Sunday Evening Blues

Some high-quality jammin’.

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Some progress: Roald Dahl and a Good Deed

There’s been some progress. But not loads.

I researched Roald Dahl

…by going on this authoritative website¬†http://www.roalddahl.com/

This was brilliant! Loads of interesting information, and even recorded interviews with the man himself!

A couple of takeaway thoughts –

  1. RD says he wouldn’t have been able to write stories for children if he hadn’t had any. I have yet to reproduce. Should I wait to write?? Or should I impregnate myself in the name of literature? Or, should I, like RD, write darkly humorous tales for adults until the happy day comes for my own little (appropriately timed) pitter patters to inspire me?
  2. RD takes advice from Hemingway about writing – stop when it’s going good, so you don’t have to face going back to a numb page.
  3. RD wrote from 10-12 pm – hurrah! I can be a night owl and still achieve! I’ve been worried for a while about being notoriously dysfunctional before midday… now it all seems my concerns were unfounded.
  4. RD does say he keeps his bum on the chair for the full 2 hours every night, whether he’s getting anything done or not. I need to start committing this level of discipline.
  5. RD’s face doesn’t look like how I imagined… he still looks pretty cool, but I must say a tad weird/scary. I suppose that makes sense.

I done a Good Deed.

On Tuesday, I was hurrying along (late) to meet a friend for a Jazz Dance class. Behind my office there is a little shortcut to the bus stop and I was scuttling up the cobbles at top speed.

A woman was lying on the steps of a small, closed building a woman. I glanced at her; her eyes were closed and there was a bottle of wine in a plastic carrier bag a couple of metres from her. Categorising her as “drunk tramp lady” I kept walking. A man behind me also glanced at her, and kept walking.

For some unknown reason, I turned back – just in case y’know.

I lightly patted her arm, upon which she blearily opened her eyes.

  • ME: “Erm are you ok?”
  • LADY: “gjhkg rghr mmmm no”
  • ME: “Sorry, what did you say?”
  • LADY: “no sdfds jhgf nf”
  • ME: “Have you hurt yourself”
  • LADY: “kajhhdf yes jh”
  • ME: “Pardon? Have you got a sore arm? Do you need to go to hospital?”
  • LADY: “bfghgfh yes jhj go private”
  • ME: “Ah ok. I’ll go see if I can find some help. Are you from Scotland?”

As it was, the lady explained she was from Glasgow – which many will confirm is a beautiful friendly city, abundant with drunken crazy ladies.

It seemed clear to me the lady had had a few drinks (ref. wine bottle) and had slipped and fallen on her arm, which she was holding out stiffly at a weird angle. She was also talking strangely, which I put down to the effects of alcohol.

I’m telling this calmly, but at the time I was very flustered and stressed, being unsure of what The Right Thing To Do was, and whether I was going to be bottled by a drunken Glaswegian lady.

I frantically ran around the corner and yelled to a nearby taxi, explaining there was a lady who was unwell. The taxi man only took cash, so I ran ran to get money whilst pointing out the taxi to Lady.

I haven’t the foggiest idea how to get round London, despite living there for 5 years, so we were at the mercy of the taxi driver to take us to the nearest hospital. Meanwhile, I awkwardly made (one-sided) conversation with Lady, who was very friendly and kept thanking me profusely and apologising and asking to go private (unfortunately, I wasn’t sure how to oblige this request, never having ‘gone private’ myself). When we finally arrived at the hospital, she flat refused for me to pay and flung her handbag towards me. I rooted around in it, feeling very uncomfortable and pulled out a loose ¬£10 note for the driver. She got out the taxi with some difficulty, her arm still very stiff, and her bag fell so that loose change went flying. The sweet taxi driver picked up every coin, to the last penny.

We made our way into the hospital reception, where poor Lady collapsed into a waiting chair, because she was feeling very dizzy and sick by this point. I went up to the desk to explain to the receptionist that I had a poorly lady who had hurt her arm and felt sick. The receptionist said we had to go to A&E which was out the door and in another building or they couldn’t help. I went back to Lady but by this point she was refusing to budge because she was so dizzy. In the end, the receptionist helped me support Lady into a wheelchair – which bizarrely couldn’t be pushed, only dragged behind me, so I was forced to walk backwards. I set off, dragging Lady, and found the entrance to A&E, Unfortunately, the automatic doors didn’t work so I had to try and hold both doors open with one hand, and pull the chair through with the other. This was impossible. Luckily a passerby came and held the door open. Even with two hands, there was a tiny ridge in the floor of the doorway, which was enough to tip the chair when I tried to get it through. In the end, both the Passerby and I had to lift the chair over said Tiny Ridge to get in. Finally at the desk, the Receptionist No.2 put her face to the desk to squeeze under the glass window and ask whether the Lady had been to this hospital before. When I explained Lady was a poorly stranger who was dizzy and had a sore arm, she was immediately full of sympathy and efficiency. She came round, said thank you and that they’d look after Lady now, and that I could go. Lady cried “Aye! Go Hooome!” and so I departed my lady, feeling still torn and worrisome, now that we’d come so far.

