Battling the Paper

My mythical six week holiday has begun and I shall use it to write, or at least I would use it to write were it not for my suffering from a rash of paper. I am plagued by paper, masses of it everywhere threatening paper fleas at any moment.

Ever surface in this house has paper on it. The kitchen table plays host to an assortment of objects: bits of Lego, a roll of sellotape and a cardboard minecraft cube but most tellingly four note books.  The spice cupboard provides a surface on which objects are piled precariously, bank statements, letters, birthday-cards, envelops, the boy’s exercise books, cooking books,  the dogs brush, a tube of shuttlecocks and more, but mostly paper.  The paper is becoming unmanageable.

A few years back I began to dedicate three or four days each summer to the clearing of paper, in much the same way that Anna Karenina’s lover timetabled one day a year to the sorting of his finances. I sorted, I alphabetically filed and I shredded until the wheelie bin was so full that I stood the boy in there to stamp down the paper mound. Last year the shredder broke. The paper has piled further, I have bank statements going back to 2002 and wage slips from 1998.

illustrated by http://andyartisand.carbonmade.com/

In Saul Bellow’s “Herzog”, Moses writes to the president bemoaning the fact that American Citizens are being turned into Clerks. Moses might have had a cardboard folder like I do that categorically states “filing is everyone’s responsibility”. This was presented to me by the National Health Service when I departed with my new born son. I dutifully filed it. 

I can handle a little bit of administration, I am after all a teacher and I do have a tendency to collect bits of paper, right now there are three note books on my desk, there is a clip board of A4 paper containing storyboards for some long forgotten project, a short story written by an ex student, some information about marking City and Guilds Functional Skills and an article on why Gone Home is so Immersive. As an artist my husband also has lots of paper, sketch books, cartoons and so on and the child has amassed a huge amount of paper from his own creative endeavors, and from school: teacher’s awards, school news-letters, Cub Scout news-letters and information leaflets.

I don’t have a problem with the creative paper. I do have a problem with unending leafleting, a bombardment of credit card offers, internet service provider offers, and endless bank statements, which are getting bigger and now include one extra piece of paper which is all but blank apart from containing my name and my account details. The bank statements are printed on thicker paper than the wage slips and won’t go through the new shredder. I tried to set fire to them in the garden, but became afraid that a piece of burning bank statement might blow away and cause a major incident.I poured a cup of water over the bank-statements and now have an ashy mess, in a biscuit tin, in the yard.

In “The Artists Way” Julia Cameron suggests that we should not let chores get a hold over our creativity, so now the bank-statements are at the foot of the stairs awaiting a safe disposal method. Unfortunately I also have an ironing crisis to battle and it refuses to be ignored, the ironing is right next to me, next to the computer and it is monstrous in size.  

http://www.psychologyofgames.com/2013/09/why-gone-home-is-so-immersive/

Good Intentions

I bet every household has a well intentioned but unused gadget. The gadget could be anything from a juicer (great idea but impossible to clean), to a Betterware cucumber cutter (because you always wanted to cut your cucumbers in the mythical patterns of the Aztecs) through to a can crushing device that you have  affixed to the garage wall in order to reduce recycling clutter.

On Friday I said goodbye to my well intentioned dream: a burgundy coloured Marlboro Ladies bike. I had it for my fourteenth birthday. I bombed around the back lanes of Canton Cardiff on it with my friend Joanne. But I got older and for about twenty five years my bike sat in Dad’s garage. I don’t know how it started, perhaps I shared my fantasy about being able to ride around and feel that youthful freedom or maybe Dad got stuck into a project that involved spending hours of serenity in the shed.  Whatever the cause, we went to visit and I went out on my renovated bike.  

It was just like riding a bike, though if a cloud moved across the sky, I went all wobbly. I rode on the pavement, but had to get off when a car went past. The fact was I needed to be in a totally derelict space of a five mile radius before I could ride the bike.

Nevertheless it came home to Devon with us where I would re-learn the art of bike riding, affix a basket to the front and having added a Toto like dog, ride to the village. This was going to be the Little House on the Prairie meets Rag Dolly Anna. I would be Holly Hobbie, lazily pottering along country lanes, heavy with foliage, dripping with hedgerow fruit, Toto’s fur would ruffle in the gentleness of a bicycle breeze. Toto and I would arrive at the village to drink ginger beer before purchasing a baguette and a hunk of cheese wrapped in muslin cloth. I do believe this fantasy is set in the Devonshire countryside regardless of the baguette, the other more erotic,    soft focus version of "La promenade à vélo"* is yet to be committed to paper. 

What really happened is that one day we wheeled the bike out on to the street. I pushed it up the hill, because I have never understood gears. I pushed it down the hill, because otherwise I would go too fast and become afraid. I rode round the field twice and then pushed it home: into the kitchen.

In the kitchen we hung tea towels on it, the boys school bags and the dogs lead. It sat and gathered dust until last week when a friend said it would be good for his partner, who should like to get out and about. I have never met her, but I bet the first thing she does is get a basket and ride to the village where she will buy good bread and strong cheese. She will have a Toto like dog, though I understand they have a cat, which may have to act as a substitute. The new bicycling lady will of course look good in Laura Ashley; she will have two plats and boots like the girl from True Grit and the burgundy coloured Marlboro Ladies bike will ride on again.

