It has now been two years since I gave up smoking. I started when I was about thirteen, when my friend Caroline threatened to beat me up if I didn’t smoke with her. Lovely girl. Knowing that this was no idle threat, I capitulated. I lived in London at the time, so we’d save up our tube fare - 30p it was - to buy a box of fags between us. We’d have one before and after school, then eat toothpaste and spray ourselves with Impulse to mask the smell. Mind you, I needn’t have bothered as I lived in a pub so all my clothes stank of smoke anyway.
I was 15, I think, when I took up the habit proper, undeterred by the fact that my Granddad was dying of emphysema, had to have oxygen 23 hours a day, and nearly blew himself up on several occasions due to smoking with the oxygen tube slung around his neck.
By 16 I was on twenty a day, and at the height of my smoking days I was on thirty. I tried to give up when I was pregnant, first trying cold turkey and then smoking awful herbal fags, which were probably as harmful as the real ones, and they stunk of horse shit. Matters weren’t helped by the fact that the father of my baby wouldn’t give up, as he put it, ‘because I’m not the one who’s pregnant.’ Charming. He’s on about forty a day now, lives in Newcastle, and has seen our son once in two years.
After numerous attempts at quitting, I managed it with the help of nicotine gum. An unfortunate statistic shows that more than 90% of bipolar, schizophrenia and psychosis sufferers are heavy smokers. It turns out that nicotine actually helps to alleviate psychotic symptoms, as it improves synaptic reflexes. I tried to use this as justification for smoking, but eventually even I realised that I was doing myself more harm than good.
Two years on, I’m addicted to nicotine gum. My doctors assure me that this won’t do me any damage, and, as it helps me concentrate, I’m not too worried about it. At least I always have minty fresh breath, and I can chew in public places.
Tuesday 30 October 2007
Saturday 27 October 2007
Hair today, gone tomorrow
I had a traumatic experience this week, and only now do I feel able to talk about it. I went to the hairdresser. This is usually a lovely event; someone washes my hair for me and I look all shiny and new when I leave, and I feel all feminine, at least for a day or two. But my hairdresser, trusted confidante, she of the magic scissors, has left the salon and I have gone onto someone else's list.
It's not the same, the chemistry isn't there, when she asks me questions I just want to dive underneath my chair, although we were getting on okay-ish. Until:
The Fringe Incident.
I wanted it thinned out, just a little, she carved it up and sent me out looking like a two-year-old had been at my hair with blunt cutlery. It was all different lengths, jagged and choppy, nothing like my usual blunt cut. I wasn't happy.
But what could I do? Here's the dilemma; you can't tell a hairdresser that you're unhappy with her handiwork. So I just nodded, 'fine,' I said, while inside I cried. It's no over-reaction, men, please don't laugh, there's nothing good about paying twenty-three quid to look worse than when you came in.
Once home, I tried mousses and waxes and cursing and sobbing, but nothing made it look better. I had a play to review, and couldn't sit in the theatre wearing a hat, I'd look daft.
With some trepidation I marched back to the salon to ask if someone could straighten up my fringe. That was when my hairdresser, inflicter of my misery, stepped up to do her thing.
I was mortified, but tried to hide behind a barrage of small talk. My fringe got shorter, and shorter, and eventually I called a halt to her furious cutting technique.
It looked like my Nan's speciality pudding basin cut, showing far too much brow, but I put on a brave face, and when I got home, guess what I found?
It still wasn't bloody well straight!
Clare
It's not the same, the chemistry isn't there, when she asks me questions I just want to dive underneath my chair, although we were getting on okay-ish. Until:
The Fringe Incident.
I wanted it thinned out, just a little, she carved it up and sent me out looking like a two-year-old had been at my hair with blunt cutlery. It was all different lengths, jagged and choppy, nothing like my usual blunt cut. I wasn't happy.
But what could I do? Here's the dilemma; you can't tell a hairdresser that you're unhappy with her handiwork. So I just nodded, 'fine,' I said, while inside I cried. It's no over-reaction, men, please don't laugh, there's nothing good about paying twenty-three quid to look worse than when you came in.
Once home, I tried mousses and waxes and cursing and sobbing, but nothing made it look better. I had a play to review, and couldn't sit in the theatre wearing a hat, I'd look daft.
With some trepidation I marched back to the salon to ask if someone could straighten up my fringe. That was when my hairdresser, inflicter of my misery, stepped up to do her thing.
I was mortified, but tried to hide behind a barrage of small talk. My fringe got shorter, and shorter, and eventually I called a halt to her furious cutting technique.
