For a town by the sea, it took me a little while on Sunday to find myself a swimming costume. One that I could afford anyhow. I tried Quiksilver first, and was admiring a lovely polka dot tankini. Then I saw that it was £50 and left the shop shortly afterwards; after a casual, not too hasty browse round in an attempt to show that I could afford these things if I really wanted to. In fact, I could have bought two, I just didn’t want to. Yeah, really.
I drew the line at Tragos, I wasn’t that desperate for a swimming costume, and they possibly only sell children’s sizes. I’m not that thin. Dorothy Perkins had none, but I did see a very nice dress that I might treat myself to. I finally found what I was looking for in Peacocks. An underrated shop, Falmouth’s is not a bad size and the clothes are pretty good. I bought myself, for the first time ever, a tankini. Not being quite confident enough for a bikini, too much stomach. Black and white striped top, plain black bottoms.
I wore it almost straight away. My housemate and I treated ourselves to a swimming session at the Falmouth Beach Hotel. A treat because it costs £5 to use the pool. However, you do get an unlimited time in there, a good size pool (about 14m long) Jacuzzis, steam room and sauna. We were there nearly two hours and had great fun strolling between the super bubbly Jacuzzis and the steam room. Those I enjoyed, the sauna was something else. I’ve reached the age I am without ever entering one, and I’m not sure I will again. I may be missing the point, but it was just too hot, I thought I was going to faint. Cold swimming pool water was never so appealing.
The only problem was the time of day we went. Sunday afternoon is not good unless you like the idea of swimming lengths whilst dodging small children being tossed across the pool by fond parents, and teenage boys thundering through the water oblivious to anything in their path. Other than that we had a good swim. I think though in the future for a simple swim I’ll stick to the Falmouth Hotel, not quite as glamorous, but cheaper and quieter, and I’m sure the Jacuzzi will be fixed soon. And Gylly beach is of course free. Perfect.
Wednesday, 27 February 2008
Tuesday, 26 February 2008
Ginger
Apparently, the main Post Office in Falmouth, on The Moor, has closed very suddenly and shockingly. A post office closing! The Moor has been under repair for the last few months, it looks like it’s being repaved, but the work has been going on a very long time. Which is a pain, as it’s meant that the market which is usually every Tuesday has almost disappeared. A few stalls have moved to Prince of Wales Quay, but it’s not the same.
Markets are great, much more interesting than supermarkets. There’s a place for Asda and Tescos, but the smaller shops are much better. I went into the health food shop on the High Street yesterday for the first time, I think previously I’d just been too lazy to walk all the way up there. It was great! So much stuff, I had a happy wander round for ages. Didn’t actually buy anything, but the staff were really helpful, and when I have more money I will buy my stocks of crystallised ginger from there.
Another secret weakness along with hazelnut and chocolate spread. Which I had a generous amount of on toast this morning, heavenly and so sweet. I had to have chocolate in some form after ostensibly giving it up for Lent. No, I’ve been pretty good, and I even walked down the confectionery section of Tescos yesterday without blinking an eye. Or drooling. Quite an achievement.
I’m eating tons of fruit and vegetables. So many raw carrots my skin will probably turn orange very soon. Since last summer I haven’t had a cold, and I want to keep it that way. Touch wood. Well, imitation wood style plastic table top anyway. I really don’t want to get ill. But I have a suspicion I might be about to. Again, I couldn’t sleep last night, and my throat is very dry today despite having drunk gallons of water. Better prepare for the worst and buy a box of balm tissues in and some lemon and ginger teabags.
Markets are great, much more interesting than supermarkets. There’s a place for Asda and Tescos, but the smaller shops are much better. I went into the health food shop on the High Street yesterday for the first time, I think previously I’d just been too lazy to walk all the way up there. It was great! So much stuff, I had a happy wander round for ages. Didn’t actually buy anything, but the staff were really helpful, and when I have more money I will buy my stocks of crystallised ginger from there.
Another secret weakness along with hazelnut and chocolate spread. Which I had a generous amount of on toast this morning, heavenly and so sweet. I had to have chocolate in some form after ostensibly giving it up for Lent. No, I’ve been pretty good, and I even walked down the confectionery section of Tescos yesterday without blinking an eye. Or drooling. Quite an achievement.
I’m eating tons of fruit and vegetables. So many raw carrots my skin will probably turn orange very soon. Since last summer I haven’t had a cold, and I want to keep it that way. Touch wood. Well, imitation wood style plastic table top anyway. I really don’t want to get ill. But I have a suspicion I might be about to. Again, I couldn’t sleep last night, and my throat is very dry today despite having drunk gallons of water. Better prepare for the worst and buy a box of balm tissues in and some lemon and ginger teabags.
Jelly and Boots
Dammit, I’ve wrecked another pair of boots. My favourite pair as well. I blame the hills and the ground of Falmouth. They’re a really nice pair of black lace up (with a handy concealed zip down the side) knee high boots, high heels but surprisingly comfortable to walk in. So I do walk in them, all over the place, including round the harbour at Mousehole which probably did for them. Now the tip of the heel has worn off, and the metal is showing through. I cannot throw them out so I’m searching for a cobbler. Back home along Borough road in Birkenhead, which was once a thriving Victorian commercial street, there remains a traditional cobblers, complete with frightening looking machinery and a proprietor in a long brown overall. He does a good job though, and has saved a lot of my footwear. Bit far to take this pair though.
My worn shoes and boots though have come good on something. I was still struggling for something to make a photographic story about; my only idea had been taking photos of cars, fiestas to be precise as I own one myself, am very fond of them and see a lot around Falmouth. But it wasn’t a great idea. Instead I’m going to take a photo of all the shoes and boots I have worn through since arriving here in September. I’d love to know the number of miles I’ve walked, must be hundreds now.
Today has been a short distance day so far, only to the post office and back. I had a parcel of socks to post back to Lancaster, having borrowed a pair when I was up last weekend. That would make a fascinating story - the things people send through the post. Tomorrow I will be sending a packet of jelly to my dad. I have a weakness for raw jelly so I sneaked packet out of his kitchen cupboard and ate it over the weekend, but felt obliged to replace it. So a pack of Rowntrees Strawberry Jelly will be on its way to Wirral soon. I used to have a long time ago when I was very young, a book from Rowntrees jelly about a boy who went to jelly land, it was great. I remember it vividly, the colours of all the jellies. Wonder if I still have it?
