Going underground.

If the barrier's angry -  you 'aint got no money, 

No use in holding us up it's not funny.

Just top up and pay up

and get on the stairs, 

If you're not in a rush then don't stand on the left! 

Cheery conductors you'll find on the tube,

Wish they'd just get the damn thing to move,

BEWARE: Smiles are banned at most times of day,

Alongside giving your seat away.

Watch out for the rats though they can't reach to foot level, 

Get rid of the screaming child - give it some revels! 

Shouting and swearing and huffing, harassing, 

More tube delays

the crowds start amassing. 

Shouting and huffing and sweating and swearing,

Crumples appear on whatever you're wearing, 

"Red Signal ahead" "but all lines are fine", 

Doesn't seem that way: "Body on the line". 

"Train terminates here" wherever you're heading, 

No tubes to your workplace or café or wedding,

It's hot

no-one cares

there's no geography here, 

It makes no use knowing the city streets clear, 

For tubes have their own own routes, their own rights and rates, 

And all you can bet on is that YOU'LL BE LATE. 

The Kitchen Sink - silliness and sincerity.

(As featured in the KCL English Society Journal)

 

A kitchen bizarrely like my own Preston-based Grandma’s and a family as northern as can be to go with it – The Bush Theatre’s rendition of Wells’ ‘The Kitchen Sink’ captures the north of England with all the grit of real life that drama can contain.

The kitchen sink style takes on an interestingly direct manifestation on the stage in this play, the kitchen literally created by a fully functional kitchen unit. Used for the copious brews made, the preparation of meals, eating of biscuits, - and even as an emotion-cooling fountain: the kitchen and it’s blocked sink are truly at the heart of the drama. Realism does not replace artistic subtleties here, as our fly-on-the-wall audience status lurches the audience right into the domesticity of family life in a place where old societal systems are fading, and the trustworthy milkmen of the old days such as Martin are becoming a memorial of the past.

The south, London, art and ‘boys from Eton in pashmina’s’ are ostracised from the rural town only alluded to from within the kitchen walls. Withernsea is stuck in the customs of the past whilst the characters with their individual eccentricities attempt to escape. Slight claustrophobia ensues from the staging in the round chosen for the performance, yet rather than an intruder one comes to feel welcome in Martin and Kath’s home. As dimmed lights are all that accompany scene changes, the family members visibly clear the debris of props away as if tidying for visitors- you almost expect someone to reach over and offer you a mug of Yorkshire tea. Their kitchen becomes a place of unity where the working class characters meet, eat, chat, argue and celebrate: a welcoming hub of familial love.

Comedic as well as compassionate, the trivialities and absurdities of everyday life are greatly drawn upon in order to create pure laugh-out-loud comedy - ‘dead funny’, one might say. Sampson consistently brings hilarity, from his dancing and yodelling along to Dolly Parton in karaoke duet with his mother, to his expostulation about the necessity of sequins covering the star’s nipples in his portrait of her. Coming from a town where Preston seems exotic, one can understand why the his dreams of London seem outrageously inappropriate to his father, who can barely even come to the terms with his son’s sexuality. Whilst hilarious, Sampson’s characterisation of Billy begs sympathy. Nevertheless, with Rhodri’s portrayal of his stubborn father and our proximity to the intricacies of the family, one is also drawn to feel strongly for a man whose narrow-mindedness alongside his own problems only manifests itself into upset and a level of self-loathing.

             

At a time when our own professional futures are uncertain, the poignancy of the father’s ending “There’s life after milk – I hope” sets an optimistic endnote undermined and somewhat unsatisfying in its attempted reassurance. Dashed hopes of urban migration are all the more resonant when watched from a London theatre, the city that shattered Billy’s creative dreams and only holds limited offerings for fledgling professionals in the present day.

What a delight it is, therefore, to lose oneself in the frivolities and silliness of daily life through the kitchen of one family. My only complaint is the occasionally soap opera -esque feel to the play, yet this mainly leaves one wanting to come back next week for more. Despite the uncertainties faced in their changing lives it is warming to watch the reassurance gained through the infrastructure of the family. 


A performance for anyone needing a pick-me-up and a reminder of the joy in life’s simple things, take your chocolate digestives along and enjoy.

