Writers' Block

I've been suffering from an unfortunate and perhaps incurable condition: writers' block. Current romantic interest asked me last night - "Just why is it that you keep a blog online?" and my only response could be that it is the last possible outlet of creativity that can possibly keep the pile of mush that is my brain ticking over. It is not that I don't want to write - I do! - I'm just constantly barraged by soul-sucking thoughts of self-doubt, followed by the thought "I have nothing to write about!". It's the mental version of constipation.

Maddening as it is, I am sat in bed, again, writing late at night, as is becoming increasingly habitual, just so that I can write about nothing. Marvellous. My three readers (they're almost infamous now - though I still cannot articulate exactly who they are) must have begun to think my prose had dried up entirely, so long it has been since my last long, self-obsessed ramble. Alas, no, I am breaking my silence in order to write about absolutely bugger all, because in my view, it is impossible for me to write anything without it sounding completely Holden Caulfield-phoney. I simply do not have enough life experience to provide a valid judgment on any aspect of anything - especially if it involves underwear choice or being optimistic. 

It is the most infuriating thing, as I have been completely unable to write anything fictional since I was about 16 years old. Maybe creativity evaporated along with my youthful innocence, drowned in a heady mix of sex, and self discovery. How ridiculous that sounds - I can barely fumble my way in the dark with someone in bed now, and I am still no closer to even beginning the tentative steps towards my first novella. 

I also cannot bear to be serious in my writing. The world is full of too much that is miserable and hard to bear without me adding to it with my hideous piles of drivel that apparently constitutes my 'creative output'. And yet I don't mean to be 'funny' in the sense of the crude, but rather to write with the kind of bone-dry humour I use to approach life, the kind that stops me from punching the world’s many, many morons in the back of the head in a sudden fit of irrational rage. I suppose it is confidence: I am not funny enough, mature enough, authoritative enough as a writer to produce anything worthy of note, which is why I have turned to occasional diatribes online, to bemuse people with my awkward, muddled paragraphing. 

Shockingly, I've just thought of some real subject matter for a blog post. 

Haircuts

I have become addicted to getting my hair cut off. I was idly flicking through Facebook pictures earlier, vaguely with the notion of selecting another inaccurate, flattering profile picture. And I noticed my hair changes at least every five or so pictures. Am I really that bored and dissatisfied with myself that I feel the need to change my hair every month? Or is hair change the natural solution for those in on-going emotional turmoil. Either way, it has allowed me to develop a complex: that my current style is positively lesbian. And this gives me concern, as I am very, very straight. The new 'do has the unfortunate side-effect of coating my palms in sticky, gummy styling wax every morning in an effort to make my hair look 'effortless'. Was there ever a more pointless waste of time? What a ridiculous notion, to the point where it gives me actual physical anger. Especially considering my use of said sticky, gummy styling wax happens to coincide around half an hour before my 9am (three times a week, I would shoot whoever is responsible if I could). Gluing viscose product to my hair in an effort to look more appealing? Dear God, getting my hairbrush stuck in my longer hair seems far more preferable. 

In other news, new year, new term, new timetable, old/new friends, new ideas, new dashing around like a crazed lemming. Third year, I understood to be considerably more serious in terms of work. The pressure is on, now that we are all made feel guilty for being at university 'on the cheap'. Government tuition fee rises, wonderful. It has upset my plans for Canada, in fact. One tutor pointed out a Masters in two years might set me back as much as £15,000 - hardly an ideal sum. However, I do not deem the whole situation to be important enough to get on the coach to London for the protests. I would rather go shopping on the King's Road than stand there like an ant amongst thousands, shouting abuse at David Cameron and his fellow gimps up in their ivory tower. I will join the ranks of the unemployed English graduates soon enough..perhaps I'll spurn out dreadful poetry and read it out in seedy bars around the country in an effort to express myself. I'll become a 'creative type', bohemian in outlook until I have kids. Then it'll be my turn to worry about astronomical university fees - £10,000 a year by that point of course, and all because I didn't protest in London all those years ago, and chose to go shopping instead. Shame on me!!

