Pattering Of Not-So-Tiny Feet

I find feet perplexing and, generally, uninteresting. Is it because mine are ugly? I don’t know what it is, I just know that I don’t enjoy knowing that they even exist. And so it was with fear that I wielded the camera in the direction of my feet this week, as I am taking a course that had FEET as its first week’s task. I am sharing some of these snaps here today, my favourite one being the one with cobblestones taken at Dunham Massey today. I go so often and yet never take pics of anything below my waist. Lesson learnt I think... isn’t that ground really fetchy?

Expectations

When I built my little photo-mosaic yesterday, my trip to Oslo of a few years back bypassed me completely. It was only this morning, for no particular reason, that I found myself thinking of it, as I realised that I didn't include it in my little bird's eye view of places I've been to. And that's a shame because I remember this city as exceptionally white, blue, sunny and cool, how could I have possibly forgotten I've been there?

This sent me off on an over-drive of memories, thinking about how we tend to forget about people, places, events, unless we keep a record of them. I can assure you that the past two years or so are almost perfectly clear in my mind, and all because I vouched to keep a record of most things on here. And then I keep photographic records as well and receipt records and postcard records and lots of other records that will help me to remember, one day.

This is the reason why it is even more vital that I write a few lines today, as I have no image to post and I am seething over it. It was, and still is, the most fantastic autumnal day, with a near-clear blue sky, crinkling leaves underfoot and a cool breeze that signals the new season is well underway. I felt so at peace with myself today that my heart was jumping up and down in my chest with excitement, as if, I presume, it would do in case of winning the lottery perhaps. But no, I didn't win last night (I put a line in for real) and yet today was still a thrilling day spent in contemplation of where I am at and where I am going.

That's the clincher: where am I going? I don't know and I don't care. I realised not long ago that I resent this continuous forward-planning. I always used to forward-plan when I was younger and did it actually get me somewhere special? No, it didn't, and so now I've stopped doing it, I go with the flow, one day at a time. The post-PhD early days seemed weird. I think I was in mourning in some respects. Now I'm embracing the new and the unexpected and do you know something? When you expect nothing, you get loads.

Places

As I am camera-less, or indeed I am until Rick comes home in the evening and I can get hold of his phone, I thought I'd have a play at that age-old online favourite known as mosaic-making. I can't believe I've been keeping track of things on here for almost two years and I haven't done a mosaic yet... And so today I picked some images off Flickr and put together this pic. How many cities do you recognise? These are all places where I've had the good fortune to live and/or work and/or vacation in over the years.


From top-left: Paris, San Fran, Cannes, Milan, London, New York, Manchester, Nice, York, Chicago, Lancaster, Dublin.

Relief

See this?



That's the iPhone, otherwise referred to as 'eye pee', attempting recovery in that rice-filled hyperbaric chamber I spoke of. It's been over two days and it shows no signs of life. It was therefore with a heavy heart that I went to my local O2 shop this morning and asked them whether there are any options available to me, anything other than paying £ 35 per month for the foreseeable future while not having the actual item or using the actual service I am paying for. They played the tune I knew they would play; Apple doesn't repair water-damaged eye pees because it costs them more than selling you a new one. Of course, that makes sense, but a repair would cost me less than buying a new one, wouldn't it? I left struggling to keep the latte down. One thing is to think that the new phone 'will probably cost me £ 400' and quite another one is being told that 'the new one will cost you £ 400'. Damn blast. It really brought it home I am telling you.

On the way back, however, I resolved to call my insurance broker and friend Paul, who has always advised me against purchasing further insurance of any kind (not that AppleCare would have made a difference in this instance), because I've got a comprehensive house cover, or so he tells me. Still, I was seeing doom, and even went through the disastrous mental scenario that saw me shouting down the line: 'That's it! We're over! Don't call me!'. I am smiling as I write it, as Paul greeted the re-telling of the sob-story with a: 'I bet you were ready to threaten our relationship over a phone'. And so I was, but I needen't have worried because I can get a straight replacement through the house insurance. Thank you God! And thank you Paul for having me sign good stuff I never really read! I feel a little lost without the ability to go snap happy whenever I am around, but it shouldn't be long before I am back online and able to contact everyone on the currently lost address book. Relief doesn't come close to it.

Killer Cake

I spent the morning doing domestic things and you know how much I dislike to fritter weekends, and Sundays in particular, dealing with washing, ironing et al... And yet, sometimes, needs must, right? Righty-ho and so, at around about 2 pm, I decide that I may as well do something rewarding while the floors are drying, such as baking a cake. Now I wish I hadn't thought that one up, even though the resulting cake looks good.



My £ 400 slab of pleasure, otherwise known as the iPhone, skidded along the kitchen side as it was jostling for space with the scales and the kitchen towel and the steel bowls and the cracked eggs and the wooden spoon. It skid and skid and skid like a graceful black figure skater on ice, eventually jumping the sink lip and lodging itself right underneath the crockery drainer, into the tray that collects barely a quarter of an inch of water. And so it glugged itself to oblivion, as I watched, handheld beaters whirring away, a little bemused by the screen lighting itself up upon contact with water. For a moment I thought it costs so much because it works in water. Now it is in a hyperbaric recovery chamber filled with dry rice but it ain't looking good. So if you are one of my friends, I suggest you call me at home and leave me a message if I am not in. And don't forget your name and number because, quite frankly, I won't really know who you are, nor how to get back to you.