My worn shoes and boots though have come good on something. I was still struggling for something to make a photographic story about; my only idea had been taking photos of cars, fiestas to be precise as I own one myself, am very fond of them and see a lot around Falmouth. But it wasn’t a great idea. Instead I’m going to take a photo of all the shoes and boots I have worn through since arriving here in September. I’d love to know the number of miles I’ve walked, must be hundreds now.
Today has been a short distance day so far, only to the post office and back. I had a parcel of socks to post back to Lancaster, having borrowed a pair when I was up last weekend. That would make a fascinating story - the things people send through the post. Tomorrow I will be sending a packet of jelly to my dad. I have a weakness for raw jelly so I sneaked packet out of his kitchen cupboard and ate it over the weekend, but felt obliged to replace it. So a pack of Rowntrees Strawberry Jelly will be on its way to Wirral soon. I used to have a long time ago when I was very young, a book from Rowntrees jelly about a boy who went to jelly land, it was great. I remember it vividly, the colours of all the jellies. Wonder if I still have it?
Horror and Cocktails
More good places to go in Falmouth. Many of them, depends what you’re looking for. I was in a dilemma Saturday, I’d spent the day writing, going out only to breathe some air and post a letter. One of my course friends was planning a Rocky Horror party. I really didn’t want to go. I’m not so good at parties, I never quite know what to do, but I like just talking to people I know, finding a quiet corner. Also, I didn’t want to go because, rather lame I know, I really did have nothing to wear. My wardrobe, despite being increased by the two dresses I made is still very poor. My very kind mum though rang me the other day and told me she has posted two cardigans to me. And she gave me some money to buy a coat which I still haven’t got yet. However, I had nothing to wear for a party.
Probably, I should have gone anyway, but it was dressing up ideally. I guess it wouldn’t have mattered, but it mattered to me. Maybe it would have mattered more to my friend for me to go. I feel bad. Somehow, I just couldn’t face a party. So I didn’t go. I texted and said I had a migraine, which was partly true - I was getting the headache and lights in front of the eyes, but a couple of nurofen helped.
Instead I sat in my room and wrote at my laptop until my eyes hurt. But then one of my housemates texted me to tell me she was in The Shed with her sister who was staying for the weekend, did I want to join them? I did, so feeling a bit guilty I joined them. A friend works there, he was in and made the nicest cocktail I’ve ever had. Okay, I’ve not had that many cocktails, but it was good. A strasmopolitan, basically a cosmopolitan with strawberries, real chunks of strawberries floating in dark pink crushed ice, yum. It turned out to be a good night, and I was glad I went, despite feeling guilty about going to the party. We had fun, and I drank more than I have in a very long time - cocktails and a shot of baileys. So I’d recommend The Shed.
Probably, I should have gone anyway, but it was dressing up ideally. I guess it wouldn’t have mattered, but it mattered to me. Maybe it would have mattered more to my friend for me to go. I feel bad. Somehow, I just couldn’t face a party. So I didn’t go. I texted and said I had a migraine, which was partly true - I was getting the headache and lights in front of the eyes, but a couple of nurofen helped.
Instead I sat in my room and wrote at my laptop until my eyes hurt. But then one of my housemates texted me to tell me she was in The Shed with her sister who was staying for the weekend, did I want to join them? I did, so feeling a bit guilty I joined them. A friend works there, he was in and made the nicest cocktail I’ve ever had. Okay, I’ve not had that many cocktails, but it was good. A strasmopolitan, basically a cosmopolitan with strawberries, real chunks of strawberries floating in dark pink crushed ice, yum. It turned out to be a good night, and I was glad I went, despite feeling guilty about going to the party. We had fun, and I drank more than I have in a very long time - cocktails and a shot of baileys. So I’d recommend The Shed.
Almost to the lighthouse
It’s been a busy weekend, and Monday as well, since I haven’t posted anything since Friday. Not to say I haven’t been writing though. Far from it, I’m onto my second fan fiction story, inspired by finally being able to watch a few episodes of CSI whilst home last weekend. And it is thoroughly addictive putting a story up online, and having people send you reviews for it. It’s good writing practice (no, really) I write in chapters, and leave a cliff hanger at the end of each. Very satisfying. I have also written some other pieces as well, and edited a piece for bloc online, which is at last live, it looks good. I have some pieces on there, so can say that I am now officially published. It’s a good feeling.
What else… good places to go in Falmouth and around. Friday was going to be our swimming day, before the sea gets too cold. But then we thought, hey, we’re tough, we’ll swim even in March when the sea is freezing! Carlo and I, well mostly Carlo, decided that swimming at Gylly was too tame and Petreath would be better. We made good use of my car and drove to the sea through Redruth and Camborne, places I’ve never been before, and arrived to find the sea a furious white, lashing against the shore. Undaunted, we went to fortify ourselves with an ice cream before braving the waves. More ice cream. As well as the horrifying amount I ate last weekend, I’d also had a small tub on Thursday from the Tremough shop - why does it sell such bad things?
We ate our Feasts in the car, and savoured them. I haven’t had a Feast for years, it was almost as good as I remembered. Then at Carlo’s suggestion, not that I’m easily led, we went to another cove further along the coast, in sight of Godreavy lighthouse (Virginia Woolf’s ‘To The Lighthouse’) if there hadn’t been a thick mist creeping up. It was an amazingly treacherous walk down to the cove. I had worn the most unsuitable shoes, and all I could think about when scrambling down the most slippery patches of rock was ‘my mum will kill me if I fall and drown.’ I didn’t fall and drown though, or crash onto the rocks beneath. Very, very sharp and black rocks. So that was okay.
Unfortunately the tide was in, so we never quite made it into the sea. But we sat and watched it pounding the grey sand for a good while. And we sat and talked. A good talk. We made our plans to come back when the weather is warmer. Gylly beach next Friday, into the waves.
