They Don’t Laugh

I met a girl yesterday who didn’t laugh. She didn’t smile either, not once.

So I made some jokes and inserted some funny bits into conversation, but they seemed to go right over her head.

Well, thought I, I must be an exhaustively un-interesting person. I didn’t retreat into my shell, though, I persisted in trying to engage her, since we were travelling together.

I offered her some mango pieces. Who can say no to mango pieces? She declined, and carried on munching her pasta. I told her a funny anecdote that always makes people laugh, but she just stared at me, solemn, and said,

‘Oh, that’s funny.’

Then she proceeded to talk about her uncle’s wife’s marital problems and how her uncle is an awful person.

Huh. Okay. I am not interested in any of this, and I do not see the necessity of this conversation because it adds no value to my mind, in fact it just pollutes it and makes me feel depressed.

So I tried to steer the topic away and towards something we had in common, i.e. our university course. Hallo. Maybe she has some interesting insight on Dubliners. I for one, while recognising its significant political and literary value, thought it was boring at first. It still wouldn’t be a book I would pick up on a fanciful whim. I was also having troubles analysing it properly in a fashion that my examiner would find scintillating. She just said,

‘Yeah, it was okay.’

‘So which stories would you chose to compare with Langston Hughes’ New York poems?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

Silence.

So our conversation petered out because she didn’t have opinions on things I found interesting, and I wasn’t interested in gossiping about her adulterous family members. And she did not laugh.

In fact, the whole debacle depressed me immensely and I greatly regretted agreeing to travel home with her just because we live in the same city. That, and the fact that we are on the same course, is the only thing we have in common with each other.

Who are these people, that do not laugh, folks? That like to gossip and not much else? Who shun conversation unless it is about other people? Where did they learn such behaviour?

My Doctor Says I should Not Drink Coffee

 

My. Doctor. Says. I Should, Not. Drink. Coffee

Even. Though. It. Kills.

Me

So I DON’T

Drink it

No I DON’T

Drink it

Even though it kills me.

Even though it kills me.

 

(This has a tune. I don’t know how to write the tunes I make up. But it goes somewhat like this: My DOCtor says I should Not Drink Coffee. Oh. I can’t get all the variations of tone in. Forget it. *sadface*)

How not to murder a romance.

I want to write a romance (the younger version of myself would vomit at these words.. Sorry, younger Len. It had to happen) about a young boy and a young girl who are neighbours. They both have the attic rooms of their respective houses, and their windows are two dormer windows poking out of the same roof (semi-detached houses).

I wrote a screenplay about this for an assignment. I think the younger me resurfaced though and rained a vicious tantrum over this story, coating it in morbid drama. The young boy decided to kill the young girl, and he went about it in the most cruel way possible. There was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it. No matter which way I tried to turn it, the act was inevitable.

He seemed so nice at first, did George. He was caring and sweet and so charming. Perhaps that was his downfall. I was sad that it had to come to that.

I think I am not cut out to write a decent romance.

I don’t want to write romance like the erotic fiction section in the library. I don’t want to write chick flicks either, about domestic goddesses and frenzied young ladies who ‘don’t believe’ in love until a handsome, dashing bad boy comes and whisks them away against their will and they can’t help falling for him.

I don’t want that.

I want to write a coming of age story about a small girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders. A girl who meets all sorts of odd characters, not because she is a novel girl, a story book girl, but because she goes out of her way to talk to people, and learns that everybody is a character. A girl who leaves an impression wherever she goes, not because she is beautiful or possesses magic powers, but because her mind is a beacon; a vast ocean of imagination and creativity and intelligence.

I want her romance not to whisk her away, but to creep up on her playfully and poke her on the shoulder like an old friend.

I don’t want scenes of her doing intimate things, I want scenes of exploration and chatter. Scenes of life in ways we have never experienced.

I don’t want George to murder her. I want another young man to come along and steer her ship with her.