A life in the day - getting all Times-esque

A life in the day ... of a UEL worker. 

So this idea is intriguing. A snapshot into the lives of people, given to you as if you were allowed to sit in their pockets for a day. 

A day in UEL clearing is multifaceted, bringing both joy and disappointment, anger and a sense of resignation. It is a job both invigorating and tiring and after two weeks there I know more about UCAS than I did when I went to uni myself....

As the 5am alarm bell calls, the DLR is not far behind, the circle line being the only obstruction.

I tell you something, King's Cross shows far too many signs of life at that time of the morning. For some people, 6am tube rides are the norm. -huh?

Sleep and a delve into CityAM [[quite possibly the actual most soulless publication I have ever read, without an ounce of intriguing content...]] which induces further snoozing until Cypress.

A well received brioche and a cup of tea are the perfect end to the hour long journey in, courtesy of UEL. Hazy faced hotline staff hover about before the voices come flooding in and our backsides become molded to our chairs for 12 hours.

By the time we get to our phones, the voices are already waiting on all other sides. Call, chat, transfer, click. Call, chat.... Suprisingly, this first day brings less stress than anticipated, with tears kept to a minimum and rituals of politeness well observed. Endless departments are sent applicants, endless e-mails sent, strange questions asked, and many cups of tea made. Students from all over continue to flood and flood our lines with hopes of their acceptance.

With barely enough time to dial " #2# 3333 * c " before the next call comes, we head off for breaks in rounds. My favourite part of the office is the view. Situated right by London's City Airport, we sit and watch as other people fly away whilst we are chained to our headsets and the voices. Sounds depressing, but it is actually a very inspiring sight. Planes have a strange power to them that always makes you stare as you wonder how on earth they are being lifted up and not falling back down again....

As the hours pass the calls get slightly more frantic, as you'd expect. Front-desk duty is worse than the phones. You find yourself trying to put people on hold when they are stood in front of you - somehow doesn't quite work. Physical people are harder to make wait than phone-callers, and the frustration in their expressions is painful to see as you realise your not being efficient enough as they might hope. To each applicant, clearing revolves around them and their place, and 100 other people are totally not having the same problem as they are.

As you can tell, brain function gets scarily impractical as people start connecting to the wrong extensions and wearing their headsets to the loo. Furthermore, the job takes over your life for the days of service, as you speak in phone-lingo to everyone you encounter and can hear phone's ringing as you eat supper... Good job the atmosphere in the office was jolly and the desks surrounding me filled with people who were both helpful and comical.

And most of the students are worth it. Hearing the little voices brighten and breathe gusts of relief makes all your efforts to get them a course worthwhile. UEL is not a university that prides itself on its "league table place", but values the precious nature of education and the importance being able to learn. Many of our applicants were not suited to the systems of school in order to achieve A*s, had personal family histories which hindered them, or wanted to further their education in the one thing they loved, not english maths science and a language.

Seeing more money than I have ever seen spent at Kings being poured into their multi-million pound sports centre and Olympic involvement, their accommodation, their business incentives (amazing opportunities to have your own office with them).... UEL gives those a chance to an education who may not have been the best in their class. You come to lose the snobbery perhaps assumed by top league-table institutions as you see the appreciation of those who are able to clutch onto further education in the areas they long for.

On the flip side....
Despite the utter irritation caused by people calling with no idea of what they wanted to do, asking only what courses they could get onto with 70 UCAS points (oh, it happened pretty regularly), we had to try and refine their search in order to find them something. If someone really doesn't care what they study as long as they get to uni, why oh why are they spending all that money?!? But you can't say that on the phone. Some people really deserve the opportunity to continue their studies, and some people are clearly unfortunate victims of the "must-go-to-uni" society that we live in. University is sadly a knee jerk reaction for too many people, something which will be interesting to observe with the horrendous fee increases next year. The knees, predictably, will not jerk quite so hard.

Journey home and a time to more fully appreciate the splendor of the views on the Dockland's line. Flipping impressive. After flying through Canary Wharf one gets a view of the O2 from every angle- reminders of "school trips to the Dome in 2000" and consequent conversations being sparked.

