Posts
Monday, 24 November 2014
Just now...
Just now
The world may feel strange
The light and the darkness both
May seem
A trifle unreal.
You may be
Sleeping suddenly deeply again
Or lying wide wide awake
A staring mind in the night
Until the sun rises.
Just now
It may be hard to believe
That anything will ever feel
Comfortable and at peace again
Every breath you take now
Is ill-at-ease with itself.
You may be
Crying inside, or be
Too exhausted for
The effort of tears.
Just now
Each day is a new task
The effort you did not know
You were capable of making.
Just now you may
Want to be left alone
Or long for your friends, and fear
Above all else, solitude
And the void it brings.
Just now
I hope and pray
You'll have the support
You need; just that much,
No more, no less.
You have
The right to go through
The darkness, this night, with
The tools that work best for you.
And you may feel
No-one can ever know
What this has cost you,
This journey up
From the depths, to the moment when
Your head breaks the surface
And you can breathe easy again.
You are such strength
As others dream upon
And you will come though this.
It may all seem
Strange beyond belief
But you will live.
You will sleep sound again
You will find reasons to carry on again,
And smile, and breathe, and think,
No longer only to weep
Though that may be all you know
Just now.
Friday, 17 October 2014
Melissa Hamilton in "Manon"; wow...
Isn't a "Manon" a kind of chocolate? Something with praline and whipped cream enrobed in fine belgian choc? Delicious.
"Manon" the story is not exactly delicious; it's bittersweet even at its happiest moments, and deeply tragic by the end. At the moment the Royal Ballet are doing MacMillan's magnificent version and I've been twice, sad balletomane that I am.
I went with the DipGeek, a planned outing; we saw Laura Morera and Nehemiah Kish, innocent and unhappy as the lovers, and Riccardo Cervera as an insouciant Lescaut. But then on Monday I managed to get a returned ticket, to see one of my current dance idols, Melissa Hamilton, making her debut in the lead.
So if I am a sad balletomane? - so what. This was something not to be missed. And boy, do we have a Manon here! I know I'm one of her fangirls, but Ms Hamilton simply seized the part with both hands and made it her own. I was completely blown away.
She was going absolutely flat-out, technically - not a foot wrong, not a risk fudged - while dramatically, emotionally, this was as subtle and truthful an interpretation as I've ever seen. Her performance was alive with flickering feelings, right to her fingertips. She brought out little nuances, like the way the innocent girl, arriving in Paris in a pell-mell hurtle of excitement, cannot resist trying to show off her pretty new frock to her brother - only to realise within minutes that next to the glittery finery of the local whores she looks provincial and frumpy. And bang! she goes, like the kid she is, straight from unthinking happiness to frustrated dissatisfaction.
This was a very young Manon, in love but also very much swept up with being in love, and visibly steeling herself to the touch of Monsieur GM with his creepy fetishes and bullying dominance. Right through Act One there was a vividly real sense of someone trying to keep abreast of things, trying to make decisions on the spur of the moment, trying to stay ahead without really knowing what she's doing. Circumstances keep changing, complications keep arriving, and she is too un-worldy-wise to realise she cannot have it all, despite the deepening mess, until it is horribly, painfully too late. By the end we were going full-on for raw danger; the famous flips and plunging lifts of the last pas de deux were taken right to the line, as they need to be, to give the last scene the utter desperation it needs. Seriously; it needs to be scary, that scene, and it was. I haven't seen a Manon come that close to dashing her brains out on the stage for a while...
She had an excellent Lescaut in Bennet Gartside, who I didn't know would be dancing this role until I opened my cast sheet; that was a nice surprise to arrive to. He's matured into a terrific actor and still has the dancing chops to pull off a superbly naturalistic, tumbling drunk scene, making all those horrendous off-balance leaps look easy - and phenomenally real. If anyone in the company is going to step into Gary Avis' shoes in time, Mr Gartside might be the one to do it.
Mr Avis was excelling himself as usual (if that isn't a contradiction in terms) as an utterly repellent Monsieur GM. I wouldn't ever have expected to say this as a compliment, but he was rape culture personified. Through great chunks of the brothel scene my eyes kept straying from the merrymaking of the whores and their clients, to watch the interactions between him and Manon. This was a real relationship, subtle and full of tension, a constantly-shifting unadmitted power struggle going on. One got a very clear sense of what has happened to Manon in the last few weeks, and a real premonition of what might have happened in the succeeding months, if she hadn't taken another spur-of-the-moment gamble and tried to have it all.
I would have liked to see Miss Hamilton paired with a more emotionally responsive Des Grieux. Matthew Golding certainly seems to be a strong, safe partner (& my god, you need one with some of the lifts in "Manon") but his acting was a bit one-dimensional for my tastes. Mr Kish, a couple of weeks before, brought a low-key sincerity and an air of innocent, well-intentioned sweetness to this foolish young man; one watched his characterisation and thought "By gum, Des Grieux is an idiot" but one also felt for him desperately. I didn't really feel for Mr Golding, and that's a pity.