Or maybe I should become unhealthily obsessed with Cold War literature and dedicate the next ten years of my life to English academia, and slowly lose touch with reality. At least if I worked in TV, I wouldn't have quite so much time available to spend with my own thoughts. Perhaps I'll start sleeping properly again once I'm in regular employment. The shock of the conventional 9-5 will just batter my body and mind into slumbering submission. In fact I have actually forgotten what it is not to wake up at 5am naturally, after falling asleep at 2am. Perhaps it explains my increasingly erratic behaviour, such as believing it is entirely normal to eat cereal with water instead of milk, and to wander about in my dressing gown at 5pm on a Friday evening, when I should be 'letting my hair down' at Mosaic or something. But wait, I have no hair to shake down, because it has ALL GONE, of my own accord.  

Perhaps by the time Cameron sees the foolishness of this university fee lark, my hair would have grown back, I would have gotten to the bottom of the enormous pile of shite that constitutes my reading, and I would have regained an appreciation for sleep and sanity.

Gym freak

After three years of being "In a relationship" (Facebook speak), I emerge in the frightening and alien environment of the Bright Young Single Things. Several things strike me - or frighten me: a) their apparent confidence b) their aptitude at small talk and c) the variety and quality of their matching bra and pant sets, none of which I have. And yes, being single will be the object of this latest post - so boring, I know. Yet so topical.

Its not so bad, I think. My cheek muscles have been given a real work out recently - that is, of smiling like a crazed idiot at people I barely know, in various social situations. Recent party in London for instance - my face felt like it had been stretched apart by two tiny little men pulling on fish hooks embedded in my cheeks. The real advantage, however, besides deepening my future laughter lines, is that I no longer feel guilty about having a casual flirtation with someone, even if they are completely unbearable/repulsive.

Despite new advantages in the social circus of life, privately I am already well on my way to cementing my reputation as an old woman, with the mental age of a 90 year old. My friend was genuinely concerned, and forced me out into the Young Whippersnapper World last night. The amount of gin I ingested was quite a shock to the system. But I cannot help fearing that I might suddenly find myself at the point where I will end up leaving messages on the answer phone for my flat mate. Messages such as "Emmy, your good friend Sarah Buckle has just taken a piece of cake out of the rubbish bin. You will probably need this piece of information for when you check her into the crazy clinic."

I also fear I will turn into that most mysterious of all female-stereotypes: The Gym Freak. Once a week with the promise of a sauna at the end will turn into every single goddamn day, voluntarily. I usually sidle up to the crosstrainer like its a faint acquaintance I give a cursory nod to every now and then. In my single state, unable to deal with having so much time on my hands for myself for the first time in three years, the cross-trainer will become an old friend you see each day for lunch. Except this burns away the calories, painfully and with much unladylike grunting and sweating. 'Ladies glow' my arse - I'll happily admit to sweating like a mule.

Then again, my father still retains the opinion that "Sarah has a great aversion to anything that constitutes exercise; she has never felt any inclination either." Now this might've been true when I was a surly and tempestuous 14 year old with hormone surges and bad skin. Books are non-judgemental and preferable to the scathing eyes of teenage males. I also had a rapid and effortless metabolism. I could eat a block of cheese a day and see no scrap of it on upon my skinny frame in the coming weeks. Now however, the metabolism has slowed down, preparing itself for true adulthood, and child-rearing. Depressing and self-whiney as it is, my body now sees fit to give up in areas where that really is not appreciated. Cellulite is the devil's word. I rarely wear short skirts, and its all about the toning.

Be assured that I am aware I am far from what can be called 'fat'. However, I do remind all my scoffing female readers (yes, my imaginary readers) that I am still a woman, enslaved to the expectation of female beauty as much as the next person. However much I scoff at Grazia and the perfect specimens within ("Superficial drivel, tsch"), I hold onto the niggling thought: "THIGHS. THIGHS. THIGHS."

And so, this term I will doubtlessly find myself in the gym, secretly eyeing the latest twig to enter the arena. She sits primly upon her spinning bike, in her Nike tracksuit and Reebok tone trainers, hair pulled into a tight ponytail, whilst I sweat and groan over the treadmill, ready to die. A brief thought in my brain tells me to give up - cellulite is hereditary, you haven't shaved your legs for a month and a half. Its all downhill from here. Another part ignites however, and whilst eyeing her twiglets for legs, I am filled with an overwhelming urge to tie her down and force-feed her lard, washed down with a glass of Crisp n'Dry.