I want her to go back to her house and stand at her dormer window and look out at the city in the sunrise, her hair flying about everywhere. The Phenomenal Girl walks along the street, road reading, her hair decorated with an array of colourful cloths, her rainbow socks poking out over a pair of old boots, and she looks up to see my protagonist and waves her book at her. The Red Lady shakes her carpets out of her windows and calls out to my protagonist that it looks like rain today and not to let the sun deceive her. A man in a patchwork topcoat raises his hat to her, and waggles his bushy eyebrows. He can’t talk. I want the girl to look to her right at the empty dormer window next to hers.

I don’t want to know if they live happily ever after. I don’t want to know how many children they have. I just want to write about the connection between two fantastic minds. I want to know how the boy sees her fiery thoughts, and how he catches them before they escape. I want to know that the girl isn’t oblivious to love. I want her to welcome it

like,

an,

old,

friend.

I don’t want to know what she looks like, I want to know what adorns her mind.

Is she white? Is she brown? Is she yellow? Is she red? I don’t care. She is her. In fact, I don’t want any description of her features whatsoever.

Insert Feature Here.

She can be anybody you want. She can be you.

But how do I write all this without murdering her before the story has even begun!?!?

Muscle Mania

Iron Girl by Dani Jennings

 

We woke up this morning to malignant ice covering every surface. It appeared to have sprouted it’s frosty tendrils overnight, like some sort of arctic fungus, through roads, pavements, cars and roofs. The whole world was blanketed with a frosty white. The air was sharp with cold. The biting kind, that creeps up on you when you least expect it, and causes your fingers to go numb.

The ache in my muscles is raw.

Today is a rest day.

I have been going to the gym every day this past week. My clothes are saturated in sweat by the end of it. I feel pumped and happy, even though the pain is near unbearable.

I got up and pottered about, getting ready to leave the house. As I pulled off my pyjamas, and stood in front of the mirror under the harsh white light of the bedroom, I noticed how wobbly my legs were. They weren’t exactly shapeless, but in the mirror I could see that the skin was not smooth and tight over my muscles. There was fat in places there hadn’t been before, and the shape wasn’t as streamlined as I like to imagine. In fact, I realised that although I had already put in so much work, there was still a very very long way to go.

They feel amazing though. My legs. All my muscles ache and ache, I can feel them slowly tightening. So at the moment I don’t care the they don’t look that great. I am getting there, slowly but surely. I can feel it, that’s all that matters right now.

Tomorrow is Abs and Arms day!

My mother in law very kindly made me a sandwich and gave me a snickers bar to take with me,  the latter of which I slipped into my husband’s drawer when she left. Clean eating, I thought to myself, is the only way to see satisfying results, rather than only feel them.

 

Naughty School Boy

 

The Naughty School Children. By: Theophile Emmanuel Duverger

 

 

“Didn’t you iron your uniform?” I called out to my thirteen year old brother, as he dashed into the room and reached under the sofa to bring out two packets of crisps (good hiding place, bro), which he stuffed into his school bag before rushing to the door.

He paused when I said that, looking guilty, staring at the door as though wishing it would gulp him in and away from this interrogation.

Then he said,”Oh, yeah!” really quickly and without looking at me, before swooshing out, his un-ironed blazer whipping behind him.

My mum’s voice, from the kitchen, “WHY DIDN’T YOU IRON YOUR UNIFORM!?”

“Sorry”

“You’re LATE!”

“I know. Sorry!”

SLAM.

That was the front door.

 

Tuesday.

Tuesday painting.

 

Oh hi.

I am sitting on a comfortable bed at the moment. My eyes are stinging, I am exhausted and cannot take another verse written by Wordsworth. I really can’t. I assure you I am not dissecting his poetry because I care about it. After extensive study, I really don’t see why he was such a celebrated man. I can understand why Austen has reached the level of recognition she has, and even Shakespeare. I acknowledge the greatness of Dickens, and appreciate the poetry of Dryden, but I just CANNOT get my head around why Wordsworth is so highly praised. He just seems like a big headed, self obsessed snob.

I have had a long day.

