And The Blog Goes On

Yesterday, my friend told me that she refreshed my blog several times in the past two weeks, only to find the same already read story at the top of the page. With no updates for over a fortnight, I had left my little readership without material. Further, I had not provided myself with the written outlet I was so enjoying.  My blog fell silent and it appeared that I may have been about to say goodbye to it, as I have done with so many other hobbies. ‘I guess you need to have some new topics to post about?’ the same friend enquired. The truth is I have had plenty of topics to ramble about, and numerous daily trails off into deep thoughts which could have been mapped out upon these pages. The pause was a reflection of being busy – and therefore having plenty to blog about. The pause was also because I work on whims and excitement when I start something new. When the excitement fades, I can struggle to maintain that same energy and motivation.

Much has happened in the last two weeks – for one, I made the decision to resume drinking alcohol again after a 44 day break – this in itself is worthy of one blog entry. I am glad that I have the pages of this blog to document the shifts in my thoughts and emotions. If you refer back to my ‘MC Sober in the house’ post, you would probably think the writer of it would never wish to sip an alcoholic beverage ever again. I implied that alcohol brought me only negative impacts such as making me inconsiderate, and that it took me places that I did not truly wish to be. With an element of fickleness I am now of the thoughts that alcohol can greatly enhance many already enjoyable experiences. I so quickly forgot the positives of the social lubricant, and I have enjoyed my reunion with it and the further freedom of mind gained after having a couple of drinks. But my 44 days has had me keep in mind the negatives also. And within me lies this desire to reach the alcohol induced state of freedom, elation and energy without it. Whether this is possible remains to be known for me.

 

While I returned to alcohol this past fortnight – I left the 9 to 5 at long last. I am free. I sit in a coffee shop in Holborn, watching the mismatching bright tourists and smart office workers rush vs dawdle by, tapping away on my laptop. Smiling as my Soya cappuccino adds to my leisurely buzz, I am happy at the decision I have made – and will be back to elaborate on this further. Un-press the pause button, hit the refresh – and the blog goes on.

Farewell Orange Man

He had definitely been more talkative that week, and many more smiles met his face than usual. He spoke louder, grasping the final moments of conversation with his colleagues. He soon came over to my desk, and handing me the final two satsumas he would probably ever give me, told me he would miss me. Orange Man’s final day, having worked since the age of 16, came that Friday. Mr Enthusiastic reminded me that, despite his eccentricities ‘[Orange Man] is the only person in here – in fact the only person I know – who gives someone a gift every single day.’ It is true. He was grateful if you showed him kindness but he did not ask for it, nor for anything in return. And he continued to give the citrus gifts regardless of the response they emitted

That Friday I ate my tangerine slowly, looking at each segment a little longer – never previously noticing how they stay tied together by the white whispy strings. Orange Man began to tell me of his friends in the café who bought him a retirement card and a book on Thailand. His gratitude shone across the desk and humbled me. He said how the daughter of the café owner was trying to become an actress adding ‘She is young – you’ve got to follow your dreams don’t you. I am doing it the other way around.’ This is what I had observed previously when I had said I did not want to wait until I am any older to find a more fulfilling path. I feel some guilt in my initial explanation of this written in this blog. I did not give him the credit he deserved; he’s had a challenging life and does not have the same support network that I perhaps take for granted, yet he is still the one to come baring gifts and gratitude.

The Xmas before last I pulled his name out of an enevelope -meaning he was my secret Santa. I rarely take part in these, perhaps I’m not enough of a team player, but made the effort to this year. I thought up a gift: a mug with his name and the image of an orange on it. He opened it and was grinning whilst saying ‘ah look at that – that’s nice’. And it was nice – it wasn’t kind. In the sense that nice can be a lesser form of humanity – niceness wants in return. Kindness is deeper than that, and only wants to give. You could argue there is no selfless good deed – that we are all ultimately selfish. That we do gain some positive reward from any form of giving even when there is no obvious reward. This takes me back to a Friend’s episode where Pheobe was determined to prove this untrue. Whilst I think Pheobe was wrong, there are certainly degrees to which we do for gain and do for doings sake.

Sitting next to Orange Man at that Xmas party, after a glass or three of wine I said ‘Who do you think got you that mug?’ – he guessed but did not say my name. Ten minutes later I spurted out ‘It was me!’ He said thank you, and that he really liked it. He used it every day in the office since. Why did I need to get the credit? He doesn’t remind me each day that he gave me an orange, and on his last day he bought everyone a rather big lunch hamper that I saw him eat very little of. I will take that lesson from him.. to give little segments of kindness but don’t demand a return. The way kindness works you’d probably get a kind expectation free segment back one day anyway.

A Morning in Bay 6

‘I’m so sorry, ouch. I am so sorry to bother you dears. Oh gosh this is embarrassing, ow.’

‘I don’t know where my husband is, I don’t know.’

‘I am sorry to be an awful patient. I am sorry to be such a damn nuisance I really am. You have so much to do don’t you, I do worry about it.’

The echoes of the bed occupants trickle across Bay 6, holding confusion and disappointment at their presence here. The toothpaste striped curtains hang, dividing each bed, blocking the outdoor light the ward so desperately craves. A familiar face appears; the woman who’s been supplying me a steady line of tea and biscuits all week. ‘Morning’, I greet her, wondering whether it’ll be hob nobs or custard creams later on. For now she places a jug of water on my sister’s bedside, and pushes her trolley along the ward. Nurse Shirley appears and introduces herself with a warm Irish accent – she is the 7th nurse to have covered my sister’s care on this hospital visit. Male, female, Filipino, Spanish, English, Irish, young, old; all have been wonderfully caring and compassionate.

As my sister sleeps on I listen through the curtain walls as staff respond to the elderly patients:

‘Be kind to yourself, you’ve been through a lot. Don’t worry if you can’t do everything you used to straight away’.

‘Yes, high 5 you made it!’.

‘You are no trouble at all Mary. No trouble at all’.

I am humbled by both the gratitude of the patients, and selflessness of the staff. Mary from Bed 2 is eager not to bother anybody today. When she is asked what she would like for her breakfast she doesn’t want any one to go to the hassle of toasting her bread stating ‘any bread at all – just a little marmite if you have it. Thank you, Thank you dear.’

Rose is more hard of hearing, so I need not strain for my eavesdropping. ‘We need to move you now Rose to take your weight’ – ‘What? OK.’ I wonder how frustrating it must be to have to continually ask ‘What? Pardon?’ – and even after receiving the response , never being quite sure of what was said or what is about to happen. As Shirley begins to move her, Rose is becoming distressed marked by her heavy breathing and incoherent mumbles. Shirley reassures ‘it’s ok we will change the sheets’, whilst Rose’s mumbles become clearer; ‘a mess. I made a mess.’ The process of weighing Rose and changing her wet bedsheets goes on for the next 10 minutes. The footsteps and voices through the curtain inform me of the events. ‘Rose can you stand up for me. Sit back. Rose we need to weigh you. You’re in the hospital. Yes Rose, sit back. Can you rest your leg here. Put your leg here. No, No here Rose. I need to get a weight. Sit back.’ Shirley patiently directs.

Meanwhile Mary’s breakfast has arrived ‘Toast and Marmalade for you’ states the healthcare assistant. Presumably pointing towards the marmalade – Mary asks ‘What is this?’ Mary doesn’t mention anything about her bread not being untoasted or her absent marmite, instead replying ‘Thank you ever so much.’ Violet over in bed 3 awakens just as gratefully  to her breakfast arrival. ‘Oh wonderful, my mouth is so dry is that orange juice?’

My attention switches back to Shirley and Rose, as the lady handing out breakfasts is called to come and assist; ‘I am struggling to get her on her feet.’ I now only hear huffs, footsteps, and movement – but both Shirley and the healthcare assistant emerge soon after, unveiling the curtains displaying Rose seated on her chair, and freshly changed bedsheets.  Throwing their gloves in the bin, the two ladies continue with the clean up operation. Through their demeanour it is clear that the patience and care I just witnessed them displaying, is nothing out of the ordinary for them.