What else… good places to go in Falmouth and around. Friday was going to be our swimming day, before the sea gets too cold. But then we thought, hey, we’re tough, we’ll swim even in March when the sea is freezing! Carlo and I, well mostly Carlo, decided that swimming at Gylly was too tame and Petreath would be better. We made good use of my car and drove to the sea through Redruth and Camborne, places I’ve never been before, and arrived to find the sea a furious white, lashing against the shore. Undaunted, we went to fortify ourselves with an ice cream before braving the waves. More ice cream. As well as the horrifying amount I ate last weekend, I’d also had a small tub on Thursday from the Tremough shop - why does it sell such bad things?
We ate our Feasts in the car, and savoured them. I haven’t had a Feast for years, it was almost as good as I remembered. Then at Carlo’s suggestion, not that I’m easily led, we went to another cove further along the coast, in sight of Godreavy lighthouse (Virginia Woolf’s ‘To The Lighthouse’) if there hadn’t been a thick mist creeping up. It was an amazingly treacherous walk down to the cove. I had worn the most unsuitable shoes, and all I could think about when scrambling down the most slippery patches of rock was ‘my mum will kill me if I fall and drown.’ I didn’t fall and drown though, or crash onto the rocks beneath. Very, very sharp and black rocks. So that was okay.
Unfortunately the tide was in, so we never quite made it into the sea. But we sat and watched it pounding the grey sand for a good while. And we sat and talked. A good talk. We made our plans to come back when the weather is warmer. Gylly beach next Friday, into the waves.
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
Identity
Writing is happening at the moment, slowly. I’m finding it difficult to capture the chaos of thoughts and ideas onto paper. This is bothering me. Without meaning to be arrogant, a few of my course mates (that’s an awkward phrase…) said to me the other day about our screenwriting class that they don’t like speaking after me because I have good ideas. This was very nice, but at the same time I now feel pressure - I’ll have to continue to have good ideas, and that scares me. That’s the trouble with a reputation, good or bad, you have to live up to it. I remember in junior school when I was seven, one of my friends asked me to help her with spelling because, she said, I was the best at spelling in the class. From then on, spelling tests became a fixation; I had to get them all right every week, or my status as the best speller would be lost. Similarly, people have on occasion told me they see me as very calm and relaxed, and that they can’t imagine me shouting. All good to hear, but sometimes I do shout, and I’m certainly not always calm. I just try to be, which of course doesn’t help me remain calm, oh dear.
So I’m going to have to strive to keep the ideas and the writing going. That’s how it should be though, needing something to drive you on. I feel like here, starting out somewhere different, that my identity became fragmented, and I’m still figuring out how to put it back together again. I’ve managed bits of it myself, other people have put bits together as well. A year ago, I was a completely different person. I came for the open day here, not sure what I would find, very unsure of myself, and the process began there. Since then, I have written more than I have in years put together, met so many people I would never have met otherwise and done things I couldn’t possibly have done anywhere else. Today I found myself replying to an advert from Miracle Theatre looking for models. There’s so much I could do, I want to keep on finding things I’ve never done before (modelling aside, I used to model for an artist in Liverpool, never for a theatre though) There must be so many things I can do that I don’t even know I can. I want to find them.
So I’m going to have to strive to keep the ideas and the writing going. That’s how it should be though, needing something to drive you on. I feel like here, starting out somewhere different, that my identity became fragmented, and I’m still figuring out how to put it back together again. I’ve managed bits of it myself, other people have put bits together as well. A year ago, I was a completely different person. I came for the open day here, not sure what I would find, very unsure of myself, and the process began there. Since then, I have written more than I have in years put together, met so many people I would never have met otherwise and done things I couldn’t possibly have done anywhere else. Today I found myself replying to an advert from Miracle Theatre looking for models. There’s so much I could do, I want to keep on finding things I’ve never done before (modelling aside, I used to model for an artist in Liverpool, never for a theatre though) There must be so many things I can do that I don’t even know I can. I want to find them.
Home
Thinking back over the weekend, I was only home from Friday night to Monday afternoon, but it threw me out in terms of daily living. I must be a creature of routine, there are certain things to be done every day, and nice as it is, going back home knocks these out. Plus all the turmoil it created this time over where I want to live. I love my family and my home, I don’t know though if I can live there anymore. And my friends as well. Many of them, my oldest friends (in the way of knowing them for a long time!) are established at the other end of the country. One of my best friends called round to see me on Saturday and she and my other best friend, who makes up our triumverate, had bought me the pair of slippes from Next that I had been wanting for over a year. They had been shopping and had missed me. How do I leave such friends as that to live down here?
That’s part of the challenge of postgraduate study in your late 20s I guess. It takes far more uprooting from established lives, and not all your contemporaries are doing it at the same time. I had to be different when I first went to University: most of my friends moved as far away as possible, the farthest was Emma who went to Dundee from Wirral. I chose Liverpool, not in isolation, as a few other from my year at school also did, but not amongst my close circle. It’s taken me ten years to feel ready to properly move away, but I think I had to do other things first, and be really ready for it. I’m not a confident person at all, and moving away from home at 18 was just too much, so I waited.
Having done that though, I went to an extreme just before I graduated and went to work in Wyoming for three months. It nearly gave me an anxiety breakdown in the end however, and I returned home, very homesick. It took a long time to get over, and I did safe things for a while, living at home, doing a job that wasn’t too demanding. Then I got a bit bolder and moved out, still only five miles away from my parents. The move here I think had been building for a long time: the idea of it came at my middle sister’s graduation ceremony - she got her BA in textile design at Falmouth - and I fell in love with the place that day. Then I saw the Professional Writing course, and it somehow became inevitable I would come here. I finally moved away. And now I don’t know if I can go back.
That’s part of the challenge of postgraduate study in your late 20s I guess. It takes far more uprooting from established lives, and not all your contemporaries are doing it at the same time. I had to be different when I first went to University: most of my friends moved as far away as possible, the farthest was Emma who went to Dundee from Wirral. I chose Liverpool, not in isolation, as a few other from my year at school also did, but not amongst my close circle. It’s taken me ten years to feel ready to properly move away, but I think I had to do other things first, and be really ready for it. I’m not a confident person at all, and moving away from home at 18 was just too much, so I waited.
