poppy petalled metaphysics

Tonight the long-awaited Surprise Birthday Plan went into action- by which I mean that sophonica's long planned birthday present for me was given.

Macbeth. At the Gielgud. With Patrick Stewart in the lead.

Yes, actually, I did squee. A lot. The ticket has got pride of place on my wall between the Othello ticket and a photo of Little-Big-Harris.

The theatre is gorgeous.

I don't know how to describe the production without breaking down into mindless babble, really. PS was superb. And I mean that. I was frightened he wouldn't be and I'd be saddened, but my. He has a beautiful voice and beautiful diction, but these were upheld by his incredibly sensitive performance.

Lady Macbeth (Kate Freeman) was also brilliant, and the rest of the cast were fantastic too. (Some of you may be entertained and almost as jealous to know that Scott Handy - who is Adhemar's Herald in 'A Knight's Tale'- played Malcolm. And was also really good.)

Highlights (comedic and real)

One: Lady Macbeth somehow not doing as I would have done and giggling "Patrick Stweart just kissed me and fondled my breast". Frankly, I probably wouldn't wash for a year, to keep the 'fluence on me.

Two: Macbeth inexplicably groping Lady Macbeth halfway through. We're sure it was meaningful, we're just not sure why. Into the same category we put him sucking her finger when 'appreciating her greatness'. This did come back utterly disturbingly when she reprised the action while sleepwalking.

Three: For the first time in years being utterly terrified in a theatre.

The witches (dressed up as nurses to go with the remarkably effective 'military Russia-esque' setting) were incredibly good: little things, such as them appearing in corners of rooms, serving at the dinner table where Banquo appears with knives held behind their backs, vanishing from the set only to flicker- briefly- into a picture on a small television screen a minute later, than disappearing, were used to massive and terrifying effect. The thing about the knives was particularly unnerving, since you only noticed halfway through... a cleaver and a meatsaw also flickered into one's consciousness and then vanished again.

Banquo's ghost striding down the dinner table (ignored by the guests of course) from upstage to downstage and clattering to a halt in front of Macbeth as ribbonlike trails (subtle at first, then more and more ominous) of blood (as if in water) flickered across the walls. Then reappearing a moment later as the guests and a newly relaxed Macbeth and Lady Macbeth dance; as they swap partners, Banquo appears in time to be in front of Macbeth to almost be grasped as partner...

The murder of Lady Macduff and offspring consisting of two very brief scenes: their surrounding by armed men (including Seton with a massive roll of duct tape from which he pulled a piece- the sound was amplified to petrifying effect), then a blackout, then a seconds-worth glimpse of children and wife in positions of mortal agony and conflict with said armed men... then gone.

Four: The murder of Banquo taking place in a completely simulated railway carriage, implied through movement and stage direction. Worked, though it sounds like it shouldn't.

Five: Malcolm's statement that he has 'ne'er yet known woman' as a blunt admission that he's been lying about being a super-bad sinner who could be worse than Macbeth. It came as a complete shock to both sophonica and I, since we haven't looked at the play indepth since we were fifteen. Woah, Malcolm. Too much info, dear boy.

Six: The use of 'cistern of lust' in reference to Scotland. Hilarious in its first incarnation, but possibly the BEST "That's what she said!!" in history.

Seven: sophonica also coming out with the line "I went to the theatre and rustled in my peanuts", before reacting with utter horror and suggesting that this was not a phrase for polite company. My response, of course, was as above.

Eight: I had forgotten just how good the language of Macbeth is. The "fill me topfull of direst cruelty", "husbandry in heaven" and "sound and fury" speeches were utterly breathtaking.

Nine: Patrick Stewart flapping and making goose noises.

Ten: The stage directors having the courage to have full and deadly silence on the stage for about four minutes following Ross's report to Macduff of his family's massacre. It was beautiful, really beautiful.

Eleven: The entire cast singing in Russian. And a strange ominous humming that greeted everything dire and dark-- by the end, its very soft beginning made me shiver.

I should sleep now, but in conclusion- awesome. Hilarious in places, but mainly awesome. Thanks, sophonica. :)

PS: PATRICK STEWART. EEEEEE.

