Being Twenty-six

London has suddenly exploded with sunshine. Walking to the station yesterday to catch my train for work, there was something special in the air as I passed through the park near my flats. The sun was low in the sky, and just brushing the tree tops in the distance, so bright beams shot across the grass and played havoc with the mist that had settled quietly across the field. The air was crisp, and tickled my nose, but it wasn't cold enough to steam up my breath. I stopped to take a picture by the railings. It looked like something paranormal. Just beautiful. It was a fresh morning, the kind that wakes you right up and starts to make you think. Even at seven O'clock in the morning.

I will be twenty-six on Saturday. Twenty-six.  

I continued up the path, and watched as a grey figure walked through the mist just a couple of hundred yards in front of me. I could hear the footsteps and heavy breathing getting louder as they strode towards me, but the mist distorted his face. He passed quickly and smiled as he went. I beamed back. A little exchange of how beautiful it was. My thoughts flipped back to my birthday.

Was twenty-six really so different from being twenty-five? 

I walked briskly along the path, carefully avoiding squishing all the tiny red berries that had dropped to the ground from the tree overhead.

It's taken me a year, but I think I'm in a good place. At twenty-six, I've got a nice flat, a job that pays for it, good friends and a lovely man.  I might even go as far to say I'm beginning to love London.

I left the park, noticing the way the fog just slipped by and out of sight as I walked across the cast iron bridge and turned left through the estate. Feeling settled, or rather, feeling safe has always been rather important to me. Change was never something I was very good at. I'd try and do everything possible to keep things the way they were. I loved photographs that captured beautiful moments with natural real-life poses, videos I could play over and over again watching every movement and reliving a tiny snippet of who I was at one tiny point in time. And then there were the diaries. I might not have been good at change, but recording change; I was brilliant.

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A fabulous day in London - 14th April 2006

(Aged 20)

We set off at Amersham to get the cheap tickets. Ahead of us was just the most romantic day. It was cool - not too cold but lovely and bright. We arrived in London and started with Covent Garden - my favourite place. We were really hungry so I'd made a picnic and done some cute sandwiches. It was lovely... We arrived and he held me close and we kissed and as we did the sun came out. 

I felt so happy... I held his hand and loved looking around the ring stalls and there was a carousel where we sat by and ate our sandwiches in the sun. Then we made our way to St James' Park (while the sun was still out). Walked through the park and even saw Buckingham Palace. Squirrels and blossom were everywhere. We sat on a little bench by the lake and I lay on Leam's lap. I loved just being together away from the usual setting in Manchester. Decided Leam would love Camden and so off we went to the market. He bought me a nose stud from a stall by the lochs. Everyone was having a pint in the sun, so we thought we'd go for a drink. We went to Embankment, and went aboard a river boat on the Thames. Such a beautiful setting. We talked about summer and the future. Felt so good, but got a little cold as evening set in, so we decided to go to china town for an evening meal. I did my usual on the restaurants; changed my mind, couldn't decide on a table, before finally asking to leave and find another one. Then we found a lovely cosy place, nice - but quite expensive. We had London fever, and I just so wanted to stay. If only we could afford a hotel! We made our way back- I felt happy. The day had really summed up for me how good the last six months together have been. We have the 'at one'ishness. There's no need to speak. No silences. He's just so cute and I'm so in love. Still.

Lipstick Lesbians

It's one of those dutiful nights. Where, despite being absolutely exhausted, I've given in, pulled on the black jeans, curled a few strands of hair and slicked on some baby pink lipstick and dragged myself to a pub half way across London - all for love. Alright, for Liam. So I agree to a cheap house white - as long as it comes with a 'tap water and ice'- and I sit back at the table which is surrounded with all his friends, and I try to laugh at the right moments, and not shudder at how acidic my wine is.

