Diary of a Grammatical Misfit

When someone changes their appearance somehow it often causes confusion. Someone’s lost weight so they’re complimented on their hairstyle, someone’s wearing makeup so they’re congratulated for their new outfit and so on…

It’s amusing to watch, especially if you know what it is that the person hasn’t spotted - I’ve sniggered at my father commenting on my sister’s new (actually years-old) top when she’d completely changed the colour of her hair and watched an oblivious idiot at a dinner party remarking on the hostess’s haircut when in fact she’d kept the hairstyle and gained d-cup breast implants.

I think the one I got last night might well be the weirdest one I’ve had myself though. A girl in my evening class looked at me and suddenly asked: “Have you done something different to your eyebrows?”.

I paused and considered. “Well yes, I suppose.” I replied and half-raised a hand to my considerably-shorter-than-it-was-last-week hair, “I’ve liberated them from my fringe.”

I’m now slightly worried that until last week it seems it looked like I had hairy monster eyebrows rather than just a much-too-overgrown fringe. Scary!

The sun was almost high enough to shine when we left the house this morning. The sky was certainly a greyey shade of blue rather than any shade of black.

My father grinned widely and a decided bounce entered his step as he approached the car. “No frost this morning,” he said joyfully, “and it’s daylight.”

I agreed and got into the car beside him.

“It doesn’t really last long, does it?” he asked, still cheerful, “Before you know it, it’s light again.”

“Yeah.” I said “It’s only been three or four months since we last saw the house in daylight on a work day. That’s practically no time at all. A quarter, maybe a third of the year at most.”

His grin wavered slightly but he clung on to his optimism - it’s so much easier to do in daylight.

I shouldn’t have said it, really. I’m happy that the mornings are finally light again too so it was mean of me to spoil the moment. But I’m not good at the blind optimism thing. Winters are hellish - the continual dark and cold, the constant urge to curl up and sleep, the need to desperately ferret around in your barren brain to find that last scrap of energy or inspiration or hope.

My father’s different. We’ve had a couple of days of sunshine and a few daffodils have poked their yellow heads out and already he has shrugged off the horrors of the miserable season. Ask him in June and he would barely remember a day when he was listless and fed up and drained. But he has them, we all do. The only difference between us is that when winter comes again he will be shocked again at how dark it is, confused again by how tired he is, surprised again that it comes so early and goes on so long.

A goldfish of emotional memory, my father.

He dropped me off at the train station as he always does during winter because he doesn’t like me to get too cold. (He manages to ignore the fact that in midwinter I’m so slow in the mornings that the problem would be getting there at all rather than getting there cold…). I felt a surge of contrition and I turned, with the biggest grin I could pull onto my face, and said “It’ll be summer before we know it!”

His dented good mood was instantly back to full strength and I said goodbye.

And I managed to wait the full few seconds that it took to shut the car door and turn away before muttering the rest of the sentence: “And winter again after that.”

The hairstyles of old ladies have always intrigued me. I used to think that people’s hair got curlier as they got older. I’m not sure how the blue or purple tint came into this theory but I suppose I didn’t realise that that was any weirder or less natural than white or grey.

I learned that this was not the case as I stood watching while my mother got her haircut at a salon that catered nicely for the ‘more mature’ customer (“cup of tea dear” they shouted at top volume as each one waited. They never even bothered asking the ones who sat with their heads under the setter - just plonked a fresh cup in their ready hands…).

“What are they doing to that lady’s head?” I hissed in a decidedly unsubtle stage whisper. My mother looked a bit embarrassed though I’m not sure why given the ladies’ repeated failures to interpret shouts, but explained as best she could, the various stages of curling, colouring and setting under the big alien heads.

The hairdresser chipped in with a few helpful comments but since she seemed to think she was talking to a four-year-old, I pointedly ignored her. Couldn’t she tell I was four-and-a-half? Big girls don’t need baby voices, oh no!

Eventually I grasped some notion of what was happening. It further advanced my theory that old people were just completely strange. It was bad enough having your hair brushed every day without adding to the torture surely?!

After we left the hairdresser I started to ask how they kept their hair tidy and I learned that some ladies chose to sleep upright rather than muss their hair on a pillow. Others used hairnets to keep it in place.

I was thrilled to learn that a device existed to stop one’s hair tangling and proceeded to wear a hairnet in bed for several months after that, though I’m not sure it ever stopped the tangles emerging under the dreaded brush.

I’m remembering all of this at the moment because for the last two nights I’ve been inadvertently testing the other method - sleeping upright. I have been going to sleep with a hot collar device (lavender scented - mmmmm) because I’ve been having some shoulder pain. And it has the effect of keeping my head up off my pillow as I sleep.

So I was dismayed to realise this morning that I am having one of my worst-ever bad hair days. It’s really dreadful. I feel betrayed by the old ladies with their unnatural-coloured curled helmets because I really thought I’d wake up all neat. I guess it only works on certain hairstyles - perhaps I should book myself into a hairdresser to sort this out.

