Forbrydelsen and other Scandinavian-like Distractions

Dear Reader,

December is a real drag. I hate the necessity for more money that the lead up to Christmas entails. In many ways, I hate Christmas. I like fairy lights, candles and sparkly things, so I'm not entirely sure why this is. I think I mostly hate it for its focus on family instead of friends. Family may well be lovely (or not) in their own way, but we CHOOSE our friends, often for the very fact that they are nothing like our family, and it's a shame that at Christmas, they have the same duties to see their families, so it's impossible to meet up.

But enough about Christmas. The thing that I've been obsessed with since discovering a free Netflix trial opportunity, is catching up on what everyone with a brain in the UK has already seen, namely "Forbrydelsen". That Danish series with the woman I was once compared to by some Danish directors, Sofie Gråbøl, who was once (unbelievable though it is now...) known as an actress playing really emotional roles. Having been out of the country with no access to BBC4, I hadn't been able to see it before now. And now I'm hooked. Which is funny, because though I'm learning lots of Danish, via reminders of Swedish and the general similarities, I'm also being dragged down emotionally at a time when I'm really struggling with the lack of light in this country. It's not a great combination really. I suppose it makes me really grateful for the tiny, rare, moments of mirth in the show. A little joke about the Swedes or a little dig at the politician who freely admits he's slept with half of Copenhagen, "only half?" says Lund, in a rare moment of playfulness, suddenly becomes a precious gem in an otherwise stark, hopeless and loveless atmosphere.

I still can't get used to the fact that the sun can't be bothered to get up before 8am, which is making me sleepy and sluggish, moody and irritable and not very efficient. I've got to get things together and get myself out of this country as soon as possible.

Yours strugglingly,
Ms Platform Edge.X

How do I resume without feeling guilty that I left?

Dear Reader,

I may have lost you by now. Why would anyone check back in with a blog that has been left dormant for nearly 8 months? Maybe that makes this quiet return much easier for me. Knowing no-one's reading, kind of lets me off the hook.

I feel drawn to write again, perhaps because I'm undergoing as much of a battle as I was in Prague now that I'm back in the UK. Mainly because I can't seem to get things together enough to find a place to live in London. So I'm stuck living in the provinces, where the buses know no means of being a reliable form of transportation and the sun forgets to shine rather more frequently than I quite know how to handle. I have caught myself feeling simultaneously an outsider and ex-pat in my own country, and a duck getting back in the water when it comes to picking up on the latest literary offerings. Not only have I been familiarising myself with the regular columnists in the Times, Independent and Guardian but I've also found myself drooling over the latest anthology of writings about London that was shown off in a window of Waterstones that I went past recently. I say, 'went past' but I of course mean, went into, spent about half an hour mentally notching up approximately £150 worth of books while looking through and reading a generous handful of delightful tomes, and left, walking past the shop forlornly wondering how I can still be in this position of wanting more books after the number I have so far accumulated.

My latest obsession while in 'middle-of-nowhere-land' is the local library DVD collection. Namely the 'World cinema' section. I have already borrowed two French films for this week. Which is timely, because I now have some French-to-English translation work to do, about a letter of complaint from someone in a building in St. Petersburg. (I haven't looked at it in detail yet, so I'm still not sure why this piece of writing is in French, not Russian, but anyway, I'll get to it in due course.) And the film I'm starting with tonight is a French film by a Polish director - Pawel Pawlikowski, the director of 'My Summer of Love'. It's called 'The Woman In The Fifth'. With Kristin Scott Thomas and Ethan Hawke in it, it can't be bad. Unless it's bad in a 'totally annihilating all optimism' way. Which could still be kind of funny. Extremes sometimes just turn the corner into their polar opposite. It can happen.

Wishing you a darkly warm and comforting evening. If you know what I mean.

Ms. Platform Edge. X

Highlights of a day in an endless winter

Dear Reader,

I know that things are not as good as they could be. I know that I should leave asap if only for the sake of giving the cowboy a fresh start in time to still have children, but I still cannot find a definitive plan to move on and indeed move away. So we still  try to look after each other as best we can and enjoy today. One day at a time.

On the way here I provided the entertainment by being a sort of living juke box. I sang for about an hour somehow, on and off, with a limited variety of songs that work accapella that I could actually remember and start to sing in roughly the right key. I think the 'setlist' went something like:

'Caught A Lite Sneeze' Tori Amos

'A Sort of Fairytale' Tori Amos

'Get Outta My Way' Kylie Minogue

'Timebomb' Kylie Minogue

'Fine Day' Opus II

'The Fear' Lily Allen

'Den Andra Dagen I Mai' Idde Schulz

'Little Digger' Liz Phair

'Army Dreamers' Kate Bush

'Fuck and Run' Liz Phair

'Help Me Mary' Liz Phair

'Divorce Song' Liz Phair

'Smells Like Teen Spirit' Nirvana

'Extraordinary' Liz Phair

Not a great deal of variety of artists, I'll grant you, but it must have been entertaining enough because the cowboy didn't put the radio on again. And when we got to the flat, I somehow felt I'd just been warming up for a gig and felt a little deflated at having to be quiet now, in this sleepy little tiny town.

Ironically, today, the day the clocks went forward to summer time, it's been even more like winter than when we arrived. It snowed overnight and continued today. I had disturbing dreams and really didn't sleep well at all. Lots of memories from the past that I really could do without right now. And a dream about searching for a Muppets mug before leaving the UK. What the hell was that all about? I think a gremlin lives in my head. A Muppets-loving gremlin, of course.

We went for a walk in the snow and I wore so many layers I felt like a small, fat michellin man. But thankfully we didn't walk for too long and it was nice enough to enjoy walking in the snow, scrunching and crunching about without my toes being wet and cold for too long. 

I just don't move well in 6 layers, that's all, and I'd rather leap about to Kylie Minogue as exercise than traipse through the snow while it gathers in my eyes and on my scarf and my nose runs so that I frequently have to take my gloves off to blow my nose.

