The Block and the breaking of.
20 December 2013 • amwriting, block, creative writing, finally, happy, illness, life, mind, songwriter, writer, writer problems, writers block
People will say it's simply a psychological anomaly, common in creative types who have worked themselves too hard for too long. Or more cynical so-called professionals will insist it's simply an author's way of begging for an advance, some more money to swallow up and spend on ornamental typewriters and vases of flowers to 'inspire' themselves again.
Personally? I find Writers' Block to be something chemical within; dormant until a dark day comes when the creative mind has been bled dry and needs a rest. So it lapses, lazily, into a comatose state and leaves behind toxic fumes and lingering sadness for its host to rely on and live off for as long as they can - until they, too, are exhausted and physically fighting off the fumes as they are engulfed and find themselves longing for the very same sad coma.
I've not had the dreaded Block since I was eight years old, and couldn't finish my short novel I'd been writing because I couldn't think of any plausible way that a cockroach and a grasshopper could fall in love.
Tonsillitis, depression and late nights have been my life as of late - desperately trying to keep up with what needs to be done, and if needs be pushing away the things that matter most to me.
The other day I was sat in the fascinating and Fringe-esque venue that is The Railway inn; the downstairs room reeks of beer, whiskey, steel strings of countless young musicians and smoke that has poured in through the windows out of the mouths of misunderstood students. Now we, arguably the misunderstood, gather in the bar area surrounded by our coats and bags, props and costumes, nervous and exhilarated and waiting for that rush that only a one-off onstage performance can give. Exciting. Tense. Amazing. All around me there's chatter and giggles, nerves and urgency all bubbling and jangled together. I so badly want to be a part of it.
However, my sore throat and my sad mind won't allow it. Weeks of strenuous rehearsals, pointless arguments, passive aggressive comments and packets of painkillers have all blurred beyond recognition and are preventing me from enjoying... Anything. I sit in the corner, staring longingly at the bar and the bottles of Scotch beyond, feeling exempt and unworthy. Drained and useless. Sore and world-weary. I'm dreading my onstage scream, and my laptop that awaits me at home. The empty Word documents and the long-neglected blogger page. Today is yet another day I must struggle through, listening to the words hitting the window pane in my head, buzzing and begging to get out, before staggering to bed and sleeping them all away.
My boyfriend (I can now say these words without an anxious intake of breath beforehand - yay me!) gave me my Christmas presents today; three presents, one theme. 'In case of Writers' Block'. I feel angry and devastated that in the whole time he's been with me, he's barely read a word I've written. It's my fault, and it needs to change.
He bestowed these beautiful treasures unto me: books I'd been poring over in Waterstones, ones I wanted but couldn't justify buying for myself; 'Wreck This Journal', 'This Is Not A Book', and '642 Things to Write About'. Also, a bottle of Jack Daniels (I happened to have bought him one too, because we're beautifully in sync as only a couple can be/raging alcoholics who need whiskey to function in social situations) and two full-size bars of chocolate.
I love dating a writer. Songwriting is his thing, and strangely enough his scribbling and tuning has filtered into my locked-up brain and woken me up a little. The presents, and a rather excellent film we watched tonight, were the greasy breakfast and pot of filthy coffee I needed right after waking up, to keep me going through the day.
'Saving Mr Banks' is a splendid, magical masterpiece. Laden with shameless symbolism, packed with cheese, and deliciously exploitative of the Mary Poppins generation - it's perfect. A stubborn author, a whimsical figurehead and his little clique of tapping secretaries and fancy-footed songwriters, plus a philosophical and friendly driver who loves the Californian sunshine and tries to win over the typically tight British woman... And one heartfelt wish to preserve a beautiful childhood character, battling with a drive to bring her to life on the big screen. Two passions colliding. Piano keys tinkling. Chim-chimminys aplenty.
The little girl within me - the one who sat every weekend on her grandparents' reclining sofa with a plate of peanut butter sandwiches watching 'Mary Poppins' on VHS - she was transfixed, seeing her beloved Disney nanny again and discovering the story behind her.
The twenty year-old young woman, the outer me, she wept three times throughout the film and whispered along to every musical number as it was brought to life before her in Walt Disney's rehearsal room in 1961. She chatted her boyfriend's ears off about it all the way home. She got in and immediately sat herself down on the sofa with a glass of water, frantically typing her every thought out on her Blogger app.
Suddenly, she was writing again.
And in all honesty - I really, really want an ornamental typewriter.
22.
12 November 2013 • 22, about me, facts, Gracie, life
Hi, my name's Gracie.
I always find Irish coffee helps my studies, the little things enrage and satisfy me, I'm working on a Shakespeare group performance involving lingerie and orgasm noises, I'm starting to enjoy red wine, Fleetwood Mac soothe my soul, I'm constantly confused by at least two people, cuddles on the sofa are all I need at the end of a long day, my workmates just 'get' me, I have a date tomorrow, I live at the Terrace Bar, I'm bored of my hair colour, Iwant NEED to see McBusted live, Remembrance Day means a lot to me, I haven't been home in a while, I'm applying for Masters courses, I've been smiling a lot more lately, and it's all because of you.
I do one of these posts every month (ish).
I always find Irish coffee helps my studies, the little things enrage and satisfy me, I'm working on a Shakespeare group performance involving lingerie and orgasm noises, I'm starting to enjoy red wine, Fleetwood Mac soothe my soul, I'm constantly confused by at least two people, cuddles on the sofa are all I need at the end of a long day, my workmates just 'get' me, I have a date tomorrow, I live at the Terrace Bar, I'm bored of my hair colour, I
I do one of these posts every month (ish).
'Hey'; A truly terrible love story.
• boy, cheat, disappointment, drunk, ex, him, love, love story, memories, mistake, old times, one night stand, remembering, sex, vicious circle
'hey'
Suddenly it all comes back. The speeding down the dual carriageway on a Tuesday morning, parking across the road rather than in the student car park, running to the reception area just for that fifteen-minute window between his lesson and mine, when we'd bump into each other and have conversations - conversations about nothing, endless 'what even is Sociology' and fake laughter, trying not to stare at his crooked and weirdly beautiful smile or nipple bar poking through his polo shirt. Sitting on the grass helplessly watching from a distance as he threw an arm around his petite pretty girlfriend's shoulders; 'oh, I so wish he would just dump her stupid skinny arse...' The drunk mess at that birthday party, sitting on his lap, just the one kiss; the tea leaves telling me he was lying, he wasn't what I wanted, things would go sour if I continued down this road. The disappointing night(s), clutching on to his bulky shoulders, breathing deep the smell of beer and Hollister Mens', thinking 'I swear, this is what I wanted...' The drunk phone calls at 3am that happened for months, him rambling down the phone about how much he missed me, how he wants to have 'that night' again; putting him on speaker so my friends could laugh along with me. He was the start of a bad pattern, a vicious circle of self-loathing and disappointment. I remember waiting in the corridor for him to finish lessons, driving him home feeling his hand on my bare leg, queuing for an hour outside Kings nightclub in the rain just to see him for two songs on the dancefloor, watching him kiss someone else a few feet away from me without even caring that he'd just lost his ride home, hiding from one another in Spoons before having that awful conversation when he said sorry and I said his haircut looked 'dumb'.
Waking up in the morning in his bed, and seeing him sat right on the edge with a phone against his ear, quietly muttering "yeah, see you later. Love you too."
Having to see his girlfriend, a girlfriend I didn't even know existed, every day in lessons and every night out in town. Him calling me while I'm out with my friends, my best girl picking up the phone and threatening to do unspeakable things to his balls should he ever contact me again.
Two years later. Why on earth would I even dare to respond? No good can come of this.
"Hey."
Suddenly it all comes back. The speeding down the dual carriageway on a Tuesday morning, parking across the road rather than in the student car park, running to the reception area just for that fifteen-minute window between his lesson and mine, when we'd bump into each other and have conversations - conversations about nothing, endless 'what even is Sociology' and fake laughter, trying not to stare at his crooked and weirdly beautiful smile or nipple bar poking through his polo shirt. Sitting on the grass helplessly watching from a distance as he threw an arm around his petite pretty girlfriend's shoulders; 'oh, I so wish he would just dump her stupid skinny arse...' The drunk mess at that birthday party, sitting on his lap, just the one kiss; the tea leaves telling me he was lying, he wasn't what I wanted, things would go sour if I continued down this road. The disappointing night(s), clutching on to his bulky shoulders, breathing deep the smell of beer and Hollister Mens', thinking 'I swear, this is what I wanted...' The drunk phone calls at 3am that happened for months, him rambling down the phone about how much he missed me, how he wants to have 'that night' again; putting him on speaker so my friends could laugh along with me. He was the start of a bad pattern, a vicious circle of self-loathing and disappointment. I remember waiting in the corridor for him to finish lessons, driving him home feeling his hand on my bare leg, queuing for an hour outside Kings nightclub in the rain just to see him for two songs on the dancefloor, watching him kiss someone else a few feet away from me without even caring that he'd just lost his ride home, hiding from one another in Spoons before having that awful conversation when he said sorry and I said his haircut looked 'dumb'.
Waking up in the morning in his bed, and seeing him sat right on the edge with a phone against his ear, quietly muttering "yeah, see you later. Love you too."
Having to see his girlfriend, a girlfriend I didn't even know existed, every day in lessons and every night out in town. Him calling me while I'm out with my friends, my best girl picking up the phone and threatening to do unspeakable things to his balls should he ever contact me again.
Two years later. Why on earth would I even dare to respond? No good can come of this.
"Hey."
Mrs Clark.
