use, and I have high hopes for the outcome of the looming exams.
I must admit, however, that although pleased about your declaration of recovery from your past love, I had been slightly sceptical, knowing that whilst sober and out of eyeshot of the bane of my life, I was able to declare myself 'over' and residual feelings, yet night after night would find myself tearstained and re-enamoured, and was worried that this could have been the case, due to your distance both from ethanol and the boy. However, the use of the plu-perfect tense in this case is highly significant. I now am able to declare myself, if not completely recovered then well on the way to full recuperation. This is due to a number of significant events, cumulating in the receipt of a message which previously would have had me in tears in the soberest of states, but which instead left me slightly nostalgic yet dry-eyed in the most inebriated of states.
The above quote is from Brideshead Revisited, and I feel the sentiment reflects exactly my present state of mind. The last few weeks have been overflowing with sunny days, visits,trips and extremely amusing soirées, yet I find myself constantly filled with a nostlagic ache for times past; memories distant and comparitively recent preoccupy my thoughts, and the moments in which these are happily laid to rest the future creeps in to excite and worry me, and leaves no time for the happy present to be enjoyed. It has been a topic of conversation, and I realise that it is a common state of mind, but despite this am struggling to fight against it and make space for the present.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
"No thankyou, I drink it black"
I can only apologise for my neglect of our epistolary tradition over recent weeks. The explanation for my lack of correspondance is simple; I have nothing to report. My social life in Manchester has stagnated to the point where the only verbal exchange in which I engage on a regular basis is that of perfunctory pleasantries with whomever undertakes the task of preparing my daily coffee in Starbucks. Alas, dear Hannah "Would you like space for milk in that love" is much less than the interaction my young mind craves. I fear I have few such exchanges left before the want of real conversation will cause me to descend into a stupour under which I shall begin conversing with myself.
I am, however, fully immersing myself in revision as a diversion from my woeful situation and find myself fascinated by the work of the Transcendentalists. I urge you to consider the assertion therefore, that experience governs language and not the other way round, indeed language itself is not an arbitrary collection of sounds which are attatched to particular sentiments, rather language is a collection of feelings and impulses which have been inspired by objects or sentiments and then named after them. "Flower" is a metaphor for the feelings experienced by the first soul to behold such an object and name it thus. The language we use carries with it the weight of our own experiences and notions and therefore no word uttered by you can be defined exactly as it would be when uttered my me for our experiences of life differ so greatly. It is upon discovering this that I find myself experiencing a sense of true enlightenment; language is innate, words are just vessels which carry the inner senses into the communal arena.
I am sure you now find yourself contemplating just how long I must have spent sequestered in the library, poring over my revision texts. I can assure you my dear, it has been no short term. I can only hope that my enthusiasm for the subject matter, which owes much to the fact that the long dead authors who coined these theorems have served as my only friends of late, will be recognised by the examiners.
I have also realised during this week of solitary contemplation, that I no longer love **** and haven't for some time. I merely use the idea of loving him to assuage my lonliness. The thought that there is one out there who may find my peculiarities attractive and consent to shower me with his full attentions is of comfort to me during my moments of insecurity. Rather than look to an uncertain romantic future and clutching at faith I am ashamed to say I have been looking to a rose tinted view of the past and ignoring the glaring truth that this man is not and was not worthy of my affection. It is upon lengthy reflection that I have come to this realisation and with it the resolution to cut him out of my life as far as is possible.
However, although I have summoned the strength to dispense with the past I am still loathe to contemplate the future. It would appear that unless, through some fateful intervention, a suitor were to fall through my bedroom ceiling or occasion to propose in the Starbucks queue, it is unlikely that I shall find myself imminently attached.
I trust the irony is not lost on you that upon beginning this letter I had remarked on the lack of material at my disposal and yet have subsequently rambled on for several paragraphs!
As I cannot see my social situation improving I must leave you at this point and save the remaining ponderings of my troubled mind for the next instalment.
Do send me your news my dear, I fear that word from you may be all that preserves my sanity over the next few weeks.
Much love,
Chloexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Spanish Cinderella
2nd April 2009
Sweet thing,
I cannot express in harsh enough terms the boiling anger I feel towards modern technology, especially that of facebook at this moment in time. This is third time I have sat down to reply to this message, and am finding it rather difficult to type as my fingers are crossed so hard that the incidents which previously deleted my meticulously written reposts will not be reoccurring. However, due to incidents in the past day it is quite fortunate that I am able to tell you the resolution of a story that was without end the last time I wrote this...
More of that later; the anxiety with which I am waiting to hear the outcome of the pub quiz has done nothing but become more intense: The longer I am without communication with your darling self, the more I am dying to know the outcome of your rendezvous with your heart's bane. I fully empathise with your predicament darling girl, knowing in intimate detail the feelings you harbour for your past (and present) love and the history behind the tale. As we have said many a time, it is impossible to fall out of love with someone unless there exists a concrete reason to believe it can never work. I hope your copy of Byron's work includes the poem entitled 'they say that hope is happiness', as though slightly miserable the lines have done a great deal to put into perspective the feelings inspired by such situations. Given that you now have the opportunity to test the water it is now down to you to decide; should you allow yourself to run with the butterflies and expose yourself to more hurt, or withdraw and never know if that hope which was your happiness could in fact have been something more? I cannot offer more than a friendly ear to your woes, knowing that the decision rests with you alone and that whatever my advice may be I should not influence your choice... Which still leaves me insatiably curious as to the current situation and your feelings on this at the moment, do satisfy my desires and fill me in on any intimate details...