But when we got in we treated ourselves to a strange kind of cake in the shape of a ram (they were everywhere in the supermarket, so the cowboy bought one) 

and had a cup of tea. And I did get an egg for Easter. Though it wasn't a chocolate one. It was a big plastic one with a bag of m&ms inside, which was lovely really. 

I'm quite happy to have some m&ms to munch on from time to time, and it reminds me of the snacks we had with us in the car when we went on our road trip across the US. Hard to believe it was nearly a full year ago now.

I guess that's all I had to say.

I've still got tummy ache which doesn't seem to have gone away since yesterday. I think it's an underlying feeling that this has got to stop soon. I have got to formulate a plot, an exit strategy, a way to move onwards and upwards.

Fond Easter wishes,

Ms. Platform Edge.XXX

Tax return fun while ,,jdu do hájzlu"

Dear Reader,

If you've ever known the excitement of sitting down to a nice big form in English where you have to read accompanying notes and fill in the details of your income or loss over the last year, then you are lucky enough to be living in a very different world to me. Yes, I admit it, the system for filing a tax return in the UK was easy. I made a huge song and dance about it, of course because I hate accounting, but in the UK there was help. Free help. (At least, that was when Labour were still in power. I imagine one or two things may have changed on this front by now). For starters, at the time I first registered as self-employed, it was possible to sign up for a free morning course at the lovely inland revenue building somewhere along Kensington High Street and get all the info you needed just incase the notes accompanying the form hadn't helped.

Now try doing all of that stuff, with no free course, no notes and it all being in Czech. And there being three forms because for some reason the social security department and health insurance department are not capable of checking the amounts that you've paid were accurate and want proof, independently of having to deal with the tax office themselves (that would be far too integrated and efficient), that you don't qualify for a higher rate. And you cannot post these forms. Oh no. They need you to go in person, for maximum wastage of everyone's time, presumably. Can you say, 'job creation', anyone?

So, of course, I hadn't a hope in hell of working this out on my own, and two weeks before the deadline, the cowboy having reassured me previously that he'd help me fill in the form because I really hadn't earnt very much so it 'couldn't take long', declared that it all looked a bit too complicated actually, so I had to get an accountant to do it. Who of course gets paid for what amounts to about 2 hours' work in total (at most) including the meeting up with me to hand over the info I needed to provide and return everything to me at the end, the same amount as I get paid for 5, 90 minute meetings. So that's 7 and a half hours' work of mine spent entirely on getting a tax return done. But it doesn't end there.

Oh no, of course, the accountant can only return me the forms which I then physically have to take to each office (finance office, health insurance office and social security office), taking away yet more of my time. And the first stop is the financial office in Háje. Let me tell you a little bit about Háje. It's not only the end stop on the C line (also known as the red line to people who don't actually live here) and looks like the kind of place where hope goes to die a miserable death (see photos, yes people, this is the other face of Prague...) but it happens to bear a linguistic resemblance to an unpleasant phrase stolen somewhat from German. The expression is, ,,jdu do hájzlu", meaning 'I'm going down the toilet'(In other words, 'I'm screwed/there's no hope for me'), but the word for toilet is more like, 'bog' or something ruder. And people tend to say it when they've got to go somewhere that feels like the pit of hell. Hence, whenever I think of Háje, I cannot separate it in my head from this delightful expression.

And taking a look at these pictures, perhaps you can appreciate why. To be fair, Chodov isn't much better. And Chodov lacks the Dr. Who-reminiscent tardis decorations at the metro station that Háje has. 

So, I guess it's much of a muchness.

I'm glad I decided to brace the tedium of the tax office by wearing my ironic beret that says, "La vie est belle." 

I somehow felt that it was the perfect kind of attitude to walk around with when surrounded by dull buildings, run-down shops and tax return people who don't seem to know any more than I do what was actually required to do with my form. (Turns out all I needed really was to get both copies stamped and to leave one of them with them there, but you'd think this was a totally unheard of practice the way the woman at the counter reacted.) Thankfully, there was no queue and I was in an out of there in five minutes. Now, you can be sure, if this sort of thing were required in London, there's no way it would have taken any less than an hour. So, I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies.

And I hope I'll be getting some nice chocolate soon, to make up for it. The cowboy will be getting this:

I am trying not to despair that I will probably not get anything more than a Lindt bunny and a cursory, ,,Veselé Velikonoce", but I guess I can live with that. For the time being. 

I hope you are eating lots of very good quality chocolate as you read this. Not that nasty, cheap Cadbury's stuff. Even the cowboy thinks that kind of chocolate is something the UK should be ashamed of. I have to say I agree. One must get oneself to 'Hotel Chocolat' or something of that ilk for the sake of retaining a reasonable level of mental health, quite frankly. I mean, if you can't get good quality chocolate, you may as well throw in the towel and move to Belgium. Or something.

I bid you a fond and very Happy Easter dear Reader. Thank you for indulging yourself in these frivolous tales from the edge of the platform in my mind.

Yours unapologetically,

Ms. Platform Edge. XXX

Fittings and failings

Dear kind and patient reader,

How are you doing? Is Spring actually "springing" where you are? Here it's still bitingly cold, so much so that as I left the flat this morning I was worried that my hair must have thinned so much in the last few days, because without a hat on, my head and ears were in pain as the piercingly cold wind hit. But I don't think it's the lack of thick long locks that is responsible. It is simply COLD here. Still.

It's been a busy time, and I'm juggling so many things that I don't know where to start in trying to fit in having time to myself. The only non-negotiable time I can stick to is my aerobics and pilates slot three times a week, but that's not so much relaxing as an onslaught on my fears about ageing and my attempts to encourage my body to stay with me, work with me and give me half a chance of still having a career in music and being visible as a woman, despite not being a spring chicken.

