Why the Winter Olympics are simply brrrrrrrr-illant

I am never happier than when an all-consuming sporting event is on our screens, and that means that at the moment I am one very content bunny.  It's the Winter Olympics! And I, for one, believe it has a great deal to offer even the most reluctant of sport watchers. Here are five reasons why:

1) The timing: The January/February period can in itself be a difficult time for many. Christmas has been and gone in all its wonderful, raisin-centric jollity, you haven't learnt to play that ukelele you were given for a present (as you had vowed to), Strictly Come Dancing is truly over and you're already starting to forget who was even on it, despite it mattering more than anything only six weeks ago. 

Alexei Yagudin- best figure skater everrrrrr

Every four years, however, we are royally spoilt by the full-on coverage of the Winter Olympics. The timing couldn't be better. We are given natural sporting Winter highs, avoiding any onset of the Winter blues. Unlike during the Summer Olympics, when we might really want to stay inside watching daily 12-hour coverage but are forced outside to 'be sociable' at some sort of barbecue, chicken- wing oriented event, during the Winter Olympics we can hibernate guilt-free. That's what we're supposed to do, and noone will know whether you watched 4 hours of someone doing something akin to sledging.

2) It features the best sport ever:  For a huge figure skating fan like myself (well, not that huge, I'm only 5'7"- ahahaha), the Winter Olympics gives us something very special. That is, an extra 2 weeks a year of figure skating every 4 years. For me, this is the best sport in the whole world, the perfect combination of speed, strength and beauty, yet its television coverage is so scarce. And before you say it, no, 'Dancing on Ice' does not count!  During the Winter Olympics, though,  people start reminiscing about the glory days of 'Torville and Dean' in 1984 and vaguely remember beautiful terms such as 'triple axle'. I live for these 2 weeks.

Too cool for school

3) The madness: The most absurd and dangerous seeming of sports are shown on our screens. Even if you have no idea what's going on, or cannot recognise a single person, you will find yourself swiftly absorbed, and besides. the Beeb will most likely put together some sort of handy 'guide' for you to nod at anyway. There are events with wonderful names such as 'Moguls', there are people sliding head first on a tea tray at 140mph down icy tubes, there are ultra-cool people in baggy clothes doing something that only intimidatingly hip 15 year old boys tend to do at the skate park in real-life.. only these people do it on snow. And did I mention there's all sorts of lovely figure skating too?

4) It all looks so pretty! And snowy. And magical. It makes me want a hot chocolate.

5) It's sometimes so bad, it's good: Sports presenters who, as far as I am aware, don't really know anything about any of these sports, are forced to make terrible conversation with crazy snow-enthusiasts. The awkwardness is too much, yet also wonderful, to watch. I am looking at you, Matthew Pinsent.

 

Ode to 'Neighbours'

Many many TV programmes have passed before my eyes, some eagerly anticipated, commented upon and analysed to death, some passively endured, others scorned, but whilst so many have come and gone, resigned to memory or DVD box sets,  one has always been there for me. And everybody needs it, or them... or something. Anyway, I'm talking about Neighbours!

Happy days. Although I'm not even sure who the girl is to be honest.

It's been an a bit of an on/off relationship I guess you could say- but ultimately I've always returned to Neighbours, and one of its greatest charms is that even after 2 years away from it, give me about 10 minutes with it and I completely understand what's going on/who everyone is. It's almost instinctive. The characters have had some tough times- god knows if I'd had amnesia, MS, being cheated on by my husband muliple times, fostered countless children and had about 6 high-flying careers, I'd be exhausted... but nope, not these guys. They battle on through, continuing to provide the stories I so crave, whilst interfering in everyone else's business along the way. Brilliant.

Neighbours is completely daft. I find myself laughing at the incredulity of it at least 10 times an episode. Even better is if I watch it alongside someone else who also enjoys its complete absurdity. How can one teacher seemingly teach an entire school (note: always in the same classroom, and the same lessson) and does everyone really have to end up marrying some one on the same cul-de-sac as them? Answer: yes. I do worry about their gene pool sometimes.

But this is all very charming in a silly sort of way. Like the sop that I am, I can't help but feel a slight tinge of sadness that in our non- Neighbours reality, we live such nuclear existences where many of us know very little of our neighbours. This is not to say I would like such closeness. (If I ever move to Ramsay Street, remind me to LOCK MY DOOR because the people next door will just walk in at any time, usually the most inappropriate) but there are moments when you know what? I really wouldn't mind being adopted by Harold Bishop.

Neighbours, you are ridiculous and fun, absurdly dramatic and take up too much time in my life, but you've taught me how to attempt a terrible Australian accent, and for that, I love you.

The unique feeling of being part of the crowd

As I walked along yesterday afternoon, others sidling next to me scarved in their chosen colours of war, all heading on a pilgrimage towards our Mecca for that afternoon, Villa Park, I felt a unique oneness with these strangers next to me.
We all had the same intention, all, for the next 2 hours at least, preparing to experience and witness the same event: a football match.



Lowry's 'Going to the Match'

As part of the crowd there's something incredibly powerful about feeling the rise and fall of this shared mood, hearing the complementary, melodic, unintelligible chants that seem to appear in waves from deep within, yet also seemingly nowhere. There is a sense of the tribal; the primitive within us all escaping. These are cheers for survival.

