By: Elysia

Leave it there, my love,
Lest you disturb far more
Than dust and bones
And corpses of flies
Who withered in the attic there
During long, hot summers
When the room’s dead air
Was still and thick,
Yet safe.

Leave it there, my love,
Lest you lie in bed
Awake at night
Scared and alone
As her voice wails high
Through the summer air
Long after dark, and dry
Creaking wings beat
The night.

Leave it there, my love,
Lest I wake in the morning
And find you gone,
Switched for a changeling
Of grass and straw
And though I’ll weep
I will see you no more.

Leave it there,
My love.

Concealed shoes: Australian settlers and an old superstition

By: Elysia

Spring is more than just loitering in the air. She was here on the ground today too. She was everywhere, but always one step ahead. It was like entering a room through one door just as she left through the door opposite. You only caught a glimpse of the long train of her pale ethereal dress, perhaps with a daisy caught in the grass-stained hem. Her perfume lingered on the barely-there breeze. Despite knowing it wasn’t time to catch her just yet, you knew you’d only just missed her, wherever you went. She was so close.

Spring might not quite be here yet, but it’s creeping closer with every day. I walked home in a strapless top this afternoon in pale sunshine. No jumper, no coat. The air was filled with that sweet smell of cut grass even though there was no evidence of a lawnmower anywhere. Then, in the fading light this evening, I sat and typed at the desk before my bedroom window. The warmth of the room and the slight tingling chill coming in through the window, slightly ajar, felt so perfectly like early spring that I wasn’t sure whether to warm myself with a mug of raspberry leaf tea or cool myself with a glass of iced water.

It’s less than three weeks to go now until spring officially springs. I would say I was more than ready for it, but there’s something to be said for these dregs of winter too. The mellowing of the cruellest season is always something that I love but, despite looking forward to spring, summer and the future, it’s always a little sad to bid adieu to winter. I almost feel sorry for her. She is welcomed in with bells, holly, celebrations and rejoicing, and three months later everyone’s sick of her. She lingers, almost apologetically, like an unwanted guest.

No other season suffers the same. Most people are sad to see summer disappear into memory, whereas spring and autumn bid farewell with the promise of something more: summer adventures and winter celebrations. No-one ever accuses them of having gone on too long: they hang around for just the right amount of time. In contrast, most of winter’s celebrations are over before she’s even reached her second trimester. Only the hangover remains and the memory of good times early in the season. Yet, as the trees start to bud and blossom, I’ll miss the stark beauty of the winter countryside. There’s something so brutally honest about it.

It was with this in mind that I poured myself a cup of raspberry leaf tea and sat there for a moment absorbing the evening as it closed about me. There would be plenty of times for iced water throughout the coming spring and summer evenings, for sitting on the decking outside and watching for bats and moths in the dying light. Now, though, is the time to toast winter in an appropriate manner; to raise a mug in her honour and pay respect to the one season so breathlessly flawless and viciously beautiful that she knows that she doesn’t need to clothe herself in anything at all.

By: Elysia

Dig, dig, scrape, dig, dig.

Bark, bark, bark, BARK. Bark. Bark. Bark.

“Bugger.” (In Spanish.)

Paraguay: Stray dog’s barking foils prison break

By: Elysia

I have issues with the concept of ‘when I grow up I want to be…’ Contrary to the obvious thought process, this isn’t because I’ll be thirty this year and am (apparently) meant to know what I’ll be when I grow up. Possibly because I’m actually meant to be grown up already.*

I think it’s more to do with the fact that I see only doing one thing as being incredibly limiting and, besides, I over analyse. I want to be me. I don’t want to be a something. Yes, I want to do things, lots of things, but I don’t want to be defined by a single label.

One of my three aims this year is to ‘Stand and Deliver’, something which (the last fortnight accepted, as this has been fraught with illness, exhaustion and a scattering of unpleasant situations) I feel like I am doing well. It’s only mid-February after all, and I do feel like things are moving. A few weeks ago I jotted down the things I wanted to do this year, and they are now presented in a neat little list that I glance at every now and then when I hit a block with one creative project or another. There’s always something on there that inspires me, so it’s a handy little thing for when I’m feeling frustrated.