Leaves

Good grief, you spend what feels like two minutes off the radar because you are ill, and next thing you know it is the end of the week, and you haven't done half of what you wanted to do at the beginning, and there are another three loads to put in, and the other two still to iron and, suddenly, it is autumn.



When I went out on Monday, I didn't see half as many dead leaves as I did today, neither were most of the trees sprayed with tentative muted hues of reds, coppers and bronzes. Today it was everywhere and it stirred inexplicable feelings deep inside. One second I was feeling like fist-pumping the air, yes, autumn is here, how grand, how fab, and the next the weightlessness of sadness crept upon me like November fog on a lake. I do not even know what I am sad about. Maybe that's because I am not sad at all, just anxious about many things. I must admit that walking, or trying to walk, as if a lump of lead was strapped at the base of my spine did not help proceedings. As time went by the strain took over, in that familiar pain-becomes-anxiety-becomes-more-pain way that eventually landed me on my doorstep with a clammy veil of cold sweat upon my face, as if wet chiffon had been stretched over it.

I wish I too could shed the old leaves, could peel off all of the crinckling layers like an onion. A year ago I thought that crossing the finishing line of my PhD would have been the best day in my life and now I cannot even tell you when that day was. When you can fly in each and every direction, you may well end up flapping your wings on the spot like a hummingbird forever poised by the same flower. Not that a big girl like me could successfully compare herself to a dainty, insect-like bird but if you allow me this artistic licence, then I am sure you understand what I mean.

Magic

Who knows, maybe last week I wasn’t feeling too great because my back was about to give in to a bout of acute pain. Deep down I believe that The Body Knows Best and even though only on Sunday I was bending over backwards doing a camel, yesterday morning I was struck down by such a stabbing that I have been unable to walk straight ever since.

This is no news. I have a number of prolapsed discs and sometimes they make themselves felt, especially when I think that, hey, I am not doing too badly, am I, when was the last time that I couldn’t move, I cannot even remember. Yes, every time I think that maybe the little blighters have fixed themselves, they return with a vengeance, making me drop whatever I am doing in favour of a number of days spent crawling from door-frame to door-frame. But I am telling you, I am doing better than years ago. At some point I couldn’t even grab the door-frame; I was trying to reach the bathroom by crawling like an insect, I kid you not.

It’s funny how people always sigh when you speak of back pain. Oh yes, I get it too. Oh no, I am thinking, like this you do not. How can I tell? Only once have I met a person in whose eyes I recognised that well-known sudden mix of terror and helplessness at the mere mention of acute back pain. All the others are just normal people that try to empathise with you but who do not really know what it is like to need assistance for a wee or to brush one’s teeth or to get a glass of water. When I am like this, I cannot even turn in bed without yelping like a little dog.

When it started I forced myself through normal life but it is evident, judging by the nail-like pain that is puncturing my lower spine, that I should have just surrendered to the nerves and huddled on my side in bed, waiting for it to subside. This morning has been a disaster; I do not even feel hungry, which, really, tells a story of its own. I find it amazing that only two days ago I was stretching down with my legs plank-straight, my nose almost on my knees and my palms very nearly flat on the floor and right now my hands hang like skinny marionettes by my shins, as if a crane were holding me back. It’s a kind of an unpredictable black magic really.

Minute Weekend Update

I felt a little under the weather over the last couple of days and so I skipped the picnic yesterday in favour of one today. All the better for it, as the sky was then gray and low, while today it was clear and happiness-inducing and very autumn-like. Dunham Massey was positively heaving with people and when that is the case, deer are usually nowhere to be found. But once we set up our camp under a tree by the pond, one lone little darling wandered over and seemed to enjoy all of the ooohing and aaahing that ensued. And apart from the ghastly spider that I caught crawling up my shoulder and that I flicked into nothingness after I burst its eardrums with an earth-opening shriek, I really enjoyed myself too.

Occupational Hazards From The THE

This article, published by The THE last week, talks of the same job-seeking woes that sometimes I let seep in here. The interesting thing is that Nicholas Tesla isn’t fresh out of the uni or fresh out of his PhD; no sir, he is applying for high-end management roles within the academia (and must therefore have... twenty-five years worth of relevant experience perhaps?) and is being treated with the same contempt usually reserved for us, scum at the lower end of the research spectrum. Naturally, his piece isn't just about his own interviews, for it raises questions about the role of leaders and the one of managers, but even if you have no interest in higher education, I urge you to have a read, if only to rejoice in knowing that no, it is not just you at the mercy of HR androids everywhere.

I particularly love his reference to those institutions that do not even have the decency to acknowledge one’s application (cue, ‘superlicious silence’). I am telling you, when I read that, I felt like laughing and crying at the same time, if at all possible. Was I crying with laughter? Was I laughing while crying? I’ll never know and, let me tell you, it’s better that way.

Patrick Swayze Dies

I will remember him for being with his wife since they were teenagers and I will also remember his great love of animals, particularly horses and dogs. But of course he had millions and millions of girls and grown-up women alike swoon over him. After his turn as Johnny, each one of them dreamt of becoming a dancer that could effortlessly twirl in his arms eventually lifting off like a graceful bird. Absolute, utter, dreamy movie magic even for those of us who cannot tap a foot in tune with anything.