At moments like this, I can fully appreciate why the Romans sought such crowd pleasing entertainment in the gladiatorial ring. Our stadiums are modern day Colosseums, alive with shared passions and the feeling of thousands all living through the thrills of others. The blood-thirstiness so favoured by those Roman guys and gals was, perhaps, a little extreme, and I can never condone what Russell Crowe had to go through in those leather sandals, but today's world of sending offs, controversial tackles, pantomime boos and hisses reveal that things really haven't changed a great deal over the last 2000 years or so. Filming Lord of the Rings, Peter Jackson used the sound of the England cricket team's 'barmy army' of supporters as the sound of the terribly Orcs. The animal-like essence of the crowd it seems is just as prevalent in what may seem like 'more sedate' spectacles.

Sometimes it feels like our current society is increasingly lonely. With friends and family scattered all over the place, and a tendency to often live more nuclear lives, it is easy to lose sight of any sort of shared experience or community. The chance to feel part of a crowd whether it be at a sporting event, a music concert, the theatre, a royal pageantry, you name it, is such a unique experience. We are returned to our early roots, and with that, what feels most natural.

A few things I learnt this week: how to drive (2 ways), cat trivia and chocolate disaster prevention.

How to drive 1) a tractor and 2) a golf ball  (sort of)...(on both counts)

• Having never driven anything bigger than my mum's Polo, this week saw me take on the challenge of driving a tractor. Being a particularly poor manoeuvrer and a bit of an Annie Hall-esque parker (you really can enjoy a pleasant stroll to the 'sidewalk' when I pull up to the curb) this was a bit of a daunting prospect. But it turns out it's really quite fun and the basics are just like driving a car. Steering wheel, brake, clutch, that 'look where you're going' thing and all that jazz.  I'd recommend having a go if you get the chance. Moving what feels like a hefty piece of machinery made this unpractical person feel vaguely capable (and also, I must add, terribly, terribly powerful, like a farming wizard) It wasn't too hard at all, or at least, driving around with loads of help in an empty field with no chance of hitting anything, EVER, wasn't too hard. So, as long as it's always like that then count me in for the next series of 'Strictly come Top Gear Tractor Wars.'

• It's a little far-fetched to say I actually learnt how to drive in golf this week, because I was so appalling, but I certainly went to a driving range and had a go. Now it is true that the ball did either stay exactly where it was because I kept missing it, or zoomed off at a sharp 90 degree angle which, believe it or not, was not some clever tactic, but rather my complete incompetence. However,with a few tips such as 'always keep your eye on the ball'- it's amazing how hard this seems- and 'keep your arm straight'(which arm? When? How??) hopefully some of this advice sunk in... subconsciously at least. Who knew there was so much to think about? Head, arms, knees, feet, toes, eyes,  (a children's song in the making!?) let alone the fairly essential ball and club themselves.I can certainly say I am not ready to be called 'Tiger' just yet. Maybe more of a house cat...

Which is a terribly tenuous link to the next thing I learnt this week....

Why cats knead (/'make biscuits')

• With the detective help of my lovely friend Emily, also curious about this common cat trait, we delved into the mine field of kneading. After a little investigation we discovered curiously that the colloquial term for kneading is 'making biscuits.' (Firstly, is it?!? I've never heard of that, but do let me know if you have. And secondly, what kind of biscuits?!)  We then moved on to the reason cats knead and found a very interesting answer. It is not in fact just because of their love of tasteful furnishings and good quality fabric (although I feel sure this must play a vital part in it), but because it is an instinctive trait from when they are kittens. They massage (i.e. knead) their mother during feeding to help her to produce milk more easily. You'd think they might have learnt by now that the particularly cosy cushion on the sofa doesn't actually produce anything but snuggly moments of joy, but I guess they don't mind that- the crazy kooks that they are.  Fascinating stuff anyway!!

And finally, in this week of Easter related goodness it seems only right that I learnt:

Where not to leave your Easter egg
  

•  The answer: in a sunny spot in your room, because this will happen:

A potentially artistic, but really quite scary, result.

I'm packing in packing

I am currently in the process of unpacking everything I packed only just a couple of days ago.

Packing and packing, and unpacking and unpacking, knowing that probably in the not too distant future I will have to pack and pack and unpack and unpack all over again. This is both a physical and mental torture, and I only really (although you'd never guess by looking at it) had one room's worth of stuff to pack. I dread to think what it must be like moving a whole house. The best way to summarise the last couple of days is this: I have never had so many unpleasant and annoyed exchanges with a group of coat hangers in my life.

I used to read a book when I was little called 'But No Elephants' in which, after various amusing episodes involving an old lady rejecting an elephant as a house guest, the elephant, to help her with her relocation situation, simply carries the lady's house to a lovely sunny new place on his back. None of this boxes/suitcase/ plastic bags.. oh the plastic bags... nonsense. Plus, there's a free elephant ride to boot. Where can one find a helpful service like this and, more seriously, what sort of planning permission would I need?

Anyway, aside from the agony of remembering where I've put everything and feeling horrified at the sheer amount of clothes I have (I say horrified- this is a ruse; in truth it's a joy to rediscover so many jumpers which I'll never wear but absolutely must hold on to), with all this packing comes a natural packing up of a way of life, of memories, of relationships formed, and it is this which is the real hard thing, even though it involves very few coat hangers.! I've left Cambridge, where I lived for the last 19 months, boxed it up and put it into the overflowing boot of a car. This is only the physical part of it of course, but it still felt poignant. Moving, as all of us I am sure know, can be very moving. And though I am really very happy to be moving, my memories cannot simply be packed away. They'll  resonate with so many experiences in a place I felt I actually did 'grow up', if that's possible; a beautiful, thought-filled city where I made some very lovely and close friends.

