Dance & Drink & Screw

My boyfriend and I are looking to escape London. Sometime next week, hopefully off this island. We've looked at trains, buses and airplanes. We've looked at Last Minute deals, suggestions by friends on Trip Advisor and on Livejournal, work colleagues tips - anything... it's been hard!

Our latest plan is to take a train to Portsmouth, a ferry across to France and spend a few days over there. But we can't find an available hotel room...

In the meantime, I've been blessed with sunshine in London during this first week off work. I've been to ice cream festivals (with fj), walks around Regent's Park followed by beers and burgers (with suzi, clay, sarah and rattler), sunbathing in Victoria Park with my boyfriend, gym sessions, yoga classes, pizza at the Lauriston, pints outside the BFI while watching the crowds go by, some fiction writing, some movie watching, some video game playing and a LOT of resting.

I'm hoping to go swimming in Hampstead Heath tomorrow - my first time there. It's part of my plan of using this time off to do fun things around London I've never done before, while taking advantage of the good weather.

An old friend from uni arrives tomorrow night and spends the weekend with us. I foresee walks down Regent's Canal to Broadway Market, lunch at London Fields, some dancing in the evening, breakfast at the Pavillion Cafe in Victoria Park... all the money I could have spent in some Greek restaurant I'm going to spend right here, in London's EastEnd.

Over a month ago I asked you to give me a random sentence from a book. I was meant to join them all together into a short story, get someone to illustrate it, then make it available for download as an eStory.

This was my New Year's resolution - a short story every two months, 6 by the end of the year.

Well... I haven't had the time this month because of my new job. The story is nearly finished, but it still needs a lot of work. So... I hope you don't mind if I change things slightly and give myself three months for completion from now on (pushing this deadline to the end of March.)

I'm now trying to muster the will to go for a swim - my first one of 2012. I'm feeling so lazy...

The first question you must ask yourself when looking for a job is: can I turn it into a successful blog? Sitting this morning at my local Job Centre Plus[1], I saw a job ad for "Ambulance Cleaner". 45 hours a week, minimum rate per hour. Although the Ambulance Blog genre is already well represented by Suzi Brent's Nee Naw and Tom Reynold's Blood, Sweat and Tea, I think there's still space for someone reporting from the frontline after the shifts. In this day and age of Broken Britain's Bing Drinking, someone must report on the vomit that needs to be scraped off the insides of weekend ambulances, and of the struggle to make ends meet with a pitiful salary after a long week. Someone must leave little secret love notes for ambulance drivers so they can feel happier speeding across the city.

The people at the Job Centre were lovely - they breezed me through the interview even though I hadn't brought my latest lease or payslip. Regulars studied me from the corner of their eyes. I got a handshake at the end and an interview next week with a Careers Advice company in the city. Let's see if they can get me a job mowing lawn landscape gardening.

I went to Mile End's swimming pool afterwards, which was much cleaner than the one by Bethnal Green. It's probably because hardly anyone uses it. On a negative note, three blokes thought the Fast Lane was about standing in the middle of it splashing water at each other.

I'm now working on a job application for a Park Ranger position in my borough (insert amusing blog name somehow alluding to my sexuality and that I can't drive the park's truck due to lack of license.)

[1] Why is it Plus? Do I get more value for money? More jobs in less space?

I've come up with a game that involves history books. The rules are as follow:

1) Pick a non-fiction book to read, preferably about a person or period centuries ago. (If you want a real challenge, start with the Egyptians.) In my case, I picked Bill Bryson's brilliant biography of Shakespeare.

2) After you've read it, find a way to move chronologically forward in world history through a subject raised somewhere in the book. I chose King James of Scotland since he came into power halfway through Shakespeare's life.

3) Keep doing this until you reach present day.

After King James I, I was re-directed to the Americas, the colony of Jamestown, John Smith and Pocahontas (the first modern celebrity, in my opinion). My next book will be on the first African slaves brought to the east coast colonies.

The Guardian's most recent books podcast is on the future of Science Fiction. They mentioned how Ursula K. Le Guin had a problem reviewing Margaret Atwood's most recent novel, The Year of the Flood, because Atwood refuses to label her distopian fiction "science fiction" (she calls it instead "speculative fiction".) Something to do, it seems, with Atwood's fear of being shoved into the sci-fi ghetto. I love both Le Guin and Atwood and hope they don't get into any Dynasty-style cat fights that might lead to a balcony fall.

