Things That Go Bump...

Made the mistake last night in bed of watching 'Stir Of Echoes' - a horror film starring Kevin Bacon. Amazing i know, that I could be scared out of my wits by a film that stars Kevin Bacon - but there you go. Every single time a movie starts and that creepy music begins and the camera starts sweeping across ominous barren landscapes or creepy grandfather clocks or scary house interiors, I know that I should just click the remote control and switch to an old 'Friends' rerun or a music video channel. But i just can't help myself.

You see i LOVE scary movies...but i hate them too. Like rubber-necking a fatal accident on a congested motorway, I just can't help myself from looking. I mean, to be fair, there is only one type of horror movie that i absolutely can't bear and that's the kind that involves supernatural ghosts/demons/other miscellaneous spirits. Anything to do with the supernatural that involves apparitions or deeply evil voices speaking forth from innocent looking kiddies gets me every time.

The problem is that when i find myself alone at night my brilliantly over-active imagination often conjures things up and I find myself imagining I can almost see/hear things that go bump in the night. It's the frustrated actor in me i suppose, but i'll tell you what, the mind is a strange thing and shadows and house creaks at night often fall prey to my strange mental wanderings and i find myself cursing the last horror flick i saw.

Strangely enough, for whatever reason, I find myself able to watch gore or people being sawed up into tiny pieces. I actually sat through 'Hostel' (which I must tell you is only for the strong of stomach) which depicted rather realistic torture scenes and hacking people to death. I was repelled but intrigued. Go figure (maybe i'm a sicko at heart?!)

Anyway, being a fan of Kevin Bacon I allowed myself to watch half of the movie last night, but when the little boy in the film said (in a ominous husky man voice):

"Leave the boy alone and talk to ME"

that's when i switched the telly off and picked up my library book that I've been trying to get through for ages and have renewed three times and stubbornly refuse to give up on. It's by A.M. Homes and is called, 'This Book Will Save Your Life'. Go figure.

Moronic Morons

It's 1:30am and I'm up with two mentalists having a somewhat moronic conversation about what constitutes a 'moron'. This is somewhat relevant because I was lovingly accusing someone of being a moron and they (rightly so) turned it right back at me and accused ME of being a moron. Upon reflection I had to agree.
A moron is someone who is being a loser but doesn't have to be. Well that's what my definition happens to be anyway. I think though, i'd rather be a moron than a loser because there at least is a nugget of hope in a moron's future, whereas a loser by definition seems to be marked from birth. Again, this is merely my definition.

Why do I and two others find ourselves up in the wee hours of the night discussing something so pointless yet depressing? Well it doesn't help that we're listening to an itunes playlist that borders on suicidal. It also doesn't help that we (okay mainly me) indulged in too many fresh powdered mini donuts about a hour ago and are now coming down off a catastrophic sugar high.

So anyway, being a moron, i'm going to go to bed. Why subject moronic mutterings to the world at large? I'd best brush my stupid teeth, then pop out my contacts and flick them across the room indifferently before burying my moronic self under my cozy duvet.

All you morons out there, please get in touch. We are going to start a new tribe. The Order of the Moronic Morons. In your application please state which attributes you possess which make you suitabe for inclusion. No need to enclose a picture. Beauty is irrelevant. We are only interested in what lies beneath.

Come all ye who are stupid and weary...we shall talk about conquering the world whilst doing sweet F___ all. Come.

Heart Ache

This past week I went through a major trauma. A member of my family was suddenly struck ill and my whole world collapsed. In a moment, all the things that had been pissing me off and causing me anxiety ceased to matter. My dwindling bank account? whatever.... My lack of excitement and general boredom with life? whatever... Hurts and grudges borne by others and inflicted by myself? whatever...

Luckily the outcome was positive (well we hope and believe it is) and I've been able to step back, take a deep breath and get my head together. But standing over a hospital bed in Emergency in the middle of the night, it was a different story. I had a real life lesson in what it feels like to have your heart truly 'break'.

It made me realise that when people are going through grief and major trauma and you send a card or ring them on the phone and they seem slightly aloof and withdrawn, it's not because they don't appreciate your thoughfulness. It's because they are in a different time and place to you and the rest of the world. They are existing OUTSIDE time and space in a place where it is hard, if not impossible, for anyone to reach.

Conversations about everyday things seem impossible when you're in that place, and you find yourself guzzling cup after cup of bitter coffee and staring at giant screens playing repetitive CNN through glazed, sleep-deprived eyes. Your stomach feels like it's eating itself and you're either ravenously hungry or unable to eat at all.

