What a weekend!

Wow, what a weekend that was. Talking, eating, drinking, clubbing and a helicopter ride!

We got into Euston about 3 on Friday afternoon. Went for a walk before we took the tube to Sarah’s. Like always I was overwhelmed by London. The buzz. The rush. The people. Workers clutching briefcases and walking with purpose. Shoppers hands full of carrier bags searching for bargains. Tourists dawdling along, looking up at the skyline, stopping to take photos. Mime artists and buskers. People riding in rickshaws. I must have looked like such a small town girl, wandering along and gawking. Then down into the Underground where the air hangs heavy and still until the trains stir it up and it washes itself around your face and moves your hair about. It was pretty crowded on the train, lots of people going home from work and I had to stand, clinging tightly to the rail, terrified I was going to fall into this old bloke’s lap.

Sarah’s apartment is fantastic, on the eight floor of a huge apartment block. The lounge has one wall that’s all glass so there’s a great view over London. You can see the Thames and everything. We couldn’t get her to tell us how much it cost but it must be a fortune. Mark, her boyfriend, works in the City. He did tell me what he did but I can’t remember now. Last year, he and his three brothers bought a helicopter between the four of them and he’s just got his licence. He promised to take us for a ride over London on Saturday afternoon.

We didn’t go out on Friday night. Sent out for a Chinese and then spent all night talking. It was late when we got up Saturday morning (didn’t go to bed till 6) and by the time we’d had breakfast it was after 4 but Mark still kept his promise.

When we climbed into the helicopter the sun was going down and the sky was all pinks and soft blues. As the helicopter climbed into the air the Thames looked like a mirror, all silver, but it had gold highlights in it from the setting sun. We flew over the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, the House of Commons and we saw where they’re building the Wembley Stadium. As we were flying around, it was gradually getting darker and the lights were coming on. By the time we were ready for landing we could see that the Thames itself was almost black but it was filled with light – whites, yellows and neon reds and greens, reflections that moved and rippled along with the water.

The helicopter ride felt so good I find it difficult to put into words. The earth below me: tiny people’s lives going on in tiny buildings, tiny cars waiting at tiny traffic lights. An enormous sky around us, going on forever. I wanted to fly off on my own, put out my arms and set off, speeding through that great sky, go places, meet people. See the world. Touch it. Taste it. Feel it. Leave my boring life behind me and take off. But I haven’t got the nerve. Or the money.

After the helicopter ride, we went to eat. Indian place called the Usha. After that, clubbing. You know when the music gets inside you? When the rhythm replaces the rhythm of your heart and you have to move the rest of your body to match it? That’s how it was. The person right in the centre of the dance floor unaware of anything but the music. That was me. Eyes closed. Feeling it. Being it.

I should have stuck to the dancing but I did a bit of drinking as well. A lot of drinking. It all became a bit of a blur. There are only two things I remember. One is snogging some guy and his girlfriend becoming so upset we had to leave and go somewhere else. And the other is me telling Ann about the poker and the debts and the unopened credit card bills and her shaking her head and saying, “In vino veritas”. I haven’t heard the last of it, I’m sure.

I don’t know what Ann meant by saying Sarah’s lonely. She has the greatest social life I’ve ever heard of. She’s mixing with all sorts of people: doctors, musicians, politicians, the lot. There’s an artist friend of Mark’s living nearby. He calls himself Helium, although I don’t think that’s his real name. Sunday afternoon he took us out on a tour of some artistic installations around the area. One of them was his. It was a huge balloon that was designed to reflect the sky so that much of the time it was invisible. Then, every so often it would turn green so that, suddenly, there would be a green balloon where previously there seemed to be only sky. Afterwards, we went to visit a friend of his, a man called Brim. He lives in a house absolutely full of stuff. Well, rubbish really but he said they’re all possibilities. He also said something that I made myself remember because it made such sense to me. He said, “It’s essential to be flawed because if you’re not flawed you’re deceiving yourself, which is the biggest flaw of all.” I’m going to write it down somewhere. I need to think about it some more.

We caught the 10.30 train back this morning. A couple of times on the train back I saw Ann looking at me and I thought she was going to start with the lecture. But then she’d sigh and talk about something else. It’ll happen though, when she’s ready. Just wait and see.

There’s always a bloody fly in the ointment.

Ann comes to call

My sister Ann came round to see me tonight. She’s 15 minutes older than me and thinks that gives her the right to tell me what to do with my life. Most of the time I let her get away with it, it’s easier than arguing.

First thing she says, as soon as I open the door is, “Why haven’t you called me? I haven’t heard from you in weeks.” My answer to that, of course, is, “You haven’t rung me either,” but she takes no notice. Then I tell her to sit down while I make a drink but, being Ann, she has to follow me into the kitchen. She’s in there quicker than an ambulance on an emergency (she’s a paramedic.) “Bit of a mess,” she says looking round, “How can you live in this tip?” I turn my back on her and switch on the kettle. As the kettle starts making the whooshing noise that means the water’s boiling, I hear her opening cupboards asking, “Where’s the biscuits?” Before I have chance to say, “Top cupboard, on the left,” she’s opening the middle drawer. I mean, who looks for biscuits in a drawer? Everyone knows you keep biscuits in the cupboard.

She pulls out the bundle of unopened mail and waves it in the air. “What’s these?” she asks. “Nothing,” I say, trying to take them off her. She pushes her face towards mine and says, “What are they? Love letters?” I grab her arm at the elbow and force it to bend, so I can take the envelopes from her. I hold them behind my back, dodging her grabbing hands. My heart’s beating so hard I can hear it and I feel like I’m going to faint. “Keeping secrets,” she says, “Keeping secrets from your only sister?” “I don’t need to tell you everything,” I reply, my voice wobbling about all over the place.