 All this dwelling doesn't speed up the unpacking process however, so I must get back to it. That is, if the cat, helpful as ever, will let me.



 

Shelf help for self help

I was very intrigued to hear the news about a new scheme asking GPs to prescribe self-helf books to patients suffering with depression,anxiety or relationship troubles. They will be recommended books to read from their local libraries (woop woop for the libraries by the way!) in a bid to encourage self-healing. Some examples are: How to Stop Worrying and The Feeling Good Handbook  as well as 'feel good' fictional works designed to cheer us all up- The Secret Garden and Goodnight Mister Tom were a couple, as well as, somewhat curiously 'To Kill a Mockingbird'...('cheering up' doesn't have to be overt I guess)

I am sure the non-fiction self-helf books contain a lot of very useful information and advice, and can suggest very useful and practical ways of coping. I really, really, really hope those recommended are nothing like the awful articles you get in womens' magazines telling you 'how to cope with this, that and the other' or '5 easy ways to CHANGE YOUR LIFE' which, firstly, erm, 'NO' and secondly, 'stop making me feel worse.' They present an ideal, goals and achievements that perhaps you do not want, or certainly cannot achieve, but now  you suddenly feel you should. Having so-called 'steps' (note: created by some magazine who has never met you and doesn't really care) only makes you more aware of how you have failed at achieving any of their suggestions.

What most interested me, however, was that the act of reading itself is suggested to be so beneficial, and I couldn't agree more. The very act of such concentration needed to read seems like an excellent way to avoid the distractions or worries you might be facing. Further still, I recently heard how a study had suggested reading classic novels, in particular, are especially helpful. The attention needed for reading a classic is often quite great, therefore only enhancing our ability to forget our daily troubles.

Another reason classic novels are so effective, I believe anyway, is because we can enjoy and become engrossed in the stories and characters, but without necessarily applying it directly to ourselves- as we do so obviously with self-helf books. Novels can be so much more subtly cathartic, winding their experiences, lessons or mistakes into our subconscience quite easily. We can empathise and engage with these characters' experiences, but not worry so much that it will happen to us. The alienness of the settings and often language to our present day and current situation mean distancing ourselves, gaining some perspective and rationality, is much more possible, and often the very best thing.

Having empathy with someone else can certainly put our own worries into perspective, When I read Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence, I found for the first time in my life, my own thoughts, anxieties and fears mapped out on the page before me. I couldn't believe it. That 'gosh- someone else has felt like this too' moment (you don't necessarily have to say 'gosh' by the way)  has never been stronger than through that book. Lawrence's ability to present that feeling so gently through beautiful language, a delicate choice of words and rhythm of sentences meant it sat much deeper within me than any magazine article ever could. I was effectively hyptonised. I was also both distracted by something else, yet entirely engulfed by it.


Perhaps this is hugely hypocritical. Here I am, offering advice up- the very thing I preach against. Feel free to ignore it completely. But my prescription for us all is this: Less reading about how to help ourselves and let DH Lawrence* do it for you.



*or more specifically, a writer YOU like

Nostalgia's patient

My name's Polly, and I am a sufferer of nostalgia.

There, I said it. I wonder, placed within a supportive, hand-holding sort of environment, how many of us would also confess to this. Most people, I would predict.

You may think 'sufferer- that's a litle bit strong isn't it?  Well, if we were to be all learned about it (which we are, momentarily, forgive me) nostalgia in fact comes comes from the greek words 'nostos' and 'algus,' meaning 'return' and 'suffering.' The very word itself, therefore, makes no pretence that feeling nostalgic is always an easy ride.

This, in many ways, might seem odd. When I  first think of nostalgia, I picture sepia-tainted images, knitted jumpers, smiles and cosy fires. Why this is, I'm not sure, as I don't remember my life ever being particularly sepia-coloured, or having much access to a log fire. (Knitted jumpers, however, tick!). I guess this is very much the 'concept' of nostalgia as our culture has moulded it.

A manufactured, consumer-focused nostalgia is currently everywhere.Our lives can be solely constructed of  retro, vintage, antique, second-hand, 'not-really-vintage-but-kinda-look-like-we-are' clothes and things, (oh the things), if we choose. We can spend our days baking, drinking tea and handmaking everything- lovely! And I genuinely mean that- these things are wonderful, and I can't help but think to myself  'gosh- everything was so much nicer and more wholesome in the past- I wish it were like that now.'

And then I realise, wait- you were not even alive during this era you feel so attached to. You are recreating days you have never lived and sentimentalising a time you don't, really, know much about. Nostalgia only focuses on the good times, forgetting to mention all the less lovely, or at least, non-uber cool, things that happened. That is exactly why, compared with the present, which funnily enough I know very well in all its ups and downs, seems so much better.

At the same time, we can all feel deeply nostalgic for times we actually have lived, days passed, emanating only with the happy memories we have carefully attached, and often modified, to them.We all, at some point,  pine for the past, people, situations, places and long to return to them. The future can bring hope, but also uncertainty and fear. The present is too fleeting to ever capture. And the past, though it may contain regret, well, the past is safe. It has gone, and we survived it. It is, therefore, ours to remember as we choose to.