After telling this story to friends, it transpires that the poor Lady had probably had a stroke, hence the strange talking and stiff arm (yes I know, I felt awful). Which seems so sad, and frightening, that you can have a stroke in the centre of London and fall unconscious, only to be ignored by passersby and labelled a drunken tramp. I felt guilty and ashamed, and immensely glad that I had gone back.

I am not usually a Doer of Good, preferring to stay apathetic and in my own bubble. This is probably my first Good Deed ever. However, the high of Helping is addictive.

Later that evening, I heard the clink of a glass bottle and a woman’s yelp.

“Are you alright??!” I immediately cried out.

She’d stubbed her toe on a beer bottle.

Maybe I could become the next Superwoman.

Role models

I have identified some role models. That is not to say I wish to emulate their every hair flick, but they have certain qualities that I admire and aspire to.

  • Beyonce
    Sheer beauty, goddess-ey-ness (adnoun??), gleaming embodiment of strength, confidance, grace, energy, badass
  • Richard Branson
    Daring, charismatic leader, eclectic interests, fun, mad, illogical
  • Roald Dahl
    Captivating, hilarious, inventive, encouraging, adventurous, warm, satisfyingly savage

These guys are pretty Awesome and are the sort of hero I would like to become.

  • Sassy performer
  • Fun-loving tycoon
  • Raucous adventurer (who then writes scrumdumptulous children’s stories)

As part of the Research phase of this project, I shall look into their biographies, and see if I can maybe gather some ideas.

Feel free to suggest any other ideas of potential role models.

(I did look up Steve Jobs, but he sounded rather aggressive – something about a boardroom coup? Made me think of a cluster of hens waddling rapidly around a boardroom, feathers flying)

chickens

Get on ’em lads!

A moment of doubt

Possibly this whole enterprise is arrogant.

“We can’t all be superstars!” I hear you cry.

But surely one needs a certain amount of delusional self-belief to bear living this life?

If not propelled by the tiny wriggling suspicion/hope that oneself is a Very Special Person, who is just moments away from doing some Wondrous Thing, what the hell am I grinding forward for?

This is not to write off the infinite joys of friends, family, and love. (L‚ô•VE!)

And then, eventually, my own family later.

But their lives are not mine, and I have to have some¬†sparkle in my little bit of space-time, independent of anyone else. I don’t lust after e-textbooks citing my name in centuries to come, but in my own way I must do Something Special.

And if possible, it should be Absolutely Tremendously Fantastic!!

Risks analysis

Now, like a good project manager, I’m going to think about what might go wrong in this perfect plan of mine.

 

  • I look like a wally.¬†
    This is OK within reason. As long as I don’t lose my job or my parents get whiff of this, I can take a fair bit of wally-looking, in stints. I practically do it for a living anyway.
  • I spend loads of money and go bankrupt.
    This would not be awesome. I’d have to ‘fess up to the ‘rents, and borrow cache. I mean cash. Worse, I end up inflicting debt on others, their babies starve, and they grow resentful and hate me.
    –>To combat this, I will set up an A-fund and draw up an A-budget.
  • Single-minded pursuit of A causes me to neglect other areas of my life, leading to body odour, estrangement from friends, family, and boyf (FFB).
    –>To combat this, I will allocate a set amount of time per week to spend on chasing A-status
  • I lose interest/hope/energy and give up.
    Motivation will be pretty key to this whole endeavour. Most A-icons seem pretty motivated. 
    –> To combat dying will, I will write little reminders and cheery encouraging notes to myself and leave them in opportune places, with bars of chocolate for good measure.
    –>I’ll also reward myself along the way. e.g., “If I save some starving orphans, I can buy shoes.”
    –> Gather cheerleaders from FFB crew.
  • Unexpected challenges and distractions occur.
    e.g., I get made redundant after posting some cheeky remark, so can no longer feed self or fund A-project
    e.g., I get pregnant and panic about procreation instead of focusing on achieving A
    –> Allow contingency time in my plan to get back on my feet. And contingency budget.
  • I die.
    Well this would be a bit of a shitter, but I suppose there’s not much to be done here other than looking both ways when I cross the road and not start too many drunken fights. I could always write a will entrusting my A-fund (when I have one) to a charity dedicated to developing A. TIDA: Trust for the Inspiration and Development of Awesomeness. That would be OK I guess.