Jessica McFarland

This evening’s discussion begins in the shower.

In a rare concession to the even rarer hot British summer days, I was accompanied there by a can of Sainsbury’s Moisture Rich Shave Gel – Wild Berry scented.

I had purchased this particular item because it was ‘good value’ (i.e., cheap), and while it was certainly less offensive than a similarly-flavoured product procured from Northern High Street staple Home Bargains, (which cost about 50p and reeked of something between bubble gum and death), it did have the curious dual aroma of sugar and chalk, neither of which should technically smell like anything at all.

It still reminded me strongly of both, however. This is because the actual smell was that of cherry Pez. Or perhaps strawberry. It’s pink, anyway, and bears little resemblance to anything from a plant, berry or otherwise. In addition to ladies’ shave gel, the smell can also can be found in the toilet air fresheners of certain petrol stations.
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I don’t relax enough. I work regular hours at a job I get paid for, and then I come home and usually do more work, for which I don’t get paid.

I realised it was starting to wear on me, making me pessimistic and stressed out and generally not a fantastic person.

I used to know how to relax, I’m sure of it. One day I decided to seriously think about it. When I used to relax, I mean, seriously relax, de-stress, forget about everything, what was I doing?

Reading a book? Books are lovely and I adore them, but they aren’t enough to hold my attention if I have a lot going on.
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My first World Cup in England has seen me go from not caring about sports at all to watching as many games as I can and totally obsessing about it at any opportunity. It’s nice to have scheduled daily entertainment and high drama, with a convenient pre-built toilet/snack break in the middle.

So, I expected to be writing this post about disappointment. I fully expected, at this moment, to be surrounded by the bitter disappointment of a nation whose dreams of glory had been smashed (by a country I had to google as, when I was learning about Eastern Europe, it did not exist).

Thankfully however, this is not the case. England beat Slovenia and will see another day of World Cup football. And no one collapsed onto the grass in tears (unlike the Italians — you won last time, let someone else have a turn!).

Instead I find myself surrounded by a cautious optimism. And I’m not really used to it. Because I’ve realised that, at least lately (I dunno, the last few years or so?), I’m quite the pessimist.
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I walked home from work the other day. I logged four miles in an effort to shake off the boredom of my usual routine.

My route took me over Tower Bridge, that stately yet functional symbol of London. The first time I saw it up close, I was struck by the grandeur of it. That plus the Tower of London itself close by put me in mind of kings and wars, love and death, and all the associated pains of a long, long history.

These days, it’s just a bridge crowded with tourists. I tried to remember how it used to make me feel, and I developed an acute and dizzying nostalgia for the days when London was fresh and new. (Not advisable for when many feet above a body of water.) The wonder and difficulty of my first few months here became edited into a warm glow that creeped over the corners of my vision.

I took a few deep breaths and kept going.
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I am writing this post by hand, and I have therefore decided to write about writing by hand, in a dizzying circle of meta-analysis.

I don’t normally do this by hand, at least, not for anything that will eventually be typed. I do keep a hand-written journal. Or two, or ten. Actually one could say that I am obsessive about journalling, as there is a large box full of notebooks at my parents’ house, each meticulously scrawled with what was, I’m sure, important at that time. But none of that will ever see the light of day, unless of course I marry a Prince of Wales.

So it is a bit strange to be using a pen now. Granted, it does have its advantages: a pen is not as heavy to carry as a laptop, with the added bonus of not worrying if it is smashed or stolen (incidentally, this is why I think the Kindle will never replace books).
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