But by and large it was a tremendous performance. As usual all the bit parts were beautifully done. As usual Gary Avis acted his socks off. And as usual Miss Hamilton left me stunned, by her wonderful dancing and her heartfelt dramatic instincts.
The rest of my week has been busy at work and I am tending to flop at home. I'm still very tired. I've just been for a drink after work with the Press Office team, followed by pizza and salad 'cos it's Friday. My internet connection at home seems to be okay tonight, after being distinctly off-colour lately. And I have kitten-sitting duties this weekend. So things aren't too bad at all, all things considered. And now I am going to bed.
Sunday, 12 October 2014
A day out, and enjoying the little things
Yesterday, for a change, instead of doing my grocery shopping, cleaning, running the washing machine, etc, as per any normal Saturday, I decided to take myself off for a day out.
That makes it sound rather momentous, which I suppose it isn't really. But in an odd way it felt as though it was. Life is short and sometimes hard, and at the moment there seem to be so many troubles and disasters in the world outside my own little life, most of which I am powerless to do anything about. On Friday one of my colleagues quoted "Firefly" at me, and the knowledge that I'm working with a fellow-Browncoat made me grin for about the next hour. Little moments like that can uplift a day, and sometimes, at times like these, one can simply miss them as they pass by. I don't think it is hiding one's head in the sand, to want to see some good amid the gloom. The pleasure those simple few words gave me outweighed quite a few rough moments during the working day, and it reminded me how seldom one indulges oneself to stop and look at the good things as they flash by. I want to find things to give me hope and moments of pleasure, to counteract the knowledge of so much violence and cruelty, so much sickness and sadness. To have those tiny flickers of satori, even if of the most simple and minor nature. To say "Give me some happiness, give me some tiny epiphanies, as I slog through this week, this month, this year. Let my life be about the journey, not the goal; let the journey not be devoid of good things, and let me have the time and the energy to notice them."
So I didn't do any of my duties, I was self-indulgent, and I enjoyed the simple things. I had a lie-in with a book, and proper coffee and hot buttered toast for breakfast, and then a leisurely shower with some new smellies from Lush; and I went to the V&A.
Part of the Tube was out of action, so I took the bus to Hammersmith. I sat on the top deck and watched autumn leaves go by, and people on the Chiswick High Road doing their shopping or having coffee out. It had poured first thing, but by late morning it was bright and sunny, and all the cafes and restaurants seemed to be doing a roaring trade. At Hammersmith I changed onto the Piccadilly Line and went through to South Ken, and went and had an early lunch at the Kensington Creperie. My neighbours at the next table were French, and terribly Gallic with it, noisy and emphatic and talking with their hands, which certainly added to the ambience. I had a savoury crepe with sundried tomatoes and olives and pesto and cheese, a glass of cold lager, and then (because I am a pig) a second crepe filled with cherry jam and dark chocolate chips. At the other neighbour table were a group of students all eating dessert crepes and huge ice-creams, all of which they religiously photographed and tweeted before eating. They weren't as talkative as the French group, but at one point I did hear one of them say "So are we going shopping or are we going to meet Lee at the Natural History Museum and help him pick up girls?" The general consensus seemed to be for shopping. I wondered why Lee needed help picking up girls in the NHM? And is the NHM a pick-up shop? - have I been missing a trick? I wonder which museum is the pick-up shop for forty-somethings?
I walked up the road belching in a most unfeminine manner, and had an afternoon of Constable paintings, Indian sculptures and wonderful fashion. No pick-ups in the V&A, just lots of food for the mind and the eyes. The current Constable show has a lot of his little oil sketches, which are marvellous, and a lot of instances of a preparatory sketch, an oil sketch, a full-size study and a final painting, all shown side-by-side; fascinating. There are also a lot of his copies from other artists, including a drawing he did when he was about 18 which is endearingly bad. Even Jove nods, and even John Constable had to start somewhere.
I wandered after that through the big galleries of historic Indian arts and crafts and scultpures, and finished up in the fashion section. It was too late by then to go round the special display of wedding dresses through the ages, so I just went on mooching. There's something very satisfying about seeing perfect cutting and elegant styling in something like a suit or a coat; and of course the party dresses and cocktail outfits and so on are always gorgeous. At the moment one of the 1940s cases has two Utility suits, one for a lady and one for a gentleman; it's salutary to realise how elegant, to modern eyes, this supposedly unflattering clothing seems. I would have had a deal of trouble, in times of rationing, being a distinctly larger lady these days; just to make a neat knee-length Utility skirt for a big pair of hips like mine would need an extra half-yard compared to a "standard" size, and that would have meant saving up coupons a bit longer. But when one tends to dress, as I do, like a parrot, with eclectic colours and patterns and styles thrown-on anyhow, it's fascinating to study the careful colour choices, precision of cutting, and clarity of line and silhouette of earlier fashions; and maybe I can learn something from them, too.
