No One Is Alone

My parents went away for a week to sunny Spain, coming back this Thursday. During that time, I had the house to myself, which is always a bittersweet affair: on the plus side, I can eat what I want when I want and hang around in my pyjamas all day; on the down side, there can be days at a time where I don't talk to anyone and I often get nothing done (when my parents are here, I still don't accomplish anything, but this is different from doing something.)

However, I wasn't alone the entire time, as I have friends who will travel vast differences and brave the indignity of travelling with Arriva just to come and salve my aching breast.
First up was Jari, who arrived early on Friday and departed late on Saturday. As ever with Jari, he was completely taken aback by the verdancy of the surroundings, even though he lives in Edinburgh, where there is a lot of greenery to be found, if one knows where to look. He arrived with a smile, a giggle and, that most precious of commodities, gossip from my extended friendship circle. We went to get lunch at a posh cafe, a treat from me as he's put me up so often in his flat, and then for walk. Jari's always had a thing for the cooling towers of the power station, so we walked up to the base and gazed to the alpine peak, and I remembered one of my trademark Barely Interesting Factoids: the cooling towers are orange because when they were erected they were painted to camouflage

Like in this picture, where you somehow magically can't see them.

and the landscape was scarred and barren due to all the industrial work; however, in these lush, modern times when most of the valley is forest, they stick out like a carotenaeic thumb.
After this, we returned to my house and spent some time dilly-dallying in the woods (foolishness can happen in the woods) and then cooked dinner and watched Paddington, which Jari enjoyed almost as much as my mother, who I think would actually go to live with the little bear if he Purple Rose of Cairo'd her.
The next day, we went for an even longer walk, taking in a lot of the valley, including the bit that's slowly sinking into the river, and then had cream tea in the village. After this, we went to watch some of the boat race that was happening on the river and returned to my house for an early dinner. Eventually, Jari had to leave and I was on my lonely ownio once more.

But then, two days later, Patrick, Ella and Husnain arrived en masse, despite assurances that they'd be staggered. It was fine though as, after some misorientation hijinks involving frantic phone calls and a good deal of hill-walking, we were all united and so decided to get our drink on, except Husnain, of course. Patrick and Ella had bought some lovely Champagne from Shrewsbury and we drank this in the wood, while I lit a fire using the dried grass that I'd cut from the garden the week before; we sat in the sunshine and ate Ferrero Rocher and posh crisps and joked and chatted and it felt beautifully estival. After this, I still had the Champagne that I was given as a leaving present in France, and we drank it in the front garden, feeling blissfully hedonistic and not a little Gatsbyesque. We sat on the grass and drank and afterwards, we left the champagne bottle sitting in the middle of the lawn to remind ourselves of our glorious excess.
Patrick and Ella had promised to cook and as they made a bolognaise the kitchen was filled with music and laughter and dancing and photographs and supping, just as kitchens always should be.

Some of the aforementioned photographs. All credit (including the one of the valley above) to Ella Ruth Cowperthwaite.

Once we were done with dinner, we started playing Cranium, which always involves a lot of animation on the part of the players and is best played fairly drunk and not really paying attention to the rules. We rocked it, is what I'm saying. Halfway through, the men felt restless, so we decided to go for a walk while Ella stayed in and lounged on the sofa. We walked in the dark, discussing, bizarrely, the sociopolitical implications of name orthography as we crashed through the crepuscular overgrowth. We then returned and played long hours of charades before finally retiring to bed, with Patrick insisting on taking my sister's old high bed before becoming that kid at the sleepover who's never spent a night away from home and has to stay in someone else's room.
The next morning, we went out for breakfast and then down to a little secluded beach on the river severn, where we threw stones in the water, with Patrick scoring many skims when no one else was looking. Ella gave me a henna tattoo and we baked in the heat. Finally, they all had to depart and I was left alone once more.

