C-c-changes

(With apologies to David Bowie)

A lot has been happening in good old real life lately, but I haven’t been sharing them on the blog because I’m wary of jumping the gun. I mean, it’s one things to ring up your family and mates in a babbling mess, but to announce stuff on your blog can be very embarrassing if nothing comes of it. And, as we know, I am nothing if not proud.

So coming up over the next couple of days are two big announcements. The first is a stroke of luck that still has been pinching myself and I am so excited, I can’t describe it.

The second announcement is something that I’ve been considering for a very long time. It may also lead to a change in this blog as I will be a world away from the reason I started this blog in the first place. Life is about growing, shrugging off old skins and trying on new ones. I would like this blog to grow with me. But that’s for another post…

I have split my announcements into two posts so as not to bombard you. I have had an excellent weekend, I hope all of you have too. Really looking forward to sharing this stuff over the next couple of days!

The personal post.

Coming up is a personal post. As in, I’m not about to pass judgement on books or drama or riots. I’m here today to pass judgement on myself. So here goes.

I have always been pretty determined, some might say stubborn. Oh, all right, I am stubborn. This is not always a bad thing – it means I’m pretty focused on what I want and I am notoriously hard to talk into anything I don’t really want to do. (If you ever think you have me wrapped round your little finger – think again!)

However, the last few days I’ve been thinking about pride. I once had a row with someone and vowed never to speak to them again. I knew it was all blown out of proportion, but I did stick to it for, oooo, six months. We made up in the end, enough to almost embark on a romance. When I said that we shouldn’t get together, his response was “Is it because of your pride?” My first response was laughter – after all, the real reason had nothing to do with that and everything to do with the fact that we would have killed each other.

But it did give me pause. For someone to notice that about me must mean it’s a big deal. I don’t think I’m arrogant or anything like that, but I sure can stick to my guns, even when I know that I’m being silly. I’m just too proud to go back on something that I’ve said.

This is stupid. I mean, I didn’t speak to a friend because I vowed, in the heat of the moment, never to speak to him again. What sort of madness was this?

Part of that was knowing that if I apologised, he’d take the mick. But when we finally made up, it was relief on both sides. Six months, people! Six months of awkwardness, wondering what he was up to. Six months of not having my mate about.

So there we go. There’s my flaw – I am far too proud. It’s fiendishly difficult to overcome for various reasons. But I’m going to try. There’s just nothing to be gained from it is there. Maybe I won’t overcome it. But there’s something to be said for realising that about yourself.

Ten years ago today.

Ten years ago today something happened that changed the world as we know it. We all know what that was.

Where were you?

I was at 14 and I was at school in North West London. Not a word was said while we were at school, something I still find odd and wonder if I’m actually remembering that correctly.

At the end of the day I waved goodbye to my friends as I left the school and crossed the road to where my Grandad always parked down a side street opposite. He was quiet, but then he always was. As he pulled away from the kerb, he said:

“Two planes have hit the twin towers.”

“The what?”

“The twin towers. In New York.”

“By accident you mean,” I said. Because it honestly didn’t occur to me that it could be anything else, even though he had said two planes.

He didn’t answer, just stared straight ahead and shook his head slightly. I remember opening my mouth, but I said nothing. I wasn’t even sure that I was thinking of the right place, at that point they weren’t part of my mental landscape.

We had drawn level with the school, moving slowly against the rest of the traffic. The road was dense with cars parked, cars inching slowly along, the spaces between filled with students, arms linked, jaws working against gum, earphones plugged into just one ear. I remember staring out of the car window, the noise of teachers shouting at the girls dodging between cars, the cries of adolescent boys after those girls in the short skirts with their enviable confidence. The world had changed and no one seemed to have any clue.

We drove home in uncharacteristic silence. We sat on the sofa at home and watched the replays – as though replaying it would make sense of it. We reached blindly for the phone to call our American relatives – two of whom lived in downtown New York at the time. The room was filled with fragile puffs of air because every time we tried to say something none of us could find words big enough. It was the first time I realised that actually, sometimes words are not enough – sometimes words provide no answers, no comfort. It was a realisation that made me feel adrift and lonely. The first certainty of my life was cut.

The next day at school was strangely tense. By that point people were talking about Al Qaeda, throwing around the term “Islamic extremism.” My school was a melting pot of religions and I will never forget that sudden “us and them” that sprung up, despite the assembly that warned against it.

It was fantastically naive of me, but I was so surprised by that – we had been friends, we shared Bunsen burners during our Chemistry classes and swapped pens and made up dances in the playground.

11th September 2001 left a mark on all of us, to greater or lesser extents. The images of each collision, the towers crumbling, the heaving cloud of dust and debris that moved like a monster through New York that day, still chills me, makes the hairs on my arms stand up.

I hope it is not still naive of me to say that I hope that more love was born that day than hate. I hope it taught us to cherish those we love, to make the most of every day. If we have learnt that people can do horrific things that have the power to freeze the entire world in one moment of shock, then I hope we have also learnt that people have untold capacities for bravery, love and compassion.

My thoughts today are with the families of those who were lost that day, not just in the Towers, but at the Pentagon and on flight 93.

In the pink.

I mentioned my life list in an earlier post and dying my hair pink was another thing on that list. As I’ve mentioned in my hair posts, I’m lazy when it comes to my hair. I dyed my hair brunette in my first year of uni and after two weeks my roots were showing. I couldn’t be bothered to dye it every couple of weeks, so I went Back to Blonde.

As I’ve never been that adventurous hair colour-wise, mainly because blonde suits me, but I wanted to do something a bit different. As I’ve got a week off, I decided to seize the chance to dye my hair pink. It’s only semi-permanent and will probably have washed out completely by the time I go back to work and that’s ok.

