The Sunday Spinster Sermons: Part Three

Good morning and welcome to today’s Sunday Spinster Sermon brought to you with the battle cry ‘Lead the revolution in your bedroom & set all the zippers free!' The week began with a mighty T10 over in Asia and ended with the Olympic Opening Ceremony in England. Many zippers will have been set free. Grindr, the all male find-a-friend app crashed. Love has been shared across the land.

This leads us to today’s first reading. A short tale of love and loss inspired by the young bucks strutting around the Castle I type this from and my interesting period of fallow.

The Greek myth of Diana and Actaeon can be found within Ovid’s Metamorphoses. The tale recounts the unfortunate fate of a young hunter named Acteon who was the grandson of Cadmus, and his encounter with chaste Diana, goddess of the hunt. The lovely goddess was nude and enjoying a bath in a spring with help from her escort of nymphs when the foolish but exceptionally handsome man unwittingly stumbled upon the scene. The nymphs screamed in surprise and attempted to cover Diana, who, in a fit of embarrassed fury, splashed water upon Actaeon. He transformed into a deer with dappled hide and long antlers, robbed of his ability to speak, and thereafter promptly fled in fear. It is not long, unfortunately, before his fellow hunters and his own hounds track him down and kill him, failing to recognize their friend.

Not a problem to be found whilst using Grindr.

The myth was explored through dance and art and poetry and music in a soul enhancing extravaganza on the BBC this week. If you’re lucky enough to get BBC iPlayer you can watch here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b01l8tgh/imagine..._Summer_2012_Dancing_with_Titian/

Or if you visit London this Summer the installations and original Titians are on display http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/whats-on/exhibitions/metamorphosis-titian-2012

The second element of today’s Spinster Sermon must of course be the Opening Ceremony of the Olympics. Another fusion of dance, history, myth, art, poetry, fairytale, theatre and magic. All the wonderful lefty multicultural crap, as a Tory MP so eloquently tweeted.

Thanks to Danny Boyle, I have finally started watching sport. I hated it as a child. I was forced to watch it on TV, in the same way I was forced to go to church on a Sunday by an over zealous father with Creationist tendencies. Once you added bullish, bulldyke PE teachers and skipping training bras to go straight to a cup size before going to Secondary School, my sporting fervour was somewhat diminished. I must have been one of the few children at school who adored English and Maths and Science but would actually bunk off to avoid the agonies of a PE class.

The pageantry of the weekend has transformed this. I can now see sport as theatre, sport as storytelling, sport as beauty. (Sunday Worship to follow confirms this)

I’ve never achieved the dizzying heights of success that these athletes earn through years of determination and endeavour. This led me to wonder what would be my top ten moments so far? What have been my Olympian moments? Moments where I’ve transcended the every day to become a champion? I have no wedding day or first born to celebrate. No marathon or race won, so what have been my moments of perfection?

These were the top ten that came to mind as I mused last night.

1. Hearing that I looked beautiful in the moonlight by my first love as I lay naked on the two single beds pushed together
2. Flying a Cessna over the Okavango Delta I’d just mokoroed down
3. Getting A grade A-levels on the same day as my little brother and seeing mum cry with happiness
4. Learning dad would live after signing papers agreeing he was brain dead
5. Swimming with sharks off Dyer Island in South Africa
6. Learning I was going to present the BBC documentary IpsoFacto when I was 15
7. Kissing an ill-fated pararmour under the stars on a sampan in the South China Seas
8. Being fed a joint and a ribena by two separate boys after a night clubbing in Leeds, too content to move
9. Strutting in heels through a heavily armed PLA in a square in Beijing on route to an Asian Football Cup party without authorisation but high so feeling authorised
10. Sitting in my house on Lamma Island after a big party thinking about the friends I’d made and life I’d created, thinking, I did this.

They’re my breathtaking moments. Amongst hundreds of others. The ones that come first to mind. I encourage you to think of your own. They’ll make you smile.

Now for some light relief with our Sunday Worship: http://wheelr.tumblr.com/post/27937753079/hotlympics-the-hunks-of-london-2012

No Tom Daley is not there, he has a 12 year olds head and can be googled easily.

