Friday, 3 December 2010

Yellow Silk

I got trapped at work. Did I tell you? I told the internet, in social networking land. I got there for half two, Tuesday, and left at twelve noon on Thursday. I slept on a mattress in the (brand new) stock cupboard, which was actually very comfortable, and it wasn't just me, Rosie did it too and she left later than me.

I fell into a snowdrift in my eagerness to flag the bus down. Didn't have time to acknowledge tittering passers-by. The driver was nonplussed. I sat on top deck on my own (I'm pretty sure I heard a bloke say "She's not used to getting buses", though he didn't look human enough to be using wit) and rang the people I wanted to talk to, that I hadn't been able to before. There's not much network signal can get through a 1970's egg-box.

It was amazing to get home. I was tired but we walked the dogs, walked to Towsure for wellies, walked to the shop for food and then walked to Blockbuster, just because I hadn't been outside in all that time, other than to stomp in snow for about two minutes before it lost its novelty and became something else. So I did lots of stomping last night, and hitting disguised kerbs and saying 'oops' a lot. I made good use of my woolly tights and big woolly jumper, two pairs of gloves, newfound freedom. And of Richard. He showed me some BJJ moves and I resisted the urge to tickle or bite my way out of the many variations of 'the clamp' that he is learning. One is even triangular.

The most exciting thing that happened to me while I was snowtrapped was a dream I had early Thursday morning. First, some background. My friend Martin is a sea fisherman, not by trade but because he's a bit anti-social, likes shiny waders and the cold. Ha ha. (Sorry, Marty.) A while ago, was telling me he's been fishing with a bloke that wants him to go abseiling off a cliff to catch some ... I don't know, some extreme cliff fish. I was egging him on. He hates heights. I told him I wanted to come too, to take photographs of him, which he thought was mean, but I meant to offer a souvenir of the time he conquered fear and fish in one fell swoop. Anyway. I shall begin.

We were in Sheffield centre, looking at the wheel. In real life, the Sheffield Wheel is no more, having been dismantled to make way for a huge Christmas tree. In my dream, they'd replaced it with another wheel. It was huge. I have butterflies in my stomach, thinking of it again. It was so big, I couldn't see the bottom of it - it was hanging off the edge of the world. It had no carriages, as such. It was made of immense cylindrical spokes, with huge joists, and it was a bluish gold, but more gold than blue. I was looking at it as myself, meaning I couldn't see myself in the dream, I was just seeing the scene, with my own eyes. I don't know how else to describe it other than this made it truly real; my response was the same as it is now, remembering. I couldn't look at it for too long. It was too big. I couldn't handle it. I kept hiding my face in my hands, my heart was pounding, but I wasn't scared. Utterly overwhelmed, and excited and amazed, but not frightened. It was slowly rotating. I could feel my heart. I'm surprised I didn't wake up. As this is taking place, Martin is stood to my left, I'm saying, "I can't look," then taking my hands away again and again, only to bury my face in them after seconds. "No, I can't." It hurt like looking at the sun, but in my chest. It was sublime.

The next section, I'm stood, looking down at my legs, and a rush of thoughts come at once - the main one being, 'We're still wearing harnesses.' It's difficult to describe, but it sweeps me up: knowing what comes next, disbelief, disconnectedness and excitement. Then a swathe of yellow silk floats down over us with rings punched into it, like tarpaulin. The rings are attached, one either side of my hips, and we sweep into the air. I could feel myself float for miles, and swing in a massive arc towards some ridiculous, made-up, shirtless circus performers who catch the tops of my feet lightly with a wire. At one point, I thought it was going to slip, but it didn't. I relaxed, it stayed, they controlled the entire show, and people applauded below. I screamed, at one point, but it was like a parachute jump: No-one below would hear. The entire time, I was aware of Martin beside me, amused, observing, like he did this all the time and the whole set-up was entirely for my benefit. He was in a blue boiler suit. The entire time. Yellow and blue, and I remember vividly thinking, I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm just going to keep pointing my feet - and seeing them, pointed, my legs perfectly straight, as if I was pushing myself through the air by doing so, building momentum.