Rose looks over at me with a confusion as to who I am, as I sit tapping away on my laptop. I became so lost in following the situation around me that I seem to have forgotten I wasn’t invisible. I smile at her, with the biggest grin I can offer, but her bewildered gaze moves on. Her breakfast soon arrives, and that does not seem to aid her understanding of her surroundings. It sits on her table, waiting to be eaten. She sits blinking frequently, looking down at her shoes, up at the wall, back across the ward, and at her breakfast again. I am sure she doesn’t know that it is hers. Her confusion scares me. She reaches toward her spoon. She almost touches it. But moves her hand back to her knees where it sits mirroring the right hand. Her hospital gown matches the whiteness of her hair. Her skin seems reddened by years and split capillaries. Her swollen ankles match the width of her knees. My Tea and biscuit supplier walks over to me and hands me a warm cuppa – no sugar and milk. She no longer need ask my preference, and I joke that I am now a regular, suddenly so grateful that I know where I am and what to do with this cup.

Searching For Grey

I completed my 48 hour iPhone free challenge and here I am, 5 days later; unscathed and reporting back. It started with a walk to the Overground station to start a journey that I was already an hour late for. Replacement Buses. Damn it. ‘Is the bus replacement all the way up to Clapham Junction?’ I asked the station staff. ‘Yes’ he replied, as though that was the answer I wanted to hear. Feeling aggravated that I would now be even more late, and with no phone to amuse, redirect or distract me – I watched myself huffing and puffing over to the designated bus stop. My frustration peaked with the buses lack of arrival, and during another big bad wolf like sigh I snapped at myself ‘Why the hell am I doing this stupid no iPhone challenge? For who?’. The answer was: for myself – to see what would happen. What was happening was that I was drowning within the first few hours of my self inflicted technology drought. Using my brain and what  I picked up from staring at a the maps whilst on the tube all these years, I navigated myself iPhone free and found a faster route to my destination. I did check out ‘Snake’ on the way – grateful I grew up in an era who appreciate this incredibly simple game.

 

Throughout the first day my habitual phone checking was what concerned me the most.  After that first day I felt as though my duties had been lifted when I realised it was a useless activity for my rather silent Nokia. There was nothing there for me to check, except the minutes on the clock slightly increasing. This checking wasn’t so apparent to me with my iPhone as I would not even register that I was doing it – I would be busy reading, watching or responding to what ever was on my device at that given moment. During this 48 hours I read a book, bar the last 25 pages. I watched Mrs Doubtfire, properly and without distraction. I played with my nieces with less phone checking breaks. I  spoke to the people I was with more attentively. OK I couldn’t take pictures of my dinner and missed out on some last minute plans with friends, but whoever I was with I felt I was more truly with.

 

As soon as my phone went back on, so did my phone addiction. Those last 25 pages of the book I jumped into, remain unread. When my phone is in my hand I still provide a fragmented version of myself to those around me. Each ping or vibration from my 5s provokes in me an uncomfortable eagerness. The tasks I set myself often seem to be ‘all or nothing’ – no running vs running a marathon, no alcohol vs out-drinking the bunch, iPhone addict vs no smart phone, meditate every day vs forget the whole thing. What I have learnt most from my 48 hours iPhone free is to try to live within the grey areas of life more: read a few pages of a book each day, run 15 minutes as and when I fancy, and yes use the technological advancements my smart phone provides, but don’t be so consumed by it that I am led to think I need to revert back to that Nokia 1110.

Take your eye off your iPhone

On my journey home from work last Tuesday 20% of me ambled along The Old Kent Road. The other 80% of my focus was taken up by a lengthy Whatsapp conversation I was having on my  iPhone. Only when I was 10 metres away from her did I register a woman’s voice saying ‘excuse me, hello?  hello?’. I glanced back in her direction but I was still only 40% there, so my legs continued to up the distance between us. I knew the decent thing to do was to turn back and resolve her enquiry, but by the time I was 80% with her the gap between us had grown so large that returning to her seemed too awkward, so I walked on. A work colleague told me of times he has seen me as I walked to work engrossed with my smart phone. He informed me that on several of those instances he yelled ‘Laila! Laila!’ from his music wielding car whilst repeatedly beeping. He even pulled his car over with the intention of offering me a lift, but I only had eyes for my iPhone. I don’t generally pay and mind to people shouting from cars, but this seemed like something I should have at least noticed. I did not. I had a vague memory of a noisy car half way through my journey – but that was all. His version of events are all I have to go by: I was so engrossed by my phone screen that I did not even look up. He gave up on attempting to alert my attention and now drives on when he sees me walking. He went as far as saying that my lack of awareness is dangerous, and he understands how I got hit by a car now. For the record I was hit by a car a few years ago – but on this occasion I was not holding my iPhone.

I even get distracted when within my phone.  Earlier I was sent a link to an event via Whatsapp and asked ‘Do you want to come to this?’. I imagined this scenario being played out if my smart phone applications came to life and I would be asked in person. I  run over to the calendar on my desk to check my availability. On the way there someone says ‘you have a new letter’ (email) so I drop the calendar and go to open the letter. The letter turns out to be junk mail – so I write a letter back to tell them to stop mailing me. During this process I notice a previous letter that  I had opened but shoved back into the envelope  – a friends document I was meant to read over but got distracted and placed it in a pile with all my other letters. My iPhone provides me with many useful shortcuts, yet also with constant distractions that fragment my moments like items coming to the end of a supermarket conveyor belt – jolting the flow. I wonder how many things and people I unintentionally pass by, opting to instead stare at my little computer who talks and thinks for me.

Don’t be mistaken – I love my iPhone in many ways. It can do so much for me. If I am bored it can sing to me, or connect me with dozens of friends. If I can’t sleep it will stay up with me. If I am lost it will navigate me. If I forget it reminds me. If I don’t know, it will google for me. If I am late, it will excuse me. It banks for me, hell now it can pay for me. I asked myself if my iPhone was a person who did this for me – what would I make of them and the help they brought me? How much money had he made it so quick and easy for me to spend? How many times had I relied on him alone to entertain? Was it really helpful when he kept me up late at night, and then hung out with me first thing in the morning? How much of his help was truly necessary? How many times did he interrupt my day – sometimes just to show me a silly video or tell me a pointless news alert? How much time would I actually have spent with him? The final two questions were ones I could answer – thanks to an app I downloaded called ‘moment’. I tracked my phone usage from Friday to Thursday of the past week, and added up the figures. Are you ready for the results? In one week I used my phone for a shocking 35 Hours and 42 minutes. This equates to 5 hours and 6 minutes of screen time (excluding phone calls) per day – this is almost one third of my waking day! Further, I picked my little friend up 336 times that week, averaging in at 48 times per day, which is every 20 minutes! To put it another way – If I was to use that 35.7 hours per week to learn a language – I could obtain fluency in just 94 days. If I were to use it to read I could have read 3 books in a week. Even a pilot license can be obtained with a minimum of 40 hours of flight time – almost the same as a week of my smart phone usage! With this in mind, I have set myself the precarious challenge to take my eyes off of my iPhone (see what I did there) for 48 hours to see what may happen in it’s absence. How will I cope with moments of boredom? Who will I turn to if I am lost? Will I lose out on social connections or events?

When selecting which day to start, my dependence was more deeply demonstrated – I can’t do Friday as I am meeting a group of friends – I need the Whatsapp group to talk to them and google maps to navigate me. I can’t do Saturday and Sunday as it is the weekend – everyone needs to be contactable on the weekend! I can’t do Monday as it’s the bank holiday so the weekend rules still apply. I cannot do Tuesday as I get a free Caffe Nero coffee using my O2 priorities app. It is ridiculous. I could keep going and reel off reasons why Wednesday and Thursday are no good too, which would bring me back to the weekend. So I am going to be so brave as to begin as soon as  I press publish on this post. Once I press that button I will remove my sim card from my iPhone 5s and insert it into a throwback Nokia 1110. It has texts, calls, ‘Snake’ and a torch.  God help me. I will  temporarily rescind membership of my 11 Whatsapp groups, and remove access to my 71 apps, 5 email addresses and 92 notebook entries. My Whatsapp status will switch to “#eyesoffiphone”, iMessaging will be deactivated and I will descend into a mysterious smart phone free existence, which was our lives of not so long ago. See you on the other side.

