Parallel Lines

Running long
Running straight
We go on
To our fate
We are lines
We are lines, oh,
We are parallel lines

Our route is the same
Single path, different names
I’m AB, you’re YZ, oh,
We are parallel lines

And this is where the lines no longer meet
And this is where our steps have missed a beat
And this is where the lines no longer meet
And this is where it ends here at my feet
And this is where, and this is where infinity lies.

You have eyes, you can see
You have ears to hear me
Perfect ears
Perfect eyes, oh
We are parallel lines.

It was quickly caught, barely fitting into the largest glass in the kitchen, and released into the garden. Hopefully it cherishes its freedom enough to never ever set foot in this house again.

I use the passive form of the verb ‘to catch’ because I didn’t do the catching myself. I would have, but only after the requisite amount of screaming and shivering had been achieved. Really! I was going to let it go myself. But having my boyfriend do it was just quicker.

Mind you, I wasn’t always so nice to spiders. With maturity, I have developed the opinion that non-human creatures, like humans, have the right to a full life, one that doesn’t end in being smashed under a book. (These rights are suspended in wartime, of course, such as in the on-going Formic Wars in the kitchen.)

Plus, spiders are predators, and can supposedly keep the small, annoying insect population in check (though I have yet to see a spider chow down on an anthill). So although I don’t like them, I recognise their right to life and set them free whenever possible.

Didn’t use to be that way though. I used to live in a basement flat in Seattle that was totally overrun with spiders. Big ones, little ones, mid-sized ones. Under the bed, in the laundry, in the windows. Come to think of it, I don’t know how I survived there as long as I did. I didn’t even develop arachnid-like superpowers, which is, in hindsight, disappointing.

There was one in particular that probably would have eaten me, had I not taken evasive action. I’ve scoured my hard drive for the story, which I wrote down, but unfortunately I can’t find it. (If any of you are hard core fans, you may remember.)

I had been away for a couple of weeks, came home, and took a hot bath. While still in my towel, I found a spider the size of a VW Rabbit perched on the dust ruffle of the bed. I was alone and terrified. I sprayed it with poison and it didn’t die. I sucked it up with the vacuum hose and it barely fit. It was one of those fancy vacuum cleaners with a transparent canister (Why? Why do these things exist?) and I saw the corpse slowly decaying there for weeks. Ick.

So yeah, these days I don’t kill spiders. But I used to. Rationally, I know that I shouldn’t kill them. But the main thing actually stopping me from doing it is knowing how gross the remains will be. And letting it stay in the house is not an option. Therefore, I must get over my dislike enough to set them free, and pray that they never ever come back.

Start Again

Now I’m at the start again
This is where we start again

There’s so much to tell
So much to tell you
I can see you’re listening
When I try to say
The words, they get confused
And it’s the strangest thing

But I need to start again
Please just let me start again

‘Cause I can show you places
Take you places
You have never been before
As we float away
Across the ocean
Straight until the other shore

But I need to start again
Please just let me start again
I think I need to start again
Please just let me start again

‘Cause there’s so much to tell
So much to tell and
I can see you’re listening
But when I try to say
The words get all confused
And it’s the strangest thing

This thrice-weekly street market reminds me of nothing so much as China. Or Brazil. It’s also been compared to Fiji…I think you see what I’m getting at. It’s a little piece of the developing world, but within easy walking distance of the Docklands Light Railway.

And it’s totally awesome.

I don’t get much out of the plastic home goods, the marked-down groceries, the piles of rotting fish, or the designer knock-offs (though I did buy a maxi dress…I’m “being the trend” at a fraction of the price!). It’s all interesting to look at, but I wouldn’t want most of it in my house…plus I started to hear arguments break out about incorrect change–slightly frightening.

No, the highlight of the Deptford Market for me is turning left off the high street and entering the peripheral market, which is all “home goods”.

By “home goods” I mean goods from people’s homes. Literally. It is roughly divided into three broad categories: furniture, electrical goods, books/CDs/DVDs. Well, not DVDs. Mostly VHS.

All of it is dusty and none of it is organised. The electrical goods consist of tables piled high with old appliances, rotary phones, miscellaneous bits of plastic. I can’t believe any of it has been stolen, because, seriously, who would bother stealing it? I nearly left with an old Casio portable keyboard, but sense got the better of me in the end, and I left it there.