29 October 2013 • cancer, cinema, couple, death, dying, husband, life, love, married, mrs clark, person, real life, sad, today, work
Tonight I'm pouring glass after glass of delicious sauvignon blanc, making boxes upon boxes of perfect popcorn and steaming up my forehead making average lattes and wannabe cappuccinos. I'm up-selling like crazy, getting overexcited at new faces and suggesting endless extras until I'm met with utter spent bewilderment. Today, I'm cherishing every minute of my short 'n' sweet shift. After a double-shift day yesterday, every hour is flying by tonight. My favourites are all in, and nothing's slowing the flow.
Enter my lady; with perfectly pressed hair and dressed in the softest scarlet coat that instantly makes me think of sleigh bells. I take her in, assessing slowly, appreciating her kindly face and her bejeweled fingers.
'Are you a member with us, at all? Would you like to be one, perhaps?'
'Oh, I would actually - do I fill out something here?'
In a flash I pass her a form; she's filling it out with fancy lettering, all caps with Greek E's. I ask if there's anyone she'd like to share her membership with, another name to add to the form, someone to share the perks with - 'a partner, perhaps?'
Her head down, eyes focused, pen scribbling away; 'Well my husband's dying of cancer, so I don't expect he'll be coming to the cinema very much longer...'
I freeze. She's so flippant, so un-frazzled. I raise a hand to my mouth. 'I'm so, so sorry, madam...'
'Oh no, it's quite fine... My cousin! She'd love to share this with me! I shall put her name...'
And a few minutes later she's gone, leaving behind her fancy penmanship and rosy air. She can't have been more than fifty. Mrs Clark, husband dying. Miss Clark. How awful. Maybe she has children. They'd be grown by now. Grandchildren? Possibly. Oh, my.
Why do bad things have to happen? Why must someone like Mrs Clark be faced with this in what should be her golden, happier years? The peaceful winter of her life is now peppered with rain clouds, and St Jude is bearing down.
I wonder how long she's known, how long she's been living with this black poisonous sucking creature in her life, killing the man she loves and destroying their lives together in one fell swoop. It must have been a while by now, since she's so casual and mentioning it to young barmaids she's just met. Is casual the word? No. There was something behind her eyes. Strength. Resilience. Fight. She won't be alone, not ever. She has enough to keep her going. Now, she's making the most of what she has.
Mrs Clark will be fine.
Enter my lady; with perfectly pressed hair and dressed in the softest scarlet coat that instantly makes me think of sleigh bells. I take her in, assessing slowly, appreciating her kindly face and her bejeweled fingers.
'Are you a member with us, at all? Would you like to be one, perhaps?'
'Oh, I would actually - do I fill out something here?'
In a flash I pass her a form; she's filling it out with fancy lettering, all caps with Greek E's. I ask if there's anyone she'd like to share her membership with, another name to add to the form, someone to share the perks with - 'a partner, perhaps?'
Her head down, eyes focused, pen scribbling away; 'Well my husband's dying of cancer, so I don't expect he'll be coming to the cinema very much longer...'
I freeze. She's so flippant, so un-frazzled. I raise a hand to my mouth. 'I'm so, so sorry, madam...'
'Oh no, it's quite fine... My cousin! She'd love to share this with me! I shall put her name...'
And a few minutes later she's gone, leaving behind her fancy penmanship and rosy air. She can't have been more than fifty. Mrs Clark, husband dying. Miss Clark. How awful. Maybe she has children. They'd be grown by now. Grandchildren? Possibly. Oh, my.
Why do bad things have to happen? Why must someone like Mrs Clark be faced with this in what should be her golden, happier years? The peaceful winter of her life is now peppered with rain clouds, and St Jude is bearing down.
I wonder how long she's known, how long she's been living with this black poisonous sucking creature in her life, killing the man she loves and destroying their lives together in one fell swoop. It must have been a while by now, since she's so casual and mentioning it to young barmaids she's just met. Is casual the word? No. There was something behind her eyes. Strength. Resilience. Fight. She won't be alone, not ever. She has enough to keep her going. Now, she's making the most of what she has.
Mrs Clark will be fine.
21.
6 September 2013 • 21, about me, facts, me
Hi, my name's Gracie. I am paying too many bills, I've booked to see four gigs in the coming few months, I want to do a Masters, I get restless rather a lot, one of my oldest friends just got engaged, I cannot wait for Autumn/Winter, Supernatural makes me happy but also emotionally destroys me, a good veggie burger is the way to my heart, I can't make up my mind, I'm surprisingly good at Articulate!, my new house is damn near perfect, I am forever missing someone, spooning doesn't always lead to forking, everything is changing once again, and I'm nowhere near prepared.
I do one of these posts every month (when I remember).
I do one of these posts every month (when I remember).
I don't know about you, but I'm feeling... Twenty...
31 July 2013 • age, aging, birthday, dread, eighteen, excited, future, life, memories, nineteen, past, twenteen, twenty, year, years old
"I'm not turning twenty. It's actually the eighteenth anniversary of my second birthday!"
I'm excitedly babbling away to my family about how gosh-darned determined I am to push my teenage years just that one step further; I don't want to turn twenty, can I please be twenteen instead?
This year marks the beginning of a new era in my life - my twenties, and also the age when I start wanting to stop... Aging. I'd be happy to stay nineteen forever. Actually, twenty-one is my limit, because at least that way I'll feel old but a few tequila slammers and plastic yard glasses in Vegas will make me forget that fact PDQ.
Alas, it appears, no matter how much wishing or bargaining or shameless pleading one does, the whole 'getting older' thing is inevitable. And after a year of a countdown to the day so horrifying it is often likened to that of Doomsday, a day that has always been a highlight and in fact a dear friend to me up until this moment in time, my birthday, the time is finally upon us. Tomorrow, August 1st 2013, dear little Gracie hits the big 2-0.
What's really interesting, though, is as much as I've been dreading this day, now it's come around (or will do in approximately 22.5 hours) I'm very calm. Zen in my oldness. Accepting of my age, and of the expected maturity that comes with it (well, kind of; I can still run around the house in my Supergirl pyjamas making whhoooOOOSSSsssshhhhHHH noises from time to time, right?). I'm ready for my twenties. Or at least, twenty singular.
A lot of friends have turned twenty before me, and so far the reports have all been something along the lines of "it's really not that bad", "it doesn't feel much different tbh", "dude, my twenty-first is gonna be CRAY"...
As one of the youngest in my year, an August baby no less, my birthday always seems to take the longest to come around. Even now, when academic years don't really matter, it still seems further away than Christmas from New Year's. Everyone turned sixteen and could legally *drive a tractor* before me; everyone was driving their mum's car before I could even start learning; I was always hearing scandalous Messy Monday gossip on Tuesday morning when hardly anyone turned up for 9am Sociology because they were all eighteen and had more important things to do with their time (such as: be hungover every day). Turning nineteen was like some giant weight being lifted. It was like the universe telling me "there, honey. Now you're alright." It was suddenly cool and enviable to be the youngest one in a group; now everyone was bitching about their upcoming birthdays, and expressing their insane jealousy at my youth - which, to be fair, was only a few months younger than them, but hey, I enjoyed it. I basked in the happy glowing feeling of being in no hurry to get any older. Finally. The playing field was equal.
Or was it? Because it seemed that suddenly everyone was in their twenties, and I was still a dumb irresponsible teenager who didn't know anything about life. I figured twenty was the age when you started to actually look down on those younger than you; when you lost your patience and tolerance and began referring to everyone who was young as "like, twelve"; when you had no time to explain anything to "kids". Maybe age will always matter. Maybe the playing field will never be equal. Maybe at 6:01pm tomorrow, I'll be hit with the Harsh Reality Stick/Mean Adult Branch, and I'll be just like every other adult. Who's to say?
Obviously I'll endeavour to remain the same idiot teenager forever. Just this week I dyed my hair lilac, and got really drunk, and today I'm getting a couple new piercings, as a final stupid act of teenagery. Well, making up the word 'teenagery' may actually be a stupid act in itself, but...
It's silly to get caught up in a battle with age. Because we'll lose. It's inevitable, it's unavoidable, and it's ever so slightly wonderful. We have no idea what the future will hold. At twenty, I'll be completing my final year of university. I'll be deciding what to do with myself when I leave this city, if I leave it at all. I'll be choosing a career - that is, a next step in the career that I chose when I was six. Exciting times lie ahead. Do your worst, twenty.
I'm excitedly babbling away to my family about how gosh-darned determined I am to push my teenage years just that one step further; I don't want to turn twenty, can I please be twenteen instead?
Alas, it appears, no matter how much wishing or bargaining or shameless pleading one does, the whole 'getting older' thing is inevitable. And after a year of a countdown to the day so horrifying it is often likened to that of Doomsday, a day that has always been a highlight and in fact a dear friend to me up until this moment in time, my birthday, the time is finally upon us. Tomorrow, August 1st 2013, dear little Gracie hits the big 2-0.
What's really interesting, though, is as much as I've been dreading this day, now it's come around (or will do in approximately 22.5 hours) I'm very calm. Zen in my oldness. Accepting of my age, and of the expected maturity that comes with it (well, kind of; I can still run around the house in my Supergirl pyjamas making whhoooOOOSSSsssshhhhHHH noises from time to time, right?). I'm ready for my twenties. Or at least, twenty singular.
A lot of friends have turned twenty before me, and so far the reports have all been something along the lines of "it's really not that bad", "it doesn't feel much different tbh", "dude, my twenty-first is gonna be CRAY"...