Having done that though, I went to an extreme just before I graduated and went to work in Wyoming for three months. It nearly gave me an anxiety breakdown in the end however, and I returned home, very homesick. It took a long time to get over, and I did safe things for a while, living at home, doing a job that wasn’t too demanding. Then I got a bit bolder and moved out, still only five miles away from my parents. The move here I think had been building for a long time: the idea of it came at my middle sister’s graduation ceremony - she got her BA in textile design at Falmouth - and I fell in love with the place that day. Then I saw the Professional Writing course, and it somehow became inevitable I would come here. I finally moved away. And now I don’t know if I can go back.
Tuesday, 19 February 2008
Ice Cream
Okay, it’s one of the coldest days of the year, frost still un-melted from yesterday, the sky freezing blue and white, but we still went for a family day out to the Cheshire Ice Cream Farm. We were not the only ones either - the place was full. My sister and I managed to eat two each. I indulged in generous scoops of Choc fudge cookie dough and then millionaire’s shortbread; Margaret enjoyed ferrero roche and another millionaire’s shortbread. We did feel slightly ill afterwards, so it was just as well that by sheer coincidence, the BBC’s ‘Street Doctor’ was filming and eating ice cream at the time. Both of us were too embarrassed though to confess any illnesses or afflictions, but my mum, after being encouraged by us, went over and asked why her fingers turn corpse-like in the cold. Reynaud’s Syndrome apparently. The Street Doctor himself was very fine looking indeed, perhaps I should have been overcome with a fainting fit in front of him.
Once again, I was caught out with just how cold it was. I really did lose all feeling in my feet, standing around on concrete blocks looking and cooing at new-born calves (the farm has real cows to make the ice cream) but it was so worth it for the taste of that ice cream. It’s been a while since I’ve had any, apart from last Monday in Mousehole as I recall now… but before that it must have been a good two months. Roskilly’s is very, very good stuff, but I feel Cheshire Farm just has the edge. Something I might have to consider in my future living plans.
I just can’t seem to stop eating sweet things. I have pledged to give up crisps, chocolate, sweets, cakes and biscuits for Lent, but have weakened and cheated a little several times: half a chocolate and banana pasty last weekend, a small piece of cherry pie yesterday, and three liquorice allsorts also last weekend. I blame my Auntie for that. And now, I have a very large bag of jelly belly beans in my possession. Care of my sister after her trip to New York. They are possibly one of the best varieties of confectionery in the world, and one of my favourite ever kinds of sweet. But if I am to keep up my Lent thing, which I usually manage to do, then they’re going to have to stay in their bag for the next few weeks. Torture. Still, I haven’t forbidden myself ice cream, plenty of room for that.
Once again, I was caught out with just how cold it was. I really did lose all feeling in my feet, standing around on concrete blocks looking and cooing at new-born calves (the farm has real cows to make the ice cream) but it was so worth it for the taste of that ice cream. It’s been a while since I’ve had any, apart from last Monday in Mousehole as I recall now… but before that it must have been a good two months. Roskilly’s is very, very good stuff, but I feel Cheshire Farm just has the edge. Something I might have to consider in my future living plans.
I just can’t seem to stop eating sweet things. I have pledged to give up crisps, chocolate, sweets, cakes and biscuits for Lent, but have weakened and cheated a little several times: half a chocolate and banana pasty last weekend, a small piece of cherry pie yesterday, and three liquorice allsorts also last weekend. I blame my Auntie for that. And now, I have a very large bag of jelly belly beans in my possession. Care of my sister after her trip to New York. They are possibly one of the best varieties of confectionery in the world, and one of my favourite ever kinds of sweet. But if I am to keep up my Lent thing, which I usually manage to do, then they’re going to have to stay in their bag for the next few weeks. Torture. Still, I haven’t forbidden myself ice cream, plenty of room for that.
Dolphinholme
Saturday was another trip up to Lancaster, even further up North. I came up inadequately dressed, to the point of ridiculousness. I had been lulled into the wearing of short sleeve tops, and shoes without socks the last week in Falmouth, and had packed up my bag of clothes to come home accordingly. With one pair of socks as a concession to it being February. I’m fortunate not to have hypothermia today. The frost stuck around all day, and I spent much of the day almost sitting in the fire to keep warm in the farmhouse. I did at least take a coat with me, so we ventured out for a walk across the fields. By the time we got back, I could hardly speak my face was so cold; my feet were numb and my hands and fingernails were an intriguing shade of blue.
It was very beautiful though, and worth the cold. My cousins’ farmhouse is near Dolphinholme, set in acres of land and with the river Wyre running through. The sun sets magnificently across the fields, and with frost silvering the grass it had to be seen. It is one of the most peaceful and calming places I know, and whenever I go, I come away feeling younger. It is somehow timeless, but old, very old. The farm is called Street Farm: a Roman Road cuts through just beyond the farmhouse, which my cousin Eric excavated himself, just across the stream where he planted a weeping willow.
We have been set a task for a short photography course we are taking as part of the MA, the idea being to tell a story in five images, so I made good use of my camera and got some really nice images of the sun sinking behind the trees, and of the churchyard at Dolphinholme which is filled with crocuses and daffodils. Surprisingly, for being so far North, the daffodils were rivalling the ones I’d left in Cornwall and were full in bloom.
Today has also been one of still, winter beauty. The trees are stark against a sky the colour of a blood orange. It might snow, it just might. I really hope so.
It was very beautiful though, and worth the cold. My cousins’ farmhouse is near Dolphinholme, set in acres of land and with the river Wyre running through. The sun sets magnificently across the fields, and with frost silvering the grass it had to be seen. It is one of the most peaceful and calming places I know, and whenever I go, I come away feeling younger. It is somehow timeless, but old, very old. The farm is called Street Farm: a Roman Road cuts through just beyond the farmhouse, which my cousin Eric excavated himself, just across the stream where he planted a weeping willow.
We have been set a task for a short photography course we are taking as part of the MA, the idea being to tell a story in five images, so I made good use of my camera and got some really nice images of the sun sinking behind the trees, and of the churchyard at Dolphinholme which is filled with crocuses and daffodils. Surprisingly, for being so far North, the daffodils were rivalling the ones I’d left in Cornwall and were full in bloom.
Today has also been one of still, winter beauty. The trees are stark against a sky the colour of a blood orange. It might snow, it just might. I really hope so.
Cold Up North
Very, very cold. Driving up the M5 and M6, I felt the temperature drop the higher up the country I got. The first time I’ve been back home since Christmas, it felt like time to go back just for a little bit. I actually haven’t felt homesick this term, becoming more involved in life here has made me more secure in my new life in Cornwall, but it felt time to see my family and friends again.
