A Tentative Contemplation

I’ve enjoyed having this blog. I still do. But there’s something niggly about the way I feel about it. The things I’ve written about feel too personal and I have this strange anxiety in the back of my mind about this blog sitting there on the internet for all to read. I always have.

I really like all the people who drop by to read here, and I enjoy reading their blogs (along with many, many more besides).

I feel, though, that I might not want this anymore. I don’t like the amount of detail which is published online for all to read. I like to have a blog, but one where I can be myself. I know I’m myself here,too, but I want somewhere I can be myself without shame.

By ’shame’, I don’t mean that I’m ashamed of this blog, not at all. But I’d like something which represents me as I see myself, and me as people who know me see me. The Blueskies Blog isn’t that. The Blueskies Blog contains details I wouldn’t want people in my real life to read.

I feel like I’ve created a Blueskies persona which isn’t me.

I’m a cheerful, friendly, happy person. I stop in my tracks to look at the sky, or smell the morning breeze as I step out of the door. I laugh to myself and sing without realising. I fall in love at least once a day, usually with men who have large beards. I occasionally write about that, but when written down my whimsical peccadillos begin to sound almost sleazy and disloyal to E. In my heart I know they’re not – he knows exactly what I’m like. But I can’t help it that others’ potential perceptions of me have tainted my own view of myself.

I’d like a blog I can show to my family and friends. I’d like a blog which says “Look! This is me – here I am!”

So I’m thinking about taking this blog down. I’m just thinking about it – nothing drastic is happening yet. I think I would probably start another one. And I strongly suspect that if you ask nicely in a comment on this post when I start a new one I will share that link with you.

Nothing decided yet, mind. After all, this is me.

waking in the dark

I’m tired.

Five days a week, the alarm goes off at 6am* and the sky is still dark. Pitch dark. E and I wrench ourselves out of bed and into the morning air, rubbing the sleep out of our eyes and grumbling pitifully. We occasionally snap at each other. We don’t want to do this.

* 8am on a weekend

E complains that it took me too long to get out of bed and that he’ll be late for work. I probably swear at him and put my headphones into my ears as we walk away from the house and through the blue-dark morning air.

We do a long run (1.5-2 hours) on Sundays, rest on Mondays, 45 minutes on Tuesdays, 75 minutes on Wednesdays, 30 minutes on Thursdays, rest on Fridays, 1 hour on Saturdays and then a long run on Sunday again, and so on.

On Sunday we ran eight miles. We took it slowly and after about 6 miles I found myself buoyed along, running faster than I ever had before, leaving E in my wake. I don’t know what happened, but suddenly my muscles felt strong and supple, my movements were efficient and powerful. I didn’t want to stop. As quickly as that feeling arrived, it faded away. But for a moment, I knew why people do this.

Running for only half an hour tomorrow is beginning to sound like a treat.

Two weeks on Sunday, in the afternoon, I will still be tired. But I will probably be very, very drunk, with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other. I will have run 13.1 miles and I won’t have to wake up at 6am in the dark anymore. And I will be able to find some kind of exercise which is fun, not boring. Yay.

But then I think… what’s the next challenge? Oh, dear.

Rrriiiiiinnnnngggggggg

My last post reminded me of something which used to happen to me when I was a child. I wonder if anyone else has experienced this?

If I spent too long alone, or in silence, my ears would start to ring. Quickly it would escalate, becoming an all-consuming, brain-hugging cacophony of strange loud ringing inside my head. I would have to sing, or shout, or go and find someone to talk to before it would go away.

Even now, if I spend too much time alone, it starts to happen. Although I expect now it would probably take a few hours of silence, instead of minutes when I was five years old.

What’s it all about?

in private

My NHS GP (National Health Service General practitioner, for those of you not from the UK, is a free doctor) referred me to a private hospital for a check-up.

Like anyone, I’ve experienced years of turning up at a smelly doctors’ practise, sitting on hard, worn plastic chairs in the dark waiting room for far too long, my feet resting on the prickly, doormat-style carpets, reading magazines which went to press when I was still at school. Sometimes, there’s no magazines and you’re forced to read the signs on the walls: “Picking your nose in public is frowned upon” and “Dog dirt will blind your child.” Then eventually being ushered into an equally unpleasant surgery room filled with worn-out equipment,  rushed through my appointment by a tired and uninterested doctor and ultimately told that I am making a fuss about nothing and to stop wasting their time.

