Confidence Tricks

Tanvir Naomi BushUncategorized 3 Comments

It is a very hot day and the woman who is leading the session for us long term, dole scum is fixated with the air conditioner. She is a large red-faced, golden haired, small -eyed woman in her mid 20’s who keeps informing us, for no particular reason ,that she was in the Girl Guides. She is breath takingly patronising and embodies the word ‘bustle’.
When later we learn she rows and mentors a group of army cadets a slow sad nod goes around the aged end of the table. By this time we are too beaten down to attempt eye contact.

We are doing penance for being on welfare. We are in a ‘Building Confidence for Job Interviews’ seminar.
Opposite me is gentle, white haired bespectacled man who mentions he is totally immersed in his community through his church. He has such a terrible palsy he cannot hold a pen which is how, I presume, he has found himself jobless for over 6 months.
‘Don’t you worry B, says golden ,Red-Face. ‘We’ll get you back in the game’. She actually pats him.
B looks anxious. I think he may be praying under his breath.

Ivor is on his second heart and again in his late 50’s early 60’s. When he arrives he takes 60 minutes to stop wheezing and get enough air in his lungs. In the break he heads out for a fag. He was a master printer. Now everything is digital and he’s not working.
‘We’ll find a way of transferring your skills.’ Red Face winks at him.
Ivor folds his arms over his new heart and scows.

There is a tiny exquisite anorexic who looks like Bambi made out of glass and china, a 21 year old woman with a brain injury, another with an anxiety disorder.

And me.

We start by ticking boxes on a personal skills sheet. I glance up at Red Face and realise I am ticking too many. I slow down. I don’t tick ‘happy’.

Group discussion begins. What did we want to be when we were young? (Zoologist.)
What would we do if we could do anything? (Bond villain)
We are asked about interview experiences.

I used to have these conversations when I was a teenager. It is all pleasant and fun and I learn a great deal about all the other people but I learn absolutely nothing about attending interviews apart from the fact preparation is important.

Some things you can’t prepare for. I attended a huge interview recently. At the interview two of the panel had cerebral palsy. The interview was being held in a huge room and with my vision the panel so far away were a little blurry. During my presentation the palsy people would occasionally jerk and twitch and I would stop politely thinking they had signalled me to ask a question.
They hadn’t. Confused I would start again.
Until the next twitch or jerk.
This carried on for some time.
It was a long interview.
I didn’t get the job but it was very funny.

At the end of the seminar Red Face whips out the evaluation forms and ‘helps’ the group fill them in.
What have you learn from this? I write ‘patience’ but Red Face comes over so I cross it out and write ‘always be prepared’. Her smile is dazzling.

Saturday night and i aint got no body.

Tanvir Naomi BushUncategorized 3 Comments

Summer on a Saturday night. I stand in my garden where all to me is a beautiful indeterminate, soft, green fuzz. In the neighbours’ gardens children sing and play and adults bang hammers and light fires; the smell of burnt sausages and tizz- crack of cans all around.

I should be watching the film on the DVD. It is on and playing but I can’t be still. Much as I love being alone NO ONE is that happy about being alone on a beautiful Saturday evening with the pollen count way up high.

‘You are not lonely’, says my body. ‘You have tummy ache. ‘

‘Ahh’, I say

‘No really,’ says my body. ‘Think about it.’

My face winks at me in the mirror; but more like a convict trying to convince a parole board.

Me: So I’m happy then…?

Body: Yep. Look, twirl. No…do it naked. See no one gives a shit…there you go. Wasn’t that fun. (You can put ‘em away now.)
Me: And that makes me happy?
Body: Ok ok…good grief woman..how difficult to please you are. Ok..well…feed..i mean food. Eat something delicious. Anything. Cook a whole chicken and eat both kinds of meat! Drink wine from the bottle. Don’t do the washing up.
Me: Why?
Body: For cripes sake! Because you can…on your own! No one cares…
Me: Well actually…that’s the point..the ‘no one caring’..
Body: Ok hell..err.. just twirl again while I’m thinking…

Face does a face shrug and winks again. It is slurring its winks. That is wine from the bottle for you.

Me: (infuriated) Why can’t I just admit to being lonely?

Body: God woman. You are in your late thirties..disabled, childless..broke. You will sound weak and desperate.

Me: …..and ..your point..

Body: Just thank .. just ..blessings…err… think of everything you have..how lucky you are…

Me: I am lucky. I know. I love my messed up crazy life. That is exactly why I want to sh…

Body: Well there you go.

Me: As I was saying, very lucky but I would like to shar..

Body: Don’t say that word.

Me: What word?

Body Don’t say ‘share’..

Me: Why not??

Body: Hell, I warned you. Right. Sit her down butt. I hate to do this but you leave me little choice…Oy brain…cue her in.