Anyway, enough of my complaining. I went to a most interesting 'fitting' for the now already being reported on, film '1864'. They're starting shooting on it in a couple of weeks in Denmark, but shooting doesn't start here until June. In the meantime, they wanted to check out a few possible hairstyles and, indeed, hair pieces for my role. Which involved lots of comparing my hair with the fake hair for the colour comparison and my having to try to retain some dignity in my mind while being faced with the slightly disconcerting reality of the sheer number of grey hairs I now have. Centre partings reveal it all from face shape, to spots, to grey hairs, it's the most unbecoming look ever. 

The make-up director - the only Danish person there, who ironically was called Björk - seemed quite happy with the results though. One 'look' involved having my hair down in a long plait - which was just a plait of fake hair added on the end of my own, plaited in. And the other two were variations of an 'up' do from the 1860s. Both of these involved considerable back-combing, hairspray and about a hundred clips so that when they were finished, I felt like I was carrying a bag of rice on my head. 

There was some lovely repartee as we went along though, which was kind of fun. Some of which was in Czech, some in English. One of the guys there, whose job remained unknown to me, reminisced about working with the lovely Libuše Šafránková, who, from what I can tell has been in almost every Czech film ever made over the last 3 decades. She was apparently always so nice to everyone, all the crew loved her. 

Then I mentioned how funny it had been to notice while watching the Czech film world awards, called, ,,Lev" [lion] that the presenter obviously knew one of the actors, Ondřej Vetchý, as a friend, because they 'tykat'-ed each other (i.e. used the 'tu', not 'Vous' form equivalent) while talking about presenting an award. I felt like this would never happen in England even if we did have a 'tu' and 'Vous' form to differentiate between. I think people often switch to more formal language for formal events such as awards ceremonies, regardless of who they are talking to. But maybe I'm wrong. Would the French disguise a personal relationship by switching back to using 'Vous' with a friend for the purposes of presenting an awards ceremony? I feel sure that they would, having seen how a friend who worked as an au pair was suddenly referred to as 'tu' during a party the family had one night, but was back to being addressed as 'Vous' the next morning when she was looking after the children. Hmm. Is this somehow insincere? Is it wrong? It's certainly easier to disguise in English, as there is no grammatical distinction to be made in the same way as exists in French, Czech or almost any other European language infact.

I also had to laugh, when I was marched back and forth to the plain white wall where a photographer took pictures of each actor's finished 'look' to log it for reference, and I felt like I was being taken to line up for a firing squad. And in the midst of all that, I was referred to as ,Slečna Herečka', which translates as 'Miss Actress' and sounds ridiculous in English, but is what Czechs do all the time when they don't know someone's name but they know their job. So, ,Paní učitelka'  ('Mrs Teacher') is very common, for example. That's what all the kids in schools call their teachers. It sounds so baby-ish in English somehow, and even more ridiculous when used for an actress, which I barely even see myself as, because acting work happens so rarely, that I'm only an actress for a few hours or days while a film is being shot, but thereafter I revert to just plain old me. (Getting-old, me, actually.)

But for the Czechs, this seemed a logical and easy way to deal with all of these actors and not having to remember my difficult and unusual name. I also got measured for the costumes they'll be making for me, which was funny too, because you're suddenly this thing to be poked and prodded and remarked upon. My tiny stature being something noteworthy to some extent, as it's not very typical, especially not for an actress. They took all sorts of strange measurements and said that I'd probably have to come back for a proper fitting at some stage, to make the skirt really fit tightly around my waist. However, they said this in Czech and I'm not sure if I totally understood all of it.

As for the 'failings' part of this letter, I made an effort to cook something healthy, though rather expensive here, unfortunately, and got some salmon and broccoli and brown rice and put together a good, healthy meal, the like of which is not easy to make often, due to the lack of choice of affordable meals one can make from things available in supermarkets here, especially in the depths of godforsaken Chodov. I liked it. I put basil and lemon with the salmon and I liked the fact that it was simple, healthy and well-cooked to a soft, delicate texture. There was some left over for the cowboy when he got back, and he, rather hungry, ate it quickly. But then he came and found me washing up in the kitchen afterwards and said, in his inimitable way, "Um, sorry, but did you even add salt to it? Did you add salt to the broccoli?" To which I replied yes, because I had, but I hadn't added more than a few turns of the salt and pepper grinders, along the length of the salmon and around the saucepan of the broccoli, and clearly, this was far too healthy an approach. It is not Czech. "It was tasteless", the cowboy complained, having eaten it all. 

From which I conclude two important things: 1) The cowboy is only satisfied with a meal if it contains enough salt to kill a small child (and that may not even be enough because you can kill babies quite easily with tiny amounts of salt, so I imagine a small child doesn't need a whole lot more) and 2) the cowboy is the kind of man who expects things he does not bother to communicate and when they aren't there and he could feasibly do something about it (like get off his bottom and go to the kitchen to get some more salt) opts to play the victim and complain when it's too late to change as though he's been really hard done by, instead of actually taking action himself. I hate to say it, but it strikes me that these two things are inherently Czech attributes. Neither of which I have any time for.

It's time to leave. And discover the unfortunate attributes of another culture that I first  felt drawn to. I am not meant to stay in one place too long, methinks. As the TV theme to 'the littlest hobo' goes, "maybe tomorrow, I'll wanna settle down. Until tomorrow, I'll just keep movin' on..." I hope. Please, soon, allow me an exit strategy of some sort, I implore you, world.

I bid you goodnight for now, kind reader and wish you calming, if not actually sweet, dreams,

Ms. Platform Edge.X 

Skiing. Or not.

Well, all I can say is, "Thank god I didn't bring my camera". I was right to think it might get damaged. And I didn't need any photographic evidence of my incompatibility with skis and snow.

My first attempt at skiing on real snow (having once had a bit of a go on a 'dry slope' in Gloucester) went predictably badly, but ended up better than I'd expected, I suppose. I did spend about 50% of my time on my bottom, but at least I learnt how to ski across the slope, if not actually down it. Which, I know, isn't quite the idea, but then I didn't get to practise on a beginner's slope - I had the 'sink or swim' school of training methods. Otherwise known as the Czech, 'muddle through and hope for the best' method. They clearly believe there's no point in having an actual lesson or training area to learn in, especially as this is for something which is unlikely to lead to earning you a living. Goodness knows, they barely believe in having a good, well-paid teacher for learning something as useful and business-applicable as English, let alone something as 'natural' as skiing. 

