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."

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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:

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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...

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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."

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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.

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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