Now for the conclusion to a story which I feel I have already told you, as I have written before many a time but never concluded in sending. I told you about my prince, a sweet boy with whom for several weeks I was perfectly happily entertained, and whose presence eased the pain of my first rendezvous with the bane of my life. Things were going smoothly before my trip to the south this week, where I was surrounded by the most beautiful set of boys I think I have ever had the pleasure of sharing a room with. The continual presence of these statuesque specimens of manhood rather put into persepective my relationship with the Prince, which though barely a relationship could not be termed as less, and combined with the content of the messages I received, any butterflies which might have lingered were eradicated. Anyway, absorbed with these thoughts we returned to Madrid at the end of the camp, where we proceeded to get rather on the worse side of inebriated. Jon had gone to his friend Alice's for dinner, and I was to meet up with the boys for tapas, after which we would all rendezvous and go to a discoteca together. On arrival at the metro station however, we were subject to numerous cancellations, and I need not be explicit in the outcome of a night which consisted of me, my boss and two bottles of rather cheap rum.
Anyway, yesterday I saw the Prince for the first time, neglecting the disastrous night on Saturday, after Jon and I returned from camp, consumed copious amounts of multitudinous harmful substances and which resulted in the loss of my purse and one of my shoes, when my conversation was less that sensible. It is my least favourite of situations, but we were able to resolve quite amicably the fact that he was unable to have a casual relationship and that it was 'not the right situation' for anything more serious.
I am missing you interminable darling girl, and can only apologise for the lateness of my reply, and though will completely understand any delay of my share of information, am on tenterhooks waiting for it.
All my love,
Hannah xxx
A Love Hangover
To a kindred soul,
I write to you nursing what can only be described as a broken heart. I am afraid to say that the combination of residual feelings and inebriation got the better of me last night (I was temporarily off the wagon but more on that later) and I enjoyed a late night tryst with my beloved. We talked at length before and ever the aforementioned event and are in agreement that our passionate encounter was ill advised. However, my confessions of love were reciprocated by the object of my affection so the aching in my chest comes from regret at the situation in which I find myself, not ay ill treatment at the hands of my beloved. My pride was whisked away by a stream of vodka which had an effect similar to, I would imagine, extra strength truth serum; during a lengthy embrace with my love I confessed that I could in fact hold him "for the rest of my life" which, fortunately did not send him running for the hills but did waive any opportunity to pass the evenings events off as a drunken fumble.
I am burdened with an inescapable pain in my chest and am permanently hovvering on the brink of tears. In my most fanciful momemnts I am tempted to suggest a reunion; an idea concieved more as an oppurtunity to simply allow our passion to be confronted and then to burn out than from any certainty that a relationship between us could actually work out. However, my heart may subject to fancy but my head i rooted firmly within the reality of the situation which is that (apologies to Emily Bronte) I have broken my own heart, I knew the consequences of my actions and instead of heeding my own doubts and those of all those whose advice I had previously sought on the situation I parted freely with reason and allowed myself to be overtaken by passion.
I have to see him again tonight as we are to attend the pub quiz; as is the Sunday night tradition for "The Daves", and pretend that all is as it was before. I fear that I shall be overcome with emotion upon sight of him and spend the entire night struggling not to weep, indeed I weep as I recount this to you. I thought finally getting what I had dreamed of for months would at last make me happy, it is true that in those moments with my love I was less unhappy than I was before but it would appear that the trade-off was the pit of self pity and heartbreak in which I am now installed. It would appear that no measure of rationality is any match for the feelings which **** and I harbour for one another, I am resigned to the fact that (Emily is probably spinning in her grave at this point) my love for him is eternal, like the rocks beneath.
Last night saw me consume alcohol for the first time in two weeks; I have decided to overlook this indiscretion as heart is already so full of regret, but I am once again tee - total today, last night having served as proof that nothing good comes from the Chloe/vodka/diet coke cocktail.I am saddened to report that it has come to my attention that my father has begun smoking again after three years free of the evil weed. I worryfor his health Hannah as he is not getting any younger and I could not bear to lose him, it would appear that the stress from his work life has caused him to seek solace in B&H and although he is a man after my own heart it does break my heart that he now feels the need to smoke after previously, it would appear, having conquered his addiction.
I am sorry that my latest message has not been more cheerful dear friend and I sincerely hope that your day has not been darkened upon reading it.
Please tell me about your latest suitor in excruciating detail - it heartens my to know that we are not both completely unlucky in love.I was also thrilled to hear of your tan! My attempts to emulate what is no doubt the very fetching hue which you are now sporting has left several pounds (£s - if only...) lighter, unflatteringly streaked and with the faint aroma of digestives.
I shall leave you at this point darling girl as it would do no good to regale you with my woes for any longer, moreover I am under obligation to look nothing short of perfect at the pub quiz, for obvious reasons, and will need all of the next 45 minutes to attend to my appearance.
Love always,
Chloe.xxxxxxx
A Drowned Flamingo, and other such tales.
17th March 2009
Darling girl;
I was intending to reply to that message as a matter of urgency, and had ready composed the following response ready to send it; I feel you are in need of comfort and berate the fact I cannot offer it in person. Yesterday, in parallel, I happened to be suffering from rather a severe case of brain damage. Although not in the worst of states Saturday night, judged by the fact that it did not end in tears, after a successive run of late nights I was unable to gather the energy to leave my bed to voyage to the internet cafe where I would have been able to write in peace...
But, sweet thing, I am here now to offer you the support you need. From previous conversations I am aware of the intensity of your feelings towards this boy, and from this I know that butterflies are indeed present therein. However, though my habitual advice is in favour of the pursuit of our winged friends, when it comes to past loves, this must be taken with a pinch of salt. Though butterflies are there to be followed, they can lead to hurt, and when we aware that hurt has occured from such a lover anteriorly then it always pays to be wary. However, the question you must put to yourself, and as I can see you already have; is how to know if his advances are made in seriousness? I simply have no answer to this. I can see that if I were him I would be utterly enamoured with your beautiful self, but it needs to be said in soberness for you to believe it fully. Is there any opportunity to meet with him in the light of day?? In the mean time, do keep me updated on the happening with the literary population of Manchester, I am waiting on Spanish tenterhooks for the discovery of your husband. Fill me in on the occurences with other boys at the same time, s'il te plait...