However, my parents returned on Thursday, and the next day I went to see Mel in Wales, for some conversation and light Godfathering. This time, Travis was in school, so I actually got to talk to Mel and catch-up on what had been happening. Then, we went to pick the munchkin up, and the school fair was on, so we watched as he jumped on a bouncy castle and then clamboured into a Police van (Mel and I both silently prayed that this would be the only time he'd be in a Police vehicle). In the van, they were kind enough to let Travis ink his thumb and then press it onto some paper- what Travis called his 'PingerFrint'- and then put in on a keychain for him, so he now carries his identity on his schoolbag.
I must now confess a small bit of sadness: when I tried to say goodbye to Travis, knowing I might not see him for a long time (possibly five years!), he wouldn't even look at me and kept brushing off my attempts to hug him. I know he doesn't understand and doesn't intend to be cruel, but it still hurt- I wanted a moment with him before I left and the most I got out of him was 'bye!'- less valedictory and more frustrated- but when I asked him where he thought I was going, he answered 'Australia' (quite smugly, I might add), so I guess he occasionally pays attention to what I'm saying. 

And finally, last night I saw Daniel for the first time since Christmas and met his girlfriend for the first time ever. Daniel is as Daniel ever will be- nerdy, intelligent, just this side of being a mad scientist (he certainly has the hair); seeing him is always slightly like stepping back in time, we talk about people I haven't thought of in years and laugh about things that happened eons ago. I imagine the next time I see him, it will be exactly the same, as will every time after that. And I'm very glad about that.

All in all, it was a lovely week and even though I was actually alone for a lot of it, I haven't felt so flushed with friends for a long time. It was really nice to be able to host some of my closest buddies in my house and feel beloved, if not especially by Travis; may that champagne bottle rest there eternally.

The Godfather: Part II

Yesterday, I went to visit Mel and Travis. But before I get into that, I want to recount this little gem: Travis, as he kept proudly recounting, turned five last week. In the build up to his birthday, the following exchange took place:

MEL: Your favourite uncle's coming to your party.

TRAVIS: Rory?!

I cannot describe to you the swell of emotions I felt when Mel told me that. The fact that I then missed his party is beside the point.
I'm his favourite.

When I arrived, Travis immediately recognised me- a miracle in itself- and knew my name without prompting. Later in the day, he occasionally would call me 'Tommy', the name of Mel's new man, but I've learnt to take what I can get.
He immediately dragged me upstairs to show me his room and play a version of catch wherein every action he took won him a point, as did anything I did. There was no way for me to get points, but I evidently still had a tally on his mental scoreboard because:

MEL (From downstairs): Who's winning?

TRAVIS: Me! Travis!

ME: I think she can tell our voices apart.

TRAVIS: No!

When I protested the game wasn't fair, he said he was tired and didn't want to play anymore. He'd make a good politician.

Later, Mel had to go to lunch with her new beau and her new beau's father, so I heroically took on the role of babysitter; this mainly consisted of blowing bubbles into a spider's web, which was strong enough to hold them but not to pop them. I thought this was a beautiful metaphor for the ephemeral nature of parenthood and youth, Travis thought it made them easier to pop. I think the spider thought that ragnarok had come.
After this, we played 'Guess Who' and I taught Travis about the process of elimination, which he described as 'cra-zy.'

Mel eventually returned and Travis wanted to do some crafting, and there were pipecleaners. Maybe it was just Ironbridge, but when I was younger, pipecleaners were a rare commodity- a treat of the highest order, akin to eating orlotan or holding a baby panda. I remember when Blue Peter used to call on us to have pipecleaners, they might as well have asked us to make sure we had our gold filigree ready.
But lo and behold, there was an entire pack of them in the house and better yet, Travis wasn't interested in them, so Tom and I went a little nuts:

Cthulhu and Fu Manchu, teaming up at last.

 

If young Rory could have see the way I was wearing pipe cleaners on my face, he would have thought I was some kind of hedonistic millionaire.

 

After crafting, we watched Moshi Monsters, which had to be the laziest film I have seen in a long time. At one point, one of the characters proclaimed something to be 'monsterrific', which confused me no end since we don't call things 'humanrific'. At another, some characters were described as 'voodoo', which obviously meant they ate people. And then one of the half-rendered blobs quoted Mae West and I nearly lost it, because leave Mae West and her beautiful amorality out of your deplorable excuse for art. Monsterrible.

