With a lack of anything to do on a Bank Holiday Monday when it was pouring torrentially with rain, I went to the garden centre.
I didn't really know what I wanted. I wanted something leafy and green for my room, to try and circulate the air a bit or some such thing. My snake plant, Frank, lives mostly in the conservatory these days as I think he likes the light down there.
I never did find what I was looking for, since I didn't know what it was. Instead, I bought a sunflower-growing-pot. It's a bright yellow plant pot, and comes complete with some dried compost and a small packet of seeds. I grew several big sunflowers with this same kit last year, so I bought another one.
I also bought a packet of sunflower seeds to give to my colleague Matt. I was talking to him last week about growing sunflowers and he said his wife likes sunflowers. I thought he might like to involve his little boy with growing them, too. It seemed right to buy something small for him, since when Annette took a week off work a couple of weeks back as she had just got two new kittens, I bought her some cat treats for them.
I eventually left the garden centre, with a grow your own chilli plant. The chilli plant was reduced to half price. The girl on the checkout didn't seem to notice this, so I was sure to point out on the receipt when I paid full price. A debate followed where we discussed whether the sticker said "3.99" or "6.99". It looked nothing like a 6.
I live a life of high excitement.
Tuesday 27 May 2008
Monday 26 May 2008
Freak on a train
I was talking to a crazy man on the train the other day.
You know how it is; you get on the train and look around for a place to sit. But all the seats are taken and you really don't want to stand. Then you notice one man sitting on his own and several empty seats all around him. And you just know there must be a good reason why nobody wants to sit near this guy, but you aren't going far so figure you can take your chances.
And it all makes good blog fodder.
I sit down and this wild-eyed, toothless madman looks at me. I pretend to be fascinated with something outside the window. Then a girl listening to her iPod sits down next to crazy man. She is listening to her music loudly, so that all you can hear is the tinny, hissing beat. Crazy man says something to me. I don't know what it is, but I figure it's something about personal stereos not being very personal. I make a noise of agreement. "What?" he says "Hm, nothing" I mumble and continue to look out the window. But I've spoken to him now.
He keeps looking at me, and looking at this girl, then he leans towards me
"Is she with you?" he asks
I laugh "No" I tell him. This doesn't seem clear enough to him.
"Is she your girlfriend?"
"No. I only saw her for the first time when she sat down."
"Nice, though, isn't she?"
"Yes, she's very pretty"
"Why don't you ask her out?"
"I don't think my girlfriend would like that very much"
"Fair enough, I'm just trying to help you out, mate"
I thanked him for the thought, but assured him it wasn't necessary. Then crazy man starts complaining how nobody talks on trains any more. It did seem a little strange when he mentioned it, the carriage was full of people, but also completely silent. Except for him. He was telling me how in his day people would all talk to each other on the train. I was tempted to tell him that people are likely to think you're a crazy freak if you talk to them, but figured it best not to call him names, in case he stabbed me for it.
He moves on to the subject of work. I'm dressed in my finest black suit since I'd just been to an interview and he asks me what I do. I think we can see where this is leading. I was tempted to tell him I was an astronaut. But instead I tell him I'm an artist, I was carrying my bird canvas with me, after all. He says "Really?" and makes a drinking gesture with a questioning look. I laugh and tell him, yes, I'm a piss artist. He points out that I said it and not him, so I can't get mad.
"But really," he wants to know, "what sort of thing do you do?"
If you ever seen Spaced you will remember the artist character, Brian, who whenever he was asked that question would reply with "Anger...Pain...Fear...Aggression...". It took a world of restraint not to take the piss and repeat this to crazy man. Instead I talked a bit about photography and a move towards painting. He asked me if there was a lot of money in it. None at all, I told him. I don't make any money out of art. He told me I should be a plumber, like him. How he was earning 35k a year, and when he completes his next course he will be on more like 50k.
You'd think with that sort of money he'd get some false teeth or something, since he had only one or two mangled, discoloured lumps for his gnashers.