I can’t communicate to you how angry NHS doctors can make me feel.

Once, near the end of an appointment, I mentioned something small that had been bothering me. It was only a minor matter. The doctor told me that I was only allocated 7.5 minutes to discuss one ailment, and that if I wanted to talk about something else, even though we were still within that time, I would have to make an appointment at reception for a different day.

There are a myriad of other outrages with which I could regale you, but I will save them

Aside: I know that the NHS are a great organisation, and they do save many lives. My Grandpa, for one, is a complete championer, saying they’ve saved his life many, many times. I’m glad the UK has the NHS, I just wish they were a little more pleasant to deal with and to work for.

Last night I actually enjoyed myself. At a hospital.

Everything was pleasant. The lady on reception when I registered was friendly and jokey, making conversation and explaining why she was asking me certain questions. The place didn’t smell, and the carpets were so nice I wanted to take off my shoes to see whether my toes sank into the shag.  People smiled at me and said hello as I walked past, instead of hunching further over their balled-up tissue and avoiding your eyes while they grubbily sniff. The magazines weren’t sticky, and they were relatively recent. I didn’t have time to read them, however, because as soon as I’d flicked past the Best and Worst Bikini Bodies and found the My Sister Ate My Face section, they’d called my name.

Oh, and the doctor. I loved her. She was so kind and caring and I couldn’t look her in the eye for too long in case I burst into tears because she was so nice. She even spent a small amount of time being subtly cross (in a kind way) about how uncaring and flippant the NHS have been. Sniffle.

I even thought to myself how nice it would be to work in admin for a private hospital. Then I shook myself violently and cycled home to drink copious amounts of sparkling wine in recognition of how lovely everything is when you have to pay lots of money for it.

Narrate Yourself

For as long as I can remember, I’ve narrated my life.

This can range from attempting to see my entire existence from the perspective of someone writing a novel about my life, down to going into minute descriptive detail about the actions I perform while brushing my teeth.

The latter, I can remember doing when I was a really young child:

She ran down the garden path, leaping over the sandpit and landing with a thump on the concrete on the far side. Her knees jolted, but held up nicely, and she continued running, her heart beating hard in her chest.

And so on.

At some point in the process of ‘growing up’ (eurgh), I seem to have stopped doing that. This makes me sad. I think I will try and start doing it again, it was quite fun.

skiving from home

I’m working from home today. It’s blissful, but I haven’t done a stitch of work. With a little laptop on my knee, I’m sunk into the deep cushions of the sofa in our front room, and the sunlight is shining in through the window, making a bright pattern on the wooden floor. In the middle of that pattern is an old sock, which I asked E to throw away the other day after he finished wearing it, because it had holes in it. I then discovered the offending sock when I was hanging out the clean washing yesterday… so I significantly increased the hole by ripping it open and left it on the floor. I’m secretly hoping he will try and put it on his foot soon.

In other news, I’ve got all my course materials for the Creative Writing course with the Open University, and I’m getting prepared for that. I’ve started a new blog to document my progress on the course, but I’m getting confused about how to be as share-y as possible without ‘outing’ myself to everyone in the world. Not that you guys would be particularly interested in my progress on a writing course, but perhaps I will share the link soon anyway.

I’ve got a new desk (yyaaaayyy) and a chair. Unfortunately, the chair really is broken (boooo). It’s a very nice office chair in tattered black leather, with arms and padding. It’s also very comfortable to sit in until you lean slightly to the left, at which point the old pivoting mechanism comes into play and you are tipped out of the chair sideways and onto the floor. E’s been lying underneath it with a screwdriver, trying to fix the mechanism, but to no avail. For a few hours last night its height was once again adjustable, so I could actually see the computer without sitting on 3 cushions. But when I sat on it again this morning, it let out a pitiful and gaseous sigh as it slid downwards, not to be raised again.

While ‘working’ today, I discovered through the medium of Facebook that my first ever boyfriend is engaged to be married. This is exciting and interesting. I feel like at this juncture in life, one is supposed to have some kind of mad breakdown of anxiety about one’s own life in relation to aforementioned ex. Luckily (although I’m sad this isn’t more melodramatic), I went out with this boy when I was 14 (and the pervert he was 17), so it’s a delightfully long time ago. And he was really, really annoying. So I can send him one of those insincere “congratulations on getting engaged back in May, sorry I don’t Facebook stalk you frequently enough to congratulate you at the time, but for once I’m actually pleased with how nonchalant I seem because of that” messages. You know the type.