 

And then it was time to go. Despite me being his favourite uncle, Travis didn't seem to really regret my leaving. When I went to hug him, he hid beneath a towel and instructed me that this meant I couldn't touch him. I know he's only five but his callousness still stings a little.

 

Sadly, I didn't get to speak to Mel too much this time, as Travis was so full of beans. But, we got a couple of quick conversations and some hugs in and I'll hopefully get to see her again before I go. To paraphrase David Nicholls in One Day:

"Another big day in the life of a godfather."



Hay Festival

I present the above pictures without comment because sometimes context destroys the beautiful.

I spent the Bank Holiday weekend at the Hay Festival, rubbing elbows with the unkindled masses and spotting the odd celebrity far off in the distance.

I swear to God that's Stephen Fry up there, glowing like a Monacan traffic light. That's also the last of the photos I took because this was a festival of words not images and I quite clearly suck at it (see above).
Instead, I'm going to list the various talks and events I went to, especially the ones that involved famous people, who will be denoted in bold so you know to be impressed.

SATURDAY, 23RD MAY
14.00- 14.45
Live recording of The Verb: this was pretty fun, though I mainly booked cos it was a chance to see Stephen Fry for free. He was very good, and read a poem about Englishness and then spoke a little about his favourite words, which were admittedly delightful to the ear. Irvine Welsh was also there and struck me as a surprisingly soft-spoken man given his oeuvre; he read from his new novel and answered questions about writing naturalistic speech which appealed to as both a linguist and a writer incapable of sounding natural even when he's just talking naturally.

14.45-15.30
Live recording of some scenes from a Radio 4 drama: not a scheduled event, just something that happened after they were done recording The Verb. I sat and listened to them perform the scenes and then actually got to say a line because they needed someone in the audience to ask a question. So, yeah, I'm making my Radio 4 debut on Friday at 2.15, in a play that's also starring Ian McMillan and Simon Armitage, making them the most famous people I've acted with, ousting Sportacus.

16.00-17.00
Get Creative and Write a Poem: This was a lot of fun and also lead by Ian McMillan; the poem we wrote, altogether as an audience, was nonsense but at least it rhymed, so it was a lot better than some of the crap I've heard over the years.

20.30-21.30
Stephen Fry, Sandi Toksvig and Guests: Firstly, I object to the title of this show- it seems to suggest a lovely alternate universe where Stephen Fry and Sandi Toksvig have set up home and now regularly invite interesting speakers (and hordes of onlookers) into their living room. Instead, Fry was the host with Toksvig and one other person. So you know, the pluralisation is wrong and also I feel really sorry for that other guy- Mark Goldring- who isn't special enough to get his name in the title. Apart from this, it was actually a very interesting talk about Magna Carta and how to legislate for the rights we want and the changes we so desperately need. Fry was avuncular and delicious as ever, Goldring more or less held his own, at least in terms of delivering information but Toksvig absolutely stole the show- something that would become a habit of hers as the weekend developed. She was warm, she was witty, she was incisive- she even put the Hay festival staff in their place by pointing out how none of their lecterns were tall enough for her. Top marks.

SUNDAY, 24TH MAY
9.30- 10.15
What the Paper Said: A brief look at a newspaper from the same date, eighty one years prior. Relatively interesting, in terms of seeing how reporting has changed, especially in terms of language and presentation, but not delivered in a striking or decisive manner. However, it did give me my new favourite epigram:

"Mainly Dull in Tendency"

The headline pertaining to the stocks on that day.  The image of it as an actual newspaper topper was superb: it was written all fancy and bold and just looked a treat. Sadly I can't find it reproduced anywhere online and I don't want to pay for access to that newspaper's archives just for this one, admittedly splendid, turn of phrase. I was tempted to ask the presenter to send me a copy: I want to put it on my business cards.

11.30-12.30
Andrew Solomon: I'll admit I booked this only to see Stephen Fry once more, as he was interviewing the eponymous speaker. And, yet again, Fry was upstaged by his guest. Andrew Solomon might not be famous enough to earn the bold typography but he should be. He was brilliant- his work was brilliant, his speech was brilliant, his entire outlook on everything seemed to be just brilliant. If everything else at Hay had turned out to be an unmitigated disaster, it would have been worth it to go just to discover him because I plan to track down as much of his work as I can. An absolutely captivating lecture on children who are in some way radically different from their parents, told from the perspective of the parents. If you can find it online, please do; it really was inspiring and opened up so many questions about ideas of genetics and culture and how one may influence the other.

