Breeding ignorance and feeding radiation
If, like me, you enjoy watching docusoaps for the feeling of faint superiority they allow one to feel, and are currently opting out of the work rat race, you will love the little gem that I discovered this week - Hotel On Sea. The people on this show are so very far fetched, I am almost tempted to think it is a very cleverly crafted spoof. If it is, it is possibly the most ingenious feat of acting I have seen in my entire life.
The action is centred around a ‘luxury’ hotel in Blackpool. This weeks episode followed the senior staff on a ‘fact-finding’ mission to see two five star hotels in Paris (Paris/Blackpool - the comparisons are endless, surely?). One of the Hotels “looked like summat aht of an Ikea catalogue” ie wasn’t floor to ceiling oppressive chintz, and the other had the inspiring mission statement “When luxury is not enough”. So what did our fact finders glean from this business trip? (not how it feels to actually stay in either of the aforementioned hotels, as they couldn’t afford to. Brilliant!) Well, that they should get some monogrammed towels and toiletries, and devise a mission statement of their own. What the general manager came up with was a truly visionary and inspirational soundbite, that clearly touched to the core the assembled staff gathered around for it’s grand unveiling. It was clear to see where he had found his inspiration, and the hotel owner, who, to be fair, had spent the entire Paris trip shopping for clothes for her dog. Yes, her dog, was clearly chuffed to little apples with it too. And here it is; prepare to be astounded - “When OK is not enough” OK in red ink, as the manager was keen to point out (ink colour clearly makes a difference when it comes to mission statements). Might as well aim high, eh? And don’t even get me started on the middle aged duty manager and his frankly scary and overwhelmingly large collection of Eeyores. Or his signet ring bearing the word ‘bitch’. Or the fact that until his Paris trip he had never been out of Blackpool before. Genius!! TV doesn’t get much better than this…unless of course it’s a documentary about men married to women old enough to be their gran who have a rare medical condition that makes them have around 400 orgasms a week…thank god for Channel Five!
Forsaking all others...
I went to a family wedding last weekend, and it got me wondering, how did the great British wedding come to be what it is? I’ve been to - let me think - nine weddings in my adult life, six of which have been in the UK. I’ve seen a fairly diverse mix of people getting wed too, yet they’ve all followed the same formula - in fact if I try and remember each one in isolation, they all just kind of merge in to one - top table, speeches, cheesy dj playing music no-one in their right mind ever listens to yet will happily throw themselves around a dance floor to, mums and uncles doing the Macarena, couples looking at each other in doe eyed expectation of their own marriage, couples looking at each other in the dawning realisation that they don’t want to be at each other’s wedding, couples looking at each other in smug satisfaction that theirs was a much better do etc etc.
Now, maybe I’m just cynical - but I prefer to think that my own view of weddings is actually hopelessly romantic (cynicism is, after all, just a form of self defence). I don’t want my wedding, should it ever happen, to be just like everyone else’s. I couldn’t care less about what flowers I have, who we can put next to awful Uncle Paul that no-one likes, whether it would be rude to not invite my Mum’s cousins stepbrother, what colour I can put my bridesmaids in to make sure they don’t clash with my dress/look better than I do. I don’t want to spend all morning having my hair and make up done, only to have a strop at the last minute because I don’t recognise myself because I never have my hair and makeup done. I don’t want my Mum getting tearful watching me have the first dance, or my single female friends and relatives clamouring to catch/avoid my bouquet. I don’t want wedding lists (how cheeky are they, by the way??) favours, rsvp anxiety - the list is endless. I really am at a loss to understand the appeal of having a wedding just like every other wedding I’ve ever been to. I don’t care where it happens, or who is there to see it. All I want is to feel beautiful, and know that I am committing myself to the man I love and want to grow old with. Isn’t that the point of marriage? What are people trying to prove with table decorations and speeches? What’s romantic about discos and buffets? When my ex and I were discussing marriage, we couldn’t agree on a venue. All I wanted to hear was ‘darling, I couldn’t care less where we do it, just knowing you’re going to be my wife is all that matters’ and he just never understood this (so just as well he’s my ex, really). Perhaps when I meet a man I want to spend my life with, something will change inside me, and I’ll develop my own obsession with invite typefaces and favour boxes. Maybe I’m just missing the point of marriage - I mean, I can understand the appeal of everyone you love being there to witness The Happiest Day of Your Life - but I prefer to think the opposite - I see exactly the point of marriage; not to spend months on what is essentially very pricey party, but to commit yourself to the love of your life. ‘If I should die this very moment, I wouldn’t fear, for I’ve never known completeness like being here.’ Just a shame Aunty Tracy couldn’t make it though, eh?
