In case of emergency
Break my glass
I will salve, protect, smash
crash, bash, abolish…
But
Have you ever put back
What you
Broke out?
Bugger isn’t it?
I follow my young friend up the stairs and to the reception. My friend is a kind person, full of energy and enthusiasm and she has invited me to try out her boxercise class at the central gym but when I ask for my disabled discount at reception she makes a strange snorting laugh and says loudly to all around,
‘You’re kidding? If you can do the sport why should you get a discount? Why can’t I get a discount for bringing you? ‘
Totally embarrassed and extremely shocked I turn to her. I can feel my face reddening. The receptionist looks at me and stares. My friend grins. She thinks she is being funny..I think she does anyway. I feel shame rise up from my tingling fingers, up arms and into my chest
I remind this friend, who now feels like a complete stranger, that we about to go into a boxing class and shortly I will have access to gloves and a perfect excuse to smash her face in.
‘Only joking!’ says she cheerfully oblivious of the danger to her life. She strides ahead to the studio.
Of course I swallow the bile and get on with it. I am old enough and ugly enough to know these things happen. I don’t let my psycho ninja self out during the class and actually we have a good time and a good workout. She is just not the person I thought she was. I will always have to be a bit wary with her.
In the past these comments and daft jibes were not uncommon but since I have developed strategies i.e. hermit-like lifestyle, tendency not to go out after dark, caution and caginess with all new people etc, I have forgotten how much they hurt. This one, unexpected took me aback, winded me. Last night I dreamt people were all around me as I prepared to do a photo shoot but my camera was flooded with water. In the dream it had strange sliding shutters like eyelids and they became rusty and refused to open fully, obscuring the lens. I couldn’t see what I needed but everyone was waiting for me to take my shot…..the equipment is cheap, faulty. I am ashamed.
Will I lose my sight completely? I don’t know and neither do the tens of ophthalmologists who I’ve seen over the years. ‘Probably’ is the prognosis. Originally I went to se the ophthalmologist with my then fiancé. I was 21. The ophthalmologist was uncomfortable. He told us that I might loose my sight in 5 years..then again some people 
Everyone gathered around…ohmigod..have you heard….etc. But as the months dripped by and not much changed, the tension lessened. Publicly I too got blasé but privately I clung to my fiancé desperately and, consequently, he poor chap managed about a year before he fled. (I have never talked about it in depth to subsequent boyfriends and made sure they were always the kind of men who would never ask..)
Look I’m not complaining. I have it easy compared to many people with my condition. My optic nerves have been so shored up by gin and tonic that I get confused appreciation at every hospital appointment. They are so far ‘happy with my progress.’ Importantly I am not in pain..not compared to many of my friends with other disabilities. And this is not terminal..except that I cannot imagine having to rely on others if I do become totally blind. That frightens me most of all….but I will cross that bridge when I get there.
However, in the meantime, let it be written here that the next person who makes a stupid joke at my expense gets it in the f+++ing eye.
(oh yep and rant over…still no news on the job. Will let you know as and when!)
I am a cheap date – when it comes to jewellery that is. (Don’t even THINK of scrimping on the seafood!) In these breakfast cereal days of credit crunches and fresh financial squeezes this is probably no bad thing. I have never been particularly interested in the glister of gold or the slicing, sparkle of diamonds. And anyway I always lose stuff or give it away. If a friend notices something I am wearing that they think is pretty I have no compunction in handing it over. Its only stuff after all, (that is as long as it isn’t my debit card… or my fillings……)
Having said that, I do get surprisingly attached to strange bits and pieces of junk. I have this pair of £3 sparkly blue butterfly earrings that I bought at a supermarket. They have been to several continents and spent hundreds of nights under hundreds of pillows or on hundreds of dressers over the years. And then, in Toronto last May, I lost one.