Luckily about this point it was my stop, so I was able to bid farewell to the freak and his misguided matchmaking and try to navigate my way from Deptford to Goldsmith's College...
You know how it is; you get on the train and look around for a place to sit. But all the seats are taken and you really don't want to stand. Then you notice one man sitting on his own and several empty seats all around him. And you just know there must be a good reason why nobody wants to sit near this guy, but you aren't going far so figure you can take your chances.
And it all makes good blog fodder.
I sit down and this wild-eyed, toothless madman looks at me. I pretend to be fascinated with something outside the window. Then a girl listening to her iPod sits down next to crazy man. She is listening to her music loudly, so that all you can hear is the tinny, hissing beat. Crazy man says something to me. I don't know what it is, but I figure it's something about personal stereos not being very personal. I make a noise of agreement. "What?" he says "Hm, nothing" I mumble and continue to look out the window. But I've spoken to him now.
He keeps looking at me, and looking at this girl, then he leans towards me
"Is she with you?" he asks
I laugh "No" I tell him. This doesn't seem clear enough to him.
"Is she your girlfriend?"
"No. I only saw her for the first time when she sat down."
"Nice, though, isn't she?"
"Yes, she's very pretty"
"Why don't you ask her out?"
"I don't think my girlfriend would like that very much"
"Fair enough, I'm just trying to help you out, mate"
I thanked him for the thought, but assured him it wasn't necessary. Then crazy man starts complaining how nobody talks on trains any more. It did seem a little strange when he mentioned it, the carriage was full of people, but also completely silent. Except for him. He was telling me how in his day people would all talk to each other on the train. I was tempted to tell him that people are likely to think you're a crazy freak if you talk to them, but figured it best not to call him names, in case he stabbed me for it.
He moves on to the subject of work. I'm dressed in my finest black suit since I'd just been to an interview and he asks me what I do. I think we can see where this is leading. I was tempted to tell him I was an astronaut. But instead I tell him I'm an artist, I was carrying my bird canvas with me, after all. He says "Really?" and makes a drinking gesture with a questioning look. I laugh and tell him, yes, I'm a piss artist. He points out that I said it and not him, so I can't get mad.
"But really," he wants to know, "what sort of thing do you do?"
If you ever seen Spaced you will remember the artist character, Brian, who whenever he was asked that question would reply with "Anger...Pain...Fear...Aggression...". It took a world of restraint not to take the piss and repeat this to crazy man. Instead I talked a bit about photography and a move towards painting. He asked me if there was a lot of money in it. None at all, I told him. I don't make any money out of art. He told me I should be a plumber, like him. How he was earning 35k a year, and when he completes his next course he will be on more like 50k.
You'd think with that sort of money he'd get some false teeth or something, since he had only one or two mangled, discoloured lumps for his gnashers.
Luckily about this point it was my stop, so I was able to bid farewell to the freak and his misguided matchmaking and try to navigate my way from Deptford to Goldsmith's College...
Tuesday 20 May 2008
Sunday 18 May 2008
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
Work continues to creep in this petty pace from day to day. There's been jobs in retail or in a call centre where I've jokingly said it would be alright if it wasn't for the customers -- but it's less of a joke now. My job itself is fine, although mind-numbingly boring. But the people are what makes the job harder to bare. For the last four weeks or so, we've had a new temp in the office -- of course, there were all the usual lies before she started. That she'd be helping us out with this or with that, when really she hasn't been at all -- and my boss has actively stopped her from doing more.
In and of herself I find her incredibly annoying. She's one of those people who just does not stop talking, and her favourite subject of conversation is herself. One of those people who will ask you how your weekend was, just so they can talk about theirs. You might say she's had a lot to talk about, in the relatively short period of time she's been working with us she has had numerous dramas with her car -- from her sister taking her keys and "borrowing" her car when drunk one night, the fan-belt snapping on her way into work one morning, and the car then being written off a few days later when someone crashed into it while it was parked. But I do not need to hear about it fifty times a day. Nor do I want to hear about her debt problems. Every single day she is going on about how she might get herself declared bankrupt, or might do this or might do that, and oh the citizens advice bureau say this and I just want to tell her to shut up. Maybe work just makes me cranky.
