Shut Up

Rant

On Family Guy there’s a character called Meg, and her dad Peter is always saying “Shut Up Meg”. And generally I’m not a fan, because I don’t think the show is that funny, and I certainly don’t see the humour in repeatedly telling a fairly sensible teen girl to shut up.

But, sometimes I understand, because there come those days where you just want to tell everything about the world to shut up so you can get on with your life. The world is full of those little niggles and everyone now and then there’s a day when they all happen at once, and that’s today, and they just need to SHUT UP.

7.00am – I wake up. Despite the fact that sensible past-Sally set my alarm for 6.00am. Why would my morning brain suddenly decided it knows better than past-me, and repeatedly snooze my alarm. Because my morning-brain is terrible, that’s why.

7.30am – I walk to the gym, past all the medievalists who are currently in Leeds for the International Medieval Congress. Which, despite being a medievalist, I’ve not had anything to do with, because once again my supervisors have told me absolutely nothing about it.

8.30am – I get dressed for the day after going to the gym. I discover that past-Sally isn’t all that great, because she picks absolutely shocking outfits and now I’m dressed stupidly and I have to get to work.

9.00am – I get to work. Which to be fair, is mostly fine, so let’s skip ahead a few hours.

1.00pm – I’m about to go for lunch when suddenly we enter the world of Jumanji and a freak storm hits (presumably because some some snotty kid somewhere rolled a 3). Outside is now just not a place anyone wants to be.

3.00pm – I leave work, and walk home. There are no freak storms, and so for reasons unknown to me I choose to walk down the muddy, slippery verge opposite my house. Where I (inevitably) fall over. Apparently present-Sally is exactly as much of a pain as past-Sally.

Muddy

3.05pm – I get in, change out of my mud-covered clothes, and cut THE MOST LABELS IN THE WORLD out of the back of my underwear because they are annoying. H&M, this is not what I am paying you for. At all.

Labels

3.30pm – I write this blog post, confident in the fact that either my laptop will spontaneously combust directly after I finish writing, or that WordPress will take its monthly random nose-dive.

In short, today can shut up and it’s not even 4pm yet.

Lazy Sunday

Life

So today my brain and body are both moving at about 1/5 normal speed. It’s fine, and probably means good things about how much more relaxing my life is at the minute, but it’s also not my favourite way to be.

I’m very dysfunctionally lazy. I like doing nothing (because everyone likes doing nothing sometimes) but I have an irrepressible sense of guilt whenever I do nothing. It’s not that there’s even anything really to do, except that there’s always something to do. So I feel bad as soon as I realise that I’m not doing it.

The problem with how I feel today is that I don’t know how to begin doing something proper. I have my thesis open, I know the laundry has just finished, and I’m looking at things I need to make a fancy dress costume, but I’m just not getting anywhere with any of it. I’ve even had this page open for half an hour with no idea what I was going to write, until I remembered that I usually just write about whatever I’m thinking about. But then the issue was, I wasn’t thinkng of anything.

And that’s the weirdest one. Usually I suffer from brain overactivity – I can’t switch off all of the bizarre thoughts whizzing about my head, and I get caught up in my own personal melodramas. I think myself into the most ridiculous corners until I have to force myself to do something otherwise I’ll just go a bit mad. But not today. Today I’m presented with a horrifying, intimidating, wide blank space, and I just don’t know what to do with it.

When I work something out, I’ll let you know.

Dialogical Self

Fun, Language

Let’s talk about this, because I’ve spent all weekend reading about it on Wikipedia (a fantastic use of time. And probably a disease).

Firstly, this article is a shocking candidate for the Wikipedia game, which is where you open a page on Wikipedia, and click the first link in the article (excluding links in bold, italics, or brackets). Then, do the same for the next article. The game is trying to find an article which is the furthest away from this page. My current record is 16 articles.

Anyway. Dialogical Self. Basically, when you have voices in your head and they aren’t all yours. It’s fascinating and fabulous and I’m definitely an example, though I expect every blogger in the world is. Your dialogical self is (my understanding anyway) when your internal monologue is an internal dialogue with you playing all of the parts. It’s the way a lot of us reason through potential situations or encounters, weighing up our own multiple viewpoints and even assuming the position of other people and imagining what their reactions will or would be.

This is great for several reasons. Firstly, it relates to dialogism, a theory basically constructed by Mikhail Bakhtin. He was a Russian literary theorist and an all-round fascinating guy (if you find literature and philosophy fascinating and who doesn’t?). Secondly, it’s great because who knew we were so clever, to develop multiple coexisting viewpoints in order to refine how we interact and improve our social experience?

