Day 134 - Lies, Curls and Melanie C

This is a actual dog. Not a mop.

I've stopped writing 'grateful' in the title, so it reads nicely when I publish the blog, but sometimes I write it in anyway, just to remind myself of why I'm here every day. And then I delete it. But it was there. It left a trace. I am grateful.


Why do people go up to Parliament Hill? Because it's beautiful, that's why. I cycled up there slightly after dusk. I did a bit of walking too, because I am terribly Good and I don't want to break byelaws (or more importantly, to piss people off or run over their dog/child). I'll break a byelaw with the next person as long as it does nobody any harm (see Mixed Pond Lies). A slice of yellow moon hung in the sky, framed by two bright stars. I looked and looked a that. The sky was lighter up above, as it is when the sun's not long hidden. 

I never saw this

As you walk up towards the top, you see silhouetted lovers, dogs and dog-walkers and a kind of lifting light, but you don't know, not really, what you're about to receive. I didn't, anyway. As you reach the top, London spreads itself out in front of you in its glittery beauty. The shard is impressive. The BT Tower too. Canary Wharf. The Bowels of East. There are colours and brightness and bits of darkness too. There are shapes of streets in the foreground and great rows of tallness in the back. And everything twinkles. Perhaps it's the thickness of the air between your eye and what it sees, or maybe it's a day's worth of traffic fumes. Whatever it is, it's awfully pretty. I stood there for a long time, awing gently. I can't even show you a picture. There's nothing on the internet that does it justice. Go. Go there at dusk and have a look. Take a friend or a lover. Stand and kiss in front of someone who's there with her bike. Do whatever you need to do, but go. I had to leave at some point. It didn't stop being beautiful. I just needed to get home. 



But most of a day had gone before, with its little gifts and dances. In answer to my challenge, I slept until 8-ish and stayed in my bed all dozerly until about 10 (Heike, you win, hands, feet and face down). Then I made tea and drank Floradix and sat out on the roof terrace to write my morning pages. It was still coldish, but full of tweeting and family sounds. The air was clear. Outside air touches you in a way that inside air doesn't. I felt gratitude. I drank tea. I wore slippers. 


I had plans to meet Kate around 3 and to swim before that. I meant to swim earlier, but I left it until late. I must have got to the Ladies' Pond about 2.20. It closed at 2.15. BUM! I was calm in my disappointment. My own fault. I knew it was 2-something but I thought it was later, 2.45 or so. I left and headed over to Hampstead to leave my bike. I passed the Mixed Pond. I had intentions. I went up to the gate and tried to scour my memory for the code. I got the digits right, but not their order. A man let me in, and helped me with the inside gate too. I was telling Mixed Pond Lies about being a member (not yet true) and truths about normally going to the Ladies' Pond (true), hence having forgotten the code (a lie). The gentleman was very sweet. He let me in and buddied me while I swam, thus saving me breaking another byelaw about not swimming solo. Turns out, he was the membership secretary. I think he'd sussed me from the start, but he let me have my swim first. Then he asked my name and said 'you're not a member here, are you?'. 

I am lying

Already ensconced in deception, I porkied it up a bit more. I said yes I was, and talked with open eyes about having sent my forms in over Christmas and having remembered the codes (or not) from last time. It was a lame lie and I regretted it. Next time I see the man, I shall tell him the truth. He's going to email me the codes and another form. I'll pay, of course. It's not the paying I didn't get on with, it was the acres of form and the fact that I thought I'd never use it. It's not anywhere near as nice as the Ladies' Pond, but it is fabulous to be able to go if ever I miss the Ladies' boat again. I thanked the man profusely for letting me swim, even before my discovery. It was such a gift. Are we more prone to feel gratitude for something we didn't think we were going to get? Isn't it true in narrative? If a story gives you all the good bits one by one without making you wait or work, it's a dull old story. If it teases you and makes you clever by giving you enough information to fantasise but withholding the facts, those same facts have more clout. I loved the warmer water of the Mixed Pond. I loved my stolen swim.

I am genuine

I loved my very noisy tea and scone with Kate. The lady next to us (I say 'lady') was coughing and coughing, very loudly and unguarded. She didn't get the 'turning away' bit, or the silly hygiene habit of covering your mouth. She hacked over her own food and that of her colleague. At one point she leaned in to look at the cakes, and hacked in their, and Kate's direction. The cafe also served smoothies, which they prepared very loudly, very long, with a blender. During that it was like the being on the curvy bits of the Bakerloo Line, or Central between Holborn and St Pauls - screechy as fuck and jam-packed with decibels. The facial reactions of most people in the cafe were a source of pleasure. I thought the woman on the other side was going to stalk up there, pick up the blender and bash it over the cafe owner's head, but she didn't.  One thing these two experiences have in common is a rush of gratitude when they stop. I nearly did a standing ovation when Cough-cheeks left. She had a fingernails-on-blackboard voice too, so it was a double whammy of relief. I could finally hear what Kate had to say, which is so very often so very interesting. It was today.


A walk, then, through the top-hill backstreets of Hampstead. Very pretty indeed. There were cobbles and the highest of walls. There were tall buildings and squatter, older ones. We saw some adoring graffiti outside the flats where Mel C off of the Spice Girls used to live. They liked Mel C a lot, those devoted fans. They'd come from as far away as Spain, sometimes, and they'd all brought Tippex. Well done them. I like Mel C in her early days. Less posed. Kate and I walked and talked and again I was grateful for my friend, one of the inspirations for this blog. 

Like this, only happier

And now, post-Heath, I'm almost in my bed. I'm grateful for a day's base-mood of neutral rather than grim, which means I can appreciate the good things going on rather than look at them through thick panels of soundproof glass. I'm grateful for a white, curly dog digging in a hole with what can only be called 'gusto' and then running in giddy circles to celebrate. I am grateful, in advance, for the lists I'm about to make and the time I'm about to allocate to certain tasks. Yes. Oh yes. Esther Lilley, I'm going to do my best. Both the list and the curly dog are today in your honour.