She reminds me a little of Ross, whom I worked with in the call centre -- someone who when reading the paper quietly to themselves just can't help but constantly make comments out loud, all the time, about everything.
On a personal level, there has been no mention of what is happening with my job or contract or whatever. I asked my agency if they knew when it was to end, they said they hadn't heard anything but if my boss had his way she thought he would want me to stay forever. This is less than helpful. I have started applying for other jobs, but I do intend to keep an open mind about these things. My position right now is that any extension of the temporary contract is not acceptable. Should they make me a permanent offer, then I would take it into consideration.
I was discussing this with Dune just yesterday, who was laregely of the opinion that if I seriously consider taking a permanent position I will most likely never leave -- and that if I truly want to live and work in London, I just have to leave now. Not so long ago Dune was also advising me that I should stay in this job for at least a year, preferably two, since I have concerns about it looking like I can't hold a job. This concern is the only reason I would want to stay in a shit job. But it can be confusing sometimes which advice to take on board.
While it might not seem like it, I'm not afraid of change. I'm not afraid of making bold decisions to upset my comfort area. After all, I was working full time as a "bar manager" -- but I quit to go work in London without pay. I'm also independent enough to say "screw it" and go on holiday on my own, when nobody's plans fit in with my own. Sometimes I also need to weigh up my options.
The immediate plan of action is I now I have started I will continue to apply for jobs in London -- and if something comes along before my work have made any sort of decision, it's their loss. If, however, my work decide there's no budget to keep me and I don't have anything else... then maybe I will just move to London and couch-surf and work in a pub until I find something regular.
And perhaps that would be a better option to begin with.
In and of herself I find her incredibly annoying. She's one of those people who just does not stop talking, and her favourite subject of conversation is herself. One of those people who will ask you how your weekend was, just so they can talk about theirs. You might say she's had a lot to talk about, in the relatively short period of time she's been working with us she has had numerous dramas with her car -- from her sister taking her keys and "borrowing" her car when drunk one night, the fan-belt snapping on her way into work one morning, and the car then being written off a few days later when someone crashed into it while it was parked. But I do not need to hear about it fifty times a day. Nor do I want to hear about her debt problems. Every single day she is going on about how she might get herself declared bankrupt, or might do this or might do that, and oh the citizens advice bureau say this and I just want to tell her to shut up. Maybe work just makes me cranky.
She reminds me a little of Ross, whom I worked with in the call centre -- someone who when reading the paper quietly to themselves just can't help but constantly make comments out loud, all the time, about everything.
On a personal level, there has been no mention of what is happening with my job or contract or whatever. I asked my agency if they knew when it was to end, they said they hadn't heard anything but if my boss had his way she thought he would want me to stay forever. This is less than helpful. I have started applying for other jobs, but I do intend to keep an open mind about these things. My position right now is that any extension of the temporary contract is not acceptable. Should they make me a permanent offer, then I would take it into consideration.
I was discussing this with Dune just yesterday, who was laregely of the opinion that if I seriously consider taking a permanent position I will most likely never leave -- and that if I truly want to live and work in London, I just have to leave now. Not so long ago Dune was also advising me that I should stay in this job for at least a year, preferably two, since I have concerns about it looking like I can't hold a job. This concern is the only reason I would want to stay in a shit job. But it can be confusing sometimes which advice to take on board.
While it might not seem like it, I'm not afraid of change. I'm not afraid of making bold decisions to upset my comfort area. After all, I was working full time as a "bar manager" -- but I quit to go work in London without pay. I'm also independent enough to say "screw it" and go on holiday on my own, when nobody's plans fit in with my own. Sometimes I also need to weigh up my options.