As some of you may know, I've started temping in order to find a way to resolve my current money problem; or rather, my current lack of money problem. It's great. I get a change of scene every couple of weeks, and the pay's, well, pretty good.

I started my first week-long assignment on Friday, and I'm now on Full Day II. It's my first day on my own, and it's been... interesting. Yes, interesting.

I described the job to englandcalling as being "temping- (ha, nearly wrote 'tempting'- s'what she said) - in an IT department, logging IT faults and distributing them to people who can actually deal with said faults.

Some consist of 'I can't open that word thingie' and some consist of 'I can't link my server to the dual main processor and frankly, I'm beginning to think that it's a problem with the [incomprehensible] and the [meaningless to me], which means I'm going to have to [utterly baffling] with the [obscure]. Who are you? You don't sound like [name of girl whose job I'm doing while she has a (well earned!) holiday]!' It's varied.

My answer is generally 'OK, I see. Would you mind giving me a little more detail / repeating that again? No, I'm not [name of said girl who is on holiday], I'm [a mystery wrapped up in an enigma wrapped up in an AWESOME rack].'"

This remains a viable description. Today words have flooded over my head. The average conversation consists of me furiously typing as a list of incomprehensible error messages flap around my ears like somewhat verbose ducks. I no longer bother asking where the full stops and breaks are; it doesn't matter to the people destined to fix the problem, and it confuses the caller. Instead I end up rattling off a paragraph resembling a computer's stream of conscious on a really bad day. (Think Hex). As far as I'm concerned, it could as well be written in Inuit. Or binary, for that matter.

The people to whom I relay these postmodern epistles are masters of what is, to me, senseless. Like the crew in The Matrix, who see 'red hair, woman, child' instead of strings of numbers, my colleagues can instinctively read the meanings of my tentatively procided missives with any need for intervening translation. I don't know what an 'Error 91' is, nor an 'Error 3343' (I was looked at strangely when I missed a digit from this one, apparently due to surprise that I didn't just know it wasn't right) but apparently these numbers are as simple to comprehend and employ as 'alliteration or 'syntax' are for me. (Or 'fundamentally oxymoronic' for that matter.)

My inexperience (and the hugely well-known lady whose job I am covering) has lead to a certain amount of confusion.

(in tones of faint indignation) "You're not Laura!"

"Er, no. I'm Becky. I'm covering for a week while Laura takes a holiday."

"Oh."

Silence.

"Can I help you with something?"

"Oh. Er- oh. Yes. I- what's your name?"

"I think we're revisiting old ground..."

These calls make a little more sense than the ones who cry "LAURA?!" at me in tones of utter horror, as if my predecessor has had a horrible voicebox accident that has spawned my unwelcome (and clearly less than dulcet) tones.

I have honestly had them all today. The hilariously technical (see my description to englandcalling), the simply hilarious ("I can't open this email." "My emails have gone!" "I've been off sick for a day and I've forgotten my password" Ah, and your name was Mr Gold FishBrain, yes?) to the plain bizarre. My two favourites from the last category are as follows:

The one-line email with no sign-on or sign-off, no capitals, no punctuation of any kind and three typing errors. When I idly checked who the sender was through sheer bemusement, I found that he was one of the Executive team. When I spoke to him later, he was quiet, well-spoken, good-mannered, and completely lacking in signs of grammatical coma.

The ultimate: The call from someone named Joanna Smith* that I logged as normal and passed on to the correct person. When he reached it in his queue, some five hours later, he was informed that Joanna Smith no longer worked for the company. Nervous breakdown due to unresolved computer error? Or one final pre-redundancy hoorah of defiance, by confusing the IT Helpdesk.

Answers on a postcard...

 It is not often that I am frustrated by an inability to express myself. All of those of you who know in an 'offline' capacity will smile at the previous sentence, knowing that I rarely trouble to consider whether I am expressing myself or just talk- but the point remains. Whatever else I lose, the words are always there. But at the moment, I feel as if I have lost them.