The baby is keeping me company. She is sitting next to me on my bed. Her large cheeks are flushed, and her chubby little fingers are scrabbling through a pile of books, her sweet little voice telling me intricate stories, of which I can only make out the bare minimum. Words like “lion” and “dinner” and “stouwy” emerge from the baby jargon.

“Otay Len?” she says, after turning the page, to make sure I have listened to her tale. She can say my name properly now.

“Okay” I tell her, smiling, before turning back to my screen.

I got up before the sun roused itself from sleep. I worked out for a good two hours. I cleaned my mother’s house and spent five hours tutoring some children before settling down to pore over vexing poems. I then drove to an Arabic grammar class I signed up to as per my New Year’s list.

It was such an exhilarating experience. The other people there were all of different ages, and so jokey and cheerful. The teacher introduced me and they all welcomed me in such a friendly way. I felt at home immediately. I wasn’t expecting her to ask me about my background in Arabic though, and so wasn’t prepared to be put on the spot like that in front of a whole roomful of silent people. I felt my face flushing hotly as I told them that I had my father speak it to me as I was growing up. I was surprised that I felt embarrassed, though. I thought I was over that. We learnt about the command verb, and how it applies in a sentence when addressing a male, a female, two males, two females, an un-gendered group of people and a group of females. I remember vaguely studying about that before, so catching up wasn’t as daunting as I thought it would be. All in all, a remarkable lesson. I can’t wait for next week.

Busy days are tiring, but so satisfying. As long as you keep to schedule, of course. Which I am not doing at the moment, am I. Off I go to dissect more Wordsworth.

Do you like busy days, or do you function better when your schedule has some gaps?

Nutelloissants

Here is something cheerful..

Chocolate croissants made with puff pastry and Nutella! I mean, what could be better? Well, I could think of a wild variety of things that are infinitely better (hugs on a cold morning, fluffy socks, summer fields, churros, cheese melts, surprise flowers, comfy house scents, parents who are happy… the list is endless). I tried to fold them nicely into croissant shapes and croissant twists. That didn’t work out too well for me, ha!

Anyway here are my Nutelloissants!

 

They do look rather messy, I grant you, but they taste delicious.

Well, That Escalated Quickly.

This is what I had for breakfast:

1. Two wholemeal pieces of toast with butter and honey.
2. Two hard boiled eggs.
3. One mug of black coffee.

 

It will suffice to say that I am very pleased with this meal, and grateful for my blessings, and it is the first proper filling meal I have eaten in two days.

Yesterday at the gym I spent an hour sweating out of every pore on my body, and I positively reeked. I finished 1.5 litres of water, and when I got back I was ravenous. But there were lessons to plan, clients to speak to, assignments to complete, clothes to iron, and a husband to spend time with.

I didn’t.

Spend time with him.

I got very upset because he didn’t acknowledge me when I walked in the door. Just carried on talking to his mother, and his sister, and the goddamn goldfish, and his brother, and his brother again, and upstairs and downstairs.

I was tapping furiously away, dissecting Wordsworth so harshly (I don’t understand the massive hype over the fellow. He strikes me as a selfish person. Maybe I haven’t read enough of him. Who knows.), writing about nature and the ‘inner life’, while my ‘inner life’ was boiling and sizzling away.

I was waiting for him, you see.

By the time he flopped onto the bed, I had wrapped up the first assignment, and was replying to some clients. I turned to him, finally hoping he would see me properly, but he rushed out to brush his teeth.

I went to make his sandwiches for his lunch tomorrow.

By the time I got into bed, he was in that drowsy state where all you can do is mumble.

This morning, he turned off my alarms, and snuck out before I was properly awake.

“So you can sleep,” was his whispered explanation.

Doesn’t he know that I don’t care for sleep when I know I won’t see him all day and only for a few proper seconds come the night?!

I got a kiss, though, and a tight hug that smelled of freshness and leather. Then he was gone. A puff of car exhaust, a flash of white reversing light, a rumble of an engine. He was gone to traverse the country, fight through commuting traffic, to make a living.

Tomorrow, again, his work will claim him first. Then his family will claim him. Then all I will have is a sleepy, drowsy hug and another whiff of perfume in the morning.