The immediate plan of action is I now I have started I will continue to apply for jobs in London -- and if something comes along before my work have made any sort of decision, it's their loss. If, however, my work decide there's no budget to keep me and I don't have anything else... then maybe I will just move to London and couch-surf and work in a pub until I find something regular.
And perhaps that would be a better option to begin with.
Tuesday 13 May 2008
More adventures delivering meals
Sunday being one of the hottest days of the year so far, it seemed an appropriate time for me to deliver meals in London again.
To be fair, I knew perfectly well what the weather would be like -- but the sick and needy of east London don't all suddenly get better because the weather is nice. So I set out in my car without air conditioning, and unable to roll my window down very far through fear of getting one sunburned arm. It wasn't pleasant, but the incredibly-awesome mix CD I had made the day before helped a great deal.
Each time, I hope secretly for a hottie for a navigator. Instead this time I got a guy named Andy, whom I've shared the route with on a number of other occasions. He's a very amiable sort of chap, he wants to be a teacher but works in factories from what I can gather -- when he is working at all. He's very bright, and knows a lot about science, but he struggles with telling left from right. It gets to the point where we now have a code between us; he says "turn left" and I have to ask "left-your-side or left-my-side?" -- it's quicker than him holding his hands up in front of him to check.
We had many interesting conversations, like the one about mirages in the desert. He remarked on noticing the heat haze -- like you get in the desert, he said -- and I wondered out loud if people in the desert see mirages of ice cream vans. I concluded that probably not everyone in the desert would, since I expect there are many people -- Bedouin and such like -- that have probably never seen an ice cream van. This prompted us to discuss what it would be like if you had hallucinations of things you had never seen before. I think perhaps we were a little delirious with the heat ourselves.
Another quirk of Andy's is that he has always just assumed I must be gay, perhaps because he is himself, or maybe because The Food Chain is a very gay-friendly charity. He was actually quite surprised -- first confused, then surprised -- when he found out this week I'm not. I told him that for the most part I don't much talk about these things as I don't think it's anyone else's business who I sleep with, but also that people can get a bit funny about it when they find out you're batting for both teams. Which is why most of my best friends don't know.
I wheeled out the old story of the girl in a gay bar telling me I just "hadn't met the right man yet", and how I wonder if I would have got out of there alive should I have suggested the same thing to her.
We went on to have a particular fascinating conversation about sexuality and pubs. We were slightly lost at one point -- as a navigator he's usually pretty good, but he has his poorer moments and doesn't do very well concentrating in warm weather -- and I asked him if he recognised any pubs. Usually, he comments on various pubs we pass, perhaps that they have amateur pole dancing competitions or if they're just places he knows. This time, no such luck -- he said he wasn't really familiar with "straight pubs".
Apparently, for some time he thought on Eastenders the Queen Vic pub was meant to be some kind of "theme" pub, perhaps in the style of some grotty, bygone age. Then he went to a straight pub and found that no, that's actually quite common an atmosphere. I laughed and said, yeah, I've been to pubs like that -- but there's lots of nice "straight" pubs, too. I also shared my opinion that of the gay venues I have visited, I am yet to find one with what I would call a decent jukebox. A good jukebox is very important to me -- the right selection of music can see me spending more on the tunes than on beer of an evening. He conceded that he does get sick of hearing "Dancing Queen" every over song. When I spent time with the LGB group at university it was the first time I'd ever been to gay pubs, but I wished we could meet in my favourite "straight" places where the music was good.
Despite taking longer than we would have liked -- due in part to my slightly concentration-impaired navigator -- the deliveries themselves went without a hitch, with all the "service users" being home and waiting for their meals. A word of warning though, to anyone driving in central London on a hot Sunday afternoon. Do not attempt to go anywhere near Columbia Road flower market.
I was going to end by saying that the next time I sign up for a shift, I am looking at who the navigators are first... but thinking back over navigators I have known, a disturbing number of them struggled with left and right, one had to be gently shown how best to hold a map, and one guy whom I have remained friends with had a very unfortunate stutter when trying to give directions... so maybe it's best to just take pot luck, and hope for a hottie. Or a benevolent and independently wealthy millionaire art collector...