It's late. The pub's noisy. A girl in a heavy knitted cardigan has started swaying on her own to '99 Red Balloons' and waving at herself in the mirrors. There's talk of another round of drinks. Someone's smoking off the balcony. No one seems to mind.

"Just nipping to the loo." I say, squeezing Liam on the arm. I slope in and out the obstacle course of wooden pub chairs, avoiding people and pints alike. I've not been here before. I squint, looking for a sign, wishing I'd put my glasses on. I hope I won't walk into the men's toilet, which often tends to happen. In a dark corner painted a grubby green, I spy the door. Then a pointy hand with toilets written on it politely. I push it and enter.

Suddenly I'm faced with two whitewashed doors with absolutely no signs. It's like Alice In Wonderland- I just need a white rabbit. I stop for a moment, wondering which one I should push before a voice pipes up from behind me.

"Well that's not very helpful, is it?" A girl says in a soft Irish accent. "Chance it for the one on the left."

I push the door, and by the smell alone, we realise we've hit the wrong one.

"Whoops!" I shriek, and laugh, bursting quickly through the door on the right.

What a state. Tissues all over the floor, water on the basins and soap smeared up the mirrors. It was definitely the ladies toilet. If it wasn't obvious from the mess, both cubicles are locked. She makes a point of hammering on each door and telling the occupants to "bloody hurry up".

I stand opposite the large mirror. My reflection stares back at me and my curls have gone flat. I sigh, open my handbag and reach for my hairbrush. As I'm fumbling about I notice that the girl is staring at me.

"English girls are so pretty." She says casually, turning to apply her lipstick.

"Oh, really?" I laugh off the compliment.

"Absolutely. You're really pretty." She says, turning to look at me and half smiled.

Not quite sure what to say, I laugh. "I'm sure I look tired." I say, embarrassed. There was a flicker of something else in that smile.

"Are you from 'round here?" And without waiting for the answer she says, "I'm staying with my friend near Clapham."

She definitely wasn't a Londoner. She was far too friendly. I stole a quick glance at her face as she was busy fluffing her hair and talking about her friend's flat. She was quirky. Dark haired and pale with big blue eyes- typically Irish.

As I start a polite but distant response, the toilet flushes from behind one of the cubicles. She stops fluffing to glare at a sheepish looking girl who walks out alone, who decides against washing her hands to just exit as swiftly as possible.

"After you." I say.

There's an awkward quiet in the toilet. God knows what going on in the other cubicle. The Irish girl grins and clacks her cute black boots across the lino into the cubicle. I busy myself fiddling with a loose curl up close in the mirror. She pauses as she pushes the door. I notice that there are loads of odes to love and hate written across the back wall in different lipsticks and eye liners. What's she pausing for? She suddenly spins on her heel to face me and I half expect her to ask me to join her.

"D'you have a boyfriend then?" She tilts her head and wrinkles her nose as I nod. "Shame. Course y'do. You're dead pretty. I'd be surprised if yer didn't." Then she strides into the toilet cubicle and closes the door.

Shame...? 

Afraid of the silence and not wanting to hear her pee, I turn the taps on full and pretend to wash my hands. Yelling over the water splashing across the sinks and onto the floor, I shout, "Yep. He's quite a nice one too. Been together ages." Then I add (because I now have a feeling that I need to make myself appear less available), "We have a cat."

She might just be a non-Londoner who hadn't yet realised that in London you just don't talk to strangers. But no denying it, there was definite flirting. I didn't know what to do... Run? Or stand there red-faced when she came out the loo?

Thing was, I couldn't run. I still really needed to pee.

So I stayed. I'll admit, part of me was pretty chuffed. Having never been hit on by a girl, I found it all rather exciting. There was no sleaze. No ass-checking, boob-staring or cheesy chat up lines falling from slurring lips. A definite improvement on the usual. For a moment, it was pretty scary when she leant forward to kiss me goodbye. Just a friendly two-cheeker - though I swear to God she sniffed me. I left the ladies toilet in air of smugness and made my way back to the rickety wooden table where Liam was playing around with beer mats, and his friends were singing along to Chumbawamba's 'Tubthumping'.