Oddly enough, the city that was once my last choice of places to live in is suddenly the one place that I am desperate to have back. Norwich, even with St Stephen's Street, and Prince of Wales, and all of the other divy areas that we have for so long avoided, has become an anchor, a place that I can run to and know off by heart. My mother once told me that Little-Big-Harris was unsettled by visiting me there, the first time they came, because it was a place he would never share- that it was the place where, for the first time, I was somebody entirely separate from the family.

And for that, I love it. But I suddenly don't have it any more. Even when I go back to visit, it'll be different because it won't be mine any more. Home, my own home, is abruptly a bedroom, rather than a house; it is setting the table when I am asked rather than grabbing a knife and fork in transit; it is a huge garden rather than scrubby weeds and a disgusting outdoor toilet-that-was; it is having a bus every hour (and no guarantee of that) rather than one every ten minutes; it is going to Waitrose in the car, rather than walking to Sainsbury's in the evening (and humming the Pride and Prejudice theme tune just to upset Sophonica). It is, oh, god, it is everything that it was when I was almost eighteen and chafing to go away and be independent- but now, of course, I am twenty, nearly twenty-one. I have no wish to be that person again, but I feel almost as if I am becoming her again- insecure, overemotional, unfunny and cripplingly certain of my own exasperating faults and ridiculous behaviour.

All of this is, to an extent, irrelevant. Things have changed, and will continue to change- and I must grow up with them... but just now it doesn't feel that easy.

I am also aware that this was an unbelievably overemotional blog entry- a sin of which I am not usually guilty. So I must apologise, though writing it all down makes it somehow easier.

As for how I feel about friends- and absences- this is as good as it can get. I didn't write it- but just here, again, my once ever-present ability to express myself has abandoned me...

One Art (Elizabeth Bishop)

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

 

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

 

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

 

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

 

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

 

- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Bring me my bow of burning gold

Bring me my arrows of desire

Bring me my spear: oh, clouds unfold!

Bring me my chariot of fire...

I will not cease from mental fight

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand

Till Jerusalem is builded here

In England's green and pleasant land.

 

Why, you ask, am I quoting the final verse of Jerusalem? Well, the answer is simple. Since Thursday (as close friends know) I have been tucked up in the wilds that exist beyond the Watford Gap: yes, I have been (as sophonica always puts it) In The North.

To me this is normal, since my grandparents are ex-Yorkshire (now living in the rural idyll that is the Midlands) and Durham in their heritage. I'm used to snow, to villages with ponds and attractively placed village churches. Yet my forays to the frozen wasteland have in the past attracted much comment among my peers. In England the North-South divide still exists, if only for the purposes of humour. My own accent, and the comments made thereon, prove this much.

 

However, this visit is a little different. For one thing, Thennifer's amazement over our rural springtimes (even in the middle of a (small, admittedly) city has opened my eyes to just how remarkable our springs are. For another, I have the family's new Nikon D80 to play with. *sweats with almost religious camera-fever*. And, of course, this time we engaged in that most English of pursuits: the Game Fair. 

For those who don't know, my dad's family are particularly 'country'. They can all shoot, and gun dogs are de rigeur. Admittedly I'm not keen on shooting living stuff, but I am accounted a good shot with an air rifle and targets. And the gun dog love has passed on down the generations. I grew up with a springer spaniel, if not in my direct family,

in those of my grandparents and my aunt and uncle. The Game Fair is, as Kit (Little-Big-Harris) put it, "an occasion where the dress code is 'dog and landrover'." We wear sensible shoes, and waterproof jackets, and have dogs on the least flashy leads available. (You can gauge a family's level of rurality *and* hereditary financial position via the lack of flash in the leads on the dogs: the landed gentry have merely a piece of rope.)

My family are very definitely in the "not gentry but brought up to understand what is appropriate" camp. We aren't the nobility that can be seen gently pootling through the crowds in astronomically expensive wellies that

belonged to one's grandmother and an old flat cap that has been worn on house party weekends by seven members of royalty. But nor are we the flashy newcomers who arrive in a shiny new Landseer, drop our 'aitches' and talk loudly "abaht buyin' a gun". No, dear, one doesn't buy a gun. One inherits it, or is bought it for one's twenty-first birthday. Fundamental error. 