Introvert, Interrupted

There was no reason for me to be late for work that morning – well no good reason. Disappointed that the Bank Holiday weekend had come to its end, I convinced myself that researching current rental rates in the area and zooming in on random camera roll pictures, were pressing matters. An hour soon passed, and like a slowly stacked ‘Jenga’ game the inevitable tumble in my timekeeping arrived. The lateness was relevant, as it meant I had to jump on a bus rather than walk into work – today I would be providing a  different answer to Orange Man’s ‘Did you walk in?’. Flicking on Spotify, I checked out Kendrick Lamar’s new album and lost myself in the lyrics of ‘Fear’. Kendrick’s morbid single spoke of a life shared with fear, from a child growing up in a verbally abusive household, through to the liberation from it in death.  Mentally wondering around the lyrics and exploring their meanings, I mismatched my static exterior. I held a sedative stare in the direction of the bus window, which I wasn’t really looking at. My snap back into the morning came when my Routemaster bus spoke ‘Bricklayer’s Arms’ – the stop I was meant to get off at. My engine took longer than the Routemaster’s to restart, and I missed my stop. This trail into thoughts is something I used to think of as a sign of my poor attention, but am coming to see as a treasurable trait.  Can you imagine the TV show ‘Scrubs’ without JD’s similar trail offs that we so fortunately get a voice-over of?

A few weeks ago I recognised myself passing judgement on the similar absences of my niece. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked the 5 year old as she sat softly on her little red chair. Her delicate features joined together to form an ambiguous downward gaze met by slightly pursed lips. ‘Ummm – nothing’ came her reply.  She was looking at her little fingers as they twiddled with a skunk ‘Kinder Surprise’ toy. Her expression held a hint of confusion, at which I realised I’d wrongly presumed that her calm reflected discontent. She was not crying or looking necessarily sad, so why should I take her silence to mean sadness? Subtle as such comments are, they can lead one to believe that there is something wrong that they haven’t yet worked out, or even that there is something lacking in their character if they aren’t constantly talkative. Was asking her this loaded question an unfair trickle down from the extrovert friendly world we’re encouraged to grow up in? The innocent statements which bypass less social options; ‘come on join in, everyone else is playing together’, or ‘go and say hello to everyone – show them all what you showed me earlier’. By stopping my fellow little introvert and asking her this question, had I belittled what may have been valuable and worthy moments of contemplation and imagination? Her pauses may have been just as nourishing to her as interacting with others is to an extrovert if she processes things internally. Or she may have required some recharge time. Or she may have just wanted to stare at the Kinder skunk in peace!

I believe the small comments we tell children can massively effect their ideas of what they can and cannot do. Being told at a young age that my voice was too quiet to be the lead in a school play, stayed with me – and I am aware of how minor a comment this is. Children can be misled into thinking such things are not made for the quiet kids, when in reality they may just need a little help in feeling comfortable, or time to approach it in an introvert friendly way. From this platform they can offer their skills with an added depth only obtainable through solitary thought and observation. By no means a limiting trait, introverts can show bravery as in the softly spoken Rosa Parks, and creative mastery as with the bashful Michael Jackson. This is despite some of their most memorable acts appearing to be typically extroverted. Seated on the opposite little red chair was an ideal example of an extrovert – my two year old niece. Her most used phrase that afternoon was Frozen’s ‘let it go’ – which made my side plait an instant winner. She possesses a social braveness that I would struggle to compete with. If you’re in the room with her she will find a way to get you to giggle, and with a toddler’s speech limitations this all the more impressive. Neither state is right or wrong. And neither need be subtly denigrated. Both my nieces are wonderful children, and that afternoon I was reminded to delight in all of their qualities.

Returning to my day at work – now in the office I went to the printer to print something (who would have guessed). There was a sign on the notice board saying “communities stop terrorism” – followed by a short blurb about how one should always report anything they suspect. Cue another trail off into thought –  ‘communities may very well help alleviate terrorism, but maybe they could do this from a place of love and goodwill. Hasn’t this poster turned the community concept on its head by using it in a more divisive “fear your neighbour” kind of way?’ – my thoughts purred. Still staring at the sign – a colleague’s voice interjected “I was standing here for ages saying hello!” – and then I spotted my warm letters awaiting collection. I guess this is why I am told I appear away with the fairies a lot of the time, when in fact, I don’t need to be away with any fairies –  I’m having a great time with just the thoughts in my head!

MC Sober In The Place!

I walked towards the non-female looking female bouncer, who revealed her golden tooth as she instructed me to open my bag, and step aside to be body searched. I was entering a UK Garage night in Elephant & Castle, and it felt like it. On the other side of the search area the friends of those not yet inside the venue waited longingly, like mothers for their kids on the first day of school, but in this case ready to party rather than put the chicken nuggets on. I went through the motions of unzipping my bag and taking my passport out to be scanned – repeating to myself that I must reapply for my long lost driver’s license, which is probably being used on the black market somewhere. There was a slight difference in my club entry routine this time, for I was totally sober. Half an hour earlier I had downed a strong coffee, accompanied by what became lumpy soya milk once it met heat. I was hopeful that my beverage would give me a buzz similar to that of the coffee patron that my friend sipped, but it wasn’t quite the same.  ‘With a little bit of luck I can make it tru the night’  – I thought – yep still cheesy when sober.

The club was nearing capacity and the tail of the queue we had just escaped from now crept all the way to Elephant and Castle Underground station. Entering the main room, I realised  I was not quite ready for this night: I felt a niggling panic building up in my belly. I wanted it to leave me, yet I also knew that this was the feeling that I had come out tonight to sit (or dance) with. This was a night for a totally sober Laila to experience: what was clubbing going to be like alcohol free? Garage seemed to be the perfect genre to undertake my experiment with – up tempo with a beat you just want to bop your head to, nostalgic and a little comical at times. It was a good recipe to have me on my feet and  laughing through the night. Having ordered a tap water from the bar, I joined my three friends and headed into the swarming dance floor. A man on the stage was playing a guitar version of Stormzy’s ‘Shut Up’ which was right up my street, and got my energy levels up far higher than that soya coffee drink had. We wondered around, and headed to a room upstairs soon after. As we walked I noticed the things that people said, looks that that they passed, the stickiness of the walls – things that my usual vodka tinged eyes would miss. This room was lively and energetic, but not quite full – so as we danced to the more ‘house’ style tunes I felt myself beginning to resemble a rather sturdy tree on a day of low winds. The more I thought about my dancing, the more awkward my body made it. I remembered a magnet on my fridge that read – ‘sometimes the heart knows what it wants and the mind needs to shut up’ – which was a strange sentiment for a house warming gift  – but it rang true in this situation: the thoughts were taking away from my experience and desire to dance. I began to sing along to the music a little, and let go. My friend, perhaps sensing my internal dialogue or tree like stature, looked at me with a Disney like smile and said ”be free”. Free. This is what I used alcohol to feel in these situations – when in reality it may have been enslaving me to the idea I could not be so with out it.

I enjoyed jumping around and room hopping in the hours that passed. I seemed to channel my inner rude boy when certain songs came on, and in those moments I laughed lots and felt carefree. An undercurrent of self consciousness stayed with me, and in its stronger moments it was accompanied by the return of the tree like stance.  After two and a half hours in the venue I was dumbfounded at how I had ever danced in aptly named ‘killer’ heels for so long before, and I left my friends to hunt for a seat. I headed back through the ‘house’ room upstairs, passing through it to reach a room at the back and was interrupted by a man who obeyed the DJs instructions to ‘grab the girl you like and talk to her – don’t let her walk on by’. So cringe. I only had eyes for the cushioned red  benched chairs that I could see through the doorway, ‘Yes cushioned!’ I thought – and upped my pace. This room had something of a misfits feel about it. There were more seats than people. The DJ booth had two pretty blonde DJs behind it, who looked so into their music that they didn’t look up to check their crowd. A Swedish looking man with luminous glowing glasses who I had seen earlier, swung in the centre – one hand taken up by a beer – the other in the air. Some 40 plus ladies with chests fighting their way out of their tops, had a booth on the left of the room, and the right was filled by a group of young guys who were all seated and looked as tired as they were eager to stay out. I selected a seat next to these guys, deciding they could be eavesdrop worthy. Not-a-single-drop-of-alcohol sober Laila had not been out to a club in over 10 years. This was a huge moment. I felt ready to leave but decided to sit with my misfits for twenty minutes.