13.00-14.00
Jude Law, Louise Brealey, Sarah Lancashire, Sandi Toksvig, Colm Tóibín, Andrew O’Hagan, Kelvin Jones, Lisa Dwan and Stephen Fry: This is how the title was written on my ticket and so that's how I'll present it although I imagine it was actually called something more appropriate like Letters Live, rather than the title I gave which suggests I somehow managed to score a front-row seat for one of the most star-studded and improbable orgies of all time. No such luck. No, the above were instead reading letters from history (and one from this year, and another from a work of fiction, so they were more just reading letters of any description they fancied). This was an interesting idea and, when executed well, worked fantastically. Jude Law showed off his wit, verve and not inconsiderable acting chops when reading a letter from a Jew exiled from Nazi Germany to the man now occupying his house. Stephen Fry nearly burst into tears when reading the coming out letter of a gay son to his mother who had just joined a campaign for "Decency". And Sandi Toksvig took another cake by reading a two line correspondence about the Suffragette movement:

"There are two, and only two, ways in which this can be done. Both will be effectual. 1. Kill every woman in the United Kingdom. 2. Give women the vote. "

-Bertha Brewster

Sadly, sometimes the format didn't work so well: there was an actress- I don't remember which she was from the melange of names above, and she had the dual misfortunes of having picked the most angsty and therefore alienating pieces and then rather overperforming them. Still, most of the readers were excellent- there is definitely something to be said for short, elegant writings when delivered with a lovely, crisp accent and diction.

14.30-15.30

The Essay: This is the event I remember least. I know it was two people talking about what inspires them to write because the info on the website tells me so. I don't remember who they were or why they write. Oh well.

20.30-21.30

Jo Caulfield: Jo Caulfield is a stand-up comedian; she's apparently been on TV, but I'd never heard of her before I booked this ticket. In her blurb, she claimed her show was about the literary characters with whom she'd fallen in love but it really wasn't. Still, she was funny and that's what really matter with stand-up, I feel.

22.00-23.00

Eric Lampaert's Comedians' Cinema: This was not a show to see with one's parents. That was our first mistake. Our second was to sit in the front row so my parents had to get involved in the show's proceedings. This was an improve troupe trying to act out a movie- in this case, Mary Poppins: there was a lot of potential there, especially in extemporised musical numbers (a la Bert in the beginning of the film) and some of it was met. Some of it was emphatically not. They had the rather inspired idea that the woman playing Mary hadn't seen the film- this could've been brilliantly bizarre and out-of-joint, instead she just sort of shouted that she was 'the best nanny ever' all the time. Not so much satire as character assassination. Still, as with all but the worst improv, the off-the-cuff nature lead to some wonderfully unique one liners, the best of which I have documented below and no, you don't get context because, as I already said, it can be the enemy of splendour.

 "Look, it's the sexy, uncomfortable bird; I remember that from the film!"

MONDAY, 25TH MAY
10.00-11.00
Tom Holland, Bettany Hughes, Peter Stothard Fictions – Mary Renault: In this talk, Bettany Hughes, who was a witty and eloquent woman, spoke out in favour of historical inaccuracy in the service of a better narrative and the power that fiction has to transport, transform and transcend. Great, right? Well, Peter Stothard, who gets no bold font as a punishment for tedium, was a boring old sod who kept on manterrupting her and whining about preserving the truth. I wanted to slap him. Tom Holland was also there, but I don't remember him talking, so, y'know, no bold for him either because he may well have been a mannequin.

14:30-15.30
Nicola Clayton and Clive Wilkins Memory and Mental Time Travel: Definitive proof that speaking about something interesting in an interesting way is not the same as being interesting. Clayton and Wilkins deployed every trick imaginable- staged readings, play acting, blue jays, magic tricks and, I'm not kidding, an actual five minute argentine tango- to try and balance out their own innate monotony. It didn't work. I really wanted to retain more of this lecture than I did- after all, memory defines us in a very concrete way and I like to know about how my self comes to be- but, somewhat ironically, it was very unmemorable.