So I added another 350 miles to the car’s mileage - my trip clock tells me that since January I have driven over 900 miles. By the time I get back to Falmouth on Monday it will be well over 1200. This is I think one of my little autistic traits, we all have them, mine is liking to know numbers of miles, and also miles per gallon. I can discuss mpg and fuel efficiency like a professional. I was probably over-excited about getting home on just one tank of petrol, mpg probably abut 45, and with 20 miles worth to spare. Strangely though, I seemed to have lost ten miles somewhere along the way: at Christmas it was 351 miles (not that I’m pedantic about these things…) this time, I pulled up outside my parents house 337 miles after leaving Falmouth after following exactly the same route. It bothers me more than it should.
Being away from places does make you feel more warmly towards them than you normally would. As I passed through each county on Friday evening, once I’d managed to escape the A30, I was greeting them like old friends: Gloucestershire, how are you? Worcestershire, hey, missed you, how’s things? By the time I reached Cheshire, it was getting very emotional. I got to Wirral finally, the place I’ve lived all my life apart from some brief interludes including this time in Cornwall, and something seemed different. It wasn’t the same. I realised with a shock that I hadn’t missed it. And that I would be happy not to live here any more. The ties here are family and friends. The place has lost my heart. I need to do some thinking about my future.
So I added another 350 miles to the car’s mileage - my trip clock tells me that since January I have driven over 900 miles. By the time I get back to Falmouth on Monday it will be well over 1200. This is I think one of my little autistic traits, we all have them, mine is liking to know numbers of miles, and also miles per gallon. I can discuss mpg and fuel efficiency like a professional. I was probably over-excited about getting home on just one tank of petrol, mpg probably abut 45, and with 20 miles worth to spare. Strangely though, I seemed to have lost ten miles somewhere along the way: at Christmas it was 351 miles (not that I’m pedantic about these things…) this time, I pulled up outside my parents house 337 miles after leaving Falmouth after following exactly the same route. It bothers me more than it should.
Being away from places does make you feel more warmly towards them than you normally would. As I passed through each county on Friday evening, once I’d managed to escape the A30, I was greeting them like old friends: Gloucestershire, how are you? Worcestershire, hey, missed you, how’s things? By the time I reached Cheshire, it was getting very emotional. I got to Wirral finally, the place I’ve lived all my life apart from some brief interludes including this time in Cornwall, and something seemed different. It wasn’t the same. I realised with a shock that I hadn’t missed it. And that I would be happy not to live here any more. The ties here are family and friends. The place has lost my heart. I need to do some thinking about my future.
Friday, 15 February 2008
Trying to be funny
I'm trying hard, and I think I'm succeeding. Funny acting. After a few hitches, I'm now acting in two comedy sketches with the DumbFunded Theatre Group, set up by three of my friends on the course. And I'm really enjoying it. It's something I'm rediscovering that I love doing, and am actually not bad at. The last proper comedy stuff I did was in Year 9 at school, when we did some improvised sketches, I played one of an old couple, bored of their marriage, and was delightedly surprised when everyone laughed at my friend and me (they were meant to). Since then, I've neglected it a little, other than taking a role in 'Daisy Pulls It Off' by Denise Deegan with an amateur theatre company, the Carlton Players in Birkenhead last year. It was so much fin playing a schoolgirl again, almost ten years after leaving school. A gymslip can knock years off you.
So I'm now doing it again, hoping I can make people laugh. It's quite addicitive. I'm not a great actress, but I'm good at certain things. I'm pretty good at learning lines too, which always helps. That's a weekend task: if only I had a tape recorder, I could play it on the very long drive home which I am embarking on once again this afternoon. Six and a half hours is a long time to fill, and driving is a very boring thing often. At least it's a clear, dry day. Bitterly cold, though I guess this is as cold as it gets in Cornwall.
I certainly looked funny today: I am a student ambassador, and have been up at Tremough for the postgraduate open day. Lots of visitors which was great, including loads for the Professional Writing course. I hope people like it, and want to come next year. It was quite weird as I came myself in February last year, and spoke to students then, and did wonder at one point where I would find myself a year on. And here I am. Dressed in a mustard yellow hooded sweatshirt, which clashes horribly with a purple skirt. But at least it was warm for standing outside ushering people through the car park barrier. I was very visible - the outfit was completed by a fluorescent vest.
So I'm now doing it again, hoping I can make people laugh. It's quite addicitive. I'm not a great actress, but I'm good at certain things. I'm pretty good at learning lines too, which always helps. That's a weekend task: if only I had a tape recorder, I could play it on the very long drive home which I am embarking on once again this afternoon. Six and a half hours is a long time to fill, and driving is a very boring thing often. At least it's a clear, dry day. Bitterly cold, though I guess this is as cold as it gets in Cornwall.
I certainly looked funny today: I am a student ambassador, and have been up at Tremough for the postgraduate open day. Lots of visitors which was great, including loads for the Professional Writing course. I hope people like it, and want to come next year. It was quite weird as I came myself in February last year, and spoke to students then, and did wonder at one point where I would find myself a year on. And here I am. Dressed in a mustard yellow hooded sweatshirt, which clashes horribly with a purple skirt. But at least it was warm for standing outside ushering people through the car park barrier. I was very visible - the outfit was completed by a fluorescent vest.
Re-dressed
Last weekend was a busy weekend, not only did I entertain my cousins and my auntie, but I also spent Saturday slaving over a very hot sewing machine, and plying a needle and thread. After being intrigued by an advert for saving clothes rather than throwing them away, I made enquiries and booked myself on, having almost a whole wardrobe full of stuff that I don't wear.
It was really good! For a small fee, we had a day at Falmouth Methodist Church, tea, coffee and biscuits and use of sewing machines, ribbons, thread and material. Along with the guidance of Lynee who does amazing things with old clothes. She didn't even flinch when I tipped out my very large bag of clothes that I wanted to renew.
In the end, by 4pm I had made myself two new dresses out of 3 skirts and another dress, chopped in half. I had so much fun! The best bit, and scariest bit initially was using a very large and sharp pair of scissors to slice through the material. Once I was in there though, there was no stopping, and I cut and hacked away with abandon.