I read an article on my phone at one point – and found it more enjoyable than jumping around any more would be. As much as I love music, my love of it was not enough to sustain me for hours on end with no alcohol. As for dancing – I always had to be coaxed into it at family parties growing up – I didn’t and still don’t like the feeling of attention that can come with. I flourish in small group interactions, sharing deep ideas, jokes, and stories yet could do none of those things in a club environment. So I questioned – why had I spent so much of my social life of the last ten years in places that, without drinking, I probably do not enjoy for more than a couple of hours? For some people I was known to always want to stay out until the end –  but that night I sat there happy, but wanting to go home. Which one was the real me ? Did alcohol free me from apprehensions and insecurities to enable me to realise my true self? Or did it skew my judgement and make me push myself to be an extrovert that I never quite filled the boots of? I remember my first taste of alcohol as a young shy teenager had me thinking ‘finally – a cure for shyness’. Had I carried this through with me into my adult life, and used it to try and be something I am not? Had I used alcohol to connect with the world more, but in the process disconnected with myself? These were not matters I was going to resolve in this room, but I was very grateful for the clarity I held to raise them.

Having found my friends and handed in my non-lost soberly stored cloakroom ticket, I said my goodbyes to the two pals who stayed out. During the walk to the third friend’s car she summarised perfectly the feeling I felt in having had a good time, but it having been just enough; ‘It is like you’ve just watched a really good film – you wouldn’t want to watch the film all over again, as you have just watched it’, she so aptly spoke. She gave me a lift home and we shared some words about affirmations and mindfulness after I reminded her how much I loved her ‘be free’ comment earlier on. I felt a happiness in the connection that I would not have the same certainty over with alcohol – there were no sloppy words or over inflated statements. I felt satisfied with the night, but deeply aware that the things I thought I loved may be more things loved in small doses. It reminded me that I am an introvert and that I should not fight that, but embrace it. I might not be as loud, crazy or funny when sober – but the flip side is I may be more true to who I am. I will likely salvage some of the qualities I sacrifice when drinking lots – such as being caring, considerate, and thoughtful. My only concerns past a certain point of drink were only for those friends who wanted to continue the party. I am sure that such character deviations are what contributed to the avalanche of ‘beer fear’ that would befall me the following day; almost as punishment for the betrayal of the soul. My final observation that night, was that I did not give sober Laila enough credit. After all, my cheesy jokes and away with the fairies ideas are always present. As one friend put it – ‘we would not miss it if your drinking was no longer present, we would only miss you if you were no longer present.’ So watch this space, MC Sobers in the place.

Perfect Porridge

I walked relishing the final moments before I entered the spinning glass doors, slicing my way into my office building. My hand dived into the darkest depths of my handbag, touching sticky gum, an item I imagined to be an earring, and finally meeting a card that felt like my work pass. No, my groping was inaccurate; it was my Halifax Clarity Card. My search was conducted whilst edging closer to an electronic barrier, guarded by a short, smiley guard who I ashamedly only speak to when I need help getting in. ‘Hi! How are you? My pass is in here somewhere. Can I-?’ I stopped my sentence as he completed my unfinished request by opening the gate. I was in. Now to power walk to the clock in machine – I always use the ground floor edition to add valuable minutes onto my Flexi Time. The more time I give them, the more time they give me back. Having checked in, my haste lessened and I toddled up the stairs to the floor on which I would spend my next 7 hours 12 minutes.
‘Morning’ – I say to the people seated around me. Orange Man begins with his usual question of ‘Walked in today?’, and I reply with my usual lacklustre ‘Yeah’. My citrus treat is brought over shortly after, and tucking into it somehow breaks up the morning. Deciding I needed more in the way of nourishment, I popped down to the ground floor kitchen- packed with a dozen microwaves still holding the stench of foods warmed up the previous day. Opening and closing a few to select the least pungent, in went my oats and soya milk, with the backdrop of a BBC News story about yet more NHS failings and a baby’s preventable death. Punching in the ‘high’ setting for 5 minutes, I turned to the TV screen, where the presenter communicated her deepest sympathies to the mother, whilst offering just an 8 second slot to speak. The presenter asked the grieving Mum to confirm whether campaigning had brought her ‘closure’ – reminding her that ‘we are low on time if you can make it brief’. A man wearing a patched jumper and untidy jeans that you might wear to paint the house with, sat on the far side of the room reading ‘The Metro’, casually eating his cereal. He didn’t look much like an office worker, but with 1000 people in the building, and me only just about knowing the names of all my 10 team members – who was I to know? Maybe he was a member of the public who just came here to eat his cereal in peace. I quite liked that idea, so I smiled in agreement with it.

My daydreaming came to an end when I remembered that I was meant to be porridge watching. ‘2 minutes, stir, then stop and stir in 30 second intervals’ my workmate had told me the other day explaining his Goldilocks style ‘just right’ porridge. Opening the door with a click, an oaty soya pool layered the entire microwave dish, and I realised I had spilled it again. Foolishly grabbing the scorching cup I jerked back in pain unable to hold it, while it freefell to the ground. Half of my porridge now sat on the floor surrounded by a partly smashed mug, and the other half lay on the microwave plate. Man, Goldilocks had it made – where’s the 3 bears when you need them? The casual breakfast cereal man did look over for a second, but returned to his paper promptly. Perhaps I was drawing too much attention to his secret breakfast hideout. The clean up operation saw me waste a roll of tissue and a good 15 minutes. Returning to my desk like a King from war without his army, I bore no cup of perfectly made porridge to smugly show Mr Goldilocks. Unaware of my porridge dramas my never-miss-a-trick manager enquired; ‘where have you been?’. ‘I was making porridge’ – I began to tell the story, but decided to tail off as his eyes portrayed either a lack of interest or belief in my story, and they returned to the glow of his computer. The porridge pro informed me that in addition to his previous instructions, I should have left half of my cup empty to allow space for the oats to rise and fall.

Mr Goldilocks- as I previously named him, is more suited to the name of Mr Enthusiastic. It is funny that Orange Man and he sit on the diagonal right and left of me as this mirrors the polarities in their lust for life, or lack of. I once went to the Pub with the work guys on a summer afternoon – an old school Bermondsey pub where I have learnt not to ask for Herbal teas or a pretty cocktail. Deciding on whether to leave the guys or stay a little longer I pulled out a 50p coin – announcing that ‘heads’ meant I would head home, while ‘tails’ would mean I kept my tail there (a tactic I use often when I can’t decide on what to do). Mr Enthusiastic grabbed the 50 pence piece and true to title said ‘Is that a 50p coin?’, as he span it around, marvelling at what must have been a slightly differently embossed edition. With this small example in mind, you can imagine the welcome energy his presence offers on my office days. Back to the day in the office – arriving later, came another workmate – my Simpson’s pal. Sitting beside me and opposite Orange Man, he laid his backpack (which seems to contain almost everything you might need on your office expedition) onto the desk, and began the time intense process of logging into the work system. The name Simpson’s pal makes sense once you hear the guaranteed laughs all Simpson’s jokes I send his way emit – usually with one hand hovering over ‘The Simpson’s Tapped Out’ iPhone game. I stopped playing this game when my iTunes statement revealed I bought far too many imaginary donuts with my non-imaginary money.

Auto-pilot cruising through another office day, a reminder that I was set to move into a new career airspace flys my way, as my big boss approaches. His softness in voice was mismatched with a sternness in walk and expression. I think this was the second time we have spoken in 4 years. That, along with the fact I was typing a blog about ‘Alien Eyes’ while he approached, saw me revert to the look of a little kid caught with one hand in the cookie jar. My general parent/senior person apprehension portrayed itself as I sat up in my seat, minimised my word document, and widened my eyes to show an intense, and definitely over the top, concentration. He asked me if I wanted my redundancy application to proceed to the head of department. ‘Yes I would like it to – I still get the 7 days to say yes or no once it’s approved, don’t I?’, I said in a way as to not show all of my cards. As he walked away I questioned what my cards actually were – did I even have any cards? What was my plan? But then I remembered a phrase I liked from my mediation exercise that morning – ‘if you don’t make space for the things you want, you can never get to them’ which reminded me of the lack of space I allowed my rising porridge that morning. So I’ll clear the way, give myself the creative space required, discover what will decorate my future cards, and get to making my perfect porridge – no timer needed.