As for my romantic dramas; I am happy to say I am rather enamoured at this present moment, and have spent two rather rampant drunken evenings, and one more sober, delightful evening with he whom we shall now refer to as 'the prince': There may well be butterflies in Santiago town...
We spent the day at the beach today, and I was witness to the funniest incident this side of the Poruguese border. Whilst playing on the rocks, which were breaker to rather a few freak waves, Jon ventured out a little further to a tall rock which he presumed would be safe from the icy droplets scattered by the impact. On finding, however that this was not the case, and not wanting a drenching, as though the temperature was in the twenties the water was still icelandic, he attempted to return to our safer post. This not being possible, he floudered helplessly on one leg, doing a rather hilarious impression of an instable flamingo. The hilarity increased after the flamingo bore the brunt of the largest freak wave yet, and was engulfed. He nearly suffocated from shock; I nearly suffocated from guffaws. And they say laughter is internal jogging so that burnt off the kebab buffet for the day (genii, these spaniards...)
I am rather proud of my developing tan, and display my radiant watch mark at all possible occasions. I miss you, light of my life, and hope that your dilemma is panning out to your happiness, do keep me on the informed side of life.
Besos and huge love,
Hannah xxx
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Love's Inhibitions Lost
Hannah, the ray of light shining through the otherwise dismal fog of Manchester life,
It is with a heavy heart that I inform you that I was unable to make the aforementioned magazine launch due to an engagement with employment that I unfortunately was unable to avoid having chosen to work last Monday and Tuesday in lieu of Saturday, enabling me to attend the birthday celebrations of my dear friend Hudson. I reflect upon this missed opportunity with considerable regret as I almost certainly missed out on making the acquaintance of my future husband, however, I am heartened by memories of Saturday night and by the consideration that my meeting Prince Charming has simply been deferred, not aborted.
Saturday was an evening of debauchery of the sort only possible in Sheffield among ones childhood acquaintances. My copious wine consumption was facillitated not only by personal nature but also by the presence of the one who had previously incited my internal butterflies. I am weak Hannah. I am powerless to maintain platonic feelings of friendship towards him and Saturday was not the occasion for any alteration to be made to this unfortunate situation. Fearing my enduring feelings of love would be left unreciprocated I sought to avoid conversing with the object of my affections for as long as possible but, alas, he sought me out before the first sip of chardonnay had passed my lips. The night then passed as nights often do; clouded in drunken haze and with great gaps where memory fails. However, the recollection I do have is of my love comforting me during my regular drunken emotional outburst, and putting his arm around me at the bar.
The advice I recieved from my female companions upon relating my situation was to sever all contact with him. My mistake, it would appear, was not refuting this advice but merely informing the dear man that I was to take it. He made a very convincing case against my avoidance of him and asked me to see him in secret, thus keeping my friends happy. This was not before he had confessed his love for me, twice. Having put the night down to the effect of inebriation and the joy at a reunion with my estranged ex, I chose to ignore any romantic disclosures on his part. However, the whole episode was reawoken on Wednesday night at around 2am when I recieved a phonecall from none other than the object of my misguided affections who appeared to be under the influence of alcohol once again. We conversed for over an hour.
What does it all mean Hannah? Am I to believe that I have an admirer in **** and that he still harbours feelings of love towards me, as I am somewhat convinced I do towards him? Or am I to believe that the combination of alcohol and boredom caused him to project his frustrations on to the nearest available target? He is, of course, completely aware of my lingering feelings for him.It is, upon consideration of the previous weekends debauchery, as well as my continuing quest for a smaller waistline that I have decided to give up alcohol for the forseeable future.
So far I have been sucessful in my endeavor although I fear I have a long 20 weeks ahead of me.I would greatly appreciate your input on what is proving to be a great preoocupation for me as well as your support for the monumental task I have in front of me! Please regale me with details of your own life and loves, I hope they are not as rich with drama as mine!
It is impossible to communicate within the confines of an international email the immense longing I have for an evening of Gavin and Stacey and Chinese dining however, I hope you will take the time to imagine it.
Love always,
Chloe.xxxx
Greek Gods in Rainstorms
Chloe, darling ray of sunshine through the rain of Santiago;
I am pleased to be able to respond to your delightful letter immediately, although less pleased with the content, it has to be said. I shan't beat around the bush, and I am of the opinion that although attending regular fitness classes is a respectable way to spend the time, perhaps not so intellectual expanding as I would have wished, I refute wholeheartedly you assumption that to lose weight is a necessary action. I fully understand, being in much the same position as yourself vis a vis a slimmer 16 year old self, the envy one may feel towards the past, but being an aficionado of your beautiful self, I refuse to believe that you need to alter it in anyway so as to attract a mate.
I am also filled with longing to be present at your inaugration to the literary world of Manchester, and assign you the task of headhunting any prospective males to fill the spots of intellectual companions in the forthcoming year. With so many opportunities afoot, both that of the bookish population of our beloved city, and with the much lauded nights out, it is highly likely that your status on the book of face will be changing far more rapidly than mine. I have had some textual communication with my galician interest, but although we decided that we would arrange a rendezvous this week, it appears that he is unwilling, or this is the message I am choosing to receive from his lack of further communication. It is thus that I am pinning all my hopes on your new workmates, or on my dashing analysis teacher, a true intellectual of herculean proportions, with tanned, rugged skin, and a piercing galician stare. This being unlikely to result in anything, my apparent inability to speak spanish in the face of such a god proving to thwart my efforts a little; I am unlikely to persuade him of my prowess being powerless to tell him my name...
I am pleased to tell you that on Tuesday night I finally succeeded in my mission to complete an outing without the inevitable dissolution into tears. I may have been a picture of drunkeness, the pouring rain doing little to improve my dishevelled looks, but remained dry eyed the entire night. I have yet to bump into the bane of my life, but am feeling sufficiently buoyed by the growing circle of friends we are accumulating here (many mixed nationalities, making spanish the language of choice, hence why they are still named friends, they are unable to understand any abuse I accidently hurl...) to not mind as drastically his presence in the city.