The books are the best part though. More piles, disorganised, although I’m convinced that there is some sort of order to the thing. They aren’t in alphabetical order, or subject order, or even paperback and hardback. However, each box could potentially be the library of one household. There might be some travel books, golf books, and a few books in French. Or some old and new sci-fi grouped together, with the occasional ‘chick-lit’ thrown in.

Which brings me to my main theory about this bazaar: I think the items are contents of the houses of people who have either died or been put into a care home. In the absence of family (or perhaps the presence of a family that had no use for a black and white TV), everything was carted away by movers, and it all ended up in Deptford.

A macabre theory, perhaps, but the pile of old books, by far the newest of which being “How to Die Well” didn’t repudiate it.

But anyway, who cares! Every book is 50p. No matter what it is. I have come away with hard bound books that look like they’ve just come from Waterstone’s and been read once (maybe). For 50p!!!

Knowing how cheap it all is drives me into some kind of frenzy when I go there. I must sift through the entire network of tables. I must look at every book and decide if I want it. I already had far more books than I could have read by the end of this year (or next year) when I came away with a collection of Agatha Christie novels, beautifully bound into a single volume and almost new. How much did it cost? 50p!! I didn’t even need to break a note!

I think anyone who has been there would agree that Deptford is dodgy/possiby dangerous/a bit of a hole/not somewhere to be alone at night. But the cheap books at the Deptford Market make me glad I live basically next door.

I didn’t appreciate it when I lived in America. It’s so easy to come by there. Not only is it readily available in the supermarket (unless you live in certain Southern counties and it’s a Sunday), but I even used to work at a bar that had it on tap!

On tap! I’ve never seen it on tap here. I’ve never drank it at a public place. I’ve only ever enjoyed it at home. When I lived in America, and it was everywhere, I never tried it. It was too dark, and I’m a girl, so it scared me. Now that I’ve realised how delicious it is, and I’m much, much closer to Newcastle, it’s only there if you look for it. (It’s the Narnia of ale).

A classic case of not appreciating what you have until it’s gone.

And what about Bass Ale? It also is supposed to be from England. Once I saw a red triangle above a pub. Other than that, it doesn’t seem to exist. I did drink that in America. And now that I’m in England, I sort of miss it.

Maybe it’s a bit like the English muffin. Haven’t seen one of those here, though I hear they have them at McDonald’s. And Altoid mints. They’re supposed to be English, but no one here has ever heard of them. I saw some at a Waitrose in Chelsea once, and I bought them for the novelty of it. (And I think those were imported from Germany.) At least they have English breakfast tea here, though it’s just called “tea”.

But then, Outback Steakhouse isn’t from Australia, and I think I only drank a Foster’s in Australia once (and many, many times in the UK, but only because it was cheap).

But Newcastle Brown Ale is from Newcastle, Newcastle England. So I am slightly annoyed that it seems to be more common in the US. Though really, I can’t be that annoyed. Because I’ve just had one.

And it was soooooo good.

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.

Why Pez? And I don’t mean, “why does my shave gel smell like Pez?” but indeed, why does Pez exist at all? The little oblongs of “candy” don’t taste that great, and as for the dispensers, well, I remember trying to play with them like they were dolls, but being put off slightly by their uniformly rectangular bodies and flip top heads.

At any rate, the Pez dispenser is certainly one of the least effective methods of obtaining confectionary, only slightly more effective than the candy necklace, which is of course, equally unpalatable sugar but threaded onto a piece of elastic, making it both food and accessory. My most recent candy necklace experience was in a trendy art gallery in oh-so-trendy Shoreditch, London, where I was given one (as an ironic piece of kitsch, no doubt) for looking at over-priced, uninteresting art (possibly as compensation). I doubled it up and wore it as a bracelet. Made it easier to eat (but didn’t taste any better).

Anyway. Now I’ve showered, and I smell like Pez. But I’m also an adult, so I’ve traded sweets dispensers for wine spritzers. Is alcohol, televised football, and computer games an acceptable way to spend an evening? I say yes.

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.

Watching a film? Same again. Especially if it’s a bad film (e.g., Wedding Crashers, which I actually sent back before finishing, OMG it was rank, and I hold personally responsible everyone who told me to watch it and that it would be good). To avoid the possibility that a film will suck, I’ll watch one I’ve already seen…and turn it off in half an hour when I remember what’s going to happen and how much work I should be doing instead.

Television? There’s never anything on, so if I am just spacing out in front of it, sure, it’s time not spent working, but after having lain comatose watching four re-runs of American television shows I’ve seen 3 times already, it’s difficult to suppress the growing sense of self-hatred.