We were going to go for all-over pink and then thought that as I’m so pale it might not suit me. I don’t think it would have, so I’m glad it’s just highlights. Still, I love it!

So here’s moi, rocking the pink hair.

Funny how hair colour can make you feel so different. I’m walking with a rebellious spring in my step. I’m planning to bang out a solo at karaoke this week (another life list ambition) and I think the ‘tude this hair gives me is really going to help!

Creep.

Something really weird happened to me yesterday. I was on the bus to meet a friend and I was standing in front of the back doors. I looked around to see if there was any seats and spotted one in the back.

Only it was in front of a guy who appeared to be filming me.

He was holding his phone up, the camera part clearly visible. The way he was holding it was that caught my attention – he wasn’t texting, he was holding it up clear of the pole and the people in front and it was pointed right at me. I looked around – nope, definitely pointed at me.

He had on the sort of pitch back glasses where you couldn’t see a thing through them, which unsettled me even more.

It’s happened before – someone opposite me on the train once took a photo of me, only he’d forgotten to turn the camera sound off, so at least then I had a reason to say “Excuse me, are you taking a photo of me? What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” (We were just pulling into a station and he scarpered, so no, he didn’t explain himself).

This time I had no evidence, but you know when you just know? I found it really creepy and was really happy when he got off the bus.

Seriously though – what is the etiquette when you think someone is filming or taking secret photos of you? Where do you stand? Is it harmless or an indication of something more sinister? Should I have been flattered or creeped out?

Dear London

I love you. Given what's gone on over the last few days, I know I shouldn't say that. I know I should be thoroughly ashamed that you are the city I was born and bred in, that I count myself a Londoner as surely as some of those people do. I know I should no longer see the beauty in you.

But I love you, London is written through me like a stick of rock. It's marked everything from my accent to the way I act, so it's not that easy. London has a place in all my memories.

I love to eat chips, hot and salty out of the packet on the Embankment, right where I can see St Paul's. I love the solid cold stone of the seats at The Scoop, the twinkle of lights as the sun goes down over Regent's Park theatre. I love the close heat of the underground, the phantom gusts of wind as I miss my train. I love weaving through the crowds on Oxford Street on a sweltering June day, the heavy Christmas decorations and the slush on the pavements. I love the post-club crush on the bus, the long walks home in blistering shoes.

I once kissed someone, pressed up against the wall of my house one New Year. I once had a Hollywood kiss at 3am on Camden High Street. I fell in love in Harrow and my heart broke in Kensal Rise. I have eaten cupcakes in Brixton and enjoyed music on the South Bank. I meet people under the clock at Waterloo station. I have collapsed on the top of Primrose Hill and then hauled myself up to make a fool of myself as I did a circuit in front of Sunday picnickers. I have had my wallet nicked in Camden Town and my hand held in Golders Green.

London is something that lives and breathes for me. I feel that it is mine in a way I cannot describe. And to see what I have seen on the news these past few days makes me sick. Where are those sweet strangers I have chatted to on the bus? Where are the people who give up seats on the train or help you pick up your dropped shopping?

I'll tell you where they are - they are out with brooms, sweeping up the mess left by a minority. Because it is a minority - that is not the true face of London, not the London I know at least. The London I know is full of brilliant people - bright, funny people who make music, hold their drink and are not to be beaten by a bunch of hooligans.

But these people are Londoners too and as much as I want to see them punished for what they have done to our beautiful city, how they have shamed us, I also want to understand them. My friends and family, have sat and watched all of this unfold on the news. Some of us have gone out to help with the clean-up. All of us would quite like a new computer, a new pair of trainers or a snazzy new plasma. None of us have gone out to grab one. I want to know why these people thought that would be ok. Punish them, yes, of couse they deserve it. But I hope that someone, somewhere, will figure out the why so that we can make changes and so that this will never happen again. We should be - we are - better than that.

Today, parts of London are blackened ruins. Businesses, the products of people's dreams, have been destroyed. More damage has been done to our city than was done on 7th July 2005. But we fought back then and we shall fight back again. With brooms and spades and plastic bags. And humour and love and respect.

That is what London is - full to bursting with people who are unbelieveably tough. We have this city in common. No matter our race, our religion, our sexual preference - London is our city.

London, I still love you. We can get through this.

(We shouldn't forget that these riots are no longer just occurring in London. But I've been heartened to see the clean-ups going on all over the country. I am really proud to see this - this pulling together should be the enduring legacy of these riots)

The girl gets fashionable.

I’ve been feeling pretty underwhelmed by my wardrobe for a while now. When I have to be up at 6am for work I tend to reach for old faithfuls – jeans, boots and a shirt. But it’s not really me. I’d like to think I have a bit more style than that (cue canned laughter).

So last weekend, as I was planning to go to a vintage fair on the Sunday, I spent the Saturday going through my wardrobe. I was utterly ruthless. My trouble is that if I see a pattern or a colour I love, I often overlook the shape, so my wardrobe is stuffed with things that don’t quite suit me but I love.

No more! If it didn’t look good on, it went into a bag, ready for the next clothes swapping party or boot sale.

On the Sunday I bought some vintage hair scarves – it was far too warm and too crowded to really hunt for clothes. Monday, the last day off before my 10 days of 12hr shifts, I watched some videos on hair styling and tried them myself.

Coming up are some posts to show off my new hair styles. I’m not someone that does much with my hair – my friends will attest to the fact that I tie up it every morning and that’s it. I’m not that good at styling my own hair so I’m very proud of my ‘dos.