Then home, with very tired feet. My new shoes (thank you, Hotter!) are wonderfully comfortable, but even in the best footgear Museum-foot strikes eventually. So I finished off my indulgent day by eating a big bowl of noodles and an apple, writing up my diary, watching a little idle tv and having an early night. I then slept for over ten hours.
It's no good pretending otherwise; I am tired. This has been a stressful, draining year for me. Over the next few months at work I need to get my head round the changes in my role, and in my spare time I need to focus on getting some rest, eating healthily, and doing things that make me feel happy rather than duties that make me feel harrassed and strapped for time. And carry on with my writing, of course.
That makes it sound rather momentous, which I suppose it isn't really. But in an odd way it felt as though it was. Life is short and sometimes hard, and at the moment there seem to be so many troubles and disasters in the world outside my own little life, most of which I am powerless to do anything about. On Friday one of my colleagues quoted "Firefly" at me, and the knowledge that I'm working with a fellow-Browncoat made me grin for about the next hour. Little moments like that can uplift a day, and sometimes, at times like these, one can simply miss them as they pass by. I don't think it is hiding one's head in the sand, to want to see some good amid the gloom. The pleasure those simple few words gave me outweighed quite a few rough moments during the working day, and it reminded me how seldom one indulges oneself to stop and look at the good things as they flash by. I want to find things to give me hope and moments of pleasure, to counteract the knowledge of so much violence and cruelty, so much sickness and sadness. To have those tiny flickers of satori, even if of the most simple and minor nature. To say "Give me some happiness, give me some tiny epiphanies, as I slog through this week, this month, this year. Let my life be about the journey, not the goal; let the journey not be devoid of good things, and let me have the time and the energy to notice them."
So I didn't do any of my duties, I was self-indulgent, and I enjoyed the simple things. I had a lie-in with a book, and proper coffee and hot buttered toast for breakfast, and then a leisurely shower with some new smellies from Lush; and I went to the V&A.
Part of the Tube was out of action, so I took the bus to Hammersmith. I sat on the top deck and watched autumn leaves go by, and people on the Chiswick High Road doing their shopping or having coffee out. It had poured first thing, but by late morning it was bright and sunny, and all the cafes and restaurants seemed to be doing a roaring trade. At Hammersmith I changed onto the Piccadilly Line and went through to South Ken, and went and had an early lunch at the Kensington Creperie. My neighbours at the next table were French, and terribly Gallic with it, noisy and emphatic and talking with their hands, which certainly added to the ambience. I had a savoury crepe with sundried tomatoes and olives and pesto and cheese, a glass of cold lager, and then (because I am a pig) a second crepe filled with cherry jam and dark chocolate chips. At the other neighbour table were a group of students all eating dessert crepes and huge ice-creams, all of which they religiously photographed and tweeted before eating. They weren't as talkative as the French group, but at one point I did hear one of them say "So are we going shopping or are we going to meet Lee at the Natural History Museum and help him pick up girls?" The general consensus seemed to be for shopping. I wondered why Lee needed help picking up girls in the NHM? And is the NHM a pick-up shop? - have I been missing a trick? I wonder which museum is the pick-up shop for forty-somethings?
I walked up the road belching in a most unfeminine manner, and had an afternoon of Constable paintings, Indian sculptures and wonderful fashion. No pick-ups in the V&A, just lots of food for the mind and the eyes. The current Constable show has a lot of his little oil sketches, which are marvellous, and a lot of instances of a preparatory sketch, an oil sketch, a full-size study and a final painting, all shown side-by-side; fascinating. There are also a lot of his copies from other artists, including a drawing he did when he was about 18 which is endearingly bad. Even Jove nods, and even John Constable had to start somewhere.
I wandered after that through the big galleries of historic Indian arts and crafts and scultpures, and finished up in the fashion section. It was too late by then to go round the special display of wedding dresses through the ages, so I just went on mooching. There's something very satisfying about seeing perfect cutting and elegant styling in something like a suit or a coat; and of course the party dresses and cocktail outfits and so on are always gorgeous. At the moment one of the 1940s cases has two Utility suits, one for a lady and one for a gentleman; it's salutary to realise how elegant, to modern eyes, this supposedly unflattering clothing seems. I would have had a deal of trouble, in times of rationing, being a distinctly larger lady these days; just to make a neat knee-length Utility skirt for a big pair of hips like mine would need an extra half-yard compared to a "standard" size, and that would have meant saving up coupons a bit longer. But when one tends to dress, as I do, like a parrot, with eclectic colours and patterns and styles thrown-on anyhow, it's fascinating to study the careful colour choices, precision of cutting, and clarity of line and silhouette of earlier fashions; and maybe I can learn something from them, too.
Then home, with very tired feet. My new shoes (thank you, Hotter!) are wonderfully comfortable, but even in the best footgear Museum-foot strikes eventually. So I finished off my indulgent day by eating a big bowl of noodles and an apple, writing up my diary, watching a little idle tv and having an early night. I then slept for over ten hours.
