Bed-wear.

Here is a comparatively short nugget of thought, product of my insomniac brain. I am sleeping less and less nowadays, and in my furious panicked attempts at slumber, odd things occur to me, usually inspired by the background mumblings of the BBC World Service. Ah, yes the World Service. The station for fishermen, farmers and insomniacs. It is preferable to my other attempts at getting to sleep.

Indeed, it is blissfully painless compared to my attempt the other night: I decided it would be a truly excellent idea to do leg-crippling lunges around my room in a circle to Al Green, at half past two in the morning. Whilst it succeeded in giving my legs a strangely dull ache, sleep did not come quickly. Now, two days on, I am partially crippled. I am unable to walk downstairs without gripping to the banister for support, and unable to sit down in a chair without crying out in pain. And dancing, I found out last night, is a whole new world of pain. Bobbing like a lemming is definitely the new dance trend, according to me. It is also the least painful, when your thighs scream in protest at the prospect of stairs and burn as if on fire every time you attempt to sit down.

But I digress, once again. I am sat here twiddling my thumbs at half past one in the morning, and a memory has sprung to mind. This memory was of going to bed with a hat on, inside a house. A place of apparent shelter. I have only done it once, and I never intend to do it again, unless I happen to be camping (contrived poverty) on the side of Ben Nevis in mid-winter.

And what occurred to me as I lay there, attempting to devise a means of stopping the wind ripping through the rotting window frame. It was solely this:


Let's see. Coat, jumper, dressing gown, jumper, jumper, hat. I'm practically naked. 

Massage my bottom, please.

I spent three days at a health spa this past week. They're so popular because secretly everyone wants to revert back to a baby-like state, of throwing off life's responsibilities. The biggest worry constituted the slippers they had given me were in fact made for an elf. Or for people with no toes.

It is interesting to note that those who first arrive, fresh from the madness and and frenzied pace of London life rush about in a restless agitation, desperate to get somewhere, to do something. By my second day, I was wandering from the pool to the silent relax area as if I had ingested Valium, my head slightly lolling to one side, with the heady scent of lavender pillow mist still ever-present in my nostrils. It was exactly like being a baby, or at least how I imagine it is to be a baby, 20 years since being one. I spent 75% of my time immersed in some type of liquid, whether it was massage oil, body scrub, or thalassotherapy waters. My fingertips were permanently shrivelled for the duration of my stay.

Reflecting upon my experience, the spa environment is truly unique. Indeed, I was happy to spend an afternoon having jets fired at my bottom, in an attempt to 'expel toxins' and 'tackle cellulite' (which I do not believe is possible - it does not matter how much exercise I do, I will still never ever bare my bottom to the world.. obviously). I even tolerated a woman I had never met before to massage my décolleté, without raising an eyebrow. I allowed another woman I had never met before to massage a freezing ice-gel into my thighs  in another far-fetched attempt to dispel all the flab and terrible toxins modern living had instilled in my body. The cursory shake of the hand with your therapist - "Hi, I'm Michelle, I'll be your therapist today" followed by "I will now massage your breasts" does not compute, or should not at least. But in spa world, formality clashes with platonic physical intimacy in almost laughable ways. And I did laugh, silently, when the woman started rubbing my calves - I've now discovered that area is unbearably ticklish.

 

After emerging from the little bubble of bliss, I found myself rather startled by normal life. I found the wearing of normal clothes - adult clothes - profoundly uncomfortable, as it was no longer socially acceptable to wear a towelling robe amongst members of the public, for the sake of my own dignity. And - what fresh hell! - shoes?! What madness. Everyone, in my opinion, should wear slippers all day long, never mind practicalities. The world would be a far happier place if people had comfortable footwear, such as slippers. Pottering about in slippers immediately relaxes you. For instance, I no longer had to worry if my new Kurt Geiger pumps would tear my feet to shreds by the end of the day, nor suffer that terrible sensation of sweaty feet sliding around in unforgiving, rigid new shoes. To not be irritated by pinched toes, aching heels, torn Achilles tendons! People would become infinitely more patient and accommodating.

I have just re-read my psycho-babble. Good grief, that spa place has truly infected my brain. Some people stay there for two weeks. If I have trouble grasping the modes of behaviour of normal society after three days, then Christ knows what I'd be like after fourteen. Probably immobile on the floor - all productiveness would have been kneaded out of my muscles, no doubt. Fabulous! Guilt-free, low fat cake! Over-active digestive system resulting from an overload of pulses, beans, seeds, fruit, salad! Meeting Frank Bruno in the swimming pool! Turning into a prune in the jacuzzi! Fan-bloody-tastic. And not possible in any way, in the outside world. For shame.

Insignificance.

I've been thinking about the future a lot lately. I have realised that suddenly lots of the celebrities that are around are in fact quite close in age to myself. I do sometimes find it depressing that luck strikes with the strangest people - why must Emma Watson be the face of Burberry, champion fair-trade, study at Brown, gain first class results at school, maintain a skeletal thinness and balance being an actress with seemingly flawless grace. 


Or Kristen Stewart who claims not to see the point in going back to school or college, or whatever it is. And why should she? She's the same age as me and a multi-millionaire...billionaire probably, given the fact she's the face of Twilight. And this is all coupled, if rumours are to be believed, by having perfection of manhood as a boyfriend - Robert Pattinson - who, at the age of 24, has worked hard to attain his status as a global heart -throb. And yet he still finds fame 'baffling' (fair enough) and is desperately attempting to be ecognised as a "serious actor". I don't think that'll ever be possible since he's signed up to the Twilight franchise. He will be forever known as Edward Cullen. 


Yet, what is so galling about K-Stew, as she is known, is the fact she manages to look so miserable and gormless with her lot in life - even when picking up awards. She compares being plagued by paparazzi, to being raped. I can only assume she is not speaking from experience.  I am probably determinedly reading her apparent ungratefulness entirely wrong - but her attempts at self-effacing modesty only seem to irritate me more than anything else.


On the more superficial level, it sounds like I am speaking from pure jealousy, which partly I am. Indeed, it is only natural. They are effectively my peers - loaded, successful in careers, and most importantly, doing what they love with ease. And in the process they are set up for life, with no financial burdens to worry them for the rest of their existence. To me, the very idea of stepping out into the world of work is a notion that is as terrifying as it is laughable to me. I am not content with going into a graduate job in some faceless office somewhere. I want, like so many others, to pursue what I really love whilst being paid for it. I suspect I command none of the acting finesse of Watson or Stewart (ha!) and they can at least be safe in the knowledge that they have the power to pursue whatever avenue of life they choose. They are hardly constrained by paltry financial pressures, or parental expectation - as far as I know anyway. 


The news today was that there are, on average, 69 applicants for every graduate job in the UK - a very depressing statistic for someone who is still in the ripe stages of developing assertiveness and confidence in the dog-eat-dog world of job hunting. I am finding it difficult enough to place a summer job, though I suppose I only have myself to blame. And I can hardly earn money from my writing! Its hardly thought-provoking material..and I am still shamelessly picky - I'd rather eat my own eyes than work in Poundland (oh shoot me for my snobbery!)


Just as well I am considering Canada for a year - another year to sort myself out, to sort my life out even. Yet by then, I suspect K-Stew and Hermione will, aside for having a few million more in their pockets, still have a pretty certain future career wise at least. Oh, how I envy them.