Cypress - TowerGateway/Bank - Circle Line - King's Cross - Home.

Head goes to pillow and wakes up again at 5am.

Helping people, creating futures, being shouted at.

Best. Day. Ever.

I'm mrs lifestyles of the rich and famous - you want a canapé?

Sat, a beached piece of liquorice after a night out with the fellow bassets crowd, I contemplate yet another night spent with the High Society crew.

A tin of allsorts, we come together from all parts of London to serve the rich and famous; students, graduates young and old people all dressed alike in black.

It's fun, sometimes. The wages suck and the regularity of shifts do too, but when you get some hours it's like an evening spent catapulted into the world of the wealthy that is just so far flung from student life you never would imagine it goes on whilst nibbling on your regular pasta/beans on toast.

It's an interesting world to be allowed to watch. I await the opportunity to become a voyeur and mingle with the crowds - on the wrong side of the champagne tray, admitted.

But as someone threw over their shoulder to me in a comment whilst chucking wine down the sink and flinging canapé crumbs into the bins, "Money doesn't buy you Class".
And it certainly doesn't.

Tonight was interesting. A bunch of city workers invited to the Barbican for a free booze-up. We knew it would be hectic. The fact that every man woman and dog got 2 tokens to spend on a glass of wine/beer/champers, plus a free cocktail bar, was enough to raise a few HS pulses under our liquorice uniforms - if only we smelt as nice.

It was hot. It was crowded. The rich were as up themselves as they generally are. I realised tonight they most of them aren't actually the rude buggers I always took them for. No, they don't purposefully look at you like a piece of sour liquorice they just spit out, they just don't even notice you are there. Which is kind of worse.

So I have been observing. And there are certain types of guest that seem to recur at these kind of events.
1. The snobs. These are possibly the worst. They stand in your way whilst you balance a tray full of glasses and bottles in one hand and try to tap their arm with the other to get through, they nearly whack you off balance with their flamboyant arm gestures and then glare at you as you are forced to shove past them before a whole lot of glass gets shattered.

2. The blazé women. -no, these are the worst. Worse than the ones who don't acknowledge you, are the ones who see you coming and still give you no time in their socialite day. They watch you approach, with no room to move past them, turn and continue the conversation they were just having. Then to top it off they'll turn around and dump their glass onto your already full tray as you brush past, almost making you drop it. Again. That makes me want to throw the whole tray at their feet, but the most I can muster throwing is a dirty glance instead.

3. The fledgling professionals who look very lost but flounce off when they see you looking at them like they were just born for this world. Mate, its clear to see that last week you were here, just like me. But hey, credit to them for tossing in the apron and stepping over onto the other side. They tend not to be so rude.

4. The lovelies. Polite members of the crowd who actually see you as a replica of their own children/grandchildren and appreciate the state of aching pain your feet are slowly descending to. They rock. A simple nod of appreciation for your work makes a huge difference in a crowd of elbows and swishy hair, tooftoff conversations and filthy glares. On another occasion one man came over to me and personally thanked us all for all of our hard work, - private events are usually nicer like this but still, the resemblance to my grandad was both touching and rather poignant. He would have loved some of the food we dish out sometimes, usually a proper bit of meat and vege... :')

5. There's then the intoxicated guest. These come later on and are by far most entertaining. They often ask for your name, and on occasions like tonight when there is a dance floor, they decide to dance with you. When carrying trays, this is not so fun, but otherwise its an excellent way to break down some of those class-y boundaries and let you see the business-world descend into sheer adolescence and sillyness. Those suits don't mean anything really. Beware of them roaming around the kitchens in search of the loos.... Free beers can lead to a lot of confusion.

6. The ones who think you are magic. Drunk or not, some people just think that the black uniform means we can perform magic tricks. "Can you jut go and get me a wine?", "can I just balance this on your head whilst you walk to the kitchen?" "can you pour me champagne into here [[for free]]?" "can you bring me specifically back on of those specific canapés whilst I move around and chat to people?" "can I pay you [[instead of standing in line like everyone else]]", umm, no sir. *huff puff huff*," "will you just" "can I just" "can't I".... IT'S NOT MY JOB. Go queue and pay and wait like everyone else. Lots of huffing ensues with these, but it's ok they eventually go and bug another member of black-clad staff.

