Oh shit

I never thought the time would come when I would be posting my excrement through a mailbox - but the other day that’s exactly what I did.  And I suspect a few of you have done so too…

The reason being (other than fantasising that the person at the receiving end could be Jacob Rees-Mogg) I had a certain milestone birthday earlier this month and thus a couple of days later received an extra little birthday present from our lovely NHS – so thoughtful of them!  You probably know where I’m going with this: it was the bowel cancer screening kit in its neat card envelope, a cute little sample tube, complete with clear, illustrated instructions.  (I would quite like to have been commissioned for that artwork – it’s not every day you’d get to draw a job like that  get a job to draw like that.)

Well, I think it’s brilliant that we have the opportunity here to do these tests for free and at our own convenience so I was quite strangely excited to have a go.  And this post is just about writing itself with all its double entendre...

Anyway, it does take a little bit of what you might call ‘forward planning’ but honestly it’s no hardship, and then when it's all done, dated and ready to despatch, you can say you’ve pushed your excrement through a mailbox too, and write a blog post about it.

All of this brings to mind a song I particularly loved when I was 15 and first heard as the B-side of a much treasured and brilliant Buzzcocks single, ‘What Do I Get’…  I know it’s not about the actual, erm, ‘substance’ (are there any songs out there that are?!) but as a swear word ‘shit’ is pretty excellent.  My poor mum and dad just kept shtum when I insisted on playing it at full volume on the family stereogram.  They did the right thing, of course, making a fuss would have just given me cause to rebel against them but instead they accepted it all with good grace. In fact my mum probably secretly liked it; I'm pretty sure that 'shit' (along with 'bugger') was her favourite swear word - she didn't hold back - and it has become one of mine too; it's the perfect response to stepping barefoot on an upturned plug, or when a handle on your Tesco 'Bag For Life' gives way and deposits your Maris Pipers all over the pavement, or if you have to answer the door to the postman wearing a freshly applied exfoliating clay face pack.  We've all been there.

The lovely Susie Dent explains more about it here (I thoroughly recommend her videos on all our favourite profanities):

And of course the song.

Buzzcocks: Oh Shit

Yorkie bar(s)

When you find yourself in a bar or restaurant talking about everything from the Southern Freeez, Bruce Springsteen and Shed 7 to the perils of snoring, the loudest gig you've ever been to, terrifying Public Information films from our childhood and how you file your music collection as well as the joys of mashed potato and the cut of David Bowie's trousers, you know you've fallen in with the right crowd...

And so it was that I recently found myself doing exactly that in the esteemed company of fellow bloggers Alyson, Charity Chic (and Mrs CC), John Medd  (and Mrs M) and The Swede - all of whom I'd had the great pleasure of seeing at our first "mini meet-up" in Edinburgh* a year ago, but this time we convened a little further South in York.  It's a city I'd never before visited and one I'd definitely like to return to as it was something of a whirlwind trip this time, but I'm just glad to have made it. It was actually bit of a test for me too; earlier in the year, hard as it seems to imagine now, I couldn't even envisage coping with staying away from home and the sensory overload of such an event, so I'm glad to say that although things are sapping my concentration a little, I've now reached the point where I can push past it enough of the time.  And I'm determined to keep doing so!  I know I wasn't alone in having some background concerns on this occasion either, and very much hope that the trip provided as much of an uplifting break for others too.

But anyway, back to the point, York was lovely and the company was even lovelier.  My memories are awash with (amongst much else) random snippets of the very small but perfectly formed Blue Bell pub, a certain blogger's delightfully dapper hat, a charming multi-tasking bus tour guide, the unexpected views onto houses from the Medieval walls and the most enormous Calzone you've ever seen in the most welcoming Italian restaurant you could go to - all mingled with smiles, seamless conversation, good food, drink and laughter.   As I've said before about blogging, it's a fantastic example of  how geographically distant strangers can form connections and have that sense of understanding and camaraderie, all just stemming from what we've expressed in our pages.  I haven't been very good at keeping up with that side of things lately but it hasn't seemed to have mattered, so here's a huge thank you to all.  I have indeed fallen in with the right crowd.

Perhaps in future, depending on whereabouts in the country we end up, others can swing by too?

Loved this font on a building viewed from a section of the city walls

and this gorgeous beetle art around the corner from the hotel

*minus Martin who unfortunately couldn't make it this year

I feel alive, I feel the love

 “Enjoy the rest of your day,” the young woman said cheerily as she put her belongings back in her little crossbody bag and walked, in a faintly zig zag pattern, away from our table on the parched grass.  She had the sweetest, warmest smile.