16.00-17.00
Sandi Toksvig: By now I was wise to Sandi Toksvig's tricks of being effervescent, forthcoming, cutting, informative and welcoming all at the same time and so I was ready, but somehow she still managed to completely blindside me and convince me that she would make absolutely the best Prime Minister ever. Much like Jo Caulfield, she purported to structure her talk around the books that have shaped her- unlike Caulfield, she delivered. She was utterly magnificent and her speech, which I presume she wrote, was some of the best politic rhetoric I have ever heard and that was just when she was talking about Little Women. Please God, Ms. Toksvig, follow your political aspirations and put the country right. We need you.

So, that was my experience of Hay- overall, a very expensive way to make yourself feel stupid. I can't reccommend it highly enough.

Forget Me Not

I have a lot to get through here, so I'm just gonna launch in and keep going til we reach a satisfying and timely conclusion (that's what she said.)
The Friday after the election- which I truly believe may come to be known as 'The Day England Fell'- I arrived in Edinburgh at midday. I immediately ran to console Esmond, diehard leftie that he is. We met at Brass Monkey, which I hadn't frequented since Freshers Week of my first year but my feet still knew the way; we chatted, drank, ate and Esmond was fuctionally blinded: pretty standard, really.

On Saturday, I met Bryn for breakfast as Olly Bongo's and had a huge stack of pancakes because I've been having to make do with crepes and they're just not the same, guys. We discussed, of all things, The Crucible, and then I went for some more theatre chat with Jen from D21, who directed Wrapped in an Enigma last year and gave me some feedback on my writing in general, and inspired me to start trying to write a proper, full-length adult play for the first time in ages (which I started doing the next day- slighty more of this later). She also taught me an ancient and secret writing technique which will no doubt put my power-level over 9000.

It was also Rik's birthday and to celebrate we met at probably the poshest restaurant I will ever patronise in my life: The Whisky Society. Due to thematic relevance, we drank thirty year old whisky which has an effect on the throat not dissimilar to when I used to drink washing up liquid. The guests were myself, Johanna, Rosalind, Jari, Stephen and Roz, so it was almost exactly the same crowd as New Year's. The food was just splendid: smoked haddock starter with a breaded quail's egg and asparagus and bacon, then roast lamb chop with spring vegetables and a mini lamb pie main and finally chocolate cremeaux for desert. My one complaint was that they'd conjugated 'cremeaux' as though it was plural, even though 'chocolate' is singular- I decided not to photograph anything as it seemed tacky and this joint was swank, but imagine the mouthwater mousse from that French restaurant and you get a general impression of the deliciousness.
As ever with Rik, there was much good humor and even more wine to help fill in the silences. All the partygoers were on top form and the wit sparkled almost as much as the cutlery; after dinner, we retired to the Conan Doyle for some more booze and then to Johanna's flat for gin because Rik hates my liver for some reason.

I awoke Sunday severely hung over and I faced the hellish choice of whether to blindly stumble to a shop and buy some aspirin or just relieve the pressure in my head through trepanning. I eventually made it outside, and ran into Esmond and his Canadian friend Margot while on the quest for painkillers and it was just gauling because they weren't dying inside and that didn't seem fair. Later, I met Daniel for a drink and an in-depth discussion of the Whedon canon, of which we are both considered and eagre scholars.

On Monday, I had a doctor's appointment which was retroactively brilliant because I turned out to have a clean bill of health but was honestly quite stressful at the time. After that enlightening experience, I went and got ice cream with Rachael, who'd just finished her exams and so was in need of some vitamin R, which you get from Rory, relaxation and rum-and-raisin. Rachael has a bright future ahead of her, and looks to be finishing uni with an exciting idea for what could happen next, so I was very glad I've had a year to get over my insecurities on that front.
In the evening, I met with Henriette and Heather for a catch-up/goodbye drink since Henriette was leaving for Egypt the next day. It's always sad to say goodbye to a friend, but Henriette and I seem to do it so often that it's honestly just become a bit routine: I ordered the girliest drinks in the house while Henriette looked on disapprovingly, we made jokes about the six-part tits and politics mini-series that is her life, and later I followed her around the Chrystal Macmillan building like a lovesick puppy while she packed and got everything ready. It felt heartbreakingly familiar from the million other times we'd done exactly that. But, I've always managed to find Henriette again, no matter how many times we're separated, so I'm confident I can pull off that trick again this time.

