This is England?

When I sat around, idly planning my next blog post revolving around the ideas of positivity and happiness, I had no idea that something else entirely would grab my attention today. I’d been aware of a background buzz centring around the riots that have recently hit London for the past couple of days, but being almost religious in my spurning of news (delicate temperament, I tend to get too upset/worried to stay well informed) I hadn’t realised quite how bad things had got.

So it was with utter horror that I sat up last night, Monday 8th August 2011, unable to sleep and turning from Sky News to BBC news to Twitter to Facebook and back again. This wasn’t some far away happening that I could shake my head at, but ultimately return to my every day business. Everywhere I looked, I saw either video footage of somewhere I knew, or friends who were cowering in their flats, watching as streets blazed and swarmed around them.

This was, is, our London. Our beautiful, buzzing capital. Our history, our core, where epic events happen alongside the more banal, but where everybody has a place. I think what has been most disturbing is that this is us. This isn’t some attack by outside forces, something we can rail against. This is a country turning on itself, and that is what’s most terrifying – certainly from my perspective. Why are we proving ourselves utterly unworthy, as a country? We’re still at a low ebb in terms of the economy and employment. This is something else entirely. Turning in on ourselves, kids, actual KIDS out there. And women! People on the streets last night were describing around a 40/60 male/female split. I say ‘we’ as if we are all complicit, when of course it’s a small percentage of people who are affecting this, a ‘they’, not an 'us'.

What’s possibly even scarier is that we have no idea what this is about. What are any of these people arguing against? I find it alarming beyond belief that this has just sprung up, growing exponentially, with no just cause (as if there could be a ‘just’ cause for any of this.) The rioting grew to looting, to burning. I watched and listened as Croydon was hit, and while Reeves’ furniture store still burned, Clapham began to swarm too, then the next fire, the next lot of looting, and then along to Ealing.

I don’t trust my own opinions enough to comment on what should be done to these people, or to try and unpick why they are doing this. I don’t even really think the ‘why’ is in question, I think what we should question is ‘how’. How was last night the third night? How has this been allowed to happen? And then ‘what’ – what will happen tonight? There has been nothing so far to discourage any of these people. What reason at all is there for them to stop? I hardly think Cameron’s few placatory words to the nation will deter any of them, despite the fact that some looters are probably watching him in high definition on their new 60” televisions.

We have woken up today a damaged nation. We were fragile before, but now we’re almost broken. And yes, while the rioters are only a small percentage of our country, what’s happening to the remaining percentage, the observers? Some are already making jokes. Some are already moving on. Some are getting angry, getting militant, railing against the government and the police.

Some, however, are being positive. More than some – with #riotcleanup trending on Twitter, and helpers filling the streets to start untangling some of this mess, there is hope. A little bit of what the Daily Mail will probably call ‘Blitz spirit’ is rising up. We are Britain. We should not have to stand for this. While we can’t fight back, we must do what we can to patch things up.

While we’ve seen the bad side of social networking, as Twitter, Facebook and Blackberry messenger were all used for the worst possible reasons, today they are being used to spread the word about cleaning up, to take stock, and to ensure our loved ones are safe and sound. We’ve been through wars, IRA bombings, the 7/7 bombings...we cannot crumble in the ugly face of some of our own. If you can, please check out www.riotcleanup.co.uk. Please go and join the force for good. Please stay safe. Please don’t lose faith in our country.

I'll give the final word to The Clash:

This is England
What we're supposed to die for
This is England
And we're never gonna cry no more

Those British boots go kick him,
Kick him in the head
Police sit watchin'
The newspapers been read
Who cares to protest
After the attacker fled
Out came the batons and
The British warned themselves

This is England
The land of illegal dances
This is England
Land of a thousand stances
This is England
This knife of Sheffield steel
This is England
This is how we feel
This is England
This is England

I'm in Essex girl...Part Two

One thing that I left out of the account of day one was the somewhat unusual conversation that took place between the hours of midnight and six am. Now, despite having a somewhat overactive brain, I’m not actually given to debate, and especially not on the matter of religion. It’s not that I don’t think about these things, just that I tend not to discourse on them. I find that with only the slightest stimulation, my brain goes into hyperdrive and simply won’t shut up and go to bed for hours like an errant child.

Which is why, when talk turned first to the supernatural, and swiftly after that to religion, I tried first of all to steer the conversation away, and when that failed, resorted to a clever little tactic I learnt in debate club. For anyone not skilled in the art of debate, I’ll fill you in. What you do is, take your fingers, put them in your ears, while simultaneously going ‘la la la la’.