Love always,
Hannah xxx
The Weighting Game
To a dear and sorely missed companion,
It is a truth universally acknowledged that any single girl in possession of a beer belly must be in want of a gym membership. It is with this in mind that I have taken up membership at Withington Leisure centre and now endeavor to attend four fitness classes per week. It would appear, dear Hannah, that exercise is my new hobby! I have found a kindred spirit in Flora and anticipate that our tandem excursions to the gymnasium are to become a regular fixture with my ultimate goal being to recapture the physique that I maintained, but did not appreciate, at the age of sixteen.
I feel that sometimes the butterflies need a little extra help; the irony here being that I anticipate the arrival of butterflies being facillitated much more swiftly if I strive to have them aim for a (much) smaller target.
I have to inform you of the social engagement I am due to attend on Sunday evening; the English department is giving a launch party for its new student lead magazine which carries the unfortunate moniker of "Unsung" but which I, refusing to judge a magazine by its cover, would very much like to contribute to. The event is to include appearances by many local writers and poets as well as those affiliated with the university who are all billed to give short readings of their work. As you can imagine I find all of this rather exciting, not least because the event is being held at the Thirsty Scholar and thus presents me with the opportunity to enjoy a glass of wine among intellectuals, but also because any remotley attractive man to be found at such an event may well fit our profile of the perfect partner! I do wish you could accompany me, I did feel a certain sadness upon reading the invitation to "bring your friends" contained within the email notifying me of the event as I realised I had the perfect friend for the job but she is otherwise occupied overseas!
Speaking of which, I am very curious about the new male acquaintance whom you mentioned in your last message; have had the pleasure of his company since your initial meeting? Am I to sacrifice you to the ranks of my attatched friends? Am I to expect an alteration in your Facebook status?! My love life is woefully lacking so I would embrace any opportunity to date vicariously through you!
I feel I should tell you how enamoured I am with our fledgling letter writing tradition, I must compliment you on your writing ability and express how I feel we both have found our calling with this recreational pursuit!
It is on this note that I shall leave you. I anticipate news of your activities with baited breath,
Yours adoringly,
Chloe.xxxxxxxxxx
The Fast and the Over-Fiesta-d
I am currently recovering from yet another curtain of doom that has descended after last night, through which the beautiful sunshine does nothing to lift my spirits and which adds a shade of grey to all aspects of life. Jon, however, appears to be in a worse state than I; even the perusal of Gavin and Stacey, which made the distance between the two of us feel far greater than ever before, sent him to bed in despair.
Last night, dear one, was by far the most inebriated of the soirées so far, and though I went home (in tears, naturally) before the night blossomed to it's full, at a tame half past four in the morning, I am rather thankful as my state, though unpleasant, is far more bearable than that which my delightful companions are saddled with this fair afternoon.
And so, we reach the end of our second week here.
Time is racing by with the speed of a fox with the devil on it's tail, which both pleases and saddens me. I am already bursting with excitement at the prospect of next year and our beautiful abode, yet enjoying myself so throroughly that I loathe to think that by the start of next week March will be well and truly upon us.
I have managed to survive another week without a sighting of the bane of my life; and though I relish this, I do long for the moment when I can see him, death stare him, turn on a carefully polished heel and prance away. I have, in fact, a new love interest, by the name of José. We encountered each other on Monday, when I, dressed as a french woman with a pilfered cowboy hat on my tearstained head, was wandering through the bitterly cold streets of the old town, and he, in full braveheart regalia, came to my rescue. I was supposed to meet him tonight for a drink, but our rendezvous has been postponed until the following week, which gives me plenty of time to invent some witty spanish chat up lines...
Anticipating your reply with butterflies,
Hannah xxx
The Lesser Spotted Male
Gothic Spires and Land Mines
I am pleased to relate to you the commodity of the apartment in which we are installed. We have running water, acres of storage for the piteous 15 kilos each we were allocated for the flight over, which does absolutely nothing to fill the space, and a balcony overlooking a typically spanish scene. The window in my divinely pink room (further girlified by my stuffed rabbit and some beautiful rosy sheets purchased from the local supermercado) looks out over the cathedral, the most wonderfully gothic creation, encrusted with moss, which creates a beautiful silouhette against the sunset, often cooincided with my awakening.
I am rather ashamed about the amount of social gatherings I have attended since our arrival here; last night was the first which was spent in our delightful abode, and was filled with scrabble and happy families. My body has so adjusted itself to the new debaucherous regime that it struggles in sleeping before the witching hour, and awakening before noon. We have made some lovely friends, italians mainly, and the boys have gone to a nearby city tonight for a carnival with some irish acquaintances. I took the opportunity to save money and my poor little brain, which unlike my body is as yet unaccustomed to the new regime. I intend to spend the day indulging my feminine side, and typical to our miserable fate of being a woman, epilating, moisturising and rejuvenating my sunblushed skin, as well as having the necessary headspace to write to my kindred spirit across the seas.
I cannot say a bad word about my darling housemates, I adore every bone in their little bodies, but there are times when one misses female company. It is difficult to describe the jumble of emotions that is my romantic mind at the moment in english, so to do so in spanish would certainly lose the complicated train of thought, and though I'm sure they would be sympathetic, I am loathe to reveal my badly afflicted heart to the boys who may understand the thread of the conversation. I received an email on the day of my arrival informing me that the bane of my life would be out of the country until yesterday. In the same email, he informed me that he was now 'numb'. I am not sure as to the sense of the phrase, but suffice to say that I am far from numb. In fact, my heart is so tender that it flinches at the slightest mention of his name. This is worse today, knowing that he is once again in the same city, I am unable to think of anything but him. I have run over the sitaution a million times in my head; know exactly what I want to say to him, and how I shall behave. However, this is slightly marred by the strong barrier of emotion that bars my brain from my head. I know I shall probably burst into tears. I hate him, truly I do, but I also know that I'm still slightly in love with him and that to converse normally would tear me apart. I want him to want me, so that I can turn him down, and hurt him as badly as he hurt me, but the thought that he doesn't is enough to bring a tear to my eye.