The sewing machines were fab, the same ones I used at school, slightly yellowed, liable to heat up to burning point if you leave the light on for too long, but reliable, and almost fool-proof. I even managed to sew in a respectably straight line. So at last, I now have some new things to wear, and on Wednesday and Thursday I showed off my new dresses to admiring fellow students. I was only a little smug about the fact that I'd made them myself. Now of course I want a sewing machine of my own, if only I had the room. Recycling clothes - it's the future
It was really good! For a small fee, we had a day at Falmouth Methodist Church, tea, coffee and biscuits and use of sewing machines, ribbons, thread and material. Along with the guidance of Lynee who does amazing things with old clothes. She didn't even flinch when I tipped out my very large bag of clothes that I wanted to renew.
In the end, by 4pm I had made myself two new dresses out of 3 skirts and another dress, chopped in half. I had so much fun! The best bit, and scariest bit initially was using a very large and sharp pair of scissors to slice through the material. Once I was in there though, there was no stopping, and I cut and hacked away with abandon.
The sewing machines were fab, the same ones I used at school, slightly yellowed, liable to heat up to burning point if you leave the light on for too long, but reliable, and almost fool-proof. I even managed to sew in a respectably straight line. So at last, I now have some new things to wear, and on Wednesday and Thursday I showed off my new dresses to admiring fellow students. I was only a little smug about the fact that I'd made them myself. Now of course I want a sewing machine of my own, if only I had the room. Recycling clothes - it's the future
Tuesday, 12 February 2008
Visitors
Sleep at last, I actually, for the first time in over three weeks, slept almost a full night last night. And even managed an hour or so this afternoon. I still look and feel slightly haggard and dazed though. I think it was having such a busy weekend. A great weekend though. My first visitors to Falmouth, my Auntie and my cousins. I felt like a railway child waiting at The Dell to meet them off the train on Saturday evening, I stopped short at running down the platform though, and in truth, there was no cloud of steam, nor was it my dad on the train returning after a stretch in prison… so okay, nothing like the railway children.
It was fun to meet people off the train though. And I was very noble, carrying bags and guiding them the least hilly way to their guesthouse. They come from Cheshire, which is flat, so the hills were a bit of a shock. I reassured them that their calf muscles would be spectacular after just a few days up and down the hills.
I saw them off at the station this morning, and muscles were definitely more defined. As were mine. We spent Sunday wandering round Falmouth, and indulging totally in a chocolate and banana pasty, I couldn’t even begin to comprehend the calories that must have contained, so worth it though. I’ve not tasted anything so chocolatey for ages, not since adventures with a chocolate fountain at my friend’s summer barbecue.
To work it off, we took the boat over to St Mawes and explored the streets. I can’t believe I’ve never made it over there before now. It was lovely, and the perfect Spring day, cold and bright. We had a great time on the beach, collecting stones, scrambling over rocks, and pretending with my eight year old cousin that we were spies trying to prevent an invasion. It’s amazing what a small piece of driftwood can become in imaginative hands.
Yesterday we went to Truro, I threw them out into the city centre while I went to the record office with the course, then we went to Mousehole, indulged in ice cream, far too much ice cream. But again, a burst of exercise sorted that out: we ran races along the beach at Marazion, splashed in the sea, and nearly sunk into a pit of seaweed. So much adventure. The sun set as we were there, one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. I felt sort of responsible for the weather, vanity, but having visitors is a responsible thing. I think they saw everything at its best. And they were pleased to see me. That was the best thing.
It was fun to meet people off the train though. And I was very noble, carrying bags and guiding them the least hilly way to their guesthouse. They come from Cheshire, which is flat, so the hills were a bit of a shock. I reassured them that their calf muscles would be spectacular after just a few days up and down the hills.
I saw them off at the station this morning, and muscles were definitely more defined. As were mine. We spent Sunday wandering round Falmouth, and indulging totally in a chocolate and banana pasty, I couldn’t even begin to comprehend the calories that must have contained, so worth it though. I’ve not tasted anything so chocolatey for ages, not since adventures with a chocolate fountain at my friend’s summer barbecue.
To work it off, we took the boat over to St Mawes and explored the streets. I can’t believe I’ve never made it over there before now. It was lovely, and the perfect Spring day, cold and bright. We had a great time on the beach, collecting stones, scrambling over rocks, and pretending with my eight year old cousin that we were spies trying to prevent an invasion. It’s amazing what a small piece of driftwood can become in imaginative hands.
Yesterday we went to Truro, I threw them out into the city centre while I went to the record office with the course, then we went to Mousehole, indulged in ice cream, far too much ice cream. But again, a burst of exercise sorted that out: we ran races along the beach at Marazion, splashed in the sea, and nearly sunk into a pit of seaweed. So much adventure. The sun set as we were there, one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. I felt sort of responsible for the weather, vanity, but having visitors is a responsible thing. I think they saw everything at its best. And they were pleased to see me. That was the best thing.
Thursday, 7 February 2008
Buying and Selling
Definite feelings of paranoia yesterday. I was quietly minding my own business, making my way peaceably down the lawn in front of Tremough House to walk back to my car, when halfway down looking up from admiring the Primrose Path (there’s another story there) I realised that a large crowd of people had stopped at the bottom of the slope and were all standing looking towards me with cameras and binoculars.
This threw me into a dilemma: did I carry on boldly, breezily unaware, or did I bolt back up the slope in a guilty fashion? Emboldened by something, lunch maybe, I continued and tried not to think about how I was walking, and made it safely to the bottom without slipping up in the mud. It was spoilt at the last moment though when I made a wrong step and stood heavily in a muddy puddle. Fortunately, the crowd didn’t seem to have noticed. Binoculars and cameras were trained on Tremough House. I felt a little deflated that that was the object of attention. Probably just as well, I’m not the right kind of figure for an object of observation.
Sadly, the muddy puddle finished off finally my loyal pair of boots. There’s really no hope for them now, and as I write they are lying on the floor covered in mud with the holes that I’d been ignoring now painfully obvious. I think it’s really time to let them go. And I have seen a very nice pair in the shoe shop in town. Time for a little essential shopping. I think I can justify it as I sacrificed one of my Chalet School books on eBay the other day. A first edition hardback, with dust wrapper which in collector’s terms is as good as it gets. I have a small collection of them, and when times get tough I sell a couple, and buy them back when times are good. I do also read them, books could never be just a commodity.