I tried this for a while, and soon realised that the discussion was continuing apace. I had no choice but to get involved. In those hours before dawn, we discussed religion, the place of God in society today, what would happen if God as a concept were to be ‘phased out’, and if so what would replace religion, Dawkins, before finally rounding up with a discussion on relationships and gender roles. It felt like I hadn’t used my brain since university, and it took me a while to be able to talk eloquently or with any sort of structure. I didn’t entirely manage it, not while the sky was getting lighter and the gin and tonics were still in my system.

It did make me think, though. We get so out of the habit of debating (‘philosophising’ as Chekhov always called it, to my delight) once we leave our years of study, and the power to reason slips floppily away. Blancmange brain, I call it. I think it’s incredibly important to keep this at bay, and I’m keen to start reading more, and...well, thinking.

At around 8am, I woke. Shards of sunlight broke their way into the room, and despite having to keys, and both Sean and Nanna being asleep, I knew I had to explore. Harwich is so full of history, and not just in that ‘ooh, every house has a plaque’ way. It’s more a physical thing. You can feel it seeping into the walls, the buildings, the atmosphere. It sounds like utter rubbish, but there’s something there. (Not just my hangover)

Morning turned to afternoon, my two companions woke up, and it was time to face the world. We drove through spectacular countryside, pitched up in a delightful town (Maningtree, I believe) and perused the local market. I was already delighted enough, and yet still we drove on. Eventually we rounded a few narrow lanes, and there we were. The most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.

We’d eventually found our way to Constable’s old stamping ground (for want of a better phrase), Flatford Mill. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt quite as calm and at peace as on that day, with the sun beating down the back of my neck, bare legs in the river, with swans and boats drifting aimlessly along around me. We spotted where Constable had painted from, examining his perspectives. We sat in Flatford field for ages, eating elderflower sorbet, letting every worry unfold and escape.

 After experiencing the wonder of this stunning little place, we rolled on to Dedham. Sean showed us ‘Camp Musical Theatre Jesus’, hanging on the wall of Dedham church. With apologies to our Lord Jesus Christ – this was a Constable interpretation, and....wow. If you listen very, very carefully, you can actually hear the great JC singing ‘I am what I am...and what I am needs no excuses...’ I was utterly captivated by the old school at Dedham. Rusty bricks were carved with the names of schoolboys, on the day they left to go into the big wide world (probably still Dedham, for most of them...) We saw dates from the 1700s, and there was something so strange and humbling about touching a name like that.

Far too soon, we were back in Harwich and packing our stuff. Cider in a pub courtyard, a lot of thank you’s later, a long drive and infinitely more car dancing later, and we were home. Perfect weekend. 

I'm in Essex girl....Part One

....well, Harwich, actually. Which is on the Essex/Suffolk border. But that's not quite as catchy, is it?

Anyway, after my delightful friend Sean trecked all the way down from said sea port town for my birthay party back in January, he issued us with an invitation to come up and see him (he probably added 'make me smiiiiile', being the musical theatre performer that he is.) It took us a shoddy amount of time organising - over four months to be precise - but new jobs and MBAs and adulthood got in the way. Anyway, the bout of long weekends we were blessed with in May seemed like the perfect solution.

And so it was that on a sunny afternoon, I piled into my friend Nanna's little car with inordinate amounts of shopping bags and two VERY glittery Lola's Cupcakes for sustenance. We slipped on a little bit of 'Slammin' & Jammin' (Nanna is nothing if not a BRILLIANT CD namer) and off we steamed.

Now, before I tell you what happened next, I must explain a little something. Before 'Made in Chelsea' came into my life, I was something of an avid 'The Only Way is Essex' viewer. I know, they were unenlightened times - but I had yet to be introduced to MiC, where the pale skins, white Blackberries, copious amounts of fur and friends with silly names made me feel infinitely more at home...Anyway, Nanna and I were delighted to find out that with a little tweaking, our journey to take us right through the Towie Motherland - Brentwood.

Feeling a bit like bold explorers crossing into a brave new world, we ventured into the town. Practically quivering with excitement, and with Kelis' 'Bossy' blaring out of the speakers (our travel anthem of choice), we peered out of the car, looking for any perma-tanned pneumatic women, and their Ken doll counterparts. An old woman eating a sandwich on a bench, a bunch of 10 year olds, and some perfectly respectable people was what our eyes did in fact alight on...

