Sunday, an Attic Room

This is a bit of writing. Enjoy :)

Mid afternoon in your attic room feels static. There is no sound from outside, just the occasional creak of the house as it adjusts itself for comfort. If I look out of the tiny window, I might discover that we are adrift in the Pacific ocean.

I am lying on my back on your bed, reading an out of date weekend guide. You get up and ask me if I would like a piece of fruit. There is a visit to your sister’s place between us and dinner, so I say yes, I would like a satsuma please. I noticed a particularly big and yellow one in the fruit bowl downstairs. You grin, standing half in, half out of the doorway, stooping slightly because the door is really meant for a child. Your hair is short and fluffy; it sticks up in funny places where it has not yet settled into a style. When the woman in the barber shop asked me if I was going to miss you, I cried. It was down to your shoulders when we met. It was down to your shoulders yesterday, and smelled like lemon and tea tree.

You return with a plate. My satsuma is there on the side, accompanied by a selection; sliced melon, a banana, and a sharon fruit. Neither of us has tasted a sharon fruit before. It’s yellow and shiny. Fits in the palm of my hand. It looks like a fat tomato, but harder to the touch, like the plastic fruit thats manufactured for coffee tables. It doesn’t look like a Sharon fruit. Or a Claire fruit, or a Janice fruit.
You pluck off the green top and try to peel it with your fingers. I peer into the hole; the inside is wet and fleshy.
‘Gross. I don’t want to eat it. Rob said it would be like an apple inside.’

The television is showing the Moto GP. Stoner is in the lead. Rossi is close behind.

We cut it in half. It’s juicy and full of little stringy veins. You sniff at it cautiously before taking a bite.
‘It tastes like a pear. Lot like a pear.’
I have a go. It’s not like a pear at all. It smells strange, sort of yeasty, and tastes like a mango.
‘It’s like a mango. A weak, mushy one.’
‘I suppose it is.’
We sit curled together on the sofa, with the plate between us and the race in front of us whining on a twelve inch television screen.

Shameless self-promotion

So, this is what I have been up to the past few days. If only I had a gang of convicts to help me mass produce this stuff. I'm dreaming buttons at the moment.
Progress is slow and uncertain saving wise. Sudden bills and angry letters fom various water/gas/electric companies are stripping me slowly of any extra shifts I have managed at Vines, and communication from the Ropewalk gallery is patchy. To raise some extra funds, I have a plan. If anyone has a lot of girlie friends who like to buy beady things, I am looking for a host for a jewellery party. The deal is, you invite me, my jewelleries and a hoard of friends over for nibbles, wine and jewellery gazing/buying/ordering. In return, I can offer you either a cut of the profits, or a set of jewellery to keep, depending on the level of success. I can supply wine and nibbles if need be :) the following is a link to my facebook album, with a few examples of what I do:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2001600&l=64029&id=1161262824

Now that we have caught up...

Down to matters at hand. Our house smells of chicken, and the kitchen bin is overflowing to the extent that if anyone were brave enough to dig the tie handles out from under the refuse, they might just get pulled in. The residents of 11 Rowditch Avenue would like to take this point to extend their apologies to the Binfox, and announce that we have found the cause of our problem-



Times have been hard since Keir went away, but now that we have decided to throw credit cards to the wind, the anguish has lessened. My tickets to Sydney are booked, as is my lovely National Express coach trip from Shaftesbury to Heathrow Airport. Rhi informs me it's like visiting a town....except it's an airport. Fabulous! I was a little worried when I found that each terminal has a dedicated bus service. Eep. I must remain positive though. I am the fearless traveller, and no obstacle will overcome me, especially not long-haul flights and the possibility of having all my camera film ruined by the x-rays at customs.
Despite my worries, I am pleased as punch and am now eagerly counting the days until New Year. I spent all day yesterday in a self-created sweatshop, manufacturing handmade jewellery for the wah classes to gift their loved ones. Keir is busy beavering away at his matched betting to make us some extra dinero, and both of our parents are contributing towards it, which is wonderful news for us. I've counted the piggybank- it's an extra thirty squid. Woot. I almost made the grave error of pouring the thing into the Coinstar at Sainsburys, until I remembered that all it gives you in return is a voucher for groceries. Nuh-uh.