It looked like my Nan's speciality pudding basin cut, showing far too much brow, but I put on a brave face, and when I got home, guess what I found?
It still wasn't bloody well straight!
Clare
Wednesday 24 October 2007
Those were the days...
When Bon Jovi were good. I bought the first album Bon Jovi ever released yesterday, and listening to it brought back the time when I was given my first Walkman, aged 9. I was being taken to see Bon Jovi at Milton Keynes Bowl for my birthday, and it was the first album I'd ever owned. Surprisingly, I can still remember a lot of the words, even though it's nearly 20 years since I last heard any of the songs.
The concert was my first, too, and we were right at the front. Vixen and Skid Row were terrible, and I only knew one song by Europe, 'The Final Countdown.' Then, it happened, Bon Jovi took the stage. And I passed out. It wasn't that Jon Bon Jovi made me swoon, okay, it wasn't only that, it was really hot, majorly crowded, and everyone surged forward when the main band came on. I missed the first song, and we couldn't get close to the front after I came round. They were fantastic, this was before they became all soppy, back when they wore leather trousers and had long curly hair.
It's my son's birthday soon, and I'm taking him to his very first concert. I gave him a choice - he wants to see Alice Cooper, which is good because I want to see him, too. I'm glad he didn't want to see 50 Pence or Kayne East or some other equally crap rap type thing, because I would have had to say no. He wanted a 50 Pence single, and I made him go to the desk and pay for it himself as I didn't want the staff to think I liked it.
I've got a busy month coming up, I'm going to see Lee Mack (Not Going Out) Alice Cooper, Squeeze, Manic Street Preachers (last gig of theirs I went to I can't remember, I was so drunk I spent most of the night with my tit hanging out of my top, God I miss alcohol) Kaiser Chiefs and the Foo Fighters. I may need a hearing aid in December.
Clare
The concert was my first, too, and we were right at the front. Vixen and Skid Row were terrible, and I only knew one song by Europe, 'The Final Countdown.' Then, it happened, Bon Jovi took the stage. And I passed out. It wasn't that Jon Bon Jovi made me swoon, okay, it wasn't only that, it was really hot, majorly crowded, and everyone surged forward when the main band came on. I missed the first song, and we couldn't get close to the front after I came round. They were fantastic, this was before they became all soppy, back when they wore leather trousers and had long curly hair.
It's my son's birthday soon, and I'm taking him to his very first concert. I gave him a choice - he wants to see Alice Cooper, which is good because I want to see him, too. I'm glad he didn't want to see 50 Pence or Kayne East or some other equally crap rap type thing, because I would have had to say no. He wanted a 50 Pence single, and I made him go to the desk and pay for it himself as I didn't want the staff to think I liked it.
I've got a busy month coming up, I'm going to see Lee Mack (Not Going Out) Alice Cooper, Squeeze, Manic Street Preachers (last gig of theirs I went to I can't remember, I was so drunk I spent most of the night with my tit hanging out of my top, God I miss alcohol) Kaiser Chiefs and the Foo Fighters. I may need a hearing aid in December.
Clare
Sunday 21 October 2007
Notes on a Book Festival
I look forward to October every year because of the Birmingham Book Festival. I like to take part in writing workshops and see authors read their work, so the book festival is a highlight of my calendar. This year I signed up for Comic Fiction with Mil Millington (What my Girlfriend and I Have Argued About), Night Writer on Tour and a Performance Skills workshop run in conjunction with Apples and Snakes.
Comic Fiction was a great workshop, primarily because the tutor Mil Millington, who is an author I really admire, remembered me from a workshop I attended last year. I’m memorable - he knew my name and everything! I got him to sign one of his books for me, and he put a nice personal dedication on it, so it now has pride of place on my signed-book shelf. Two and a half hours was nowhere near long enough to do justice to the subject of comedy, but it was a pleasant and interesting way to spend an afternoon.
Night writer on tour was a different prospect entirely. Last year we did a night writing workshop in the presidential suite at the Radisson hotel in Birmingham, which was very luxurious. This year was anything but - we were touring the Black Country on a mini bus from ten pm until six am.
Our first stop was Lichfield Cathedral, which I imagine is very beautiful, although I don’t know for sure, as it was dark. Trying to write en route was not the easiest thing I’ve ever done, especially when we turned right and my face got squashed up against the window. We journeyed to Ironbridge Gorge next, where we saw some dark water and some rather startled ducks - alas, no bridge, we were further down the river than that. Wenlock Edge was next on the agenda, where we tramped through some trees and then all turned off our torches. This proved inspirational to me, as I had a panic attack and furiously wrote about my fears when we got back on the bus. Next up was a coffee break at a service station, where we did some writing exercises and woke ourselves up with gallons of coffee.
