Random thoughts on a hot night

How would I address Lady Gaga if I met her? Lady, Gaga, Steph, Stefani? It’s probably not likely that I’ll see her in the local supermarket queuing for courgettes, but, you know, just in case. Would you treat ‘Lady’ as a first name, go straight for ‘Gaga’, or go the whole hog on the grounds it is like a double-barrelled first-name? It is the sort of thing a singer can get away with, giving yourself a title. I don’t think an author could although it would be fun to style author names like singers.

King Stephen
Lil’ JK
Princess Stephenie M
Dan Diddy Brown
Lady Jackie Collins

I miss making my own summer collection of songs on cassette tapes. I used to weigh one song against the other very carefully, make lists in exercise books of songs that I felt worked together, and then record my own collection. This would then be the tape that would be my soundtrack to summer – it would accompany me on beaches, it would be played thin on car journeys, it would be the background to lazing in the garden watching butterflies. My holiday hand luggage would consist of a sandy walkman and piles of cassette tapes, as well as books. The bag straps would leave red grooves on my shoulders, but I would have a song (and a book, and a grain of sand) for every eventuality.

I’ve been writing a short story idea, on top of polishing my query covering letter and my synopsis. I’m a bit in love with it. I absolutely hated it on Saturday morning, though, but I think me and it have come through the hard place and now we are holding hands again. I’m also in the holding hands again phase with my covering letter. Getting there!

What do cats think? Cats can sit in absolute stillness and look totally content with their world. Do they think as we do?

This looks a good spot. I’ll sit here. Grass tickles. Nice and warm. Bit hot, actually. Won’t move though. Watch it, bub. Buzz any closer and you’ll be a snack. Although I am too regal to move. Where’s my minion? Oh there she is, bothering the flowers again. What’s that she is saying? Something about me, looking good. Of course. I’m a cat. Cats always look good (and when we look bad we don’t like to dwell). Oh, here comes her camera again. I won’t pose. Well, perhaps a little bit. There. Perfect. Now if you don’t mind, it’s nap-time. Cats don’t need beauty sleep but we like to sleep beautifully.

The London Morning

Early sunshine is split by the looming tower blocks, twin shafts of light gracing dusty lines of cars and bouncing off the auburn hair of the lady hurrying ahead of me. A man jogs past, white trainers easily visible under his navy suit. I look at my watch and smile at his eagerness; the die-hard commuters travelling towards their Mecca know when to walk and when to run. We do it as one, we cross the busy road as one, and we all file into the train station mute and accepting.

I stride ahead to my staked spot on the platform. My territory is bordered by the see-through bin and the post with the CCTV screens. I share my grey concrete land with a group of ladies who interchange English words with a more musical language, and try to decipher the patterns the words make in my mind. Their laughing chatter sounds friendly. A man flicks my arm with his free newspaper, another generously shares his tinny sounding bass emitting from white earphones that snake down his suit jacket. On the opposite platform a small boy stands alone, away from the shouting school-shirted crowd further down the platform. His uniform is freshly ironed, the cuffs of his blazer are too long, and his shoes are too smart-shiny. He has no friends, and as yet remains too small and new for the pack to notice him. I feel for him, this brand new boy, the solitude he must embrace as a friend.

The train pulls up with an indignant whine. We shift and group around the doors and then squeeze singularly past the two large people who always firmly plant themselves at the entrance. There is no point in seeking a seat; indifferent gazes already in place in each carriage. Instead we all crowd near the doors in our bid to be first off the train when it pulls into a station with an underground connection. Timing is everything. We stand as a human block and listen to half a conversation on a mobile. Did he? Did she? Would he though? Is it? My gaze flickers on various things – the mole on the man’s neck in front of me, the strange hair-piece that woman is wearing, the painted toe-nails peeking out from flip-flops, the square of dirty sun through the windows.

There is an expectant murmur as the train pulls into the important station, the station with the underground. My carriage is perfectly positioned in front of the steps leading down, away from the chill blue sky. Years of commuting gives a secret knowledge that rides over what we once thought important – the best conker tree, the best alleys for short-cuts to school, and the best newsagent for Slush Puppies. Now it is all about where to stand for the doors to open in front of us; the short-cut corridors through the tube stations, how to rush ahead for the empty tube train so you get a seat.

The doors open and we pour forward, suits and scarves, bags and briefcases, earphones and newspapers and books and take-out coffees. We blend into one giant person on the threshold, all hands and arms and legs, and then separate back into ourselves, clattering down the steps. The daylight grows weaker and then disappears, replaced by fake light that takes no prisoners.

When I next see the sky again the blue is replaced by grey.

Thinking time

The best thing about commuting was the way my mind wandered as my body was stuck on the Victoria line. Most of my story ideas (or any written work orientated ideas) have been dreamt up staring at the racing black outside the tube windows, or watching suburbia flicker past outside the train. Generally any place where I am physically stuck seems to free my imagination.

I try to recreate this feeling by going for solitary long walks. This also works, as there is nothing else to do but think, and eventually my mind will settle on the latest plot hole and poke it while my body plods past front gardens.

I noticed recently that it is taking longer for me to start thinking of my story. My brain seems to spend a good forty minutes beating me up first. It will silently tell me I am so un-fit, what a loser, oh-my-God-what-are-you-wearing, and wasn’t-it-embarrassing-that-day-in-1992-when-you-fell-over. It delights in reminding me of cringe-worthy incidents as no matter how long ago they were, they are always within reach in my mind. It is like having a constantly berating old Aunt with a moustache wagging her finger at you in disdain. What a disappointment you are, what an embarrassment! They all think it, everyone thinks you are a failure, don’t you realise that yet? Well, you never were the smartest of people… and so on, and ever on.

Most of the time I just hear this inner voice and not really register it. It will just be the background to my walk; my thoughts nearly always idle in nasty self-abusive circles. After around forty minutes I usually notice that I have been running myself down from the moment I stepped from the front door, and once I consciously notice what I have been thinking then I will force my thoughts into a different, happier direction. But it is something I have to a) notice, and then b) channel into something positive. It’s like my underlying motor revels in negativity, and indeed, relaxes to criticism. Thinking positively almost goes against the grain – I have to be aware of it, which isn’t generally how people think.

I dare say this is where I am going wrong. I tend to think you get what you expect in this life, and if ultimately underneath it all you think its not going to happen, then it probably never will. The trouble is - how to change that? It’s sort of the way I am wired. I can obviously exchange a positive thought for a negative one (i.e. – you are so un-fit, which is why you are on a 3 mile walk – good for you!), but it’s being aware of the negativity in the first place.

Maybe it’s a gradual thing to change. The more successes, the more evidence there is to slap in front of that old Aunt with the moustache. She’d have to shut up then (grudgingly at first I suspect), but in the end I hope with a good grace.