Likewise, and entirely contradictorily, I refuse to be tied to my own deadlines this year. Given I do a lot of things and put a lot of energy into those things, I don’t want to feel rushed to complete something that is not quite right, or feel guilty if I haven’t progressed a particular project as much as I hoped I would have done. I don’t want to be a jack of all trades and master of none. If I’m going to do anything, I want to do it right. After all, I undertake all these projects not because of what I hope the final result will achieve for myself (though sometimes what the final product might achieve does come into it all), but for the process of the undertaking from start to finish. I want to learn.

I don’t like labels. It’s too easy to pigeonhole people these days by attributing a little mental tag to them. By insisting we use labels, we automatically colour our view of the world and blinker ourselves; we become less open to surprises because we’re not looking for them. We miss out on numerous little idiosyncratic delights because we program ourselves to thinking they’re not there.

Of course, I’m being slightly pedantic. When people say ‘when I grow up I want to be…’ what they’re actually saying is ‘when I grow up I want to earn my living by being…’ Perhaps we should put forward a plea for all future generations to use correct phrasing: to analyse what it is they’re actually saying, to be clear beyond all reasonable doubt.

Or, perhaps, the majority of people are actually content with being (entirely honourably) a specialist in a single area. Perhaps it’s just me and a few others who feel uncomfortable (and simultaneously delighted) at the thought of there being so much to learn, so much to experience, so much to see, do, and be. I guess the latter attitude sometimes makes for a more unpredictable life, a lack of stability. Well, if I have to play, then when I grow up I want to be a polymath.

I met an ex-boyfriend for coffee the other day, a couple of weeks after I had cut off most of my hair.

‘It looks good,’ he said, in that tone of voice men use when they actually think that all women should have hair no shorter than a bob. ‘It suits your personality.’

‘What’s that?’ I queried. ‘Boyish?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Alternative.’

I suppose, as labels go, I could do worse

*Don’t get me started on the term ‘grown up’. Surely we never want to stop growing…?

By Elysia

A silence in the corridors,
A silence in the halls.
Then: whispering masses out of sight,
Out beyond the walls.

A low thrum of humming
Echoes from the lawn,
Ever getting louder:
The battleline is drawn.

The songs are almost deafening now,
The walls begin to crack.
Finally they start to see:
They are not turning back.

Gold-encrusted mannequins
Are shaken and they’re stirred:
Power to the people,
Voices must be heard.

By: Elysia

Taking the Piff
Saturday afternoon, ‘Taking the Piff’ by Stream of Piffle. In terms of consistency throughout the entire show, this had to be one of the best comedy shows I saw at the Fringe this year. It was topical and current, and didn’t patronise. Alright, I accept that meant that some of the audience probably didn’t get all the jokes, but I do like a good comedy show which assumes a certain level of intelligence. The football commentary which interspersed the show was slick. Goodness knows how long it took them to get it running that smoothly (though admittedly two or three weeks at the Fringe would mean any chinks had been ironed out by the time we saw it). There were plenty of sketches that left me smiling, but perhaps the controversial Macbeth denouement, delivered during a duel on Space Hoppers, was the most memorable. After all, we’ve all queried the rather dodgy ground of Macduff’s assertion that he was “from his mother’s womb/ Untimely ripped” as meaning he was not of a woman born. Haven’t we? No, just me then? Fair enough, but at least Stream of Piffle agreed with me that semantics at that point in the venture must have irritated and dismayed Macbeth somewhat.

The Warm Up Show
The Warm Up Show, at the White Horse on Cannongate, was a fair enough way to spend an hour though it has to be said that the compère was funnier than all the other performers. It also has to be said that I can’t remember too much about the content of some of the acts, except the bits I wish I couldn’t remember, though I do recall it did produce some laughter. Unfortunately, as the show before had been so funny, the humour was somewhat overshadowed. Nevertheless the comedians who performed did a good enough job though I have to confess I’ve seen better comedy, and better free comedy too.

