You'll Have Time

I keep getting mind numbing headaches. It feels like my brain is trying to escape into the open air and I believe I have a brain tumor. My stomach develops a variety of aches and pains throughout each day. The one in my lower left abdomen is a sign that my internal organs are about to explode; in my lower right, I have appendicitis;

in the middle, ecoli or food poisoning of some kind. I’ll be sitting watching television or drinking a cup of tea, and a sudden sharp pain will shoot up my leg or arm, then find one spot to throb – deep vein thrombosis. There’s no other explanation. And what does all this mean? I am going to die.

William Shatner tried to speak his words of wisdom when he told us to ‘Live your life like you’re gonna die, ‘cause you’re gonna.’ Very wise, Bill, but no amount of straight talking is going to fix this hypochondriac. Do I recognize that it is all simply psychological? Is the mind ever simple? I know that I don’t really have any one of these illnesses, but there is something wrong with me. Whether it is an over active imagination or some kind of deep-seated fear of failure, I don’t know. Death could be a blessing in disguise – I would have died before I had the chance to be great. Otherwise, I would have had the time and the resources to be amazing, but failed miserably.

Tea, Coffee, Cakes, and Muffins

I have always wondered why more people do not love the café life. The lifestyle may be enjoyed singularly, with one or more friends, or by groups and societies. Everyone enjoys it in their own way. No one is there to judge you for your quirky habits. Someone may read the newspaper always from back to front, another may continue to hover with their coffee until a table next to the wall becomes available. You may read, chat, study, work on your laptop, stare off into space, or simply watch everyone else around you.

Café goers tend to be an eclectic and accepting bunch. There are many different kinds of café’s to choose from, all attracting different crowds. First, there are the chains – accessible, unpretentious, where the coffee is never really hot, the décor standardised, and more often than not owned by some American Fortune 500 Company. These cafes generally have the largest mugs, the more the better. Although watch out for the very large standard size mugs of tea that will have you running to the toilet constantly in the following hours. There are also smaller, independent café’s with their own unique personalities. Some café’s have live music or that all-important “all day breakfast” that lures us out of doors on a Sunday afternoon. There is no hangover that cannot be cured by an enormous fry up and cup of tea.

I have always loved the small café’s, although I have found less of them in Bristol and Oxford. At home, in Perth, I loved the café strip in Mt Lawley. There were a few scattered around the metro area, in the back streets, that only the locals know – they are definitely the best café’s around. My passion for a good café started rather early in life. A group of friends and I would go after school every Friday to a local book café. The owner quickly came to know and expect us, enjoyed our presence, and gave us free coffees, extra cream with our cakes, and free chocolates. Soon he went out of business, the café shut down to become yet another Asian food restaurant in an area already overcrowded by its kind. From there (Northbridge) we migrated to the centre of the Mt Lawley strip: the Globe and Cino’s being regulars until Xomod and others opened up further down Beaufort St.

But café’s do not have to just be about coffee. What about teahouses and other tea-focused atmospheres? This is very important to a tea lover like myself, who despises that horrible coffee after taste and ever-lasting coffee breath. There is something refreshing in an establishment that has all kinds of wonderful teas – black teas, herbal infusions, green teas, fermented teas. Also essential to this feel is the right cups and individual teapots. There are very strict rules regarding such things – Asian style for Asian teas, traditional English style for traditional style teas, and funky styles for infusions and quirky blends. And you cannot forget the Moroccan tea glasses for Moroccan mint tea! China or glass? Rounded, square, handles, no handles, saucers? There simply cannot be a generic style for all teas, there must be categories. Although not everyone loves tea, and sure, we tea lovers might not want to give in to the evil that is coffee, but there is still hot chocolate, traditional, white, and chilli.