It's no good pretending otherwise; I am tired. This has been a stressful, draining year for me. Over the next few months at work I need to get my head round the changes in my role, and in my spare time I need to focus on getting some rest, eating healthily, and doing things that make me feel happy rather than duties that make me feel harrassed and strapped for time. And carry on with my writing, of course.
Tuesday, 30 September 2014
Encore une fois
...I am slightly tipsy again.
My excuse this time is the leaving do of another colleague I'm fond of; Amazing Hair Woman. Who is off to spend nine months in Baku organising some kind of massive arts festival. It's a simply brilliant opportunity for her, but she will be missed.
Am going to try and exercise a bit of self-cntrol, anyway, and not ramble about any of my colleagues.
It's been a busy couple of days; my weekend already feels a long time ago. I had a very domestic Saturday (cleaning, cooking, sewing, grocery shopping, honestly I'm a bloody paragon of Victorian virtues). On Sunday I had a further list of useful sensible jobs to do; but it was such a beautiful day that I thought "The hell with this" and instead I went out and walked into Richmond along the Thames path. I picked blackberries and took photos, and strolled in the sunshine, and when I got into Richmond I got fish and chips, which I ate out of the paper, sitting on the Green. Then I bought some more groceries in the health food shop, and came home to cook my blackberries. So I still got a bit of the domesticry crammed in. But mostly it was a day of slow, peaceful strolling along the river.
It was the kind of perfect autumn day when the sky is clear brilliant blue and the Thames is silver, and it's warm but not too hot, and the leaves are just starting to turn. The thorn trees were scarlet with haws and the air was full of the sound of robins whistling.
It was late enough in the season that the berrying was quite thin pickings. I had to walk slowly, searching with a steady gaze; half switched-off, half-meditation. I could feel my mind emptying of all my worries and concerns, settling into a state of empty calm, at one with the yellow leaves, the cobwebs and silky heads of old-man's-beard, and the singing birds. I strolled and gazed, and picked a berry here and there. By the time I got to Richmond I had almost a pound, but I don't think there'll be any more to be had this year.
I didn't see any sloes; but I've made damson gin this year (always assuming it turns out okay) so maybe I can manage without sloe gin as well.
But anyway, Amazing Hair Woman has gone the way of the Redhead and La Francaise and The Lovely Paul, on to fresh fields and pastures new, and I am sticking around. I have work again tomorrow, so I had better stop daydreaming about how nice it was being out in the sunshine and the fresh air on Sunday, and put myself to bed.
Friday, 26 September 2014
A busy couple of weeks
By gum, I am full of pizza.
Thank the Gods, it's Friday.
It's been a hectic couple of weeks and I am worn out. I should have been on annual leave right now, and in Greece, for a fortnight; but things have worked out differently in the end and I'm here instead.
I hardly know where to begin. There are things where I'm not sure how much it's okay for me to say. I was interviewed for my job, and I've been told verbally how I did, but not officially in writing. Some of my colleagues are in the same boat and others haven't been told yet, some of them because they've only just been interviewed. In theory the new structure for our department is formally anounced next week; so I think I should probably do well not to talk about it until then.
The whole business of getting thus far has been horribly drawn-out. Different departments started their restructure programmes at different times, and some aren't as advanced as ours. I cannot wait for it all to be over, and I'm sure I am not the only person who feels that way. I understand the need to do this, I even agree with it; but it's no less exhausting and depressing for that.
Meanwhile, I've had a good week in other ways. I got some things done at work that I wanted to get done, wrote most of another chapter at home, of something that had got bogged-down, and had a couple of drinks with some colleagues tonight followed by a very self-indulgent pizza supper. The weather has been bright and cheerful too, and the first autumn colour is staring to gild the streets and the gardens, and the Gardens too. The autumn festival, the Intoxication Season, is excellent, too, with some really good displays and a terrific programme of talks at the weekends. The autumn theatre season starts next week for me, too, with "Manon" at Covent Garden with the DipGeek. I am tired-out, but on balance it's been a good week, at least on a personal level (the international situation doesn't bear thinking about, but this is not a socio-political blog).
I think the worst thing that has happened to me was this morning, when I went to a colleague's baby shower and unexpectedly the chap I've been trying not-to-have the crush on walked in. I was so taken aback I could hardly look at him at first. Then there came a moment when he was nearby, taking some grapes from a dish, and I wanted to say something sensible and friendly, something that would signal that I just want to be friends; but my eye fell on his hands, as he stood there peacefully picking grapes from the bunch, and my idiotic brain was completely paralysed by the sight. All I could think was damn-you-have-such-attractive-hands... Nothing intelligent occured to me at all; nothing that was adult and friendly and devoid of embarrassing overtones. I am hopeless.
I do accept, rationally, that he isn't interested in me in the way I am in him. But my irrational hind-brain is rushing about in bearskins howling, it would seem. Damn it, calm down, you.