On the road again, we made our way to Ludlow Castle. Well, not actually the castle, as it’s not open at four am, but we did have a nice brisk walk around the car park in the drizzle. The police who pulled up were bemused, perhaps thinking we were up to no good, but when we explained they were very nice, welcoming us to Ludlow and wishing us well in our endeavours. No doubt they shook their heads at the strange townies when they got out of sight.
It was a long journey back to Birmingham, and we all started to flag. Then we entered the bright lights of another service station, were told that we could have whatever we wanted for breakfast as it was included in the price of the workshop, and all perked up again. The good feelings lasted until we found out that we still had writing exercises to do, and we were going to be late back. We didn’t get back to Birmingham until half past seven, I looked like a zombie, and I had to wait for my lift home. I fell into bed at half past eight, considered the whole experience, and decided there had been too much travelling and not enough writing.
I had higher hopes for the Performance Skills workshop. I’ve done the odd performance, but I’m more of a reader-out than a performer, so I was hoping to get some tips. The input I got from Lorna Laidlaw has completely changed the way I think about performing my work. The highlight of the event was an impromptu performance in the middle of Birmingham town centre. Most people were worrying about looking stupid and furiously practicing their piece, while I was standing in a corner, sobbing uncontrollably and wiping my nose on my sleeve as I didn’t have a tissue. Not because I was frightened of the performance, but because I have agoraphobia and was terrified at the thought of going outside. My head was telling me I was useless and stupid, and I wanted to run away but I couldn’t.
I should explain my agoraphobia, because it is not the traditional type; I can go outside, but only if I’m accompanied by a trusted person, which would be my husband, my boyfriend or my son. I can just about manage getting a taxi to the school on my own if I wear a hat, which limits my field of visibility, my glasses, which I can hide behind, and have my mobile phone up my sleeve for easy access, but unplanned outside-going is not in my repertoire.
All around the room, people were practicing their poetry; I was staring at a brick wall and hoping that no-one would notice that I was crying. I read my poem and tried to concentrate on calming myself. I decided that I was going to do the performance, even though it would be difficult for me. In my mind, I chose a focus person, and as we left the building I just made myself aware of that person, making them more solid than the rest of the people and the surroundings.
We trooped off to Chamberlain Square, where, in front of the fountain, we staged a guerrilla-style performance event, much to the confusion of the people passing by, a lot of whom stopped to watch. My performance went well, but I was the first back to the building, so missed having my photo taken by the organisers. I couldn’t quite believe that I’d done it, and I think any performance I do now will be nowhere near as scary as that!
Comic Fiction was a great workshop, primarily because the tutor Mil Millington, who is an author I really admire, remembered me from a workshop I attended last year. I’m memorable - he knew my name and everything! I got him to sign one of his books for me, and he put a nice personal dedication on it, so it now has pride of place on my signed-book shelf. Two and a half hours was nowhere near long enough to do justice to the subject of comedy, but it was a pleasant and interesting way to spend an afternoon.
Night writer on tour was a different prospect entirely. Last year we did a night writing workshop in the presidential suite at the Radisson hotel in Birmingham, which was very luxurious. This year was anything but - we were touring the Black Country on a mini bus from ten pm until six am.
Our first stop was Lichfield Cathedral, which I imagine is very beautiful, although I don’t know for sure, as it was dark. Trying to write en route was not the easiest thing I’ve ever done, especially when we turned right and my face got squashed up against the window. We journeyed to Ironbridge Gorge next, where we saw some dark water and some rather startled ducks - alas, no bridge, we were further down the river than that. Wenlock Edge was next on the agenda, where we tramped through some trees and then all turned off our torches. This proved inspirational to me, as I had a panic attack and furiously wrote about my fears when we got back on the bus. Next up was a coffee break at a service station, where we did some writing exercises and woke ourselves up with gallons of coffee.
On the road again, we made our way to Ludlow Castle. Well, not actually the castle, as it’s not open at four am, but we did have a nice brisk walk around the car park in the drizzle. The police who pulled up were bemused, perhaps thinking we were up to no good, but when we explained they were very nice, welcoming us to Ludlow and wishing us well in our endeavours. No doubt they shook their heads at the strange townies when they got out of sight.