My thoughts are with Soupy at the moment, as I’m sorry to say that her Dad passed away yesterday. Sending lots of love to her. I can’t imagine how she must be feeling.

What I am wearing today

I also have a burgundy pashmina, socks with cows on them, and a black long-sleeved t-shirt underneath my jumper. Stopping my jeans from falling down is a black belt with white stars on it, which I bought in New York in 2006. I have a friend in Cologne, Germany, who has the same belt because we bought them at the same time. Allsooo I am wearing a Marks and Spencers black bra, and black pants, possibly from the Kelly Brook range at New Look (sophis, I know).

Oh yeah, and I’m wearing almost the same clothes as I wore yesterday (except underwear), because no one saw me yesterday so I thought I would get away with it. Pesky.

Feel free to join me, it’s quite fun! What are you guys wearing today?

Book Blurbs: Richard Yates

This isn’t going to be a Book Blurb specifically about one book, but it’s about an author. I’ve recently discovered Richard Yates, and I intend to read as much of his work as I can.

As soon as I started reading Revolutionary Road, I knew I was going to love it. Yates’ writing style is really accessible.

But what strikes me about his work, and never fails to surprise me, is Yates’ power of observation. The small, yet completely distinguishing behaviours his characters undertake are astounding. Who, without actually being a 5-year old girl, would know that when a 5-year old girl feels nervous, her hands grip the seams at the sides of her dress? Richards Yates did. That’s the only example I can think of at the moment, but when I read his work my mouth actually drops open.  You will have noticed, but never consciously recognised, subtle behaviours in other people. These are laid out impeccably on the page, contributing flawlessly to the development of his interesting and varied characters.

Most of Yates’ work seems to deal with a theme which I find very interesting: the dissolution of the American Dream.

Revolutionary Road

For those of you who haven’t heard of him before, you might have heard of the film which has recently been made starring Leonardo diCaprio and Kate Winslet, based on his first novel, Revolutionary Road. I’ve not seen the film yet, but I read the book a couple of months ago.

The story centres on a couple, Frank and Alice Wheeler, who married young and have two children, living in the suburbs of 1950s America. They have a good life, Frank goes out to work every day and Alice is the housewife, mixing his martinis when he comes home from work. But Frank and Alice think that they deserve more than that.

Frank spent his youth reading books and expecting to become someone special, because he felt special. He took a boring job because he felt his thinking capacity could be better expended elsewhere. But years down the line, nothing special has happened, he’s stopped thinking, and his job is still boring. Frank feels like life owes him something.

The Wheelers look down on their fellow suburban neighbours, seeing their own position in that life as temporary. The novel centres on how Frank and Alice’s attitudes effect their lives and the lives of the people around them.

Yates impeccably reflects the thin threads of bitterness which weave themselves through conversations between established couples: the way people take offense, just to act offended and righteously indignant. I can’t describe the accuracy, or how he does it, but I implore you to read this book.

I found Revolutionary Road quite scary, really. Everybody thinks they’re special, and everybody goes through life expecting better things to miraculously come along and sweep them away to success. But this doesn’t happen. Slowly, everybody lets go of those dreams and forgets that once, a long time ago, they had spectacular ideals and beliefs. Now, they just need to muddle through. I think everyone should read Revolutionary Road, and then re-read it every five years or so, to remind themselves that you shouldn’t forget your aspirations, but you can’t expect things to just happen to you – you have to do it yourself. Nobody is entitled.

Eleven Kinds of Loneliness

This is a short story collection. As is my habit, I motored through them all, reading them at a pace as I would a novel. I think, however, that these stories should be savoured. Read one, and then think about it a little. They’re good.

Liars in Love

This is another short story collection which I have just started to read. I will update this once I’ve read it.

nor drowning

One thing was clear. As soon as I started to tell E about how I’d been feeling, I knew it wasn’t the right time to go. It was too early. It’s all very well talking about a separation after a certain length of time, but if you’re in love with someone then it’s almost too painful. Even if I left right now, I would be miserable wherever I was, whether it was Birmingham or Bermuda, because I wouldn’t be with E.

