Be warned. The following post is self-indulgent catharsis on my part. It borders on pointless whinging. You've been warned. And warned again.
To put it simply, this has been just about the worst imaginable start to any year I can remember. I cannot wait for the last minute of January to tick over and be done with. That is when my 2009 is going to start as it can't and I can't continue on like this. I'd be faced with little option but to retreat to a cave, only to emerge having missed summer and autumn, and be slapped in the face again by Winter. That's how rotten the past 19 days have been: I'd skip summer if it meant avoiding another month like this stupid January.
I contemplated waiting until February 1 to write this, just in case things improved. But it appears on the eve of the first month's 20th day, that there are two chances of that happening (as my favourite Australian saying goes) : Buckley's and none. Therefore, if I can evacuate this diatribe from the annals of my whingometer now, by February there can be no more complaining. January will be a distant, depressing memory. And 2009 will begin anew.
The reasons for this miserable mileu, and the nature of it's symptoms are rather less relevant than what I want to tell you about, which is it's potential remedy. The calming, narcotic power of music has propped this lone ranger up so far and shall hopefully do so for another 12 days. Motown specifically, and The Supremes especially.
'Right now the only thing
That keeps me hangin on
When I feel my strength, yeah
Its almost gone
I remember mama said...'
...makes me smile when the clouds are drooping under the weight of the rain they are holding, threatening to saturate me on the way to the Underground.....
'Before you won my heart
You were a perfect guy
But now that you got me
You wanna leave me behind
Baby, baby, ooh baby'
...liberates me from the black shackles of my very very very bad mood......
'Set me free, why dont cha babe
Get out my life, why dont cha babe'
...empowers the brat inside me. Which isn't in and of itself a good thing as it causes me to, for example, argue with the umpire on the netball court, which isn't going to do wonders for my modified rules 'Speed net' career. Oh well. Ooohohoooohohooohoh.
Anyway, healing, calming, soothing powers of music will never again be underestimated by this humble blogger. Imagined memories of happier, less economically diabolical times, of shoulder pads, bouffant hair, glo-mesh and sequined bodices are like honey to this bee. Bzzzzzz.
Roll on February 1, the dulcet tones of Diana Ross might not get me through another single, bloody day of January. The inauguration tomorrow, conceivably, might buck me up long enough to trawl Motown's greatest hits for more musical balm, but possibly not, so February hurry up and show your flipping face.
Au revoir.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
"When the Lord made me...."
As I walk the streets of London at the moment, one sound is pervasive - more common than any other I hear. It is the sound of breath swiftly sucked back through the teeth, instinctively, against the cold.
There is an arctic cold snap at the moment I'm afraid, timed perfectly to coincide with my return from warmer climes over Christmas. It is testing my usually intractable sense of humour as well as the circulation in my toes, as I shuffle from the flat to the tube, from the tube to work, and back.
London itself has been a little cold for a while. The temperature is always unreliable of course, but the mood too has cooled. The credit crunch has sucked the heat from the global economy, and with it a lot of the optimism and zing that normally pulses through the veins of this place. As the last leaves were clinging to the branches of the trees a couple of months ago, sizable portions of the expat community here decided not to cling any longer. I'm hoping their decision was premature, but with the daily headlines rather depressing, the temperatures sub-zero and feeling a little beset by homesickness, one can't help but wonder.
I've been listening to a great album in the past week - Jukebox by Cat Power. The second track is a brilliant cover of Rambling Man by Hank Williams. Except she sings it as Rambling Woman. Which is quite a fitting track to hum while I tell you my resolutions for 2009.
This is the year of no excuses. No more rambling. Focus. That's the overriding theme of the resolutions. Generally speaking they aren't well thought through, not like last years 'self-improvement' resolutions. (And for the record, I did them all, and my meat and potato pie is awesome). But the thrust of the whole thing is, get back to basics and do what I love and am most interested in. That means scholarly, nerdy stuff and lots of reading, and lots more writing. I am also going to learn a new language.
I'd realised that for some weird reason, I'd always made excuses not to learn French. No longer. I enrolled in a morning class today. Schlepping across London for an 8am Thursday class, all in the name of a new years resolution. Awesome.
Anyway, with that vagary disposed of, I might hit the hay. I hope 2009 finds you, dear reader, (if indeed you still exist) safe and well. 'When the Lord made me, he made a rambling woman.'
There is an arctic cold snap at the moment I'm afraid, timed perfectly to coincide with my return from warmer climes over Christmas. It is testing my usually intractable sense of humour as well as the circulation in my toes, as I shuffle from the flat to the tube, from the tube to work, and back.
London itself has been a little cold for a while. The temperature is always unreliable of course, but the mood too has cooled. The credit crunch has sucked the heat from the global economy, and with it a lot of the optimism and zing that normally pulses through the veins of this place. As the last leaves were clinging to the branches of the trees a couple of months ago, sizable portions of the expat community here decided not to cling any longer. I'm hoping their decision was premature, but with the daily headlines rather depressing, the temperatures sub-zero and feeling a little beset by homesickness, one can't help but wonder.
I've been listening to a great album in the past week - Jukebox by Cat Power. The second track is a brilliant cover of Rambling Man by Hank Williams. Except she sings it as Rambling Woman. Which is quite a fitting track to hum while I tell you my resolutions for 2009.
This is the year of no excuses. No more rambling. Focus. That's the overriding theme of the resolutions. Generally speaking they aren't well thought through, not like last years 'self-improvement' resolutions. (And for the record, I did them all, and my meat and potato pie is awesome). But the thrust of the whole thing is, get back to basics and do what I love and am most interested in. That means scholarly, nerdy stuff and lots of reading, and lots more writing. I am also going to learn a new language.
I'd realised that for some weird reason, I'd always made excuses not to learn French. No longer. I enrolled in a morning class today. Schlepping across London for an 8am Thursday class, all in the name of a new years resolution. Awesome.
Anyway, with that vagary disposed of, I might hit the hay. I hope 2009 finds you, dear reader, (if indeed you still exist) safe and well. 'When the Lord made me, he made a rambling woman.'
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