She goes quiet then. She knows she’s gone too far. The kettle clicks off and she goes over to finish making the coffee. I go into the bedroom, close the door behind me and look round for a good hiding place. I don’t want Ann saying she’s going to the bathroom and doing a quick search round my room. She can be like that sometimes. In the end, I push the bundle of mail into the suitcase on top of the wardrobe and click the padlock shut. I’m not sure where the key is but I’m in no rush to open those envelopes anyway.

Back in the lounge, she looks at me curiously. “That’s not like you, getting letters and not opening them. You’re usually the first to the door when the postman comes; I’ve even seen you get excited about junk mail.” “They’re nothing,” I say, “Just ads and things. I’m going to buy a shredder and get rid of them. Data protection and all that.” She waits a minute, her face crinkled up and her mind ticking over. “How do you know what they are if you haven’t opened them? There’s something suspicious going on. Maybe I should talk to Mum.” “Ann,” I shout, “For God’s sake, I’m 35. Don’t start threatening me with Mum. You wouldn’t like it if I did that to you. Let’s talk about something else.”

There’s a long silence. I can’t think of anything else to say and I’m at the point of thinking I’ll switch Coronation Street on when she pipes up with, “Are you working this weekend?” “No,” I reply, “I'm on a late tomorrow, then a split on Tuesday.” “Do you fancy a girly weekend in London?"she asks, "Go down there on Friday and come back Monday morning?” “What brought that on?” I ask. “Remember Sarah I used to work with?” she says, “She’s just moved down there and she’s feeling a bit lonely. We could go shopping or clubbing or just chill out in her new apartment. She tells me it’s pretty special.”

It sounds good to me but, “I’m broke,” I tell her, “I can’t afford it.” “Course you can,” she says, “It’s only money.” I’m about to say I definitely can’t go but then I remember I haven’t played poker in a while. That must have saved me a fortune. Not only that, I haven’t had a treat in ages. “OK,” I say, “Let’s do it.”

The Internet

Whenever I think of the internet, I imagine a globe covered with people sat at keyboards, all linked by silver threads. How fantastic is that? It still amazes me that I can talk to anyone, anywhere at any time. Like last night, for example. I was in a chatroom talking to a woman who was supporting a man under house arrest. Charles his name is. I don't know which country he's in. I don't think he's in England, we don't have that sort of house arrest over here. I was going to send him a message of support but then I found out he killed cats so I didn't want anything to do with him. But, even so, without the Internet I wouldn't know of his existence or be able to talk to someone connected to him.

I used to do a lot of chatting on the net and I've met all sorts of people over the years. Up to about six months ago I spent most of my evenings in chatrooms. Sometimes even all night. I don't do that so much now, I'm more into poker but I'm on a bit of a losing streak so I'm trying to take a break from playing. I'm missing it though.

I'm back

Here I am back home between shifts. There’s a pizza warming in the oven and a bottle of red wine on the kitchen table so I’m spending a few minutes back on my blog while I wait for my late lunch to be ready.

One thing began to worry me this morning. I put my real name on here. Which I suppose is fine, it’s not like I’m a criminal or anything. But it struck me that here is the place I plan to open up and I’m not going to be able to do that if there’s a chance that someone who knows me might read it. So as soon as I came in I took my real name off.

Then I began thinking again. I don’t want to go under the name of Smooth Blue. It’s not a people name, it’s a blog name. I don’t want to be anonymous either. I’ve decided to use the name Mandy (I know it’s the name of a song by Barry Manilow but you can’t have everything!) I’ll add Mandy to the three other names I use on the net. What did I say before about split personality?

Anyway, I’ve just heard a ‘ping’ from the kitchen so I’m off to eat, drink and watch a couple of episodes of ‘Scrubs’ on DVD. Talk to you soon.

A smooth blue ocean

I'm feeling good today. Had a bad night but now I’m raring to go. It’s been a tough few months: I’ve felt like a tiny boat being tossed about on a stormy grey sea. But this morning, I believe I can get it all under control. The future spreads out before me like a smooth blue ocean under a cloudless sky.

This blog is one of the things I’m going to do to make my life better. Not that I think it will solve everything but I know I need to talk, to let go the things that whir round my head at night and stop me sleeping. It’s not that I don’t have people to talk to. I’m not a Billie-No-Mates. I have lots of people to talk to. Friends at work, friends on the net, my mother (if I was really desperate and didn’t want a sensible answer) or my sister. But they aren’t the right people to talk to about the things I want to say. They wouldn’t understand or they’d lecture me about it or they’d know exactly what I needed to do but it wouldn’t be what I wanted to do or be the right thing to do. Or they’d understand exactly what my problems are but they have the same problems and they’re not admitting to them in public either.

And I have to say, most of these people don’t really know me. They think they do. They see this sensible, level-headed, career-oriented nurse who works hard and occasionally plays hard. Who never lets things get her down, never steps beyond the boundaries of what is sensible, never takes a risk, never makes a gamble. But when I lock my door at night and turn on my computer then I become someone else, someone they don’t know, maybe even someone they wouldn’t like. I’ve turned into a split personality.

Oh no. I’ve just looked at the clock and realised it’s time to get ready for work. I’m working on a split today. 10 till 2, then 6 till 10. But don’t worry. I’ll be back. (Who was it who said that?)