The cowboy was as sympathetic as ever, of course, shouting at me to "listen!" to his instructions in Czech using vocab I'd never had to know before, and telling me off for not doing what he'd told me to. Things like not looking at other people and just going ahead and focussing on where I want to end up. Which resulted in my narrowly escaping a collision with a snowboarder, when I actually followed his advice. He also helpfully instructed me to watch the 3 and 4 year olds zooming down the slopes and copy them. As though just watching what a four year old does and copying it were perfectly manageable. To be honest, I had envisioned this. The cowboy, for all his other skills, isn't the best teacher. He hasn't quite learnt to do the 'being patient and kind' thing. And I happen to consider that part kind of vital in a teacher of any kind. 

Thank god for my new, warm skiing trousers and my amusing recollections of 'Ab Fab's 'The Last Shout'. "Snowplough, snowplough, I must. Snow. Plough", says Edina, struggling alone on a slope. I couldn't help but laugh at the thought that I was closer to Patsy in my attempts at skiing, and could easily have ended up 'going round again' on the skilift and asking, "now, Eddie, now?" until midnight like she did. (Instead, as 'the ground came up' at the end of the ski lift, I was thrust forward at considerable speed and felt that the only way to prevent myself careering into a nice family gathering at the top of the slope sitting on deck chairs (no, seriously) was to aim for the ground and hope I would stop quickly rather than continue to travel forward but on my bottom instead.) Thankfully, skis create drag very easily when at right angles to the ground.

Pity I didn't have a bottle of champagne to soothe my ailments, like Patsy in the Last Shout. That might've been more fun. Instead, I followed instructions, learnt how to turn around, first by purposely sitting on the snow and in a most undignified manner, raising my skis up one by one and turning them in the other direction and then slowly working my way up again. Secondly by learning how to use the sticks (poles?What are they called in English? I only ever learnt they were 'hole' in Czech) to push against almost directly behind me, as I shuffled my skis up and around to face in the opposite direction. Carefully avoiding sliding backwards. But these are two ways to turn around, neither of which are used by anyone with a modicum of skiing skill. But nevermind. 

I did learn to ski across the slope and then step down the hill for a while sideways to make up for the fact that going across hadn't got me more than a few centimetres closer to the bottom of the slope, which the cowboy found infuriating, but whenever I actually tried to ski even remotely in a descending fashion, I ended up speeding up beyond my control and the only way to stop was to desperately try to turn back upwards, which invariably meant I ended up on my arse again within seconds. But I did make it down the hill by the end of the day. I let the cowboy go down the hill and take a couple of turns going back up and skiing down again, in other words descending a slope that had taken me all day to get to the bottom of safely. Heigh-ho, we can't all be great skiers y'know. Some of us come from places where this skill is far from interesting, let alone useful.

Thanks to Ab Fab, I still haven't got the humming of Marianne Faithfull and the bassline that leads into the chorus, "we gotta get outta this place if it's the last thing we ever do. We gotta get outta this place. Love has a better life for me and you..." out of my head yet. But I don't suppose that's vitally necessary at this juncture. Indeed, it could be deemed rather appropriate.

Back in business - a retrospective Part 3 'Thoughts from the Paddington to Swansea train'

Dear Reader,

Here's another little instalment from my dark purple notebook:

"Oh I've missed the Welsh accent! I'm sure I couldn't tolerate it on a daily basis for long, but nonetheless, there is an innocuousness about it that warmed my heart as I asked the train ticket inspector which one of the three bits of train journey confirmation he actually needed to see. And he proceeded to hold a short conversation with a passenger who was also Welsh. There's just something completely unpretentious about it, totally approachable and utterly endearing.

Which is rather helpful as this train to Swansea that will get me to Bristol is not only packed with people around almost comically reduced-size tables and spaces between seats, but even featured a Harry Potter-like, "missing carriage".  I walked up and down the platform, looking for coach 'D' only to find that the more I looked between coaches 'E' and 'C', the more coach 'D' wasn't there. Another British rail-related impromptu intelligence test. Which I failed. The correct response is to get onto coach 'C' and imagine it as 'D' in your mind, and lo and behold, the ticket details above the seats reflect this newfound mental re-wiring. They should hand out leaflets entitled, "The tricks we like to play on people with our sheer incompetence - also known as 'the joy of travel in the UK'" to any unsuspecting passengers, particularly foreigners, or honorary foreigners like me, just to give people a fighting chance of coping with what is a shockingly provincial and almost useless train service. (But that would be far too helpful.)

I have to admit, with all due trepidation at using the following introductory phrase, but, "I remember a time when..." there were actual table-sized tables on these trains. And when it felt rather grand to travel on the train, compared to the coach. But it seems that the trains have gone in for dramatic cost-cutting and super-sardine-like packing of the carriages themselves. So much so, that when sitting in an aisle seat, where a full sized case will barely make it past me as though it was measured down to the millimetre to make sure it would officially fit, but only with the straightest-lined dragging of an expert, I am almost forced to hold my breath and certainly not cross my legs, in order to fit in. And if that weren't enough, the guy sitting opposite me is so overweight that he's just lucky that the 'table' on the aisle side actually tapers towards the aisle, which allows him extra room for his rotund belly. Or is he in fact averagely sized, it's just the miniature proportions of the train now making him look overweight? I can't tell."

---------------

I made it to Bristol ok and even had the help of a kind, or crazy, passenger to carry my case up the stairs (I didn't stand much of a chance of doing that myself, because there were rather a lot of steps and a lot of people hurriedly trying to get up them and I just kept getting in the way, and getting knocked from side to side with them - hence the passenger-pity) but then had to laugh that having done that, the way out involves going down the same number of stairs to get to the main entrance/exit. Thankfully at this point there was actually a lift.