Apparently his office is being moved, though; he's going to be in the same building as me soon. So I will have plenty of opportunity to teach myself to be calm and adult and a good colleague, and not a mad hairy crazy cavewoman. I vow to do better. After all, good grief, I don't even know if he's gay or straight or any one of the myriad nuances in between. It simply won't do to be cavewoman Ims, acting out and jangling my beads and waving my fancy flint hand-axe. He's a nice man, he deserves better than that; and so do I. Friendship's the thing. That fing wot grown-ups do. You can do this, Ims.
Thank the Gods, it's Friday.
It's been a hectic couple of weeks and I am worn out. I should have been on annual leave right now, and in Greece, for a fortnight; but things have worked out differently in the end and I'm here instead.
I hardly know where to begin. There are things where I'm not sure how much it's okay for me to say. I was interviewed for my job, and I've been told verbally how I did, but not officially in writing. Some of my colleagues are in the same boat and others haven't been told yet, some of them because they've only just been interviewed. In theory the new structure for our department is formally anounced next week; so I think I should probably do well not to talk about it until then.
The whole business of getting thus far has been horribly drawn-out. Different departments started their restructure programmes at different times, and some aren't as advanced as ours. I cannot wait for it all to be over, and I'm sure I am not the only person who feels that way. I understand the need to do this, I even agree with it; but it's no less exhausting and depressing for that.
Meanwhile, I've had a good week in other ways. I got some things done at work that I wanted to get done, wrote most of another chapter at home, of something that had got bogged-down, and had a couple of drinks with some colleagues tonight followed by a very self-indulgent pizza supper. The weather has been bright and cheerful too, and the first autumn colour is staring to gild the streets and the gardens, and the Gardens too. The autumn festival, the Intoxication Season, is excellent, too, with some really good displays and a terrific programme of talks at the weekends. The autumn theatre season starts next week for me, too, with "Manon" at Covent Garden with the DipGeek. I am tired-out, but on balance it's been a good week, at least on a personal level (the international situation doesn't bear thinking about, but this is not a socio-political blog).
I think the worst thing that has happened to me was this morning, when I went to a colleague's baby shower and unexpectedly the chap I've been trying not-to-have the crush on walked in. I was so taken aback I could hardly look at him at first. Then there came a moment when he was nearby, taking some grapes from a dish, and I wanted to say something sensible and friendly, something that would signal that I just want to be friends; but my eye fell on his hands, as he stood there peacefully picking grapes from the bunch, and my idiotic brain was completely paralysed by the sight. All I could think was damn-you-have-such-attractive-hands... Nothing intelligent occured to me at all; nothing that was adult and friendly and devoid of embarrassing overtones. I am hopeless.
I do accept, rationally, that he isn't interested in me in the way I am in him. But my irrational hind-brain is rushing about in bearskins howling, it would seem. Damn it, calm down, you.
Apparently his office is being moved, though; he's going to be in the same building as me soon. So I will have plenty of opportunity to teach myself to be calm and adult and a good colleague, and not a mad hairy crazy cavewoman. I vow to do better. After all, good grief, I don't even know if he's gay or straight or any one of the myriad nuances in between. It simply won't do to be cavewoman Ims, acting out and jangling my beads and waving my fancy flint hand-axe. He's a nice man, he deserves better than that; and so do I. Friendship's the thing. That fing wot grown-ups do. You can do this, Ims.
Sunday, 14 September 2014
Tired and in reflective mood
A while since I wrote; life has been busy and work has been hectic.
I'm pretty tired today. I went down to Dorchester and back yesterday, to go to the wedding of two very dear friends in Tolpuddle.
It was a lovely wedding, and because I was booked on a train home fairly early in the evening I was able to leave before the drinking got too serious or the crowd got too overwhelming. I even got to have proper conversations with two interesting people (as well as the bride and groom, obviously!), which is quite satisfying for someone who looks at a mass of strangers at a social event and wants to run away.
It seems that my long-term policy is paying off gradually, over the years; accepting that I am shy and that's my nature, and then finding things I can do, like have a chat to one person instead of trying to socialise with everyone. I envy the sociable; all sorts of things in life must be easier for them. But I am what I am and I too have my strengths.
I remember the glory days of Playcraft and how much I enjoyed get-ins and get-outs, and after-production parties; I had no problem with those crowds, but that was working with people I knew, doing something we all loved, and making whoopie afterwards. A party with a crowd of people almost none of whom I had ever met before was a different matter entirely.
There was a time I would have ended up backing out of going to my friends' wedding altogether, because of that. But as I say, I have been working on this for a long time, this business of finding coping strategies for being an introvert. And it is working; because instead of hating it, I'm genuinely glad I went.
It was a lovely wedding. The bride and groom were radiant, and very elegant. The weather held fine, dry and warm and mostly sunny, the church and the reception venue were both lovely, and the wedding ceremony itself was touching, a nice blend of very traditional and some individual notes. The flowers and other styled things all looked great. There was a lot of very pleasant bubbly to drink, and plenty of olives, cherry toms and cheese straws to eat with the drinks. I had to leave before the sit-down meal started, but I got a Cornish pastie for the train back, so I was okay. It was nice.