Alien Eyes

Have you ever tried looking at the world as though you were an Alien? Stay with me. What I mean is, rising above the labels and stories we constantly link onto our perceptions, and just watching the world around you. As I strolled to the peak of Greenwich Park in an unexpected heatwave last Sunday, I felt myself detaching from the tourists and locals around me. They were clambering for their smartphones and weaving their way onto the hill’s edge, in an attempt to capture a moment that they didn’t quite seem a part of. A metal fence sat as a barrier between the watchers and the beautiful flourishing landscape below, which was dotted with patches of little people who I likened to ants – in size rather than behaviour. Some were running, some sat, some were laying down. I wondered what an alien would make of this. Would they query why some sat there as their skin went from ivory to a pain inducing lobster red – apparently through choice? What would they make of the sunglasses and hats worn, masking from the sun they sat in full view of? What would they make of us sipping substances that revert us to a state similar to that of the younger offspring around us? I kept going with this line of thought, and recalled a book in Buddhism that stated it can be useful to view the world in this way so as to not get so caught up in the rules that we have created since birth.

In my alien like stare one of the watchers approached me, who my brain soon informed me was the friend I was with. Breaking out of my daze I walked down the large hill and exited the park, heading towards the overpopulated riverside. I felt like the Alien would query the waste of energy that walking around for hours was, presuming they would not understand the benefits of it. I thought that they would feel the same way about the people sitting in their balconies I spotted; probably there for hours on end for no apparent purpose, in their little cubes of homes. Looking at the block of flats in this way, it looked more like prison cells, or little Lego blocks, each designated to twos or fours of people, captivated by a laboured for choice. I imagined the Alien on a rush hour commute saying – ‘the Earthlings have a negative temperament as they force their way onto dusty metal moving capsules that barely have space for them – yet they proceed anyway. It is possible that they are being instructed or navigated by the devices they obediently stare at, raising the edges of their lips upwards at times. When they cannot reach the device through overcrowded capsule conditions, their states seem to deteriorate, but appears partially restored upon reunion with said devices.

I thought about what the Alien would say watching a drunken night out; ‘they put into their body this liquid which is possibly the same as that viewed in the park. They increase in auditory volume, yet decrease in mental faculties. Some appear unwell and eject foods consumed earlier, which upsets their companions. A strange smell accompanies this. Others show motor skills affected – they fall and injure their bodies. Again the volume increases, but the speech is slow and they say things that they only said a moment ago – again and again. They seem to be stuck on a loop. The materials they covered themselves with, and seemed eager to arrange perfectly hours before, appear stained and dishevelled. One has now used his limbs to hit the face of another, but the only origin of the conflict I can trace was a meeting of eyes and a stolen ‘chip’. Many become semi immobile following these gatherings; they appear to fall into a state of sickness and melancholy, sometimes for more than one Earth rotation.’

My Alien Eyes exercise, peculiar as it may be, is to me a refreshing way to look at the bizarre practices of our world. It’s a way to view the planet as though I am not quite a part of it. If we view the world as a mill repetitively turning, commute upon commute, night out upon night out, same upon same upon same – restrained by the ‘shoulds’ and ‘have to’s’ – with little thoughts of the ‘why’s’ and ‘what else?’ – then run of the mill it will be.

The right kind of happy, with a season of SAD

As spring time enters, that briefly mourned hour in bed that we lost is soon compensated for with daffodils, blossom and an invigorating splurge of sunshine. I scraped my plate clean of the creamy pasta sauce I concocted last night, looking out of my window to find daylight at 7.28pm. ‘Summer is coming – and I cannot wait!’ I thought to myself in anticipation of picnics, festivals and an ‘anything goes as long as it is outdoors’ attitude. It seems as though this whole city suffers from Seasonal Affective Disorder (or SAD, as it is quite fittingly abbreviated to) – with the weighty frowns illuminating with the changing of the season. With a few sprinkles of sunshine Londoners seem markedly more sociable, less prone to commuter rage, and more willing to migrate to pubs, stripping their layers on a disproportionate level to the increase in degrees. Even the foxes I passed on my stroll home seemed to have a spring in their step.

 

‘You seem really happy today’, my Clarke Kent looking colleague said, hiding a ‘what is your secret?’ question. ‘I think it is the sunshine!’, I proposed – rolling my eyes towards what was more a glass wall than a window. Seeing a Southern train slither past with no sign of a sunny backdrop, Clarke Kent and I spotted my error, so I laughed and said ‘hmmm, I guess I just love spring and summer time’, excusing my positivity. Casting my mind back to Sunday, I met an awesome guy called ‘Tommy’ at a Zorbing centre. He was smiley and enthusiastic – in a genuine rather than sickly sweet way. ‘Were you always a smiley person, or does this job make you a smiley person?’, my friend and I asked as his face selected the perfect level of twinkle. ‘Well you have to look at the bright side don’t you, and not dwell on the negative? Smiling makes me feel good, which makes me smile more.’ His reply made me aware of my own facial parts which were now working hard to eradicate all signs of a resting bitch face.

 

About 6 months ago I met the positivity that was up a few notches from Smiley Tommy. His name was Nathan and he ran a seminar about unleashing your ‘inner genius’. I know, I should have known by the title, but I have a curious mind so found myself seated in a large hotel conference room one Saturday morning, ready to learn. Nervous about walking in alone, I cringed for the ladies at the makeshift reception made of school like tables poorly disguised by a tiny cloth. Behind it sat a plump attractive lady whose sticky name badge read ‘SALLY :)’ – only adding to the school hall vibe. With a bubbly tone sure to burst, spill and waste an entire bottle of Prosecco, Sally beamed ‘Hi! You must be here for the exciting talk! I love your hair!’ ‘What the f*** am I doing here, this isn’t for me’, I should have said. Instead, entranced by this cult of optimism, I stated my name, bid Bubbly Sally goodbye, and headed toward the huge hall where the life changing show was set to begin. Tactfully selecting a seat toward the back, I sat next to a stocky, wide eyed man who introduced himself as ‘Ben’ and shook my hand excitably. Ben was a good talker, so I did not have to be. He had been to Nathan’s seminars before, and was in awe of him so much so that he had already signed up to a heftily priced life changing course. Apparently the free life changing seminar’s content could only be properly unleashed by the costly follow ups. Yep, Laila was back – my ‘pull the other one’ eye rolls commenced.

 

Ben had been to prison, and he asked me not to judge him. He had been being a good Samaritan by dropping an extremely drunk friend home, when he accidentally hit her brother’s van parked outside of her house. The drunken girl had told him to carry on and go home, ignoring the large dent, but the next morning the police turned up at Ben’s house. He was breathalysed and told that he had been reported by the girl for criminal damage and drink driving. I had only just met this guy and let’s face it, I was judging away. ‘Is he telling the truth? Would you really go to prison for that? Why is he telling me all this?’ This merry-go-round of questions was halted when our ‘happiness Guru’ – Nathan (cue another eye roll), announced that he was about to begin. Nathan was a slim, tanned and good looking South African. He soon revealed that he had listened to cues from the Universe to get him the wealth and success that he had today. He smiled lots, and smugly told us how we too could be like him. I already hated him a little bit, and myself for having attended this prey on the lost in life. He asked a series of questions – ending with ‘Who agrees? Raise your hand!’ – to gain a sea of hands to massage his ego. Ben soon noticed my lack of participation. Leaning toward me with one arm stretched up to the ceiling, he whispered – ‘Laila do you not agree?!’

The interval break could not have come soon enough, and I felt a pang of guilt knowing I did not say bye to over-sharing Ben as I headed for the exit. I felt the desperation and pessimistic hopefulness of the attendees around me, who my eavesdropping revealed believed Nathan would be providing life’s solutions. I wondered if these people, by placing so much hope in another human, had already denigrated themselves and externalised what was an internal problem. By setting happiness and success as a distant goal to strive for, had they overlooked the happiness that was already in the present – assuming it was only attainable after Nathan’s snazzy workshops? Had they presumed that sadness was not part and parcel of happiness – missing that just as the seasons change so do our emotions? Within us and right now – this is where and when happy Tommy chooses to find his joy, and where if we dare to take a look, we might each find our own – and it won’t cost you a penny.

Doppelganger Dating Part 2

Over the weekend I mulled over whether to attend the aforementioned doppelganger date, and crux time hit today when I received a message from the look-a-like saying ‘Are you still up for Wednesday?’. Initially scanning my brain for a pointlessly passive let down reason such as being sick or busy, I paused for a moment to avoid rushing the reply. The beauty of the modern messaging age meant I could avoid a phone call – which would have forced me into a stuttering, untactful version of – ‘No I can’t come BRO!’. With that in mind, I maximised use of the time that Whatsapp allowed me, adoring the auto-preview feature and my newly removed blue ticks. In addition this gave me a chance to practice the assertiveness I have been attempting to of late.