To be fair, I knew perfectly well what the weather would be like -- but the sick and needy of east London don't all suddenly get better because the weather is nice. So I set out in my car without air conditioning, and unable to roll my window down very far through fear of getting one sunburned arm. It wasn't pleasant, but the incredibly-awesome mix CD I had made the day before helped a great deal.
Each time, I hope secretly for a hottie for a navigator. Instead this time I got a guy named Andy, whom I've shared the route with on a number of other occasions. He's a very amiable sort of chap, he wants to be a teacher but works in factories from what I can gather -- when he is working at all. He's very bright, and knows a lot about science, but he struggles with telling left from right. It gets to the point where we now have a code between us; he says "turn left" and I have to ask "left-your-side or left-my-side?" -- it's quicker than him holding his hands up in front of him to check.
We had many interesting conversations, like the one about mirages in the desert. He remarked on noticing the heat haze -- like you get in the desert, he said -- and I wondered out loud if people in the desert see mirages of ice cream vans. I concluded that probably not everyone in the desert would, since I expect there are many people -- Bedouin and such like -- that have probably never seen an ice cream van. This prompted us to discuss what it would be like if you had hallucinations of things you had never seen before. I think perhaps we were a little delirious with the heat ourselves.
Another quirk of Andy's is that he has always just assumed I must be gay, perhaps because he is himself, or maybe because The Food Chain is a very gay-friendly charity. He was actually quite surprised -- first confused, then surprised -- when he found out this week I'm not. I told him that for the most part I don't much talk about these things as I don't think it's anyone else's business who I sleep with, but also that people can get a bit funny about it when they find out you're batting for both teams. Which is why most of my best friends don't know.
I wheeled out the old story of the girl in a gay bar telling me I just "hadn't met the right man yet", and how I wonder if I would have got out of there alive should I have suggested the same thing to her.
We went on to have a particular fascinating conversation about sexuality and pubs. We were slightly lost at one point -- as a navigator he's usually pretty good, but he has his poorer moments and doesn't do very well concentrating in warm weather -- and I asked him if he recognised any pubs. Usually, he comments on various pubs we pass, perhaps that they have amateur pole dancing competitions or if they're just places he knows. This time, no such luck -- he said he wasn't really familiar with "straight pubs".
Apparently, for some time he thought on Eastenders the Queen Vic pub was meant to be some kind of "theme" pub, perhaps in the style of some grotty, bygone age. Then he went to a straight pub and found that no, that's actually quite common an atmosphere. I laughed and said, yeah, I've been to pubs like that -- but there's lots of nice "straight" pubs, too. I also shared my opinion that of the gay venues I have visited, I am yet to find one with what I would call a decent jukebox. A good jukebox is very important to me -- the right selection of music can see me spending more on the tunes than on beer of an evening. He conceded that he does get sick of hearing "Dancing Queen" every over song. When I spent time with the LGB group at university it was the first time I'd ever been to gay pubs, but I wished we could meet in my favourite "straight" places where the music was good.
Despite taking longer than we would have liked -- due in part to my slightly concentration-impaired navigator -- the deliveries themselves went without a hitch, with all the "service users" being home and waiting for their meals. A word of warning though, to anyone driving in central London on a hot Sunday afternoon. Do not attempt to go anywhere near Columbia Road flower market.
I was going to end by saying that the next time I sign up for a shift, I am looking at who the navigators are first... but thinking back over navigators I have known, a disturbing number of them struggled with left and right, one had to be gently shown how best to hold a map, and one guy whom I have remained friends with had a very unfortunate stutter when trying to give directions... so maybe it's best to just take pot luck, and hope for a hottie. Or a benevolent and independently wealthy millionaire art collector...
Friday 9 May 2008
Further on the black bird
You would not believe how hard I find it to draw a simple, bloody, bird. Or in this case less of a bloody bird and more of a black one.