So some are rude, some are nice, and some are just oblivious to the work that goes in to their evening of schmoozing. But we're there to serve, and serve they make sure we do.

At the end of the day, I come home in a free taxi, a free glass of wine and sandwich in my system (it's not always this good) and free mints in my pocket. A tired little basset worker, I may not be livin' the rich and famous lifestyle right now, but it can't be all bad. Winning never gets old, we just have to wait for our time to claim victory. And who say's winning means money, anyway.

market to mainstage.

Last winter we found an unusually precious gem whilst rummaging through Portobello Road Market. This lucky find was no antique, however. It was Robbie Boyd. 

One year on and we found ourselves headed to hear the sounds of his guitar once more. This time we were getting the full band experience in a professional setting; violins, backing singers, mandolins, keyboard...at the O2 academy. 

'...streets where the riches of ages are stowed...'

The O2 Islington is a much more intimate space than we anticipated, crouching away in Angel almost apologetically. But small stages are awesome for various reasons - most importantly, dancing right in the front row is completely possible. When we arrived Robbie was outside greeting his fans, along with those who had come to support other acts. Three (admittedly over-used) words: down.to.earth.
 It is so wonderful to attend a performance of such talented musicians who are yet still humble enough to keep it personal and show such appreciation for their audience. I'm sure one day the sea of support will be far too vast for this...

'...Hearts melt Orion's belt is always round the corner...' 

Beginning with 'I wont let you go', the band sounded simply stunning. A love-child of London quirk and pure Originality, their live performance revealed no large nuances from the perfected efforts in the recording studio, -- except for the the added thrill of energy naturally acquired in live performance.

It is unusual to break free from the sounds of every other band on offer, to find something that makes you smile through no work of cliché and you are not half-ashamed to say, "wow, I liked that" (Katy Perry style). Don't get me wrong, their songs address the same existential questions that many others too face, - mainly concerning love. But stereotype was never a thought that arrived whilst listening to the band as they persistently entertained their audience, clearly enjoying their music as much as us. A particular favourite of ours has to be 'A London Reminition'. The melangé of recognisable, everyday places and features of the capital is intriguing and comical to any London lover as they are taken on a nippy tour all over, via the underground..

'...haggle in Portobello until the price is right...'

Robbie's characteristically husky voice belted out his [[very own]] lyrics of charm, giggle-inducing realism and wit as the band soared through a set that was over only too soon. Finishing with 'Red Queen', the crowd swayed and jiggled to the music as the strings' melodies dwindled and the fingers came to a halt.

Applause.

Despite our extreme enthrallment, it was a shame that the band were encircled by the clashing sounds of rockers pumping out heavy bass beats. The whole scene felt very high-school battle of the bands, so much so that the funky folk of The Robbie Boyd Band was a very pleasant holiday on the ear drums. Call us old fogies if you will. When the following acts took over the stage, the rhyming of "silhouette"and "cigarette" was the cue for us to pootle offwards into the London night - new R.B.B CD's in hand.

Concert: 02 Academy Islington, Thursday July 28th. Tickets, £8. (bargain)
So take a listen.

Have a click: http://www.robbie-boyd.com/

Do a bit of downloading, or better still go buy the album. No regrets in store, promise.

Incentive & Vigilance

Between the Wish and the Thing the world lies waiting.

the beauty of the physalis

I got a box of these wonderful little things in my graze box this week.
.
Mixed with orange-infused sultanas and dried strawberries, I was filled with wonderment on putting one in my mouth and tasting its bittersweet, orangey tangy flavour. A little crunchy, full of seeds and utterly undefinable.

I googled "physalis" to find out what it used to be before having all of its liquids sucked out of its very core... I found something you will more likely recognise, one of these:

I like living in squalor, it's liberating.

I'm all up for liberation, searching yourself, being free, young, foolish, carefree... But there's a reason why I pay £90 a week and its not to live like a squatter.

"I like living in squalor, it's liberating."

It culminated yesterday when my housemate said these words, and I understood it all.

He is one of those confusers who speaks in code and one must work at double the brain speed in order to fathom the meticulous thoughts being channeled in near-on Morse. That and the Brazillian layer of accent-felt that decorates the code and muffles recognizable sounds.

