Tuesday, 27 January 2015

I wish I'd finished this!

Last year, after my holiday to Mallorca, I began writing a blog post (below) in which sentence the important word is "began". I never finished and have just stumbled across it in my drafts folder - I enjoyed it enough to justify posting this meagre part and I hope it entertains you enough to forgive my sloth.

Also, it may remind you that I wrote about my holiday experience the previous year - also involving a swimming pool - and I was good enough to finish that one. It was highly entertaining, though I say so myself.


Approx July 2nd 2014

I know, I know. For the last week you have sat, forlorn and empty, but not altogether certain why. Then yesterday, I reappeared on twitter and a little sparkle returned to your world. Although you have since been aglow with quiet happiness, there has still been something lacking and it is only now, as you rejoice in discovering this post that everything finally falls into place.

Yeah, baby. I'm back.

So what did I do while you mourned my absence? Allow me to tell you about Swoosh and Sway.

On one day, I was feeling rather warm beneath the somewhat aggressive rays of the Mallorcan sun and so decamped from my sunbed to the pool with one of my two friends. Initially we were very mature and responsible and trod water and swam in the deeply deep end, but after a few minutes I became exhausted and mi amiga kindly kept me company in the shallow end. 

There we rested and I angled myself so I could more easily ogle the hunk of a man that was playing some kind of watersport1. After a period of time that I will leave undefined, mon amie et moi entered upon the Swoosh era. It started innocently enough. A comment about how we weren't really swimming from the deep end to the shallow end - it was more like swooshing. Then, after a race back into the deep end we hovered for a bit, agreed to return to the shallow end and cried out simultaneously "Swoosh!" as we leaped forwards. 

I immediately laughed, spluttered and fought to stay afloat. Amica mea, being a much stronger swimmer, was able to continue gliding inexorably to the shallow end without her giggling impeding her. Upon arrival we swooshed to a stop, then swooshed gently around, then further swooshed in a more rhythmic fashion which rapidly became a can-can. From there it was only a minor detour through Irish dancing, Russian, Salsa and a little tango. However, we then discovered (by way of Austria) that the best dance when in a pool is by far and away the pasa doble as one can swoosh and spray easily with one's hands when pretending to flap a cape and pirouetting around a partner. 

1 It is entirely possible that the hunk was a different day. But he seems to wiggle his way into every memory. Odd, that.


Update January 27th 2015

I recall the next incredibly obvious step was to break forth into oral musical accompaniment (in which sentence the word "musical" is horrifically abused). It is too late to say precisely which arias we belted forth as one bikini clad maiden gracefully circled another for the best part of ten minutes before we realised we had an audience, but I'm sure they were all deserving of a much better fate.

Therefore, when next you enter a Mediterranean swimming pool, take a moment to recall those noble verses which so heroically fought to be recognised and now lay beneath the rippling waters, sacrificed to the entertainment of drunken fools and prancing maids.

Sunday, 25 January 2015


It was such a little thing. Such a tiny insignificant part of the decor; an almost invisible accessory to your home. I almost missed it. Initially I had come here to ask a few questions, to find answers for someone else and when I first discovered that your door was broken and your home invaded I felt frustration that I wouldn't get my answers. I sighed and entered the building with my partner behind me. 

We found you quickly and called it in. You had clearly lain there a short while and so there was no urgent chase to catch up with your killer. Instead we had to stay. I thought about how this meant I would probably be working late again and how I never seemed to catch a break recently.

My partner had taken on the role of guarding the entrance to the property - it was likely our presence would garner local interest and we couldn't afford visitors contaminating the scene. I looked around for any obvious indicators of what might have happened here.

There was a knife, some blood, generally the room was tidy. The TV wasn't on and there were no super sleuth type clues to instantly solve the questions of what exactly happened here but I still built up a narrative. I hoped it was connected to my earlier set of questions, because if it wan't I had a nightmare amount of paperwork coming up.

I glared at you. I already knew a lot of the basic points about you - your name, age and obviously residence, as well as a few more facts but right then you were nothing more than an inconvenience. 