My other big bit of news is that I have an interview on Tuesday for the new role that my current one is metamorphosing into. The job is actually changing in exactly the way I would have liked it to, if I'd been able to cherry-pick the things I'd like to do more of. So I do hope that interview goes well! The restructure at work is slowly beginning to get sorted out, at least in our section. It's a protracted business, though. Some departments have only just begun on the consultation stage. But, as I was trying to explain to another friend a few days ago, it's surely better in the long term for this to get a bit dragged-out, but be done properly, or at least as well as it can be, than for it to be rushed, and possibly bodged, because the people at the top making the decisions are scared of missing deadlines they themselves set. Whatever happens, in a situation like this, junior people like me are going to feel scared and uncertain. At least this way we can have some hope that the final result will achieve some useful goals.
In the meantime life and work go on, steadily, and it's good to have plenty to keep busy with. I've just acquired a nice task, drafting text for a new leaflet and searching out a range of possible illustrations. Just the kind of thing I love doing.
There's been one piece of really awful news, though. A colleague from the Jodrell lab, a gifted scientist who was highly respected in his field and much-liked at work, has died very suddenly. Nigel was a lovely bloke, and I'm so grieved for his poor family. He used to run our Christmas choir. It just won't be the same without his enthusiasm at rehearsals, and his very beautiful voice in the final carol service.
I've seldom met anyone who had such a talent for helping people find the music in themselves and bring it out. A lot of very musical people are downright snotty about the well-meaning amateur singer with the strong but not-very-good singing voice (i.e. the likes of me). Nigel was tirelessly encouraging, and never, ever, sniffy; he always found something good to say, even if it was only "You've got all the words right!"
I wish I'd told him how much he helped me feel better about my rather odd voice, simply by helping me try, and not blenching at the initial sound as others have done. Now I'll never be able to do that. I'm sad to remember the inner prompting in me that told me not to talk to him because he couldn't possibly be interested in anything I had to say. What a shitty little inner prompting that was. Doesn't everyone like to be thanked for their help?
It's really very stupid, and in a strange way almost selfish, to refuse to thank someone for their kindness or their support, on the grounds that they wouldn't demean themself to pay attention. It's hiding one's own sense of inadequacy behind an assumption of arrogance on the other person's part; and I don't believe Nigel was ever arrogant, so how stupid and how mean to have behaved as if he was, merely out of cowardice.
I say to myself, wake up, woman! Life is ephemeral! It is fragile and very short, and can be cut-off still shorter without any warning. So befriend those you want to know better, love those that you love, and don't be ashamed. Be good to yourself and to others, and be kind, in memory of the kindness of those now gone. Live well and embrace life; embrace all things. If an inner prompting tells you "Don't! You mustn't!" about doing anything that is in essence good, then question that inner prompting closely, and be prepared to ignore it, no matter how scary that feels. Don't shut yourself away inside with your private fear and pain and let them grow until they use up all the oxygen. Seek happiness; and open the doors, and live in the world.
I think of the chap I like; of the crush that has now settled to manageable proportions again. I think of how interesting he is, and how ridiculous it is that having a crush has led me to hide from him and not to seek his friendship, although he's someone well worth knowing. I want to go to him and say "I'm so sorry if this is embarrassing. But I wish I could get to know you better. You're interesting and I like the way your mind works; I appreciate knowing you so much. I'd like very much to be friends."
But I'm not going to be able to do any such thing! That's going way beyond thanking someone for their help. It's just not done to say something that could be so embarrassing to the other party.
So much for that challenge of working on my shyness. So much for opening the doors and living in the world. I want to reach out; but I just haven't got the guts.
I'm tired. Maybe it will seem better in the morning.
I'm pretty tired today. I went down to Dorchester and back yesterday, to go to the wedding of two very dear friends in Tolpuddle.
It was a lovely wedding, and because I was booked on a train home fairly early in the evening I was able to leave before the drinking got too serious or the crowd got too overwhelming. I even got to have proper conversations with two interesting people (as well as the bride and groom, obviously!), which is quite satisfying for someone who looks at a mass of strangers at a social event and wants to run away.
It seems that my long-term policy is paying off gradually, over the years; accepting that I am shy and that's my nature, and then finding things I can do, like have a chat to one person instead of trying to socialise with everyone. I envy the sociable; all sorts of things in life must be easier for them. But I am what I am and I too have my strengths.
I remember the glory days of Playcraft and how much I enjoyed get-ins and get-outs, and after-production parties; I had no problem with those crowds, but that was working with people I knew, doing something we all loved, and making whoopie afterwards. A party with a crowd of people almost none of whom I had ever met before was a different matter entirely.
There was a time I would have ended up backing out of going to my friends' wedding altogether, because of that. But as I say, I have been working on this for a long time, this business of finding coping strategies for being an introvert. And it is working; because instead of hating it, I'm genuinely glad I went.