After all, I must have been one of the youngest people ever to voluntarily wear a hairnet every night. Now I’ll become an under-30 with a blue rinse perm.

During the unecessarily long bunged-up period that the germs of London are currently subjecting me to, I have noticed that many foods are difficult to eat when you can’t breathe through your nose. And large mouthfuls are out too, unless you want to sound like the man eating a burger near me the other day who made snorting breathing noises through his snorting eating noises. Eurgh.

Some foods to avoid are obvious (although not obvious enough to such stupid people as me who say “yes, I’d like a toffee”) and others less so. Carrot sticks for example. Why on earth do I find it so difficult to eat carrot sticks while breathing through my mouth?

Must be something to do with the crunchiness involved. And perhaps my fruitless attempts at dignity realise that carrot munching is terribly loud when I can’t quite shut my mouth and so attempt to suffocate me while I eat.

Which is a bit annoyingly illogical because surely suffocating myself while eating carrots is actually less dignified than making a bit of noise eating them?

Anyway, at the moment I’m eating terribly ladylike bites of food that is neither too crunchy nor too sticky in order to preserve my manners. I wonder if they cover this advice in ladette to lady classes?

The train races rattles its way towards London and I settle myself comfortably in my seat. The swaying motion of the carriage rocks me gently firmly and I wait for the shapes around me to blur into the stupor that precedes my morning doze.
 
But the lights remain harsh and the clatter of the tracks still echoes sharply. Sleep is not coming.
 
Confusion sets in. What has happened? Why am I still awake to see stations that should only exist as a muffled announcement and a vague sensation of movement and bustle beyond my closed eyelids?
 
I look around bemusedly, realising for perhaps the first time just how many people cram themselves onto the train each morning as I sit napping in the corner. I watch in admiration as city types prop their bodies in contorted positions and fill the space in front of their faces with vast expanses of pink newspaper.
 
I listen with amusement to the sounds of people talking, sleeping, typing on laptops and blackberries, rustling paper, slurping coffee, munching breakfast.
 
And then tune into the other sounds and realise, with a creeping sense of horror, how much more obvious it is in the mornings that the trains are little more than travelling germ factories.
 
Sniffing, coughing, wheezing, sneezing and the varyingly gross noises of noses blowing, unite in an orchestral travesty.
 
I add my own cold-induced melody to the symphony of infection and muse as to why I bother taking so many vitamins when they clearly stand no chance at all against the sustained daily attack I suffer as I slumber.

It often feels that an MP3 player* on a random or shuffle setting, is playing music for a specific purpose. 

I think everyone has felt this at some point or other - even with songs on the radio. But on random setting MP3 it can get a bit spooky how often you think of a track and it plays next, how an upbeat song comes on when you want one or that song that you associate with a particular person comes on just after you’ve spoken to them.

So it’s hard not to take notice when your MP3 player seems to be trying to tell you something.

I have 3000 songs on my MP3 so the odds of one track playing twice during an hour-long drive should be something in the region of 0.0002% (I think. I admit it’s been a while since I did any proper probability calculations but the odds are definitely long!). When this song is called ‘Explode’ (by the Cardigans) it’s enough to give cause for alarm.

So if my MP3 player does know something I don’t, or is being influenced by some force (that sounds much better and more rational huh?!), then what is it trying to tell me?

Is it suggesting that I’m a bit too stressed and need to calm down? Is it warning me of something? (My car survived the journey but I am getting on a plane on Friday - gulp) Or was it merely an acknowledgment that I was driving to a firework display? 

Whichever way I’m spooked. Why couldn’t the song have related to true love or the weather being sunny or anything else that would seem slightly less ominous?!

In the last week or so there has been an image at the back of my mind. I think this image shows that I have watched too many television shows in my time - the kind with dream sequences illustrating what is happening in real life.

Because I keep seeing a version of myself wandering around the back of my own brain, juggling. And as she juggles, more balls are being thrown at her and she’s struggling to keep them all going.

All rather ridiculous.

Partly because the vision is disappointingly cliched but mostly because I can’t even juggle two balls in real life and at the moment my vision seems to have about a dozen on the go. She’s really quite talented. Despite being transparent and dull.

Anyway, the ball that was re-booking loads of stuff thanks to the aforementioned fucktards at Austravel, has now been dropped and is rolling away from my feet into the chasm that always rests at the back of my brain. The ball that represents chastising them and making them apologise, grovel and in other ways make up for their mistake is still in the air however, along with all the others.

And as I type, I get a text message informing me of a situation requiring sensitive handling and not a small amount of my time to sort out. 

The poor juggler winces as it flies out of the blue but she catches it with the tips of her fingers.

Balls!!!!

Not in the manner of the postal strike, just that I have no capacity to blog today.

Of course, this announcement is an inherent lie but never mind, the point is to state that there will be no stunning, thought-provoking, witty, intelligent discourse on this blog today.