This threw me into a dilemma: did I carry on boldly, breezily unaware, or did I bolt back up the slope in a guilty fashion? Emboldened by something, lunch maybe, I continued and tried not to think about how I was walking, and made it safely to the bottom without slipping up in the mud. It was spoilt at the last moment though when I made a wrong step and stood heavily in a muddy puddle. Fortunately, the crowd didn’t seem to have noticed. Binoculars and cameras were trained on Tremough House. I felt a little deflated that that was the object of attention. Probably just as well, I’m not the right kind of figure for an object of observation.
Sadly, the muddy puddle finished off finally my loyal pair of boots. There’s really no hope for them now, and as I write they are lying on the floor covered in mud with the holes that I’d been ignoring now painfully obvious. I think it’s really time to let them go. And I have seen a very nice pair in the shoe shop in town. Time for a little essential shopping. I think I can justify it as I sacrificed one of my Chalet School books on eBay the other day. A first edition hardback, with dust wrapper which in collector’s terms is as good as it gets. I have a small collection of them, and when times get tough I sell a couple, and buy them back when times are good. I do also read them, books could never be just a commodity.
Fun
The joy of writing is definitely returned to me. I’m still absorbed with my piece of fan fiction for CSI New York, and having a huge amount of fun writing it. Even better have been the reviews and feedback people have given me. I’ve now posted up three chapters onto the fan fiction forum, and have had some fantastic comments. I sat there reading them with a huge grin, it’s so worth it writing. If nothing else, I’m writing and enjoying it, and giving other people pleasure by reading what I’ve written. Some people wrote they’d been really moved by what I’ve written, that was cool. I’ve nearly finished my story, one more chapter to go, and I have plans for more.
I haven’t been forgetting though the official stuff. I’m now feeling more confident about my non fiction project, which is definitely going to be about the phenomenon of Steam Engine / Train enthusiasts. Hopefully, in a few weekends time I can go up to the Severn Valley Railway and have a footplate ride. Which is always an amazing experience, and one I would recommend to anyone. The thrill is awesome.
Script ideas I’m still a little unsure of, however I have one or two, so can work something out. One is also on a Steam Train theme, which would be good to link in with my other module. I love hearing other people’s ideas as well, despite sometimes suffering writers’ envy that I hadn’t come up with them. I’ll deal with it.
Finally, this weekend I’m having my first visitors to Cornwall. I was beginning to feel a little paranoid that I’d been here since the end of September and not even my mother had made it down. Okay, so it’s a seven hour or so drive down, but surely for the eldest child… Instead, she has promised to visit in March, and this weekend my Auntie and two cousins are making the journey from Chester. I’m really excited about it, and looking forward to showing them round and showing them all the places I love here. Weather as it was yesterday would be lovely, so I shall hope. Even if not I know it won’t matter.
I haven’t been forgetting though the official stuff. I’m now feeling more confident about my non fiction project, which is definitely going to be about the phenomenon of Steam Engine / Train enthusiasts. Hopefully, in a few weekends time I can go up to the Severn Valley Railway and have a footplate ride. Which is always an amazing experience, and one I would recommend to anyone. The thrill is awesome.
Script ideas I’m still a little unsure of, however I have one or two, so can work something out. One is also on a Steam Train theme, which would be good to link in with my other module. I love hearing other people’s ideas as well, despite sometimes suffering writers’ envy that I hadn’t come up with them. I’ll deal with it.
Finally, this weekend I’m having my first visitors to Cornwall. I was beginning to feel a little paranoid that I’d been here since the end of September and not even my mother had made it down. Okay, so it’s a seven hour or so drive down, but surely for the eldest child… Instead, she has promised to visit in March, and this weekend my Auntie and two cousins are making the journey from Chester. I’m really excited about it, and looking forward to showing them round and showing them all the places I love here. Weather as it was yesterday would be lovely, so I shall hope. Even if not I know it won’t matter.
Tuesday, 5 February 2008
Rain
It rains like nothing else in Falmouth. Last night the clouds literally fell down on us. After midnight, still not sleeping but at least there was something to enjoy, I had to open my window just to watch the earth being assaulted by water. So much rain. It was awe inspiring to watch, I felt like a little girl again watching thunderstorms. The noise was tremendous: like waves exploding. I put my hand out of the window just to be a part of it, but was thankful that the rest of me was inside, I wasn’t struggling through the streets.
Ironically then today, I was out when the rain chose to wash us out again. I’d had a lovely warm swim at the Falmouth Hotel, a treat I allow myself now and again, and had more or less dried my hair. I stepped out of the door and into a grey sheet of water. Being slightly fatalistic at times, I sighed and carried on back to the house. And arrived back five minutes later practically drowned. I looked like I’d swum in my clothes, and then showered in them as well. After laughing at me, which I had to do myself, my housemates kindly made me a cup of tea.
I didn’t mind being wet too much, there’s something slightly romantic about being soaked in the rain, hair dripping, skin wet. Slightly muddled visions of Jane Austen heroines in the arms of heroes, or at the very least, Andi McDowall in four Weddings came to mind. Sadly though, I have no romantic hero just at the moment to rescue me, the situation is vacant. Catching a chill is also very unromantic. I just drank my tea and shoved my clothes in the drier. And realised once again that my boots leak and I need a new pair. I need rescuing.
Ironically then today, I was out when the rain chose to wash us out again. I’d had a lovely warm swim at the Falmouth Hotel, a treat I allow myself now and again, and had more or less dried my hair. I stepped out of the door and into a grey sheet of water. Being slightly fatalistic at times, I sighed and carried on back to the house. And arrived back five minutes later practically drowned. I looked like I’d swum in my clothes, and then showered in them as well. After laughing at me, which I had to do myself, my housemates kindly made me a cup of tea.
I didn’t mind being wet too much, there’s something slightly romantic about being soaked in the rain, hair dripping, skin wet. Slightly muddled visions of Jane Austen heroines in the arms of heroes, or at the very least, Andi McDowall in four Weddings came to mind. Sadly though, I have no romantic hero just at the moment to rescue me, the situation is vacant. Catching a chill is also very unromantic. I just drank my tea and shoved my clothes in the drier. And realised once again that my boots leak and I need a new pair. I need rescuing.