My typing standstill stretched to 6 hours, when I opted to make one last check before reply time. The perfect judge stood right before me, never having seen the potential date nor my brother before; my relatively new housemate. ‘Does this person……look like this person?’ I inquired showing each of their pictures. ‘Yes very much so’. Her instantaneous reply left me sheepishly laughing at my blindness, in this apparently obvious miscalculation of the eyes. There was no way I could now go – the judge and jury had spoken. This was worse than an Usher ‘you remind me of a girl that I once knew’ – for in my case it would be ‘I see my brother’s face whenever I – I look – at you’ – not so catchy.

‘Something has freaked me out a bit and I am going to be honest’ I began my message with, again thankful for the option of this unspoken format. I explained my friend’s reaction to his picture – of course following with the famous (by my usage rates anyway) – covered eye ‘see no evil’ monkey face. ‘Well if that doesn’t completely kill the mood – your brother must be one very good looking guy’, he typed back with a jocular tone that alleviated my guilt but not my uneasiness. ‘I do not even know how to respond to that one now!’ I ended with, departing from the monkey face and leaving a string of full on laughter emojis – because you really do have to laugh.

Doppelganger Dating

For the majority of my life I totally adore having no-one to answer to, worry about, or impress in anyway, bar my friends and family. Then there are those niggling moments when I state my singledom with a response befitting a declaration of a terminal illness. The sympathetic nod, the noticeably false upbeat change in tone and reassurance that ”you will find someone when you least expect it”, having made the presumption that I have actually been searching. Desensitised by such talk for the most parts, there are moments where I visually intrude on a happy looking couple sharing a moment, and wonder if that is something that would be a bonus to, rather than a drain on my life. Logically, based on the information available to me I believe that most couples struggle. That it is all hard work. And that there are larger partner-related peaks and troughs in life as a result of being so intertwined with another entirely differently wired, complex human being. I sound like a great person to date, right?!
Despite this awareness, the romanticism that I have a lot to take up with Walt Disney for, is still in me and rears its fluttering lashes periodically, spurring me on to go on a date or two. Getting ready, realising this was an occasion to pack my lazy-with-appearance tendencies away for the night, I prepared myself for a date. Already dreading the conventional questions and awkward goodbyes, I briefly closed my eyes and shook my head as if resetting my Sega MegaDrive and putting a fresh, positive, date-friendly cartridge inside. I meet my date; friendly, sweet, and quite nervous as can be seen by the rate at which he is speaking, but so far so good. In my element we shared numerous bowls of hummus, alongside a few high on the fruit, low on the alcohol, cocktails. Telling my favourite stories, usually involving trips away and friends, I regularly stopped myself from speaking – aware that I usually pretty much like anyone who loves my stories. I once went on an amazing first date with a Norwegian guy, loving every minute, but by the third date I came to the self centred realisation that I loved how much he loved listening to my stories, rather than anything within him. But back to the date in question; as he sat opposite me, he raised his arms to his chin, took a slight lean back, yelling ‘Stop’ in the denouement of a story of his own he had to tell. A child like slightly nerdy laugh left his mouth, and I looked back at him pausing for a moment, and can understand why he asked ‘sorry was that story too much?’, such was stunted look on my face. I wanted to press pause, to file the deja-vu like feeling that swept upon me, yet also was keen not to make my date uncomfortable. ‘No the story was great’, I reasurred – with eyes that did not match my tone, realising what it was that felt so wrong. Uncle Wally. He looked like Uncle Wally. He laughed like Uncle Wally. I was dating Uncle Wally! How could I have not seen this before.
Uncle Wally was a non blood relative who, before he left the circle of trust, would make appearances at BBQs, Christmases, or just causal family weekend get-togethers, offering a goofy laugh and always an empty wallet. He was one of my Dad’s old friends, and one of those friends you know you would not be friends with if you were to meet now, but you are for old times sake. A pivotal moment in his character portrayal was when on one Xmas an overextended game of Monopoly resulted in him slapping my then 8 year old brother’s hand as he helped himself to his £200 upon passing ‘Go’, yelling ‘CHEATER! I am the banker!’. My Dad had been asleep, only interrupted when we prodded him to pay up some money or roll the dice, depending on where his ship game-piece had landed. Awakening to the sound of Wally’s shouts, and adding to the bizareness that this “Uncle” was, my Dad bewilderingly told him to calm down. Wally was only further enraged, accusing me and my brother of cheating on a mass scale. Simply put, this is not someone who I would ever want to be reminded of on a date. But my actual date was a lovely person, all that aside. Trying to let my optimist reign, I went on a second date to The British Museum, ”Oh wrong floor! When will we find the Magna Carta it’s some where here!’ my date said with Uncle Wally’s chuckle. No, I could not shake it. I left him, distracted by some handwritten Beatles song lyrics encased in a glass cabinet, headed straight down the corridor and into a cubbyhole to my left. Texting my friend, that I felt guilty but wanted to leave, I looked down at the large book below me, it appeared I had found the Magna Carta room, and looking to my left – so had Uncle Wally Junior. We did not meet again.

In the midst of another ‘I should try dating again’ moment a few days ago – I scheduled in a meet up with a guy I felt had a wholesome vibe about him. Showing my friend his picture whilst updating her on my weeks plans, she glanced, eyes widening for a moment, lip slightly bitten, and promptly passed my phone back to me, providing only a ‘mmm’ as her feedback. Concerned by this more than micro expression of a reaction, I probed ‘What? What? What is it tell me?’ What?’, but on my final ‘what?’ I had a terrifying thought of what it was she was withholding, hoping I was wrong.’He kind of reminds me of your brother’. ‘No!’ I hit back, but there was a lot of truth in her observation. ‘They say a lot of people marry people who look like their parents’, she offered in consolation. I wondered if I could ever shake this association from my mind, but figured it would be like seeing an alternative view in a visual illusion – once aware of the new perspective, it cannot be unseen. Now stuck in a disturbing kind of limbo, I sat presuming the date with this doppelganger had to be cancelled.

That Friday Feeling

A warm evening buzz filled the London streets around me. The chatter felt louder than it had been just an hour earlier, and the streets were flourished with work-attire clad drinkers, brandishing their pints as though trophies for their week of labour. Lines at the bar were populated with eager faces not yet served, awaiting their glistening first prize drink. Enter – the Friday feeling. The urge to grab your phone to see who is out, and head to the nearest drinking establishment to join in the celebrations of this socially anointed king of all days. The vibe that you would be alien to head home to put your feet up, and much wiser to place them miss-stepping on a cheesy dance-floor until the early hours. The excitement that builds up all day marked by turtle paced productivity, and an unwritten rule of – if you want anything done, have some respect and don’t expect it on a Friday.

 

There I was, walking through Borough High Street, past Pubs that somehow convinced its punters that standing well into the street with a glass made an £8 drink worth it, beginning to feel their energetic pull. Heading to drama class, I was off to get my own dose of letting lose, without the shortcut that alcohol provides, yet still feeling a ‘fear of missing out’. Alcohol allows all shyness, apprehension, nerves and negativity to depart from me when taken in small doses. Rather excellent jokes, if I do say so myself, are no longer scrutinised and run through an over harsh judgement mill, before being delivered. My voice is that much louder, and no one need ask me to speak up or repeat myself, or not respond at all having not heard me. The true introvert that I am shuts up shop for the evening, and a more sociable, extroverted Laila steps in my shoes. I find myself able to speak to all people, free from a self critic that I’m having far too much fun to listen to. I smile more, and in turn those around me smile back, with an infectious positivity which acts to keep both the topics and the rounds ongoing. The noise from the music, and my increasingly loud bar neighbours are all easily tolerable, despite shouting for hours at the top of my lungs. The adrenaline effect means the energy sapped from my week is not of concern, if anything I can keep on going; why would anyone go home – it’s Friday?!
But not this Friday. Entering my drama class, filled with 10 very different amateur actors and actresses, I intended to open myself up to experience the freedom, happiness and open-mindedness that alcohol provides, without a drop of it touching my lips. We began the class with an energy circle; ‘Laila will start’, the teacher declared, ‘don’t plan anything, just do any movement and sound that comes to you, and pass the energy on’. Thinking and not thinking, I jumped up and down ”Whoop, Whoop, Whoop” I whirred, flailing my hands as though fanning a fire, then swaying them toward the drama buddy to my left. A series of wacky movements and nutty sounds cascaded among the 10 of us, inhibitions declining and energy increasing with each round. Feeling self conscious, I let my turns pass quickly and preferred watching the remainder of the group, smiling at the sheer craziness of the scene before me. A bunch of kids, all in the bodies of adults, playing, present and creative – truly wonderful to see. We performed to each-other short plays we’d made in groups that involved dancing cats, bomb detonating bakers, and bitchy girl friends. In a Black Mirror style dystopia, my group decided on 3 characters; a pompous self indulgent scientist, played by me, presenting a proud trans-gendered man who was by the miracles of modern science, pregnant. Of course thrown in was a boisterous lady who was homophobic and anti trans-gendered pregnant men. Miss boisterous took me by complete surprise when she got so into her character that the audience considered breaking up the fight that ensued on stage! I giggled heartily after our scene as me and Mr transgender relayed to her our shock at the full on character that came out on our little stage, as she transformed back into the bubbly class attendee she began as.