Bristol was its usual, grim, boring and more run-down and dingy than I remembered it, self (but I imagine that's partly down to the recession) and I am SO glad I no longer live there. Even if I've only swapped it for a similarly 'run-down-in-places' city, where the central area architecture certainly compensates for the rest but the mentality of the native residents is just about as provincial, unenlightened and full of despair as in Bristol. Just with fewer Polish bus drivers. Just imagine if Bristol were full of Czech bus drivers. My head would be so very confused...

That's all for now dear reader. Tummy ache of the nastiest kind has struck again and I think I'm going to need to lie down with a hot water bottle...

Good night.

Ms. Platform Edge.X

Back in business - a retrospective Part 2 'Thoughts from London'

Dear Reader,

I know it's the old thing of you wait over an hour for a bus and then two come at once, but it's been crazy-busy since I got back (and not in a bad way, necessarily...) and this is the best I can do. Here are some 'thoughts from London' written down in my lovely purple leather notebook:

---

Is this simply what always happens - what must happen - when I come back to London for more than a couple of days? There is the initial euphoria of being back, and seeing places I love again - being able to get things I wanted, to wander around bookshops again, to see friends, to get a decent glass of red wine in a bar, but then there are the memories, the sense of loss. The sadness that I never fully managed to have a home in London. I never fully fitted in. But one wonders if anyone can truly fit in, in London...

---

My last day in London before moving on to Bristol. I've decided to come out to Bertie's Bar at the Royal Garden hotel for a really good glass of red wine and a chance to reflect. And to compensate a little for not being able to afford to actually stay here. (And, indeed, before the horrors of packing and trying to fit yet one more magazine into my case begins.)

I've never been here before. I arrived at around 8.45pm, having caught the bus from Gloucester Road, and it strikes me that this particular bar lacks...people. There are two occupied tables at this time of day, apart from me, and both of these happen to be occupied by a small group of Arab-looking men.The music being played here is a little incongruous, being that it has so far been an eclectic mix of Latin dance rap and a few old 60s Brit pop hits. 

Being that one of my part-time gigs now is ghostwriting a (if I say 'cheesy' is that being unkind?) relationship advice blog, I am reminded of a number of classic SATC scenes right now:

1) The scene where Miranda goes into a bar, expecting to meet Carrie, but gets a phonecall cancelling and, ticked off, orders a Côtes du Rhône and meets Steve for the first time. Who promptly reminds her to sip slowly, when she seems to be angrily getting through it a bit too rapidly. "Enjoy", he urges. My glass of Malbec is superb and definitely worth enjoying. I doubt I shall have as good a glass of red wine for quite some time now that I'm going to Bristol tomorrow, to spend time with my non-wine-drinking sister, before heading back to Prague.

2) I am also reminded of the scene where Carrie purposely goes out for a glass of wine at a restaurant on her own, no book, no notepad, no laptop, nothing but herself, a pair of 70s style shades, which she bravely takes off as she kicks back and settles into sitting in the New York sunshine to spend some time on her own.

People think this is brave. I'm inclined to think this is the 'wuss' option and that coming out to meet a bunch of disparate and single-minded people is braver. Here, I am in fact cosseted from the outside world, as this bar's good seating largely lacks any opportunity of a view outside. And it's so quiet in here, there are few opportunities to feel I'm being watched. Apart from by the very attentive bar staff.

I have brought more than just a notebook too. I can rest in the company of Tracey Emin, as and when I choose to do so, having borrowed a friend's copy of 'My Life in a Column' and brought it with me. She has already, from what I've read, been quite comforting as well as inspiring and entertaining. I'm really rather lucky to have been able to stay in a writer's flat. Such lovely books to dabble in...

An American couple has now joined us in this now, less empty bar. The woman is dropping names of cars and countries and cosmetic companies she's worked for or in. I love how Americans somehow speak loud enough to be heard as clear as a bell across a crowded, or at least potentially filled with distracting things, room. How do they do that absolutely everywhere they go?

Here are a few favourite sections from 'My Life in a Column':

[30th March 2007]

"Sometimes I have to remind myself how void and totally empty my life would be without art. I take art for granted so often and I shouldn't and mustn't. It's something that should be fought for because, so often, even in our society, art is so easily dismissed. Something, a presence, which has graced this earth, in terms of man's consciousness, for thousands and thousands of years is still disregarded and put down at the bottom of the list of what we need to survive."

[15th June 2007]

"It's strange when you vent your spleen. It's so difficult to direct it at the right person. Every time my period is due...I'm sorry. I forgot. I'm not allowed to write about that sort of thing! (Because half of the people in the world don't have a menstrual cycle and may be offended!) In fact, I am now going to "open brackets": mild anger is not a bad thing. We should all scream a bit more. The world has just become a bit too polite for its own good!"

[22nd June 2007]

"I've had a very strange week, running around breathless - tired and over emotional. Every thing feels as though it's in a heightened state. The hot clamminess of the clouded skies. Perspiration running down my neck on the Central Line. All my thoughts cluttered and mashed up. I feel like I'm desperately waiting for a cooler time. I'm still coming down from Venice. And believe me - it is a comedown. At this point I could lay into all the critics who gave me really stinking reviews, but I'm not going to. I just think it's such a shame they missed the trip. They weren't on my boat. And they never will be. Being an artist is an extremely personal, intimate, pursuit. It never ends. Only when you close your eyes and die. And then we don't know."

---   

I am now the only person in the bar. The staff are bored and keep asking me if I'm ok. (Well, only a couple of times over the course of the evening, but I think I'm getting a bit bemused by their concern, not to mention irritated by the odd collection of records they seem to have here..) It's given me a chance to dive into the borrowed T.E. book, but I wish they'd stuck to playing lounge jazz, like they did for one track, or segued into a Massive Attack-like bunch of trip-hop stuff, which seemed incredibly apt for a woman from Bristol who's travelling back there tomorrow.

---

Thoughts from the train to Bristol will follow in due course. As will other news.  But for now, I bid you good day, dear Reader.