Tuesday came and I saw Jen again for more theatre talk at a writer's group which also included Hazel, with whom I did a play in second year and Mark, Jen's husband. This group gave me that invaluable and much-besought commodity for playwrights in the middle of a big project- the chance to hear one's work read aloud by people who know how to act and have a sense of humour.
After this, Jari and I got pizza and sat around feeling fat and talking about our feelings.

The following day, I had to get my lungs x-rayed because sometimes that's how life is. Yet again, everything turned out to be fine so in retrospect this was an unmoving experience but at the time, I was quite uncomfortable.  Rachel, Ian, Ailish and I (half of the cast of Emergency General Meeting, in other words) got drinks to celebrate the fact that they'd all finished exams. Only one problem: only Rachel had finished. Ian and Ailish had misread their schedules and wouldn't actually be done until after I'd left. But we had good times anyway, and yet again, I feel these three have bright futures ahead of them, which make graduation drinks so much less awkward. Joe Christie was also there at the start, studying like a loser, and, since I want the maximum amount of views on this post: hi Joe Christie, you get a tag.

When Thursday rolled around, I saw Esmond and Margot again, and this time I didn't want to drive a panza through their head or mine, so it was much nicer. We went to the botanical gardens, which is a briliant space in which to stroll with friends because it's pretty but also full of oddities to fuel conversation, such as an oak tree with a full human name or the bizarrely vague map which listed a 'Chinese Pagoda Thing'.
After this, I met James and Joe Shaw for ciders near the parliament. James and Joe had sort of met before, but not really and so I kind of lazily introduced them and then conducted some very involved and backstory-heavy conversations with each which must have been horribly confusing for the other. Oh well. Joe then had to leave because he's a scientist and that means he needs sleep or something, so James and I moved onto the The Regent, which is the only Real Ale gay pub in Edinburgh and I'll admit I didn't even know such a thing existed.

Then it was Friday, my final day in Edinburgh, and I was to meet Emily in Teviot for brunch. Emily, as she does, attracted others to us, including Victoria, Liam, Alex Dillon and, somewhat oddly, Alex Dillon's grandparents. We went to get ice cream, where she somehow attracted Esmond (and Margot) to us, which marked the fourth time I'd seen that fucker that week. It was beginning to get old. Always refreshingly new, however, was the stilton and grape ice cream I tried, which was just delish. After we were done and Esmond caused me to miss saying goodbye to Alex's grandparents, we retired once more to Teviot and then Daniel came back and we furthered our rhuminations on Whedon's work by contextualising his most recent outings in comparison to his established decretum.
Then I had to run off to perform at a drama cabaret: I jumped on stage, read two poems and was out the door within literally two minutes because I'd been invited to a goodbye dinner with Rik and Johanna. The google map I used was just close enough to accurate that I began to question my senses when it (inevitably) just began to talk smack, still I got to Johanna's in the end and we feasted on bolognaise and then, since Rik was there, there was wine and cartoons- Adventure Time, in costume, no less.

The King of Cool.

The next day I got up very early and got a train back. When I reached Telford, who should be waiting there for me but Poppy. We went back to mine and made a cake, then boogied for a while to early Invocal. I took Poppy for a short trip around the gorge, brining back fond memories for her, as Poppy is in fact a former Shropshire lass herself. After this, we tried to watch a film, but that was impossible because the DVD player was broken...until we realised that a perfectly serviceable video player was sitting right beneath it. For reasons I can't fathom (well, actually, I guess in case of the exact circumstance in which we found oursevles), my parents still had about four VHS's- Red Dwarf, Pride and Prejudice, Batman and The Lion King.
We felt the love that night.
We watched everything- the warning about buying inferior pirate copies, the 'coming shortly's, the 'out now on video's and even the bit after the main film which was just buzzing and blackness. It was heavenly- transporting myself back to a time when I watched that video nearly every day and sat dutifully through all those preambles because I genuinely thought I owed it to the Walt Disney corporation. The film itself stood the test of time beautifully and had us laughing, crying and drunkenly singing along (my mother would later describe it as 'artless').