The knife had impaled your stomach and was angled up through your sternum. Lots of blood on your clothes, some one the floor, but it seemed the carpet had absorbed it rather than letting it spread. Why couldn't you have fought? I bitterly reflected that if you had struggled and broken any of the many bits of glass lying around we'd have a blood sample and potentially an easier way to identify the perpetrator than hours and hours of interviews, research and loss of my own life which I hold infinitely valuable.

I resented you too much to carry on at that moment so I glanced over your shelves - your book selection, the picture frames and the occasional knick knack and there it was.

A ceramic bracelet made crudely in the shape of a poppy and with a tiny ribbon threaded through tiny holes which tied together at the back. We'd made them, you and I, when we were at school. You were three days younger than me and we were both army brats. Every year, although we didn't understand it, we all wore poppies in November. One year we decided we didn't like wearing pins any more and asked for necklaces instead. My Mum was furious but your Dad was home and understood. He was the one who suggested bracelets and he was the one who found the clay we could bake in the oven at home.

It took several attempts, lots of splashed paint and a whole lot of ribbon, but we finally had our bracelets. We wore them with pride every year until we suddenly were old enough to understand and we went back to the pins.

My parents were redeployed and I was taken in by my aunt. We lost touch and I buried my bracelet with my mum. 

I'm so sorry.

I loved you so much back then. You deserve better from me than this. Anyone would deserve better.

I wish this hadn't happened. And since it did, I wish I had asked you my questions first.

Wednesday, 14 January 2015


I am a nerd. I'm a romantic, a lover of all things vibrant and good. I listen to music for the stories it tells me and I read books for their ability to let me live a new life for a brief moment.

When I'm alone I talk to myself. The thing I say more than any other is "I love my life." Sometimes it's happy, sometimes it's sad. I love my life. Sometimes it's defensive - I recall a stupid thing I did and I shake my shoulders and insist I love my life.

Thoughts, ideas and dreams chase themselves through my mind in an endless whirl. I can't sleep because I imagine a world where something bad has happened and I can't relax. When I meditate I see my meditating self suspended in a droplet of air surrounded by a vacuum which nothing can reach and every stray thought that breaches the barrier is like an arching bolt tearing through the space and clawing at my droplet. The space lights up spectacularly, over and over, with a kaleidoscope of rainbows destroying the stillness.

I imagine all things with physical sensations. When I think about sex the thing I think of most is the feeling of being held. I think about dancing and I can feel my clothes shifting over my skin as I move. 

I throw myself into things with gusto and determination. I get my own way an unreasonable amount of the time and I like listening to the rain fall.

I don't like to be trapped.

I'm incredibly defensive about my nerdiness, unlike my intelligence, my sensuality or my happiness. The difference was very hard for me to identify for a long time but now I know why.

Everything about me is something that can only be felt by me. Some things can be seen by others but those - height, weight, IQ - they all have agreed measuring devices so one can be ranked according to every other taker of the test.

Nerdiness? Nerdiness is visible and wholly subjective. And where everyone who wants to be the smartest has to live or die by the rule of IQ and everyone who wants to be 6 feet tall has to submit to the measuring tape, anyone who wants to be the biggest nerd just has to tell everyone else they are less nerdy.

I'm a nerd. I'm used to being a high-performer so I sort of expect in the bell curve I'm in the top 20%. I am definitely not out on the trailing end, but I'm high enough to qualify. Now I just need to devise a measure to prove it and no one can argue.


Tuesday, 13 January 2015


I'm too old to make wishes
If I could I would make a wish
for you to sit with me tonight

You don't have to care for me
You're not the foundation of my world
I won't lay my strains on you
If the alternative is isolation
Please sit with me tonight

You don't have to fear
That you might be pressured
This is not about sex
If you have no one you hold onto
Please sit with me tonight

You aren't my entertainment
I may talk
I do that
Follow the sound of my voice
It will lead to this place
Please sit with me tonight

I'm too young to give up on dreams
We can't always be happy
Or well fed
I dream we need never be lonely
You are welcome
To sit with me tonight