Yours most fondly,

Ms. Platform Edge.X

Back in business - a retrospective part 1

Dear Reader,

I wrote this before I left for London but never found the time to post it. I think I was a bit ticked off about a few things, or so it would appear:

I have had a list of things building up lately in my head of what I do and do not want and somehow, I feel the need to put this down into words on a screen to clear it all out of my system. Some have been gargantuan mistakes and some have been delightful discoveries, and some things just made me laugh. Let me just vent for a moment please...

Things I DO NOT want:

I am tired, oh so tired of the tediousness and difficulty in this global information super-highway age of STILL not being able to get a decent service on getting my favourite magazine (shamefully, I admit that this is US Elle - no, honestly, it's got really good articles in it and a searingly witty problems page that makes me laugh every time) delivered to my door or available on my Mac at a reasonable price. First attempts to solve this problem involved occasionally "going down Vaclavak" (god, how have I made this possible to say in a Bristolian accent - possibly because Prague now reminds me of Bristol and its small town mentality) and getting an overpriced copy of said magazine once every three months. All for the sake of not being able to hold off from buying magazines any longer than that. Yet this means roughly £10 spent in one go in a place where getting £20 for a 90 minute meeting that I traipse across town for an hour to get to and from is a rare moment of luck, as most meet-ees expect this for decidedly less. 

I do not want then, in my attempts to subscribe, like a true devotee would, to be given no other choice than to subscribe for two years, without seeing a subtotal of the elevated cost that allows for sending it all the way from the US to the little old Czech Republic, before purchasing. I also do not want to then be told to wait 6-9 weeks for an account number to be sent to me that then allows me to contact customer services to ask to cancel my subscription, because any other form of logging in is denied me by the fact that I am not a US citizen and the customer service website is only set up to accept such customers. (In other words, no zip code, no way in...Even using a real but not mine zip code didn't work - believe me, I tried!) However, I was saved this time by the fact that they automatically allow you access to the digital version of the magazine, which though useless to me because it's only compatible with an iPad that I do not have, at least sent me my account number. Which brings me to the useful bit of information I'd like to impart: If you want to get two free issues on top of the 24 you're paying for in advance, you'll automatically get it if you try to cancel. They give you that option before you do. Good to know if you're a US Elle addict like me, though this time I have declined, because I really can't afford to spend that amount of money upfront.

What I DO want:

Having become rather enamoured with my former flatmate's pop songs (in Danish) and often looking them up on YouTube to do aerobics to, I clicked by chance on an interesting looking video listed in the side bar and discovered possibly the most heart-wrenching but beautiful song ever. And as a result of that, I found a further video of the same artist, just talking through her little creative life of singing and writing and recording songs. She had faerie lights and a sort of semi-piano/keyboard and just the typical gorgeously design-conscious and creative room that you find in any Copenhagen flat that I would die for. In essence, I want her life. 

What I have to accept but fear I cannot cope with anymore:

Randomly, just as you think you're making progress and pushing things forward, my brain decides to overturn my positive thoughts and throws me into totally unpredictable, unbearable emotional pain. For no apparent reason. There I was, happily getting through my self-inflicted relentless timetable that allows for me to make training videos to try to get voice work and singing clients and work out how to upload them to a blog and newsletter that I update and send out once a week, and suddenly, without warning, I am thrust back into the depths of grief about ex partner. Why? I don't understand the workings of my brain. As Karen in the BBC comedy 'Outnumbered' put it so succinctly, "Isn't your brain supposed to be on your side?"

Things that seem to be getting worse and I'm not entirely sure why, nor convinced there is anything I can do to fix them:

We all knew I got a lot of tummy ache. Between having a Mum, grandma on Mum's side and grandma on Dad's side who all had the most appallingly painful periods, it was kind of inevitable that that side of things would be kind of a struggle. But inheriting IBS as well? Come on people! What is this?! I was just battling the former and thought I'd got over the worst of it, when recurring IBS problems decide to continue to plague me like an irritating toddler that you thought had finally learnt to amuse him or herself, only to realise 10 minutes later, that that pulling feeling is them tugging at your trousers because they are bored. Again. Frankly my dear, I have had enough. Go away pain, please. Go and bother someone who sits at home smoking dope all day. They can handle it.

Things I found amusing this week:

I did my little money-saving trick at the bookshop again the other day, now that they've transferred their foreign magazines section to the basement section, not behind the counters at the tills, and grabbed a handful of magazines to take up with me to the cafe. I read as much as I could of magazines I liked but didn't want to buy (the UK Elle I can buy next week in Londoninium for a third of the price it is here- hurrah!) and discovered, as I was reading, that there are trivial bits of knowledge I have that amaze even me sometimes. There was an article that featured the name of a clearly Icelandic woman, Aslaug Magnusdottir, and I laughed to myself as I read the first name in a German way in my head, then realised from the surname that she's not German, but Icelandic, and thus suddenly had a flashback of my Icelandic teacher (yes, I once had one...) yelling at us that the 'AU' sound is NOT pronounced 'ow' like it is in German, it's 'eoi' with a kind of cute, childlike-sounding delivery that is much softer and dreamier. I can understand her disgust at the mispronunciation. But it was funny how vividly I remembered that disgust. And that I can tell you how to pronounce it correctly. I must be one of about 10 people in the UK who happen to know that. And I imagine I am one of one person in the Czech Republic who knows that. Not that it's a useful piece of knowledge or anything, I grant you that, but it is nonetheless, interesting. Maybe. Or maybe I'm one of one who actually finds that interesting. Oh well. I am unique, if not actually of any consequence. You can write that on my gravestone, "She was unique, if not actually of any consequence."  

And with that, I bid you farewell. At least for now.

