Mirror, mirror

So I came back. Bit of a makeover for the blog, tart the place up a bit, try to encourage myself to come out of my barnacle-encrusted shell (do you get landlocked barnacles?) and just get on and write something. But what? Well, I said to myself I was going to be a writer, then I said to myself I'd better face up to the fact that it ain't gonna happen. And so it's time to face the other unpalatable truths of my life: 1. I am never going to be a beauty. Now I know I've blogged extensively about my bloodyminded embrace of plainness and all its attendant freedoms from unfeasible cosmetics bills and having to look in every mirror I encounter, but I have to admit here and now it didn't come easily. Because if I'm honest I'm like everyone else: I want the world to see how fabulous I am. Now, well-meaning friends and greetings card writers aside, no-one really cares about what's inside. Exterior is all. No-one ever said, "All right, she's got a face like the back of the bus but, my god, you should see her spleen." And that goes for more nebulous distinguishing characteristics. You could be the kindest, most noble creature on God's earth but if you look like a mangled trout no-one will give you a second glance, apart from, perhaps, the odd lairy twelve year old who will take great delight in informing you of your repellant aspect. (Really. It's happened to me at least twice in the street.) And all this leads on to: 2. I am never going to have a relationship of any meaning with anybody. Again, I've blogged bravely about the advantages of the defiantly single life, but when it comes down to it, when I've read too much Jane Austen or watched part four of the BBC's adaptation of Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South, it's a bit disheartening to know that I am never going to experience anything even faintly reminiscent of the grand passions evoked in great works of literature, or by the Mills & Boon oeuvre, come to that. In life, it takes a lot to get past first impressions (see point one) and no man is going to waste time on a borderline depressive teetotal wallflower. Well, one or two men might give it a go, but I know them by sight (and, in one case, by particularly pungent smell) and I take evasive action accordingly. When all's said and done, the fault's entirely mine. I'm misanthropic and would rather stay in sighing over fictional heroes than go out and find my own. Nevertheless, resigned singlism does have its problems, namely: 3. Leonard Cohen is never going to write a song about me. For various reasons, among them my inability to socialise like a sane human being, points one and two above, and, most importantly, the fact that we are never going to meet or have any other form of contact, I am never going to be the muse for a song of startling beauty and lyrical truth, sung by a man whose voice sends shivers down my spine. While realism insists I recognise this, I can't help feeling a twinge of disappointment as I listen to CDs on headphones in the wee small hours of the morning. 4. I am never going to be the wise-cracking all-action sidekick of a 1960s super-cool secret agent. It's 2009. Any remaining 1960s super-cool secret agents will be a) dead, b) too arthritic to swing or c) popping Viagra and trying to pull sceptical nineteen year old popsies with a line about their flying car that can go underwater. And it's that pesky point one again. 5. I never keep a promise, even to myself. I said I wouldn't write any more, but here I am. Next time, I shall blog on five things that make me feel good about myself. That will be a much shorter post. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to listen to Leonard Cohen. Well, a girl can dream.

So long, farewell, and so forth

One of the recommended pastimes for a wannabe hack writer is to read widely. I've read newspapers, I've read magazines. I've read blogs by people I know and blogs by complete strangers. I've read cereal packets and adverts on bus shelters. I'm trying to read two books simultaneously, one at home and one at work. They're both archaeology so at some point I am going to get seriously confused and put Culloden down as one of the major battles of World War One. And what has all this reading taught me? That I have nothing to say. I can't comment intellligently on topical issues (http://www.bitmorecomplicated.com) or on books (http://norfolkbookworm.blogspot.com). I can't write commercially; a sheaf of rejection slips attest to that. As a embryonic hack, the realisation that I'm just not able to cut it is a hard one, but at least, agents aside, I've not wasted anyone's time but my own. So for now I'm laying this blog aside until I've got something to say and the means to say it well. Thanks for sticking with it so far, and adieu.