Still, we were bubbling over with excitement, and doing our very own brand of 'car dancing' (pointy arm, pointy arm, wiggle, double dream hands), we shrieked with excitement as we pulled up round the back of Sugar Hut (as I'm sure all the worthiest Brentwoodians have), and proceeded to take photos in the middle of the road, nearly killing ourselves in the process. I bought some fake eyelashes, we cranked up 'Bossy' again, and then it was time to get back on the road and head to our real destination.

As the countryside leveled out, you couldn't have had a greater contrast. Broad skies and yellow fields suddenly surrounded us, and soon we were winding our way into Harwich itself. After a slight technical hitch, whereby we drove past the same group of teens misspending their youths at least FOUR TIMES, much to their amusement, we finally reached the most divine little cobbled street, all tucked away.

We eventually located what we assume was the right house (I knocked on the door and then ran back into the car, we were welcomed into Sean's house, the most incredible converted Tudor pub. The place had a wonderful atmosphere, and after a brief pause spent gawping at the bottle of champers Sean had been given by Cameron Mackintosh, admiring his well stocked kitchen (this blog is a euphemism free zone, please remember), and reapplying our lipstick we headed out for a drink. Sean seemingly knew everyone - and no one seemed especially surprised to see him ushering two young blonde girls around. We sampled some sort of Polish martini; sadly eschewing the Cosmopolitan, the description of which bore the legend 'Sex in the City (sic) comes to Harwich!'.

After a delicious supper cooked for us by Sean, and copious amounts of champagne, we embarked on what passed for the local disco. 'The Stingray' is the local to end all locals. Teenagers breathed the same stale air as Harwich's elders; framed pictures of ships hung on the walls, and you could get a glass of wine with an awful lot of change from a fiver. Unfortunately, much of the evening is a blur to me, but I do remember dancing with my shoes off, executing a wobbly cartwheel in the middle of the dancefloor, watching Sean pirouette gracefully, and finally gawping openly as a dead ringer for 'Nessa' from 'Gavin & Stacey' copped off with not one, but TWO not-ostensibly-disgusting young men.

I woke up early the next morning, breakfasted on a  leftover Lola's Cupcake, and marched off for a two hour seaside walk. By this point, I was firmly in love with Harwich. But the best was yet to come. Part two on the way...

With warmth from the sun, and visions of what they want...

I'm sitting here, facing a blank page, as Saturday morning dribbles away into Saturday afternoon, just me and my blog. Part of the reason I've made endless excuses and avoided the world of hyperspace is that I felt the pressure of writing something GOOD. I've had so many lovely and encouraging comments about my writing, and this blog, that I didn't want to jot down anything half-hearted. But, being afraid of not being good doth not a writer make (as any Guardian journalist will tell you....oh yes I did.) Often, writing is about is just about consistency, of just sitting down and blocking something out.

So, in an attempt to get up to date, I'm going to have to do a bit of Doctor Who worthy time travelling. Let's start with April, shall we?

Someday my prince will come...

Since my birthday in January, I've developed a taste for hostessing. As a result of this, I promised (threatened) to hold a Royal Wedding party. And just as well - I got a bit fed up of all the wedding-bashing that led up to the event itself. While I may find sarcasm funny, cynicism isn't really a word in my vocabulary. Thus it was that, on the morning of the 29th April, a gaggle of friends descended on my house - some so early that they caught me with my rollers in...oops!

We were terrifically lucky with the weather. After a rainy week, we were able to take the party outside. I've never done anything like that before, and it was pretty marv - we provided our own commentaries for the ceremony, my friend Colin played The Sex Pistols over the Beeb's coverage; my friend Laura followed the entire thing on Twitter and stood up for Jerusalem, and we almost all got terrifically drunk on my Earl Grey infused vodka.

Foodwise I had a lot of help from friends with this one, but for my part, I made Nigella's chocolate and lime cake with margarita cream, my usual raspberry meringues (ooh err), various puff pastry bits, a strawberries and cream cake, and finally a lustre dusted mini-wedding cake. I find cake decorating an exhilarating activity, because I never plan. I just start icing and frosting and glittering and cutting and carving and pasting....and at least five times, I say to myself 'it looks bloody atrocious'. Most of my cakes, in fact, end up looking the way they do because I've had to endlessly correct what I've just messed up.

This one was scary territory. There's little room for failure when you're working with ultra thin white Royal Icing, and I did a fair amount of Frankensteining on it. Inside was lemon curd and fresh strawberries, and outside I added gold lustre dust, butterflies, little gold hearts....I don't think it turned out too hideously.