Later on, when a few of his mates had been asked politely - then less politely - to stop dancing on the tables, we made our way out of the pub and into the fresh air to queue up by the hundreds of late night drinkers looking to making their way home at the bus stop.

I leant on Liam and put my arm around his waist. "Guess what?" I asked, teasing. "I got asked out tonight by a girl."

"You didn't...!"

"I did." I said, looking all smug. He smelt of fags, lager and possibly something vaguely cheese and oniony. I sniffed him. "You stink." I said, poking him.

"You love it." He grabbed me tight.

"Only a little bit." I said wrinkling my nose. No, he was right. Such an appealing smell. I wasn't ready to become a lesbian just yet.

Last Friday

I remember last Friday, I'd woken up to the sun streaming through my windows. I usually wake up at around 6:35am, but because I'd washed my hair the night before, I allowed myself that extra fifteen minutes in bed, which had made all the difference. As I stretched myself out in the double bed, I thought it felt a little too roomy, it was definitely time for Liam to come back home. He'd been away for the week with work, and his flight arrived in Heathrow just after lunch, so I'd taken a half day off work so I could meet him.
I lay there looking about the room, thinking of my half day prospects, and what I might choose to do with them. It was so quiet and beautifully bright, and since I'd left the window slightly open, a cool breeze drifted through the room. My stirring had woken the cat, who prrped and jumped onto the bed, padding about the duvet, before finally resting herself on my stomach, purring loudly.
I was in such a good mood. I hoofed the cat off the bed, and pulled the curtains right back, and began to get ready for work.
I never thought to put the television or the radio on. I'm usually having to be quiet, feeling my way through my wash bag to find my moisturier in the dark of our room, or only half blow-drying my hair in the living-room so as not to wake Liam who leaves for work a little later than me. I also didn't get the chance to pick up the newspaper on the tube, all because I'd been so leisurely in walking to Southfields tube, enjoying this rare bright March morning. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, in fact, London felt less dirty, and more chirpy this morning in general.


Walking out of Green Park station, I turned right, following the swarm of people streaming down and turning off various side roads, as usual everyone was absorbed in getting to work as fast as possible; their minds seemed absent from their bodies, which dived in and out of the crowd, dancing sidesteps around different kinds of obstacles.


Man with briefcase stuck out too far.
Luminously-clad newspaper guy.
Woman with buggy - much too slow.
Girl absorbed with texting.
Scaffolding.
Delivery man unloading barrels of beer.
Older lady tottering in too-high-shoes.
Oops. Crate of wine.
Pause to let him through.
Quick steps to catch up.
Cross the road - timed perfectly to miss that bike.


It was like a choreographed dance routine they performed for themselves each day. But Friday I felt different. And to prove I was different, I walked slowly. I looked up to the sky, and admired the blue. It struck me that I rarely looked higher than a few paving stones in front of me. As I looked up, I could see I was interrupting their dancing. I was the obstacle. And I quite liked it. Being the one who was different felt good. And because I behaved differently, I noticed the things I wouldn't usually see. I reached the corner of my road - the one I always turn right into - and I stopped.


Green Park had caught my eye. It was the trees in the park - just a little way off - and how the sunlight shone through all the tiny little leaves, which blew together in the breeze and all merged into a glittery green mass. The trunks of the trees looked silvery, and I thought the way they bent and twisted looked just beautiful. Call me a hippy, but I felt like running over to hug one.
I stood still for longer than a moment, wishing I lived closer to the woods, the sea, green country fields and fresh air. Sometimes you just get zapped into the concrete world of London for too long, and it takes just a different head space to remind you of what you are missing.
I pulled myself away from the view, and turned off right, my view: the familiar high buildings with hundreds of glass windows lining the roads that lead to my office.