Anyway darling, enough of my rant, feel free to ignore the majority of the ramble, there is no need to absorb any of it, I was simply in need of expressing my rather confused emotions...
I so desperately wish you were able to come and live with me here. In place of my actual company we shall have to be happy with respective rants about the banes of our lives!
Do keep me filled in on every aspect of Manchester life; I miss you continuously and am only comforted by the fact that you are grafting hard in order to facilitate our reunion.
All the love it is possible to send,
Hannah xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Of Morals and Men
Dearest Friend,
I apologise for the tardiness of my reply, I have little in the way of an excuse, except for the ones previously offered, namely the two shifts I find myself working this week and the social engagements I have been required to attend.
How do you find youre new residence on the continent? Do you find the climate agreeable? And what of your cohabitators? Do you find yourself regularly engaged socially? One hopes that you are making the most of the oportunity to engage with a new set of prospective suitors?! For butterflies, my dear must be sought out lest they go unnoticed, or worse, are noticed by another, Im sure we are both aware of the fact that should a gentlemans advances be accepted by another, above yourself, said gentleman can only hope to find this alternative woman wanting on all accounts by comparison. You are worthy of the greatest of matches dear Hannah, that should not be forgotten.
As for my own social exploits, I am loathe to relate to you that I have, in fact had no evenings out since our last meeting; I find myself ensconced in my chambers, occupied only by my reading and, of course, "Les Freres Scott".
Alas, dear Hannah, I must leave my musings here as I am due to start work in exactly 60 minutes and therefore find myself pressed by such concerns as which liquid based stimulant to employ in my quest to stay awake all night and which ready meal I should choose to sustain me during my shift; I am almost positive that the answers to my current dilemmas are black coffee and lasagne but one can never be too sure. Also I find myself neglecting dear Mama who desires to converse with me in the next room.
I close by reminding you that I both love and miss you with equal, immeasurably vast amount and I eagerly await your reply which will hopefully contain many interesting anecdotes of your new life in Spain!
Yours always,Chloe.xxxxx
From a Glacial Wilderness
Darling one,
I am afraid that an unforseen visit to my Grandma in the wilds of Norfolk has prevented my returning to Manchester on schedule, and though my home town was full of the childish delights of untrod snow and glaciated puddles, the inclement conditions here stretch to meagre mounds of slush and an obscene amount of mud. It is therefore providing no comfort to my melancholy soul, which finds itself in a similar position to that of your own. Not only do I find myself in a similar position about the opposite sex (more of which to follow) but your tristesse is reflected in the that which I am suffering due to my grandma's steady decline to the grave, which has advanced greatly since I last saw her. She is unable to tell me which of her five offspring I am daughter to, and has barely the strength to sit up in bed. This being said, I think she is happy with the life she is leading, her carer is a kindly soul who has allowed her to stay in the home she shared with her husband and children, and panders to her every whim, including the forbidden glass of beer of an afternoon and a sneaky cigarette in the aftermath. She truly is a woman after my own heart.
So it is for this rather depressing but necessary visit that I am deprived of your glowing company, which would surely shed a light on the darkness of life as it stands today. I am unable even to hear your voice, as novelties such as mobile phones are a rarity in these primitive parts, and thus t-mobile have not stretched their signal far enough to me to reach it. Happisburgh, the hamlet which currently acts as host to your humble correspondent is a picturesque little place, and of the antique nature that from my rather unmade up and slightly swollen (I have a rather vexing tooth abcess which has caused a rather unsightly bulge to the left of my nose) face every inhabitant is able to recognise me from my likeness to my mother. On walking to the cliffs I can gain enough signal to send and receive messages, so shall endeavour to contact you on my daily promenade along the beach with the hound tomorrow.
It does sadden me to find my sweet girl in such a grey state of mind, yet in rather a morbid way gives me a little hope that there are others suffering similarly as valentines day approaches. I sympathise entirely; only this morning, in a pensive state reflective of that demonstrated in your message I was considering abandoning all hopes of finding butterflies to follow, and resigning myself to a relationship based on companionship. I was so convinced of my unability to primarily find a subject capable of inducing the delightful sensation of whipped up papilons in my windpipe, and secondly to convince said subject to feel vaguely the same towards myself, that I truly considered it.
I feel that today has been a veritable rollercoaster of emotions. In one's own company, as we have both found ourselves, it all too easy to peak and trough in romantic convictions. You and I have both experienced requited love, and throughout the day the memory of such a perfect state of butterflies has seemed surreal and utterly devastating. In the times when I convinced myself, however, that it truly had existed, it meandered between depression that it no longer is, was and shall not be, and a light hope that it can exist, and knowing that perhaps will happen again.
It is as we said, my lovely Chloe, we are in need of a more mature gentleman to appreciate the complexity of our romantic, literary souls. We will, and shall, find someone who can respect our conversations varying from Byron to the economy, from Austen to immigration, and from Gavin and Stacey to Vogue. It is a matter of waiting. I for one am certain of the fact that we shall not encounter such intellectuals on the debaucherous evenings we tend to frequent, and am stuck wondering if it will have to be in my professional life that I meet the man of my dreams. I feel that I am over childish promiscuity, and yet, though I may have been early, not ready to settle for anyone who does not meet my meticulous standards. Two years hence, however, seems an intolerably large period of time to be without affection.
Ah! The trials and tribulations of the single twenty-one year old! What are we to do?I am certain, however, that the butterflies are out there. Until then, I hope you are still willing to fulfill the post of my valentine? As we are in such similar states of mind I feel we complement each other especially well this year.Do reply with haste, hopefully consenting to my request and detailing any raucous behaviour last night, or any other drama I may have missed.
Love and adoration,
Hannah xxx
Roses are red, and vodka, underrated.