As one of the youngest in my year, an August baby no less, my birthday always seems to take the longest to come around. Even now, when academic years don't really matter, it still seems further away than Christmas from New Year's. Everyone turned sixteen and could legally *drive a tractor* before me; everyone was driving their mum's car before I could even start learning; I was always hearing scandalous Messy Monday gossip on Tuesday morning when hardly anyone turned up for 9am Sociology because they were all eighteen and had more important things to do with their time (such as: be hungover every day). Turning nineteen was like some giant weight being lifted. It was like the universe telling me "there, honey. Now you're alright." It was suddenly cool and enviable to be the youngest one in a group; now everyone was bitching about their upcoming birthdays, and expressing their insane jealousy at my youth - which, to be fair, was only a few months younger than them, but hey, I enjoyed it. I basked in the happy glowing feeling of being in no hurry to get any older. Finally. The playing field was equal.
Or was it? Because it seemed that suddenly everyone was in their twenties, and I was still a dumb irresponsible teenager who didn't know anything about life. I figured twenty was the age when you started to actually look down on those younger than you; when you lost your patience and tolerance and began referring to everyone who was young as "like, twelve"; when you had no time to explain anything to "kids". Maybe age will always matter. Maybe the playing field will never be equal. Maybe at 6:01pm tomorrow, I'll be hit with the Harsh Reality Stick/Mean Adult Branch, and I'll be just like every other adult. Who's to say?
Obviously I'll endeavour to remain the same idiot teenager forever. Just this week I dyed my hair lilac, and got really drunk, and today I'm getting a couple new piercings, as a final stupid act of teenagery. Well, making up the word 'teenagery' may actually be a stupid act in itself, but...
It's silly to get caught up in a battle with age. Because we'll lose. It's inevitable, it's unavoidable, and it's ever so slightly wonderful. We have no idea what the future will hold. At twenty, I'll be completing my final year of university. I'll be deciding what to do with myself when I leave this city, if I leave it at all. I'll be choosing a career - that is, a next step in the career that I chose when I was six. Exciting times lie ahead. Do your worst, twenty.
A good book (I): Hello Rainbow.
13 July 2013 • book, books, Eleanor and Park, good book, love, missed, read, reading, Waterstones
I have a Waterstones addiction. Whenever I have a spare ten/fifteen minutes, I'll dive straight into the nearest shop, and browse for what seems like days looking for treasure in the Aladdin's cave. I'll often abuse the 'buy one get one half price' offer, hunt down the random £4 off beauties, fill up my 'I love books' stamp card, and pick up books by authors I've never heard of, but whose covers and plots call out to me.
This is how I came to discover Rainbow Rowell. I'm currently reading 'Eleanor & Park', and I have 'Attachments' ready and waiting on my worryingly unstable bookshelf in my bedroom. I'm so moved by a good book, more than I'd care to admit, and just yesterday I had to stop myself just sitting and crying on a busy train.
Because I'd read this line.
This is how I came to discover Rainbow Rowell. I'm currently reading 'Eleanor & Park', and I have 'Attachments' ready and waiting on my worryingly unstable bookshelf in my bedroom. I'm so moved by a good book, more than I'd care to admit, and just yesterday I had to stop myself just sitting and crying on a busy train.
Because I'd read this line.
Because just a couple of months ago, someone told me they missed me. Because when they did, this was exactly what went through my mind. Because this is what a good book should do to you.
100,000.
6 July 2013 • 100000, amazing, amwriting, blog, count, happy, my life, one hundred thousand, viewer, views, writing
556 posts about my life; the losses, the gains, the loves, the best days and the worst. Five hundred and fifty six jumbled mixtures of feelings, all somehow put into words and crammed into posts.
100,000 views. One hundred thousand times when a person clicked the link, refreshed the page, and read some of my life. 100,000. My new favourite number. 100,000. The hugs I wish I could give. 100,000. The amount of thank you's I owe.
100,000 views. One hundred thousand times when a person clicked the link, refreshed the page, and read some of my life. 100,000. My new favourite number. 100,000. The hugs I wish I could give. 100,000. The amount of thank you's I owe.
What If You; Hi again, Joshua.
7 June 2013 • Angel, gig, Islington, joshua radin, london, love, music, My Name Is You, Simple Times, special, The Rock And The Tide, Underwater, Union Chapel, Wax Wings
Having taken my then-boyfriend (Brighton, 2010) and parents to his gigs before (Shepherds Bush, 2011/Camden, 2012), I thought this time I'd take my little sister. I just love sharing the experience of Joshua live with those closest to me; Joshua is one of the few things I desperately want to share, which is great because usually I stick my headphones in and keep my favourite bands a secret from everyone. My sister and I met up (along with the parents) in London; Islington to be specific, getting off at Angel station and walking to Union Chapel, a beautiful old church now used almost exclusively for acoustic gigs.
It was beautiful. A traditional English church, although more rounded than others I've been into. Usually a church is a narrow long building with an aisle, sets of pews either side and an altar right at one end, and of course a high ceiling and stained glass windows. Union Chapel was more of an octagonal shape if anything, the altar/stage was wide and featured a pulpit right behind where the mics and amps were plugged in. Upstairs, there was a bar area (no drinks allowed in the chapel itself, however!) and more seating on a balcony/mezzanine kind of thing. It was chilly, intimate, and charged with energy. Sitting on pews, squashed in amongst fellow fans of all ages (although mostly in couples, Joshua's music is definitely couple-friendly), watching the sun go down through stained glass windows surrounding us, one in particular right above the stage looming large and intimidatingly beautiful. This was the best place I've ever been to for a gig. It bypassed Concorde 2 (under the pier in Brighton) easily, and just about topped KOKO Camden, Joshua's port of call last year. What was even more lovely, is that Joshua himself made no secret of how much he loved the venue.
"It's so quiet... I can hear my thoughts!"
I seem to have a more intense emotional reaction every time I see Joshua Radin. He starts singing, just a few feet away from me, and I feel something very rare, something honest and real. It's not a fangirl crush, by any means, it's a respect for him and a love purely because he is able to write what's in my heart and what I need to hear.
He came out shy and reserved as always, to shouts, screams and echoing applause that bounced off the walls of the chapel until it rose to such a level we could barely hear ourselves think anything else. Then, silence. 'What If You'. Joshua's face is a picture of humble concentration, of dedication and peace, as he sings this song from his very first album. My eyes are filled instantly with hot, happy tears. Something catches in the back of my throat.
He came out shy and reserved as always, to shouts, screams and echoing applause that bounced off the walls of the chapel until it rose to such a level we could barely hear ourselves think anything else. Then, silence. 'What If You'. Joshua's face is a picture of humble concentration, of dedication and peace, as he sings this song from his very first album. My eyes are filled instantly with hot, happy tears. Something catches in the back of my throat.
"What if you, spoke those words today?"
Something I love that Joshua does live, more so than any other artists I've seen, is his variation in pitch, rhythm and tempo, his changing up of his music just for the benefit of those seeing him that night. 'When We're Together', a pretty upbeat and sunny-sounding song off his new album 'Wax Wings', is slowed down and super-quiet. The melancholy self-confessed sad song 'One Of Those Days', one of my old favourites from the 'Simple Times' era, is played louder and builds to a mighty conclusion. 'You Got What I Need', his 'baby-making song' that he wrote for his friends (who now have a baby girl, all thanks to the song of course) starts slow 'n' simple and becomes more sincere and urgent. He makes his more acoustic songs slightly more full-bodied, and tones his bigger ones down. He mixes his new with his old. Why? I like to think it's so we as an audience get to experience the music as we haven't before; all those times listening to the albums at home were in no way like what we're seeing now, and that's perfect. Who wants to go and see an artist, if they're just going to play their latest album track-by-track, in perfect keeping with the recording? Mixing it up and surprising us is what Joshua does best. That, and making us cry. No, just me? Okay then.
You are lovely tonight.
I met Joshua Radin in September 2012. I paid extra on top of my ticket, which was a birthday present, to go to the venue (KOKO Camden) early to see Joshua rehearse, and have a 'meet and greet' with him. There were maybe ten of us, all female of course plus one girl's (very understanding) boyfriend, and we all got to shake his hand, have a chat, get some photos and generally soak up his undeniably understated charismatic presence. I didn't think twice when the opportunity to meet him arose; money is no object where Joshua is concerned. Buying his albums and paying for tickets has put me further into my overdraft on more than one occasion, and I regret nothing. It was worth every minus figure on my bank balance.
So, this time, Joshua mentioned while he was between songs that he'd be around after the show to meet "hopefully everyone" and thank us for coming. He loves the 'intimate gig' - and to be honest I could never see him playing a large London theatre, let alone an arena - because he has a chance to get to know his audience and make a connection.
He was true to his word. After the show, he and the two members of My Name Is You (who may just be my new favourite band) stood and signed and posed and smiled for what must have been ages. My sister and I very subtly fought our way to the front, and that's when my hands began to shake uncontrollably. Just like they did when I met Frank Warren, John & Hank Green, and Joshua the first time, of course. Just like they do when I meet people who are important to me.
So, this time, Joshua mentioned while he was between songs that he'd be around after the show to meet "hopefully everyone" and thank us for coming. He loves the 'intimate gig' - and to be honest I could never see him playing a large London theatre, let alone an arena - because he has a chance to get to know his audience and make a connection.
He was true to his word. After the show, he and the two members of My Name Is You (who may just be my new favourite band) stood and signed and posed and smiled for what must have been ages. My sister and I very subtly fought our way to the front, and that's when my hands began to shake uncontrollably. Just like they did when I met Frank Warren, John & Hank Green, and Joshua the first time, of course. Just like they do when I meet people who are important to me.
My second encounter with this magical man consisted of him laughing slightly at me saying too loudly "my hands are shaking!", me extending a (trembling) hand, saying "Hey, I'm Grace, I've actually met you before..." at the same time as him saying "Hey, you look familiar..." I introduced him to my sister, she grinned like nothing I've ever seen before, we had photos taken and he wished us well. We left with our parents and skipped back to Angel, dizzy with happiness and on a high from the night; the best night of my life, easily. So thank you Joshua, for giving me yet another unforgettable experience; for making me cry the second you appeared and strummed the first chord, for offering me your hand to shake and putting an arm around my waist, for making music that has been making my life better for the best part of my life. A thousand thank yous.