And I was panicing. I know I need to get away, and to break the pattern of my life right now. But sometimes instant gratification isn’t the best option, and I think this situation is one of those times. If I left now, it wouldn’t be for something I really want, it would be to get away from my job and my life as soon as possible.

So now, it’s Operation: Like Birmingham. It involves getting out into the countryside as much as possible to prove to me (a country bumpkin) that there are hills and trees in the area. It involves making our house nice and liveable-in, with pictures on the walls and no piles of paper all over the surfaces. It involves going out, just me and E, every now and again, to make sure we still talk to each other properly and spend time together. It involves making new friends. And it involves Rosie getting her own desk, so she feels a little less claustraphobic and has her own space (and doesn’t drop her laptop on the floor all the time as it slips off her knee). The desk, I think, is a very important thing.

Getting my own desk takes me neatly to the second part of the plan. I’m starting an Open University course next month: A215 Creative Writing. It lasts until June next year, at which time I will have:
a) worked out whether I am any good at writing
b) worked out whether I have the discipline to be a writer
c) decided whether writing is what I want to do
d) saved up enough money to go travelling and not be constrained by finances (I’ll keep the job for now)
e) had time to work out an excellent travelling (or working abroad) plan.

I will be considering whether to go a Masters in Creative Writing and English Literature to start next year, by which time I should have a portfolio to apply with and money for the fees, plus enough time between the end of June and the beginning of the MA to get away for a while.

And, with E and me… we’re back to normal…ish. He knows that eventually I need to go away, and that it probably needs to be on my own. I’m glad I have been open with him, as we’re both more aware that at some point we might separate. He says that if that is the case, he wants us to “go out with a bang”, and have as much fun as possible while we’re still together.

(And your parents don’t always know what’s best for you).

not waving

I arrived back home to find E waiting for me, his eager face smiled through the upstairs window as I walked through the gate and up to the front door. We hadn’t seen each other for a week, as he had been on a Stag Weekend and I had been cavorting around North Yorkshire with people who weren’t my boyfriend (as helpfully pointed out by my parents).

I was pleased to see him, but it seemed too soon to be back home. I couldn’t explain it.

“Did you miss me?” he asked.

I paused. It is nice to see him again. But my immediate mental response is “not yet”. I often feel like I don’t have enough time to miss him.

We settled down on the sofa to chat and get caught up. He told me about the Stag Weekend (well, edited highlights, as “what happens on tour, stays on tour” apparently) and I told him about my adventures with K, Jonty and Dale.

Then he asked me how I was.

“Sad.” Already I was fighting tears.

“Sad about what?”

“About us. I don’t know what I want any more. I love you. None of this is your fault and you haven’t done anything wrong. But I’m not happy. I feel like something needs to change.”

I told him about the conversation I’d had with my parents.

“So what?” he asked. “What do you want? Do you want to split up? And when? Now? Tomorrow? Next month? Next year?”

I felt awful. I didn’t know. I hadn’t thought it through at all, not even in the slightest. It’s all very well thinking about the fairness of being open with another person, but when you drop a bombshell like that and then can’t even say what solution you are aiming for… shit, Rosie. Could I not even have got my thoughts in order before I opened my silly mouth? Apparently not.

The next two days were sad and difficult. I knew that my feelings were nothing to do with our relationship or E, but more concerning what I wanted from life. My job doesn’t interest me or offer any potential future direction, and I still don’t feel settled in Birmingham. I eventually want to travel or live abroad, at least for a while, and why not sooner rather than later?

E and I pored over different ideas: starting a Masters this year, looking for a new job… nothing fit.

I was lost, but I’d pulled him down with me, for no reason.

parents x (spanner + works) = :(

The next day, my parents accosted me over lunch after the ‘boistrous puppies’ had left.

“We’re worried about you,” they said, in that concerned tone which you know will make you cry at any moment. “You don’t seem happy. With E or with Birmingham. He never comes home with you when you visit, and you’re always with Dale and Jonty, not him. Doesn’t he mind you spending so much time with them? Doesn’t he feel left out?”

Let me take a moment to explain my relationship with E, as I also did at this juncture in the conversation with my parents. We are very independent and don’t always go everywhere together. He often can’t afford to come and visit my parents with me, as the train fare is expensive, and sometimes he is busy. He is also very trusting of me and gets on very well with Dale and Jonty. He enjoys their company when they come and visit.

