January Jitters

So, I'm back in the office and it's definitely January. The flowers in reception have been replaced. Transformed from the festive red berries and silver sprayed pine cones to a rather demure thistled number with grasses, red gerberas, pink lilies and (most confusingly) all bundled together with a palm leaf. The weather has also gone a bit berserk. Last night the wind screeched through my single glazed windows and caused havoc with the flower pots on my balcony. But today the deep rumbling clouds of yesterday transformed into a beautiful warm pink morning sky. They seem a bit like me; unsure how to be now January is about. You still feel the same as you did last week; same clothes, same hair, same old work to come back to. But there's also something different. You feel bolder and a little bit braver. When you woke up on New Year's Day, did you sense what I did? A spark, a sort of hope that musters about in the air, not quite brushing away last year's cobwebs, but giving you that lift to take on anything. Especially that fresh, clean, sparkling new year.

cited

If only I was Santa...

I've not posted on my blog for some good few weeks now, and so quite frankly, I wouldn't blame you if you had started to wonder if I might be Father Christmas.

Here I am, finally coming back to post after a well deserved rest from my miraculous feat of delivering presents to children all over the world, recovering from having eaten millions of mince pies and suffering perhaps the greatest sherry hangover in history.

Sorry to disappoint, but whilst I believe wholeheartedly in the Spirit of Christmas, I'm pretty sure I am not it.

I wish I had been in Lapland, wrapping presents and writing lists, because in the last few weeks, I have been having what could only be described as a 'major drama'. As one part of a large family, 'major drama' is something you just come to expect, like chicken pox and homemade left-over-vegetable soup for dinner. It's a proven recipe for disaster; you mix people who possess similar genes, who live in a similar environment, who have very different opinions and you will almost certainly get 'major drama'. (Anyone who has spent Christmas with family will know exactly what I am talking about).

Falling out with strangers is easy. You say some angry words (either under your breath, behind their back, or to their face- depending on how brave you are) and then forget about it once your pride has taken a little knock.

Falling out with family is so much more difficult. So, you're having a bit of a word, because quite frankly, you don't agree. You're just about to bring up that thing which you know will wind them right up, when you hear a niggling little voice. Annoyingly, it reminds you to be careful about what you say and how you say it, because whether you agree or not right now, they'll probably be back in your life at some point in the future.

You huff, because that's the last thing on this Earth you'd want after they've just said that.

The voice persists and niggles you again. It says that whether you think you do or not, you actually love this rather annoying person with these outrageous opinions. But because you're human, emotional and have a very different point of view, you ignore the niggling voice and go right ahead and say that thing- loudly, so that everyone else can hear.

There. You feel better for all of about two seconds. Then it hits you worse than an anger explosion. It's the lurker, the meddler of all emotions; guilt.

Let me tell you, nothing is worse in a 'major drama' than the guilt. It's going to get you and get you good, until you do something about it.

It pokes you when you're eating your coco-pops in the morning, prodding as you're chatting on the phone about dinner, slyly creeping in as you're quietly driving home or nudging you in the shower. It even gets you in the middle of the night.

Some people live with the guilt poking them for days, weeks, months and even sometimes years. They learn to live with the bruises (which have been known to turn them blue). They'll insist that it gets better, that the pokes turn into taps, which eventually brush right past you. They swear it disappears.

But I don't buy it. Not for one minute. After three weeks of pokes that jabbed right in my stomach and consumed every last part of me until I had turned almost completely blue, I stopped. Just before Christmas.

There is no good time to have a 'major drama', least of all at Christmas. All around me were signs of peace, light and joy. I couldn't help but notice fairy lights on the Christmas trees, lit up wreaths on bright front doors, candles glowing in windows all around the town and that warm Christmas spirit in the air, telling me that there was truly light in London. But there was not a bit of light shining inside of me, not even enough to write one letter to create the first word of a new post.

So I picked up the phone and I called. The right words were the hardest to say, and dropped like my shoulders as I slid weakly on the bed. During those moments in our conversation when I felt human and emotional and had a very different point of view, I fell silent, not daring to interrupt that niggling voice in my head.

There's nothing good about holding it in, about being too proud and stubborn. But I promise you, there's something brilliant about being brave and speaking up with the right words- even if it wasn't all your fault. Because at Christmas time there should be love. And if you give out love, there will be light, no matter if you've been nudged for just a few hours, a couple of days, several weeks or half of your life. It's just a case of mustering up enough of your spirit (Christmas or not) to do it.

100 Word Post : Storm

I can see her struggling, pushing desperately against the wind. She looks like a tiny mushroom fighting her way across the park. Her umbrella wobbles and dances quickly to the left. The trees bow to her as she passes and the rain teases her with slaps and showers. The wind pulls her puppet strings until she loses control of her feet. The umbrella flips sporadically and a gust whips up her skirt. I can’t see, but I wonder if under her hood she is laughing, or perhaps she’s blindly cursing the storm, angry at how it got her this time.

Subway Sleeper

I bet the sound of shoes clacking on the paving slabs penetrate into his dreams. At first I didn't notice him. I thought he was rubbish, an old sack that had been left to the side of Vauxhall Station's subway. But as I pelted down the stairs, my black ballerina pumps pattering two steps at a time, I noticed it wasn't a sack at all, but a royal blue sleeping bag that looked so grimy it could almost pass for grey. It seemed to have been thrown, uncared for into a heap at the bottom of the stairs. But in that brief moment before I passed, being just one of the thousands that would pass through the station that morning, I saw the sleeping bag had a hat.