I met up last night with Hannah, along with other First Time Club people and artists. I didn't particularly want to go, feeling anti-social and like it was a waste of my time -- but of course as these things often go it was nice to meet new and interesting people (one much older guy I remembered, with a shudder, from the life drawing session) and there was talk and debate about our individual works, which I found especially fascinating. A couple of people were current or graduated art students and they tended towards conceptual ideas, and while I have no intention of going all multimedia on my piece, it was surprisingly helpful.
From looking at my small-scale "mock up" of my work I realised that it was way too literal. The text I had more or less filled the page with was almost wholly unnecessary -- which I had been starting to see when the night before I had been sat up, painting all the words on a page with a brush. It's when you spend so long on each letter and each word that you re-evaluate just how much text is needed. Through a discussion with Hannah about it I saw that I was kind of beating the audience round the head with my idea -- rather than letting them work out for themselves the quite obvious interpretations of my picture, I was taking them by the hand and walking them through it all. Very slowly. I also considered how much time I generally pay to large blocks of text in a gallery -- the answer is very little.
The text in the picture is to be reduced to the bare minimum. A brief line or two about being a happy child, but still a child that was plagued with recurring nightmares. Then perhaps a line or two about the dream -- playing in the garden one minute, snatched away by this bird-as-metaphor-for-the-devil the next. C'est fin.
I poured my heart about my frustrations with the bird image -- or at least kept banging on about being frustrated and unable to draw. I have been encouraged to stop taking everything so literally, that although the bird image I found was all very nice, why does it have to be that one? Why does what I draw actually have to be a faithful picture of a bird? Now I'm not suggesting I glue a half-empty yogart pot to a canvas and claim that it "represents" a bird, but more that I can try a more abstract or surreal image. After all, it's about a dream.
I've been searching some more, and leaving behind google image search found some very interesting and inspiring images on Etsy and Flickr. This latter bird, by an extremely talented young lady by the name of Sherri Burhoe, is perhaps more along the lines I should be thinking. It has that dramatic feeling to it, and it gives me that uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
The Etsy artist -- Pamelam -- has a much more surreal approach to her bird pictures which again I love, and it makes me very jealous. You might look at those pictures and think "How hard can that be?" The outlines are surely nothing too taxing, but even those seem to be eluding me. I have been sat with my sketch book using crayons and pencils for what feels like hours. I'm beginning to think I should maybe have nightmares about parrots instead, since that seems to be the closest I come to anything resembling a bird.
I'm hoping that swimming tomorrow and Saturday spent with my paints and sketch book will afford me some progress... and maybe when I manage to draw the bird right, I will scan in all the rubbish ones, so everyone can see I'm not making it up how rubbish I really am.
I met up last night with Hannah, along with other First Time Club people and artists. I didn't particularly want to go, feeling anti-social and like it was a waste of my time -- but of course as these things often go it was nice to meet new and interesting people (one much older guy I remembered, with a shudder, from the life drawing session) and there was talk and debate about our individual works, which I found especially fascinating. A couple of people were current or graduated art students and they tended towards conceptual ideas, and while I have no intention of going all multimedia on my piece, it was surprisingly helpful.
From looking at my small-scale "mock up" of my work I realised that it was way too literal. The text I had more or less filled the page with was almost wholly unnecessary -- which I had been starting to see when the night before I had been sat up, painting all the words on a page with a brush. It's when you spend so long on each letter and each word that you re-evaluate just how much text is needed. Through a discussion with Hannah about it I saw that I was kind of beating the audience round the head with my idea -- rather than letting them work out for themselves the quite obvious interpretations of my picture, I was taking them by the hand and walking them through it all. Very slowly. I also considered how much time I generally pay to large blocks of text in a gallery -- the answer is very little.
The text in the picture is to be reduced to the bare minimum. A brief line or two about being a happy child, but still a child that was plagued with recurring nightmares. Then perhaps a line or two about the dream -- playing in the garden one minute, snatched away by this bird-as-metaphor-for-the-devil the next. C'est fin.