I miss my husband. I wish he cared more about prioritising me, as I do him.

I’m cross with him, because he needs to acknowledge me. I am his ruddy wife.

I’m sad and hurt by him, because to me, caring is showing you are happy when you see someone after a long day. I don’t need him to sit and chat with me for hours. Even looking up from what you are doing, and saying hello, and smiling at me, would suffice.

I’m sad.

I rush home from wherever I am when I know he has returned. Should I carry on doing that, while he ignores my existence? Am I being melodramatic? Is it too much to ask, that you give your wife a hug when you return, like you used to do?

There are no excuses. None at all. Just like when I try to make excuses. If I can’t have excuses, neither can you.

Maybe he feels awkward in front of his family to display any sort of affection towards me, but I’m sorry, he does it to everybody else. His mother, his siblings.. It’s been two years. I don’t care about your embarrassment. If I can’t see you at all during the week, the least you will sodding do is give me a darn hug.

Well. That turned into a rant, didn’t it? Oops.

A Flutter of Nerves

Job interview today. Only got the callback because someone related works there. Trying not to use ‘I’ in these blog posts. Oops, just did.

No nerves reign over today. Which is actually a bad sign, because usually when there are no nerves, performance is abhorrent.

Deep breaths, fill the lungs, wash the face, cream on, primer, a smudge of foundation. Ironed blazer, shined shoes, folder in hand. Wait for Father to drop car off this morning, and drop him back. Drive to the school. Deep breaths. Solid walk. Firm handshake. Deep breaths. Focus. Concentrate on what has been read the night before.

Deep breath.

Might help to be a little nervous beforehand, so it doesn’t all come slamming on one the moment one walks into the interview room and sees those serious faces.

Do any of you ever feel as though a situation is funny purely because it is so solemn?

The other day at the gym everybody was on their machines, faces serious, pumping their legs, pumping their arms, nobody looking at anybody else directly in the eye because quintessentially, they are all a bunch of humans straddling various pieces of metal and moving various limbs about repetitively. It was funny. A private chuckle was had.

A slight worry that the same thing might happen in the portentous interview room prevails.

Maybe those are the nerves?

 

“A flutter of feminine nerves.” A cup of tea might help, don’t you think? “The Cup of Tea” by Mary Cassatt

Blue Water

Rain is pleasing, when you are warm and snuggly and it is pattering gently on the skylight window, like a thousand imps running amok. Rain is pleasing when it is accompanied by what you just know is bitter wind, because you can hear it, and because the temperature has suddenly dropped so low this week, but you have a nice hot cuppa tea and the kitchen is sparkling clean because you have scrubbed it down and your parents are having their coffee and it’s all comfy.

Rain is pleasing when the grass is thick and green, and the smells of life and earth are wafting in through your window on a summer’s afternoon. Rain is pleasing when you can hear it tapping on leaves, drip dropping, trick trickling. Rain is pleasing as you watch it smattering down, accompanied by low rumbles of gruff, yet friendly thunder, while your thoughts take you to far off lands, and your mind is void of deadlines.

What isn’t pleasing is water dripping over the edge of your boots, sodden socks and puddles that are growing larger and larger. It’s no fun when your clothes are soggy and your feet are cold and damp, and the wetness seems to have seeped through the very walls of your house, making it smell funny.

Rain is lovely, but not for those who have roof leakage, or are homeless. Rain is tough when the water levels rise and flood your home, ruining your comfort zone. Rain is harsh when it flies in through your broken windows and stings your face, and makes your children cry. Rain is cruel, when it soaks you to the bone, and makes you have to leave your destroyed home to seek somewhere safe and dry.

Rain is water, water is life, therefore rain is life, happiness, growth.

It is also death and misery.

Here is an interesting quote relating to rain:

“Maybe love is like rain. Sometimes gentle, sometimes torrential, flooding, eroding, joyful, steady, filling the earth, collecting in underground springs. When it rains, when we love, life grows. ” – Carol Gilligan

What do you think about rain?

 

Artist credit: Igor Mudrov