My friend and I had just been giggling with her, giggling in that helpless way like we did when we were kids.  We'd spotted her walking in our direction, catching our eyes as she provided us with an unintentionally comedic scene: she was taking two or three steps at a time, then pausing to bend forward, hunching over to root around in her bag, but each time she did so the plastic beaker of wine in her other hand tipped forward too, spilling it on the ground.   She’d straighten up, take a few more steps, then repeat the bend and the rummage, totally oblivious to yet more spillage.  And again – more steps, another fruitless fiddle about in the bag and, oops, there goes the wine ...and she still hadn't noticed.

Wordlessly we motioned to her to use the table where we were sitting and she gratefully emptied her bag onto it, treating us to a running commentary on its contents, punctuated by infectious laughter.  It’s hard to find a lipstick in a deceptively deep bag when you’re a little worse for wear.  Bless her, she found it eventually, after the phone and the sunglasses and tissues and the hairbrush and TicTacs and a blister pack of paracetamol…  after which we provided her with the services of a talking mirror (“Yep, that’s fine! No, it’s not all over your cheeks!”) while she applied it blindly, trusting us not to let her walk away looking like Robert Smith.  Well, I felt a little flutter of  love for this girl in that brief moment, for her sweetness and her laughter and her tipsy candour, I glimpsed a little of my young self in her too.  Or perhaps it was just that I was feeling very mellow and just glad to be alive in the laidback, loved-up way that being outdoors surrounded by the sound of guitars and the smell of doughnuts can inspire.  The sun was shining too, at last.

The small music festival on my doorstep had started that day and, honestly, it was a proper tonic just to go and soak it all up. I’m so lucky, I’m sitting in my garden now as I draft this post out on a scrap of paper the following afternoon, and I can hear it from here: the bass a constant, some vocals drifting in and out as the breeze carries them to me, probably not even half a mile as the crow flies, across the green, the graveyard and a few rooftops. But on Saturday, to be right there (in a field very familiar to me for being populated by sheep and jackdaws the rest of the time) and just to “do” the whole festival thing was still special.  And even though the artists we saw were not ones I would have chosen to see in other circumstances, they were perfect for this moment; I let go of any pre-conceptions completely and just enjoyed what was on offer.

It was especially good too to witness three headline acts all featuring more "mature" women; very heartwarming when you are one yourself.   So yes, Katrina Leskanich is 63, Carol Decker is 65 and Natalie Imbruglia is 48.  They were all in fine voice, classy and energetic, and looked fab - and I felt kind of proud to have them on my home turf too.  Katrina & The Waves performing 'Going Down To Liverpool' was a highlight.  What's that you say?  Why yes, of course they did 'Walking On Sunshine'!  And whilst I can't think of any T'Pau songs I would actively decide to listen to, Carol Decker had some great between-song banter and I couldn't fault their performance.  Perhaps the biggest surprise of the night for me was Natalie... I've never really given her any thought; 'Torn' was one of those ubiquitous songs of the late '90s and that was about all I could think of but, you know, she really rocked out at times and I was far more impressed than I could ever have imagined; I got a bit of a Bangles / Susanna Hoffs vibe.  Good on her, because she turned me around completely! 

I could only make it to the festival on the Saturday night, but late on Sunday night we did at least get to hear Shaun Ryder's unmistakeable lilt drifting over to our windows and down the chimney on the northerly breeze.   Black Grape were playing and I hope he was suitably sweary, it wouldn't be Shaun without a few expletives surely?  

I'll be thinking about that, plus the girl with the giggle and the spilt wine, next time I walk through that field with the sheep and the jackdaws. They will still be just as much of a tonic.  

Any festivals happening for you this Summer?

Checking into the Chelsea, fanzine style

 

Welcome to an experimental 'fanzine format'  blog post!

Inspired by some comments on the previous post, and also influenced by my much younger fanzine creating self, I took to paper, pen, Pritt Stick and scissors to make this one.  I can honestly say, I've really enjoyed working like this, away from the computer screen.  I can also honestly say, it took bloody ages.  Still, it was fun and the only other downside is that there's no chance to edit it now, but I'm a long-time fan of the DIY ethos and the charm of imperfection.  As for the silly amount of time it took, well, sometimes don't you just wish that everything did anyway, and then we could all slow down a bit?

I hope that wasn't too hard-going to read...

Here's the link to the documentary:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b0074lzv/arena-chelsea-hotel

and that great clip of Nico performing 'Chelsea Girls':

Screened out

 Argh - my hand aches.  I've been doing that thing I used to do a lot of when I was younger - you know, when you hold a plastic tube with ink in it and move it around to form alphabet letters in different combinations across a piece of paper: some actual, physical, manual, how-we-used-to-do-it-in-the-olden-dayes writing.