Magpie and Stump
After a delicious meal at David Bann on St Mary’s Street (oh my, the chilli margaritas made to taste (hot, in my case) were divine), we headed to The Space in the Radisson to see ‘Magpie and Stump’. Despite there being a handful of jokes which you can imagine would have gone down better with their home crowd of University of Cambridge students, it was a good, solid show; the best by far being the individual who was more political in his material (even though, when asked, only myself and a couple of other audience members apparently knew who Charles Kennedy was). It was hard to follow one of the acts, who suddenly jumped into talking about himself as getting on a bit when he probably only started shaving two years previously; and the only female act was funny, even if the material would probably be more amusing for intelligent but repressed posh kids (oh, she’s talking about sex in a manner typically associated with how men are perceived to talk about sex, fair enough then): she also managed to put the back up of the only man in our group, but she was quite amusing and, generally, I found the whole show to be intelligent and genuinely funny. At one point, when a joke about the importance of punctuation was made (‘no fliers are double-sided’), all three of my companions did a slow head-turn to stare knowingly and sympathetically at me. I did notice, but was also busy screaming ‘exactly!’ at the stage and the audience in general. In any case, a fabulous time was had by all, and it was nice to bump into a couple of the lads at the end and discover that for the most part they genuinely seemed like lovely people. I do so like a comedian in waiting who isn’t a tortured soul.

Hey, Piano Bar Lady!
The following evening, after being undecided about what to watch in the afternoon for so long that by the time we’d decided the tickets had sold out, we headed to Henderson’s on Hanover/Thistle Street for a truly delicious meal (as you may have guessed from reference to this particular eatery and David Bann, two of our company were vegetarians). Afterwards, we disappeared downstairs to the wine bar to watch ‘Hey, Piano Bar Lady!’ by Linn Lorkin.

The odd show out in our comedy-influenced jaunt, the show was based on Lorkin’s years in New York and featured original music interspersed with stories of her ventures and years spent kipping on sofas and in accommodation where much was to be desired. Though none of the songs except the title piece (oft-repeated) really stuck in my mind afterwards, it was thoroughly enjoyable and as an entire event was fabulous fun and a great way to spend our last night in Edinburgh.

It certainly set my mind in motion, thinking of possibilities. By bed I’d sketched in my head an entire piano and vocal show based upon my own loves (so far), featuring stories of some of the men who over the years have been fortunate and unfortunate enough to accompany me along some of my travels in life. Before breakfast, I’d even met with one to pitch the idea (in rough theory) to him.

It’s still there, my idea, bubbling away. I like to judge when the time’s right to pursue certain projects and, right now, it’s not right for me: but, at some point in the future, don’t be surprised if it’s me you find singing in a cellar bar at the Edinburgh Fringe.

After all, at the end of the day, that’s what I love most about the Fringe. It always stirs something in you, and leaves it simmering away for the future. It may be over come September each year, but it never really leaves you.

By: Elysia

I flew the second time. That is, the second time I went up to Edinburgh in August, I flew there. I have to say I’m not hugely keen on flying; it’s not that I freak out, I just go very, very quiet and listen to my music  if I’m not distracted by conversation. The friend who flew up with me first thing that Friday said afterwards, over coffee and almond croissant, that she’d never known me be so quiet for so long.

After breakfast we chucked the bags and headed straight out for a wander round the town (well, city), collecting fliers and letting people tout their creative wares. Walking down the Royal Mile collecting fliers and speaking to people about their shows is one of my favourite things about the Festivals, I love heading out with little or no plans for the day, not knowing which shows I’ll end up being convinced to watch.