20.
6 June 2013 • 20, about me, facts, me
Hi, my name's Gracie. I enjoy coffee coolers way too much, I fancy Jensen and Jared equally, My Name Is You are my new music obsession, I'm spending the summer in Winchester, I've met Joshua Radin twice, writing is my release, being let down and left behind happens to me too often, I'm moving house soon, T'ing D is my new daily activity, I have my guard up 95% of the time and it's not enough, I have a habit of Twitter/Tumblr-stalking, I NEED to go and see Carrie in Les Mis, my new job is going really well, I miss hearing his voice, I have a tattoo, I can't make up my mind, and sometimes that's okay.
I do one of these posts every month.
I do one of these posts every month.
He's done it again/The Joshua Effect.
8 May 2013 • Joshua, joshua radin, joshuaradin, love, Lovely Tonight, music, Simple Times, Underwater, Wax Wings, We Were Here
Now regular readers/real life friend-types, you will all know by now that I love, adore and fangirl-worship Ohio-born whiskey-loving singer-songwriter Joshua Radin. I recently booked tickets to see him live in London; I got up at 8am and ran all the way to campus just to be sure I'd get a computer that worked, so I sat refreshing the BUY TICKETS page while the cleaners all bustled around me with their Henry Hoovers and disinfectant spray (we students are a mucky bunch when we're studious)... I got my tickets, printed off every possible booking confirmation page I could find, and made my little sister a special little printout, because this will be her fifteenth birthday present from me.
This will be the fourth time I've seen him live. I've been with my (then-)boyfriend to see him in Brighton under the pier; with my Dad to see him at Shepherd's Bush Empire in London; with my Mum to see him at KOKO Camden last September - not even a year ago! - so basically I have shared my love for him, and the properly incredible experience that is seeing him live, with a lot of people I care about. My sister is going to have the best time, and also she'll be out 'n' about in London on a school night! How scandalous.
I can't find you; my luck is down and I'm feelin' blue.
Joshua has this amazing quality about him, in that he is able to write down and sing exactly what I am feeling at THIS (and every other) precise moment in my life, and he doesn't even know it. He's helped me through the bad times, and cheered me on throughout the good. His albums are a soundtrack to several different eras of my life, and I just discovered the latest one.
I know I'll never find another like you, where I'm going.
'We Were Here' taught me what I love most in music. 'Simple Times' got me through school, and a wildly inappropriate crush. The 'Unclear Sky' EP sang me to sleep for years. 'I Missed You' is a single that I always listen to when I'm travelling home. 'Underwater' kept me going throughout my first year at university.
And now, 'Wax Wings', the first album Joshua Radin has produced himself, is seeing me out of my second year and guiding me into the next phase of my life. This album has moments so perfectly captured in song, it's just incomprehensible. I happened to be sitting on my bed yesterday, reeling from a sudden revelation and wondering what it meant, what I should do next; not really thinking, I hit 'play' on my iPhone and heard 'Like They Used To', and suddenly it all made sense. I knew what I was feeling, I knew what to do (more importantly what I genuinely wanted to do), and I almost cried with relief and happy realisation.
I'm also delighted that one of my old favourites from the 'Unclear Sky' EP has resurfaced; 'Lovely Tonight' is, to me, a story of two people who connect and share something special one night, then wonder if it's real afterwards. As a hopeless romantic with a wealth of bad experience and false promises, this song gives me hope. So thank you, Joshua. You've done it again.
See you (again) on the 4th of June.
May 1st, 2013.
1 May 2013 • beautiful, friends, ink, life, love, lovely day, my day, my life, perfect, sunshine, today
Today is a serious contender for the best day of my life. The sun is shining, the day is May, I'm in my honourary hometown lapping up the good vibes with some of my favourite people.
Considering last night I had the lion's share of a bottle of Jack with my friends before going out and abusing my wristband privileges at our recently-dubbed 'local' pub/bar and scoring some £3 jam jar cocktails (cocktails, named after Smurfs, in jam jars - ingenious, right?) and a vodka sunrise from a kind stranger; kisses were had, lies were told regarding my relationship with my best friend ("we're brother and sister, obviously! See the matching nose rings?") and my trademark freak-outs in the toilets were, well, frequent. Photos were taken in compromising positions, i.e. a hedge on the way to the local, and upon waking this morning I discovered two boys in my bedroom (best friend and best friend's boyfriend who is also a best friend, what?) and legs that felt as though they were encased in concrete - in my drunken state I had forgotten, it seems, about the treacherous hills of Winchester.
Today life decisions were made, circumstances were altered for the better, and true clarity was realised. Ink stained me, sunshine kissed me, and fortune smiled upon me. Peppermint mocha never tasted so good. I sat in the beautiful cathedral grounds lazing happily with the aforementioned favourites, before heading to a really exciting opportunity (which became a reality, within the hour no less, hello new job!) then back to campus to be reunited with my beloved Learning Cafe. As much as I hate this expression, the creative juices are in full flow. My afternoon promises the final pieces of work reaching completion, maybe even some self-indulgent work happening, then tonight is set aside for a much-needed catch-up with a wonderful and consistently smiley friend.
Signs are everywhere. Good signs. Clear, if unbeknowst to others, signs. I currently have a particular song following me everywhere I go, and a feeling deep within that says I'm onto something good. Also, I have a long and happy weekend ahead of me involving friends, family, home, funk 'n' soul, alcohol, face paint, flowers and climbing cliffs. May Day is in full swing. And I know it's gonna be a lovely May.
Some of the best things I've ever known have happened today; a year's worth of goodness has happened, and it's only just 3pm.
Considering last night I had the lion's share of a bottle of Jack with my friends before going out and abusing my wristband privileges at our recently-dubbed 'local' pub/bar and scoring some £3 jam jar cocktails (cocktails, named after Smurfs, in jam jars - ingenious, right?) and a vodka sunrise from a kind stranger; kisses were had, lies were told regarding my relationship with my best friend ("we're brother and sister, obviously! See the matching nose rings?") and my trademark freak-outs in the toilets were, well, frequent. Photos were taken in compromising positions, i.e. a hedge on the way to the local, and upon waking this morning I discovered two boys in my bedroom (best friend and best friend's boyfriend who is also a best friend, what?) and legs that felt as though they were encased in concrete - in my drunken state I had forgotten, it seems, about the treacherous hills of Winchester.
Today life decisions were made, circumstances were altered for the better, and true clarity was realised. Ink stained me, sunshine kissed me, and fortune smiled upon me. Peppermint mocha never tasted so good. I sat in the beautiful cathedral grounds lazing happily with the aforementioned favourites, before heading to a really exciting opportunity (which became a reality, within the hour no less, hello new job!) then back to campus to be reunited with my beloved Learning Cafe. As much as I hate this expression, the creative juices are in full flow. My afternoon promises the final pieces of work reaching completion, maybe even some self-indulgent work happening, then tonight is set aside for a much-needed catch-up with a wonderful and consistently smiley friend.
Signs are everywhere. Good signs. Clear, if unbeknowst to others, signs. I currently have a particular song following me everywhere I go, and a feeling deep within that says I'm onto something good. Also, I have a long and happy weekend ahead of me involving friends, family, home, funk 'n' soul, alcohol, face paint, flowers and climbing cliffs. May Day is in full swing. And I know it's gonna be a lovely May.
Some of the best things I've ever known have happened today; a year's worth of goodness has happened, and it's only just 3pm.
#BFFLS
28 April 2013 • best, best friend, best friends, friend, friends, friendship, happy, life, love
What is a best friend?
I've had several best friends in my supposedly short life; some have let me down, some have drifted away, and me sadly, well yeah. Now, aside from the inevitable drunken slurs of "you're liiikke, my besteststtt friend foreverrredrerrrvvvre" that happen with multiple individuals at uni and at home, there has to be a crystallizing moment when you realise that someone is truly the very best of a friend. It may not be the first time you call them as such, but it's the first time you are made aware of it. What I'm trying to say, in my own obnoxious rambling typically British way, is that I love my best friends and there have been several key moments when I have realised just how much.
A best friend knows you want a cup of tea without having to ask. A best friend calls you during a Blink-182 concert because they're playing your favourite song. A best friend walks you home after you've slipped on ice. A best friend gets more excited about your life than you do. A best friend Snapchats you before they've had a shower or put makeup on. A best friend messages you with boy advice from Japan. A best friend sits in the car eating pizza with you. A best friend listens. A best friend gets just as crazy-excited about May Day. A best friend reads all your silly Read More posts on Tumblr. A best friend stocks up their fridge with Babybel and tropical mixer because they know you're coming round. A best friend freaks out with you in the toilets of a club on a night out. A best friend invites you along on their family holiday. A best friend cries with you when something doesn't work out. A best friend agrees to meet up with you in London, even when they're crazy busy with their own lives. A best friend is someone you can go weeks, months even, without seeing and things are still the same when you do finally meet up. A best friend is someone you cannot effin' wait to see, and someone you feel honoured to even know and get to hang out with on a semi-daily basis.
I've had several best friends in my supposedly short life; some have let me down, some have drifted away, and me sadly, well yeah. Now, aside from the inevitable drunken slurs of "you're liiikke, my besteststtt friend foreverrredrerrrvvvre" that happen with multiple individuals at uni and at home, there has to be a crystallizing moment when you realise that someone is truly the very best of a friend. It may not be the first time you call them as such, but it's the first time you are made aware of it. What I'm trying to say, in my own obnoxious rambling typically British way, is that I love my best friends and there have been several key moments when I have realised just how much.