-

I have to admit to an utter adoration for the Game Fairs of this world. We watch gundog scurries, where Springer spaniels and Labradors and other working dogs can do what they are trained to do to their hearts' content. It's lovely to

see the animals I adore being truly happy, and they are. We also watched a sheepdog demonstration, I indul

ged my talent for target shooting, and we watched falcon displays. And it was all so, so cripplingly English. I half wished Thennifer had been there, simply for the experience: but then again, I'd have had to spend much of the day explaining what the hell was going on, and what all these codes of dress, speech and behaviour really meant.  

 

Next update probably from the South again. Hmm...

So, this evening I returned home from a gruelling two hours at work (in which time I bleached the floor, scrubbed the sink, sorted some stock out, cashed up, did some sales, tidied and ate a horrendous quantity of chocolate). When I got to the gate, I could see the damp gleaming in the dark of the alley.

Foreboding hit me like a brick to the face, and I hurried in to find that the pipe that bath and shower lead into...is steadily leaking. Oh, good. So we debate calling an emergency plumber, and eventually decide not to, as we'll probably not get the money back in the end. However, until the plumber really comes tomorrow... we have no bath OR shower.

Which is why, if you had entered my kitchen at 9pm this evening, you could have found me bent double over our sink as Sophonica tipped hot water over my head from the bowl that sits on top of my nice old-fashioned scales. I felt like a 1940s child, as the rapidly cooling water poured down the back of my top, and I rubbed Fructis (perhaps a slight anomaly) into my not-quite-damp-enough hair. Ah well. No photos were taken, since neither phone quite worked, but I am currently clean. If miserable about the madness of the house..

Alas, good souls, the weather is foul. Let us gather, instead of enjoining upon the ritual Hunt, and listen to a tale of ancients, a tale of woe, a tale of epic bravery. Let Miss Bex, the storyteller of our brave tribe, step forward.

Stoke the fire, and let us huddle round in our Hall of Tales. Let her begin.

Back in long ages past, almost two turns of this planet around our star, four maidens did search for a safe abode where, mayhap, they could rest in peace against the days of strife that had yet to come.

A fortress they found yonder, bare steps from the fertile plains of Unthankia. Victuals were there, and entertainments to lighten their hearts.
Earth moved, and the fortress began to crumble with its age. The maidens begged those who kept the fortress to mend all, yet nothing was done.
Sir Mould of Kitchen began a stealthy assault, and nothing could be done to assuage his vile advances. The maidens were forced to accept his presence within their very walls.

So life in the tainted fortress of Chestonia continued, a little darker every day as the fortress they so loved crumbled 'neath their very feet. Until one day, the forces of Shower began to assault the walls of their safe haven, battering at the walls with every weapon in their defence. Yet what could be done?

Finally the maidens' protectors agreed to make a change. Leave through this secret passage, they urged. Return to us in one week, and we will have saved thy home from these perils. Hurry away, and when you return, all will be well.

All was lies, yet these virtuous maidens gave all the benefit of their prodigious grace and faith. Flee they did, through the secret passage and home to their families.

"Stay," the families begged when the allotted time came. "Remain."
Yet the maidens kept faith and returned, o'er periolous depths and reaches.

Lady Lucy of Cory returned first, fresh from her travails abroad. Her entrance was devastating to her wits, since the fortress lay in ruins. Far from the haven expected by all, the fortress had been destroyed by the very souls who had guaranteed its safety. Walls fell in ruins, chambers desecrated, illumination gone.
In desperation she climbed to the highest point and viewed the ruin that remained. The evil marauders had left their trail of destruction everywhere, from living areas to washing areas to defences. All was disintegrating before her.

In desperation, she flung herself upon the mercy of the maidens' supposed protectors. All was to no avail, and in despair Lady Lucy cleared her chamber and wrote desperate messages de texte to her fellow victims. What could be done?

Prepared for the worst, Lady Sophia and Lady Rebeque returned with apprehension filling their hearts. The sight was not so dire, yet the desecration of their private chambers cut them to the quick. After doing what could be done, the three maidens (one had yet to return to her lonely abode) gathered for a council of war.