I poured my heart about my frustrations with the bird image -- or at least kept banging on about being frustrated and unable to draw. I have been encouraged to stop taking everything so literally, that although the bird image I found was all very nice, why does it have to be that one? Why does what I draw actually have to be a faithful picture of a bird? Now I'm not suggesting I glue a half-empty yogart pot to a canvas and claim that it "represents" a bird, but more that I can try a more abstract or surreal image. After all, it's about a dream.
I've been searching some more, and leaving behind google image search found some very interesting and inspiring images on Etsy and Flickr. This latter bird, by an extremely talented young lady by the name of Sherri Burhoe, is perhaps more along the lines I should be thinking. It has that dramatic feeling to it, and it gives me that uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
The Etsy artist -- Pamelam -- has a much more surreal approach to her bird pictures which again I love, and it makes me very jealous. You might look at those pictures and think "How hard can that be?" The outlines are surely nothing too taxing, but even those seem to be eluding me. I have been sat with my sketch book using crayons and pencils for what feels like hours. I'm beginning to think I should maybe have nightmares about parrots instead, since that seems to be the closest I come to anything resembling a bird.
I'm hoping that swimming tomorrow and Saturday spent with my paints and sketch book will afford me some progress... and maybe when I manage to draw the bird right, I will scan in all the rubbish ones, so everyone can see I'm not making it up how rubbish I really am.
Thursday 1 May 2008
Olfactory
I think the sense of smell is the most underrated, out of all the senses. Many people will talk with horror about what life would be like if they couldn't hear, people will imagine a nightmarish existence without being able to see, a life without being able to taste would be a life barely lived at all -- but smell is something we don't always rate that highly.
I have a pretty lousy sense of smell. My hearing isn't great for that matter, and while we're on the subject my eyesight leaves something to be desired... but I sometimes wonder if I might be suffering some kind of permanent allergy, affecting my sense of smell. Mostly because other people tend to notice smells before I do.
I worry on occasion that I might wear too much aftershave. Going out on a Friday night, I might be crammed in the backseat of a car -- and someone, usually Austin or his fiancée -- will remark that I smell good, or perhaps I'll be buying some chewing gum in a shop on a Sunday morning, and the girl on the checkout will ask me if I'm wearing Issey Miyake. I usually get embarrassed at that point, both from the attention and the idea that I must be wearing too much if someone else can not only pick up on a scent but be able to identify it. I'll generally still be unable to smell it much at all.
Despite not having the most wondrous of abilities in that department, I make strong associations with smells. When I was in New York city, I decided it was a city of smells and that one would be able to navigate the city without the need for sight, relying on scent alone. There was the corner that always smelled of drains, or the man selling chestnuts, or any number of other olfactory landmarks. After a while it became a kind of shorthand; go down the street, past this electronics store, then turn left on the corner when you can smell drains.
One of my favourite smells is Sunday night hockey. You walk in through the doors, and are immediately assaulted with a variety of smells -- the slightly sweaty, musty smell of the skates (and probably the players), the various canteen food stuffs, the chemical smell of the ice, and general people smells. I feel happy almost immediately when I smell it all, as it reminds me of good times. Lots of lousy games with Chelmsford being unable to play as a team, but generally good times.
Another smell I love is swimming pools. I love to swim. I find it tremendously relaxing, while at the same time requiring enough exertion to tire me out and release those feel-good endorphins. I love the smell of the chlorine on my skin, that no matter how much you scrub in the shower at the pool afterwards you never quite get rid of. There was a time when I was living in Derby where I was swimming every day -- I'd get up, not bother to shower, just throw on some jeans and a baggy hoody, then head to the pool for an hour of laps. I've taken now to enjoying swimming on my own on a Friday night more than going to the pub with my friends. I went to the pool tonight, and I felt my heart speed up a little with excitement when I smelled the warm air and the chlorine of the pool.
Unfortunately, they're a bunch of bastards and I found out that my timetable was out of date -- Thursday nights is now "staff training", so I didn't get my fix.