I leave you with another piece of lefty multicultural art. A spot more Italian Renaissance by the very clever Alt-J.

 

Til morning comes, let’s tessellate.

Peace with be you

x

The Sunday Spinster Sermons: Part Two

Hello and welcome to our Second Sunday Spinster Sermon.  

I hope you all enjoyed our opening hymn.  

As a committed friend of a friend of Dorothy, I was very excited to be seeing The Wizard of Oz LIVE at the Theatre Seven this week. I had tissues at the ready. I thought of Judy's original perfection and Eva Cassidy's raw hope and knew I would be sobbing before the first few minutes were done. This was not true.

The Wizard of Oz a la Shropshire was the campest thing I have yet to see and I've frequented a lot of gay bars. Each character was a Mae West impersonator. Every last one of them! Highlights including the tinman having a magic 'ass' due to his midwestern drawl and Toto, the pug, fleeing the stage wherever possible. 

As this is part of Sunday Service where I must offer up an act of contrition; this week I am mostly sorry for sniggering in the Gods while playing imaginary drinking games along to each act of high campery. 

Nora Ephron would now like to come forwards and recite the first reading of the day:

“Reading is everything. Reading makes me feel like I've accomplished something, learned something, become a better person. Reading makes me smarter. Reading gives me something to talk about later on. Reading is the unbelievably healthy way my attention deficit disorder medicates itself. Reading is escape, and the opposite of escape; it's a way to make contact with reality after a day of making things up, and it's a way of making contact with someone else's imagination after a day that's all too real. Reading is grist. Reading is bliss.”

Amen.

Our second reading comes from Durga. My favourite Virgin Goddess. A Virgin Warrior and Destroyer. We are very pleased to welcome her here today as meditating upon her has cheered me no end. She remains my favourite not just because her mode of transport resembles Aslan but that her wiki page describes her as being able to, 'manifest fearlessness and patience, and never lose her sense of humor, even during spiritual battles of epic proportion.'

Thank you Durga.

The word Shakti means divine energy/force/power. I am the warrior aspect of the Divine Mother / Brahman (Supreme Absolute Godhead). As a goddess, my feminine power contains the combined energies of all the gods. Each of my weapons were given to me by various gods: Rudra's trident, Vishnu's discus, Indra's thunderbolt, Brahma's kamandalu and Kuber's Ratnahar. 

According to a narrative in the Devi Mahatmya story of the Markandeya Purana text, I was created as a warrior goddess to fight an asura, or inhuman force/demon, named Mahishasura. He had unleashed a reign of terror on earth, heaven and the nether worlds, and he could not be defeated by any man or god, anywhere. 

Mahishasura underestimated me, thinking: "How can a woman kill me, Mahishasur—the one who has defeated the trinity of gods?". However, I roared with laughter, causing an earthquake soon making Mahishasur aware of my powers. Mahishasura rampaged against me, changing forms many times. First he was a buffalo demon, who I defeated with my sword. Then he changed forms and became an elephant that tied up my lion and began to pull it towards him. I cut off his trunk with my sword. The demon Mahishasur continued his terrorizing, taking the form of a lion, and then the form of a man, but both of them were gracefully slain.

Then Mahishasur began attacking once more, starting to take the form of a buffalo again. I became angry, and proclaimed to Mahishasur in a colorful tone—"Roar with delight while you still can, O illiterate demon, because when I will kill you, the gods themselves will roar with delight". When Mahishasur had half emerged into his buffalo form, he was paralyzed by the extreme light emitting from my body. I laughed before cutting Mahishasur's head down with my sword. Mahishasur slain, I rewarded other soldiers who helped in the battle by bestowing upon the army a knowledge of jewelry-making. Give a man a medal and he's proud for a day. Teach a man to make his own medals and he's proud for a lifetime.

Thank you Durga. 

We move on to this week's Sermon. Last week's was very lunar and quite emotional. This one moves away from the feminine and towards the masculine.