Ms. Platform Edge.X

Walking 'home' in the rain

Dear insightful and tolerantly patient (or patiently tolerant) reader,

There's something just so deliciously sad and lonely and yet epic and heart-warming about walking 'home' to a beautiful high-ceilinged flat on Gloucester Road in the rain, listening to this after an evening out alone, in a deserted bar in central west London. It's drizzly like only London can be, the strings in the song I'm listening to are swirling, I'm click-clacking away in my boots that have holes in so my feet are getting distinctly wet. It wasn't raining when I came out, so I took a chance, but just like on my birthday night, it drizzled and softly rained just enough to create small puddles that meant my boots, my lovely green and grey and white striped boots, let in the water and made half my foot soaking wet by the time I got home.

I know that it would be better to be holding the hand of someone brave enough to tell me he loves me. Someone who would be proud to be with me, which I know deep down I would be thrilled to have, but this is ok, almost delightful even. In its own way. I don't fear walking alone at night at all. It's rather uplifting and I even feel elated to raise my head to the sky and have rain fall on my eyelashes and surely spread the mascara I'm wearing across my cold, wine-rosed cheeks. The warmth of the lovely Malbec I had is still comforting me even in this sense of loneliness as I walk home without a warm hand to put mine into. On one glass, I am suitably softened, but not heavily blurred. I think that if I were to return to London, there would be hope of finding someone who might venture to roll the dice with me as a companion. Someone who might listen to the things I had to say and be inspired and intrigued by them. Someone who might want to hug me with all their strength for the love that I could exude from just a deep glance into his eyes. I'm sure I am capable of it, because I had the gift of having it, for many years, in the past. I know that I have things to offer, something to give that could be as warming as the wine and as soothing as the delicate feeling of the light rain falling on my face.

But not tonight. Sleep will be the only entity embracing my body tonight. And that's ok, because I am tired and a little damp from the drizzle.

So, for now, without any attempt to catch-up on other events, I must stop and pack and prepare for another journey. The platform at Paddington awaits.

Goodnight reader, wherever you are.

Ms. Platform Edge

Snow, rock gods and smoke

Dear Reader,

It's snowing again. After a bout of mild weather, I felt the temperature drop as I came out of a gig on Thursday. I had gone to see the producer friend of mine's rock band play, as I'd never had a chance to see them before. It was at the Prague Rock Cafe, which happens to be just under Cafe Louvre, but in the basement instead. So it was easy to get to and, surprisingly resembled any rock venue in London with the whole dingy, drab atmosphere and furnishings, cheap but awful drinks and very loud music. However, there is one difference with London now that I had forgotten about: the smoke. Ironically, the place occasionally referred to as the 'big smoke' doesn't actually have much smoke, at least not in its restaurants and bars, anymore. And I have to say, I miss that smoking ban here in Prague. 

It's kind of annoying to have got ready to go out (usually involving washing my hair) and put on some nice 'going out' clothes, only to know that I will come back with every part reeking of smoke when I return so that the clothes will have to go straight into the washing basket and my hair will need washing again in the morning. It's almost a disincentive to go out in the first place. The other irony, was that the lead singer/producer guy had given up smoking for the new year and was really kind of cranky (though he did say so himself) as a result. It didn't help that (possibly) his lack of Czech didn't endear him to the sound engineer and they had several problems with low, rumbling or screechy feedback during the gig. Still, it was good to experience the kind of music they do. It was a typically West Coast kind of road trip rock most of the time, with some grunge elements thrown in and a performance from the female keyboardist that was reminiscent of San Francisco-like hippie sensibilities. Quite a mixture all in all, rounded off with a strange version of 'Sweet Home Alabama' changed rather unimaginatively, and not exactly poetically, to 'Sweet Home Czech Republic'.

The name of the country itself causes huge problems. Saying, "the Czech Republic" all the time becomes quite tedious, and the Czechs themselves have solved this problem by referring to it as ,Česko', as in the first part of the name of the country as was in the past when they were still one country with Slovakia, i.e. ,Československo'. But it just doesn't seem to have caught on into an English version.

Anyway dear reader, in the meantime, I'm busy today writing meaningless romance advice articles (yes, they're paying me for it!) and battling with various health issues too tedious to go into detail over and hoping that it won't be snowing quite so much tomorrow when I have to leave the house at 7.15am. The pathways here are better in snow than in ice though, so maybe it won't be too bad even if it is still snowing....

May the rock gods be with you,

Ms. Plaform Edge.

Tummy issues

Dear Reader,

I've got some kind of tummy issue which means I've been unable to eat properly yesterday and today. I did try eating some soup last night but it brought on a bit more pain when I ate the one that the Cowboy made because it actually had vegetables in it, whereas the 'cuppa soup' one was fairly harmless. And this morning I tried eating some porridge but then had a sharp pain in my tummy while sitting on the metro, which I had to disguise all the way to I.P.Pavlova. Thankfully, Paul's bakery do do peppermint tea so I was able to start sipping that before I started my meeting.

The Cowboy got angry with me last night that this kind of tummy ache isn't normal and I should do something about it. But sadly, I think he's wrong. This is what happens from time to time when you've got IBS. It's irritating for sure, but there's not a lot you can do about it except go on a fast and drink peppermint tea. And have naps with a hot water bottle and a good book. Maybe this is my body's way of giving me an excuse to stop pushing myself so hard. Maybe it just wants some cuddly time of watching House episodes and reading in bed, as I'd've loved to have had all on my own over Christmas and New Year, but couldn't because I was in a studio flat with nowhere to go while the Cowboy watched TV. I suppose the up side is I'll finally lose some weight after the gluttonous festive period... 

Maybe I'll even look more ballerina-like for the ballet photoshoot that a Mexican photographer wants me to do this weekend. (She cancelled last weekend due to having lost or had stolen her wallet.) I only have to sit in pointe shoes wearing a tight-fitting dress, so it's not like I have to be able to hold a difficult pose, which would certainly be impossible in my current state. It's funny how you've no idea how much you use your tummy muscles until you can't. Then you realise that even standing on the tube carrying a heavy bag requires tummy strength. Damn.