Smells can be bittersweet, too -- there's been so many times when I've shared a bed with a girl for a few days, but after she'd gone had to wash my sheets immediately, as I couldn't stand to have the smell but not the person.
But there are a hundred smells I love, and I don't even include fresh cut grass or baking bread. I love the smell of Mexican food (conversely, I strongly dislike the smell of Indian food, even if there are probably a lot of dishes I expect I might like), I love the smell of surf wax -- how it lingers on your hands, from spending so long rubbing slow circles of wax on a board. I love the salty smell of 'the sea', which you get here with the wind in the right direction and the tide is out on the river, or sometimes when it rains and the stones on my drive smell like a pebble beach somewhere. And though it might sound a little unhygenic, I like the smell of my clothes when they have lost the immediate "just washed" smell from the machine.
Not unclean, but not not sterile either.
I have a pretty lousy sense of smell. My hearing isn't great for that matter, and while we're on the subject my eyesight leaves something to be desired... but I sometimes wonder if I might be suffering some kind of permanent allergy, affecting my sense of smell. Mostly because other people tend to notice smells before I do.
I worry on occasion that I might wear too much aftershave. Going out on a Friday night, I might be crammed in the backseat of a car -- and someone, usually Austin or his fiancée -- will remark that I smell good, or perhaps I'll be buying some chewing gum in a shop on a Sunday morning, and the girl on the checkout will ask me if I'm wearing Issey Miyake. I usually get embarrassed at that point, both from the attention and the idea that I must be wearing too much if someone else can not only pick up on a scent but be able to identify it. I'll generally still be unable to smell it much at all.
Despite not having the most wondrous of abilities in that department, I make strong associations with smells. When I was in New York city, I decided it was a city of smells and that one would be able to navigate the city without the need for sight, relying on scent alone. There was the corner that always smelled of drains, or the man selling chestnuts, or any number of other olfactory landmarks. After a while it became a kind of shorthand; go down the street, past this electronics store, then turn left on the corner when you can smell drains.
One of my favourite smells is Sunday night hockey. You walk in through the doors, and are immediately assaulted with a variety of smells -- the slightly sweaty, musty smell of the skates (and probably the players), the various canteen food stuffs, the chemical smell of the ice, and general people smells. I feel happy almost immediately when I smell it all, as it reminds me of good times. Lots of lousy games with Chelmsford being unable to play as a team, but generally good times.
Another smell I love is swimming pools. I love to swim. I find it tremendously relaxing, while at the same time requiring enough exertion to tire me out and release those feel-good endorphins. I love the smell of the chlorine on my skin, that no matter how much you scrub in the shower at the pool afterwards you never quite get rid of. There was a time when I was living in Derby where I was swimming every day -- I'd get up, not bother to shower, just throw on some jeans and a baggy hoody, then head to the pool for an hour of laps. I've taken now to enjoying swimming on my own on a Friday night more than going to the pub with my friends. I went to the pool tonight, and I felt my heart speed up a little with excitement when I smelled the warm air and the chlorine of the pool.
Unfortunately, they're a bunch of bastards and I found out that my timetable was out of date -- Thursday nights is now "staff training", so I didn't get my fix.
Smells can be bittersweet, too -- there's been so many times when I've shared a bed with a girl for a few days, but after she'd gone had to wash my sheets immediately, as I couldn't stand to have the smell but not the person.
But there are a hundred smells I love, and I don't even include fresh cut grass or baking bread. I love the smell of Mexican food (conversely, I strongly dislike the smell of Indian food, even if there are probably a lot of dishes I expect I might like), I love the smell of surf wax -- how it lingers on your hands, from spending so long rubbing slow circles of wax on a board. I love the salty smell of 'the sea', which you get here with the wind in the right direction and the tide is out on the river, or sometimes when it rains and the stones on my drive smell like a pebble beach somewhere. And though it might sound a little unhygenic, I like the smell of my clothes when they have lost the immediate "just washed" smell from the machine.
Not unclean, but not not sterile either.
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