This weekend. I met my uncle for the first time. He said he'd seen me before when I was about 10 years old. At that time I was quite shy and bookish so I don't recall. As I am no longer so shy (still bookish), it made for a much more memorable meeting. He's similarly prodigal. I always thought Prodigal meant had gone away and now come back, due to Bible stories. Turns out that's not quite right.

prod·i·gal/ˈprädigəl/

Adjective:	Spending money or resources freely and recklessly; wastefully extravagant.
Noun:	A person who spends money in a recklessly extravagant way.
Synonyms:	adjective.  lavish - profuse - extravagant - wasteful - spendthrift noun.  spendthrift - waster - wastrel - spender - squanderer

Uncle likes a drink, smokes, wears stoner t-shirts, dived with sharks, travelled the world, speaks his mind and has blue eyes. We had quite a lot to talk about.

The most interesting stories were of his father, my grandfather. I never really got to know him as he was a non comedy version of Melchett, from Blackadder. The Sergeant Major. Fabulous beard and moustache. Very shouty. 'Hells, bells and buckets of blood' he would rumble when vexed. He made beautiful art too but didn't like children, so as he died when I was 13 we never got to chat. I learnt lots of wonderful history about him this weekend. Lots very sad but fascinating also. Having been brought up by a very down to earth mother who enjoys the English countryside more than the trade winds, it made a lot of sense to learn my grandfather had been with the Royal Artillery during the Second World War and had fought in Mumbai, Calcutta, Mandalay, Imphal and Ceylon. He'd fought with the Chindits.

Ernest James Siseman was the youngest captain at 23. Ernest James Siseman operated deep behind Japanese lines and was weakened by malaria. Ernest James Siseman met my grandma at Deolal, 100 miles outside Mumbai when she nursed him back to health. 

The British saying 'doolally tap', loosely meaning "camp fever" comes from Deolali and the apparent madness of men waiting for ships back to Britain after finishing their tour of duty. Doolally today means mad or insane. Mum was born in May of 1946. The Burmese campaign ended in July 1945. What a place to be made. Not surprising he didn't talk much. He did create beautiful paintings though.

After his death his paintings were sold off. Most of his work was of landscapes, he didn't ilke drawing people. The little girl being bookish on the left is me. Hope to track it down one day.

This one is at Liverpool University. Really modern. I look forward to visiting.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/yourpaintings/artists/e-j-siseman

   

Lovely to meet you uncle Quentin. Looking forward to visiting you in Finland. The fact you live a short drive from Moomin World makes the offer all the more attractive :)

It's nice to have an uncle. Nice to have some male energy around. Even when it bleats like Melchett :)

I leave you with today's Sunday Worship. 

A spot of Steam Punk Victoriana

http://lebeaupaonvictorien.blogspot.co.uk/2010/04/vintage-voice-pseudo-victorian.html

 

Peace be with you.

And also with you.

You may now walk out, to the fine strains of Raphael  Attar and his homage to Gary Barlow.

Be excellent to each other

xxx

The Sunday Spinster Sermons: Part One

As you walk in and chose your seats, you can listen along to Lucy Rose singing Lines. Filmed in Wild Wales to set the scene.

In future Sundays we shall move into our Acts of Contrition and follow up with readings, but for the pilot Spinster Sermon, we'll cut straight to the homily itself:


‘I’m not going to stand for it,’ she screamed down the cluttered stairs.

‘Stand for what?’

‘You being such a bitch to me. I go out of my way to do things your way. I bend over backwards. And all you can do if remind me how I only have a month to go until I need to move out. You can’t even bear to spend more than half an hour in a supermarket with me.’

‘Oh you do get yourself in such a huff,’ she jokes.

Teenager high jinx. Such memories. Sadly, this is not a memory. Well it is. But one from today, not twenty years ago. Moving home has brought back all the old behaviours. Mum is made of sterner stuff than me, a more grounded soul, so clashes are frequent.  I find myself seeking attention and getting angry when I don’t receive it. I thrive on intrigue and giggles. Mum on peace and gardens. 

This last ridiculous argument was down to the Twinings Logo in the tea and coffee aisle during our big shop in Asda. I asked how old she thought it was. She said old and moved to go. I said no, guess how old? She said 100 years? I said no. She said 200. I said no. She said, ‘Enough, I’m sick of playing these games, we’re leaving the supermarket now!’ So I got upset. Such a shame. The Answer is 300 years. So near. Yet so far. I read it on a tweet this morning. I am twelve.