Photo: Adonis Blue Butterfly; Johnathon Stott (c)www.jstottphotography.com
I searched everywhere, stripped the bed back, went inch by inch over the floor with my magnifier, shut my eyes turned around and opened them again..but it was still missing.
Every now and then back in UK I would think about it with sadness….my cheap little blue butterfly stud. The other, the-one-that-was-left, would glint at me from my jewellery box forlornly. ‘Its just a trinket.’ I thought. ‘What’s the problem?’
Months went by.
And then yesterday I went to pull out a pair for the day and there, entwined in each other, were two blue butterfly earrings. How magical and intriguing is that my friends? Magical, mysterious and strangely very uplifting! A blessing.
To celebrate and because I was feeling lovely, I donned the sharp, black T-shirt my nephew sent me a few years ago which has rarely made an outing. Emblazoned in white across the breasts it reads ‘ALL THIS!’ and underneath in tiny brackets it adds (and brains). It makes everyone grin and my posture gets stonkingly good. Boobs out, head high. That was until I suddenly thought,
‘Oh hell. ‘…what happens if people test me?’
It is hard to keep pert with visions of people running behind one shouting ‘And brains eh? Really? What’s the square root of 5689 then? What’s the capital of Djibouti? What are the rules of probate?’ Ideally people would be too busy looking at my breasts…but that rather defeats the marvellous double edged irony of the T-shirt.
I am standing on one leg waiting to step forward and say something motivational to nearly 100 people who have turned up at the Cardiff School of Optometry and Vision for the opening of the ‘Sight of Emotion’ photographic exhibition when I have a realisation. You see, for a couple of weeks I have been trying to figure out what it is that my new perfume really smells of. I have got the ylang ylang and the hint of sandlewood,I have noted the musky vanilla but there is something ..else…and I’ve been wracking my brains trying to think what it is.
A second before I have to step out into the dazzle of other people’s eye lines I realise. Its soy sauce. A very expensive, organic Japanese sweet soy sauce to be sure but soy sauce none the less.
It makes sense. Ever since I started wearing it I have been cooking every meal in a wok (including breakfast) and when I have been out in company its takes only 10 minutes before someone orders sushi.
I am about to speak for 5 minutes about photography, art and disability and I smell like noodles.
(As it turns out no one seems to notice but afterwards the teriyaki chicken sticks fly off the buffet table. )
The exhibition is called ‘Sight of Emotion’; photographs by
Well..its been emotional. I’m off for some miso soup and bean curd.
I really don’t like the Pussycat Dolls because..well …because I have half a brain..but due to their very high, glossy, production values, I am still strangely drawn to them and have a horrible habit of finding myself humming their spanking the monkey, teasing the weasel, tossing the turkey, walking the dog, whipping the willy, wonking your cronker, yanking the crank, little ditties.
They have single bandedly promoted female betrayal, ‘no’ means ‘yes’ and women are refundable, replaceable and cheap, cheap, cheap with such unforgettable nasties as ‘Dontcha’ (as in ‘Dontcha’ wish your girlfriend was as hot as me’…what IS the opposite of ‘girl power’?)
However, I do have to confess to thinking that their latest ‘lets-ge-the-7-year-olds-into-thongs’ song had the lyric;
I wanna be famous
I wanna have ‘boobies’..
‘ I wanna have ‘boobies’?? Bloody hell, I thought. I have these women all wrong. Perhaps…they have …omigod..intellect. Perhaps this really was genius post modern satire! I went further.. and actually read an article and tried watching an interview in the hope that these women were actually secret ninja feminists and their songs were a sinister, absurdist take on the world of celebrity pop culture and fame.
Then I actually READ the lyrics. In fact they didn’t want ‘boobies’ (they already have them apparently)… they wanted ‘groupies’
When I grow up
I wanna have groupies
See…’groupie’s folks…’groupies’..… that’s not funny, witty or ironic (English ‘ironic’ not Allanis) . And it doesn’t scan.
Of course it gets worse..
