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

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...