A best friend knows you want a cup of tea without having to ask. A best friend calls you during a Blink-182 concert because they're playing your favourite song. A best friend walks you home after you've slipped on ice. A best friend gets more excited about your life than you do. A best friend Snapchats you before they've had a shower or put makeup on. A best friend messages you with boy advice from Japan. A best friend sits in the car eating pizza with you. A best friend listens. A best friend gets just as crazy-excited about May Day. A best friend reads all your silly Read More posts on Tumblr. A best friend stocks up their fridge with Babybel and tropical mixer because they know you're coming round. A best friend freaks out with you in the toilets of a club on a night out. A best friend invites you along on their family holiday. A best friend cries with you when something doesn't work out. A best friend agrees to meet up with you in London, even when they're crazy busy with their own lives. A best friend is someone you can go weeks, months even, without seeing and things are still the same when you do finally meet up. A best friend is someone you cannot effin' wait to see, and someone you feel honoured to even know and get to hang out with on a semi-daily basis.
19.
• 19, about me, facts, Gracie, life, me
Hi, my name's Gracie. I've just got back from Australia, I have tonsillitis, my hair is now silver, I wear 11 rings, I Snapchat my cat (Snapcat), I'm a YouTube whore, I miss hearing the Australian accent every day, vegetarianism is a lifelong thing for me, John Green books are one of the reasons I want to write, Macklemore is my latest obsession, being called 'baby' is my new favourite thing, Jack In The Green is something I look forward to every year, I hate the fact that I've been neglecting my blog for the last month, something very big is happening very soon, Imagine Dragons are my latest favourite band, someday I will either play or BE the Doctor's companion, I give the best presents, I'm over the worst, things are looking up, and life begins now.
I do one of these posts every month.
I do one of these posts every month.
"Australia tomorrow."
11 April 2013 • Australia, Australia tomorrow, beach, England, Hastings, love, serious, UK, writing
Along the balcony walkway; looking down at the pebbles and vast
grey expanse beyond. Beaches should be fun and beautiful, even awe-inspiring,
right? White sand and aquamarine waters, surfers and snorkelers having the time
of their lives doing what they love, kite surfers flying high while trying not
to get swept away, holiday-makers laying down towels, little kids going nuts
with their buckets and spades. No, not here. This is one of those basic barren
British beaches, totally dead and disused this time of year, when summer is so
achingly close but not yet waking us from our three-season sleep. All we get is
grainy brown sand smothered and barely seen under the pebbles, damp air with a
biting breeze running through it; the ruins of the once-wondrous pier serve as
a constant reminder that we destroy all that we are in the end.
That poor metaphor.
• girl, love, metaphor, Relationship, sex, uni
There was once a naive, hopeful girl living in the most
light-filled and luxurious recesses of my mind. She believed in love, romance
and magic. She had a dream that someday she’d have an outlet for her heartfelt
beliefs and beautiful thoughts; someone to understand her, to listen, to share
with.
Since coming with me to university, however, she’s lost heart. Her
unfailing and at times foolish hope, the unwavering candle of faith, has been
crushed and extinguished time and time again. Her beautiful optimism is long
gone, that glimmer of trust she placed in every kind soul who offered her a cup
of coffee and complimented her eyes has been proven wrong a couple hundred
times.
She’s been battered, bruised, kicked, tripped up, fucked hard and left crying on the pavement.
She’s been battered, bruised, kicked, tripped up, fucked hard and left crying on the pavement.
She believed in love and miracles, fortune and movie moments,
until she met several significant individuals that very skilfully taught her
otherwise.
There was the boy who taught her not to hope, that relentless and incredible fucking for over a year does not necessarily mean love, or commitment, or anything but... That. There was the time she was whisked away on a romantic adventure which actually had nothing to do with romance. Then the time she was used as a means of transition; a pair of blue eyes to forget the brown, chubby legs to forget the skinny. Then she learnt the hard way that no matter how hard she tried to be everything to someone, she was utterly forgettable and easily replaced.
There was the boy who taught her not to hope, that relentless and incredible fucking for over a year does not necessarily mean love, or commitment, or anything but... That. There was the time she was whisked away on a romantic adventure which actually had nothing to do with romance. Then the time she was used as a means of transition; a pair of blue eyes to forget the brown, chubby legs to forget the skinny. Then she learnt the hard way that no matter how hard she tried to be everything to someone, she was utterly forgettable and easily replaced.
Poor metaphorical girl. Hopefully someday someone will come along
and restore her faith. Until then, she’s in hiding and waiting for the
all-clear.
Minor cliche smackdown.
• body, cliche, feelings, heart, love
Absence doesn't just make the heart grow fonder (and the body get
hungrier), it makes the mind race; restless, replaying, romanticizing, and
relentless over-thinking. Every little gesture, every look, every insignificant
thing they said becomes pivotal and poignant. Only returning home and locking
eyes with them again, seeing that empty unfeeling stare and hearing the
charming excuses, gives us that beautiful slap of reality that we so badly
needed.
OZ: Week One.
5 April 2013 • Australia, family, happy, holiday, life, Oz, wedding, week
Aside from the fact that the
first week of any holiday is a time for adjusting, relaxing and getting a
semi-comfortable routine sorted out, when you have travelled from one
hemisphere to another, you also have to factor in the jet lag/crazy sleep
patterns (call it what you will). Waking up at 5:30am is the norm for a few
days, and your bedtime is at 7pm promptly; only halfway through the week does
the madness simmer down and gradually the bedtime gets later and the waking
time gets less ridiculous. Right now, I am pretty damn pleased with myself for
sticking it out through the droopy eyelids/hallucinating phase and getting to
bed at 10:20pm last night – however, given that as a lazy student I am
typically waking up at 11am most days at home, 8am is a serious shock to the
system.
Sleep matters aside, I can say that I am loving this trip so far; the bright fresh sunshine coming through my window every morning is as unfamiliar as it is welcome (which is VERY, oh my gosh THE SUN), and the ability to walk down the street barefoot is just magical. Now I’m aware that I say this every time I come out here, but it never stops being true – the people are so wonderful; chilled out, laid back, relaxed to the max of course, and just OTT friendly, but in a good way rather than a creepy way.
Sleep matters aside, I can say that I am loving this trip so far; the bright fresh sunshine coming through my window every morning is as unfamiliar as it is welcome (which is VERY, oh my gosh THE SUN), and the ability to walk down the street barefoot is just magical. Now I’m aware that I say this every time I come out here, but it never stops being true – the people are so wonderful; chilled out, laid back, relaxed to the max of course, and just OTT friendly, but in a good way rather than a creepy way.
The unfortunate habit of mine to
unintentionally imitate the accent or vague quirks in speech of the person I’m
talking to is out of control here in Oz; those of you who hear me chatter away
on a daily basis will know that my voice is already slightly unusual, in fact
it is a unique blend of Sussex gal and Australian chick, but when I’m over here
the Australian chick sees her chance to silence the Sussex gal. My funny little
words that I “don’t say quite right” like ‘exciting’ (ex-YYY-ding), ‘vitamin’
(VY-damm-in) and ‘yoghurt’ (YO-gurt) are lost in a sea of upward inflections
and extended vowels. I hear myself doing it, but I can’t stop. It’s fine,
though, I’m sure a week or so after I’m home I’ll be back to saying ‘bloody
good’ and ‘oh my gosh’. I may keep on saying ‘how you goin’?’ and ‘darl’
though.
One of the great things about
being here is, oddly, the fact that I’ve been here before. It’s strange,
because normally I love seeing new things and exploring new places, but I love
how familiar everything is here. Surfers Paradise is just as cheerful as ever,
and it still holds those good memories for me; the club I went to with my
cousins when I turned eighteen is still there, as is the pizza place where I
had my first ever drunk food. Australia Fair shopping centre is as tacky and
crazy as I remember, however it is still the awesome place where I bought a
bright pink poncho when I was eleven, and for that it will always be special. Mount
Tambourine is Heaven if you want souvenirs, wine, dream catchers or fudge. Marina
Mirage and the Spit beach are relentlessly beautiful, Main Beach is half washed
away due to the floods and storms, but it’s still a little bit of paradise.
Kurrawa Surf Club does good chips and has the best views, Southport surfers are
the friendliest, Mermaid is fabulous, and Byron Bay is a wonderland of market
stalls and hippy chic coffee places. Vegetarian cuisine is abundant here, and
gluten free food is a new craze, with so many choices on the menu and several
specialist restaurants just a short drive away. Ferry Road market is the best
place for boxes of stuffed olives, bags of tea and a cup of coffee; actually,
the coffee here is just generally awesome. My beloved lattes are typically
served in glasses with that heart swirl done impeccably in the foam on top.
Now, tomorrow is The Wedding, and
tonight is The Girly Prep Sleepover; my auntie gets married on Burleigh Heads
beach (incidentally one of my top 5 beaches) at 10:30am tomorrow, and the last
few days have been a flurry of pre-wedding activity and last-minute favours...
I’ve been asked to do photography (no pressure), we were running around the
Reject Shops yesterday to find kids’ bow ties and a flower basket, we’ve been
informed that the wedding dinner will consist of pizza (hello, genius!) at The
Crust, Burleigh, a venue which we have booked from 11am ‘til midnight, and Sangria
cocktails are the drink of choice for the guests (I can roll with that). The
bride herself seems remarkably chilled, which means we’re more chilled.