No, my chief form of relaxation, when I needed it the most was…computer games. Specifically, The Sims.

I’m up to Sims 3 now. I mostly have it because it was the only game I was interested in that would run on a Mac (just one more thing to dislike about Apple). I played it for a while and then forgot about it.

Thankfully, I’ve now remembered. Through it I can live in a fantastic house with glass walls overlooking the ocean, whilst trying to have as many children as possible and avoid being left by my husband who has commitment issues. Or grow bushes that produce potatoes and onions. Or have a neurotic breakdown (oh wait, I could do that one anyway).

How could my attention not be held when babies are born, promotions are achieved, and relationships are tested? How can I turn it off when my sim people are in the middle of major life dramas?? And forget about self-hatred! I’m writing a novel, playing the guitar for money in the park, and throwing mediocre parties!! A full day of effort, surely!!!

It’s a fantastic waste of time, and keeps my brain gleefully occupied by things that totally do not matter. Yes, it’s amazing. If I have an “off” switch, that’s it. I have therefore resolved to indulge in it more often. Maybe I’ll accomplish my life goals. (In the game, not for real.)

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.

I always plan for the worst. If it’s a sunny morning, I wear a raincoat to work. If I’m up a few hundred pounds, I’m also waiting for an expensive catastrophe that will make that money disappear. The glass is always half empty and will probably get knocked off the table as well, making a mess that I’ll just have to clean up. (I’d better get the hoover out now.)

I don’t think good things will happen of their own accord. When they do, I don’t trust them. I tend to believe that there is a certain requisite amount of hard work that must occur before any amount of success. I have, somewhere along the way, adopted the Mark Corrigan view of life. (Without the hilarious flatmate.) I must live too close to Croydon.

And so, when discovering that England’s next game would be against Germany, I immediately thought, well, all right, that will be the last game.

But over the last few days, I’ve felt optimism return after its long absence. Perhaps it’s the weather — the temperature has finally decided to agree with the calendar, and I’m getting some use out of my Havaianas flip flops. Perhaps it’s the position of the stars, if it turns out the astrologists were right after all. Or something generally in the air (though that could be mould; I’ve been smelling it a bit recently, with all the warm and damp).

So I’m going to try to cultivate these small shoots of hope that have sprouted. Everything might just turn out okay. It might not all go wrong for me and mine, and happy coincidences may just occur, completely un-looked for.

And, most importantly, England just might beat Germany tomorrow.

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.

My path also took me past new places. Bermondsey tube station, which I had never seen outside of. There were severe delays on the Jubilee line, but I had outwitted Transport for London by walking, ha ha!

I saw a falafel shop. It was called, ‘Only Fools and Falafels.’ (I have been told that this is stupid, but it made me grin, and reminded me I still need to watch that show.)

By far, the crowning glory of my sojourn was Southwark Park. It looks much larger in real life than on google maps. The path through the park passed under huge trees, giving a cathedral-like atmosphere that muted the traffic noise. The park also has a lake and a gazebo, and some planters planted with teeny tiny herbs with little labels.

It was so peaceful, and a slight break from the ordinary. I will have to make more of an effort to expand my horizons, before I lose the plot entirely. I don’t know about anyone else, but I definitely thrive on change, so much so that I sometimes wonder if I am not genetically programmed to be able to do the same thing every day. Sometimes it feels like I’m just not wired for, y’know, life, the way life just is in the 21st century.

Nothing to do but take more walks and figure it all out.

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).

But man is it ever slow. And I write these words knowing I will have to type them all afterwards, ugh. And it’s messy; any changes (and there are always many) result in scribbles, ^s, more scribbles, running out of room, and soon the whole thing is illegible. It is very slightly depressing, like tangled headphone cords or a shoelace knot.

I suppose I could appreciate it as a momentary escape. I don’t need to plug anything in or charge any batteries to do it. Furthermore, no one needs to sell me anything to be able to write on this piece of paper, especially since that paper is, um, “borrowed”. And this gel roller pen does slide very nicely across it. And it is physical freedom as well: it means I can write under nearly any circumstances, including a coffee shop on my lunch break with the Holland-Denmark game on in the background, for example.

Yes, it’s freedom. Freedom from the computer. But I’m not used to it. I think I needed a period of slow reintegration into computer-free life. It’s a little bit dark without the laptop’s soft white glow, and to top it all, my hand is getting a cramp.

I may not be doing this very often.