Please Hold: You’re Being Transferred to a UK Based Asian Representative
The first show we ended up going to see was ‘Please Hold: You’re Being Transferred to a UK Based Asian Representative’, the first of two shows we saw back to back in the Back Room at Finnegan’s Wake. It was good-natured fun and the comedienne was a pleasant enough character, but it did lack some of the bite that could have been injected into it. Nevertheless, everyone seemed to enjoy the show and the performer was eager to chat with people afterwards, as much to dispel any myths about her religion as anything else. There were several times I genuinely laughed out loud (such as when she discussed her rather simple but endearing colleague who clearly misunderstood what could be inferred from a Muslim’s choice of headscarf colour on any particular day (“and then I realised, she thought I was a ninja…”)), and the rest of the time I was pleasantly smiling. So, all in all, a good-natured and fun half an hour.

Schoolbooks in Wallpaper
It’s always a good sign when a performer at the Free Festival chooses not to collect any donations as they’ve already made what they need to cover their expenses, as was the case for Ian Perth following his, quite rightly, successful Fringe debut ‘Schoolbooks in Wallpaper’. I’ve always enjoyed stand-up where a random idea is thrown out there to start with, encouraging much mirth in its own right, and then is referenced again right at the end of the show, resulting in one of those ‘ah, so that’s where he was going’ moments. Perth did this incredibly well, and en route took the audience on a laughter-filled tour of what it was like to grow up in Ireland in the 1980s. It was what I think of as traditional stand-up, with some audience interaction and lots of one-liners peppering the script of more convoluted tales of misadventure. I also suspect that, at some point or other, every audience member nodded knowingly at least once at some of Perth’s reminiscing, another sign of well-prepared comedy in my book. It moved at a great pace, it was packed with jokes, and everyone loved it. Success.

You For Coffee?
Oh, dear lord. And so to ‘You For Coffee?,’ an hour of stand-up comedy (at least that’s how it was billed) from Edmund Cox and Elise Harris. I have to say I’m not sure how this pair actually survived as long as they did, to make it to the last weekend of the Fringe, so I can only assume that (material aside) they were having a really, really bad day the afternoon we went to see their stand-up. Both of them. Individually. Really, really bad.

I don’t like being mean, I really don’t. It’s not in my nature. But I left feeling numb with shock at the verbal and visual abuse we’d suffered. I felt violated. And not in a good way.

Edmund Cox’s set was first. Let’s think of the positives. Right. Well, he knew all the words to sections of the Labyrinth. That’s good, right? As long as it’s in an endearing, retro sort of way? In fact I do feel slightly guilty that he asked for an audience member to participate in a Labyrinth recital/skit with him and I kept my head firmly down despite being able to quote the section to which he was referring (‘you remind me of the babe…’). (I don’t feel that guilty: my friend later did take pity on him and agree to help out with some audience participation with him and ended up being mildly insulted by him, an interesting tactic seeing as she was the only person who’d shown any heart towards the driver of this particular car crash.) In a bid to perhaps not say anything to negative, I’ll sum up Cox’s set like this: he started by putting both legs behind his head, and it went downhill from there.

Elise Harris, as the flyer I kept states, ‘is the winner of BBC Upstaged and the best actor at Supershorts Film Festival, with more than 5 million views on YouTube’, so I assume that Edmund’s opening set had knocked her off stride somewhat. I have to confess I can’t bring myself to search for Harris on YouTube in case the horror of that afternoon comes flooding back, but please do look her up. I admit that I left thinking she was actually even worse than Edmund, but actually upon reflection her material was actually at least verging on quite humorous. Perhaps it was just that afternoon’s delivery, the fact her ukulele (was it a uke? I seem to recall it was but in my bid to erase the event from my memory it could have been another stringed instrument) was badly out of tune which meant her song fell flat (no pun intended), or the fact that she actually entirely gave up on the last few minutes of the set and didn’t even finish, such as was the mood in The Banshee Labyrinth Music Room.

