My Story

Today I finished for half-term. My school has stolen a week from the summer break and sneaked it to the autumn half-term, so I have two weeks off. Students were sent packing earlier than usual, so we were too. Despite having to use public transport for half of my journey, I was still home early and had the pleasure of walking Rusty in daylight for a change. As I limped along the cliff-top (I did something horrible to my foot whilst running for the bus on Wednesday evening), I turned my thoughts to my blog and pondered possible subject matter. By the time I returned home, I had settled on a few topics which was sufficient. Generally speaking, as long as I have a hook, the writing process tends to be organic and the result is a decent-sized diary entry.However, my evening has not panned out as expected. Back in 1999, I stumbled across a song called ‘Ladies’ Night’ – https://youtu.be/SRwsyzSNQoU – which was released twenty years earlier by Judie Tzuke. I marvelled at its charm and how I had never heard it before, but it happened to be the first song I heard after hearing that my cousin was unlikely to recover from her illness. Not surprisingly, I started to associate this unusual song with my cousin’s death. I remain smitten with the song, but I experience a myriad of emotions whenever I hear it. It is aesthetically beautiful on the ears in its own right. I think of my cousin, so I feel despondent, but because I am reminded of her I feel warmed with nostalgia too. I tend to play it when I feel the need to wallow in self-pity, which happened tonight and the lyrics were especially pertinent tonight. I felt I should be hanging out the metaphorical bunting and flying all the metaphorical flags (apologies Michael Hurd) because of the prospect of two weeks off, but instead, because I was let down, I wallowed instead. This is not as pathetic as it sounds. Wallowing is therapeutic. I emerge from the whole experience feeling comforted. At some point during the ‘wallow’ I will recall ‘The Hippopotamus Song’ (aka ‘Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud’) because one rarely hears the verb ‘wallow’ and it crops up in this song. Anyway, I have wallowed sufficiently, listened to suitable wallowing music and now I feel ready to look adversity in the eye and welcome him with a sardonic grin.

Fortunately, I enjoy my own company. And fortunately, I realised when I was still at school that no-one is completely on your side except you. Yes, my words sound as if they have been lifted from ‘I Know Him So Well’ from the musical Chess, but I had realised this stark fact before hearing the song. To carry this fact on your life journey is, admittedly, tinged with pathos, but it is important to keep it with you when you are single. Your family won’t always approve of, or, indeed, be interested in your life choices. Your children will, at some point, move on and you just won’t be as figural as you were once which is as it should be. Recently, I read an important piece of advice: Be the main character in your story. Other people should be secondary in your story but don’t let anyone make you secondary in YOUR story. I like to think that I have never allowed this to happen, but I suspect that I have in the past. One of the benefits of writing a blog is that you are the main character. You are that ‘first person’ referenced in English lessons about first person versus third person. Unfortunately, this is only guaranteed within the confines of my blog and of course, you are only hearing my viewpoint on every situation described by me. But then, I’m bothering to write the blog and you want to read it so I guess that’s just the way it is. And you probably know me anyway, so your judgements will be based on factors beyond this blog.

Before my evening disappointed me, I was going to begin by regaling an anecdote or two about people’s treatment of other people. I do not mean huge humanitarian crises; just day-to-day interactions in the first world between regular people. Instead, I bemoaned my evening that comprised sipping wine alone at home instead of being out. Strangely, it has amounted to the same thing … disenchantment. Rewind several years and I was more tolerant … but perhaps allowing others to steer my story a little too much. Currently, I am trying harder to keep hold of that steering wheel but at times it is difficult. The trick is (I believe) to tap into what treatment of various people brings about the best outcome in terms of your relationship with them. Some people treat everyone the same and it gives rise to problems. Having been in the company of people on the autistic spectrum for several years now, my personal view is that these are people who struggle with empathy. For example, there are two questions that I think are cheeky in most circumstances. One is ‘how old are you’ and the other is ‘how much do you earn’. I rarely ask these questions. I want to say ‘I never ask these questions’ but there are exceptional circumstances when I might: for example, I might ask a student how old they are. I cannot imagine circumstances when I might ask the other question, if I am honest. Yet I am asked these questions. The first: a lot. The second: not so much. Around half the time I am asked the first, I answer because I feel awkward about being seen as oppositional. The other half of the time, I refuse to answer because, for whatever reason, I feel I can be frank with the inquirer and tell them that it is an imposing question. ‘Why are you paranoid about your age?’ enquired a friend once. I assured him that I wasn’t; moreover, it is personal information and a person should not be placed in that awkward position. Secondary to that, I do not wish to be defined by my age. People want to know such things as ages and earnings because they wish to judge you on that information and there are worthier, less potentially stereotyping facets to someone’s persona on which to judge them. So, my point is, some people require gentler handling than others and ergo, in order to achieve balanced relationships with the people around you, you have to treat them differently.

Moving onto less reflective topics, my new hobby is still progressing well. My singing/playing partner and I have played at several open mic nights now and we are learning new material. As with acting, I don’t get nervous. Even when the Rastafarian rocked up at the Cabaret Bar, I didn’t feel nervous. It baffles me, but whereas I feel I may be missing out on an adrenaline shot, it means I don’t have to suffer the torturous journey of sweaty-palmed fear as I ‘step up to the mic’. Back in the day of treading the boards whilst free of the trammels of adulthood (although I thought I was pretty grown-up), I recall the realisation that your chances of that certain someone falling for you, increase dramatically when they have watched you perform. So I wasn’t entirely surprised when the Rastafarian stepped up the interest after he watched me perform. Had I given it any thought, I would have mused that he would either have renewed his interest in me, or become abusive again. So I’m just grateful that it isn’t the latter. Returning to the business of open mic, I have purchased a guitar so that I do not have to depend upon a guitarist to be able to perform. I have no idea how this will progress … I can read music and I can play another instrument, so I hope that it will not be an insurmountable task.

I went to see the latest play (in the same place I played Ruth Condomine in Blithe Spirit). A friend, who happened to be playing the lead, bribed me with the offer of a drink if I went to see it. I probably would have seen it anyway, but I looked forward to my pint of Guinness and black with anticipation, so the irregular news that all the pubs in Rottingdean had shut because of a water shortage, was almost devastating. After a thorough search, however, we found one skulking in a corner and so I was rewarded with a pint of pink-frothed stout. I went back to his house for some chilled guitar-playing and singing, but found myself having an impromptu guitar lesson on his 12-string guitar. It was hard. I’ll keep you posted …

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