The twelve year old put the shopping in the car in a stony silence. Drove home. Unpacked. Took items particular to herself in a bag up to room. Slammed door and sulked in the tiny back bedroom still full of boxes. This is following a further scene at the check out, when mum had asked me not to do any of my cooking until after she’d finished her’s, as she had a friend coming over. I’d glowered back. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I won’t be anywhere near you. I’ll stay out of your way.’ God. I’m a bad episode of Sunset Beach, perhaps I’ve turned into my own evil twin?

Then mum knocked on my bedroom door and asked if we could talk. This is always bad. I stop being angry and get upset. I cry. Mum feels bad. She wants a hug. I am so tense I don’t want anyone near me. She doesn’t understand why I’m upset. She says she loves me. I cry a bit more. We’re just different people. A spinster and a divorcee sharing one very small house. She knows I’ll find a job where I can move out. Having tried for over a year, I am less sure of this. But I am sure that I get happy when I write.

I had already planned to start my Spinster Sermons this morning. At 5am. When I woke up with the monthly barren bat signal. The Spinster Special. This is no way completely explains the proceeding paragraphs… I was pondering a way to motivate self to write again. I knew I needed something with a reasonable frequency. I admire my friends who keep to weekly blogs by adding photos of fashion or travels or some such. As I reside in the Shire and my social life is pretty sparse this would have been tricky so I wanted to play with the Spinster thing. At 5am, I realised that Spinster Sermons would work.

As a very lapsed Roman Catholic I could still recall the Sunday Mass rundown. There’s a welcome, an act of contrition (saying sorry for being bad), lessons (Bible and Gospel readings), a sermon or homily, transubstantiation (flying saucer paper with stamped crosses and cheap red wine turn in the body and blood of Christ), Communion and then thanksgiving. All rounded up by a song.

This week’s Sermon seems to have something of a lunar theme. Next week who can say. Two weeks time will definitely be sex based. We should be back to tears again in 4 weeks. 

In the spirit of this back to front, moon-kissed Spinster Sermon. I offer up this reading by Keats. I first learnt the tale of Endymion when captivated by the most beautiful man at Chatsworth. There are many tales of Endymion. My favourite is that Semele, the Goddess of the Moon who fell so in love with his beauty she decided he must never age. He was therefore granted immortality but must always stay asleep except when the Moon Goddess came down to visit him and enjoy his company. They had 50 daughters.

Endymion by John Keats. 1818.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils

With the green world they live in; and clear rills

That for themselves a cooling covert make

'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms

We have imagined for the mighty dead;

All lovely tales that we have heard or read:

An endless fountain of immortal drink,

Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Not prevalent in your usual Roman Catholic Mass, but Spinster Sermons offer up movie recommendation of the week. Mass tended to tell us what not to watch. The Life of Brian was certainly banned. This week I recommend Bright Star http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0810784/ the story of Keats but told through the eyes of his lover, Fanny Brawne. It's gentle and tender and kind and of course poetry filled.

I think we come to the end of today's Sunday Spinster Sermon and I'd like to include my favourite part of Mass. The connection. When we would all stand up from our pews and make contact with each other. We'd say 'Peace be with you.' 'And also with you' while we shook on it.

So.

Peace be with you.

And also with you.

Much love

Til next Sunday

Alison 

xxx

Burning Man Lost

Well hello there,

So I'm sitting back in my little house in Shrewsbury, sipping on some Welsh blackberry and apple brandy and watching a Doris Day documentary. I'm sleepless. I'm jetlagged. I'm trying to process the most remarkable week of my life. The week I lost my Burginity at the Rites of Passage Burning Man 2011.

If you've ever seen The Muppet Movie, or Labyrinth, or Fraggle Rock, or Dark Crystal and delighted in it's mayhem, then that is 90 mins of fantasy that becomes tangible and lasts for a week while at BM.

The first thing you cannot believe upon arrival is the vastness of the space. A city is created for just a week to be burnt or torn down at the end. The playa stretches out for 3 miles and your tiny brain cannot compute its immensity. There are derelict fraggles as far as the eye can see. Art work emerges twinkling and mighty from the dust. It is an apocalyptic future. A dystopian past. Another dimension. Life on Mars. The Fifth Element. There are 50,000 wild ones, all communing to love, to laugh, to lose their minds and find them again.