"We must fight!" they agreed, faces grim and o'ercast with tidings of war. Lady Lucy girded herself with the implements of Law, while the Ladies Sophia and Rebeque gathered their own weapons. Cuirasses were braced and breastplates buckled firmly into place as the maidens of Chestonia prepared to fight.

The treacherous ProLettians would soon know of their error, in conflicting with the brave maidens they had vowed to serve.

This Doctor Who obsession is reaching a dangerous point. I've always been a bit geeky on the subject, but it's getting ridiculous. I can't stop crushing on Harry Sullivan (which, as Mr Farnell pointed out, is a ridiculous thing to d

o: HS is not one of the best companions, nor is he particularly attractive) and I can't stop watching the bad light and computer effects in nostalgic acceptance.

I am turning into my father.

In other news:
- My beautiful new coat is the light and joy of my existence, but the obsessive need to keep it pristine is haunting my nightmares.
- The weather has gone from sublime (yesterday) to ridiculous; at 8am this morning, thick snow was falling and settling on my spring garden. Frostbite, here we come! Maybe Thennifer has some point about her MAUVE FLORA.

- I have not given any thought to my Virgil question. Damn.

- Charlie is coming tomorrow! The only time I will see him in the next month. I'm not in any sense a clingy girlfriend, but that seems a little harsh. I expect presents. And will get: "Isn't my presence present enough?" Ahah. Ahahaha. Funny.

- Squiff and I yet again devastated the children's section of Waterstones. Why is everything intended for under-18-year olds glittery? Or worse yet, has pictures of the people on the covers? Seriously, guys: it's not cool. We're not seven. Give us an understated cover and I would take your HAND OFF for it.

Today's Book (a new and upcoming feature): Demon Lord of Karanda by David Eddings. Good God, his writing is terrible. I grew up with these books, but every female character is intensely annoying. If they make one more feminine joke, or say "Yes, dear" in a patronising manner... there will be violence done upon their persons.

Today's Song: 'Wild World' by Cat Stevens. My, that man knows an infectious tune when it bites him on the ankle. Featured in tonight's (final and shocking) episode of Skins, it made my evening.

Eesh, better get a wriggle on and go to bed. Lots to do in the morning, including making floor space so I can actually enter my room...

England in the springtime is the best place to be. I don't care where you're from, or how beautiful your own place is. My blog, my rules. Ugh, I hate the word 'blog'. Find me a different one, please.

Anyway. England. Spring. My personal love for the spring is easy to fathom: Winter here would suit me down to the ground (I like my rain, my snow and my crisp mornings) if it wasn't for the lack of light, which unfortunately leaves me

somewhat moodier than normal. Summer in England is too hot for me, though the sunshine and the long, light days are ideal. Spring falls in between. (I like Autumn as well, clearly.)

But it isn't just that. Spring here is so fundamentally gorgeous. Honestly, it is. Let me paint a picture for you.

I am currently sitting in my home (as opposed to university) bedroom with the wide windows flung open. My bare feet are tucked up on the chair, and the light breeze that gusts occasionally through the blind is cool. My mug of coffee is perched next to me, and sits at the perfect not-quite-burning-hot temperature. I am content with all these things.

Outside, the sun is shining. (Many will suggest this to be miraculous) The day feels clean, fresh and framed by the blossom that shivers on the branches of the many trees and falls in drifts across the roads, the paths. It falls around snowdrops, which are beautiful this year, and oscillates in eddies around the straight green necks that hold the daffodils firmly righted. All these things I can see from my window. Everything smells fresh, and clean, and new. The sun makes everything bright and clever in the garden, and that I appreciate.

In other news: I am faintly disturbed by my growing crush on Harry Sullivan, a Tom Baker-era Doctor Who companion. Why would I do that?

Favourite quotes from today's job search:

Clearly my definition of accuracy differs somewhat from some people's 'high degree's of accuracy'.

I'm desperately excited about the possibility to work in a: 'dymanic and fascinating company'.

I despair for the English language, I really do.