Bad Bread Presents TV Times
I will be eternally grateful, therefore, that the next creative fare we tucked into was of far, far better standard. ‘Bad Bread Presents TV Times’ was hilariously conceived and well presented. It was the perfect antidote to the earlier disaster and was slick in its delivery. The sketches were very amusing, and the running joke of ‘Carlsberg don’t do…’, which got more and more sharp throughout the show, underpinned the whole event well. Of course, they could have analysed their marketing strategy a little more: if you send out the baby-faced and conventionally aesthetically pleasing youngest member of a trio to distribute fliers, you’re going to end up with a cavern full of teenage girls who don’t all understand the best and most cutting parts of your show and instead laugh at the visual and more overt jokes, meaning any well-produced skit based on Freudian concepts or take on the Frost Report ‘I Know My Place’ sketch leaves only the four members of the audience over nineteen screeching with laughter. And it was quite frankly depressing how few of the teenagers got the whole Tarantino inspired Teletubbies tableau. Still, the whole show was hilarious, not least for built in but throwaway one-liners such as ‘last week Eeyore sold his tail for crack’.

By: Elysia

I can’t believe it has taken me so long to sit down and write this. Believe me when I say I feel more than a little embarrassed that, over two months after the Edinburgh Festivals have finished, I’ve only just managed to put fingers to keyboard.

I suppose I could pretend it’s deliberate. I could say that, several weeks after the event(s), I wanted to return to those creativity-crammed few days to remind myself of the delights and the definitely-not-delights (yes, sadly this year there was one of those): but I can’t lie to you. I have to confess that in the midst of all the excitements and craziness of the last few months I have had little time to write. That would be sad, except for the fact that now I do have time; I have energy; and I have inspiration.

I ventured north to Edinburgh twice this August: firstly, on my own for less than forty-eight hours; and secondly with a group of rather fabulous individuals for a long weekend.

The first time was in mid-August, after all the festivals had started (some only days earlier) and were relatively fresh and new. The fliers which were enthusiastically jabbed in my direction walking down the Royal Mile weren’t at that point cluttered further by scraps of paper stapled to them, quoting reviews of the shows, like they were when I visited with my friends at the end of the month. It is part of the natural metamorphosis of the Edinburgh Festivals; as the days progress the fliers grow from pristine, untouched, to being adorned with typed reviews complete with their own personal miniature constellations.

Like the previous year I had gone with part purpose, and part intention to wander and absorb, seeing what was on offer at the last minute. I suppose, thinking about it, that’s quite representative of my personality: I like to plan things, yes, but really only so I can be organised enough to pack in as much as possible, snatching any spare moments and spontaneously cramming them with tiny adventures.

My purpose in mid-August was two-fold: Evelyn Evelyn, and Neil Gaiman. I arrived early morning, and promptly ditched my luggage at the hostel where I was planning to spend the night before heading out to grab a coffee, which I sipped slowly in Princes Street Gardens as Edinburgh started waking up properly. I sat there, on my leather jacket on the bench that had still been damp from the previous night’s dew, and drank slowly, watching the weak, early morning summer sun filter through the trees. People in suits and work clothes starting tripping past, in a rush, chatting on mobile phones or gulping down their takeaway drinks as they scanned the day’s headlines from the papers clutched in their hands. It was almost as if the world was speeding up around me, while I continued to sit there until long after my coffee had gone too cold to finish, just watching everything and everyone.

I spent most of the morning wandering around, soaking up the atmosphere of my favourite city once again, and drinking in coffee shops and scribbling away in my notebook. There have been many times a scrap of an idea has occurred to me in such circumstances which has later developed into a fully formed scheme or plan. I’m perhaps being overly romantic to say I owe most of my initial fragments of ideas to time spent holed up in eateries and drinkeries in Edinburgh, but it does sometimes seem that way.

Neil Gaiman
Eventually, after more caffeine than is possibly good for me, I ended up at Charlotte Square Gardens to hear Neil Gaiman be interviewed by Audrey Niffenegger. It was as good as I’d hoped for and more. Being eternally fascinated by mythology and folklore (themes which seem to permeate most of my writings, consciously or unconsciously), it thrilled me to discover that the first half of the talk centred upon fairytales. I could go on, I could go into detail about what was said: or I could direct you to this link where you can listen to the event itself. Ensure you do.