I wonder, through cherishing something so unreliable- our memories- or indeed eras that we have never even lived through, are our perceptions of the present consequently worse. The present day is falling victim to a comparison with an unreality? Longing for something we can never have again only makes the present more painful surely.

Maybe that's a little morbid. Perhaps nostalgia is becoming so integrated to our present that is now part of it,  in fact.. Let's also not forget the simple enjoyment we gain recreating all things old-school.  As we 'play' at being something or somewhere else, we return  to childhood in a way...yet another form of this nostalgia lark.

I sometimes wonder how people will look back at our present in the future. Will they, too, doubt their own era and cherish our own which we currently seek to escape? What would they recreate though- our love of nostalgia?  It could be a new era in which nostalgia pines for nostalgia itself.



 

Can you hear me screen?

Scene 1:
 Man and woman walk in to a restaurant. Both seem to have made an effort, especially the woman whose hair is immaculately coiffed, nails finely polished and carved, earrings dangling playfully. Man and woman sit down on a table, candle placed between them,. (One of those candles in a wine bottle type things too- the best kind) The scene is set for a romantic evening of food, wine and interesting conversation.

Scene 2:  
After 30 seconds, man gets out his iphone and spends the entire evening staring at it, scrolling through who knows what, completely ignoring the woman and her nicely coiffed hair.

The end.

So, I'll admit, it won't be an Oscar winner (or nomination, sob); the script is a little thin currently, but this is a real-life epic, based on an episode inspired by a couple who sat at the next table along from me last night. I felt like suggesting to the waiter that the man should be served only virtual food through his iphone screen- he'd probably enjoy it more that way.His iphone screen was an unbeatable opponent to the lady opposite. Perhaps she wasn't what you might call a hoot, I don't know the gal, but nonetheless, please, Mr iphone, enjoy the moment, her presence, or at least the strangely faux spanish atmosphere La Tasca (scene of said incident) has to offer.

I am being too harsh on this poor fellow as I am well aware he is not alone. He is probably just another one of you or I. We are a world of screen enthusiasts, screen addicts, screen drones and sometimes, well it just makes me want to... screeeam. We might stare at beautiful countryside, only through another screen, our camera lens, and never have really seen anything. We sit on trains, surrounded by people we've never met and never will again, whizzing past scenery that'll never look quite the same again, and yet we stare at our screens. The days of awkwardly catching the eye of the person opposite us are rapidly fading folks, because, don't worry, we don't actually need to look at anyone anymore. It's ok, we have our soulless screens for company.

The word 'screen' of course means to protect, to shield.  And, when used in such excess, this indeed seems to be the role of our modern day screens. With protection naturally comes restriction, and we are increasingly losing our ability to just look, freely, at what is in front of us. To screen also means to filter, and I can't help but feel we are filtering out all those tiny details and experiences only the human eye and its awareness can detect, because that constant screeny glow is grabbing all the attention. 

This is a completely one-sided argument, I know, but I hope that's allowable. This isn't a well structured essay but a silly blogpost. I know screens have opened our eyes up to visions we never thought we could possibly see. We can experience two hours of incredible emotional and visual immersion through a film , and witness animals in the sub-sahara desert we'd never catch with our own eyes thanks to them. And I am grateful. I am.  But though screens have enabled us to look at things more than ever, I worry that if we let them dominate quite so much, we will eventually see far less.   

Eating the TV- don't try this at home.

It's that time of year when the letters n,i,g,e & l. take over our screens. I am referring, of course, to Nigella Lawson and Nigel Slater.  Both TV cooks, both with their shows oozing temptingly all over our screens. Both cosily entrapping us, Monday and Friday respectively, within a world of aspirational culinary delights, tasteful kilner jars and bursting larders ( or lar-di-da-ers, perhaps? Wait, I take that back. I am only mocking to mask my own deep, dark desire for something to fill that gaping larder-shaped hole in my life).


I say it's that time of year, when in fact such a period doesn't really exist. 'That time of year when cooking programmes are on is EVERY SINGLE DAY. Not that I am against this- I enjoy cookery programmes very much. I, in fact, pray that we will discover the middle name of  Heston 'Blumen'eck, not more liquid nitrogen'  to be secretly Nigellina one day, or for Rick Stein to become Rick SteinGL, just to get those 5 letters involved and complete our foody squadron.

The ever increasing number of cookery shows reveals that we are all lapping them up, drinking it all in, chewing over endless recipes involving goats cheese. We may scoff  (any more food puns, please write in) at much of it, but this is done lovingly in the main.  Most obviously I think about the contrived friend and family set ups we witness, coming around to enjoy this epic feast made in minutes - I look directly at you, Nigella. They're not your friends!  Nigel, forgive me. I applaud you and your meals seemingly for one with accompanying purring cat. The seductive house interiors, complete with mood lighting, which surely make it impossible to ever read the oven dial, too, astound me. We are even being shown how to shop now. I thought I knew how to do this, and reasonably effectively too- shopping trolley steering accidents aside- but apparently not. Countless scenes of local markets, linen shopping bags and cheery exchanges with shop keepers seem to be the only way to do it these days. Well I never.