Cue: memory b roll film excerpts of almost every couple I’ve ever known leaving, cheating, fighting, weeping.

sfx: Silence

sfx: More silence
Sfx: Face gulping from wine bottle

Me: (slowly) yeah ..but at least they got some action…

Body: (hissing) It’s bloody stomach ache…. (aside) they don’t pay me enough)

Luck of the Irish

Tanvir Naomi BushDisability, Writing 1 Comment

I have a sore throat. Its sunny and I have a sore throat. Not only that but I also ache and want to sleep. All the time. And my nose is thinking of running.
Sunshine and snot do not, I tell thee, make for a good summer.And- she whimpers – things are not going too well in the old wallet. Today I had to wash my hair with soap and the dregs of a conditioner I found from a left over hair dye kit. (not that I dye my hair goddammit…!! I am a natural brassy blonde.) When I went outside I was smothered in aphids, which promptly swooned and stuck on the soapy residue. Even now I am finding the poor little blighters in my fringe.

Today I was walking to CAB and in that dark energy spot near where Dad’s tyre got slashed I saw a man on the ground and a large, red-faced man bending over him. I trotted forward trying not to swallow the aphids clustering around my barnet. The man on the ground was sitting up but disorientated. His forehead and nose were running blood. The red faced fat man looked to me as I drew close. I had my phone out and he nodded at it with relief. He was sweating and anxious.

‘I saw it happen. I was just over there and he literally stumbled and dived at the ground. Four people just walked past before I could get here. ‘
He was stuck on the fact he had seen four people walk past the accident. He wasn’t from around here.

We both got down on our knees to try and see where the man was hurt. He was called Paddy. He was irish. He was off his tits on Speical Brew. (I made that diagnosis from the fact he kept trying to drink the cans he had just bought even though it looked like he had fractured his wrist. I Know I know… can’t rule out diabetes, Parkinsons, concussion… but there was something those Special Brew cans.)

Holey Mother

Tanvir Naomi BushWriting 7 Comments

I am alone..finally after three weeks of constant high alert and squeezing between spaces and egos I am alone. The fridge in the empty flat buzzes and ticks. The turtle doves call softly. The wind knocks sunshine around in the garden… I feel my body bubble expand and burst open. Still in blue kimono dressing gown I sit in the middle of a Sunday morning and I let out a long breath…

Clotted cream and crab sandwiches

Tanvir Naomi BushDisability, Writing 4 Comments

Cambridge last week and Dad and I head over to the car and then he stops short. I look closer too and yes..someone has slashed our tyre. Not just slashed.. Eviscerated. Apparently they didn’t like us parking in front of their house. I can see their net curtains twitching as we struggle with the spanner and the flat, spare tyre and Dad’s knuckles get bloody trying to wind the ridiculous jack. I wonder if I should phone the cops but know they will not be able to prove anything. The man in the garage says it is likely the nasty neighbour will only come over and break my windows if we cause a scene…we decide to keep schtum.
The window of the tyre slasher’s house has a Union Jack flag in it. Ahh Britain.A few days later and in quite another Britain we are in the car with the sun blasting and the magnificent K in the back reading bits from the book ‘Land of Liberty?’ (Note the question mark. We both agree that historians really don’t know how to pitch a good title. The other course book he is delving into is called..get this little thriller…’The Whig Oligargy’ for crying out loud. Bet that shifts off the shelves…hmm)

Next to him on the back seat behind my dad, my brother snoozes on and off. He is mostly being mean and moody this holiday with only occasional flashes of his usual sweetness. He has a lot a lot a lot on his mind and there is not much I or anyone else in the car can do to ease his anxiety. To stop getting shouted at by him all the time I have reverted to popping the words ‘Dad says..’ into any sentence that involves an ask or a task. He doesn’t get angry if Dad is involved. Of course I overuse this and am caught out. Dad obviously didn’t ‘say’ don’t use Tanvir’s toothpaste…neither did he say ‘ its your round.’We eat crab sandwiches, ice cream and drink ale or cider everywhere: Honiton, Lyme Regis, Seaton, Beer, Sidmouth, and many small villages I can’t remember. (Bro and Dad in Branscombe)

The gorgeous fishing village of Beer is defiantly a favourite but there is that one moment when, desperate to stretch legs, the Magnificent K, my moody Bro and I look longingly at the half mile walk over the cliffs and I realise Dad can’t really do it. His is already stiff, his knees and feet ache.
‘Come on Dad’ says bro. ‘It’ll be fun’
‘He can’t do it, ‘ I say without thinking and kick myself. Hard.
‘I could do it..’ he says ..’ I just think I’d rather drive over and meet you.’
My heart does a small twist. Age is brutal. Rage rage…
The Beer Quarry was a hoot. Acres of man made tunnels, dark, dank and sppoooooky! Down we go..the Magnifecent K who is claustrophobic, me who sees nowt in the dark and Dad and Bro. There is a couple of little families.
‘Hey T’ says dad. ‘You just keep your eye on that little girl. You’ll be fine.’
. As the little girl heads off into the dark the lights in the heels of her trainers flash red. I grin at Dad. Nice one.
We cook each night in the ancient but sumptuous holiday cottage in Burwell (‘Love Cottage’ no less.). The floors slope from side to side like a ship and the heavy huge old timber beams knock the magnificent K nearly unconscious every time he stands up (he is 6’4’’ and by far the tallest of our family so it is entirely his own fault. I, being the shortest, end up having to sleep in the bunk bed. Bollocks.) We play cards and drink wine and eventually I even get up early enough to run a couple of times. It’s too late though … I have a distinct ale belly and some further roundness to my chops.