You have this magical originality, this alien landscape and then you have your tribe. A few of you have made a camp. I was with wonderful old friends from Hong Kong and new ones from Germany and the US. We were all cartoon characters in our own graphic novel.

We were based at a New York sound camp named Bubbles & Base. Tina Jane and myself, along with Doctor Richard were to open the bar on the first night. Dress in gold was our only instruction.

We had arrived at camp after a 15 hour RV mission bought to us by the heroic Marija. We hit the playa at 1am but didn't park til 6am due to slow traffic onto site. We slept for a few hours and adopted our first costume change. TJ was bedecked in body hugging harlequin suit, heels and Northern Thailand hilltribe headress. I wore a Jessica Simpson polka dot bubble dress and parasol. We were caricatures of ourselves. We set out into the dust. Every other camp offers free booze. So we slurped IPA in a tiny saloon, travelled by fairground whirligig for beer and sipped whatever else was available in our plastic champagne flutes. We primped. We posed. We tried to take it all in. We found Shamrock City, soon to be our Irish Bar home from home and went back to the RV for a temazepam-drenched 4 hour sleep before our 2am alarm to prepare to bar wench.

We drank some amaretto and coke, smeared our eyelids and lips with pritstick to hold the golden glitter and hit our bar. For the next 8 hours, we served champagne to the thirsty circus folk while Doctor Richard checked ID. As the sun came up for our first true BM sunrise, we knew we were somewhere incredibly special, and not of this earth.

A further nap, and another costume change, and out we walked again. This was the pattern of the week for we had camped beside the Evil Dubstep Sound Camp, pumping out chainsaws and dentist drills. Music for the deaf. Music for the gremlins. Certainly not music for me. TJ was more adept at sleeping through this but as I had spent the last year in sleepy Shropshire it was gradually dementing me. But there were open bars. And sights to be seen. So the week continued.

We donned saris and made pilgrimage to the temple of transition. A place of such beauty and meaning I cannot describe. The walls are plastered with photos and letters and clothing of loved ones. A shrine to all those you have lost or forsaken you. People kissed. People cried. People mourned. In the middle of the desert. In a structure due for burning in but one week.

The dubstep continued. The drinking continued. The bowls were passed around. The mushrooms began to be nibbled.

Time and space stuttered.

Our RV ran out of power so no oven, no microwave, no AC. It is 41 degrees. We only have noodles to eat.

And then nightfalls. The temperatures drop and you find yourself out in the middle of the desert without your friends. You've lost your way and possibly your mind, somewhere between a portaloo and an artcar. You walk the miles back, in the dark, using the Burning Man and Temple as your guiding stars. A curvaceous, illuminated structure near the Bubbles & Bass camp means you can find your way. Pilgrimage through the dust. Falling into your tent, you wrap yourself in furs and sleeping bags and know exhaustion will get you through the soundcamps all around.

The morning begins again and so does the desert. You cycle. You drink. You listen to spoken word poetry in central camps. You meet more humans.

Snowcones are nearby. If you flash your junk you jump the queue. Your top slides off and you are suddenly wandering the playa topless. And who cares? No one. Many are naked. Then to Camp Beaverton for Wayward Girls. The lesbian camp. 150 girls whooping to a lecture about female ejaculation. Women tell you you're beautiful. Stainless steel paraphernalia is shown. We leave before the demonstration moves on. TJ finds it dull. As we stroll the playa, another artcar picks us up, and we listen to sweet non-dubstep tunes in the afternoon sun. My parasol protects my modesty. Somewhat.

We move towards the best dayclub of the playa, Distrikt and are picked up on our way by a phenomenal transgender lady we name Patsy for her abfab similarities. She steps out of her Sponge Bob Square Pants car to assure us she's no Patsy, she's a much bigger girl. She makes my own look like gnat bites. We spend some time at the club then I decide I've had too much of everything. I don't want to see anymore porn, anymore nudity, anymore mayhem. I want out the movie. I want a bed. I want clean clothes. I want freshness. I want to have not eaten that hash brownie. We return. I pass out at the back of the RV and stay there for around 10 hours.