Goodbye to all that
Photographs. I cannot get rid of photographs. I have in my possession photos I know I will never look at again, unless I really want to make myself feel self-indulgently miserable. Yet I cannot bring myself to chuck them away. Is it the fear of one day forgetting and having no other memory of my life, other than these images of long lost landscapes and smiles? I split up with a long term partner fifteen months ago, and still the issue of photo custody remains unresolved. Neither of us want them, neither of us want to destroy them. The option to one day look back at them and fondly remember would be nice, but the risk of evoking best forgotten glimpses of happiness too painful to consider.
And letters. I kept every single letter and email he ever sent me. I watched him shred all those that I sent him - and now I understand why. Packing up to move today, I found my half of our years of written relationship. Four lines was all I could read. This is a man I no longer love, yet long dead words from when we were lovers in every sense were just too painful to read. And will make no sense without the responses they provided and received, which were shredded into oblivion all those months ago. I have no room in my life for half a love story. I'll allow myself the photos, but the letters have to go.
I need direction to perfection
As I lay in bed last night, a whirl of questions and answers raced around my head. The effort involved in trying to correctly pair them prevented me from sleeping. My iPod had been earlier discarded after having been frankly spiteful in it's choice of playlist, and my latop was inaccessible on account of a misplaced power cable that has been the cause of some household tension.
I hate not sleeping. I used to work a job that involved irregular working patterns and late night shifts, which taught me how to make myself sleep, as my body clock never had any idea what was going on. As a result, I have been able to pretty much sleep on demand for the last seven odd years, so when I do have the occasional restless night it makes me inordinately grumpy and feel very sorry for myself. I think the fact that I haven't worked for almost three months and am craving some sort of routine doesn't help either. Yet give it three months of being back at work and I'll be craving a lifestyle that allows me to sleep as and when I see fit to do so. Some people are just never happy, are they?
The fear of getting caught
I read today about a piece of mobile phone software that has just come on to the market, that enables users to disguise or delete the identity of callers. They can either be removed completely from missed/made/received call logs and not appear on your bill, or appear instead as a different number altogether. It also allows you to block certain numbers at certain times, so if, for example, you're having a nice day out with your family, you can do so safe in the knowledge that your boss/annoying relative/mistress won't spoil things with an unwanted phone call.
At just £6.99, it is a liar's dream. Adulterous people all over the country must be letting out a collective sigh of relief - no more furtive pretending it's someone from work calling when your illicit lover calls you at home. No more panic attacks that you've left your mobile somewhere that your partner can access.
Surely I'm not alone in thinking it's a very sad state of affairs that there is even a market for this kind of thing?
From a window
For one of the last times in my life, I have just been contemplating the view from the balcony of my flat in Barcelona. And for the first time, I started to be able to put into words what I love so much about this view.
The building directly opposite ours, about 500 feet or so away I guess, has balconies in every flat. At the very top right is a hugely colourful one, with carefully tended plants and a bright orange hammock. Painfully cool looking people can often be seen lazing on or around this hammock, or the old sofa which seems to also be a permanent fixture there, laughing, joking, enjoying the sunshine and a few drinks and generally being painfully cool. The apartment beneath them and to the left, is home to a young family with a daughter who looks to be about two years old. She totters happily around the balcony under the watchful eyes of one or both of her parents, who themselves often sit out in the evenings on their swinging chair, entwined comfortably around each other, no doubt enjoying watching the stars during the blissful rest their daughter’s sleeping gives them.
To the left of this building is a school. The playground is on ground level and obscured by a smaller building from view, but the regular sounding of the bell, followed by the ensuing noise of children happily at play, is strangely comforting at times. In front of the school is a small park, with a sand floor and a small play area. On Fridays at 6pm, it’ a hive of activity down there, and often it almost sounds as if half of Barcelona’s kids are in there, squealing, screaming and generally sounding as if they’re having the best day of their lives so far.