(Magnificent K plays close to his chest)
Then K and Bro head back to London and Dad and I are left , on the last day, whittling time and staring at cows passing the windows of the pub, trying and failing to outdo each other with dreadful puns about udders as we don’t really want to talk about that horrid unavoidable fact that Dad is getting on a bit and we won’t mention that he stumbled, slipped and nearly fell through a glass window earlier as we wandered around Sidmouth.
We could talk about me being a shiftless jobless state scrounger…and we do but only briefly as more cows low past and we are distracted by empty glasses.
I get the rounds in and he buys the fish supper.Chips and ale? You bet yer life.

 

Bit of a squeeze

Tanvir Naomi BushWriting 5 Comments

I’m on the 21:15 train from London to Cambridge and I find a whole four seat to stretch out in. I am in merry heaven but just as the doors close and I sigh with relief to be finally heading home, three rotund, rosy English middle managers squeeze in, pushing bags and coats and me into the far corner. They are tired and slightly pissed. They have been on a work jaunt to Paris. They want to chat. I try to feign sleep but there is no escape.

They prod me to get my views on speed dating and then try out questions on me in between abusing the French.
I.e:
‘God those Frenchies…a bunch of wastrels but they know how to entertain…’

(I start to turn pink- the carriage is full of sober French people who have all become rather still and attentive)

‘Gawd Colin..did you see those speedos those blokes were wearing on the barge? You wouldn’t catch me exposing my package..eh lady? (nudge wink…this man has elbows like sides of ham) eh eh?
Rightyho, we’ll ask you 5 questions each. I’ll start. Why don’t you have a nice young man to take you to Paris?’

‘Oh we can see where this is going Nick..get her phone number! (hysterical laughter) Bet she’d give it to you if you were a sodding stuck up Frenchie …’

You get the picture

At this point we have only just pulled out of the station. I look around for help and the beautiful, young and now grinning French couple sitting opposite me wink and slowly and deliberately give me a very Gallic shrug. Merde…je suis doomed.

(By the way folks I am off to Devon for a week and may or may not manage to post but will do my very best from the land of scumpy and Surfers Against Sewage.)

Pistons at dawn.

Tanvir Naomi BushWriting 1 Comment

I am not enamoured of steam engines. I don’t get a thrill out of the guts of old motor vehicles and nor do I give a fig for ancient aircraft. So when yesterday I was forced into a ‘family do’ at an air show in Shuttleworth I knew I was going to be in for a tad of a dull afternoon.

In fact as we arrived in the pouring rain to see hundreds of soggy anorak-clad oldies watching nothing happen from open aircraft hangers whilst munching on their carefully engineered packed lunches, I was hit by a wave of ennui so brutal I nearly fainted. The problem is I am a coward when it comes to certain kinds of boredom – basically stuff that involves engines. I would crack like a nut under interrogation if the torture consisted of watching motor racing or researching aerodynamics. I have tried to fake interest previously but I am past caring now. I am never going to be really interested in what makes a Tigermoth fly, no matter how handsome it looks.

‘Boring!’ I howled, like a five year old, tugging at my brother’s hand as we morosely lurched around the darkened hanger interiors looking at dusty German and British fighter planes.

‘Boring!’ I wailed as my father, having the time of his life skipped over shouting, ‘Hey have you seen the steam powered tractor?? Quick quick..its about to drive up and down the road for twenty minutes. It’s real coal you know….’

‘I’m dying here.’ I whinged at my mother on the phone as finally the skies cleared and some lunatic flew in spirals in something tiny and noisy above the crowd.
‘I can’t here you darling…is that a plane overhead?’

On the way home my brother poked me in the back and asked what on earth I would have rather been doing on a Sunday afternoon.
I thought about all the various things I would have rather been doing..most of them involving various methods of being asleep in a beautifully empty, quiet flat but I held my tongue.

And then there had been that one 1968 Wasp helicopter that the chap had actually ‘danced’ like some huge insect over the airfield. I hadn’t moaned once during his whole set. He even flew it backwards….I’m not sure if he meant to but it was very clever….

Holey father.

Tanvir Naomi BushMy Dad, Writing 6 Comments

My flat is too small for my father.

He is a guest so gets the only bedroom. I get the futon that seems to be made of rough chipboard with added concrete and I set up camp in the living room.

Each morning at 7:30 he is already awake and bored and ready to continue his holiday. My father has worse ADHD then a small child with a coke problem AND he is my father and wants constant companionship from whichever of his children is closest…….right now that would be me.

A Crock

Tanvir Naomi BushPhotography 2 Comments

I am here! I have just been doing a bit of dashing around. Will catch up tomorrow but in the meantime does anyone know what this tree is? I came across it in Kenya last December. They call it the Crocodile Tree…Isn’t it gorgeous!!