I started, but haven't yet finished, hand-writing a new blog post but before I go back to that one I wanted to precede it with an explanation (also hand-written and to be transposed to what you see here).  I haven't posted on here for ages and feel I've been regretfully neglectful towards my lovely fellow bloggers too - I'm so sorry! Thing is, I've developed a bit of a problem with spending much time in front of my computer screen; I'm sure this must be due to the round-the-clock tinnitus and unfortunately it's just my brain's way of coping for now.  Reading and writing at any length on screen has become extra tiring and I'm finding it hard to concentrate comfortably, and then that effect has placed a kind of psychological barrier in the way too - sort of associating computer time with having that feeling and thus just wanting to be far away from it...  

Hopefully this will pass as it's still early days but in the meantime I decided to embrace the analogue instead.  And how good it is!  I always knew I was an analogue girl but when I'm immersed in all the things I already enjoy - like drawing, walking, reading a (physical) book and putting my hands in the worm bin (that's a bit niche, I know) I barely notice the noise either.  In fact, drawing is amazingly therapeutic and I'm sure there are some credible scientific reasons behind this to do with the parts of the brain that it engages and exercies - a subject I'd love to read up on more, apart from the fact that I'd probably have to do most of that online.

Anyway, after scribbling these words on paper and just typing up quickly here my brain feels so much less cluttered and fatigued in the process.  I think I'll try this method for a while to see where it goes - hopefully it will help me to revive this blog a little but, if all else fails - well, can I post you a letter?!

Just like a dream

 I had such a lovely dream last night I hope you won't mind if I share it here.  Because it featured Robert Smith*!

Before you ask – no, it wasn’t that kind of dream.  But it was incredibly feelgood, and there is nothing quite like waking up after having a particularly pleasant dream, instead of either just a nonsense one, or worse - an unsettling or frightening one.  The emotions we feel in our more vivid reveries often seem to linger on the following day, just like an actual experience would and again, much like in real life, there’s great pleasure to be had in actively revisiting the good ones in our minds to keep those feelings alive.

So, in the dream, Robert Smith was a lovely old pal from my college days.  And I was back at some art school, within a big campus area, walking about in the sunshine waiting to meet up with some mates and go to a gig, when this (young) Robert appeared out of the blue.  He just put his arm around my shoulder as he fell into step with me and a warm, easy, lovely conversation ensued throughout the rest of this sweet unconscious flight of fancy as we wandered around together on a soft Summery day.  There was music as well – meeting up with the DJ who was going to do the set before the gig and who played us a few previews of his record choices, all of which were completely imagined and yet I heard them vividly, as real songs.  I wish I could recall the tunes, they were good; I remember lots of fuzzy guitars and a lively bass.  Do you ever dream up music in your sleep too?  If only we could record it!

“I’m definitely going to treat myself to Three Imaginary Boys”, I announced as I remembered the dream this morning (and then giggled at the ambiguity of what I'd just said…)     But it was just that I had bought and loved TIB soon after it was released many years ago and, somehow, like many other albums I’d owned in my teens, it had been replaced by something else I’d subsequently decided I’d listen to more.   Now I have a hanker to own it again and to keep it forever this time.  I find myself doing this more and more with the music I loved so much in my formative years but later let go.  As has often been said I’m sure, it goes much deeper than just the music - it’s about the feel of the time, the associations, youthful memories, identity, growing up… so much more, all of this wrapped up in 12” of vinyl and some idiosyncratic cover art.   

Anyway, thanks Robert, for inadvertently turning up in my head last night and being one imaginary boy in that dream.  It really was lovely to see you!

The Cure: 10.15 Saturday Night

 *I know why he featured – we’d been watching a repeat of ToTP in the evening on which he was playing keyboards with Siouxsie & the Banshees for ‘Swimming Horses’ (excellent to see again).  Plus just a few days beforehand Martin had posted the perennially charming Love Cats on his excellent blog…

The sparrows in my head and a jugular bulb

I hope you won't mind the medical nature of this post, but if you've ever had a CT scan you'll perhaps agree that it really does seem like something straight out of a sci-fi movie.  The idea of being fed through a machine as red laser lines make intangible marks across you, and having your veins injected with 'dye' so that someone else can see the inside workings of your head, your blood vessels, even your brain, is (no pun intended) pretty mind-blowing.  And for us patients in the UK it's all for free.  Thank you, wonderful NHS.

I couldn't help wondering beforehand what else might show up inside my head, though - a mouse's nest?  A boxful of dreams?  All the things I've ever lost perhaps (that hoover nozzle we were looking for the other day?  My book on 1970s interiors that mysteriously went missing in 1995?)  But, I'm glad to say, the thing they did find was the thing they were looking for - the answer to the question I've had going round inside there for the last three months: what's causing me to hear that 'flock of sparrows' that I wrote about here, cheeping away every second of the day...? 