Having read about this, I’m now tempted to try and analyse myself (because of my psychology degree that I have). I’d be fascinated to properly think about all my various “selves” because they definitely clash horns often and I’ve never really considered why before now. I just thought I was generally a bit confused. I also think it completely explains my reaction to most situations, because of this paragraph:-

“…people entering into imaginary dialogues in comparison with ones having mainly monologues are characterized by a more vivid and creative imagination, a deep appreciation of art and beauty and receptivity to inner feelings and emotions. They are curious about both inner and outer worlds and their lives are experientially richer. They are willing to entertain novel ideas and unconventional values and they experience positive as well as negative emotions more keenly. At the same time these persons are more disturbed by awkward social situations, uncomfortable around others, sensitive to ridicule, and prone to feelings of inferiority, they prefer to stay in the background and let others do the talking…“ 

The only bit that doesn’t sound like me is the bit about letting others do the talking, except that I much prefer when that happens – it just often doesn’t and then I feel awkward and fill the void. And I normally do it badly and end up digging my foot out of my own mouth and wishing I’d stayed quiet in the first place. It’s all very weirdly accurate (though I suppose someone has to be the perfect example of psychological theories, otherwise it’s not science).

(I think the use of brackets illustrates it perfectly. I can’t even externalise my thoughts in a blog post without using two voices to do it. Great work)

Token

Rant

I generally don’t do token gestures (because most things mean too much to me to be token about them, and also I’m cynical).

Which is why I don’t have a rainbow Facebook picture. It’s not because I don’t support the SCOTUS decision. I do, whole heartedly. But several well educated people in the liberated West making a sensible decision which should have been reached ages ago, a groundbreaking culture change does not make.

I think it’s a bit like the Aristotle quote (check me out, I’m so literate – the inclusion of this makes me a horribly pretentious person)

The more you know, the more you know you don’t know.

Over the last few years I’ve learnt a lot about the world and all it’s inequalities. I know how lucky I am to live in a place where I’m not the target of physical violence just because of my gender. That if I wanted to have a relationship with another woman I could. That if I had an accident which left me physically disabled, that wouldn’t be the end of my life.

Everyone doesn’t live like that, and because of that I just can’t change my profile picture to a pride version and be happy. It feels too token.

But, and listen because this is the important bit, if you support the LGBT* movement and you want to show it via your Facebook picture, absolutely do it. Culture change is about seeing other people believing something and being inspired to join them, and just because I’m not comfortable doing it doesn’t mean I’m not hugely inspired by the number of my friends supporting this cause.

I know too much. If you ask me why I’m seemingly not supporting what I consider to be a relatively minor decision, I’ll explain to you, and maybe then you’ll know too much as well. But in the interim, let’s all enact positive culture change in the absolute best ways that we know how.

For Dad

Life

20150405_193819

My Dad is great. Here’s a picture of tiny me eating a bap the size of my head, which is incidentally also almost the size of his glasses.

He has better glasses now.

Happy Father’s Day Dad.

Where now?

Life, Travel

There’s a great book by Diana Wynne Jones called Fire and Hemlock. I need to read it again because I still don’t really get it, but it’s definitely complex and fantastic and everything teen fiction should be. It has basically nothing in common with Twilight.

Anyway, in this book there is a house, with a garden, and in the garden there are two huge urns which depending on how you view them either say “Where Now”, “Nowhere”, Now Where” or “Now Here”. There’s a plot point involving them which may be a reference to the afterlife, but I never really got it, hence needing to re-read the book.

The concept of them is very reminiscent of how a lot of people seem to feel right now. It’s the end of term, end of some people’s degrees, start of summer, and it feels like time to begin new things. Except most people don’t really seem to know where they are going with it all. Some people feel like they are going nowhere. But the nice thing about nowhere is, it’s also Now, Here. Or from a different angle might be Where Now?

So I’m pushing on and thinking about where to go next. I’ve had some interesting conversations at work recently about the new directions that might take, and some exciting things are happening this year including a few more weddings of lovely people, other lovely people coming back into my life, and of course a whole host of new and exciting opportunities lined up on the horizon. I don’t really fully know where now, but I’m convinced it’s not nowhere, and as I’m here now I’m planning very much to enjoy it.

The proper answer to the question in the title, by the way, is Italy. I’m going to Italy. There will be photos. They will be terrible. TTFN.

Fear of Missing Out

Language, Life

FOMO. It’s a terrible phrase, and an even more terrible contraction. It stands for “fear of missing out” and in the last year it seems to have wormed it’s way into the vernacular of practically everyone I interact with. Every Facebook picture, every tweet about a great night out is met with “FOMO”. It’s like YOLO’s equally mindless little brother.

And it is just plain wrong. That is definitely what winds me up the most about it. Because every time I hear someone say FOMO what they are actually meaning is “oh wow, that sounds great, shame I’m busy doing something else”. Or less frequently, “that sounds great, wish I’d been invited”. And that is where it gets annoying because that’s a sentiment I’d love to be able to get across in cute acronym form.