Saturday, 2 February 2008
The Sea
I understand Iris Murdoch when she wrote 'The Sea, The Sea'.
There is a lot of water in Falmouth. Every day, I pass by or see water. Be it through my window at the sea and harbour, or streaming in floods down the roads and pavements. Sometimes when it hasn’t even been raining. Where does it all come from? I’m not complaining though. I love water, am drawn to it even. I can stand and watch the sea for hours at a time, or a stream gushing along, every second in a different state. There are streams all around Tremough. I’d love to know where they start, how they used to be. I like the fact that when I walk up the drive, I pass across water.
I always used to play in water when I was a child, a little brook or a muddy puddle would do. I couldn’t pass water without touching it, I had to dip my fingers in, swirl them around to have the sensation. Strangely though perhaps it took me until I was eleven to learn to swim. And it was something previously that I had been afraid of doing. I think because I realised the danger of water as well as its allure. The sea is the same. I am drawn to it, and if too far away, I become deeply homesick for it, but even when I swim in it, I am aware of the terribleness of it, and the vast empty wastes of water that I am on the edge of.
We always went on holiday to Aberdaron in North Wales, a village by the sea. Hours on the beach, and at the water’s edge, but I could only go so far, before the water frightened me. And I would have spectacular nightmares at times about the sea sweeping me away, dragging me into itself before I could scream.
I think the sea partly drew me here. It Is never the same. Today I walked along a familiar route round Pendennis Point, and along the coast road. The sea was metallic, heaving sheets of silver and lead, and at the same time, blue steel at the edges. Not a day to insult the sea with a swim.
There is a lot of water in Falmouth. Every day, I pass by or see water. Be it through my window at the sea and harbour, or streaming in floods down the roads and pavements. Sometimes when it hasn’t even been raining. Where does it all come from? I’m not complaining though. I love water, am drawn to it even. I can stand and watch the sea for hours at a time, or a stream gushing along, every second in a different state. There are streams all around Tremough. I’d love to know where they start, how they used to be. I like the fact that when I walk up the drive, I pass across water.
I always used to play in water when I was a child, a little brook or a muddy puddle would do. I couldn’t pass water without touching it, I had to dip my fingers in, swirl them around to have the sensation. Strangely though perhaps it took me until I was eleven to learn to swim. And it was something previously that I had been afraid of doing. I think because I realised the danger of water as well as its allure. The sea is the same. I am drawn to it, and if too far away, I become deeply homesick for it, but even when I swim in it, I am aware of the terribleness of it, and the vast empty wastes of water that I am on the edge of.
We always went on holiday to Aberdaron in North Wales, a village by the sea. Hours on the beach, and at the water’s edge, but I could only go so far, before the water frightened me. And I would have spectacular nightmares at times about the sea sweeping me away, dragging me into itself before I could scream.
I think the sea partly drew me here. It Is never the same. Today I walked along a familiar route round Pendennis Point, and along the coast road. The sea was metallic, heaving sheets of silver and lead, and at the same time, blue steel at the edges. Not a day to insult the sea with a swim.
Train Spotter
Absent for a few days. The work has been almost getting out of hand. I can see myself, if I don’t really sit down and get myself writing hard, slipping behind and missing deadlines. Suddenly, there seems to be a huge amount to do. Bloc at last has been sorted – we go live in the next few days and last week took a lot of work to edit, get things uploaded, and the site re-organised.
The uploading I had been terrified about, worried most I think that I would get it wrong and be responsible for the crashing down of the whole site. Which stems from I think the time when I was at Liverpool University: one day after pressing something on my computer in a networked room of twenty odd computers, the screen of every monitor went blank. I fled, coward that I was and sincerely hoped it hadn’t been me. Fortunately the next day everything seemed none the worse. And also fortunately, I didn’t bring down bloc. I’m sure it can withstand my technical fumblings.
I’ve been conducting research as well, and feeling like a proper researcher and writer. The Falmouth Bookseller and Waterstones in Truro were very helpful to me when I asked about transport books and their market. For non-fiction, I’ve decided definitely to write about a passion for Steam Engines. Something I admit to, though I’m certainly not in the same league as my dad who will cheerily admit to owning records of Steam Engine noises. I will however confess to a predilection for car spotting in my childhood – I became obsessed with Ford Fiestas for a while, strangely enough. It may be no coincidence that I am now owning my fourth fiesta… hmm, hadn’t connected the two before now.
I’m never far from my inner anorak, or inner obsessive personality. Fan fiction still has me in its grip, though I had to shelve my fab CSI story to get proper work done. But I took a few hours out yesterday to finish chapter 1, and I became slightly over excited this afternoon after posting it up on the internet, and seeing my work there. I just need some feedback now, it’s what writer’s live for and live on I guess.
The uploading I had been terrified about, worried most I think that I would get it wrong and be responsible for the crashing down of the whole site. Which stems from I think the time when I was at Liverpool University: one day after pressing something on my computer in a networked room of twenty odd computers, the screen of every monitor went blank. I fled, coward that I was and sincerely hoped it hadn’t been me. Fortunately the next day everything seemed none the worse. And also fortunately, I didn’t bring down bloc. I’m sure it can withstand my technical fumblings.
I’ve been conducting research as well, and feeling like a proper researcher and writer. The Falmouth Bookseller and Waterstones in Truro were very helpful to me when I asked about transport books and their market. For non-fiction, I’ve decided definitely to write about a passion for Steam Engines. Something I admit to, though I’m certainly not in the same league as my dad who will cheerily admit to owning records of Steam Engine noises. I will however confess to a predilection for car spotting in my childhood – I became obsessed with Ford Fiestas for a while, strangely enough. It may be no coincidence that I am now owning my fourth fiesta… hmm, hadn’t connected the two before now.
I’m never far from my inner anorak, or inner obsessive personality. Fan fiction still has me in its grip, though I had to shelve my fab CSI story to get proper work done. But I took a few hours out yesterday to finish chapter 1, and I became slightly over excited this afternoon after posting it up on the internet, and seeing my work there. I just need some feedback now, it’s what writer’s live for and live on I guess.
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