I fear I lost my way a bit there, apologies. What I intended to say, however, was that despite all these qualms we may have with aspirational cookery shows, we are still rapaciously consuming them. And, in many ways, it is this which is the most intriguing thing. I deliberately use the word 'consuming' because surely the very essence of a programme about food, should be the food itself, and its consumption. Yet, this is the one thing we absolutely cannot do as viewers. There can be no tasting the food, not even a whiff of its homely smell. That is, unless Skyplus has some new snazzy feature I don't know about it.

It seems to be one enormous paradox. They are meant to fill our appetite, yet do the opposite. Only dangling our greatest desires before our very eyes, and on shiny white plates, too. What, then, are we wanting from these shows? And what, ultimately, are we taking from them?  It can't be that much to do with the food. Or at least, not at that very moment of viewing. Is it more about the visual? We can satisfy our pallets by staring at tasty goods, thinking about what someone else might eat. Are we learning to cook?  Some, perhaps, but I'm not sure that too many of us follow these recipes later. I, for one, have never found a lump of gorgonzola at the back of the fridge I might just 'want to use up.' I refuse to even look in that dark, alarmingly chilly, corner of the kitchen.

Is it about transferring our desires  and cravings on to an unreachable platform?* Are we simply seeking comfort and nourishment in times of crisis? Do we enjoy watching a lifestyle that is aspirational, but unlikely (and simultaneously relish mocking it too?). Perhaps all of these things. Perhaps none. Food for thought, anyway.

*Oh, I forgot to say that for at least half of the population, the chance to ogle Nigella probably plays a large part. *Important point.*

When Postman Pat gave me a shock (and got me thinking).

In a wrongly timed allusion to that famous Christmas poem , in my quiet house this morning it felt as if 'not a creature was stirring, not even mouse.' There I was, quite content, busy enjoying the peace of it all (/contemplating the all important cereal (special K!)/toast for breakfast debate) when I heard a CLUNK in the hallway. The delicate silence had been violated. Curious and, a little alarmed, I immediately ran (too obvious a lie- it's a Saturday, of course I crawled, after some reluctance, out of bed), peered down the stairs only to see what on earth was going on. This disruption, dear Reader, was in fact simply the post being delivered.

Golly Gosh! I am well aware that at this point you are thanking me profusely for entertaining you with such an engaging tale. Post-delivery anecdotes always get people going I know. ..(But genuinely, thank you for still reading...)

What I wanted to share, however, was what this delivery of post suddenly represented to me. There they sat, a couple of envelopes, and some of the usual gaudy take away leaflets, uninvited imposters in my home, invaders into a personal sanctuary.  Too extreme a description? (It's not the post's fault after all!) Yes, yes of course, I am being facetious, and let me now stress that I in fact love receiving post, especially when it is a letter or a card from lovely people.

However, this invasion made me think. These days, so much of our 'post' exists in a technological form, be it an email, a text, a tweet, an instant message etc. Post in all these various shapes drops in to our metaphorical post-filled hallways and 'invades' our lives almost constantly. Of course, we need to be accessible and to access each other easily, and the world's seemingly instant communications are really quite incredible. I don't know what I and we would do without it!

But there are moments, just moments, when part of me wants to run away from it all. Does anyone else feel like that? When on holiday I never want to check my emails, facebook, twitter, you name it, because that is my sanctuary. The postbox is, for a time, nailed shut.

 When it comes to phones, I have always had some 'issues'. I can't help feel (and am sure have shamefully been guilty, I know myself) that all too often we sometimes fail to appreciate the moment or the company we are in, because of the lurking presence of a phone. The chance that someone else might chip in with a text or that something more interesting might emerge on the screen, can pervade the atmosphere and, for me anyway, seem a little rude. Further still, with email accessible on smartphones and the like, when not at work people can still receive work related messages. This can be distracting and destructive to a weekend or holiday. I'm probably far too sensitive to it, and should simply make my peace with an inevitable trend that will only continue to grow, and that I am as much part of, as anyone, of course. But sometimes I think a little sensitivity to good, traditional manners might not be a bad thing. 

Communicating is wonderful, texts are just lovely, phone calls make my day and receiving a letter, well, anyone who ever sends me one receives a thousand bonus points right there. The 24/7 army post invasion however, is a worry.

Sorry Postman Pat- today you triggered a torrent of thoughts, and I just cannot switch them off.

London 2012

 

 An Olympics which turned so many preconceptions and doubts completely upside down.

Reading between the...subtitles

I, like so many, have been swept up in the craze that is Scandinavian drama. 'Borgen' kept me going through the harsh winter months, whilst 'The Bridge,' (T'Humber Bridge in my mind), through all its adrenaline inducing, Danish- Swedish hybrid angst has been a vital marker during the week. My addiction to these dramas doesn't feel like a guilty one, however, like TV obsessions can sometimes become.  It feels almost....intellectual, and I am fairly certain this is because of their use of subtitles.

What is it about subtitles that seems to make great television? Perhaps it is that the non-English speaking programmes that make it on to our British screens have to be really rather good indeed to sneak their way in to our living rooms.

Perhaps, however, it is the actual subtitles themselves which have an effect. The sheer act of reading the subtitles means we concentrate to an extent we don't necessarily with English speaking programmes, especially in this day and age (yes, I am 80 years old) when one can merely listen passively, whilst simultaneously looking at phone/checking twitter/generally having scarily short attention spans.We become far more involved ... because we have to be.