And then today, we spent the day hanging around the house and in the dell in my garden which was just full to the brim with forget-me-nots.

And one Poppy.

That's not even, like, a tenth of the forget-me-nots in that dell. You cannot imagine the blue- the swaying, delicate blue of that dell. It was hypnotic.
But, all good things must end and eventually Poppy climbed onto a train and sped into the distance- the Londony, Londony distance. I don't know when I'll see her again, but it was absolutely lovely to have her here in my home and drinking my booze; it was like being in the meadows again, except

Red Velvet

I don't know if I have any readers who don't know me personally/aren't on my facebook, but I'm back in England now, in case that's the case.
Yesterday I saw Tom, whose Sixth Form nickname was Fake Tom; however, since I've not spoken to the artist formerly known as Real Tom for nigh on six years, it seems a bit cruel to continue using that appelation. Tom, congratulations, I'm gonna call you by your real name now. Welcome to adulthood.
Tom and I went for coffee and cake and I had possibly the strangest drink I've ever drunk (and I once mixed goon and red bull)- it was a red velvet milkshake. As in, they took a piece of red velvet cake and blended it with some milk.

It would've actually been quite nice, except I'd foolishly ordered a piece of red velvet cake to go with it, and, despite what the waiter chimed when I ordered, you can, in fact, have too much red velvet.
Tom was well; he's got a very interesting new job and has been thoroughly cured of the nast case of conservativism that blighted him in his youth (I can hardly judge, given the weird stuff I used to spout even a year or two ago).

Earlier in the week, my parents went away and so Ella came out to play. And I mean play. We toured Ironbridge's various parks and enhoyed the hell out of them. Children and adults alike were left speechless at the ingenuity and audacity of our recreational activity. We sang. We danced. We rolled. We slid. We swang. We made daisy chains. We very nearly broke every single piece of play park equipment we could get to. It was nauseatingly amazing. 

And we caught it all on film- more coming soon.

I've also been trying to learn to both cook and drive while at home: these are both activities which take an awful lot of concentration and memory space, neither of which are things that I hold in high supply. I found both incredibly stressful and inevitably end up with the air smelling of smoke, frantically jabbing at buttons and fiddling with knobs. Hopefully, though, I'll master at least one during this stretch of time at home, as I think they're both skills that fully-rounded adults possess.

Jari+Paris=Jaris

So, I returned to Paris because I was feeling down and I needed a fix: I'm starting to think I might not be able to fix this problem while still in France. It's like trying to quit opium while living in a poppy field. Or ninety minutes away from a poppy field. Or, indeed, just an opium den because it's not like I have to make the Paris myself. Anyway, I still haven't kicked the habit, is what I'm saying.

All my regular Paris chums were busy or out of town this weekend but that's okay because someone irregular was there.

I'd like to thank the Academy...

JARI!
Jari has his own Paris posse whom he had been neglecting for some years but when I took up residence nearby, he finally said 'ca suffit' and decided to come visit. He actually arrived on Friday, but I was 'working' (read: playing games with disinterested French teenagers) so met up with him on Saturday; we went to Notre Dame (of course) and I briefly introduced him to Shakespeare and Company (sadly, Dani wasn't there for me to show off). We hung in the lovely little park which is just opposite Notre Dame and was absolutely sublime that day.

Jari then went to get lunch with an old friend he hadn't seen for ages and I went to check in to my hostel, and met what must be the only hostel receptionist in Paris who doesn't speak any English; I don't mean to be anglocentric, but I would genuinely have expected that to be a requirement for working such a job. After seven months of having lived in France, I had just enough French to sign in and get my room key (after a few rounds of charades). After this, Jari and I reconvened and went for a stroll along a lovely raised-walkway-cum-public-gardens that my sister and I had found near Gare De Lyon back in January.

Yet again, there was something paradisal about this leafy promenade in the sun; there was a calming air about the place, no one was rushing from point A to point B, everyone seemed content to mosey and take it all in. It was absolutely divine.