By late afternoon, after only having had an hour or two of sleep the night before, I decided to head back for a kitten nap before Evelyn Evelyn in the evening.

Evelyn Evelyn
I’m always a little bit apprehensive about going to watch artists I admire and whose work I enjoy, as there’s always that concern that I might be disappointed. The performance might not be up to scratch, there might be a distinct lack of artist engagement with the crowd, I might get that unsettling feeling that, somehow, something was wrong and it was all just a gaudy, hollow sham. This fear partly stems from the fact that I don’t understand the concept of celebrity. I like interesting people, people who are their own people, people who do things their own way. And so, being an admirer of several of the things that Amanda Palmer has done (or, at least as equally, the way in which she has done them), I was almost nervous about the evening’s billing.

I needn’t have worried: the show was everything I’d not quite dared to hope it would be. The atmosphere was fantastic, the camaraderie of the crowd in the queue outside was heart-warming, and the entertainment value was about as high as you could imagine. There was something so perfectly timed about the dark humour of the parapagus tripus dibrachius twins, that even when things appeared not to be going entirely to plan you were never quite sure whether the seamless reactionary skit that followed was deliberate or not. Watching them both (one arm each) play their instruments was a delight, especially the moment where a third arm sneaked out from their shared dress to hold the ukulele (a video of which I’d seen on YouTube, and which was even funnier live). All in all, I was left with a feeling of pure delight mingled with sheer relief. My one regret is that I missed Amanda Palmer’s and Jason Webley’s solo shows in the days that followed.

I would have stayed after the show to sneak a peek at the prototype for the Evelyn Evelyn graphic novel which, at that point in mid-August, had just been pulled together; but I was meeting a friend, so finished the night off with a drink or two in George Square Gardens and Udderbelly instead.

The next day I decided to go for a walk and explore parts of Edinburgh to which I hadn’t yet been, which resulted in me walking constantly for two hours and ultimately (but, fortunately, temporarily) getting delightfully lost. Afterwards I visited the Writers’ Museum in Lady Stair’s Close. The museum is a lovely little place, housing exhibitions about the lives of Walter Scott, Robert Burns and Robert Louis Stevenson and, this time, my visit was made even more delightful by a chance encounter with a gentleman from Shetland (the second of two gentlemen from Shetland I randomly chatted to in Edinburgh in less than twenty-four hours).

I love Lady Stair’s Close, namely because it houses not only the Writers’ Museum but also the Makars’ Court with its carved paving slabs, engraved with the words of writers from days of yore and not so yore, including the delightful quote from Nan Shepherd, ‘It’s a grand thing to get leave to live’; and the sheer emotive magic of George Mackay Brown’s ‘In the fire of images gladly I put my hand’ (from the poem ‘Hamnavoe’, written about his father: go read it now).

Michael J Dolan’s Dress to Impress
As the afternoon started to roll towards evening I found myself in the White Horse, ready to partake in a little of Michael J Dolan’s ‘Dress to Depress’. I sometimes find that comics fail to strike a pleasing balance between doing an act which is effectively one long grumble (funny or not) and then actually appearing to be a rather grounded and engaging person. Michael J Dolan managed to get it just right. His tales of misery were amusing, even if some members of the audience of which I was part didn’t seem to find them so (I swear some people turn up to free Fringe shows just to try and be as thoroughly grumpy as they can, to put the comics off), and at one point I actually screeched with laughter at the end of a carefully crafted and well-delivered comment about eating babies. And then, at the end of the show, he was there with the bucket at the back, looking thoroughly grateful that people had turned up and laughed. All in all, I thought as I sat sipping a whisky in the bar at the station later that evening, a great way to finish off the first instalment of my Festival adventures.

By: Elysia

I am not very good at moping.

This last week I have been in a decidedly odd mood. I have felt frustrated, rejected, restless and unsettled. Pretty much, without fail, for no good reason at all.

I suspect that, this week, returning from my adventures has unfortunately coincided with my biannual (if flexibly timed) ‘feel restless, must escape’ feeling of needing to get away and do different things, which has in turn cumulatively coincided with a series of imminent new beginnings. This combination of things which are all important to me, whilst being altogether contradictory, has confused me somewhat.