TJ brings back various friends for me to meet. All quite innocently, but in my mangled brain I imagine wrong scenarios and pretend to slumber on. The dubstep rages on, symbolising the evil techno green bad trips I had once or twice in my teens. I sleep.

The next day is better. It is the day of the burn. There are only 2 more nights. The Man Burn. The Temple Burn. I can do this!

We get up for champagne at our club and are told that a movie star has a vagina art installation just around the corner. So off we set. We climb the cock and balls. We slide down the tube. We enter the vagina. We hit the G Spot. We get misted. We emerge to the morning sun. We meet Rosario Dawson. All is well.

We have a mellow day. Lots of cycling. Lots of exploring. The oddness is feeling less odd. We drink lots of water. We prepare for the Burn. Having spent all week losing people, due to the natural and not so natural highs, our tribe plan to meet at the temple at 8 to walk over to the Man. I embrace the mayhem and the pharmaceuticals and off we trot. We have Eunice, the Unicorn as our guide. She is held aloft as we enter the most tribal happening. Every light is on. Every stereo is playing. Pyrocars spurt their flames into the air. Acid & E & mushrooms & pot & absinthe fill the air. Here is what occurs from afar: http://vimeo.com/28801666 Within is a magical, wild, untameable beast. A delirium. A celebration like no other. As he burns, the tribes woop and hug and sing and stare and the dancing begins. We are lost out on the playa for hours. Skipping and jumping. Where the Wild Things Are. The Lord of the Flies. The Island of Lost Boys. The Amazons.

As things calm, TJ and I slip away. We are not so high. We retreat to the RV to take pause and drink a glass of merlot. TJ ponders just relaxing, for the first time in the week I may add, but I reject that and off we trot once more. To have it out with the Evil Dubstep club! And we go. And we dance. Like we've never danced before. We gyrate to the dentists drill. We surf to the chainsaw. We clear the floor. We own the floor. We take back the night!

And so... to the Oirish Bar... The place of all things good.

We meet a giant Irish muppet, who shows us his show RV. He got it cheap off some fella and drove it over. It's bedecked in red velvets and an utter pit. It is wonderful.

We return to the bar where a cheeky chap offers me granola on the dancefloor. The music is wonderful.

A sparkly Wolverine Elvis type comes to talk. He hands me a bracelet. With my a silver nametag on it. It is almost my name. A L L I S O N is says. Pft. That is the American spelling. I only have 1 L. And off I flounce. I am followed by a wingman to say the spelling is bad but the math is good. TBC.....

From Welshpool to Shrewsbury

‘’So how can you tell me you’re lonely and say for you that the sun don’t shine?’

This old Roger Whittaker song has my circling my brain of late. Teasing at the corners as fire licks paper. I have found this particularly perverse as I seem to have entered the God realm of late. Other terms for this would be heaven or perhaps Narnia. My life seems infused with magic. I am the Hall & Oates Busby Berkely extraganza of 500 days of Summer. I have the Midas touch. Squirrels appear at my window and bound along by me as I walk to work. Stags cross my path and deer twitch their ears as I approach, so close I can make out their unique freckles. I work in a castle with a familiar named Alan. He is a peacock. He is the first conversation I have before I breach the castle walls in the morning. He pretends I don’t exist. I dig that about him. Then there are gardeners who offer to bring me sweetpeas, volunteers who bake cakes and a whole raft of other castle folk who seem delighted to have made my acquaintance. I am so heart-openingly grateful for this period of my life, I get a bit misty as I walk to and from work. It’s just all such a dream. The dream is even more highly defined by the fact I spent the previous three months toiling like I’ve never toiled before as a waitress in a hotel. In my last role, I racked up 55 hour weeks and started at 8am to finish at 2am. I had to clean out dirty pots of ketchup and mayonnaise from messy diners. I polished things. I mopped things. I dealt with misogynistic pygmy managers. I was told to stand up straighter and be more formal with guests. I kept smiling and seem to now be offered my reward. Yet still, Whittaker’s folk song calls back to me, reminding me of a time my little soprano voice rose to harmonise with fellow angels at the first year of my catholic high school existence…

I arrived a little early at Welshpool station tonight. It is not so much a station as a platform surrounded by Welsh hills. It is very pretty so the time tends to pass quicker than at an average wait spot. I take a seat in the sheltered area in the centre of the platform as have no jacket and am wearing a summer dress. It feels a little cool as the evening sets in so I draw my red cardigan around me. Three characters begin the night’s performance. They are discussing freedom and travel.