It was a long journey back to Birmingham, and we all started to flag. Then we entered the bright lights of another service station, were told that we could have whatever we wanted for breakfast as it was included in the price of the workshop, and all perked up again. The good feelings lasted until we found out that we still had writing exercises to do, and we were going to be late back. We didn’t get back to Birmingham until half past seven, I looked like a zombie, and I had to wait for my lift home. I fell into bed at half past eight, considered the whole experience, and decided there had been too much travelling and not enough writing.
I had higher hopes for the Performance Skills workshop. I’ve done the odd performance, but I’m more of a reader-out than a performer, so I was hoping to get some tips. The input I got from Lorna Laidlaw has completely changed the way I think about performing my work. The highlight of the event was an impromptu performance in the middle of Birmingham town centre. Most people were worrying about looking stupid and furiously practicing their piece, while I was standing in a corner, sobbing uncontrollably and wiping my nose on my sleeve as I didn’t have a tissue. Not because I was frightened of the performance, but because I have agoraphobia and was terrified at the thought of going outside. My head was telling me I was useless and stupid, and I wanted to run away but I couldn’t.
I should explain my agoraphobia, because it is not the traditional type; I can go outside, but only if I’m accompanied by a trusted person, which would be my husband, my boyfriend or my son. I can just about manage getting a taxi to the school on my own if I wear a hat, which limits my field of visibility, my glasses, which I can hide behind, and have my mobile phone up my sleeve for easy access, but unplanned outside-going is not in my repertoire.
All around the room, people were practicing their poetry; I was staring at a brick wall and hoping that no-one would notice that I was crying. I read my poem and tried to concentrate on calming myself. I decided that I was going to do the performance, even though it would be difficult for me. In my mind, I chose a focus person, and as we left the building I just made myself aware of that person, making them more solid than the rest of the people and the surroundings.
We trooped off to Chamberlain Square, where, in front of the fountain, we staged a guerrilla-style performance event, much to the confusion of the people passing by, a lot of whom stopped to watch. My performance went well, but I was the first back to the building, so missed having my photo taken by the organisers. I couldn’t quite believe that I’d done it, and I think any performance I do now will be nowhere near as scary as that!
Thursday 11 October 2007
The common cold
I have a cold. Not a terrible illness, there's not a lot of dramatic potential to it. I've gotten to that curious stage where everything seems slightly unreal, a bit like some psych meds make you feel, or like psychosis just before you think your loved ones are being inhabited by replicants intent on making you commit suicide. My bedroom smells of old menthol and there is dust from hundreds of tissues swirling about in the air. I would open the window, but I live on a main road so it is not likely to be refreshing.
I can't sleep but I can't get out of bed, so I've read two good-sized hardback books since yesterday, worked a bit on an article and on the books I'm writing, although my heart wasn't really in it. I spent time writing and rewriting the same sentences until I gave up.
My skin looks like uncooked pastry dotted with several zits that have reared their ugly heads. My eyes are all swimmy, like I have cut a few onions, and my head feels as if it has been stuffed with the multicoloured foam that you get in old teddy bears.
Still, musn't grumble, eh?!
Clare xxx
I can't sleep but I can't get out of bed, so I've read two good-sized hardback books since yesterday, worked a bit on an article and on the books I'm writing, although my heart wasn't really in it. I spent time writing and rewriting the same sentences until I gave up.
My skin looks like uncooked pastry dotted with several zits that have reared their ugly heads. My eyes are all swimmy, like I have cut a few onions, and my head feels as if it has been stuffed with the multicoloured foam that you get in old teddy bears.
Still, musn't grumble, eh?!
Clare xxx
Tuesday 2 October 2007
Car crash in slow motion
Rather like when you can feel a cold coming on, I knew about a week ago that my mood was tipping over into a depressive state. Unfortunately, unlike a cold there is no vitamin I can take to ward it off, and that slow slide into depression is a terrible experience. Then you hit the bottom, and it's even worse. I sit here now, three days into it, with unwashed hair, unbrushed teeth, and I probably smell because I need a bath. It feels like there is no point in cleaning myself up. I feel a sense of hopelessness, not just about myself but about the whole of humanity. Our race has such potential, and can create such beauty, yet busies itself with wars and genocide and happy slapping and raping pensioners and kidnapping children and murdering for money or hate or jealousy or kicks. Sometimes, I am ashamed to be human.My other quarters are well versed in what to do now, they make sure I don't read newspapers or watch the news, and try to stop me reading true crime books about serial killers. I have no sharp knives in the house at all - a right bugger when I'm trying to carve a chicken, but it's a good excuse to go to Harvester instead of cook - and now I've forgotten what I was going to say, so I'll sign off there.
Clare
Clare
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