I wonder to myself further,  is it the notion of reading subtitles, itself, which naturally instils an air of 'Oh yes, this is an intelligent thing to be doing', (smug face, smug face) in the same way that reading a book generally carries intellectual connotations beyond those associated with sitting in front of the television for hours? Both create similar effects. We are cast in to another world, empathising with new characters, engaging with the psychologies of others. Yet one, I suppose, is considered more active. Reading involves a sort of subconscious 'thinking' because we are processing information so much more noticeably and generally so much more privately, too. Subtitles mean we  may share this private reading experience with others. Further still, the private visions conjured up by reading are visually and instantly delivered on to our screens.

 I can't help but feel it is possibly the idea of 'reading in to things', which further adds gravitas to subtitles. Quite literally reading characters' lines, almost in a way that an actor does with their script, means we form a deeper connection with these characters as their words must travel through us as much as they do through them. As subtitles allow us to scrutinise the language on a screen, tangibly before us, we can analyse events perhaps more easily. Or, feel, at least, that we can.

Sometimes, however, I worry I am missing something vital by reading the subtitles. Of course, after a few minutes, it doesn't feel as if I am consciously reading them, but that distraction is always there. Reading a character's emotion through their facial expression is as important as reading their words. Further still, I never find myself thinking 'what terrible acting' during non-English speaking performances, as I might do more generally, because, I suppose, unable to understand them,I have no idea how they are really delivering their words. My engagement is shaped by whatever the subtitles are telling me. Maybe, as a consequence, I make less judgement of my own on characters. The subtle nuances of tone and intonation are lost.

 I warble on about all this, because it intrigues me. I love subtitled programmes, but I love many more that are not. Curiously, I can admit however, that my absolutely favourite thing about 'The Bridge' has nothing to do with its acting, script or subtitled, er, '-ness.' It is its ahhhhh so incredibly powerful and emotive theme tune. It resonates through me every single time. Shivers galore. In music, it seems therefore, we have the most universal language of all. No subtitles necessary.

A point well made

'It seems so easy now to destroy libraries- mainly by taking away all the books- and to say that books and libraries are not relevant to people's lives. There's a lot of talk about social breakdown and alienation, but how can it be otherwise when our ideas of progress remove the centres that did so much to keep people together?'
  
 Jeanette Winterson.Why be happy when you could be normal?, p.90.

Honesty's Deceits

'Tact looked at truth in vain,
She knew her tongue would end in pain.'

These are the first two lines of a poem a  younger version of myself wrote a few years ago.  I shalln't reveal the rest. These lines are fairly poor. Not too subtle. I promise it only got worse.

Were I able to travel back in time now and speak to myself then would I, then, tell myself that? Would I proffer my harsh, but honest, critique, potentially crushing anymore attempts towards a poetic tendency? Or would I be encouraging and smile, telling myself  'That's pretty good you know! Keep going with it.'

I think it would be the latter.

The truth of the phrase 'honesty is the best policy,' ironically, I occasionally question . This may sound odd. I do not mean, of course, in the sense of its moral value.I will stress now, lying is NOT good. No no no. Truth is good. Yes yes yes.  Even playing a game of 'Cheat' can be, for me, a total guilt-inducing nightmare.

But where my qualms lie is with the moral complications being completely, perhaps brutally, honest can unveil. It seems the phrase 'but, I'm just being honest,' is sometimes held up as some sort of unquestioned moral epicentre. It tends to come after a blunt criticism of another. Can maintaining honesty at all costs justify breaking another moral code? That of simply... being nice to other people? The moral compass seems strangely misguided at times.

There seems this great sense that telling someone a harsh truth may help them in the long run. In some cases, if it will certainly change something/the person for the better, then yes, of course, I suppose it must be done. In the case of my poetry efforts, a level of criticism would probably have done me some good. I know for a fact I would be a terrible creative writing teacher.My students would maybe be happy, but never successful. It is fortunate, therefore, this is not my job.This inability to criticise for the better is a flaw I certainly possess.

But telling someone a truth which will probably achieve little, other than ruin someone else's day, however, seems wrong. Tact, or an avoidance of saying the absolute truth, must always be favourable surely? The phrase 'ignorance is bliss' exists for a reason.

I do think my younger self was on to something. I think some people would disagree and think my argument stupid. They would probably tell me so, too. If I'm honest though, I really wish they wouldn't. 

When thoughts run away with you.

The other day I ran.

I needed to be somewhere, it was cold, it was dark. Running seemed like a good idea.

With increasingly deepening breaths and a heart thumping away in my chest, as if to keep me company in the leering darkness, strange paradoxical feelings crept over me. When I run, when anyone runs, it feels like an act of strength, of fitness,of power, even. Here is the human body at its finest, defying daily lethargy and ordinary movement. It returns us to our primitive instincts.

At the same time, however, I felt scared. I hadn't felt fearful before I began running, but the sheer act alone of running made me feel that this was an escape. I was running away from something. There was a certain vulnerability which sat uncomfortably next to my (non- existent, but let's pretend here for the sake of this prate) athleticism.

I recently saw the film Shame and within it there is a long scene in which the protagonist simply runs. Although an incredibly physical character ( if you know anything about this film you will know what I mean), the act of running was his means of escape, showed his own isolation and loneliness. In another film I love, Truffaut's Les Quatre-Cent Coups there is very famous closing scene in which the main character, a young boy, runs along the beach (also recently echoed, deliberately, in 'Submarine'),again signalling loss and hopelessness, yet at the same time, his ultimate freedom.