Not busy, just disorganised

As Cliff Richard almost sang: Procrastination breeds consternation. I've got so much to do but don't know where to start. (It does fit. Don't deny you've got a copy of Congratulations somewhere. Dig it out and sing along.) I used to read Keith Waterhouse's columns avidly as a teenager. I think that may be what's made me so militant about the correct use of apostrophes (although I shall doubtless bung one in the wrong place in the course of this post.) I was saddened to hear of his death, but cheered immensely by the extract they used on the news last night. Paraphrasing wildly, the gist was that he appeared busy by doing six things at once, but was actually working on one while avoiding the other five. While he was working on his column, he was avoiding working on his novel. While working on his novel he was avoiding working on a script. The loud twang you may have heard around twenty past six last night was my soul resonating in sympathy. Right now, as I write this I should be doing at least one of the following: looking for a job that doesn't lead to ossification of the soul, polishing my CV as a means to getting said job (hollow laughter), practising my driving in readiness for the commute this mythical job might entail, ironing the kinks out of the manuscript of my first novel prior to submitting it to another agent, going through the Writers' and Artists' Yearbook (apostrophes seem OK there) to find another agent to send it to, replying to all the wonderful Authonomists who spared the time to give me sound constructive criticism on said book, reading the work of said Authonomists and giving them almost sound constructive criticism, working on the plot of my second novel which has stalled slightly, getting a framework down on paper for the other two books I've got in mind, reading my library books before they go overdue, reading the magazine backlog so I can recycle them, watching the DVD backlog so I can put them away instead of piling them on the floor, tidying my room so I have somewhere to put the DVDs, listening to the two plays and a serial I taped from the radio last month or longer ago, taking the stuff I have cleared out to a charity shop and washing my hair. In no particular order. Now it could just be that I have appalling time management skills, but there is a lot to be said for simplifying life and cutting out much of the pointless activity that leads to headless chicken syndrome. I think the best plan would be to write everything down and assess the usefulness of each task, rank them accordingly, and work systematically. I'll add that to my list of things to do.

Drawing the line under celebrity

I was going to say I was watching The Lady From Shanghai the other night, but that's misleading. It makes me sound like a film buff, which I'm not. I love good storytelling and I love the atmosphere of film noir, but I rarely have time to sit through a whole movie unless I'm sick. So what I actually did was watch the first twenty minutes of The Lady From Shanghai, remember that I have have an aversion to Orson Welles, regret that someone else wasn't playing the lead, vaguely wonder where I put my Maltese Falcon video, and start watching an archaeology documentary instead. What did strike me about the film, however, even more strongly than the awfulness of Welles's Oirish accent, was how jaw-droppingly lovely Rita Hayworth was. Her frocks were rather nice, too. And then I saw it. She was lying on a yacht (I think), singing, and it was there, clear as you like, magnified on the silver screens of yesteryear and the less magical screens of today. A line. Across her forehead. Right across it. And do you know what? It didn't detract from her beauty at all. If anything, it added to it. Beauty and character. If a woman looked like that now, she'd be vilified. Youth is all, beauty is all, but only if it conforms. All traces of character and individuality must be expunged. Open any glossy magazine. Unless you've nothing else to do with your time, I'd bet you'd be hard pressed to tell any of the women apart. Go back fifty years or more. The stars cultivated their individuality, celebrated it. Rita Hayworth, Marilyn Monroe, Ava Gardner, Grace Kelly, Veronica Lake, Jean Harlow, Ingrid Bergman, Hepburns Audrey and Katherine, all of them completely distinct. All we have now is bland homogenity and high streets full of poker-straight-haired clones who aspire to be 'celebrities' without the hard graft. There's little real style, let alone any substance. I'm bored with identikit 'stars'. It's time for a change. The revolution starts here. Chuck out your straightening irons. Banish the botox. Reclaim your character, or, if you haven't got one, do something about it. What are you afraid of?

Open wide and say AAAAARRRGGGHHH

The first time it happened I thought it was a reaction from going from a glimpse of how I wanted my life to be to the reality of how it is. The second time it happened it could just about have been put down to a bad day. Today it happened for a third time. I can no longer ignore it.

I am happier having root canal surgery than being at work.

I know it's a terrible thing to say in a recession, and yes, I realise that I'm lucky to have a job at all, but ossification of the soul is setting in and I want to get out before it's too late. Life is finite and some lives are more finite than others. It's a truism that no-one has ever laid on their deathbed and wished they'd spent more time at work. I suspect there's a trick to it, knowing when to jump. I've done a fair amount of weighing up the pros and cons of resigning. It's not as if I'm employable anywhere else so my options are 1) grit my teeth (those that aren't held together by amalgam) and die slowly five days a week, or 2) politely hand in my notice and hope that the shock of having no income inspires me to find meaningful work PDQ. My landlady would prefer I chose the former option, although she sees why the latter appeals.