When I grow up
when I step out on the scene
And that my friends, ain’t even English. It don’t even rhyme but hell they are very bendy, wear small clothes and do a marvellous selection of bottom jerks in stilletoes. Who am I trying to kid? I am very disappointed in the Pussycat dolls. They are not, as I thought for one brief glowing moment, subversive. They are just shit. And I still can’t purge that song-cum-advert -for-emptiness from my mind.
Thank you all of you for your thoughts and support! I actually enjoyed the interview although, having prepared for ethical, political debate and searching questions about my personal experiences in the field, I felt slightly deflated by a more surface, quick fire Q and A. I don’t know if they got the key of me so to speak.
However, it was great fun and no matter what I think I now have to wait for a couple of weeks. I will let you know in October when I hear.
And so after all that hype and nervous tension, I am here- flump, bump sat back on my bum in my flat, wading without enthusiasm through Guardian-Jobs-On-Line again just in case. ‘Flat and yet twitchy’, is how I described myself to a pal. It’s the feeling you get after huge amounts of adrenalin have surged through your system and yet you have not fought or fled..anywhere..
I do my laundry and mow the lawn. I cook. I then watch
a brave piece of investigative journalism on Channel 4. In Ethiopia the UN food aid is going to the wrong people. Millions starve, abused by government forces and the UN has yet to take a stand. They demanded a human rights report a year ago but its not yet appeared. The film crew walked 8 hours out into the bush to interview the dispersed and desperate villagers hounded by the government soldiers and rebels alike in this incredibly moving and powerful report. I sat with my fork half way to my mouth watching a distraught starving woman begging for help. ‘Bollocks,’ I thought putting the fork, dripping with succulent steak and organic purple sprouting broccoli down and pushing the plate to the side. ‘’ll eat it later during ‘Mock the Week’.
It’s important though that we cast a careful and continuous eye over this whole AID malarkey. The Aid business is a very, very big fat cash cow and it blatantly doesn’t work (a very few emergency scenarios asides). Where is the bloody money going year in and year out? Thousands of NGO’s in my hometown of Lusaka, upteen squillion four wheel drive vehicles with radio antennae whipping around in the wind and I still don’t see the majority of people’s living standards in any way changed. Corruption is still endemic and massive amounts of the AID money ends up firmly stuffed down the back of the wrong wallets. And what do we do? Give more money to yet another NGO to do the same shit. No joined up thinking.
OK, OK… I am just cross because someone raised my conscience during my supper. But I am not going to let it lie…. grumble…etc
I have been missing my old buddy Teelo these last few weeks. I especially wanted to tell him about this potential job. It is coming up to year since his death and it is beginning to sink in that we are never going to chew the fat about Obama, beer prices, parties we crashed, dance competitions we won…’the muzungu and the point five’. (White chick and mixed race Rasta). Other friends fe
This is Teelo and me and a bunch of impala in Ndola on a film recce in 2000. NB Castle and Mosi
Och well and aye and on we go and all that. Well not if you are a banker. H’oh nope Not if you are hedge fund manager. Mr. Pool your loot and leg it.
What on earth was Old Mugabe banging on about today? God he is one mean old sod – desperately wanting to say he had been coerced into the handshake by the colonial bastards and the enemies within but Mbeki kept giving him Chinese burns so he had to attempt enthusiasm… old goat but still with a scorpion sting (to mix animal metaphors). The heckles were louder but still long distance. No one quite sure how close they can get yet. Inflation in Zimbabwe at 30 million and now the credit grinding (I would say ‘crunching’ but then it sounds like a breakfast cereal) that will start to wilt the ability of the Diaspora to send money home. This is going to affect everyone Africa wide. There are hundreds of thousands of people absolutely dependent on families sending money home. That and food prices exponentially rising and … (I can hear my cousin now. She is yelling ‘ First off you said no talk of death for a while and two, stop with the gloom.always the gloom!’ Quit it!’ She is a New Yorker you know.)