I'm so relieved to say it's not a tumour, or a narrowed artery, or a build-up of pressure around the brain, all of which can cause this Pulsatile Tinnitus.  I've had two ECGs as well, and full blood tests, and things poked inside my ears and up my nose, plus a hearing test, and they all turned out ok, so it's felt like a long three months.  But I found out last week, thanks to the result of the CT scan, that I do have an anomaly, which is an 'enlarged jugular bulb' (this, as a very lovely friend suggested, really should be the title of a track by Peter Hammill or the like, shouldn't it?  I can hear it now, a noodly instrumental perhaps.)

After a lot of wondering, worrying and some dark nights (and days) of the soul, it's such a relief to have a diagnosis at last.  For anyone who's interested in our incredible anatomy, as I understand it the jugular bulb is something we all develop at around 2 years old, a pouchy part of your jugular vein, at its top, where it bends round and forms a kind of junction with a sinus vein.  My 'bulb' is now pressing against or protruding slightly into the inner workings of my ear and so it's like putting a loudhailer up to your jugular.... which perfectly explains why I can hear my blood flow pulsing past all the time (and seemingly a few other noises from inside my skull too - it's a busy place!)

I do wish I could get rid of the incessant noise but, unless things get very extreme or there are any physical developments requiring intervention, I have to learn to live with it.  Habituation is the key - training your brain not to tune in, to ignore it - apparently the more attention we give something the more our brains automatically log its perceived importance (this particularly applies to anxiety too).  So I must keeping working at it, and the lovely ENT consultant is going to monitor things regularly too; I go back for a follow-up in June.

In the meantime, music and art and other happy distractions are, as ever, therapeutic, and I'm so grateful I don't have to do a job which requires me to sit in front of a computer screen all day as that has definitely become a bit more tiring and uncomfortable for some reason.  In fact my circumstances couldn't be better really, I draw and paint for a living (I've also reduced my hours a little) and I do it with music playing or the radio on, and birdsong outside my window.  The cheeping of real sparrows is fine; Spring is, well, promising anyway, to turn up soon and at least the heartbeat in my head keeps confirming I'm alive!

Let's have some more Buzzcocks... they do seem to have cornered the market in tinnitus-related themes...

Pipe dreams

 "I wasn't picking up cigarette butts..." says Andy, in a scene from Series 2 of the ever wonderful 'Detectorists', as he bumps into Dr Tendai, who, shortly beforehand, had interviewed him for an archaeology job in Botswana.  "Clay pipes," he continues, "I saw some bits of clay pipe in the flowerbed..." He holds out his palm to show the chalky white pipe fragments.  "Broken bits of pipe that people used to smoke."

They do look like cigarette butts, but I've found myself just as acutely aware of their existence as Andy is, any time I'm pottering around in my garden.  Only yesterday I wasn't even digging or anything, I just glanced downwards briefly to where the snowdrops have emerged and a piece of clay pipe was just lying there, looking up at me.  Well, not exactly looking up at me, but you know what I mean.  Not buried, not even dirty.  Just lying there in the open, above the soil, as if it had been strategically placed there by someone five minutes beforehand for me to spot.  Who is that phantom pipe layer?!

These are some of the pipe fragments I've found in the same circumstances, all of them in this small, humble garden, all of them brought to the surface naturally - by worms, birds, moles, voles, Wombles, who knows what, but they just appear now and then, unsearched for - and I love it.  

They may only be tiny remnants of the existence of ordinary men in buckskin breeches with tobacco-stained moustaches but they'll do for me - little time travelling morsels from long-gone lives.  I totally get why Andy holds onto them and keeps them in a glass jar - I do the same.

Back to the scene in 'Detectorists'.  "How old are they?" asks Dr Tendai.  "These ones are Victorian.." Andy points to the thinner fragments, "but that one's early 18th, maybe late 17th Century."  "How can you tell?"  Dr Tendai's curiousity is clearly piqued now.  "Older ones are thicker and they had a much smaller bowl because tobacco was so expensive..."

Thick and thin together

I haven't found any sections with the bowl intact yet but now I know, from Andy's explanation and yesterday's find, that I had in my hand a little piece of (thicker) pipe which must once have been puffed on by someone around 400 years ago.  Here's another fragment with some relief decoration at one end still showing too.

I can't help it, I just love how something so small and simple can resurface after hundreds of years and make me feel that myserious connection the way it does.  I hope I'll keep finding cigarette butts bits of clay pipe in my flowerbeds.

~~~

I was wondering about some music to accompany this post too.  Well, I could have given you Crackdust, the Botswanian death metal band mentioned by Andy and Lance in this episode - honestly, they're real - but how about an unexpectedly stompy glam version of the Nashville Teens' 'Tobacco Road' instead?  

Albatross: Tobacco Road, 1975

(Although, if you're still curious about Crackdust...)

Crackdust: Mortal Decay