French translation provided by Welsh Bint's French teacher friend Lindsey.

Me and The World Cup Final

There’s a bloke in work who really likes his football, you can see it in his face, in his eyes. When he talks football he sort of sparkles a bit. Football bloke organsied a sweep-stake and I got Belgium. I embraced the spirit of the venture and decorated my desk area with Belgium icons: Hercule Poirot, Tin Tin, some nice looking chocolates and so on. I even kept an eye on the Belgium match, whilst I read Jack Vance.

I’m not into football. Being Welsh I’m more into my Rugby, not that I understand all the rules or can conceive what might take place in a scrum, but football has never been part of my heritage.

This weekend in the interests of social cohesion, and in respect for football bloke, I sat and I watched The World Cup Final between Argentina and Germany. What follows is my view, as an innocent, as a veritable alien to The Beautiful Game.

There was much running back and forth, much bounce boing bounce, and occasionally a real deep thud of boot to ball. The commentator explained when a good thing was happening and why things that looked good were actually bad.

I watched the boots dart about the field looking as though they had been dipped in Dulux’s Write Your Own Story, and the crowd told me through roars, screams and whistles, if I should open my eyes wide, gasp and feel excited.

The commentator introduced me to names that sounded so exotic I understood them in terms of drink and dance, Mesut Ozil, Jerome Boateng and best of all for sounding like a drink you should avoid at all costs Bastian Schweinsteiger. On the opposing team we had dancing names; Pablo Zabaleta, Ezequiel Lavezzi and Javier Mascherano. Incidentally legend has it that the Javier Mascherano, can only be danced in a pool of yack’s milk, whilst wearing pale blue organza, when the moon is full and the bats have shed their wings.

The footballers really did dance,  and they appeared to have hinged necks and thwacked the ball with their foreheads, with their chests, with their fists. The flying green goalie was so desperate to keep the ball away that his knee collided quite spectacularly with his opponent. There was much falling on the floor. The crowd were chanting something indistinguishable and yet tangibly familiar. Something similar happened to me in Bioshock Infinite, I worked out all the tunes bar one in that game.

The commentator announced that it had “been a terrific hour.” Yes in a way, there were moments when it nearly happened, but it didn't happen and that was disappointing, I had wanted to read a bit more Jack Vance before bedtime. 

 I then experienced extra time, which in this case had two periods.  By the second period the indistinguishable chant had become nightmarish as had the falling over. I grew concerned that this pained din might enter my dreams and a green flying giant would decapitate footballers with his knees.

I was becoming somewhat distraught or slightly bored and then there was a goal! The blue and whites in the crowd had tears in their eyes, which quite upset me, to see them so hurt, did not seem especially beautiful.

Germany won, it was interesting, and yet deflating, so much passion, so much energy and running around for one goal, just once the ball went into the net, then some people cried and some people cheered. It is over, until the next time, four years hence. I’ll watch if we do a sweep stake. 

Inconsistent Heat in waves.

I’ll say it in a whisper; I like the rain.

I like the rain at night, especially if it’s a hot night, as it is likely to be tonight, because we are having a heat wave. I know about the heat wave as I have seen news paper images of people on crowded beaches (there are so few beaches in the UK that people can only select from two or three; so it seems and cram themselves on) Topping the pictures is a Heat Wave headline, scorchio but more imaginative and pun like.

I like heat waves too. I like heat waves if I am lay next to a warm clear sea, and I am totally free of body hair and cellulite, if the sand or pebbles are not so hot as to scorch my feet, and if there is icy cold juice nearby, and I have a wide brimmed hat that will not blow away in the wind. The trouble with heat waves is they are only suited to certain circumstances, beach body aside; the heat wave is ideal holiday weather. It is not suited to; DIY, gardening or as I recently discovered in a film of sweat; vacuuming. The heat wave is great if it coincides with your non working days and if you are prepared for it, watermelon in the fridge, garden clean and decorated with trendy colourful objects, a garden table with a bright cloth and a vase of white flowers, a jug of Pim’s; we've all seen the TV ads.

Heat waves, show up the dust, they make carpets feel dirty, they lead to open windows, the doors bang, the dog is afraid and tries to hide behind the ironing board (really he does that), through the open windows come the sound of women screaming, bellowing at their overheated over tired children, from the back lane we sometimes hear the man who gets drunk in the heat wave, he threatens to kill all sorts of people, I cover my nine year old's ears, his wife locks him in the garden where he boots  the bejesus out of the washing pole. Always nearby a teenager must show off his car, by playing music full volume, never, is it Nina Simone but some track performed by hyperventilating smurfs.

Heat waves are not suited to terraced house living. Neither are they in anyway reliable. Right now, in the middle of a supposed three month long heat wave; I am sat next to a basket full of wet washing, because every hour or so it has rained. The heat wave comes, the heat wave goes, the woman across the road is bellowing again and the dog has ventured outside to urinate on the pretty garden table cloth.

Maybe tonight it will rain, that warm rain, restful rain with the same lull as the sea and then I just might gently prod hubby in the ribs and suggest he do something about the leaky guttering…once the heat wave is passed you understand.