At the end of the class, sitting in a circle to review, I realised I had connected with people I did not know just two hours prior. I had been present, I had laughed a lot, my voice had been loud and clear. I made others laugh, I had acted with little thought and worry, and an abundance of positivity. I had done all of this without alcohol, and I left grinning from ear to ear, with a new grasp of what else that Friday Feeling can really be.

Mr Grey

The morning scramble began with a colleague’s text which read ‘want a lift to work?’- an offer now an hour overdue, rendering it invalid. Throwing on a black and white checked dress combined with drama-class friendly leggings, I sprayed my far too masculine ‘ENERGY 5’ deodorant, and headed toward the mirror for the final touches. Never too concerned about my look at work, I side swept my puffy mane into a rather clumsy plait that I hoped would be viewed as fashionably messy rather than as a reflection of my morning haste. The final wrap of my hairband around the paintbrush like ending of my locks was halted by a vision in the corner of my eye that stopped me in my frantic tracks. A grey hair. Zooming in by moving closer to my mirror, I learnt that it could not be excused as being bleach or a lapse in my vision. There it sat, lacking in pigment and slightly wavier than the other hairs, spitefully angled above them. I grabbed it, eager to uproot it and pretend I never saw it, longing to live in a Peter Pan world where I need not acknowledge the possibility of age related limitations. I cut off a friend mid sentence recently when she, quite logically, suggested that my newly found experience of hangovers may be due to me surpassing the big 3 – 0, turning to Google who returned to me the relieving results that no, hangovers do not worsen with age.
‘The trouble is, you think you have time’, I stared at my disappointed reflection remembering this quote, that referred to the greatest human folly of all time; the denial that we will all become sick or old, and that death certainly awaits us. We are all on the way to this death, with no idea of when the date will be, yet many of us walk filled with endless procrastinations of the things we will do in a future that we are not even promised. For this reason we must make the most of each day with the acceptance, and not denial of , the ultimate end to this episode. It is only with this darkness and ending in mind that we can appreciate and fully live the light – and not in a reckless YOLO sort of way. Braving another look at my new wispy grey hair strand I decided against yanking him from his new home. Tying the final loop on my braid I stood up, slowed down the morning exit, took a few invigorating breathes in and appreciated this slice of my life in the here and the now, ready to fully live this day, grey hair and all.

The Darkness In Between The Night

A trickle of sweat met at the peak of my spine, meandering its way toward my now-heated bed sheets. To accompany it, a drum like thud  pulsated through each limb, and I soon realised that these vibrations came from my amplified heartbeat. Rolled untidily in my  duvet, eyes open wide I faced a terror of my own making, within the atmospheric shadows of my bedroom. A ghoul with no body, yet no need for one. He meant me only harm, yet communicated none. He hovered as I quivered a motionless squirm. He edged his way closer as I feebly attempted to pull back. A branch like claw extended its way onto my torso, with a weightless touch that only deepened my sensory confusion. “Oh!” – I internally yelled. Now I felt it swerve its icy slime like hand in a creeping motion. It made a sudden jolt toward me, aligning itself with my dilated pupils. Terrified, I realised the futility of my escape, for I could not move a muscle.

I was trapped in this hellish moment,  despite full on fight or flight responses being fired by my desperate system. This was sleep paralysis. It is something I experience occasionally, but that never becomes any less terrifying with time. I share my room of darkness and silence, with only a menace dreamed up from horrors of my mind I did not know existed. A menace, I should add, who I am quite literally paralysed to run away from. Each time it happens, I wake up believing that this is it: this is the time I am paralysed for real, and still I can’t even move to express my devastation.

 I once read that the fight or flight reactions have a third, more passive and less spoken about sibling; the freeze response. With the freeze response, you can guess what happens, and it has been known to occur for many people in threatening situations. Those who elicit it are often left questioning why they did not run or fight the person who placed them under threat. Reflecting back to facing my nightmarish shadow, I wonder how distressing that must be. To know you should not be somewhere, yet your body defies you and there you remain. To know you want to lash out, yet be unable to communicate that to your limbs effectively. I imagine there are some parallels to the uneasy state between sleep and wakefulness in which I found myself last night.

 Unsure of for how long he would stay or if he would ever leave, I lay mutely pleading with the presence before me, longing for this moment to end and for my physical abilities to return once more. The pounding of my heart only got louder, and my paralysis only more concrete. The ghoul grew larger. It’s form continually shifted in an increasingly darkening projection of the mind from creatures, to demons, to large angry breathing monstrosities, all of which I was desperately helpless to escape. I felt the weight of the shape shifter, now pressing on my chest, whilst glaring soullessly into my eyes, increasing my fear that this would be my ending; that this ghoul would take my life.

‘Change tactic Laila’, a break in my panic allowed me to think. At this point I decided to deny it was happening; ‘Nope, I am not afraid of that thing because it is not even there’, I repeated to myself mentally in my catatonic state, reminding myself of advice I had been give at age 8 when having bad dreams. And finally – the spell was broken – I was free from the dream, my room contained only me once again. My hand was now liberated. Comforted by this I reached for my iPhone, sure to put the torch on for at least the next ten minutes, until I braved an attempt to sleep once more – hopeful I would not get stuck within that dark place in between.

Monday Night Viewing

As I watched the unfairly depicted South East Asian characters storm the streets in the film I was watching, I heard some shouts and screams emanating from the real world around me. Waltzing around my kitchen, so as not to appear a nosey neighbour and still keep one eye on my Netflix movie, I watched pacing around as 3 teenagers below lay on a large circular swing in my road’s park. One of them was letting out a loud fox like cry as some sort of boys joke I will never quite grasp. An elderly ‘Neighbourhood Watch’ type resident of my square repeatedly asked them to leave, prodding ‘Cry Boy’ and not taking no for an answer. The boys, eyeing each other in a voiceless egging on – antagonised the woman, going further than ignoring her demands by gluing themselves to the swing and shouting at her to ‘F*** off’ amongst other insults.

Looking to the left of the landscape it soon became clear that the reason she wanted the trio gone was to clear the play area for the 4 year old boy who lives above me, who was sat with his Mum, bobbing on the springy bird seesaw. ‘Let the little boy come on here and clear off’, I could hear the conversation more clearly as the voices climbed that few notches louder. At this point the Mother and just past toddler came closer, showing a humbling back up. ‘My son wants to use the swing, can you move?’, added the Mum with more a statement than a question. The teenagers paused , it appears only to select the most cutting of responses, ‘Your stupid son can f**k off too’. The 4 year old let out what I can only describe as a baby dolphin like wail, sensing the nasty turn this debate had taken. Admiring Neighbourhood Watch, I gazed on as she poked the boys, demonstrating that her might in bravery surpassed any physical advantage that the boys possessed.