You know (or maybe you don’t) that I’m an expert at self-analysis, to the point where it stops being actually helpful. One of my many personal conundrums is the fact that I am careful and measured in my consideration of every situation, but just as likely to go against what I know is my perceived personal logic when making decisions, for some emotively justifiable reason or other. So this morning I woke up feeling under the weather and in a situation where, for others, it might be expected that one would mope. But no: I can’t even do that. My inner logic insists that, actually, there is no logical reason to mope and therefore there’s no point in even entertaining the idea.

“Elysia, you’re not very good at moping. And, also, you know you feel better when you get on and do things so you feel like the day hasn’t been wasted, even if you don’t do some of the things you’d originally planned to do today.”

“You know what, Elysia? You utterly piss me off sometimes, especially when you’re right, damn you…”

“I am always right. The sooner you realise that, the…”

“Oh shut up, you self-assured irritation. Do you always have to be so cold and logical? Why can’t you show a bit of emotion? Why can’t you let me wallow for a few minutes?”

“Err, yes, I always have to be the logical one because technically we’re the same person and, in this particular exchange, you’re representing your emotion. Or our emotion. I don’t know. It’s rather confusing. And, to answer your last question, I’d just like to remind you that last time you tried wallowing you lasted five minutes, got bored, made a cup of tea and then came up with an idea for a whole new project and website. I’m just saying…”

“Oh, bollocks to that. And besides, this is getting far too confusing. Which Elysia am I again…?”*

Jeez, sometimes life in my head is not just ‘not dull’, it’s downright frustrating.

I think the problem is that the concept of moping, or wanting to mope, is quite alien to me. It’s true, I’m not very good at it. I really want to be able to mope. I see other people do it, and I think “I should give that a go some time”, but when the time comes I can’t focus on moping. I get bored, I don’t see the point in it.

My equivalent of moping is stomping. This is just a rather special way of walking, really: I kind of drag my heels but manage to, well, stomp at the same time. I tried doing this briefly at Thursday lunchtime but the individual in whose company I was merely mocked my attempts to stomp and laughed at me. This I found not at all conducive to alleviating the feelings which caused the desire to stomp in the first place.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been so frustrated this week. I can’t mope, I can’t even stomp. The downside of having somehow grown up with all the manic and none of the depressive is that I can’t even have downtime when I want it.

Not that I want it, though, just to be entirely contradictory again. Having now internally debated (and externally published) my inability to mope I have got entirely bored of the entire concept and have decided to go and do something productive.

In fact, now I come to think of it, that puts me in mind of a project I’ve been meaning to finalise for a while…

Damn it, I hate it when I’m right sometimes.

Elysia x

*This whole exchange is made considerably more complicated by the fact Elysia is not actually my real name. Don’t even go there…

By: Elysia

Recently I was spurred, by one of the other regular ShiverWriggle contributors, to sit back and really think hard about who I am and what has made me the person I am today. I’ve found it much harder than I ever anticipated, possibly because I am a fiercely private person with a shockingly large stubborn streak coupled with the bloody-minded belief that there’s nothing I can’t handle on my own, and so admitting any form of weakness is against my nature. This, I’m forcing myself to reconsider gradually, but it’s hard to change a mindset you’ve had for half your life.

This autobiographical piece, I will complete one day. At present it’s a jumble of words and experiences that are quite happily milling around in my head, trying to put themselves in order and disagreeing over which event or happening was the more influential, but at some point in the future I will endeavour to channel those thoughts onto crisp, white paper (or possibly my increasingly battered laptop). Whether these musings ever see the light of day remains to be seen. I suspect not, though I will probably at least let my fellow contributor see them, given it was he who reminded me I’ve always thought I should write it all down one day. (I’m also fuelled to do so by my as yet untested theory that influences fluctuate: what is important to me today might not be this time next year.)

For now, though, it has led me to consider something else which has been on my mind several times over the last few months. Namely, one of the most hurtful things anyone has ever said to me.