One of the podcast's speakers predicted that 2010 will be the year Paranormal Romance novels like Twilight lose their popularity to Epic Fantasy (thank god.) HBO is currently filming a series based on George R.R. Martin’s “A Song of Ice and Fire” novels, which made me think Avatar's style and success truly is the face of what's to come. The Guardian's Saturday Review also had a small article on Avatar and a recent accusation of plagiarism aimed at it from Russian sci-fi writers. But, the article said, the person with the biggest claim against Cameron is Ursula K. Le Guin (there she is again), whose novel The Word for World Is Forest is uncannily similar to the film. I hear an echo from the time reviewers said Le Guin should take J.K. Rowling to the courts for lifting so much stuff from her Earthsea novels.

Today, I'm finishing off Stephen King's latest novel Under the Dome, meeting a friend at the Museum of Childhood and then going for a swim which will hopefully fix my back.

I walk through Victoria Park every day. On my way home today, I got the shock of my life: a large white stripe had been painted by the border of the pond, from one edge to the other. And the following words were painted in large font by it, every 20 feet or so: Caution Water

I'm very glad Tower Hamlets Council decide to alert me of this otherwise it was very likely I'd walk straight into the pond.

In the coming weeks, I expect the following to appear:

Near trees - Caution Branches and Leaves Above
On the paths - Caution Fast Cyclists Runners Baby Carriers Dogs Drunks Litter
By the benches - Caution Don't Stand on Bench When Wet and also Caution Back May Hurt if Slept On
Hanging off the necks of all geese - Caution May Stare at You in Threatening Manner

Or the Council could just employ all the people struggling to find a job at the moment to meet people like myself as soon as we step outdoors and then follow us around issuing warnings for all aspects of life.

I sat outside York Hall for over an hour yesterday evening before my brasilian friend Vini Bambini arrived on his bike. I knew he was going to take a while so I divided my time between an old copy of the Guardian's Review section and my iShuffle. There was a long line up of muslim women, who have special hours and days of the week when they can use the pools with no men about. My music selection reached a song by Dead Can Dance from their first album - one of those wailed by Lisa Gerrard over intense drums and exotic strings - and those housewives suddenly gained a more mysterious air.

Vini is my gym buddy now that my landlady cancelled her membership and only goes for occasional runs in Victoria Park. He suggested we try out this evening Pilates class because we've both had issues with our backs in the past and we want something else on top of the usual gym routine. It was going to be my first ever Pilates session but the instructor didn't show up. An australia wrapped up in white cloths substituted her instead and put us through familiar Yoga moves and mantras. My brain, in the cool and dark air conditioned studio room, returned to the muslim women swimming in the building's gut.

On Thursday, I'm meeting Vini Bambini at the gym, 7.30am. He'll do the treadmill for over half an hour because he's trying to shift some weight; I'll strain my wrists in the weights room. Then we'll say goodbye and I'll take a solitary shower in the changing room while he bikes across London to his office.

Hello James,
When is Igor coming to africa??

Hello Mr Lawrence,

I am very worried about Igor. I don't know when he'll arrive in Africa... I don't even know if he's still alive!

About a week ago, the ship he was stowed away in sent a distress signal that was picked up by the YMCA Royal Navy. It appears that the ship encountered heavy storms on the way to Africa and crashed against some rocks. Many died or disappeared under the waves; Igor was one of the few that survived (his morse code was sent from the captain's cabin just before he jumped out of the window and managed to land in one of the dinghys.) Unfortunately, he lost all of the Virgin statues with the gold coins, apart from one stuffed down his trousers (maybe it's enough for a down payment on your property, if he gets there?) The gifts for the security guards were also lost.

About a few days ago, I received a text message from his mobile phone. It appears that the survivors of the ship found an island off the African coast and are currently there. All attempts on my part to locate the exact position of the island, however, have been futile - it's as if the place is off the maps! He was in high spirits until this morning, when a distressing message arrived together with a mobile photo: "They all died. Please help me. I'll try to make it to the second island in a boat I found. They killed them, the Others killed them all..."

As you can imagine, I'm deathly pale with worry. I sincerely hope he manages to make it to Africa and buy the land for me, but I'm not getting my hopes up. I fear the worst.

Attentiously yours,

James Carvalho

( Last photo sent from Igor's mobile phone )

Victoria Park has these large asphalt lanes flanked by tall trees. One of them separates Regent's canal running North-South and the lake that dominates the southern side of the park. As I'm walking home, down this lane, a skein of Canadian geese fly over my head, followed by two pigeons late for the party. It's that glimpse into another world that you sometimes get when you are mellow for home, too much oxygem has hit your brain and the sun plays tricks on the clouds.

I found a bench facing the lake and pulled out my journal. Checked out the boys that came and went - some jogging, some strutting - until I heard a rambling drunk approach and ducked into my journal, hoping he wouldn't sit beside me. Two benches away, he found a young guy also drinking beer, plugged into his iPod. The young guy didn't seem to care when the drunk sat close to him and went into a monologue about their different choices of drink. A cute Jack Russell terrier, white-coated with black spots, belonging to the drunk who'd just sat down, played between their feet with a plastic 500ml Coca-Cola bottle.