The biggest cause for concern was not just the lack of bunting - I never believed I'd see the day when every shop I went to in Tunbridge Wells sorrowfully informed me 'I'm afraid we're all out of the stuff' - but what I was going to wear. After my birthday party dress, which belonged more on a cake stand than on me if we judge it on the meringue-o-meter, I had a reputation to live up to. A reputation for ridiculousness, that is. I scoured the length and breadth of the country (well, Oxford Street), and came up with nothing. I'll touch on this more later, but the high street is rapidly becoming a no-go area for me. I'm thoroughly sick of cheap fabrics, shoddy workmanship, and garments that have the longevity of a doily in a snowstorm. I'll be blogging about this particular issue soon enough, but let's just leave it there for now, because I start getting angry. Before I get my stiletto heels out...

So there I was, tainted with the garb of Topshop, the reek of Urban Outfitters, the grasp of French Connection; smack bang in the middle of a sartorial/existential crisis, and then I found it. Like an oasis in a desert, like Root Boost to a flat haired girl, like...well, Wills to Kate...Love Is Boutique. This little haven of vintage/hardly worn had been tucked away on Church Road in Tunbridge Wells for a fair amount of time, and yet I'd neglected it, like a....ok, enough of dodgy analogies, I promise. Again, this will be fodder for a more ephemeral blog in the near future, but for now let me just say - I spotted it, in the window. It was just below calf length, a vision in lace, nipped in by a silky sash...and the minute our eyes met (eyes and hooks, in the case of the dress), it was true love.

Reader, in all the years of going to Topshop, I had NEVER felt like this about a dress.

So, togged up and with tea infused vodka in one hand, the party got underway. The ceremony was lovely, Kate's dress was beautiful - but gosh, didn't Pippa look ever so slightly better - Jerusalem was rousing (wasn't it, Laura), and bunting or not bunting, I had a bloody marvellous time.

xoxo

Crikey on a bikey....

Oh look! What did I promise to do? Keep up with this blog, and keep doing projects. What did I say I wouldn't do? Just tail off the minute I got busy. And this is exactly what I've done. Three weeks into my lovely new job, and I've done bugger all for this blog, and in turn, for anyone else.

So, as next week'll be my fourth week of settling in, I think that's perfectly enough time to be thinking about myself, so next weekend I'll be making a concerted effort to get back on the blog. I'll keep you posted!

Project #004 Start being charitable

Project #003 sadly postponed due to weather (will be looking at completing it this weekend), I started to think about what else I wanted to do this year. Every year, I feel that nagging voice saying 'you really should try and do something charitable'. Every year, I fully intend to, and fail. There is NO GOOD EXCUSE for this. Literally none. Most of last year, for example, I had a substantial wage coming in, and pretty much no outgoings. Plus spare time! And yet I did nothing for anyone else, except myself. My version of doing something for someone else was just buying them an outlandish present. Nice enough stuff, and I certainly enjoyed it, and will continue to do it, but not exactly Mother Theresa-ville, is it?

I've called this project 'start being charitable', as I don't think 'being charitable' is something you can, or in fact should, be able to just pop on your 'to do' list, and tick off after a week. I just want to mark the beginning of this as an ongoing project. Basically, to start opening my eyes and pricking up my ears to actually doing something for someone else.

As I posted on an update, I've signed up for Race for Life. While people keep telling me it's 'only 5k', they haven't seen me running. This for me is a HUGE distance. I am not at all a fit person, so I want to do it properly and actually be able to do something apart from wheezing around in a tracksuit like Vicky Pollard (ooooh, how achingly topical I am....Vicky Pollard references? I need to wake up in 2011.) So, that's a pretty big deal for me. I've already pimped this out, but my sponsoring site is:

http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/ameliasimmons1601

Please sponsor me. I chose Race for Life for a reason, and that reason is that not only have I lost so many people to cancer, but I think you'd be very hard pressed to pluck anyone off the street who HADN'T been affected by it. I'll keep you updated with my progress.

The other thing that I've just done was of a different ilk (brilliant word.) If you're worried about not having the time/energy/Bob Geldof hair/feet for doing any running, then you can take a different tack. Tack, ilk, any word that ends in 'k', really. When I was passing by a TK Maxx in Guildford t'other day, a big poster caught my eye. Vivienne Westwood (plus husband, standard), and Sienna Miller, all dressed up in typical 1600s meets 2060 style, wearing these absolutely ace t shirts for Comic Relief. Shakespeare with a red nose, a classic Westwood punk rocker, a Hogarth print (The Laughing Audience), a French Revolution lady holding up a mask with two carefully positioned red noses in a certain place, and best of all, the two great idols of my youth - Blackadder and Queenie from the second series of...well, Blackadder. Both with red noses.