I find myself confined to my bed suffering terribly as a result of an overindulgence in vodka last night and can find no better way to pass the time while awaiting the restoration of my faculties than to commit my thoughts on life to the page for your perusal. I hope you are well and also that I shall see you tonight upon your return to Manchester? Should my wish to see you be granted I am sure our conversation upon seeing eachother will inevitably cover the contents of this letter and thus render it redundant, however, should events prevent our reunion this evening I shall be comforted by the fact that I have taken the opportunity to converse with you in epistolatory form.
As you will know, hangovers lend themselves to reflection of the depressive sort and this one has proven to be no exception; I have chosen lonliness today above summonning the energy to venture into Withington where the company of the others would await me. Instead of conversation I have chosen to occupy my time with introspection, on one subject in particular.
With Valentines day fast approaching I find myself preoccupied by the knowledge that I shall be spending this year's alone and not through choice, as I had previously convinced myself. I have previously allowed myself to become irritated with friends whose lives appearred to be punctuated by the sucession of men with which they shared them. I would often argue that there is more to life than relationships with the opposite sex, however, I now find myself asking if ultimately there is anything more to be attained than the perfect happiness found in loving another? What I had previously prided in myself as a fierce independence without the need for a male companion now appears to have been superceded by a stinging jealously and an all permeating lonliness.
I am eager to know your views on the subject and quick to point out that while it would appear fairly easy to find a man, finding love is near impossible and with that in mind there is little to comfort me and little strategy available to me aside from patience and blind faith, I currently find myself lacking in both.
Dearest Hannah I do hope I havent dampened your spirits or lowered your mood by sharing my considerations with you, and that you will appreciate my eagerness to invite you to share your own perspective on such matters is derived from a great respect for your views and the knowledge that your advice comes from intelligence, faith and a truly romantic soul.I leave with you with a heartfelt expression of love and friendship and an eagerness to recieve your reply.
Yours always,
Chloe.xx
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Formal Complaint Against Street View Maps
One cannot help but marvel at the tragic inevitabilty of it all; of course the house was in public view before, to any Tom, Dick, Harry or criminal who occasioned to walk down the street. But now people can really see it, from all four sides, without having to walk around the block first - and that, unfortunately, can only lead to one thing; ne'er do wells finding your front door (which of course was very well hidden up until now), kicking it down,and pilfering your valuables.
You could take solace in the fact that the aforementioned burgalars hand-picked your house (yours!!) from the thousands on display in the great web-based swag catalogue that is Google Maps. And the fact that, as the site is clearly the work of Beelzebub himself, there is little that any of us mere mortals can do to halt the havoc it will ultimately wreak on our quiet middle class enclosures.
You could also congratulate yourself for the elite class of pillager that your humble abode has been able to attract - after all, this rather resourceful member of the criminal underclass had both the cutting edge equipment and the technological know-how to locate your house on Google and take a good look at it from all four sides, potentially also from above, before being consumed by the desire to steal its contents. In fact it was even likely that the fellow in question didn't even need your television; as, if he is the proud owner of both a computer and an internet connection all evidence points towards his already owning one. But he chose to steal yours anyway. Now that is something.
Not only that but imagine the distance he who masterminded the television heist must have covered in order to rob your humble abode. After all, he must have needed Google Maps in order to discover that the tv set was ripe for the picking and therefore must some sort of of out-of-town criminal, from whom your home would have remained completely obscured had it not been for those Google folk sticking their oar in. Your television was stolen by someone whom can only be adequately described as the Bill Gates/Michael Palin of the thieving world; if nothing else, this is a great achievement.
But this is all besides the point. You are sadly now without a television; punishment, it would seem for your having a home which looks so nice from the outside; four lovely walls and a roof! A dead giveaway, if there ever was one, that this house in particular contains - or rather did contain - a television. Those Google people have a great deal to answer for.
The only guarantee, it would appear, for the safeguarding of future televisions within your home is to make sure that the image of your home is permanently removed from that ghastly site, thus reinstating your home's invisibility to the common thief - well, the well off, computer literate thief anyway. Why shouldn't you campaign for those horrible Street View people to be stopped in their tracks?
Google has made work for idle hands, and, quite frankly, they owe you a new television.
There is nothing else for it. An Englishman's home is his castle and yours has definitly been under siege for long enough. Down with Google!
They have captured a lovely likeness of next door's gazebo though, it would be a shame if that had to go as well..
Friday, April 17, 2009
Love Laughs at Locksmiths
Parisian Skies
I cried all the way to the entrance of the channel tunnel. It wasn’t until I saw the Eiffel tower fade into the distance that it’s disappearance was aided by the blur of tears; not until the banlieus melted into bleak, snow tinged countryside that it truly dawned on me that I was leaving the city of love. The fleeting six months I had lived in Paris were the best of my life so far. Even during the packing up of my cosy apartment in the Latin quarter, the reminiscences on the balcony which had played host to many a sunrise, the hurried goodbye to my tearful flatmate, I had not realised I was going for good. Until I had survived the stressful boarding of the eurostar, up to the point at which I had settled into my seat, surrounded by tourists and businessmen, a copy of French vogue and Proust, I did not appreciate that this spelt the end. It meant no more nights at Paris social club; no more sunrises from the Sacré Coeur; no more flush Saturdays browsing the shops of the Marais; no more lazy Sundays in the Place des Vosges.
Desolate in my vintage fur coat, a prize possession trawled from the racks of free ‘p’ star which I refused to leave, and my newly shorn Parisian bob, I stood on the platform of St Pancras. My purse was bereft of the pound coin needed for a trolley, and my arms lacked the strength to pull my luggage, my entire life in packed into two suitcases and an it-bag. I made my sorry way, metre by agonising metre, towards the gates of King’s Cross, a mere platform and zebra crossing away, much to the annoyance of my fellow passengers. By the time I reached passport control, my faith in human kindness was as empty as my purse was of sterling after suffering the frustrations of those surrounding me. In my fragile state, I felt the tears well once again when the grip in my weak hands gave way and, turning to retrieve my fallen cases, I was faced by a genuine growl from the traveller behind me.