One thing about E, though, is that he is very much his own person. If he doesn’t want to play a silly game of hide-and-seek, he will not play a silly game of hide-and-seek. He would much prefer to watch, and doesn’t mind. My parents don’t understand this. I suspect they think he is boring, or sulking, or left out. He is none of these things.

Sadly, the previous three days had been spend drinking astounding amounts of alcohol. My brain was mashed.

“And he doesn’t… play.”

Somehow, my parents and the conversation persuaded me that I had to finish things with E, quit my job, move away from Birmingham and go travelling. Immediately.

They told me that they didn’t want to see me ‘waste’ my twenties like my mother did with her teens (met my dad at 17, married him at 21, rather pissed off at 50), and they thought I needed to find out who I was on my own, as a single person. I cried. And I cried.

Because they were right.

Although this had always been the plan, this conversation with the two people who know me the best had persuaded me that the plan needed to be brought forward. The immediacy of the end of my relationship struck me like a blow in the face.

I needed to talk to E.

23 is a nice, round number

So, firstly, my birthday events.

E was in Lisbon on a stag weekend involving no end of debauchery and strippers, so he wasn’t involved in my birthday celebrations.

My birthday is the same day as my Grandma’s. This is wonderful, as there is probably less birthday-pressure on you if you’re sharing it with someone else. I hate birthdays, but it seems that the further I get away from those horrid milestones, 16, 18 and 21, the more I enjoy my birthday. The less birthdays mean, the more fun you have.

I went back home to my parents’ house and we had a family party, with my Grandparents, Auntie and Uncle, cousins, parents, sister, the twins Dale-and-Jonty (as I have mentioned before, honourary members of my immediate family), and K (my best friend in the world). It involved copious amounts of wine, BBQ and sunshine with the people I love the most. There was also a lot of hat-wearing.

Dale and I had our customary drunken discussions. This time it was my turn to ask the question.

“A couple of months ago, you asked me if I love you, or am in love with you. Can I ask you the same question?”

“Yes, it’s only fair. The answer is, I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“I… yes. The thing is, if we don’t know, we’re probably not in love. If we were, I think we’d know for definite. We’re fine.”

I think Dale agreed with me. Jonty came back into the room.

The next day, K, Jonty, Dale and I piled into the car and went for a midge-infested camping trip in deepest, darkest North Yorkshire.

We drank A LOT.

Dale tried to kiss me and I resisted.

We drank a LOT the next night, too. We had a lot of fun.

And I behaved myself. K and I chastely shared a tent and allowed the boys to keep their smelly socks firmly in their own tent.

The next day, my brain turned itself inside out.

Normal Service Resumed

Well, well, well, what have we here then? A bunch of readers who have forgotten there once was a blog called the Blueskies Blog, I assume. The break in regular service is due to a number of things. I’m sure you’ve all experienced it (well, you probably haven’t, because you’re all better bloggers than me and don’t leave nearly one whole month between posts, so I will explain): a lot of things happen, and by the time it comes around to a convenient posting time again, you have so much to say that it would take too much time, and too many words, to write everything down again.

I’ll summarise and then later on, each thing will have its own individual post.

1. My birthday was at the beginning of August. Dale, Jonty, K and I went for a camping trip and a general jolly around North Yorkshire.
2. My parents… interrogated me, causing a serious life-thinking reshuffle and…
3. …a not-very-fair-on-poor-E crisis
4. and a potential short-term solution.
5. A wedding in the Czech Republic. E and I got hit by a car, but luckily escaped unscathed. (post pending)

So, firstly, my birthday events.

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12:34.56 7/8/9

Screenshot from here.

Intoxicated

Earlier today I was writing a blog post and my computer froze completely. No amount of CTRL, ALT, DEL would solve the problem, and even the mouse wouldn’t move. I was writing in Notepad, so it hadn’t even automatically saved itself five minutes earlier. And I was really enjoying writing it – it felt like a good post.

Calmly, I took up a pen and began to write, copying what I could see on the screen down onto paper. I managed to save the second half of what I had written, and filled in the first half from memory (it’s not as good, but at least I didn’t lose it all).

Inspired by Soupy’s handwritten blog post, I thought I would share the post with you. Click on the pages to make them bigger.

Please let me know if the technology’s not working and I’ll re-jig things: I’m not very practiced at this Thumbnail-in-post-but-click-and-it-will-get-bigger thingummyjig.