The high flow of commuters carried me like a surfer on an almighty wave towards the ticket machines. People pushed and elbowed their way into a line, autonomously checking themselves through the barriers. I looked back briefly and wondered who was inside the bag and under the hat. Only two people were still amongst the clamour of the morning rush; the tired looking attendant in a luminous orange vest leaning inattentively against a metal rail and that person crumpled up in the blue sleeping bag, asleep on the concrete floor. I couldn't help but wonder whether the continuous beeping as people passed through the gates would piss him off, or whether it might be a comfort knowing there were other people around him.


----

After I'd taken the last telephone call and shut down my computer, I left the office, pulling the large glass doors closed behind me. I lifted my lapels up high around my ears and made my way home through the dimly lit streets of Mayfair. The wind had been bitter that day. It managed to breeze its way through my scarf and tie knots in my neck as I tensed up with the cold. I was looking forward to getting home, where a shepherd's pie supper was waiting for me in my snug little flat. I kept myself warm thinking of the candles lit on the coffee table, fleecy blankets to be wrapped up in, and an endless supply of hot water bottles. As I scurried through the subway, shivering, I noticed the blue sleeping bag had gone. I prayed he'd found somewhere warmer. The station cleaner was whistling, brushing away two squashed brown cardboard boxes that had been left grubby and ignored up against the concrete walls where the man in his sleeping bag had been. I contemplated rushing over, asking him nicely to stop, explaining that I thought they might actually belong to someone. But I was worried he'd think I was nuts, so I carried on walking to the escalators. The underground was crowded as usual, but for once I was rather grateful for the mass of bodies and closed my eyes as the warm, dirty air whooshed through my hair as the train pulled into the platform.

----

I knew it would be cold from the moment my eyes opened and I caught sight of the condensation dripping down the window panes. Wiggling my toes I lay there in the dim light for a minute, my duvet pulled up to my chin, enjoying having the warmth of someone lying next to me for a few seconds longer. A layer of morning frost covered the park as I trudged across it to reach the station. I still felt half asleep, awoken only slightly more by the cold biting the tops of my ears. The platform was full, and you could feel each person's sigh as they reached the top of the stairs from the ticket hall and saw the huddle of strangers crammed into the four metre spaces where the doors of the train were expected to stop.
Once aboard, the train jolted and spluttered its way towards Waterloo. I noticed after a few moments that a new announcement was being played over the loudspeaker in the carriage.

Due to network rail improvements, the subway connecting the tube and the train station at Vauxhall will be closed until March 2012. Passengers are advised to alight at Waterloo and use the Jubilee line to avoid congestion at Vauxhall station.

I woke up with a start and looked around the carriage. Commuters looked completely flabbergasted that their journeys were to be lengthened by around five minutes more that usual with a detour to Waterloo. I sighed, not because of my extended journey, but I wondered where the person in the blue sleeping bag would sleep now his subway had been closed. I decided not to follow the crowds to Waterloo and so I jumped off the train as it pulled into Vauxhall and made my way down the stairs. The lights were dim as I returned to the ticket hall, and the station seemed smaller. Possibly due to the wave of people being reduced to only a steady trickle, that wound its way through the diversions to find the route out to the tube. I had a longer time to glance over at the subway this time and had the space to stop and stare at the enormous blue chipboard blockade that had been nailed across the entrance to the subway. It was the same royal blue as the crumpled sleeping bag. As I pattered up the stairs and out into the cold morning air I hoped that he'd found somewhere else to sleep last night, a place that was warmer and where he might not have needed to sleep in a hat. I hoped he'd dream soundly tonight without those hollow clacks of heels on concrete that might have penetrated his dreams before.

cited

All Aboard!

Upon entering the tiny ticket office, I felt as if I had walked back in time. The early 1900s to be precise. Everything about the station was quintessentially British. Beautiful leather suitcases printed with bold black lettering, a bright red post box, checked tablecloths draped across the six tables laid out in the pretty yellow tea room. 1930's advertisements littered the picket fencing that ran across the edge of the platform, and lovely cast iron lamp posts lay dotted alongside. I only wished I'd worn a fur muff and a cloche hat. I heard the steam train before I saw it, clickety-clack and toot-tooting along the track. Billows of smoke rose from beyond the signals and the giant green beauty pulled into sight, more impressive and enchanting than any train I'd ever seen before. People leant out the train windows to watch the station pass them by, but there were no white handkerchiefs in sight, as I might have imagined there would have been around a century ago. The steam billowed around the station, and I pictured the gentlemen opening the doors, ducking as they stepped out onto the platform and holding their hands out for their wives. Closing my eyes for a moment, I could see young ladies' tightly buttoned gloves waving furiously to their beaus, who were looking proud in their uniforms as they set boldly off to war. I took in the sooty smells, the whistle from the guard. I was at once a leading lady in a quaint and romantic old black and white film; I was Laura Jesson in Brief Encounter, listening to the teacups rattle in the bustling railway tea room as the steam train flew by.

Taken on a sunny Sunday afternoon, in the West of England near Cheltenham. A short trip back in time on the preserved Gloucester Warwickshire Steam Railway.