It does not take such a personal case to lose faith in human kindness. Simple acts of benevolence; the offering of a seat to an elderly bus passenger, or the kindly cliché of helping an old man across the road are becoming a thing of the past. I was astonished to find, in the midst of a rather humbling explanation to a charity worker on the street as to the exact reason I was unable to subscribe to the cause he was championing (he was unable to accept a donation and as the majority of my student loan had been frittered away on Oldham street, home to the city’s vintage shops and an Aladdin’s cave of irresistible fabrics, I could not guarantee that the necessary five pounds a month would remain in my account to be siphoned) that he was in fact paid for his job. When volunteers are as hard to come by as a size five Louboutin in a sale, there is little to restore any conviction.
That said, the simplest act of generosity is amplified to Saintly status. Given the chance, I would offer my champion up to be knighted at the drop of the hat; the kindly soul whom, seeing me burning despite the frosty January morning, took my cases from my shaking hands, steered them across the road and produced the necessary coin to hire me a trolley showed more benevolence in five minutes that I have been witness to since. It was no grand gesture on his part; neither a detour nor a drastic amount of effort, but his magnanimity was a ray of sunshine through the London cloud, and a ray of happiness into my bereft heart.Sat on my sun drenched (and much cheaper) balcony of my piso overlooking the magnificent gothic cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, surrounded by the Galician countryside and good friends, the only bane on my life of today is the fifteen kilo luggage limit imposed by Ryanair, a pain much softened by the prospect of refilling my barren wardrobe with Spanish purchases. The nostalgic ache of Paris is easily replaced by the flurrying excitement of the flat back in Manchester which next year will be shared with my romantic soulmates and Parisian companions, and the certitude that the discounted Spanish prices will allow for many a visit back to the Gallic streets which haunt my reveries.
The Era of the Sensitive Soul?
So are we disappointed or relieved? Does the position of the feminist cause within the 21st century mean that it is now ok to be a sensitive soul? Is there now hope for the romantic? Or has Beyonce dropped the ball – is it icons like the newly ousted Sasha Fierce that prolong the cause long after today’s women have extinguished their bras and returned to the kitchen? If sisters can no longer do it for themselves and we need to hide behind our Sasha Fierces then surely we shouldn’t expose our apparent strength and defiance as simple illusion. Unless, that is, we have outgrown this phase and entered a gentler age, in which women no longer need to enforce their rights because they have been granted – the point of true equality.
Has feminism reached a point of redundancy or have we reached a new peak of liberation at which we can now cast off our harder alter egos in favour of our softer selves without compromising our right to male respect? Does female empowerment lie with the feminine? Have we come forward in going back to more traditional, softer female identities or had we never left them in the first place?
Do we waive our right to female empowerment when we choose girlishness or does the power lie in accepting these traits on our own terms?
The right to follow Beyonce’s lead and proudly advertise who “I Am” while reserving the right to unleash a more forceful “me” should the situation demand it is surely the best of both worlds while also being illustrative of the divisive influence that social change has on those who do not fully subscribe to the old or the new. The underlying message appears to be that in order to champion the cause of female equality while also maintaining the qualities which make us female most of us have to divide (ourselves) in order to conquer.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The Waning of Taste
The carefully packed compact wardrobe, designed to fit into the strict Ryanair limits and pander to the varied climate whilst allowing for sartorial flexibility has proved fruitless. The cobbled streets and thirty degree incline on which we reside rule heels out entirely; the strong catholic influence in Santiago making the slightest show of flesh an abhoration.
Our first weeks here were flooded with sunshine. Galicia, normally famed for its rainy climes, was the hottest region in the country, yet despite temperatures brushing thirty in February, it was as if the Spaniards refused to bend from the norms of winter attire and went about their business clad in coats and scarves. Imagine, then, the scandal as we dared to leave the house in shorts. I am yet to decide if it is due to cultural differences or simple curiosity that provokes impossibly blatant stares from every passer by. Perhaps this is just the Spanish way, but even so it is for this I feel my fashion sense ebbing away…
It came to me as a sudden realisation on a shopping trip to A Coruna. I was browsing the racks and had picked up a myriad of items to try on, when I looked down and realised instead of the denim jumpsuits and coral dresses I had been lusting after, my arms were full of high-necked, full sleeved, beige non-items. I had subconsciously fallen into conformity.
This was quickly resolved by the purchase of some dropped-crotch, tie waisted trousers and a pair of high-waisted floral dungarees, but although I was in time to stop myself that time, I am unable to stop fretting that the constant staring is whittling away at my individuality. I am certain I shall return to Britain’s fair shores with my appetite for originality sated and find myself, in true Spanish style, open mouthed and unable to take my eyes off the incomprehensible wardrobe choices of the population.
Don't Get Angry...
Enjoy,
Chloe.xx
It is the ugliest of words when used in the wrong context; a signifier of hatred and degradation which has thankfully been exorcised from the vocabulary of the vast majority. Nigger may now be most readily associated with rap music and gangster culture but its origins are inextricably linked to the slave trade and the subjugation of black people, the effects of which still resonate within today’s society. The word which now is thrown around as a signifier of respect and kinship by a new black generation has a truly unpleasant legacy. Due to the recent attempt by many black contributors to media and popular culture to reappropriate the moniker as something positive, even endearing ,the issue of how acceptable it now may be to use the term has entered a post modern grey area; to ban the N word now would be to enforce a crackdown on the vast majority of artistic output by black people within the arena of popular culture, those artists such as Jay – Z, Nas and NWA who, over the years have exercised an awareness of the dark past of the word and brought it to the attention of the mainstream, to audiences of all races, ages and social class and altered its meaning within a newly positive context.