This was becoming quite entertaining, as awful as that sounds. I considered pausing ‘’No Escape’’, pondering the appeal of viewing human suffering whether it be through the TV screen, or my window pane. My attention darted back toward the square’s park, seeing that the boys decided to jump up and run in unison, and I felt a bit uneasy seeing that the human suffering was heading toward my block. Rather astonished at the parallels to ‘No Escape’ where the main charecters hotel building was being stormed by manic rebels, I heard the boys rushing in, egos in full force; competing with who could be the meanest, who could care the least. I crowned the champion of this sorrowful competition to be Cry Boy, as he sucked in a clump of phlegm and hatred, releasing it in a vicious spit towards cute little ‘Baby Dolphin’ boy who they met at the block entrance, and who again wept with a sound that makes me sure this name is apt. Guilt at watching this arose in me, and I questioned if my involvement would be of any use, but seeing that Neighbourhood Watch was already on the phone, the only action I took was to pause my Netflix. The police soon came, the boys soon fled, and I found myself questioning their motives. The ego I can understand, and the running from the police, I even slightly fancy for the adrenaline rush it would provide, but the attacking of cute little Baby Dolphin, I just do not. Surely it makes them look weak to one another, rather than macho, to do such a thing? As Baby Dolphin’s father came home, and the story was relayed I ducked safely away from view, wondering if there is a darker ‘Harry Brown-esque’ section of society that I choose to ignore. I questioned would I have had the persistence of Neighbourhood Watch, and if caught, what punishment Cry Boy would really face. And perhaps the darkest thought of all, was why I found this scene entertaining, and why we get such joy from watching suffering on screen. For now Baby Dolphin was taken inside, safe in his Dad’s arms, and I heard his cute little sounds echo through the buildings corridor.

You’re ruining my Zen! Or Am I?

Sometimes the little moments in life can show you much larger things about yourself, that you hadn’t expected. When I was having a bath a few days ago – yes, a good old fashioned bath, I finally realised the usefulness of the time out it provided. The cradle of the warm water encouraged both a presence and connection with my mind and body I had forgotten. I found myself fascinated, dipping beneath the water, hearing my heartbeat, grateful and in tune with each pump it vocalised. I watched the candles around me dancing, sharing the aura.

There I sat, present, reflective, connected – ‘urgh, but look at all this crap around me’,  I found myself thinking as I frowned at the leave in conditioners, brushes and serums dotted along the bath panel. I decided on a solution to this newly found eyesore, and bought a nice little 4 drawer storage unit, which made me appear deceptively strong as I carried it home, such was its tall size and feather like mass. Eagerly filling my bathroom saviour up, then placing my candles around the bathroom, I knew my Zen like area was almost complete. My tranquility and peace were mere moments away, pending the moving of the remaining items  left on the floor – which belonged to my housemate. ‘Ok, it isn’t my place to meddle with other people’s things’, I reminded myself, tearing myself away from my project, and attaching myself back onto the remainder of my weekend. Turns out that this project in peace and mindfulness was already providing me with a rather time consuming distraction from the job hunting I had scheduled myself for the day.

 Two days passed, which saw me absent from my flat – and my part baked bathroom of peace. Upon my return, a sense of urgency to check whether the clutter of products had migrated to their new rightful home, returned with me. With a click of the bathroom light a smile washed over my face; ‘yes they are gone’ I sighed. The joy was short lived. You may wish to be seated for this part. The naughty items had not migrated to the swanky new drawers, no. They remained in the rusting metallic frame in which they first sat, having been merely shifted to beneath the sink. Taking pictures, I shared this with a friend, and was already plotting how to explain to the housemate the terrible mistake and disservice she had made to our lovely drawers, let alone to my plans for tranquility.

And there it hit me – the seesaw was unbalanced, the tranquility was already lost, all at my own doing. I was angry with a person who meant no harm to me, and at objects that should have no effect on me. I was so consumed by building this space and controlling all elements of it that I lost sight of my emotions and thoughts, creating a needless form of suffering which surpassed any peace that this magical drawer tower could provide. My peaceful place will forever be the trilling bird I can hear in the tree but never catch, if I do not pause and realise that it is not the bird I need to catch, but the trilling I need to embrace.

Telling The Family

Today I announced to the family my big decision. Originally opting for a subtle understated announcement, I somehow found myself dramatically declaring ‘I have an announcement!’, standing in the family kitchen. ‘I have taken the redundancy, I quit my job’, the words fell out of my mouth with an excited anxiety that returns to me as I type. Baba – the name I use to refer to my Dad, took his usual contemplative pause, as I sat yearning to know the thoughts that filled it. My sister in law sat beside me listening, and I already felt her supportive glow. ‘I think I want to be a writer, I want to use my creative side I’ve kept locked away for far too long’, I explained, adding to the tapestry of my decision. Baba responded with the warm words, which I know come from a place of parental unconditional love; ‘we will support you and I know you can do whatever you want to do’. My Mum and brother soon enter. I spill the beans, and am relieved at their faith in me. I had anticipated perhaps one panicked reaction in the style of; ‘You left your job and you don’t have a new one?!’, but feel at ease knowing I had four clearly favourable responses. Mum sweetly suggests ‘How about being a police officer?’, to which I politely decline – it seems a little different to writing, though I hear they are all bogged down with paper work.

Talks of ‘Ken’ – an author friend ensue, and with a slightly raised voice over clinked dishes he’s re-washing, Baba interjects – ‘Oh by the way we have an email from 2005 from him that we did not reply to!’. A wave of nostalgia sweeps over me as unanimous belief in my abilities is portrayed by the quartet around me. My two year old niece crawls into the kitchen, adding to the disjointed conversation – rather humoursly she is pretending to be a baby, unaware of her effortless likeness to one. I tell them about my blog, to which Baba, classically unintentionally funny, responds ‘what’s a blog?’. I explain, and conversation soon jumps to the tyres I was supposed to sell on Gumtree, which still sit blinging in the garage (they are rather ghetto fabulous alloys – don’t ask).  My Dad declares ‘Oh great Laila – you can blog them!’, and I immediately wonder if I will regret having taught him this new word. My self declared (and accurately so) ‘blunt’ older brother chips in with his views on my writing, amidst a pining for a different career of his own as a writer about cars. 

All  the words are positive – and I can certainly count on him not to sugar coat things, which somehow makes his statements all the more meaningful. I hear murmurs of a quiet confidence within me, knowing that this decision just became that little bit more real, and that little bit more magical. 

I Quit My Job.. To Start A Blog?

I’ve taken the leap of a lifetime. I’ve done it. I have finally left my job. I decided I want to write. I will bid farewell to ‘Orange Man’ – a 55 year old, right wing depressive who hands out tangerines to a chosen few of us in the office. And ‘Predator’, whose sadness portrays itself in a more subtle way, with power plays over seating arrangements. She pokes her head out from behind the forest of computer screens glaring at her unsuspecting (and wrongly seated) victim. A host of other characters soon only to be seen in my rearview include ‘Sparrow’, ‘Bright Eyes’, ‘Bi-Polar’, ‘Transformer’ and ‘Terminator’. I chuckle to myself at the realisation that these names paint a hilariously mismatched group image, yet also that they in themselves reflect my yearning for colour and creativity, in a world with a penchant for greyness and rules.

I started my day with one colleague cheekily admitting to not having done any work for the past 2.5 hours, and his neighboring colleague trumping that having done nothing for 3.5. I smiled at their brazenness and was then distracted by the grumbles of ‘Orange Man’ to my right. He spoke of the years since the age of 21, when he entered this Abyss of a career, and how soon they passed him by. I am grateful for his honesty, his observations, and if I am honest – for his depression, for it pushed me to say I have to get out, and even if the grass is not greener, I need to see that grass, and wiggle my 31 year old toes in it once more. 

Having made my decision I left my office enthused and excited, wanting to share my soon to come freedom with every passerby in the street, such were the bubbles I felt inside. Yet as the hours passed, and the jobs I viewed, the comparisons came sweeping in. The deep feeling of inadequacy that kept me stagnant in a mediocre GroundHog Day swirled in my mind unwelcome, yet still welcomed in, like a slave to his master. Such are its powers, it made me feel I should not bother to write, as I would not amount to anything significant. This mindset had me quit ballet, Saxophone, drama, swimming, dancing, running, piano – I could keep going – all under the false guise that if I could not be fantastic at something, it would be laughable to continue to try. I sit here numb in the realisation, that this is the mindset of ‘Orange Man’, and I don‘t like citrus fruits enough to become him.

I am awakening to the idea that I may not be a ballerina, but I could still perform a Jèté with joy, I may not be a star actress, but I could giggle my way through drama class, and I may not be a prized writer, but if I want to, I can enjoy these words on the page. I can put my mind and emotions down; a part of me expressed in ink, unique to me. If I want to blog, I will start with blogging, not wasting my hours reminding myself of why I cannot possibly. So I am going to take this leap of a lifetime, I am going to start this blog, and inner critic – have a tangerine, ‘cos I ain’t no orange woman.