It was a lovely wedding. The bride and groom were radiant, and very elegant. The weather held fine, dry and warm and mostly sunny, the church and the reception venue were both lovely, and the wedding ceremony itself was touching, a nice blend of very traditional and some individual notes. The flowers and other styled things all looked great. There was a lot of very pleasant bubbly to drink, and plenty of olives, cherry toms and cheese straws to eat with the drinks. I had to leave before the sit-down meal started, but I got a Cornish pastie for the train back, so I was okay. It was nice.
My other big bit of news is that I have an interview on Tuesday for the new role that my current one is metamorphosing into. The job is actually changing in exactly the way I would have liked it to, if I'd been able to cherry-pick the things I'd like to do more of. So I do hope that interview goes well! The restructure at work is slowly beginning to get sorted out, at least in our section. It's a protracted business, though. Some departments have only just begun on the consultation stage. But, as I was trying to explain to another friend a few days ago, it's surely better in the long term for this to get a bit dragged-out, but be done properly, or at least as well as it can be, than for it to be rushed, and possibly bodged, because the people at the top making the decisions are scared of missing deadlines they themselves set. Whatever happens, in a situation like this, junior people like me are going to feel scared and uncertain. At least this way we can have some hope that the final result will achieve some useful goals.
In the meantime life and work go on, steadily, and it's good to have plenty to keep busy with. I've just acquired a nice task, drafting text for a new leaflet and searching out a range of possible illustrations. Just the kind of thing I love doing.
There's been one piece of really awful news, though. A colleague from the Jodrell lab, a gifted scientist who was highly respected in his field and much-liked at work, has died very suddenly. Nigel was a lovely bloke, and I'm so grieved for his poor family. He used to run our Christmas choir. It just won't be the same without his enthusiasm at rehearsals, and his very beautiful voice in the final carol service.
I've seldom met anyone who had such a talent for helping people find the music in themselves and bring it out. A lot of very musical people are downright snotty about the well-meaning amateur singer with the strong but not-very-good singing voice (i.e. the likes of me). Nigel was tirelessly encouraging, and never, ever, sniffy; he always found something good to say, even if it was only "You've got all the words right!"
I wish I'd told him how much he helped me feel better about my rather odd voice, simply by helping me try, and not blenching at the initial sound as others have done. Now I'll never be able to do that. I'm sad to remember the inner prompting in me that told me not to talk to him because he couldn't possibly be interested in anything I had to say. What a shitty little inner prompting that was. Doesn't everyone like to be thanked for their help?
It's really very stupid, and in a strange way almost selfish, to refuse to thank someone for their kindness or their support, on the grounds that they wouldn't demean themself to pay attention. It's hiding one's own sense of inadequacy behind an assumption of arrogance on the other person's part; and I don't believe Nigel was ever arrogant, so how stupid and how mean to have behaved as if he was, merely out of cowardice.
I say to myself, wake up, woman! Life is ephemeral! It is fragile and very short, and can be cut-off still shorter without any warning. So befriend those you want to know better, love those that you love, and don't be ashamed. Be good to yourself and to others, and be kind, in memory of the kindness of those now gone. Live well and embrace life; embrace all things. If an inner prompting tells you "Don't! You mustn't!" about doing anything that is in essence good, then question that inner prompting closely, and be prepared to ignore it, no matter how scary that feels. Don't shut yourself away inside with your private fear and pain and let them grow until they use up all the oxygen. Seek happiness; and open the doors, and live in the world.
I think of the chap I like; of the crush that has now settled to manageable proportions again. I think of how interesting he is, and how ridiculous it is that having a crush has led me to hide from him and not to seek his friendship, although he's someone well worth knowing. I want to go to him and say "I'm so sorry if this is embarrassing. But I wish I could get to know you better. You're interesting and I like the way your mind works; I appreciate knowing you so much. I'd like very much to be friends."
But I'm not going to be able to do any such thing! That's going way beyond thanking someone for their help. It's just not done to say something that could be so embarrassing to the other party.
So much for that challenge of working on my shyness. So much for opening the doors and living in the world. I want to reach out; but I just haven't got the guts.
I'm tired. Maybe it will seem better in the morning.
Wednesday, 27 August 2014
Epic fail, plus sewing projects
I've been pretty busy at work this week, and this afternoon I managed to lash something up on Outlook. I'd had a personal email I wanted to answer, from one of my best friends; I dashed off a quick reply and sent it; and it bounced. No idea why (computers are weird).
So, irritably, as I was trying not to take extra time over it, I went >select all > copy all > new email > paste, entered the first two letters of the intended recipient's name into the "To" box and clicked enter as her name came up, and sent it. Only to see, next moment, that I had sent it to the wrong person. Said best friend's name begins with the same two letters as a colleague at work's name. I email her a lot (because best friends, yup?); but I also email him a lot (because colleague of vital importance). It turns out they are running neck-and-neck in my contacts list for that initial.
I tried to recall the email, but in the thirty seconds or so when I was still sitting frozen, staring at my screen and thinking "No... no... noo" he had already opened it. "Recall email" doesn't work once the email has been opened. Oh sh*t.