Having come out of such a place, without having lost a loved one, I feel like the luckiest person on earth. It feels better than I imagine winning the lottery must feel, and I step back into everyday life a slightly wiser, definately more appreciative, and slightly changed person. I am one of the lucky ones.

10:59 -

'Calgon...Take Me Awaaaaay'

Things that are bothering me today:

1. The ridiculous house prices in London

2. My current bank account balance

3. The prospect of no holiday in sight

Right now I want to be on a beach somewhere, lying lazily in the baking sun, dozing off to the sound of waves splashing gently on shore, contemplating what i'm going to have for lunch and what i'm going to do for the remainder of the day.

What I do not feel like doing is being stuck for nine hours on a cramped charter flight with a bunch of loud-mouthed chavs wrecking havoc with mini-vodka's and yelping like demented dogs in heat. Sadly, to get to my paradise it often involves surviving the latter.

Nothing makes my heart sink faster than getting to the airport and joining the queue from hell. You know the one. Whole families sitting on the ground, tossing cheesy 'Quaver's' around to each other and already arguing about who gets the window seat. Having your heart sink upon boarding the plane to hear a huge belch from the seat behind, and turning to find a grinning, morbidly obese (no putting the seat back then) woman who is two sheets to the wind thanks to the three beers necked in the restaurant moments before.

I am so scared to go back to our divine retreat in Goa. By all accounts it has become rife with riff-raff. It has become like Benidorm. It is full of track-suited hooligans, pronouncing Indian names incorrectly and badgering away for cheap silver as if they're in East St. market.

You may think I sound like a snob, but it's gut-wrenching to think that your own personal paradise, which holds some of the best memories of your life, may be no more. Once the masses have discovered it - forget it.

Still, on this depressingly rainy Sunday morning I think even I would withstand a flight from hell and a completely commercialised setting for the benefits of some proper sun. I wouldn't even care if the cows which wander the beaches in Goa had 'Burger King' signs etched on their sides.

Today, almost anywhere feels more appealing than 'a summer day which is so clearly not a summer day' in inner-city London. URGHHH.

Thoughts, thoughts, and more thoughts...

Is anyone else out there just plodding through days...in a daze...weeks, months, years whipping by...not a terribly lot to show for it...getting lost in your life? No? Well, that's just me then.

Now I realise that I could simply have my 'negative' head on (I prefer to call it being 'realistic' but whatever) and really my life is utterly fabulous and if only I could nudge the seratonin level up a notch than I'd be happiest lass in the free world. On the other hand, there is also the possibility that I am the only sane one in a world full of deluded fools...happy deluded fools but fools nonetheless. All those happy souls sinking pints in pubs, cuddling up on sofa's with blockbuster dvd's and flexing toned abs on dancefloors everywhere are perhaps the guru's of this age. Eat, drink and be merry, right? Nevermind the 'big' questions of:

What is my purpose in life?

Will I always feel like such a loser?

Will I ever get my break? Any break?

How come some people can make living life look so easy?

Why am I not happy?

How can I make my life count for something?

Does true love really exist?

To what extent am I brainwashed into thinking that I'm a failure when in reality I'm not?

This last question is the most puzzling at present. By all accounts, given that I don't have a flashy career, bucketloads of cash, a charming country home, a calendar packed full of exciting events, fabulous and adoring friends, and a future glistening with potential...surely I should just end it all now and save myself the hassle.

By 'end it all' I don't mean literally - I just mean give up hoping for anything special to happen to me and succomb to that bastard 'mediocrity'. Hand in any and all dreams not pertaining to realistic goals like paying the mortgage and eating five portions of fruit and veg a day, and embrace the stinking mass of humankind just trying to trudge along in life.

Time to hang up the sequin dress and pull out the baggy old tracksuit? Time to embrace being a 'punter' and join the (un)orderly queue of all those who gave up on their dreams?

Ah, if only it were that easy. If only I wasn't petrified of turning into a wretched, despondant drug-adled nasty alcoholic in later years...

Where's that bloody prozac then? Or maybe I just need a good sleep and sunny day. It could be as simple as that. (Mind you, winning the lottery, buying myself an island and turning into a mad recluse for the rest of my life also feels pretty damn appealing at present...donations this way please.)