‘I’ve done all of it, Aberystwyth, Scotland, Essex’ says the lady.

‘How old do you think she is?’ asks the baby faced boy pointing at his young friend. ‘She’s just 15, don’t look it though.’ She has a doll’s face and could be younger still. Her painted cupid lips and long asymmetric hair sprout from a child’s neck and floral corset.

‘Be careful’ says the lady. ‘My mate got carried out by three guys, nothing you could do.’

‘A bloke should never hit a girl,’ says the doll.

‘I was out, back hander by my fella. Out for six and a half minutes. Been raped, abducted, beaten daily by my ex-husband, he sold me. I’m only twenty eight. I’ve seen everything, I’ve done everything I ever wanted to do,’ says the lady, with the black gums.

‘Just enjoy life when you’re young innit, you’re only young once’ says the baby.

‘I need a Ritalin to calm me down. I’ve just taken speed’ says the doll.

‘Poor man’s coke. Hahaha,’ says the baby.

The lady interjects, ‘I’ve never been a speedfreak. Never one for the uppers’

‘Well I do like my ketamine’ buzzes the doll.

‘I can get anything, when it comes to crystal meth, anything, but it don’t do nothing for me,’ tells the lady.’

‘I can get an ounce for 160,’ says baby.

‘I can get it for 90. Here’s my number. 07896 721, hold on, that’s my old number. I’ve got nine phones. This is my number. Call me in an hour. I’ll have charged my phone by then. Lucy Grybow.’

The baby stops her here. ‘How do you spell it? I have learning difficulties, dyspraxia, my bother has mild autism. He has Aspergers. He gets Ritalin all the time.’

At this point, Mr Fascinated lumbers slowly over. ‘So what’s all this about drugs then? You reckon they should be legalized? What would you do if I gave you a thousand pounds? How much do you charge for prostituting? You chose this life of begging didn’t you? I have my job. I earn my money but I get screwed, the house, the council tax, the gas, the electricity, the water. You’re free!’

Baby pipes up, ‘Yeah, it’s a lifestyle choice innit. I wanna be free. I wanna travel the world.’

Mr Fascinated turns his attentions away from the lady. ‘You’d need money for that.’

‘No, I wouldn’t, I’d be like those people from a thousand years ago, living off nature.’

Mr Fascinated loses interest, ‘It’s so depressing how late this train is.’

He picks up interest once more and lays into the lady.

‘What do you make a day? If you average that twenty to forty, that’s thirty quid. What do you need to live on? Twenty? Well, if you saved ten pounds a day, in thirty days, one month, you’ve have three hundred pounds, in three months, nine hundred, so why don’t you do that? You choose it. It’s your decision. So begging on the streets, homeless, can’t be that bad.’

Becky, the lady, doesn’t stop to think about this. ‘Fair play. You’re right. It’s not that bad. I don’t have the discipline to save my money like that.’

All the while Roger Whittaker’s Streets of London plays on loop, reminding me of how extraordinarily lucky I am not to visit that realm any more, as I did as a doll faced 15 year old, snorting speed at Wilmslow train station with a McDonalds straw.

I return home to see a package from a dear friend in Hong Kong. ‘Bless you’ says the card. The very words that Becky had said when I passed her a tiny sum of money. The picture on the postcard in the package is of Amitabha, the Buddha of Infinite Light. It reads that devotion to this Buddha strengthens compassion and orients the mind to rebirth in his paradisal realm. In the stunning art, this Buddha holds an alms bowl with an unfolding lotus flower.

Bless you all, whichever realm you are in right now. Tis all an illusion anyhow, right?

xxxxx

Snowdrops

It's a meaningful night tonight.

The Metal Rabbit bounds over in China.

Candlemas in Cristendom.

Imbolc for those who care for pagan ways or embrace Celtic notions.