There are endless similar examples in culture in which the act of running can symbolise so much. It seems to represent an amalgam of strength, vulnerability, fear, ambition, victory, failure, escape, arrival, <insert contrastings words here.>... I could go on.

Usain Bolt will no doubt be the man everyone watches at the Olympics. Yes, because he is a fun guy and does great arm gestures, but perhaps, also, because he and what he does speaks universally to us, beyond the surface value of  just a simple race. Similarly, marathons draw thousands of people, not only to take part, but to support on the streets, because of this strange allure of running.

Reading this back, I'm not sure I've said anything of use or interest there at all, but it was just a single thought that struck me the other day. And you know how thoughts can run on.

The pull of Hull.

'The air had a very strange smell, the kind that one only finds in Hull.'

I was struck by this line from a novel I am currently reading, Gary Dexter's All the Materials for a Midnight Feast. Firstly, because it incited a little chuckle, reminding me of those (not overly frequent I must stress) mornings I would leave the house in Hull, raise my nose to the sky and detect a familiar, somewhat less than pleasant scent. I never did learn what that was. Some suggested the docks, which made sense, others, curiously, dog biscuits. Where the giant dog biscuit factory is along Newland Avenue, I have no idea, but I would love to know if anyone can enlighten me.

More poignantly, however, Dexter's phrase provoked a deeper, much stronger reaction within me by  capturing, in some way, an essence of the unique bond I feel to Hull. That 'strange smell' is for me, an odd, but all consuming air about the place that gripped me from my very first visit.  This, interestingly enough (or perhaps not, I don't really expect you to be interested) was at a University Open day for my sister, some 8 years before I began my first year. The reassuring feeling of the place stayed with me. That first amble I took along Newland Avenue with my Mum on that day, glimpsing higgledy piggledy second hand shops- an image of a single knock-kneed wooden chair in a window is an image that stays with me -sat, hibernating, for a long time as a very comfortable memory.

This pull to Hull I feel quite clearly emerges in my reading of this book. I can unashamedly say the only reason I chose to read it is because I discovered it was a story about a man reminiscing on his time at University in Hull during the 80s. Within it he maps certain familiar geographical spots, reflecting on his meetings, or more precisely, almost-meetings with Larkin. It is this 'almost-ness' about Hull, a land on the cusp of something wonderful, but never really aware of it, which I love the most. Although I cannot say the novel as a whole grips me, everytime I come across something Hull-related,  my eyes light up just slightly, a little crackle of warm familiarity surging through.

I realise this feeling may be diagnosed as merely a longing for the joys of my now-passed University days,  as of course it is University life I most associate with the city. Perhaps it may not be Hull at all I am so drawn to, but the experience itself. Had I studied anywhere, I feel sure I would maintain a certain attachment. Does everyone feel like this? Perhaps. But it cannot just be that.

Hull of course is now quite a different place to the one I spent three years in, now that so many of the people closest to me during that time are no longer there. Although I am profoundly aware it is the people, I of course miss the most, I can confirm it is actually the place I miss too. When I go back now, I relish that first glimpse of the Humber Bridge as I approach on the train, its dominating stance overlooking the flat landscape beneath. The bridge, to me, represents something of the world's outlook on Hull. There stands this overriding and dominating concept many people have of the city, more often than not unfortunately leaning towards the negative, overpowering the appealing realities beneath this misconception. Presumptions are often made about Hull (often deriving from its name's unfortunate rhyming potential) when people have not even visited it. It is the action of crossing the bridge, indeed physically, but equally mentally to overcome any preconceptions, that allows Hull's charm to be felt.

My favourite spot in Hull, and quite possibly of anywhere (grand claim I know!) is at the very tip of the water front. Here I have felt at my happiest, most free, most comfortable, most inspired.  It is the openness of the water in front of me, but also of the city behind which I like. Although I have experienced standing at this spot in the bleakest of conditions, face attacked by the icy wind, shivering madly, my every sense is always directed towards a feeling of bliss I have rarely felt quite so powerfully anywhere else.

I realise this entire spiel will probably be read as a foolish rose-tinted reflection on a place I should really move on from. Perhaps writing about it will be cathartic and finally unleash me from its grip. Yet I am not sure I really wish to be unleashed. Though physically I have moved on, I cannot believe I will ever be able to quite find again somewhere with 'the peculiar charms of Hull.'*




*From Dexter's All the Materials for a Midnight Feast again.

Carpe diem, or something like that anyway.

Today I found myself meandering through unknown territory in Cambridge-land. The combination of appealing autumnal bleakness permeating the air, and the Bon Iver playing in my ears (via headphones I might add- the band's not turned teeny tiny!) propelled me into a pensive mood. It was in this very state that I stumbled across this work of, shall we say, 'penmanship.'

The author's message is surely that of carpe diem, seize the day, live for the moment, and this is an attitude I always tell myself I should adopt. I am happy to say, like many people I am sure, a number of wonderful consequences in my life have sprung from moments of such 'live for the now' intent.

