Dancing with Cookers

When I was four years old, my dad had to make a difficult conversation, over the phone about me. I had hit my head and my hair was matted with blood, which continued to leak from my wound.

Now, being four, I felt pretty invincible about most stuff: I was the dancing fairy queen. So, of course, I had to twirl as fast as light itself in our kitchen (as you do).

I had built quite a momentum, my minus-sized feet pattering on the orange-lined floor, like the ballerina I felt I could become.

I must have been spinning for a good five minutes – occasionally protruding my arms to make desperate, chicken-like movements (looking back, it probably looked more like a satanic ritual than a homage to dance). And then, tiredness or destiny or just the law of gravity walloped me off balance and I fell. However, instead of gracefully flailing on the floor like a puppy made of jelly, our metal cooker managed to sneak onto the scene too. (Probably trying to upstage my flawless pirouettes.) So, as my body embraced the concept of casually flopping on the floor, my head struck the metal cooker and then I smacked the floor.

I don’t remember what happened next (hopefully due to my age and not the head injury…) but at the time, I do know that my mum was doing our weekly, evening shop at Tesco. So, it was my ill-prepared dad who found me and the blood and the defiant-looking cooker (and probably my mucus-and-tea-smeared face too). So, he had to phone mum to update her on my new health status.

She must hurled her trolley at the nearest barely-qualified checkout assistant and sped home instantly, as my next memory is both my parents delicately sponging my head and hair with cotton wool pads. (Coincidently, this was the time in my life when my hair was past my waist – I should have learnt from the nit incident that hair that long on a small child is just asking for multiple catastrophes.)

As my brother was still a baby (and probably completely oblivious to the unprovoked attack the family cooker had assaulted on his sister), it was only my mum and I who flew down to A&E, to get my head glued up (not by a school Prit-Stick, I was to later learn).

Yet, despite my gaping cut – which had ceased bleeding, finally – I was completely calm. In fact, I distinctly remember quizzing my teacher-mum on who were her nicest and naughtiest kids in her class.

In the end, I was completely fine after glue and a lollipop, but that can probably be down to my childhood resilience (rather than my unknown superhero powers). And so I feel, if I have learnt anything from my tango with the cooker - other than spinning in the kitchen is not the best idea I’ve had - it’s that if there is ever a knock in life (hopefully not concocted by your own, rustic cooker), just remember there may always be a lollipop at the end. Metaphorically speaking: there will be other, more practical thing like happiness or winning the lottery too. But, a caring hug and multi-coloured sweetie is a good place to start.

In response to hearing some of 'The Moth Podcasts' - they're fab!

Again, Again

(Inspired by Kate Atkinson's 'Life After Life' and some near-death experiences)

I’ve been here before.

What if I’m here again?

Again, again.

You’ve experienced a lot of coincidences in your life, haven’t you? But I suppose everyone has, so who could notice the intrigue about it? Just think though. Your life has not been mundane in these moments.

Remember when you were seven, on a family holiday, three or four days in? Adorning your favourite outfit, pinched off the hangers your mum had previously threaded into the wardrobe. It was the evening, yet the sky was still as clear as the early afternoon, just the sun a little hazier. All of you were ambling back to the car, reminiscing over the ice cream that had just been consumed from a corner shop no one ever knew the name of (yet still managed to find again). Crossing the road didn’t even connect in your distracted mind so when the others stopped and you didn’t, there was no panic: just carry on.

The loose gravel of the road slid your feet from underneath you and before registering what had occurred, a car bonnet was meters from your head. It was red; that is unforgettable.

It stopped, you were fine, a grazed knee maybe, but you were fine.

How about when you were a younger, grasping an abundance of items in your paws. Transferring them downstairs in over a trip seemed too extravagant and they were clutch-able pieces, clearly unquestionable if individually cradled.

Trundling down each of the fourteen stairs was a task you completed multiple times a day, legs knowing exactly when to cease the clambering motion. Half way down, your feet got caught and your body hit the stairs with thunder.

You sat in awe, but nothing else materialised. You were fine, your things were fine, your heart calmed after a few moments.

Were these all coincidences? That you fell, were so close to fatality and yet this fate never swept by, dragging you with it. Maybe that is all it ever was.

Yet, what if you’ve done it all before?