The café experience is not solely concerned with the drinks, however. We cannot forget the muffins, cookies, cakes, and light meals. I have noticed that the English café’s are missing truly brilliant cakes and other sweet treats, but what else can you expect of a country that calls all desserts “Pudding”?! I miss going to a café and spending a good long while staring into the glass cabinets; “which dessert shall I have today?” Tarts, flan, cakes of all shapes, sizes, and flavours, many cookies, petit fours, gourmet chocolates, bite size treats, ice creams, fudge, chocolate rum balls, macaroons, fruit salads, tiramisu, cheesecake, and more. Too many glorious choices, if only we could choose not to add to our waistlines but enjoy the sickly sweet goodness of all these treats. If you don’t have a sweet tooth, never fear. Sandwiches, presses, salads, wraps, pies, quiches, and other savoury nibbles are on offer also. I personally love a café breakfast, with all manner of friend goods, or at least a fresh bagel, cream cheese, bacon, mushrooms, and grilled tomatoes.

I have never been into clubbing, or partying hard, but I would love to spend a leisurely afternoon with you in a café, drinking tea, eating cake, and enjoying brilliant conversation.

Writing and dreaming

More artistic ramblings of a crazed mind...

Running, running, running, running through the field. The angry sky crackled and groaned. She had fallen asleep under the prunus avium. Wild cherry. Dirt clumps flew up behind her as she ran. Dirt clumps, soft, moist, sensual between her toes, as she kneaded the ground in her sleep. Now hard and filthy as she thudded over the great expanse.

Sitting at her desk, she read all morning. Bits of this, bits of that. Poe, then Faulkner, some of Fitzgerald’s Gatsby, followed by pages and pages of Douglas Adams, Kafka, then Heller. Books were scattered over the antique mahogany. This table was proudest of its beautiful single plank desk top, and depressed that there were layers upon layers of books hiding its best feature. It began to sag and lean in protest. She thought it had character.

This reading was the result of a short attention span. Flicking between favourite passages until she grew bored. Her eyes constantly flicked between the page and the window. Out the window, down across the pavement, roaming the grounds, and focusing on the letter box. The mail arrived between 10 and 12 every morning. 10.30am. Nothing. The Tell Tale Heart. 10.50am. False alarm – her brother ran up the drive, and checked for mail, before lying on the front lawn to do stretches. 11.15am. Reading, flicking eyes, tapping of toes, jigging of legs. 11.30am. Desperately trying to think of something else – only when one stops thinking about something they really want, does it happen. Truth. 11.45am. Still unable to focus on anything else, and no mail had come.

12.27am. The mailman came sauntering down the path on his bicycle. Who needs motors anyway? She saw him coming, and ran down to greet him. He looked at her, smiled, noticed her outstretched hand and smiled again, placing the mail in the letter box anyway. He whistled as he left, chuckling to himself. There it was, the letter that led her to that wild cherry. Where she waited, where she wept, where she slept.

He tried to remember how it had begun. A beer, or two, a dimly lit room, and some bad music. Music chosen by people who think they know music, but fail at being pretentious snobs, or even having simple good taste. To his left was a young Asian overachiever, the kind that was caned by his parents if he failed to get an , and forced to do Chinese lessons on both Saturdays and Sundays on top of all his other work. Be a doctor or a dentist, they were his choices. On the right, a pretty girl with dark skin and thick curly hair. She smiled at everyone but never seemed to say anything, despite speaking to fill even the tiniest of pauses.

Across a void he spotted someone he knew – and liked. He raised his eyebrows and head, trying to catch their eye, hoping to make an escape. Instead the group crossed the emptiness and joined in with the attractive vapid girl and the future doctor. Three of them he already knew. Two of them he did not. They were both female, one attractive, the other plain. Friendly, it seemed, and possibly interesting. His friend Tom introduced them. Mikaela and Jen. Jen and Mikaela. He imagined it to be Michala, soft and forgiving, but it was hard and cold with a k.

Tom was showing off. First it was talking about his win at the nationals in backstroke. She wasn’t interested. ‘I’ve never understood this county’s fascination with swimming. Races in general, I find extremely dull. You go from one end to the other, that’s it, you always know how it is going to end.’ Would she like to come help out at the soup kitchen with him, he was a regular. She did not like people who talked about their charitable deeds. ‘Do charity for yourself, if you wish, but not for others. Otherwise it becomes all about the image.’ Only one term in, Tom was smug in his delivery, and he was already at the top of the class he said. Legal Process was a joke, he needed a challenge. She sighed and whispered something to her plain friend.