It’s difficult to approach the issue of being left out because the simple truth is, the likelihood of you accidentally having been left off an invite is much lower than the likelihood that you weren’t thought of, or worse, people actively don’t want you joining in. The conversation no-one wants to have is the one where you work out which of those categories you are in. In person it is awkward, but if you trust your friends enough then you should be able to just ask. But in the world of larger dissociated groups and social media, the closest we have is FOMO.

If it were up to me (and to my eternal sadness, it is not), I’d change the phrase. The “it’s great but I’m busy” team can just say that. The “wish I’d been invited” team can use SABLO – sadness at being left out. To be used sparingly, as a way of letting people know that you thought they’d have wanted to share your company and you are sad that they don’t seem to feel the same. That is the sentiment that is so hard to express because it feels very childish, and adulthood prevents us from being able to ask “why don’t you want to play with me?”

So that is settled then. FOMO doesn’t mean what it needs to. And no-one wanted it anyway. Let’s wipe it out.

For Geoff

Fun, Language, Life, Music, Travel

This post is for Geoff. He is my grandfather, and today he is the magnificent age of 94.

Geoff is my grandfather, but I’ve never really called him Grandad, or Grandpa or anything like that. When I was younger he and my grandmother Jeannine told me they didn’t like being called that because it made them feel old. Now I’m a bit older myself I understand what they meant. These are two of the people with the youngest souls I know. I feel privileged that for 24 of my grandfather’s 94 years on Earth, I’ve been able to be part of his fantastic life.

When I was little I remember hiding behind the back of his chair in the sitting room of their house. He always kept a bowl of sweets on the table between him and my grandmother, with squares of dark chocolate, Rowtrees Fruit Pastels and liquorice allsorts. At the time I didn’t like dark chocolate, and I still don’t have a taste for liquorice, but Iove Fruit Pastels, and I used to steal them and then run giggling to behind the settee and eat them there. For years afterwards I bought him them as presents.

I also remember sitting at my grandparents house and eating tutti frutti ice cream. I don’t even know if it exists any more, but I used to go with Geoff to Somerfield whenever we visited and that was one of the staple things we’d buy. Half the time he’d completely forget his wallet and then I’d end up running to the car to fetch it for him as we were at the checkout. I remember one of the members of staff there eyeballing me oddly as I wandered out, aged about 8 with a set of car keys and a determined face.

The best thing about seeing Geoff is always his stories. He has had a tremendous life, and the way he paints a picture of his memories is something I’m sure all of my cousins look forward to as much as I do. He grew up in Cambridge, fought in the Second World War, married a wonderful French woman, got his degree from Cambridge University (by way of various scrapes and running tours of the city), and then travelled the whole world, with my Dad growing up in Borneo and the whole family remembering ridiculous car trips across practically the entire Asian continent.

His stories about Borneo are always the best stories. Just like any story, they morph slightly every time I hear them, and I’m not sure if I’m misremembering the last time or if Geoff is telling them differently. Regardless they are always full of detail and colour, and usually something silly or embarrassing that my Dad or Aunties did once upon a time when they were kids. I’m sure his infectious enthusiasm for the time he has spent abroad is part of the reason I have always been so fascinated with the wider world and it’s cultures. He’s certainly had a bit part to play in my love of languages – he was a teacher at my upper school years before I started there, teaching French and Spanish, and his degree was in Classics.

Another thing I think I’ve taken from Geoff is my love of singing. His father was a top amateur opera singer and performed some of the shows I’ve recently been involved in about 100 years ago. Geoff caught that musical gene and passed it on to all his children and grandchildren (and probably great-grandchildren, though I’m not sure we really know about that yet). I remember him and my Dad singing loudly at each other around the dining table, funny folk songs and whimsical little rhymes. He’s always been keenly interested in what I’m doing theatrically, and on my last visit, despite his ill health, sang me some of the lines he remembers from HMS Pinafore, which he performed when he was younger.

Finally, he is absolutely the driving force behind my desire to achieve academically. When I applied to Cambridge I applied because it was where he had studied. Every time I visit without fail he asks me what I am doing, tells me some new interesting word or fact which he has picked up, and we have meaningful discussions about politics, economics, and language. At times discussions with him become rowdy and he has absolutely never been one to shy from an argument (particularly at large family gatherings, and particularly with my Dad and his sisters). But every discussion is intelligent and provocative.

Essentially what I am trying to say is that my grandfather is one of the most fantastic of people. His energy and passion for life is something I’m sure my entire family would say is a key part of how we’ve all grown up.

Happy Birthday Geoff.

famalam

Let’s talk about God

Life

So here’s a thing I’ve been meaning to write about for a while, but have always dallied because it’s a weird one to approach. It is a truth universally acknowledged that religion causes wars, and it causes them primarily because as a species we are stubborn and uninterested in trying to understand other people’s points of view. One religion claims to be true, another disagrees without actually looking into whether or not they really have anything against the other’s beliefs, and then they fight it out in monstrous and bloody ways.