I write this with no malice and no bad feeling at all. I feel it’s important that’s borne in mind. I’m not writing this to justify myself or my actions, I’m not writing this in the hope that anyone in particular will read it. I’m writing this because it is the logical sequel to the as yet unwritten work as detailed above, and at least on this front I know what I want to say. For now.

The funny thing is, even now, the person who actually communicated those most hurtful of words probably doesn’t even realise how cruel I considered them to be. It was probably an off the cuff remark, a throwaway comment, that actually in reality did nothing but highlight their own weaknesses: but it didn’t stop me being utterly crushed by them at the time.

It was a good while ago now, and ever since then (once the almost physical pain (hey, I’m a writer – if I say it was almost physical, then it was) had died down) I have taken those words and redefined them; made them a positive ethos by which to live my life.

At this point you’ll be expecting me to relate what potentially destructive put-down it was that so affected me; for me to relay the nasty, nasty, cruel jibe of a thoughtless cad. I therefore do apologise for the anti-climax that will inevitably follow.

It was only three little words: “you’re too much”.

Stick with me for a moment, let me explain. This tiny, insignificant phrase might seem unimportant but as far as I was concerned it was a criticism of everything I am.

I am proud of the fact that I take the enjoyment of life very, very seriously. I get excited about the little things, and I get really, really excited about the big things. I was lucky enough to have a fabulous childhood, a real childhood in a place full of inspiration and magic, and I never want to be in a position where I forget to live life filled with sheer exuberance and delight.

I am also proud of the fact that I am honest, even when others would advise against it. I’ve been hurt far too much in the past by lies to not believe that everyone deserves the respect that honesty offers: because, as far as I’m concerned, that’s what honesty is about. It’s about respect.

I am grateful for the sense of perspective that permeates my life, and I genuinely do not care what people think because I know I’ve got it right. As far as I’m concerned, anyone who considers me naive just doesn’t know me.

I also know I take a lot on in my life. I have an endless list of projects that I’m either working on or have temporarily shelved for future years, and freely acknowledge that I can’t ever see myself slowing down. That’s not to say over the coming years my priorities will stay the same, but whatever life throws my way I intend to grasp with both hands and run with, and probably engage in lots of other semi-appropriate metaphors too. As far as I’m concerned, we all have a social responsibility – perhaps even a duty – to make the most of all the opportunities put before us.

I have another reason for musing this precisely at this moment in history, but I will come onto that another day. For now, I want to say this: I spent a long time being hurt by a criticism of myself that I very much took to heart. It was only afterwards that, when I turned it on its head, I actually realised that it was an affirmation of everything I strive to be. I would always rather be too much than too little, and I’m proud of that. No-one can accuse me of wasting my life, and no-one can accuse me of not enjoying life. I never intentionally hurt anyone, and I strive to be the best person I can be because only I know precisely how flawed I actually am (answer: a lot, a lot, a lot). I might be a nightmare, but it can never be said that lack of appreciation is one of my (many) flaws.

Last Sunday I went to a charity art auction, and was bought two pieces of artwork by a delightful gentleman. I love auctions, not least because of the semi-intimate banter that any good auctioneer conjures up whilst touting the wares on offer. On this particular occasion the auctioneer queried, on my gentleman friend’s initial bid, whether I was only worth a fiver. Naturally, the returning quip back was that, yes, this was indeed the case. Good-natured chuckling from all those present ensued.

I didn’t mind at all, for three reasons. Firstly, there’s a 97% chance that I would have retorted back similarly had it been me and, secondly, I’d had a glass of wine by this point and was hopelessly giggling at the entire exchange anyway (whilst blushing profusely for some bizarre reason: something that doesn’t come naturally to me, if I’m honest).

Thirdly, though, I was content to know that, as I had been informed previously by someone else a lifetime ago, I was worth much more than that. I was, in fact, too much: or, as I was assured later last Sunday evening (albeit tongue very firmly in damage-limitation-cheek), priceless.