However, the black and white of the situation is that on the one hand you have an output of media which condones and even glorifies the use of the word and on the other hand the all too recent memories of the Californian and Brixton race riots of the late 80’s and early 90’s, the murder of Stephen Lawrence in 1993 and numerous racially aggravated attacks in the U.S of recent years. Memories which illustrate that the views which fuelled the use of the N word within its original usage; as the ugliest of terms to describe a black person born of a vile hatred which for most, thankfully, is difficult to imagine or understand, are definitely still alive.
It is with this in mind that one might feel some unease upon hearing “nigga” blasting out of a nearby stereo, or indeed in its full glory at top volume in a nightclub, as is the norm these days, made louder still by the 1000 or so white people singing along.
Because this music speaks to white people too – and why shouldn’t it?
As Dr King taught us the “dream” was for black people and white people to one day stand together and feel a sense of shared experience and it is testament to Jay – Z’s phenomenal success as an artist and hip hop as a genre and a cultural export that youths of all races will stand side by side, all musing on the assertion that “Aint no nigga like the one I got” and feel a connection, not only with each other but with the beats and vocal styling’s which are inspired by a generation of young blacks and which 50 years ago would have been compartmentalised and dismissed by the mainstream as “race music” fit for inferior black ears only. It is surely a “dream” come true that is it possible for these club goers to enter by the same door, drink at the same bar and sing, dance and even leave together without fear or prejudice.
It would be naive to claim that sacrifices have not been made for what is now considered the social norm and perhaps one of them is that now those of us who still take offense at the N word have to contend with the growing conviction that it is now ok to use it.
So is it ok to use it? The most satisfactory answer I have been able to conjure up (with the help of Chris Rock it must be said), is not really.
The noble cause pursued by the use of the word in popular culture is redefinition, the use of the word within a context which directly opposes its original meaning, if done often enough will cause it to take on this new definition, thus nigger has metamorphosed from a term used to degrade black people, often accompanied by the crack of a whip to “nigga” which is often preceded by “my” as a term of brotherhood and endearment and usually accompanied by the altogether more positive images of cars, jewellery and accommodating young ladies; the trappings, it would appear, of black success.
The justification of the saturation of this word within popular culture then is that society’s increasing familiarity with the term increases the speed of its evolution; the more we associate “nigga” with the positive the quicker it loses its old association as the weapon of the white oppressor and the black community reclaims nigger as its own. So far, so harmless.
What this cannot do however, is erase the associations that this word has for so many black people who cannot lay claim to its more positive connections and whose memories and disillusions with life within a white dominated culture. For an older generation hip hop culture is a voice which speaks to children and grandchildren in a language which is at times near impossible to understand, except for that all pervading term which leaps out of the music and out of context. I cannot justify any casual use of “nigga” to someone who endured nigger being muttered at them in the street while on their way from sub standard housing to a menial job, who lived under a government who saw nothing in claiming that “If you want a nigger for a neighbour, vote labour” who endured police harassment and brutality and who marched, sat in and boycotted so that I wouldn’t have to.
Because, let’s face it, nobody who uses that word today has any idea of what they are talking about.
The horror of slavery, the degradation of Jim Crow, the evil practice of lynching, all commonplace in years gone by cannot be described in real enough terms to a generation raised on Oprah, 50 Cent, Beyonce and, of course, Barack Obama. Again, this is what we wanted; great strides have been made towards the proverbial Promised Land, if we are not yet at the “mountain top” we are arguably well over half way up the slope, perhaps it is finally time to let it go. However, in letting it go we are also letting go of the legacy of racism and the memory of events which serve to remind us of what we can never allow to happen again; the Grandchildren of those forcibly labelled niggers now proudly refer to themselves as “niggas” - young black people who have set themselves free from the stigma of the word because they take example from the strong black role models which thankfully the more tolerant society in which we now live has granted them.
But in a time which is sadly not free from racial discrimination what are we claiming is the difference?
There is no denying that there are young people today who do possess a deep understanding of their roots and therefore the legacy of this word. I do claim to be one of them and as such would never, ever use that word in casual conversation and react angrily to anyone who would dare do so in my presence, regardless of their racial background. However, the bolder and arguably more ignorant of those with whom I have debated the power which the word has to offend have been quick to point out that it is ok to say “nigga” now – everybody’s doing it.
The irony should not be lost on you that once again I and other like – minded individuals find ourselves vainly challenging the dominant majority because we’d rather not be referred to as “niggas”.
Because it isn’t ok to use that word – not really,not if you aren’t black, not if you aren’t working class or considered “cool”, not in the company of anyone over the age of 40 – and certainly not in the company of those on whom the irony of ‘nigga’s’ new incarnation is lost – those who perceive this small rebellion on the part of those black people who stake a claim to dominant culture through the medium of popular music to be a “get out of offense free card”, a justification for flippant use of a term which for many holds painful memories and belongs in the past alongside them.
This isn’t overzealous political correctness; I am not mounting a protest over nursery school children singing ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’, nor am I likely to be contacting Jay-Z or Nas’s people with my complaints, nor for the most part will I allow my contention with this word to affect my enjoyment of the music,indeed the use of this word within the hip hop community is with the assumption that the artist is speaking to an audience of a similar social demographic to himself, that group which modern society has decided is allowed to use the N word. It is possible that Hip Hop has become a victim of its own success; the music probably did reclaim the word for those who had been most scarred by its legacy at one point, before commercial success installed the music and the black cultural influences behind it within the popular arena of the dominant (white) culture.
My argument is simply that when faced with the black and white of cultural boundaries it is impossible to redefine a word to suit the agenda of one social demographic while erasing the legacy placed upon it by another. To use the word “nigga” in a positive context would be to naively assume that there is nobody left who would choose to use nigger negatively - an assumption which sadly will always be false. To allow the use of this word without the risk of offence would mean enforcing boundaries for its use, boundaries drawn on the basis of race,thus taking us back to the last time it was deemed acceptable to call someone a nigger in polite company.
The word, like the sentiments which enforced its original use, whether used in the ugliest way possible or as a rebellion against and therefore an acknowledgment of the word’s original function simply has no place in a society modern enough to know better.