London Film and Comic Con

Finally uploaded the pics from my Camera (although still haven't scanned in the pic of me and Jewel Staite, which was a highlight - she is gorgeous!). Unfortunately I look truly terrible in the pic of me and Chloe Annett... although it is difficult to look good next to a woman who has appeared on the FHM's sexiest list. 

A huge pull for me was Edward Furlong. Most of the space inside my wardrobe door as a teenage was filled with pictures of him from trashy kids magazines. He was my bad boy. And when I met him, he looked rough (afterwards, I actually bothered to google him, and discovered that he is a recovering drug addict and was served divorce papers 8 days before the Comic Con), and I loved it. 

Meanwhile, nearby there was an unknown hottie lurking. He is going to be in New Moon (the next in the oh-so-teen series, Twilight). To make things better, unlike Taylor Lautner, Alex Meraz is of a fanciable age. Definitely worth the £10, I think.

Stray thoughts

I had that weird feeling. Slightly sexual in nature, but not completely dissimilar to pain. A shivering sensation running down my neck, a gasp that never quite made it. It was an itch yet to be scratched because it was too indeterminate in nature.

A Writer's Ramblings

In the hope of inspiring myself to write more, and to actually properly commit some time to sitting down, brainstorming, and writing (but not to over think!), I am going to type up and post some fragments that I have collected in multiple notebooks over the years. Most of it is terrible, I recognise that, but I have to start somewhere.

***

At first I didn't really think much of it - the book had been sitting on her lap when I sat down. I sat down at the table next to hers and grabbed my book out of my bag. Annoyed with myself for having bent the cover when I shoved it in my bag that morning, while embarrassed by the book itself (some hyper-consumable crime thriller that failed to appeal to my literary snobbery), I began to read with my usual vigour. Despite my intense concentration, it did not escape my notice that she began reading at the same moment.

I continued to read through the lunch hour. The bookclub meeting was fast approaching, and I did not want to feel the shame of being the only one who hadn't read the month's novel. In my peripheral vision, I saw that she had stopped reading, leaving the book on her lap and had her hands clasped elegantly over its cover. She did not appear to be doing anything other than staring into space, careful never to catch my eye. I glanced at my watch, finished my juice, and (this time) carefully put my book back in my bag. She timed it perfectly - we looked as though we belonged in a synchronized dance team. The unison movements were somehow intuitive, unplanned. 

Once she too had packed up, she finally spoke. "Why don't we we walk back to the office together?"

Old Friends, Old Times, Old Men?

Life isn't always plain sailing. Sometimes things go wrong. Sometimes they just get tougher than usual and stress levels sky rocket. When we feel a little snowed under, we can revert to nostalgia. Things were better in the good ol' days. Maybe they were, maybe they weren't. But in our minds, there have always been better times in the past. I suppose it is important for us to feel this way - I can't imagine what it would be like to feel miserable and to know that life has always been this way or worse. 

To recover some of the old glory, I've spent the past few days listening to nothing but Prince. It's been a while since I've done this, but oh, how I've missed him.

***

I've lived in various different places - countries, cities, hemispheres - over the years. I have met a lot of people, made a lot of friends, and lost almost as many. But every now and then, you meet up with an old friend or you hear from someone you lost contact with an impossibly long time ago. Not only is it great to make contact again, but it is nice to know that you aren't the only one who remembers. I often think back fondly on many people I never managed to keep in touch with, and wonder how they are; but I also wonder if they ever think of me, or if they even remember me at all. This week I had a long lost friend contact me, and a friend who I rarely keep in contact with drop me a line. So big smiles all round here. 

***

Many of you will have seen my pic of myself and Leonard Nimoy. Now, if you did not already know that it was Leonard - who would you think it was? I had a colleague at work ask me whether it was Leonard Nimoy or Anthony Daniels (C-3PO)! Now, both are old, sci fi relics who we all love, but one is pure sex, and the other... Well, I won't say anything bad of Anthony, because I am very fond of him. But, he is no Leonard...