After this, we went for crepes at a restaurant Dani took me to during my first weekend in Paris and which has become my favourite place to eat in the city. Then, we sat out in front of Notre Dame and tried to capture its terrifying nocturnal magnificence on our camera phones. Somehow, this didn't work.

It kinda looks like it's made of cardboard in this one.

The next day, Jari and I met for breakfast and then strolled around one of the less picturesque areas of Paris, where there was an absolutely colossal flea market selling just about everything. We were calculating the odds of there being something genuinely valuable there and, given the size of this bazaar, I wouldn't have been surprised had the arc of the covenant been revealed to be amongst its contents.
Afyer this, Jari went off to get lunch with a different group of friends and I went and read in Luxembourg park. Jari's two hour break suddenly turned into a three hour trip, and then a four hour sejour and then a five hour ordeal. Like many modern people, despite oft describing myself as 'an avid reader', I can't actually read for all that long and then I remembered that there was a poetry reading event at Shakespeare and Company- the same event I attended during my first ever weekend living in France. Since it was my final weekend living France and I am, by genetics, pre-disposed to appreciate symmetry, I decided to attend this event again. Much like the first time, my poems were very well-received and I was praised for my wit, turn of phrase and, in particular, my voice. The woman who runs the poetry event described it as 'lovely and refined' and Roseanne, a girl I met at the reading, said it was 'chocolatey and smoothe'; and since, as Mark Twain* said, 'I can live for two months on a good compliment', I won't need to eat again until August.
After the reading, I walked with Roseanne and some Americans who also attended for a bit before retiring to Gare du Nord to see Jari one last time and then catch my train.

It was a superb weekend, full of sunshine, laughter and ego boosts. This may be my final visit to Paris for some time, so I'm very glad that it turned out so well, but I am a bit sad that I didn't get to bid farewell to the people who have made my frequent trips there so enjoyable- I'd list them all, but that would feel cheap, especially after I did that just last month to the folks in Edinburgh just to get views, but if you're reading this and you're one of my Paris friends, thank you- hopefully, I'll see your city and you again one day.

*Who died 105 years ago this very day.

In Summer

I blog so often about far-off places and exotic locales- like Paris and Edinburgh and Paris again and Edinburgh again- that it's easy to forget about my own base-of-operations, Laon.
I only actually have one weekend left in France now, and this weekend will hopefully be spent with Jari, so I decided to spend these past few days exploring Laon and taking a few photographs, if for no other reason than the weather was absolutely gorgeous.

First, I discovered that Laon has a Tennis club. And a dog training club. And they share a facility.

Note that, despite the proximity to a main road, there is no road leading to that complex. I have yet to figure out how one accesses the compound, or, indeed, see anyone there.

I get the feeling that maybe once upon a time, there was more life in Laon and that we're in something of a dead period at the moment, so maybe the tennis/dog enthusiasts will come back in force one day.

My next discovery was a delightful little park wedged between two of the more hidden streets in Laon. Emphasis on little.

It's really just a glorified path between two roads, but I like that they put in the effort so you can't see the rest of the two while there and maybe even relax a little in the middle of the lower town.

Finding this park reminded of this time last year when Poppy and I would laze around in the meadows and get sundrunk. We'd read, tan and bitch about our employer, a can of cider in our hands, a worry about the future in our hearts. I became wistful. As Poppy put it:

"I want the meadows and a long summer with nothing to do and a vague reality of a good job in the background; one that would involve me smiling at people and them instantly feeling better, I think I want my life to be like a cartoon."

Can you tell she's a poet?
I sat in the park for a while and tried to recapture that feeling of epic fecklessness but without a friend there, it fell flat.

And, my final discovery: a pony in somebody's front garden.

There is really nothing else to say about this. Someone is keeping a pony in their garden. For all the world to see and, potentially, touch. I did not touch it. Frankly, the poor thing looked a bit stressed out and maybe a little sick, so I snapped a couple of pics and then left it to its own devices.

And that was my weekend in Laon. I know, I know, no grand adventures or fun cameos, but sometimes life is a little more placid and you just have to enjoy the sunshine.