What if the first time you slid onto the road, the red car bonnet stopped, only after connecting with your skull for a few yards?

What if the first time you tumbled on the stairs, the rhythm didn’t halt, your body like cymbals as you ended on the floor?

What if all these first times, you died? And now you’re back?

You’re living this life again.

You’ve lived it before and you may well experience it in a few weeks, days, hours. You will cascade from a window, in a busy room. Someone will target you on the train and will be relentless until it is over.

What if it isn’t over?

What if next time you will not attend the party, or hail a taxi instead?

What if your life is just an on-going story, scripted and edited like a perfectionist, until it is just right?

What if, in the end, there is no end?

What if, you never die?

You’ve been here before.

And you’ll be here again.

Again, again, again, again.

Food Review, A A Gill Style

In Creative Writing this week, we had to emulate the review styles of food critic, A A Gill. Because I didn't want to be pretentious and rude, I just opted for pretentious. It's on a little restaurant I went to in Italy this year:

LO SBARCO DEI PIRATI

Eraclea Mare, Italy

Food ★★★★

Atmosphere ★★★★★

When does fancy-dress transform from the ‘done’ party trait to a satirical, ironic quirk? Will I have to wait until a big ‘0 until I can request (or more likely demand) my esteemed guests sashay into the garden in a blonde wig and Cinderella drapes? The last fancy dress party I attended was not actually one at all; my brother and I were then subjected to playing limbo and ‘freeze when the music stops’ – which I must confess was a lot more stressful than many realize – in Red Indian and black cat costumes. That anxiety has subsequently plagued my school career and further: is it actually mufti day or is it tomorrow? Chauffer-driven allowed a brief few minutes of eagerly glancing, like a tennis match, to both sides of the road to try and identify if that person was taking part in non-uniform or were just a wandering member of the public. Even now, the idea of being overdressed brings me out into internal hives, hysterically screaming at the notion of realizing everyone else is just adhering to the ‘causal’ part of ‘smart-casual’. But, as a seven year old, the ‘non-fancy-fancy-dress’ party hasn’t created a spiral of feverish nightmares and, luckily, my costume was relatively low key. If I had come as something a bit more outlandish, heaven forbid, an astronaut or pirate, it may be the reason I would still be in therapy today. But, pirate doesn’t have to shriek in your ears ‘argh!’ and slit your throat with swords and hooks and frenziedly-ruffled shirts. Upon entering Lo Sbarco Dei Pirati, I was pleasantly surprised that it was a modest ‘Land of Pirates’ and not an immature affair with inflatable beach attire and ‘swash-buckling’ waiters. I was promptly shown to our seat and nibbled at the light breadsticks and accompaniments which flew onto the table; rigging was slung over a bannister and a mimic of the hull of a ship was at the front of the central drinks area, but the minimalist decoration – in terms of pirates – was little more. The food too was simple in ingredients, but truly delicious. I ordered a linguine with peeled shrimps and pistachio, which arrived in a metal pan, steaming on the table. At once the waiter swirled up the pasta effortlessly and arranged it on my plate. Being in Italy, you’d expect nothing less than well-cooked pasta, but the pistachio accompaniment acted like a fresh, nutty pesto, replacing the need for any sauce. And, they were the largest shrimps I have ever encountered on my plate: they must have fuse two shrimps together in the cooking process.

This find was clearly thriving in the restaurant strip, with families patiently standing in a queue (very British; you could tell we were situated near a holiday camp) for tables and takeaway meals of the same quality as what had just been served to myself. It would, however, have been a shame to open my pasta pot in my apartment and have the sudden realization no one was going to spiral it on my plate for me. And, although busy, the tables were spread enough for conversations to be kept at an audible level with your company, without others unintentionally eavesdropping (although, frankly, I always do try).

For dessert, I was lead to a literal treasure-chest cabinet, adorned with all the fresh choices. I selected a cheesecake, sprinkled with berries. When it was placed in front of me a minute later, it was dressed presentably, but I did notice a lack of actual berries. Whether I was unfortunate to get a piece with fewer, or they were merely parsimonious – I will presume the former, as I could not view this delightful place as stingy. Lo Sbarco Dei Pirati was a pleasant surprise and its laidback atmosphere, accompanied with real-tasting Italian food, should entice any holiday-goer or local to visit a land of discrete pirates.