Now, after my absolute joy that Blackadder was finally getting the sartorial recognition it has always deserved had subsided, I started looking at the details. Most t shirts were priced at £9.99, with 'at least £5' going to Comic Relief. Now, anyone who has previous bought something for a charitable cause will know that £5 is a pretty substantial portion being donated. Not only that, but they're 100% Fairtrade certified cotton. Those priced at £14.99 have £7 going to Comic Relief. And designed by Vivienne Westwood!! When will you ever get a chance to buy a piece of Viv for under a tenner?!

The only problem you'll have is choosing honestly. This is why the Hogarth, Blackadder and French Rev sexy lady are all winging their way to me as we speak, and I may go back for Billy Shakespeare, and Queenie. Go on, you absolutely WILL NOT regret buying one.

 http://www.tkmaxx.com/page/tshirts

Hope to see you all around with a big beardy Edmund face emblazoned on your top..... xxx

***Valentine's Day***

Good day my darlings. And a very Happy Valentine's Day to you!

Firstly, a serious note. It makes me sad to see how miserable people get around this time of year, or how people feel if they don't have a boyfriend/girlfriend, their life isn't worth living, and they should just go and hide under the duvet for the entire day, and sob about the fact that no cards have come through the door, no flowers, or they haven't had a text/Facebook message/call from that person they sort of thought they were going out with but....

What's possibly worse than that is the couples who use it as an excuse to put all the details of their relationship out in the open - Facebook, I'm blaming you - instead of just keeping it to themselves. I personally think love becomes a bit tarnished once it's splashed all over Facebook. It makes me wonder why they can't just talk to their actual boyfriend/girlfriend directly...

We're morphing into a society where the concept of discretion no longer exists, where everything has to be laid out in the open, to inspire jealousy or sympathy in others. Now, I am most certainly not above reproach. This is my 6th blog, for goodness sake; I'm hardly a virgin to the world of oversharing. I too have felt the needling longing to post some vicious, biting, self-pitying status on Facebook, just because someone, ANYONE else must feel my pain, because otherwise it's too much to deal with on my own...And equally, you want everyone to know when something has gone really super duper well for you.

BUT, I still can't get my head round all the 'oh, puppy, I wuv you so so so so much' messages. Firstly, Cringefest 2011. Secondly, if you're that close, why don't you actually just, you know, TALK TO EACH OTHER. IN REAL LIFE. You remember that, don't you? That thing where you move your mouth, and someone else utilises their ears. Yes. I'm terribly glad for you that you've found someone madly special, but please, a little Facebook etiquette. This ranting is usually better left to A A Gill; it's not really my style, so I do apologise.

I happen to have a lovely chap myself, but as a seasoned Facebookphobic, I wouldn't dream of embarrassing him with splashy declarations of my love and lust (I'll just do that in this blog. I kid, I kid). But I for one will be telling him how marvellous I think he is via a less public forum.

Now, moaning all done and dusted, here's the real crux of the post. I love Valentine's Day. I literally, absolutely, and totally love it. Always have done, always will do, unless an acrimonious divorce gets in the way. I remember when I was about 10, getting up mega early on Valentine's Day morning, and decorating our whole sitting room with purple crepe paper hearts I'd made myself, chiffon-y sheets, hearts dangling from the ceiling, flowers etc, to surprise my parents with. It's pretty much my Christmas.

Perhaps it's the time of year it comes at - just when that first tingle of Spring sunshine is starting to make an appearance, but still cool enough to retreat to your bed for hours and not feel guilty. I love this time of year, as I've mentioned before. I start skipping around like a lamb. Val's Day is the cherry on top of the cake. It's about LOVE, which to me means every kind of love. It's about family and friends, not just romantic love. It's a day to think about someone else, be a bit nicer, and as Annie Lennox and Al Green once sang 'think of your fellow man, give him a helping hand, put a little love in your heart...'

So, think not of the red roses, the love hearts, or the Godiva chocolates you feel you're missing out on. You are loved, you are not lonely, and it's nearly Spring. I'm sorry for the rant, it's really not my territory, and I've probably massively offended half of you. But I don't think anyone should ever be made to feel bad by the behaviour of others, and no one should EVER have to feel rotten about being single, because there's nothing wrong with it whasoever. Anyway, go out and spread some serious love. Send an old fashioned letter to a lover, go and see your grandma, give your dad a hug, take a friend out for cocktails.

Share the love!