It is particularly honoured for the Gaelic Celtic Goddess Brigit.

She was fond of poets.

So I share two with you tonight.

One from a long time ago and one from last week.

Ye Olde Proverb - which sounds most elvish if you try and read aloud:

Thig an nathair as an toll

Là donn Brìde,

Ged robh trì troighean dhen t-sneachd

Air leac an làir.

"The serpent will come from the hole
On the brown Day of Bride,
Though there should be three feet of snow
On the flat surface of the ground."

Apparently this was the first idea of Groundhog Day? It sounds nicer in Gaelic.

And this one was for my cousin, who left us at the beginning of the year:

The Nature of Reality

i saw a programme last night

on the nature of reality.

Scientists fired particles

in a dark machine.

The particles became a wave.

They say this means

there are parallel universes.

When the machine was watched

The particles went back to normal.

A singular reality.

You can't be watched anymore.

You're a wave.

You're dancing in sunlight.

You're laughing with your family.

You're teaching your children.

You're complaining about state pensions.

According to science.

So, I'm lighting a candle for people I love tonight and dreaming of snowdrops, the so-called Bells of Candlemas and small buds of hope, as we have passed the heart of winter and spring is surely on its way.

xxx

Greek antiquity ft Beyonce

‘Then he thrust his spear into the soil… ‘

My current crush is on Richard Miles who presents the Ancient History documentary on BBC Two. He rides horses and uses words like quixotic. Apparently he teaches Classics in Australia… the modern day Indiana Jones, although he does have a propensity to popping his pink rugger shirt, the fact he wields a copy of Homer would forgive any sin he could care to commit.

Considering that the English language is my greatest turn on, working in a bookshop is beginning to fuel fantasies rather nicely. I can extrapolate wildly from choice of book to type of man. Just last week I managed to get my flirt on with a customer with marvelously full lips as we discussed astrology, all terribly tongue in cheek but making minimum wage retail more than worth it.

Not only is my job affording me flirtations with cute men who can read but a whole new social life! Waterstones is filled with the most eccentric peoples I have met in some time. There is a Kali devotee with druid beard who is sourcing me some mead, a self-confessed fruit-machine addict, a gay Mohawk stage hand and a young girl who thinks gammon is a fish, because it’s like a sting ray, innit… a gamma ray? With this merry bunch of men, I get to go to pubs warmed by log fire and drink wine, while my new friends have their peculiar concoctions of stout, cider or port and lemonade.

From there it would appear that the C21 club, a 5 minute walk from my house, holds a gay night on a Monday. Shawbury is the RAF base nearby. This Monday the gay bar and RAF came together in a beautiful celebration of 24 year old boy men all fashioning moustaches for Movember. I romanced with a Lieutenant Jim and talked books with Lieutenant Bob. Lieutenant Josh bought the Jaeger Bombs. All most charming. I would have spent more time with young Jim, but his friend took me to one side and told me how he was a top bloke and I had to be good to him as he’d been messed around before. All hail the school disco. The Mohawk and I proceeded to the podium to insist that if you liked it then you should have put a ring on it.

Amongst all this working and merriment, I managed to complete my 50,000 words? I am rather surprised by this, especially as I had to write the last 20,000 in 3 days, heavily punctuated by hangovers. Pride won out over procrastination and all this socialising has been putting me in a jolly good mood so was all very encouraging.

I plan to keep the 50,000 a month job up, just to keep me busy, and make sure I have a vast wealth of information to write me a book. It amuses me to write it so should amuse others to read. Not entirely sure what the style will be quite yet so playing with a few. Travelogue? Erotica? Comedy? Chicklit? Coming of age story? There’s certainly a lot of high camp but one cannot fight the moonlight.

Oooh Richard is scuba diving now. Mother has just commented that he’s a rather rounded young man… Yes indeed. I can only assume he would be joining me on the podium if I were to bump into him at C21… We could discuss beautiful youths together.

Catullus LXXXV

Odi et amo.
quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?
nescio,
sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

I hate and I love.
How can I do that, you might ask me perhaps?
I do not know.
But that's what I feel and this is torture.

OK. Shall commit to the last few moments of Dr Richard now... and dream of exploring antiquities together.

Sweet dreams

xxx