Scream at computer. Write hasty grovelling & embarrassed apology. Cross all available digits and wait.
I imagine he was still reading, and thinking "I don't need to know this, and my mother is not being a goose about my wedding - my wedding?!? - and why would I need lace and jam jars?" and contemplating how to tell me I'd cocked up, when he got the apology. He was, of course, a complete gentleman about it, so it isn't an absolute disaster.
But it is utterly mortifying to do something so bloody stupid; and if I can do it once, I could do it again. And I could do it in far worse ways. It's really shaken my self-esteem to make such an idiotic mistake, just because I'm tired and stressed and trying to do something in a hurry. I thought I was an efficient, professional person who didn't balls things up. Ha-bloody-ha, so much for that idea.
I suppose it is good for one, to be reminded that one is just as capable of making a really imbecilic mistake as anybody else. If even Jove nods, then common-or-garden mortal Ims is bound to, and it's a kind of mild hubris to think I can't.
I still wanted to weep for a while afterwards, though. Epic bloody fail, woman. Epic.
I came home, ate felafels, felt disconsolate and incompetant, and watched "Great British Bake-Off", which is schadenfreude of the first water in such situations.
I've been trying to cheer myself up, since then, by getting on with some of my sewing. I bought a dress in the sales for £11; when I tried it on in the shop it was one of those garments that don't quite work, but I could see it had the potential to be something rather smart, with a little help. So I bought it anyway, and am adjusting it. I've taken off the sleeves and taken out the zip, and I'm refitting the waistline and the bust darts, and turning the edges of the shoulders under to make it sleeveless. It's a really unusual fabric, a screen-printed design in grey with green orchids. I think it's going to be rather snazzy when I finish.
I'm also engaged on cannibalising two other old dresses to make a third; when finished this will have a rather 1920's cut with no waist at all, cap sleeves and a harlequin-patchwork panel down the front. And I'm converting a black evening dress into an evening top as a present for the DipGeek. Lots of sewing, then; and when I turn out my winter things I'll probably find more jobs there, too. I don't have a sewing machine, so this is all hand work. Luckily I find needlework very relaxing of an evening. I feel much better now. I've almost got over the email fiasco >whimper<
So, irritably, as I was trying not to take extra time over it, I went >select all > copy all > new email > paste, entered the first two letters of the intended recipient's name into the "To" box and clicked enter as her name came up, and sent it. Only to see, next moment, that I had sent it to the wrong person. Said best friend's name begins with the same two letters as a colleague at work's name. I email her a lot (because best friends, yup?); but I also email him a lot (because colleague of vital importance). It turns out they are running neck-and-neck in my contacts list for that initial.
I tried to recall the email, but in the thirty seconds or so when I was still sitting frozen, staring at my screen and thinking "No... no... noo" he had already opened it. "Recall email" doesn't work once the email has been opened. Oh sh*t.
Scream at computer. Write hasty grovelling & embarrassed apology. Cross all available digits and wait.
I imagine he was still reading, and thinking "I don't need to know this, and my mother is not being a goose about my wedding - my wedding?!? - and why would I need lace and jam jars?" and contemplating how to tell me I'd cocked up, when he got the apology. He was, of course, a complete gentleman about it, so it isn't an absolute disaster.
But it is utterly mortifying to do something so bloody stupid; and if I can do it once, I could do it again. And I could do it in far worse ways. It's really shaken my self-esteem to make such an idiotic mistake, just because I'm tired and stressed and trying to do something in a hurry. I thought I was an efficient, professional person who didn't balls things up. Ha-bloody-ha, so much for that idea.
I suppose it is good for one, to be reminded that one is just as capable of making a really imbecilic mistake as anybody else. If even Jove nods, then common-or-garden mortal Ims is bound to, and it's a kind of mild hubris to think I can't.
I still wanted to weep for a while afterwards, though. Epic bloody fail, woman. Epic.
I came home, ate felafels, felt disconsolate and incompetant, and watched "Great British Bake-Off", which is schadenfreude of the first water in such situations.
I've been trying to cheer myself up, since then, by getting on with some of my sewing. I bought a dress in the sales for £11; when I tried it on in the shop it was one of those garments that don't quite work, but I could see it had the potential to be something rather smart, with a little help. So I bought it anyway, and am adjusting it. I've taken off the sleeves and taken out the zip, and I'm refitting the waistline and the bust darts, and turning the edges of the shoulders under to make it sleeveless. It's a really unusual fabric, a screen-printed design in grey with green orchids. I think it's going to be rather snazzy when I finish.
I'm also engaged on cannibalising two other old dresses to make a third; when finished this will have a rather 1920's cut with no waist at all, cap sleeves and a harlequin-patchwork panel down the front. And I'm converting a black evening dress into an evening top as a present for the DipGeek. Lots of sewing, then; and when I turn out my winter things I'll probably find more jobs there, too. I don't have a sewing machine, so this is all hand work. Luckily I find needlework very relaxing of an evening. I feel much better now. I've almost got over the email fiasco >whimper<
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