An intriguing kind, this one deserves a bit of explanation, not a poem. (see Girl)

He's introduced me to David Foster Wallace, a writer who I'd like to give a little more time to than sparce tube journeys and hurried bus rides. With a dissertation in the running though I always get that guilt feeling when picking up anything other than a module or dissy-related publication... Enzo talks to me about experimental writing, the beauty of books that have no punctuation and no understandable structure, and the likes of his own novel's style which he is in the process of "ripping off". It goes something like every chapter describes what will happen in the following chapter, so your always ahead of yourself yet tripping over your own feet, I guess.

Anyway, between the experimental music and writing, the quiet lady who hasn't spoken to me or even set eyes on me in days, the house looks like the sort of place Enzo would find liberating. But you know, the rest of us might not. What is to be done? An endless battle with dirt where even your fellow species wont help you fight is slightly impossible, and one ends up retreating to their section of barracks and trying to defend that, gunning down any suspicious enemies on their way out. So I guess that's what I do. Armed with antibac spray, I make my way downstairs to the kitchen when needs must, and out the door, whilst keeping my small barracks upstairs an un-invaded space.

I think its useful to pick up the dirt life sometimes sweeps in your path and throw it right back in its face. Coming back from a month at home, where my mother beautifully preserves our house and spends hours manicuring each room and each flower in the garden, its difficult to come into an abode where the only floral arrangement is drawn onto yellowing post cards on the wall and the newest member of the household is Grime.

The only way is just to laugh.

So, armed with the spray, I potter around, making piles of dirt and amusing myself with the obscenity of the things left rotting in the fridge, the way doors are anonymously slammed and the way bin bags are slowly making friends on the floor. Some days I put the bins in their proper place, the garbage shoot. Sometimes I wait to see how difficult it gets to open the kitchen door due to the amount of crap behind it before someone who put it all there decides to shift it. I am still waiting.

I think I can keep laughing as I know it wont be forever, and so long as I keep my kettle disinfected and wash everything twice with boiling water before putting food in it or eating with it, then i'm ok. Liberated as can be.

 peace and love.

Hermionemma.

Its a weird clashing of the fictional and real worlds when an iconic geeky witch becomes the face of an iconic fashion label. I say 'real' with a large handful of salt because the celebrity world is as far from real as fizzing whizbees. But still, celebrity or not, childhood witch and high fashion just don't really fit. Burberry + the one my dad used to call "Hermy-own" when reading the books with me (oh yes we did), just jars a little bit. But then Emma Watson was never really hermione, the 11 year old continues to grow up like the character in the books never could, and her screen self was only ever an attempt to portray the figure in J.K.Rowling's imagination...
 Its the end of an era when the stories you grow up with come to an end in some way. Of course the literature will always remain, the characters immortalized, but Emma on the other hand is not stuck....She said it was weird but good that small children sometimes think she is actually Hermione, but in many ways she is to many many people. Its strange when you partly wish the face that has come to represent the character to remain stuck in the literary world and not the real. I'm sure she wouldn't mind a life of chocolate frogs and innate genius...? But she will grow up --as the news seems to have suddenly become obsessed with--, she will be pretty and she will be slightly bad at acting and she will be a major star. Hollywood just couldn't help themselves all those years ago, when given the task of finding a frizzy-haired child. They couldn't help but go to Oxford and find a little budding beauty that would way outgrow her alter-frizz..

The sun makes for an immediately whimsical world. 

John Agard.

You'll be greeted

by a nice cup of coffee
 when you get to heaven
 and strains of angelic harmony.

    But wouldn't you be devastated
 if they only serve decaffeinated
 while from the percolators of hell

    your soul was assaulted
 by Satan's fresh espresso smell?

Photo taken on the South Bank.
Coffee courtesy of a lovely Italian man.

Girl.

I live with a girl who's taller than me,
and pale as pale could be,
She leaves a trail of mess -I guess its her I never see.
She doesn't like the sunlight, and doesn't like the heat,
When walking by my side I note the largeness of her feet.
She looks so pale and oh so tall when I look up to greet but then
The height my mother gave to me is no great feat to beat.

 ~x~