I started up my computer as usual, sipped my cup of tea and flicked automatically to BBC world news website. I had avoided media, quite by accident all morning, but it was suddenly loud and clear in front of me: an earthquake had hit off shore Japan.
I stared at the screen not quite believing it. Devastating evidence of a grand scale natural disaster filled page after page across the internet. As I replayed the videos of the tsunami hitting the coast, I saw pictures of fathers searching for their wives and family homes. Homes made of sturdy bricks and wood which had vanished completely in only a couple of hours - consumed easily by the waters. I felt so far away from the moment only ten minutes before, when I'd stood admiring the beauty of a green, leafy park on a sunny day, and my quiet moment felt quite fickle, somehow. Nature continued to prove to us it is well beyond our control, and the world continues to remind us we live here amongst all things; no more important - and no less. I imagined I was feeling just like so many people all around the world at that very moment, and for the second time that morning, I fell quiet.






Beautiful thoughts, beautiful faces

Looking around the tube this morning, there were a sea of faces. Different kinds of faces. Some looked - as expected - half asleep (who could blame them, it was 7am...). One lady looked seriously angry. She was wedged between one very large gentleman with an itchy wool coat on, and an attractive younger woman with the bushiest hair I'd ever seen. Her face was all tense, eyes all darting about trying to squeeze herself out of the inconsiderate-people sandwich.  As usual there were all those mean people taking liberties in the centre of the carriage area, standing with legs sprawled, bums out, bags on shoulders - anything so they could keep the one square foot of carriage space to themselves. Not usually a gobby person (often) I politely asked them all to move a bit down. No one moved. Then I found my inner gob and yelled "Excuse me, we're all squished up here!".

shuffle, shuffle

It worked. I was physically able to breathe a sigh of relief. Looking about, I noticed that the face of the angry lady - who was suddenly freed from the bushy-wool sandwich - completely altered. With stress no longer plastered across her expression, she shot a relieved and thankful glance my way. Her whole face lit up. It was funny, for one inch of a second, she dropped her guard (put in place for locations such as the tube, the street and the bus to deter advances from weird strangers), and allowed me see who she really was.

I wondered what face I put out to the world when I'm face-to-face with a sea of strangers. (I quickly put on a non-creepy smile, careful not to grin at anyone in particular.) Our faces are our mask to the world. Maybe our eyes actually are windows to our souls. Faces are the first thing people (generally) look at upon meeting you, and then, the first thing people use to judge the kind of person you are.

Did you ever read Roald Dahl's 'The Twits' when you were little? What a marvellously horrible story. It tells of Mr and Mrs Twit, who aside from being actual twits, were very ugly people, both inside and out. And the reason, Roald Dahl explains, is all from thinking ugly thoughts.

"If a person has ugly thoughts, it begins to show on the face. And when that person has ugly thoughts every day, every week, every year, the face gets uglier and uglier until you can hardly bear to look at it.

A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts it will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely."                        Roald Dahl, The Twits

They say that the kind of life you have had is written all over your face. To some extent, I believe this to be true. Each euphoric moment - the smiles have been written in the wrinkles around your eyes. Every hurt plays across your face in the moments you might be caught off guard. Forget palm reading, each person's face often tells their own life story.

When life throws hard lessons your way, yes, they shape your character, they take you on a rollercoaster of different emotions, but I primarily it is how you think whilst you are in these lessons (or even how you think about them afterwards - if they have hit you particularly bad) which is portrayed on the outside of you.

Consider the kind of thoughts you have. Are you an ugly twit? (I am sometimes...)

Do you send out love to the person who hurts you again, and again? Or do you feel bitter, and let anger eat you up from the inside, out?

Even just thinking beautiful thoughts, fills you with a warm, fuzzy, beautiful feeling right to the pit of your stomach.

So if it feels good, and it looks good - we've really got no excuse - have we?

Image cited from here