Gemma and Keir have now seperately informed me that I will be forming a new band with them and Sophie in Austrailia....and we are playing a gig. The seperate and repeated assertion that this is indeed a plan leads me to believe that they are actually serious. Am I musically competant? No. But lets not niggle over little details.

Oh, and we invented a new word last night- 'Flunging'. The meaning is disputed, but I think we agreed at least on it being some form of ear-sex. I also believe that Nick put it on Wikipedia. But I'm not sure. I have learned a lot of words recently. Cam told me what 'Docking' is. Josh and Anja showed me a pornographic drawing on the coach home from Amsteram to explain the concept of 'Swordfighting'. All these words are sure to come in handy. One day.

xx

So heres a catch up-

Since Keir went away to Other-Hemisphereland I have been all the way to Amsterdam with some jolly good chums, where we saw all manner of strange and magical things. I even wrote an article about it for Dusted, which I've blagged for this...blog. Enjoy!

About 7.30am, after an eleven hour slog across Europe, our coach pulls up outside the Heiniken museum and we all stumble out. Tired. Travel Sick. Cramped to the max. But nobody really minds that we are all sweaty and smell like stale crisps... because we are in Amsterdam.
The Hans-Brinker hotel is located quite close to the Red Light District- politely called 'De Valen' ('The Walls') by the locals, and prides itself on it's grubbiness. So much so, there are postcards available to buy at reception which bear slogans like 'Hans-Brinker- now a bed in every room!'. They don't lie. Our room consists of six prison-issue bunkbeds, a few kicked in lockers, and a kind of wetroom shower/toilet combo. Not much else, except for the charming graffiti'd pinboard which shouts 'I HATE VAGINAS', among other things. Oh, and there are posters in the lifts warning guests of the dangers of overindulgence. Any guesses? Yep, it's a photo of a guy passed out and covered in writing, shaving foam, fruit and lingerie. Beware.



The first stroll around Amsterdam in the morning sun is breathtaking. The streets are bustling with commuters, but the cars are few and far between. Men and women dressed in smart suits and high heels peddle to work. People rush by on bikes customised with paint and plastic flowers. Parents taxi their little children in wooden carts hooked to the front of their bicycles. This is an image of a lifestyle that I wish I was a part of. Locals leave their bikes unchained, knowing that they will be safe. Of course, for those not accustomed to bicycles en masse, woe betide you who strides obliviously across that 'pavement'.

I must be honest now and admit that although there are many fascinating galleries and museums in the city (most popular are the Cannabis museum and the Sex museum), I was too caught up in the magic to visit them. The real romance of Amsterdam lies in it's streets and coffee shops, and I found plenty of things to see tripping dreamily between the smokey cafes and street markets- a specialist glass doorknob shop, fast food vending machines and market stalls selling Virgin Mary paraphenalia. After dark is the time to really explore. The city opens up to show it's bright and colourful lining, and the real fun begins.

The Red Light District is not for the faint of heart. Or for claustrophobes or people who are scared of shop dummies. At it's dark heart it is a dizzying network of narrow alleys, lined with full length windows lit up in a lurid pinky-red. Inside, prostitutes stand displayed like living manneqins in underwear. It is an unnerving sight. One or two such alleys that we visited are so narrow that to get past the row of people coming the other way, you must press your face against the wall and inch along past the mad graffiti until you are spat out on the other side. There are cinemas devoted to showing hardcore porn, and even a 'discount erotic store' which sells, amongst the naughty things, cheap 2009 diaries and paint-by-numbers kits.
The locals, if you are lucky enough to meet one (Amsterdam is very cosmopolitan) are generally friendly and take an interest in the experiences of the tourist. We were chased by a man in a wheelchair, personally serenaded by a man with an accordian and joined in a few photographs by a teen who called himself 'amsterdam guy'. Wouldn't have met them in a Cannabis museum.
Despite the eye bags and sore head on departure, I think the time was right to be going. Amsterdam is a beautiful and hedonistic city, with the balance just right. Everyone is relaxed, nobody is rushing, nobody causes trouble. What you decide to indulge in there remains between you and the city. Oh, and some very good friends.