I’ve realised just how little wedding stuff I’ve encountered before, how few people I’ve known have got married since I’ve known them and how few family members have had weddings... I know I’m nearly twenty, practically a baby, so the fact that none of my friends have gotten married yet is probably a good thing and so completely normal, but still. Also, babies. I have hardly any experience with babies and little people in general. There are no wee ones or toddlers in my immediate British family, and (thank goodness, again) none of my friends have kids yet, meaning when my baby cousin is handed to me for ‘cuddles’, I am flying completely blind and at the same time loving the novelty of having this tiny person in my arms. My two year-old cousin is running around singing ‘Wheels On The Bus’ and watching Dora, and rather than it irritating me (which I’ll be honest, kid stuff normally does), I find it insanely awesome and cute, and I’m even joining in. It’s a revelation. Also, I don’t know, it’s just cool having a little kid run up to you and shout your name like they’ve been waiting to see you forever, when really you just left the room for five seconds.
I’ve realised just how little wedding stuff I’ve encountered before, how few people I’ve known have got married since I’ve known them and how few family members have had weddings... I know I’m nearly twenty, practically a baby, so the fact that none of my friends have gotten married yet is probably a good thing and so completely normal, but still. Also, babies. I have hardly any experience with babies and little people in general. There are no wee ones or toddlers in my immediate British family, and (thank goodness, again) none of my friends have kids yet, meaning when my baby cousin is handed to me for ‘cuddles’, I am flying completely blind and at the same time loving the novelty of having this tiny person in my arms. My two year-old cousin is running around singing ‘Wheels On The Bus’ and watching Dora, and rather than it irritating me (which I’ll be honest, kid stuff normally does), I find it insanely awesome and cute, and I’m even joining in. It’s a revelation. Also, I don’t know, it’s just cool having a little kid run up to you and shout your name like they’ve been waiting to see you forever, when really you just left the room for five seconds.
Anyway, *clears throat in a
slightly manly and totally carefree manner*, that’s this week. Sunday,
post-wedding, we hit Byron Bay for some market browsing and sun worshipping,
also hopefully to revisit some memories of my eighteenth birthday – whoa, that
feels like a while ago. Drive-in movie theatres are actually a thing here, and
we’re hoping to go next week. Also, we’re planning sleepovers with the
relatives and girly nail-painting and facials. Stay tuned.
I wouldn’t call this a holiday; I’d say it’s an epic family trip.
I wouldn’t call this a holiday; I’d say it’s an epic family trip.
Conflicted.
• creative writing, fucksake, him, love, sex, trust
Who do I trust?
Do I trust the wicked brown eyes and
the soulful voice that sings songs just for me? Do I trust the perfect cup of
tea and cigarettes smoked out the window?
Do I trust the best friend, protective and sincere, very convincingly saying all the right things; “you two seem perfect, I’ve never seen him as happy as when he’s with you...”
Do I trust the mocking, all-knowing eyes of the ex-girlfriend, passing me a drink and keeping her mouth shut?
Do I trust the kind and excited friends chatting over coffee and exchanging essay messages, who love seeing me so happy?
Do I trust the sharp intake of breath, the averting of gaze and awkward shifting in the seat at the mention of a name? Do I trust the words “he’s actually getting on a mate of mine...”?
Do I trust the sinking stomach and the heavy heart, or the butterflies and the blushing?
Do I trust the sea breeze, the cold, harsh streets of this town? Do I trust the alcohol and the dancing?
Do I trust my instincts and my rules, or the one who’s been making me break resolutions since day one? Do I trust my head, telling me that he’s no stranger to this sort of thing? Do I trust my heart, insisting that he’s always waiting and wishing for this as much as I am?
Who would you trust?
Do I trust the best friend, protective and sincere, very convincingly saying all the right things; “you two seem perfect, I’ve never seen him as happy as when he’s with you...”
Do I trust the mocking, all-knowing eyes of the ex-girlfriend, passing me a drink and keeping her mouth shut?
Do I trust the kind and excited friends chatting over coffee and exchanging essay messages, who love seeing me so happy?
Do I trust the sharp intake of breath, the averting of gaze and awkward shifting in the seat at the mention of a name? Do I trust the words “he’s actually getting on a mate of mine...”?
Do I trust the sinking stomach and the heavy heart, or the butterflies and the blushing?
Do I trust the sea breeze, the cold, harsh streets of this town? Do I trust the alcohol and the dancing?
Do I trust my instincts and my rules, or the one who’s been making me break resolutions since day one? Do I trust my head, telling me that he’s no stranger to this sort of thing? Do I trust my heart, insisting that he’s always waiting and wishing for this as much as I am?
Who would you trust?
Hello, old friend.
22 March 2013 • believe, fate, life, love, moment, old friend, perfect
I'm aware that I've said it before, but I'll say it forever if I have to: I believe in fate. I'm one of those people. I think that sometimes we are given a little helping hand when we need it most. I whole-heartedly believe that signs appear everywhere, strategically put in place to help us with difficult decisions, to suggest the path we should follow; be it whether or not we should go out to the SU one night, which career is best for us, whether we should give a friend another chance or get out while we still can...
It was fate that helped me with my decision to go to university. I got my results at college and freaked out ever so slightly because I'd fallen short of my offer by a few measly UCAS points... Of course the phone lines were jammed and the UCAS website was falling apart, but I persevered and called the university itself; "hello, I've just got my results and I'm not sure if I've qualified for my place or not..." I gave them my name and waited (im)patiently while they checked.
"Ahh yes Grace, well actually your offer was changed to Unconditional yesterday! Congratulations, we definitely still want you!"
The whole experience was terrifying, but it opened my eyes to the fact that I really, really wanted to go to university after all. I'd been cushioning myself for the inevitable fall for the whole summer, telling my family that I wasn't that fussed and if need be I'd just go straight into the working world, no big deal. My parents had been worried, obviously wanting the best for me; my friends were concerned and urging me to take things more seriously, but nothing had worked. Not until the day I thought I really definitely hadn't got in. It was the wake up call I needed. One of my many brushes with fate, and this was a big'un.
Fate is not, in my opinion, some hippy-shit cosmic script we have to abide by. It's merely a kind friend whispering in our ear. Sometimes it's subtle, like when you pick up your phone and in that very instant, that all-important person calls. Sometimes it's more obvious, for instance when you open your front door and it suddenly starts pouring with rain outside. And sometimes it's a little something just for you; like your favourite song being played at the exact right moment.
"I like your dress."
20 March 2013 • afterwards, comparison, creative writing, dress, feelings, love, moments, sex
Two moments, one dress. A comparison, a perspective, a realisation.
He
gently lifted me, separating us with such ease considering we had been so physically
inseparable before, hands on hips and fingers on silk. I subtly rearranged
myself as best I could, not wanting to cause any fuss or give the impression
that I was over-thinking anything, while all the time I absolutely was; I slid
down next to him in his narrow bed, the distastefully orange sheets were harsh
on my eyes and his sleepy face oddly offered me no comfort. As he drifted
closer to ‘afterwards’ oblivion, I lay with my eyes wide open and wondered at
how many girls he’d had here before, and how many he’d have after me. Whose
imprint was I rudely filling right now? A few names crossed my mind, at an
agonizingly slow pace to ensure I didn't miss a single one; shutting my eyes didn't help, I just saw them written on my eyelids. The feeling of just being a
number, of being utterly forgettable and meaningless to someone who means the
world to you, it cuts like a razor on your wrist. I could be 7, I could be 102...
I hope he keeps track. I know I do. There were so many things I wanted to say –
what did this mean? Do we ignore it, carry on as normal, keep it a secret as
usual? I certainly didn't want to forget it, even if he did. I turned to look
at his peaceful face; of course, he had no trouble sleeping now. I’d be awake
all night, wondering and wishing, while he’d be dreaming. Better not bother him
any longer. I rose, pulled on my panties and headed for the door. I was closing
my fingers around the handle, careful to keep quiet, when I heard him say: “I
like your dress.”
I
woke in his arms, the entire duvet wrapped around me while he lay uncovered. I’d
somehow stolen all the bedclothes and pillows in the night, and he didn't mind.
His subtle snoring didn't annoy me. My tendency to roll around and stretch out didn't bother him. Bliss. I kissed his bristly face. The taste of last night
was still in the air between us, the earthquakes now harmless and the happy memories
as intoxicating as the whiskey. I sit up slowly, in no rush to leave and
feeling no shame in my skin. The feeling of warm satisfaction filled me up as I
gazed out at the cold morning beyond the sanctuary of the bedroom. I shut my
eyes, wanting this moment to be what I remember; good things can happen, I am
not just a number, someone might just care... Gathering my clothes is an
arduous task, the day ahead is painful in its inevitability. I’d like nothing
more than to just stay here for almost-ever, please and thank you. I’d also
like to wake up to the sound of a guitar and the smell of cigarette smoke,
every day. It’s definitely coffee time. I’m pulling on my panties and slipping
on last night’s clothes, when he looks at me, smiles and says: “I like your
dress.”
I Overthink Things: Chemistry.
12 March 2013 • Chemistry, friends, love, New Girl, OTP, spark
I'm a massive believer in Chemistry; the kind between people. It exists. There are some people I'll always get on with, always feel that little spark with, and always feel better when they're around. I feel it when I'm talking to them; when I'm actually engaged in the conversation and coming back with quick, snappy responses rather than apathetic replies, when I'm being especially funny or witty because that's the effect this person has on me. When I don't want to stop talking to them, ever. When they turn around and say "you're really easy to talk to, wow" and I can tell they feel the same way. When we go for months or even years without speaking and it's still the same.
Chemistry doesn't have to be a romantic thing, either. It can be a friendly feeling, in fact I'd say that of all the people I think I have Chemistry with, only one is in a romantic sense. I see it in other people, too, and it's so perfect. I hope they realise what it means.