Still, at least I can take it easy a bit. Not too many meet-ees today and none yesterday in the end, so apart from a whole pile of admin to do, I can feasibly take it a bit easier today than I otherwise would. I had an article to write yesterday and a client survey response to draw up (which took hours) so I did have to get that done, but I can have a break today until the afternoon when I have to go back to Pankrác again. And tomorrow is a bit full-on really, unfortunately, so I'd better clear out my system today and stick to just peppermint tea again and hope that by tomorrow I might be back to normal. (Tummy-wise.)

I'm feeling quite tired now actually, so maybe I should call it a day now. I hope, dear reader, that your start to the new year has been pain-free and that the glooms of January haven't descended on you too heavily.

Love,

Your friend from the Edge of the Platform.X

Pankrác

Dear Kind (and possibly slightly insane or at least, quirky and unusual) Reader,

I must confess I am struggling today. I don't know why it is that some days, no matter how hard I try or how much effort I make to list all the things I'm grateful for and lucky to have, I still find myself feeling utterly despondent if not downright unhappy. As I walked across the sprawlingly dull, industrial and grey dual carriageway to get to the offices of my meet-ees today, I felt that I was almost as cursed and trapped as those who've travelled to Pankrác before me. (It houses a well-known prison.) The remaining grit on the pavement and yet no snow, the grey clouds and blustery cold and damp wind, the necessity to carry an umbrella that Prague rarely used to entail and above all the drudgery of the book I have to work from in order to deliver the appropriate meeting content, was all just too much.

I tried, I really did try, to focus on the positive things that I am organising and hoping will come to fruition but they somehow seemed so distant, so irrelevant that it only served to just about avert the tears that were otherwise threatening to roll down my cheeks. Which reminds me; I need to buy more tissues. We've run out.

Last night the cowboy noticed my lack of communication with him and my general unhappy mood and rather than being kind and offering affection, he stood in the doorway of the room I'm using as an office, and moaned, "what's up with you?" in Czech, which roughly comes out as ,,co Ti je?" and complained later on that I hadn't been nice to him. He did so by employing that old passive-aggressive tactic of saying, "So that's all I'm getting is it? No talking to me or being nice to me, just sitting and working. Well, thank you. THANK YOU." It wasn't even his usual Eeyore-ness, but had moved on to his also rather common aggressive tone and irritated glance before slamming the door behind him.

I sat and wondered what it was he had actually expected of me yesterday. If he wanted affection, why didn't he come up to me to offer it? If he wanted kind words, why didn't he start out with them? And if he'd wanted me to be in a better mood, why didn't he offer me a cup of tea instead of words of disgust? I have learnt not to expect these things because expectation is just pre-meditated disappointment. On the other hand, the cowboy did say only the other day that we should be able to make each other happy at least a little bit. And he's right. We should. But we seem to be losing that rather-limited-in-the-first-place kind of skill.

And the reason I spent all evening at the computer was because I was doing everything I could do to drum up some more meet-ees and thus more income, followed by lesson planning after doing aerobics, putting some washing on, having a shower and conducting a couple of meetings on Skype. All of which have yet to show any financial reward. The cowboy kindly pointed out a while ago that perhaps my aerobics wasn't having the desired effect either, of lessening the size of my bottom and thighs. But this is his desired effect. Hence why I got yet another tube of cellulite-"eradicating" cream (that I don't like because it smells funny and feels sticky) for Christmas this year. (However, one of my friends cheered me up when I told her about this by retorting, "Is he gay?!")

In the meantime, I'm having to practise mind over matter about my dwindling bank account both here and in the UK, as the bank here has regular charges for things that no bank in the UK would charge for unless you had a business account and the UK account is going down bit by bit because there's a student loan to pay off and musician's union subs to pay and no income whatsoever until former meet-ees get off their comfy sofas and re-book some meetings.

Still, I have taken the bold step of booking my flights to the UK. I shall escape this place for a couple of weeks at least and hope I can find somewhere to quietly read in a corner of my friend's flat and recover from this perpetual hustling for clients and their cash for a little while. I'm so exhausted already. But I've just started reading Brendon Burchard's, "The Charge" and I'm hoping to hone in on some effective strategies to get re-energised and get some important work done that he may outline for me. In the meantime, I keep reaching for the 'Rum-Kokos' chocolates I got myself because they are weird and chocolate-y in a sugary way and that almost makes me joyful in itself.

And with that, I must get myself off to bed. It's somehow, despite involving only two meetings, been a really long day...

'Night, 'night,

Love,

Your friend on the edge of the platform.X

New Year's Resolutions

Dear Reader,

I hate resolutions usually, but I do think goals can be useful. Here are a few I'm contemplating:

1) Go and stay at the Royal Garden Hotel in West London for two nights on the 28th and 29th January, one of which is my birthday (I have no idea how to finance this and it would send me overdrawn by about £80 just to get the cheapest room, but a girl can dream...)

2) Get a 'facial', despite how pretentious that sounds, at that cool place called 'Zen' on Notting Hill because the head massage I had there a few birthdays ago was great and I've never had a 'facial' before and I think it's time to be nice to my skin and try one

3) Write these blog posts like a letter from now on, as befits the title

4) Move out of this panelák flat not because it's a panelák, but because I miss the city and I miss my own space

5) Finish the vocals on my rock song and do a kick-ass video for it

6) Try to have a sense of humour about things first, instead of having a hissy fit, crying a lot and eventually seeing the funny side

Weird stuff has been happening lately, not to mention sad things, but it's the first day of the year and I've got an early meeting tomorrow, so I'm going to leave all of the madness in my head for another letter when I can perhaps make some logical sense of it all. Or not.

How are you managing in this new year, dear reader? Has 2013 already shown a hint of promise?

Here's sending you the heartfelt wish that your year be filled with fun, frolics, warmth and fulfilled wishes. Oh and lots of silliness and rebellion too. That tends to help, I find...

With love,
Ms. Platform Edge. XXX

P.S. I must confess I've been inspired about letters from finding this site, with the hilarious letter from Keith Richards to his aunt about meeting Mick Jagger for the first time. What a writer...