The Jack Russell played a solitary game of throw-and-catch until the bottle landed in the lake. He ran to the edge and stared in desbelief as the bottle slowly drifted away. A whine grew in his throat as he edged back and forth, until it spilled out as a low bark. It grew louder, louder, and louder, until he was in doggy hysterics.

His drunk owner couldn't care less, but the people on the other benches stopped what they were doing to watch the drama unfold. The bottle, at first static once it was a few feet away, slowly began to drift back to the edge. The closer it got, the louder his barks grew. His little paws splodged no further than the scum-coated border, his black eyes never left what was so desiredly close. Not even a dog unflatteringly sniffing his butt, or a family pushing a pram who stopped for a minute to giggle at his despair, took his mind off the disaster.

All hail the Great Saint Bernard in the Sky! The bottle was finally at reach, so close to his snout - if only he were to edge a little bit in, get his paws wet, open his jaws and... off the bottle went again, disturbed by his frenetic movements in the shallows, drifting away from his reach.

'Go on boy! Go get it, boy!' Shouted his drunk owner from the bench, suddenly hooked like everyone else. But the little thing didn't; he barked and barked until I felt it was a giant pessimist lesson, in the molds of Beckett, on what happened to anyone in this life who chased a dream.

BUT THEN HE JUMPED! In less than 30 seconds he had the bottle in his possession and, dripping wet, was running up and down as if he'd won the canine lottery's jackpot. I nearly clapped.

When was the first time I did something REALLY wrong? Was telling a friend in kindergarden that I had magical powers wrong? Was sending an anonymous note to a girl in my 3rd grade class wrong? (she freaked out) Was betraying the hiding place of a birthday boy at summer camp, in 5th grade, wrong? (he got pelted with rotten eggs then thrown in the lake; most of the girls never forgave me.)

I grew up in a condominium of three buildings in São Paulo. To my luck, many of the residents had children my age, so I immediately made friends and became part of a big gang of kids. I'd spend all day downstairs, running around, playing hide & seek, swimming or watching the boys play football and basketball (they tried to get me to join in but I never cared much for it.)

I collected board games (but also made my own, like "The Towering Inferno" - a favourite) and we used to play them in the buildings' reception areas when it rained. I loved horror movies and made up games inspired by them for the sunny days: "The Killer Elevator", "Texas Chainsaw Massacre", "Jaws", you name it. My friends enjoyed the games as well and started asking me to come up with more of them each day (to be honest, the games were usually variations on each other - "Jaws 2" was pretty much the same as "Jaws", but involving pool inflatables - so it wasn't such a hard creative act.)

So much power at an early age went straight to my head. I dictated who could play and who couldn't. But I was generally a benefic despot, ruling justly over my people. One day, in a rush of tyrannical madness, I suggested to some friends that they ask another boy what he thought of me. I was curious to know what my subjects really thought. I hid behind the basketball court's wall and heard the boy, Ate (yup, that was his name), snicker that he was annoyed by me sometimes. Out I jumped and planted a punch in his gut, then told him that he was banished from our group of friends.

I forbade all my friends to talk to Ate from that day onwards. He couldn't play with us, he couldn't join us at the pool, nothing. I feel so awful that I did this to him. I think Ate didn't speak to us for months, though it felt like years. Then one day he approached me sheepishly, when he was already sort of talking to my brother, and we became friends again.

We continued to be friends through adolescence, then lost touch in our twenties. The last time I saw him was the day I introduced him to my boyfriend Kevin. Up until then, we'd laugh about what had happened - it was common for all my friends to sit around joking about when I ruled over them like a tyrant - but I still wondered how much of the experience had stayed with him. I don't think anyone ever truly gets over something like that, and it's weird for me to think nowadays that I was responsible for causing that type of pain to someone else, that I was a bully.

After months away from the swimming pool, I decided to brave the shallows again with my brand new ear plugs. It was somewhat hard to get through my usual 1.500 metres, but I'm sure with time and practice I'll be back in form. I love that breathless feeling when coming out of the pool and walking to the shower room, the hot water washing my body and dissolving my muscles. Also, nothing strips faster a winter beer gut than solid swimming sessions - I speak from experience.

Kevin prepared tuna sandwiches with a pinch of curry powder (highly recommended) while I dropped by Canary Wharf's Tesco for some crisps, juice and pizza. We then headed for the park with a copy of today's Guardian, his iPod, books, journals, food, bottled tap water and a whole bunch of other stuff that was probably unnecessary. I lay in the sun after eating and dozed off to Agustin Lara in my ears. Bolero, sunny parks, wine and topless boys kicking a ball are a divine combination. Too bad we forgot to bring wine.