Now I don’t particularly anticipate entering into monstrous and bloody combat with any of my readers, but it’s not exactly the platform you want to begin on, is it?

It has taken me half my life to come to terms with God, and my own personal belief system. I’m pretty lucky, because my life hasn’t been that long yet. It takes a lot of people much longer. I started as a staunch atheist, led by my intelligent and logical parents to believe that science was the be-all and end-all. The key reason that never resonated with me is probably also to do with my parents. I’ve always been an avid reader, led by my Mother into fantastic worlds of fiction, and it’s given me a strong appreciation of meaning. I grew up in a world of Indian folklore and Norse myths and legends about Odin and Freja. It was (and is) fantastical and more importantly, meaningful stuff.

In my own story, which is my life and where I am the protagonist, I’m constantly searching for meaning. I practically feel like I know when I reach chapter ends, because I’m caught in cliffhanger situations of not knowing what to do next. It’s quite thrilling. The quest for meaning quickly overtook science as the be-all and end-all, and therein was the first spark of belief, because science just can’t answer that fundamental “why?” question. I wandered over from science to philosophy via high fantasy and Sophie’s World (the best book of all time).

I then became a circumstantial Christian. I love to sing, and our local church needed more choristers (or any choristers) so I signed up. I spent the first 6 months insistently only going for the singing until I realised that I’d caught the bug and was starting to firmly believe in God. He (the Christian God) was giving the 20 or so people at our church (a church big enough for about 500) meaning, which was the thing I was looking for. At around the same time, my grandmother died, and I probably needed to think there was meaning to that event as well.

This also coincided with my arrival at “horrendous teenager”, that fabulous phase of becoming someone you’re always going to look back on with a slight feeling of regret and a lot of cringing. My personal rebellion was to fall into the arms of Christianity. I volunteered at a Christian youth club, went to church every Sunday and was often a bit happy-clappy, and attended several fantastic Christian rock concerts. My parents were exceptional in their ability to be supportive throughout a phase they must have seen as completely bonkers. My Mother even bought me a beautiful bangle for my confirmation which I still wear constantly.

By the time I came to university I think the novelty was already waning. The Bible remains to me one of the greatest works of literature of all time, but it’s a fiction and I’ve never shied away from claiming that. The virtues of Christianity are innumerate, but they are also just the virtues of people. The sins of Christianity are problematic at best, and the more time I took analysing what I truly believe, the more clear it became to me that Christianity wasn’t something to continue subscribing to. At the same time I was learning at lot about various religions through my degree, and through the intersection with diversity that being at a massive top-level UK university brings.

And so, to the conclusion. I’m still looking for meaning in everything. It makes me comfortable to believe that my life is being guided towards that ultimate meaning, chapter by chapter and verse by verse. I don’t necessarily believe in one God, and I certainly couldn’t tell you if he’s male or if she’s female or if they’re neither. I believe as confidently in a huge teddy bear controlling my life as I do a giant man with a white beard and a toga. But I definitely still believe in something, and I definitely believe that my belief helps me find meaning in life and be a better person.

And also I don’t intend to start any bloody wars with anyone over them not agreeing with me. Which I think is a positive.

Scrapbooking

Fun, Life

I have a scrapbook. I used to have a poster on my wall underneath my loft bed when I was younger, and I stuck all kinds of things on there – drawings, tickets, wristbands for gigs. When I came to university I didn’t want to lose it all but I also didn’t want to try and preserve a huge poster of random childhood things, so I started my scrapbook.

Now it’s full of the most fantastic memories. I have a page full of tickets from my first visit to the Edinburgh Fringe with my parents. I have another page with things collected from my year in Morocco (some of which are probably mentioned earlier on in this blog). I have hundreds of theatre tickets, and almost as many admission tickets to museums and art galleries. I have my student card from ALIF (complete with a terrible passport photo) and I have an alarming number of Fruity tickets. I have a cutting from BBC music magazine which mentions the production of Cinderella which I directed.

Most recently I’ve added a page full of tickets and things from my trip to Paris to visit a friend on a year abroad, and my train tickets and programme slip from my visit to Scarborough to see LUU Music Theatre perform “Into the Woods” at the National Student Drama Festival.

I’ve done so many great things over the last few years (yes, it’s another nostalgia blog. Sorry for not mentioning that before) that I’m starting to wonder what I’ll fill all the rest of the pages with – I’m only halfway through the book. I’m sure I’ll find things though – I have three weddings coming up, plenty of free time to go to the theatre even more often, and summer is coming which means days out. In the meantime, between my scrapbook and this blog I’ve got the perfect ways to spend a Sunday afternoon.

20150524_162329[1]

To be continued…