A friend has suggested I try for a sabbatical but I don't think that's fair on my colleagues, even if it were remotely possible that the firm would allow it. (Sabbaticals are for management. We minions must drag ourselves in every day unless certified clinically dead by three different doctors.) Last year someone went on unpaid leave for personal reasons and there was some ill feeling among those left to carry the workload. I dreamt of her the other day. I hope she's happier and healthier than she appeared to me then.

So no sabbatical. What other options are there, apart from undergoing a lobotomy? I could talk to the management, but I've tried that and was met with concerned incomprehension. With a company ethos that everyone must be happy at all times and dissenters will be disciplined, the safety valve of griping in the staff room has been closed off. Yes, we still do it in hushed whispers in corners, but it gets us nowhere and I find it easier to be there in body only while my mind is off doing something more interesting. So far only one colleague has noticed that my standard reply to 'how are you?' is 'hello, how are you?'

What I would really like is a year out. Lots of people have them. No-one would be surprised if I announced I was taking a year off to have a baby. No, let me rephrase that. No-one, apart from anyone who knows me, would be surprised if I announced I was taking a year off to have a baby. I'm not going to have a baby. I don't want one. It would be too much like being John Hurt in Alien. But why should I be penalised for wanting to live on through books and scripts than through passing on my DNA? Off the top of my head I can think of lots of books that are more worthwhile than some people I could mention. There's maternity leave and paternity leave. Why not literary leave?

Just think: six months to a year away from the workplace and several shiny new (fictional) people at the end of it. And everyone could share in that simply by reading my book.

Although some might prefer root canal surgery.

Nostalgia ain't what it used to be

"Class of 99," read the invitation. "Ten year reunion."

Words to strike horror into the heart of any sane thirtysomething. The invitation itself was friendly enough, glossy card covered with enticing photographs of the classiest of the campus bars. Tickets were reasonably priced and there was no objection to bringing partners.

And there we hit the first obstacle. There is every objection to bringing partners to a gathering of chums from student days, especially if you haven't seen said chums for a decade.

Look at yourself now. Steady relationship, maybe a kid or three. A mortgage you don't really want to talk about at the moment, thank you. A shelf of cookery books you like to look at but can't quite find the time to use for actual cooking. Your idea of a good night is tucking up the children with a kiss then vegetating in front of The Wire box set with a tub of ice cream.

Now think back to a time when your idea of a good night was something you can't actually remember. When you thought nothing of walking home alone at half past two in the morning, because, hey, it's all right, you've got a mobile phone the size of a brick and you can always bludgeon anyone who tries to attack you. When the bloke in the kebab van admired your mini skirt and doubted you wore knickers, so you showed them to him to prove you did, and he felt sorry for you and gave you a free can of Tango. When you set fire to your friend's hair trying to light her cigarette because you didn't smoke and couldn't get the hang of the lighter. When you ended up dancing on the stage of the students' union with the troupe of professional dancers on 70s night. Four times. Sober. When you pined unrequitedly for men who would have appalled your mother. You're not that person anymore. The relief is palpable. Do you really want to take your partner anywhere near anyone who might tell him what you got up to?

Conversely, those mates you partied with remember you as a mad-for-it goodtime girl, the first to lead the charge to the dance floor. Do you really want them to see you as you are now, with grey roots and crow's feet, opaque tights to cover the incipient varicose veins, yawning at nine thirty and preoccupied with the allotment? Wouldn't it be kinder to let them keep those memories unsullied? That's always supposing they can remember even as much as you about it all.

Then there's the agony of being compared with your peers. There will be at least one who has done stupendously well, who thrives in a challenging but rewarding career which she combines with bringing up two beautiful children and keeping an immaculate home for her handsome, successful husband. There will be others, less high-flying, but happy in the careers they've built on their degree. You got halfway through the course and realised you'd made a huge mistake, but you were too scared to back out. You saw it through but now you're in a dead end job and you couldn't bear your old friends to know that you wasted your potential so shamefully. If you told them, they'd commiserate to your face then gloat about it to their other half all the way home. No, that's not an option. No-one ever goes to a reunion and says how awful their life is.