Yet at the same time, I couldn't help but notice how part of this sentence is scribbed out. Ironic. Revised and edited, the message itself has hardly been delivered in the very 'moment' it was conceived has it? Living for the 'now' is perhaps so intangible a concept- are we ever truly in the present, or merely thinking back over/ anticipating it? Sometimes I am aware that part of me enjoys thinking about wonderful things to come, or nostalgically reminiscing on that which has been, more than I sometimes appreciate the very moment. It worries me. At times, however, the attitude of, I quote, 'if not now, when?'  can be a troublesome one (just look at marmite flavoured chocolate...' if not now, NEVER' would have been more apt... but that's for another time...). 'If not now.. perhaps at a later, more feasible, more considered date' is sometimes the best, most realistic or only option (although admittedly not quite as catchy), as placing the needs of now over everything can have long-term damaging effects.  

Seizing the day is a wonderful concept, and I advocate it strongly to bring us out of our comfort zones at times, but of late I have to recognise its romanticisation. Waiting for something, so that it will turn out well eventually, is often necessary, and can be all the better for it.

Amid my joyful wander of bleakness, I also crossed a rail bridge, and it was in THAT moment I was struck by this image. I don't know if I was looking back or looking forward, but either way I rather liked it.

Culture vulture worries.

As I sat watching 'The Culture Show' the other evening, I found myself thinking about my own attitude to 'culture'. The very name 'The Culture Show' itself seems to place the programme on precarious ground- is it just a platform on which to display cultural goings on.. or is it a form of culture in itself? Its almost too overt title seems to exclaim:  'Red alert: Here are all things cultural. Watch this and you will be officially 'cultured'. We promise.'

By watching Andrew Graham-Dixon talking about a new art gallery in Colchester, or, let's face it, GAWPING at the lovely Alistair Sooke discussing with Frank Stella his new Retrospective ( some very, very, dark paintings, and then, conversely, some very, very bright ones), I can securely say I know a little more about them, am aware of their existence, can nod knowingly at their mention, but do I have any right to  think myself in anyway 'cultured'... whatever that may mean... now? After all, I haven't actually experienced anything have I?

In truth, I am merely exploring a personal hang-up.I so often feel myself to be a cultural fraud, very interested by the world of art, cinema, literature, music but in reality having experienced relatively little, particularly in terms of art. I could perhaps account this partly to having not lived anywhere near London- the centre of 90% of things going on in every 'What to do/see this week' newspaper section I ever read. Yet, for this year, at least, I am living within 50 or so minutes of said cultural land, so I have run out of excuses... but perhaps this will be a turning point. Sometimes I think I am just happy to have 'heard' of things, or content being able to make some very mundane comment probably subconsciousy derived from some review or other I've recently absorbed, never really having much cultural gravitas of my own.

In fact, amid the process of writing this blog post, I am rapidly coming to the realisation that worrying about whether I am ever really 'being cultured' echoes everything I hate about the pretentions frequently surrounding it. The word 'culture' alone is a deliberately broad term, surely counteracting any notions of exclusivity often intimated through its high-brow associations. To 'be cultured' should not be a label, but exactly what it proclaims to be. An act of 'being', an experience, whether that occur contentedly and passively from one's own sofa, or at the Tate Modern, with no pressure to gain anything specifically from it, beyond our own enjoyment. And if Mr Sooke just happens to be involved...bonus.

Stick with A.A Milne, and you can't go far wrong.

Winnie the Pooh and his pals invented one of the greatest and most satisfying sporting competitions known to man. Pooh Sticks.

Of late I seem to have frequently, and fortunately, found myself in idyllic countryside settings complete with quaint bridge and sufficiently flowing stream (the sight of stagnant water to a hopeful Pooh Stick-er is beyond tragic measure), with only one activity in mind. Choosing the correct size and weight stick for the ‘match’ ahead is a skill in itself, whilst the throwing in of said stick, too, requires much attention. Throw it even slightly off target and one can find oneself victim to troublesome rocks or, dare I mention, straggly reeds. Of course, placing all of one’s trust in a gnarled, often (and sometimes amusingly) misshapen twig can feel alien and scary, but equally, it can provide a small, natural thrill, only, to my mind, ever found through nature’s simplicity.

I am not afraid to admit that I have suffered some heavy Pooh Stick defeats in my time, but this never deters me from trying again. The excitement of running across a bridge with fellow competitors, each desperate to catch a glimpse of their stick victoriously leading the way, is eternal.

With some research, I am pleased to discover I am not alone in this passion. In March 2011 a 9 year girl old won the World Pooh sticks Championships. It makes me ashamed that at the age of 22 I have achieved so little by comparison. At least I now have something to aim towards I suppose.

My lasting wish is that Eeyore could share in some of this enthusiasm. Lucky enough to live in the homeland of Pooh Sticks, I will never comprehend what he has to be so sad about.

A moment snapped.

Out of the hundreds of photos of university life, there are a particular ones which stick in my mind, this being one of them. Although ones in which everyone rotates their head to the most flattering angle, putting their best smile, or 'I refuse to conform to life's simple joy of smiling so will do my trademark ridiculous expression' (you know who you are) look on, emanate with the suitable level of happiness I will always take away from these times, I sometimes feel they detract from the very moment they are supposed to be conveying. This photo, capturing a particularly memorable and delightful evening, speaks so much more in its authenticity. No staging, only natural expressions, and the crème de la crème, the tesco shopping bag. And let's face it, one of these bad boys is always lurking somewhere near.

This is not to say I do not enjoy all photos in their various forms, and long may the '1,2,3, 'SMILE' days continue, when the moment's right. It's just nice to sometimes view life exactly as I have experienced it, shopping bags an' all.