This was all sparked off by me seeing a photoset of Nick & Jess, my OTP, from New Girl. Now, they have Chemistry. It's very rare for onscreen Chemistry to work so well, and that's why I love watching them. That, and the fact that they make me laugh until no sound is coming out and I'm rocking back and forth clapping.
I can think of three, maybe four individuals that I have this kind of connection with. It's so rare and so special, I will never take it for granted and I only wish I felt this more often... Or is it the fact that it's rare that makes it so special?
Toffee and Key.
28 February 2013 • Caffe Nero, coffee, Costa, day, favourite, grown up, latte, mocha, night, random, Starbucks, student, tea, uni, yum
Mr Strong & Little Miss Giggles, Naughty, Sunshine; My family.
Let's say you had a tough night. You worked until 2am and had to deal with drunk people; their slurs, their spilled drinks and their sick. Your drunk friends all jumped on you on the dancefloor, taking the piss as you mopped up a spillage. That one guy wouldn't listen when you said "step away from the bar, please". Sports teams were chanting, sports teams were shouting, sports teams were yelling. People were pushing their luck. Radio calls came in from all directions. Member of staff to the First Aid room. Member of staff to the exit. Member of clean up to the dancefloor. Member of clean up to the level 1 toilets. Member of clean up to the main bar. By 1:30am, that last straggler waiting for a taxi was your worst enemy. All you could think of was your bed. You finally climbed in, knowing full well that your alarm was going to go off in 5 short dark hours; full day of lectures tomorrow.
"Large latte with skimmed milk please, m'dear."
Nothing compares to that first sip. The smell, the taste, the warmth; it's pick-me-up perfection in a mug. All the mutterings in your head quieten, the darkness lifts and the tiredness is banished. Bless baristas everywhere.
When did I start liking, and more importantly depending on, the sweet student life force that is coffee? I remember when I was younger (and by that I mean up until about a year ago) I loved the smell but loathed the taste; "too strong, ughhh!" I'd wail whenever my mum offered me a sip of hers.
I found coffee was just too much, and tea was simply too boring. Now I'm on two cups a day (since I don't trust myself to make my own, usually from a coffee shop in town or more often the Student Union as it's convenient and packs a yummy punch) of the former, and I have a newfound love and fascination with the latter. I currently have Twinings English Breakfast and Clipper Pure Green in my kitchen cupboard, and two boxes of delicious Yogi Tea sitting next to my bed - Yogi, my new obsession following the most shocking revelation that tea doesn't have to be brown and milky! How had I survived this long without the beautiful taste of organic Cinnamon Spice tea, or ginger with orange peel and vanilla?! What was it that used to get me through assignments and accompanied my TV catch-ups once a week? Tea is what was missing from my bedside table, and coffee is what was missing from my desk in lectures.
The other day, I was in London visiting an old and perfect friend; we popped into Starbucks shortly after meeting, and then later on we ducked into Caffe Nero. Unlike many people my age, Starbucks is not my favourite place to go for coffee. I'm not passionately against them per se, I just don't get such a happy thrill when I order my personal favourites in there, whereas Nero or Costa always put a smile on my face. I do love that Starbucks ask for your name on a takeaway cup, though, and they always manage to get it wrong...
My bestie Rikki drinks mochas, and his favourite is a white chocolate mocha with a shot of peppermint. Only Starbucks offer this unique concoction, so sometimes if I'm really stuck (and missing Rikki), I'll order that. So, the other day in London, I was walking around Covent Garden with a Rikki Special.
Caffe Nero are my latte specialists. I'm a vanilla latte gal all the way, but I heard about soy Chai lattes from my mum, and this yummy cinnamon beauty is a serious contender for the top spot. I love Nero; lattes in general are my weakness, and they make them just right.
My friend in London sat down next to me with his hot chocolate with cream, and proclaimed: "you can tell you're an actress."
"How so?"
"You have an order."
So there we go. I have now progressed to the level of Coffee Lover that warrants my own personal coffee order. Crazy.
I often think about the first time I tried coffee for real; I was sitting in Miss Finch's classroom, the legendary Room 38, with some of my high school besties at break time and being the supremely cool teacher Finchy was, she always offered us a sachet of cheap caramel latte in a polystyrene cup. She'd brew 'em with the kettle and extensive hot drink paraphernalia behind her desk, and we'd all sit and gossip until the bell rang. The Coffee Club. When I left school, Finchy cut out the front of the caramel packet and stuck it in my Leavers' Book to accompany her sweet notes and anecdotes. I loved those times, and besides the minor panic attack and severe shakes I got one day in my Geography mock exam after having three lattes and no food at lunch time, I think the coffee did me good.
First sign of growing up: having a coffee order and boxes of special organic tea beside your bed.
18.
19 February 2013 • 18, about me, facts, Gracie, life, me
Hi, my name's Gracie. I love T'ing D, I think my family should buy a pub, Crunchy Bran is a true love of mine, vodka has an interesting effect on me, time travel is my dream, I fancy Shakespeare, my family rock harder than yours, I'm on that Mumford & Sons hype, I can watch Gilmore Girls in bed all day, I'm sad about Richard Briers, my best friends are all I need, I've given up chocolate and cheese for Lent, Australia is the perfect escape, I have met John and Hank Green, I miss him, musicians are my weakness, getting my hair done is a very guilty pleasure, I want to work behind a bar at some point in my life, I try too hard, I push too much, I don't know when to stop, I never know when to leave things alone, and I'm apologetic but I'm not sorry.
I do one of these posts every month.
I do one of these posts every month.
Today's present.
18 January 2013 • Battle, excited, Gilmore Girls, happy, home, little kid, love, morning, snow, snowing, Winchester
7:57am.
I have this unfortunate habit of waking up a few minutes before my alarm every morning and checking the time on my phone, then lying in the darkness, wrapped up and toasty, trying to enjoy these last precious few moments before I have to face the music - literally, as my alarm is set to 'radio', so I often wake up to BBC Radio 1's club tunes or Nick Grimshaw's relaxed Northern drawls - and the day truly begins.
However, this morning I woke up precisely thirty-three minutes before my alarm was due to go off. So as I lay in bed, enjoying this glorious half hour of dozing while battling emotional turmoil about the prospect of eventually putting both feet on the floor, I started thinking of all the possible excuses I could make for not coming in to my lectures today. I live too close to campus to make the "I just couldn't face the walk" excuse. The lecture is two hours long, so I can't use the "overslept slightly" excuse. It's my first lecture of this module, so the "I won't miss anything" line is unacceptable... Oh, well. There's no way I'm getting out of this, so I'd better just deal with it. I have work tonight, too, and I need to come to terms with that. I could hear myself sighing from where I'd burrowed far, far down into the duvet.
Buzz. "All ma life I wan' money an' power, respect my mind or die from lead shower, I pray ma ____ get as big as th' Effiel Tower, so I can ____ the world for seventy-two hours..."
Good morning, Radio 1. Yet again I wonder, why do I listen to you in the mornings? I miss Chris Evans and Moira - I stopped listening to Radio 2, because it made me miss home too much. I regret it now, but I can't be bothered to re-tune my radio...
I have a solid black blind over my window. Mind you, it's always dark at this time of day now, so there's not much point in drawing it just yet. I switch on my light, and my fairy lights, go into the bathroom and flip the switch on the shower, come back into my room, think "why not?" and pull up the black blind.
And I see white. Solid white, flurrying white, sprinklings of white, white dancing in the air. I'd forgotten all that hope I'd had last night, and all that time I'd spent on the phone to my little sister saying "I smell snow! Stick your head out the window!" I'd forgotten how I'd watched snow-related episodes of Gilmore Girls all evening, and made myself a mug of mint hot chocolate, and fallen asleep with my fingers crossed. Hello, snow. I greet you with a squeak, a squeal and a great deal of dancing around the house as I open all the curtains so your beauty is fully appreciated.
It's that time of year when suddenly everyone on our Facebook news feeds is a weather expert, Twitterers are getting snap happy and posting multiple pictures of snow in their back gardens, Instagram is orgasming over the millions of pretty edits and different angles of snow on trees and cars, the TV news is just "it's snowing"...
Yes, people are annoying when it snows. Yes, after the eleventh status or hundredth tweet it does get a little boring. Yes, after a day or two the excitement will have died down and we'll all be sick of it. So what? Enjoy it while you can! I have an epic essay to work on today, no food in the house, and I miss my family... But this will not stop me from walking around Stanmore with my headphones in, taking photos of the park in its beautiful white state, making endless cups of hot chocolate, calling home, visiting friends, watching more Gilmore Girls... I'm having my snow day.
"I was sure that some Fairy Godmother had done it just for me... It was my little present... When it snows, something inside me says 'hey, it's your present'... I'm gonna walk around, enjoy my present a little." - Lorelai Gilmore.
My Shakey week.
14 January 2013 • 80s, A Midsummer Night's Dream, acting, Drama, love, Midsummer, performing, Scratch Shakespeare, Shakespeare, Theatre Royal, Theatre Royal Winchester, Twelfth Night, Winchester
The University of Winchester has, for the past three years, participated in an annual Shakespeare 'festival'/one-night spectacular at the Theatre Royal in the city centre; the project is called 'Scratch Shakespeare', and consists of three of the Bard's works being completely pulled apart and stitched back together by a group of talented students, as they take on roles as actors, producers, techies and directors.
Last year the shows included 'A Comedy Of Errors' and 'Julius Caesar'; this year the plays selected are 'A Midsummer Night's Dream', 'The Merchant of Venice', and 'Twelfth Night', each with a special twist set upon them.
'Midsummer' is transformed into an 1980s wonderland, the soundtrack including Grace Jones and A-Ha, and characters are given an eighties makeover - with Oberon as Adam Ant, Titania as Madonna, the Mechanicals as Dexy's Midnight Runners, etc., it promises to be an exciting and certainly unique performance.