So instead I am trying to unpick a misplaced belt loop from this dress I want to wear on Wednesday. I thought I’d go sombre and classic..but with Big Hair. I know..I should be brushing up on my interview technique but I am worried about the shoes…
Ohhhhhh wish me charm, wit, resourcefulness and the ability to articulate even under stress, to NOT walk into anything too obviously and to engage and enjoy…but most of all wish me luck!
Will let you know how it goes!
Ta for all the lovely comments folks… I certainly will try all the tips and I am already feeling annoyingly perkier today especially as I haven’t been sucked into an alternate universe or exploded.
Realising I couldn’t sustain that level of apocalyptic terror for two weeks, I had breakfast and put away the DVD horror film ‘Event Horizon’ which I had been watching for tips last night.
I am a bit confused. I assume this is all to further our knowledge of ..you know ..’stuff’ ..’quanta’…in order to eventually source infinite abundant free energy or open a hole into a fifth dimension we can shove all the NeoCons, Creationists and lunatic fringe religious fundamentalists in with a hearty ‘don’t -you -wish- you’d -been- more -open -minded- now’ guffaw.
And for those of you who just need to know the goats are alright.
** DR Congo frees goats from prison **A minister in DR Congo orders the release from prison of a dozen goats awaiting trial on charges of being sold illegally.<
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/em/fr/-/1/hi/world/africa/7607460.stm
>
No sun was able to squeeze through the chinks of the rain clouds hanging dolefully over Cambridge today. Even Dennis the squirrel is depressed. He crouched miserably on the bird table this morning looking up at the dripping sky and allowed the turtle doves to get away with all the sunflower seeds. (for the doves it was a bit of a coo….)
It gets to me too. The surge of energy I had at the weekend is draining away and I have embarked on a few nights of insomnia.
My insomnia is the rat in the kitchen, the mosquito in the bedroom and the cold sweat under one’s armpits after a terrible fright. My insomnia is that moment as you reach for the light in the darkest, stillest, strangest time of the night, when you think you feel a presence, see a form by the bed and even the light and the empty room doesn’t reassure you.
My insomnia is not creative. It hits when I am overtired and anxious and it refuses to allow me to tumble into deep sleep but doesn’t leave me awake enough to get up and go and do something useful. I want to get up and write but I can’t focus. I toss and turn and sigh and cry and deep breathe and visualise sheep and blue velvet (apparently this works for some people..you imagine a soft velvet wall of a cool colour and use your hands to write your name in huge letters o
My bouts of insomnia started when I was little in the suffocatingly hot nights of Zambia without air conditioning and were further compounded by endless nights at the ridiculously gothic girl’s boarding school I was sent to as a 10 years old. ‘Lights out’ at 8:00pm, horsehair mattresses, echoing dormitories either freezing cold or stuffy and hot, dreadful homesickness, rumours of ghosts, terror of double maths and French class ensured that sleep was extremely hard to come by.
When I can’t sleep now I am immediately that miserable child again. It is hard to keep perspective with a sudden pathological fear of French adverbs.
At five this morning I got up and did some stretches and remade my bed and then lay in it again for a couple of hours listening to the rain.
Tomorrow they smash atoms together in Geneva…perhaps its best to stay awake just in case….
It was for charity but even so you could see by the expressions of the gym reception staff that we had been deemed lunatic. We assessed each other and agreed with the reception staff. There were nearly 20 bikes ready and waiting but most people had paid their entry ticket and then stayed well away. I could hear their ghostly laughter even as the sound system started pounding out club classics circa 1998. However it was too late to unbuckle and flee. We had to spin.
Three hours later, two instructors, a dozen refills of the water bottles, a a clutch of energy bars and a banana and it was over. We high fived, shrieked with glee and promptly fell off the bikes our legs now made entirely of jelly.
The Arthur Rank Hospice…. Its for you baby.
Now wheres my bleeding gin and tonic…?