Europe Vs. North America

I'm back in Toronto, Canada for my yearly visit. Ever since I left here (in '96) I've managed a trip back at least once a year. Some visits have been amazing and left me wistfully (if briefly) flirting with the idea of coming back here to live...but if I'm truthful, it's easy to don rose-coloured specs when it comes to my home town, simply because I know I don't have to stay here.
I suppose the fact that I spend most of my time down on the Harbourfront lends itself to idealising this fair city. I'm not so sure the suburbs would hold such appeal (although a private swimming pool and lots of space seem like heaven to me), nor would a backwater town where the only local entertainment is 'karaoke night' in a tragic 'nightclub' cum bar. But down here at Harbourfront with the gorgeous expanse of sparkling blue waters, peacefully gliding sailboats and a becoming promenade, it's hard to think of anywhere else that is this delightful in summer. (Let's not even go into how this heavenly summer paradise turns into a desolate icy wasteland in winter...when it gets so cold sometimes that it hurts to breathe outside. The only thing for it is to get drunk in your basement 'rec room' as often as possible, watch a lot of television and sports, and stuff your face on the plentiful array of junk foods available everywhere.)

In London in the summer, if you can find yourself in a park with some mates and a few bottles of chilled 'Sancerre' then there is no reason not to be utterly blissed out and content. If however, you are commuting on the tube or bus and have to endure stifling journeys twice daily on an overcrowded transport system with your chin wedged right up someone sweaty armpit and inhaling various peoples stale breath - then it is hell. The pollution in summer seems to solidify and at times you feel like you're actually swallowing the car fumes and hot pungeant air. Tourists abound and it's a daily fight to even get near hotspots like Westminster Bridge and Southbank. Italiens, Polish, Japanese and eager Americans all walk six abreast in their sandals and 'crazy' t-shirts, snapping every old building they come across (and believe me there are a few) and paying no heed as to whether there is a huge queue behind them waiting to pass. When you're hot and irritable and need to be somewhere in a hurry it's tempting to fantasise about shoving the odd one onto the road where a crazy London motorcyclist may very well dispense with them. Evil thoughts I know - but living in close quarters with annoying neighbours and oblivious tourists in an overcrowded city often brings out the worst in poeple.

Conversely, it is so refreshing to walk into a store in Toronto and instead of being simply ignored, be greeted with an enthusiastic hello and an offer to help you locate something. Customer service is important here in Canada, but not so in London. There, if you can even get the attention of sales staff, they'll get pissed off if they're interrupted while conversing with a co-worker...that is if they don't just ignore you altogether while you stand there making uncomfortable grimaces and saying 'excuse me' over and over like a twat.

What i always find amusing, everytime i come here, is how locals always ask me where i'm from as they can't 'place' my accent. Basically, just because i don't speak with a Canadian twang they assume I have an accent when in reality i'm just speaking with a 'mid-atlantic' tone. But it must be said that whenever i spend more than a few weeks here, when I go back to London I inevitably speak a little strangely for the first few weeks - this is even more the case when i've been to the deep south of America. For whatever the reason I assimilate North American accents into my voice yet can't for the life of me pass off a realistic British accent. This means that every single time I take a cab in London i invariably get taken round 'the long way' and asked how long i'm visiting for. There are benefits though. If i ever get caught without a valid ticket on a journey in the UK I simply look up innocently, put on the 'twang' and claim to be a naive tourist. Works a treat.

EUROVISION HELL...LOSING IT

Okay, so how do you explain this? It's been ages since i've had the time to sit down and pound out (mentally and on my poor battered synth) a new tune - despite my constant desire and best of intentions. Stupid stuff like banking blunders, nasty ebay sellers, dire mobile phone customer service operators, etc. keep stealing my precious leisure time...not that there is even that much to begin with!
Telly series come and go (yes, alright, i confess - none too proudly - that i'm a pathetic telly addict), seasons do the same, and right when strawberries are back in season I'm reminded that life is just slipping away...and me with it. Which brings me to my point. You know how many inspired artists always say that their ideas just 'popped unbidden' into their heads? Well, it's a feeling I relate too as that has always been the case with me. 99% inspiration and 1% perspiration (which could explain the plethora of musical tracks lying resolutely on my hard drive and the lack of any record deals.....but i digress).

I awoke this morning with a start to realise that the 'gods' of artistic inspiration are angry with me. No, they're pissed actually. I know this because I awoke to a fully formed 'Eurovion-esque' Turkish/Maltese melody along with equally revolting accompanying lyrics in my head. The more I tried to block the cheese-tastic euro beats pounding away merciously in my brain, the more they took over and new and more grotesque lines wrote themselves line after line.So, I'm going to do what any other self-respecting telly head would do in my position. I'm going to go shove some m&m's down my throat, inhale a giant cappucino and flip on E4 to see the latest Big Brother shananigans until my head returns to normal. If it doesn't, then at least I'll enjoy my sugar comedown whilst watching unfortunates even stupider than myself. Adios.