True, I don't think I ever really entered the 'phase' of typical self-pitying, sobbing sofa-bound female. I haven't felt the need to dress in unflattering, volumnous pyjamas and a tea-stained old dressing gown for a good few weeks - this is partly because it was already part of my daily routine anyway, my flatmate will tell you. Instead, I've developed a taste for straight gin. Perfectly healthy.

Either way, I'm quite happy on my own for a while now. It means I can make jokes about the whole thing, and write more appalling, rambling blogposts on similar subjects for my loyal three readers. As for the gym, apparently everyone is skeletal/perfection in Canada, the place I plan to go next year. I am unphased however: the aim is get down to a size 8 by 2030..no pressure.

Health and Safety and the death of the world.

In my opinion, Steven Slater is a wonderful man: a shining beacon of sanity in the dark and murky world of Health and Safety. And the following explains, albeit in a very long-winded fashion, just why.


Slater launched himself down an escape slide from the side of an aeroplane, beer in hand, after finally losing his cool with an abusive passenger. "Marvellous, he must've thought to himself, yes. I'm fed up of these complete morons, and there's no way I can win. The airline is sued if I don't tell the bastard to sit down, the airline is sued if I do." - bound by red tape niceties, you could say.


 This entire incident only seems to demonstrate to me the sheer stupidity of some members of the general public. When did they become so aggressive, so disrespectful, so lacking in common sense? It is a known fact that cabin crew's word is law in an aircraft -  there is more to their job than presenting you with unpleasant, damp tuna sandwiches and in-flight complimentary drinks: they are there to ensure your safety. If they tell you to sit down, you damn well sit down. 


It would appear this passenger obviously thought herself exempt from aircraft safety procedures, by attempting to remove her luggage from an overhead compartment whilst the plane was still moving. Such utter moronic behaviour and arrogance boggles the mind. And indeed, it hit poor Slater on the head. And yet, as police descend upon his home, desperate to find something 'foreign' and 'suspect' about his character (as everyone is a potential terrorist) the passenger, who instigated the entire proceedings, is not reprimanded in any way. Indeed, the police and media are more concerned with highlighting the "potential hazards Mr. Slater posed to the ground-staff by releasing the emergency exit". 


They are more concerned about what might be, rather than what actually happened. That is exactly it - Slater's dramatic exit from his career as a flight attendant only seems to be 'the tip of the iceberg' as it were (how I despise using such idioms). It only acts a pointer towards a society - our society- that is so wrapped up in red tape and permission forms, health and safety lunacy.. There are so many managers at my local hospital, they outnumber the actual professionals, the doctors, the people qualified to do the job in the first place. Why, I ask, is it necessary, to have people to manage people to manage people to manage people to manage the department to manage the consultants, to manage the staff, to manage the patients..need I go on?


Oh but I shall.
Let us consider: in today's health and safety conscious society, a single health and safety man can inflict more damage on business and industry than an army of Gordon Browns. My father has had to put foam coverings on the corner of windowsills in his practise waiting room, on account of them being 'a potential hazard' to unruly children. What the hell is wrong with instructing your unruly child to sit down like a good boy? Rather than letting him run amok around the room, showing no respect to the furniture, fittings, staff, or other peoples' eardrums? And when the said unruly child knocks his head on a pointy windowsill, what does the mother do? Instead of saying 'I told you so', she files a complaint. I could almost pull my own hair out at the idiocy.


Welcome, my friends, to the mad and dangerous world of the Health and Safety executive. They do an  important job, they say, of preventing nuclear power stations from blowing up, or stopping schools burning down. And naturally, I don't deny the Health and Safety gods prevent children from climbing up chimneys, and banning baby walkers as there is a risk of the toddler toppling into a fire.  And then there's the need for preventing the 'incalculable human cost' of a person falling over every three minutes in this country. The human cost of the Holocaust was incalculable, whereas I slipped on my kitchen floor only this afternoon and it cost nobody nothing. 


Health and Safety, they say, is "the corner stone of a civilised society." - and it would be, if everyone and everything in the world were wrapped in fifteen layers of bubble wrap. But I disagree - they appear to have missed the point. Our society is gradually reaching a point where being 'safe' is more important than being happy. 


I'd rather go through life taking a few risks - slipping in the shower, abseiling down a cliff without filling in a risk assessment, taking a picture of my children in a play without being accused of paedophilia. I'd rather follow Slater's slide down the emergency exit slide of life than spending each day working to stay upright whilst filling in a form.