Admittedly, there isn’t any on any other day either, but I will never know if this was actually to be the day when that all changed because I have used up all my verbosity in composing a 1200 word email of complaint to the incompetent morons that have sabotaged my holiday.

So, if you came here looking for a stunning, thought-provoking, witty, intelligent discourse then blame Austravel for depriving you.

(Although in all seriousness, you are looking in the wrong place!)

A couple of nights ago I was eating out with a friend and I happened to overhear a woman on a nearby table mention that she had thrush. Not, perhaps, the most wonderful topic of conversation for the dinner table but that’s up to her. Or in fact, that’s probably up to her dinner companions. And presumably, since she said it in quite a loud voice to her five friends, she didn’t mind how many other people in the restaurant heard either.

It reminded me though of one of the most awkward moments I’ve ever had in a restaurant when I overheard something that should definitely not have gone beyond the one table.

It was in a seafood restaurant in San Francisco last year. I was on holiday with my friend redhead, and we were in the middle of a very pleasant meal when I happened to hear one line of the conversation between the couple sitting at the table next to us. (And this table was probably less that a foot away from us - it was a rather crowded restaurant).

“I think it’s time we admitted it’s over.” he said to her.

I froze with horror. I was desperate not to let him (or even more, her) know that I had heard what he said. Redhead hadn’t heard it as she had been talking and now she finished what she’d been saying and took a mouthful of food.

But the last thing I wanted was silence. If there was an awkward break-up conversation going on a foot away from us, I knew we needed to keep making noise. My frozen brain scuttled around frantically, looking for something to talk about.

And it came up with toasted cheese.

“Do you remember all the cheese and toast we used to make back at university?” I rushed out, in a voice that felt unnaturally tense and loud.

“We used to make cheese on toast in the middle of the night when we came back from nightclubs or parties. Only it changed over the years we all lived together didn’t it?” I continued without waiting for redhead’s response. “First it was normal cheese on toast. In fact no, not normal cheese, it was probably tesco value cheddar - those lumps of plastic with a vaguely cheese-like odour. Gosh I’d forgotten how vile that stuff was, I might have to buy some sometime to see if it still tastes as bad.”

“O…kaaay.” replied redhead, looking totally bemused and glancing down at the plates between us, filled with gloriously creamy pasta and tasty shellfish. Clearly she wondered why I had suddenly decided to hold forth on the topic of cheap midnight snacks at this particular moment in time.

I carried on though. “But it moved on from cheese on toast. It became philadelphia cream cheese on toast next. And then brie on toast too sometimes, for a bit of variety. And that was all in the first year because then we moved out of halls and moved on to the wonder of toasted sandwiches. And they got more and more elaborate, first just cheese, then cheese and ham then more stuff - whatever anyone had in the cupboard really. By the end of the year toasties required half an hour prep time - chopping mushrooms and onions etc.”

“Yes, they did.” said redhead, now looking ever so slightly scared. She may well have been wondering if it was possible for prawns to cause deliriousness.

“It was like the evolutionary progression of toasted cheese products.” I said, now with a distinct air of desperation. The topic was already long past its natural end (I think the first mention of cheese was probably that) but my brain was still too frozen to come up with an alternative topic and I was still faintly aware of the continued murmur of low voices, wracked with emotion, at the next table.

“Survival of the fittest, or rather the yummiest. As we developed our use of more advanced tools and powers of co-operation the toasted cheese products evolved…”

I think there must be a god devoted to rescuing awkward english people who have got themselves into a verbal pickle as a result of extreme social embarrassment. Although, if there is, it must be one that particularly dislikes Richard Curtis, judging by the messes he lets people get into in his films.

I think this god exists, because it was extremely fortunate that - during this last, godawful push for continued wordage - the couple got up and walked away from the table. The man went to pay the bill, the woman (as redhead discovered about ten minutes later) went to cry in the ladies’ toilets.

I let out a huge sigh of relief and explained to the now definitely concerned-looking person opposite what on earth had just happened.

“Oh.” she said with sympathy and obvious relief.

“You thought I’d become suddenly unhinged didn’t you?” I asked, now in my normal cheerful voice.

“We-ell.” she replied hesitantly and then grinned, “I did think it would have been a bit unfortunate… quite so early in the holiday.”

I slurped up the last of my delicious meal and sat back, realising as I did so, that despite the food I had just consumed, I could feel a craving growing inside me. And I knew that the sacrifice I had offered up to the god that rescued me was the unfulfillable desire for toasted cheese…

Some annoying things:

• Cancelled trains
• The words “to be continued” at the end of a TV programme
• Forgetting to take your phone off silent when you’re waiting for a significant phone call
• This week’s song-of-the-week on Radio 1’s early morning breakfast show. Heavy metal screeching has its place - but 6.20am is not it. I will be waking up to radio 2 for the rest of the week.
• Not finding the time to write a proper blog post!