Big Day Out

Our task was to write a poem to make someone cry. Here was my best shot:

‘We’re off on a li’l trip!’ Granddad exclaimed

I put on my boots – he did the laces

Then tumbled into the car – it hadn’t changed

And off we went, to exciting new places

“Shall we stop off here?” Granddad grinned

I took out the tennis ball and rackets

From the boot – he always made the ball spin

And I’ll be like him, with some more practice

“Let’s go into the playground,” Granddad smiled

I swapped the tennis stuff for a football

Then we kicked it around for a hundred miles

And he whooshed in when I was going to fall

“Shall I get out the picnic?” Granddad said

I pulled two rug corners – he took the rest

Chomping no-crust sandwiches til well fed

He’s got the secret to make them the best

“We’ve still got time for the swings,” Granddad wheezed

I ran ahead – couldn’t catch my fast legs

And got really high – from bending my knees

I now know how, so he’s easy to beat

Granddad didn’t say anything for ages

I scuffed my shoes to slow down to his pace

- Mummy wasn’t there to be in a rage

Now I didn’t want to try and win the race

I held his big hand, which is really rare

Unless crossing the road – this time I said

“It’s ok Granddad, you don’t need to be scared

You will still be with me, inside my head

Jeans Shopping is Not for the Weak

Last week, my cousin and I managed to successfully transport ourselves from my house to London, without mishap. (No stolen bags, no lost money or forgotten keys – well, I did temporarily forget how to close my own front door but we weren’t burgled, so I’d say a success) We were off on our second adventure together to Westfield shopping centre. In between mouthing the words to newly excavated songs – thank Spotify ‘Discover Weekly’ for my seemingly quirky and fun discoveries; sadly no credit to myself – and giggling intermittently, I decided that today was the day to buy some new jeans.

Before this mundane story unfurls itself, I’d just like to put in this note: I am terrible at buying jeans. Worse still is that I kind of need them: I’m currently only really wearing one pair of Topshop Joni jobbies, as my other identical-but-black pair have gone slack and crumpled around the knee (as if my knees have trimmed down and the rest of my leg just wasn’t feeling an intensive work out). Moreover, I am super bad at buying clothes, but I feel that will need a whole other dedicated reel of words.

As soon as we entered this beast of a shopping centre, we found Topshop and I tried on a few skinny pairs: one suffocating and the other just not right (watch, this becomes a recurrent theme).

So, onto Zara: six pairs hung limply on my arm were as successful as they sound. Six.

(DISCLAIMER: Not to say that any of these retailers make pants trousers; I just mean that for me and what I was very specifically scanning for, they weren’t right. But not horrendously so. I think my body shape is at fault, as well as my thinking. I am also literally on the opposite end of a fashionista, so clothes aren’t my forte. Anyway-)

A lunch break was in order and then more shopping/manic hunting and hurling jeans over my arm, shoulder, face, anything. River Island, Pull&Bear, American Eagle Outfitters, Hollister. By the end I was so downtrodden I gave up, so we got churros. If you ever need a smile-enabler, steaming, cinnamon-and-sugar encrusted churros, dipped in pure, melted chocolate is not a bad shout (M&S advert descriptions, here I come).

Now a week later, I’m trawling through the Internet’s realm of every kind of trouser description. I think I’ve found some I actually like, but like everything ordered, I’ll have to wait to see if they actually fit…

However, on this under-averagely-exciting journey, I have come to the conclusion that jeans’ shopping is a brutal affair that must be fuelled by a clear head and content stomach. (I would say ‘full’, but no one wants to stare at a harshly-lined mirror protruding angles of your body you didn’t even know existed, let alone when you’re feeling blobby from a meal.) You need to become the predator, stalking for the perfect fit and colour. I now know, 25-plus pairs later (I worked it out and, yes, I do believe I tried on this many at Westfield) that high-waisted is my comfort zone and they have to be stretchy enough for me to randomly fling my legs in the air in wild, filly-like excitement (it happens). I also know that petite jeans may have to be considered, especially in the shops where the material was more ruffled around my ankles than an 18^th century shirt.

If you are currently on the lookout for jeans, I wish you the best of luck (sounds melodramatic but it’s needed) and please let me know if there are any high-street shops worth investigating. Writing this proves how much I need it.

Get some churros in you yo