On the right we have a building with a huge terrace, brightly decorated with mosaic walls and a collection of plastic chairs and tables. It belongs to an old people’s home, and the more lucid residents seem to like nothing more than to watch the children at play beneath them, possibly lost in memories of their own childhoods or grandchildren or even great grandchildren. The upper floors of this building house private apartments with fabulous balconies, yet only one of them ever seems to be used as it should be. The couple living there are in late middle age, and can often be seen eating fabulous looking dinners out there with three or four other couples, that sometimes go on into the small hours.
All of this is continually underpinned by the constant murmur of traffic along Gran Via, one of the main roads through the city, just to the right in front of the old people’s home, whatever time of day or night it may be.
So what do I love so much about all this? Maybe it’s the diversity of human life that can be seen, or the comfort of anonymity amongst so many other lives going on around me, completely unaware of and undisturbed by my presence. Maybe it’s being able to see so many different stages of life makes me excited to think about what path my own might take. Or maybe I’m just nosy…
I don't have to sell my soul
For some reason, probably not entirely unrelated to the amount of time I have on my hands at the moment (which is too much), I wondered today how many days there are until my 30th birthday. I was more than just a little perturbed to discover that there are in fact 666 days between now and that glorious occasion, that will no doubt but a joyous cause for celebration for all concerned (i.e. me).
The reason I decided to do this very uncomplicated bit of maths is that I have set myself three goals to reach in the next 666 days, although, to be fair I didn't realise that's how few days it was when I set them - 'about two years' sounded much longer. I have already achieved one of my ambitions - and it's a pretty good feeling, I must say - so I suppose I naturally got around to thinking 'what next?'. All three are very easily achievable, given that there is nothing in the world other than my own lack of enthusiasm that can stop me from doing them, and given that they are my ambitions, that'd be a bit shoddy all round really, wouldn't it?
It's easier to leave than to be left behind
One week from now, I will be somewhere over the middle of France, making my final trip back to the UK from Barcelona. The remainder of objects that comprise my possessions will be crammed into a suitcase and rucksack, and I will no doubt have an air of sadness about me, being as I will, leaving behind the city where I have spent possibly the most eventful year of my life to date.
I’ve been trying today to think about what I will miss most about the place - and I’m struggling. Not because I won’t miss anything, but because it’s impossible to really know what you’ll miss until you’re missing it. The life I lead here is so different to anything I ever knew at home, it’s difficult to guess which bits of it I’ll feel at a loss without. For example, I never imagined when I came here just how much I would miss Sundays. I know what you’re thinking - surely they have the same days of the week in Barcelona - but the British Sunday is a far cry from the Spanish one. For starters, everything is closed. It is virtually impossible to buy even a pint of milk (or should I say litre of UHT) on a Sunday here, without venturing into the hideous tourist minefield of Las Ramblas, where you’ll pay at least twice the going rate for it. That’s not to say I was some kind of Sunday milk buying enthusiast in the UK of course, it’s just the first thing that sprang to mind. But imagine, if you will, a perfect Sunday; a leisurely lie-in with breakfast and the Sunday papers in bed, then maybe a nice bath before heading off into the country for a good long (well, longish…) walk, to work up your appetite for the huge roast dinner you’re going to have. Ideally it’ll be in some cosy country pub with a roaring open fire, but they’re pretty hard to come by these days, and usually packed full of annoying families. However, there’s also few things finer than coming home and being greeted by the exquisite smell of the leg of lamb you set off slow roasting before your bracing country walk. The post lunch afternoon would then involve a good deal of lazing around, ideally in front of a decent game of footy on TV, and a few drinks in the pub.
Of course, in reality, my usual Sundays in the UK consisted of trudging round Sainsbury’s doing the weekly shop wishing I’d done it on Friday night, putting off the ironing for yet another week, and bickering with my boyfriend along the lines of ‘why don’t we go for a nice walk and have lunch out somewhere for a change’. Anyway, I’m digressing somewhat - back to Barcelona. I often struggle to describe what this city has come to mean to me, possibly because it is not the city, but my life in it that has been so significant. I love everything about the place, and struggle to articulate exactly why. Yet it still feels right to leave, maybe because I always want it to be special to me, maybe because I’ve realised there’s no future for me here - not the future I want, anyway. I may not have indulged in my idea of an idyllic UK Sunday very often, but at least from next week, I will always have the option to do so…