Time is not kind to students. You agree to go because you think it will be a laugh, that all the familiar faces will be there. You will walk into that room and at first you will think you've come to the wrong place, or on the wrong night, because you don't know anyone. Then you realise that the ancient crone by the bar is the girl from your tutorial group your flatmate wanted to pull, and the balding lech with the pot belly is the stud you cried yourself to sleep over for weeks. And you know they're looking at you and thinking, "God, she's let herself go." The riotous evening of drink and reminiscence you foresaw turns out to be a never-ending ordeal of small talk about the effects of the recession.

This is where sites like Friends Reunited come in. You can find out what people are doing from the comfort of your own home, not standing in a bar that's seedier than you remember, drinking overpriced wine because you don't qualify for subsidised alcohol any more.

I read the invitation, grimaced a bit, and filed it somewhere random. A few weeks later a friend asked if I was going. I didn't think anyone would remember me. That didn't stop me hoping secretly that when the night came someone would be looking round wondering where I was if I wasn't there.

The photo album came out from the back of the wardrobe. Did I really dress that badly? Why didn't someone stop me? I wondered what happened to the people in these photos. Out of the large group I thought of as my friends, I'm in touch with maybe three on a stronger basis than Christmas cards. If we manage to meet once a year, we think we're doing well. If it wasn't for Facebook, that illusion of friendship, some might be given up entirely to vague memory. It was tempting to give in to curiosity, revisit the haunts of my youth and see how badly everyone had aged. And suddenly I missed my friends. I missed the fun we had. I was sorry I hadn't tried harder to stay in touch. Nostalgia is a powerful force. It drives us back to places we can never reach.

I resisted. The album went back in the wardrobe. I didn't go to the reunion. That didn't stop me looking at the alumni website a couple of weeks after the event and finding a list of those who attended. I recognised maybe five of the names. One of them was my first crush. There were photos.

Dearie, dearie me...

Fish and bicycles

One of the main characteristics of working in customer services is interacting with the general public. As anyone who's ever stood on the business side of a counter will know, you hear all sorts of comments to which your only permitted response is a polite smile. The one I heard yesterday is one I've heard many times before, but it's lit my blue touchpaper so here I go. Recently we had our computer system changed. This technological wonder has empowered us to do all manner of hi-teckery. It also means it takes us twice as long to perform basic functions. A customer watched me serve her and expressed disbelief at this. Then she looked at the shiny new hardware and said, "I bet it was invented by a man." Pffft. Szzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Bang. (That was my blue touchpaper in case you were wondering.) Will the world please stop running men down? I know this may seem a little odd in a blog written by a professional spinster, but I like men. I really do. Not enough to want one of my own, but I am fond of them, by and large. Men have done amazing things over the centuries. Off the top of my head, men have invented telescopes, discovered penicillin, pioneered surgical techniques, fought fires, built bridges and railways and cities and drainage systems. They've founded charities to care for children, stood up for injustice, died for causes they believed in. They've composed sonatas and operas and chorales and played air guitar with no trace of irony. And put up countless shelves and removed innumerable spiders from baths. Yes, women can do these things too. Yes, I have heard of Marie Curie and Marie Stopes and Amelia Earheart and Mother Teresa and Erin Pizzey. And yes, I manage without a man about the house. I am the stranded spider's friend. Give me a screwdriver and flat-pack furniture and I'm happy for hours. I used to be a scientist and engineer. I wasn't very good at either, which is why I stopped, but that's because I took a wrong turning early in my career. It's nothing to do with gender. I don't go round sneering at iPods or Twitter because they were invented by men. I go round sneering at them because I'm a luddite at heart and cling to my vinyl LPs and postal communication out of sheer perversity. Since when did having two X chromosomes give women such a superiority complex? Except it's not based on superiority at all, because if women did feel they had the upper hand in any perceived disparity, they wouldn't need to be undermining. They'd act as if it was so final there'd be no need to comment. And don't say men have had it all their own way for too long, repressing women and waving their patriarchy at everyone. So what? People are people. It's time we stop this 'yah-boo, I'm better than you' attitude and start showing respect for people as fellow human beings. Because no-one ever said "I bet that was invented by a woman." Where's the equality in that?