'Merchant' is comprised of a cast consisting of just four actors and a myriad of musicians and physical performers; it is rumoured to have a circus theme, with the actors dressed and painted as classic red-nose clowns.
'Twelfth Night' is slightly carnival-esque, with all characters masked and dressed in bright costume. The story of love and all the confusion it brings with it is given new life in the hands of talented students fighting with balloon swords.
I missed out on 'Scratch' last year, mostly due to my laziness and general ignorance of everything happening around me, and this year I seem to be making up for that by being in two of the three productions... Typically, this isn't done by any 'Scratch' actors, as it's hard work and the loyalty to one show is very important, but circumstance gave me the opportunity and I couldn't say no.
I'd just finished the amazing play 'When It Rains Gasoline'; a wonderful experience and the greatest time working with some seriously talented and brilliant people. There was a sense of sadness creeping in towards the end of the 'Gasoline' rehearsals - what am I going to do with my time when this is all over? Will I still see my lovely co-stars? Will I get to perform again at all this year?
That was when the 'Scratch' auditions began. I auditioned for 'Midsummer' and 'Twelfth Night', not exactly confident about my chances because a) going from a modern and originally American play to Shakespeare is a bit of a shock, b) I was certain I'd got into 'Gasoline' purely due to my choice of monologue and a touch of dumb luck on the day of auditions, and c) everyone else at the 'Scratch' auditions was more talented/experienced/well-liked than me. Still, I tried.
I got into 'Midsummer', to my absolute delight. That was the one I wanted most - how lucky was that?! Clearly my portrayal of the very simple-minded Starveling/Moonshine in the auditions made the director happy - the laughter from everyone else in the room while I slowly and deliberately stuttered "this lanthorn doth the h-h-horn-ed moon present..." made it pretty clear that I was doing something right.The director gave us our roles, and said "if any of you have agreed to do any of the other Shakespeare plays, I'll be pissed!"
A month or so into rehearsals, I was approached by a lovely co-worker and asked if I would like to be in 'Twelfth Night' - they'd had someone drop out and desperately needed a new Captain/Antonio (two characters, both fairly small parts). I enjoyed the audition for this play, and some friends of mine had been given roles, so it would be a good experience and I'd get to perform even more. I had to be diplomatic and say "maybe, probably yes", and then confirm with the lovely director the following night that I would be happy to fill in - the director left me a voicemail saying she knew I was "having personal difficulties with some of the cast members", but reassured me it would not be a problem and she really wanted me in her show. I in turn assured her that the "personal difficulties" would never affect me in a working environment, and I was sure they'd be resolved soon enough.
I came back to uni two weeks early to start intensive rehearsals for 'Twelfth Night'. I cannot even begin to describe how nervous I was; I felt like the new kid at school, starting in November after all the cool kids had spent the past two months hanging out and getting to know each other - what if they didn't like me? What if they hated me for replacing the girl who dropped out? What if they believe those awful things people are saying about me? As you can imagine, walking into that studio on Day 1 could not have been more terrifying. All I wanted was to do well, and make friends. I think it's gone well, so far...
Hashtagging #TwelfthIntensive on Twitter with my fellow cast members, getting up early every day, learning to sword fight (kind of), mask making at the director's house, constant giggles and unintentional innuendo - it's been a great couple of weeks. I also managed to message the 'Midsummer' director, a lovely friend of a friend (who I'd definitely like to be a full-time friend), and she was alright with me being in two 'Scratch' shows - as long as I didn't slack off on my Mechanical duties.
Which brings me to today: the first rehearsals in the Theatre Royal. The morning was spent blocking and running 'Midsummer', plus practicing the crazy end dance to 'Love Is The Drug'. After lunch with some 'Midsummer' friends, the afternoon was all about 'Twelfth Night'. I was instructed to "be more camp" as my character of secretly-gay Antonio, and then spent the rest of rehearsals throwing a tennis ball backstage with a fellow cast member. I then had staff training at my SU, and then raced back to town to meet lovely friends (and future housemates) for a trip to the cinema. It's been a crazy day. Right now, at 1:30am, I am looking forward to my lie-in tomorrow morning, and reflecting on my mad-mad-mad week. It's been a fantastic experience, and I'm so happy I've been lucky enough to get a double helping.
'Scratch Shakespeare' is on Monday 11th Feb at the Theatre Royal, Winchester.
6:00pm - 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'.
7:20pm - 'The Merchant of Venice'.
8:40pm - 'Twelfth Night'.
Tickets are £5 per show, or £11 for all three.Buy tickets online!
I've already effectively guilt-tripped my immediate family into coming, let's see how many more people I can entice. If you need that extra bit of encouragement, imagine me clicking my fingers and thrusting with a lovely male dance partner to this tune...
'Midsummer' is transformed into an 1980s wonderland, the soundtrack including Grace Jones and A-Ha, and characters are given an eighties makeover - with Oberon as Adam Ant, Titania as Madonna, the Mechanicals as Dexy's Midnight Runners, etc., it promises to be an exciting and certainly unique performance.
'Merchant' is comprised of a cast consisting of just four actors and a myriad of musicians and physical performers; it is rumoured to have a circus theme, with the actors dressed and painted as classic red-nose clowns.
'Twelfth Night' is slightly carnival-esque, with all characters masked and dressed in bright costume. The story of love and all the confusion it brings with it is given new life in the hands of talented students fighting with balloon swords.
I missed out on 'Scratch' last year, mostly due to my laziness and general ignorance of everything happening around me, and this year I seem to be making up for that by being in two of the three productions... Typically, this isn't done by any 'Scratch' actors, as it's hard work and the loyalty to one show is very important, but circumstance gave me the opportunity and I couldn't say no.
I'd just finished the amazing play 'When It Rains Gasoline'; a wonderful experience and the greatest time working with some seriously talented and brilliant people. There was a sense of sadness creeping in towards the end of the 'Gasoline' rehearsals - what am I going to do with my time when this is all over? Will I still see my lovely co-stars? Will I get to perform again at all this year?
That was when the 'Scratch' auditions began. I auditioned for 'Midsummer' and 'Twelfth Night', not exactly confident about my chances because a) going from a modern and originally American play to Shakespeare is a bit of a shock, b) I was certain I'd got into 'Gasoline' purely due to my choice of monologue and a touch of dumb luck on the day of auditions, and c) everyone else at the 'Scratch' auditions was more talented/experienced/well-liked than me. Still, I tried.
I got into 'Midsummer', to my absolute delight. That was the one I wanted most - how lucky was that?! Clearly my portrayal of the very simple-minded Starveling/Moonshine in the auditions made the director happy - the laughter from everyone else in the room while I slowly and deliberately stuttered "this lanthorn doth the h-h-horn-ed moon present..." made it pretty clear that I was doing something right.The director gave us our roles, and said "if any of you have agreed to do any of the other Shakespeare plays, I'll be pissed!"
A month or so into rehearsals, I was approached by a lovely co-worker and asked if I would like to be in 'Twelfth Night' - they'd had someone drop out and desperately needed a new Captain/Antonio (two characters, both fairly small parts). I enjoyed the audition for this play, and some friends of mine had been given roles, so it would be a good experience and I'd get to perform even more. I had to be diplomatic and say "maybe, probably yes", and then confirm with the lovely director the following night that I would be happy to fill in - the director left me a voicemail saying she knew I was "having personal difficulties with some of the cast members", but reassured me it would not be a problem and she really wanted me in her show. I in turn assured her that the "personal difficulties" would never affect me in a working environment, and I was sure they'd be resolved soon enough.
I came back to uni two weeks early to start intensive rehearsals for 'Twelfth Night'. I cannot even begin to describe how nervous I was; I felt like the new kid at school, starting in November after all the cool kids had spent the past two months hanging out and getting to know each other - what if they didn't like me? What if they hated me for replacing the girl who dropped out? What if they believe those awful things people are saying about me? As you can imagine, walking into that studio on Day 1 could not have been more terrifying. All I wanted was to do well, and make friends. I think it's gone well, so far...
Hashtagging #TwelfthIntensive on Twitter with my fellow cast members, getting up early every day, learning to sword fight (kind of), mask making at the director's house, constant giggles and unintentional innuendo - it's been a great couple of weeks. I also managed to message the 'Midsummer' director, a lovely friend of a friend (who I'd definitely like to be a full-time friend), and she was alright with me being in two 'Scratch' shows - as long as I didn't slack off on my Mechanical duties.
Which brings me to today: the first rehearsals in the Theatre Royal. The morning was spent blocking and running 'Midsummer', plus practicing the crazy end dance to 'Love Is The Drug'. After lunch with some 'Midsummer' friends, the afternoon was all about 'Twelfth Night'. I was instructed to "be more camp" as my character of secretly-gay Antonio, and then spent the rest of rehearsals throwing a tennis ball backstage with a fellow cast member. I then had staff training at my SU, and then raced back to town to meet lovely friends (and future housemates) for a trip to the cinema. It's been a crazy day. Right now, at 1:30am, I am looking forward to my lie-in tomorrow morning, and reflecting on my mad-mad-mad week. It's been a fantastic experience, and I'm so happy I've been lucky enough to get a double helping.
'Scratch Shakespeare' is on Monday 11th Feb at the Theatre Royal, Winchester.
6:00pm - 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'.
7:20pm - 'The Merchant of Venice'.
8:40pm - 'Twelfth Night'.
Tickets are £5 per show, or £11 for all three.Buy tickets online!
I've already effectively guilt-tripped my immediate family into coming, let's see how many more people I can entice. If you need that extra bit of encouragement, imagine me clicking my fingers and thrusting with a lovely male dance partner to this tune...
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