We came down, and I tried to jump into the air again, and got nowhere. I squealed, nearly fell over. He laughed at me. I asked if his friends, all blokes in the audience, had been taking pictures. We were so high, they'd not show us anyway, but I was hoping he'd say no so we could go back up. I woke up then, elated. At half four in the morning I got up to tell Rosie, who was doing part of the waking night. It doesn't matter how I tell it, I can't explain the feeling. In a way, it's nice - nobody else can have it, or comment on it, or put pictures of it on the internet.

Though it was this photograph, posted on the very same net of inters, that prompted me to write.

I've dreamed of the wheel before. The last end-of-the-world dream I had, it flew off into the sky with screaming passengers in its carriages. I had that one right before we went on holiday. It was another out-of-this-world dream, intense and enjoyable and visually breath-stopping. Cloud columns were shooting into the air. I was in Billingham for that one. Makes sense that it would all start at Huntsman Tioxide, I suppose. I tend to dream of sky and metal structures when I'm elated, or need to be. I dream of cellars and tiny holes that I must crawl through, when I'm worried. In those dreams, I never sleep long enough to make a decision: stay where I am, or attempt the squeeze, and risk getting trapped. I'm always aware of death in the tight spaces. Never, in the sky.

Wednesday, 13 October 2010

Red rabbit, flying.

I'm utterly transfixed, listening to the rescue operation of Chilean miners on the radio. Special glasses and tinted windows, underground videos and audio-video links in the 'Phoenix' - it's like science fiction. I knew they'd be out sooner than Christmas. Or perhaps, I couldn't imagine walking the surface for months knowing that there were people enclosed beneath. I was talking to someone the other day that I've known for about a year, 15 months ish. He used to work in the mines in Sheffield, he did so for 30 years until about four years ago. He never comes inside; he's the caretaker at my work, if we want to find him we call his mobile. He'll drive you anywhere, drop kids' bags off at school, do chemist-runs, get the shopping in. He's interested in everything I tell him, including this:

I've been twice, thanks to Nicola. I'm not graceful, but I can do it. I want to carry on, which is more than I've said about some things in the past. Nicola has nice pointy toes. And seems to have more control than I, who often feel I am a pair of tights stuffed with cannon balls hanging on by thread arms. My shoulders do not appreciate my acrobatic desires.

So, the news. The news, the news.

I went to get the tattoo, and am enamoured.

The picture is from Deryn's facebook page. After I saw the rabbit in Whitby, I found plenty of rabbit images, flying ones, skeleton ones, white ones and scary ones, and gave them to her to magic something new up. I knew I wanted red, abstract, detailed and finely executed, which is why I chose her. (A friend of Richard's sent him a link to her facebook page, which he passed on to me. It all happened around a similar time.) You can find her here:

We also went to the Sheffield tattoo convention, which was... Well, it was loud and full of buzzy machines. But I took vital sustenance for Deryn in the form of a red jelly mouse, so it wasn't a wasted day. AND, I got this excellent (if I do say myself) shot of some bikes outside:

Thursday, 19 August 2010

Sleeping dogs lie


I'm typing quietly (trying to) while Dag, Fizz and Rich sleep.

Haven't checked to see how long it is since I last did anything on here, but some news. Firstly, Dag tried to eat one of the rabbits (he killed him pretty much instantly). Those who know me, know what happened next. I don't like to talk about it, mainly because people think I'm a bit Dexter.

So bye-bye, Buja.

What else... went for an interview, for the same job, but more hours. Didn't get it. Felt a bit 'fuck it'. Still do.

Rich got invited to apply for a job in the Black Forest... the job was a back-step in terms of what he wants to do with his career, so it was a no-go. Sad face. Richard also learned how to be a plumber yesterday, when the pipes in the bathroom went a bit shit (they were old) after he replaced the bath. There is no doubt in my mind that he only finished the job because it meant he could buy a blowtorch. He said last night in the pub that his Dad was more proud of him fixing the pipes than working for the BBC... on THIS:

In a way, I am too. He's been drawing all his life, it's his natural talent and he's honed those skills for years, but plumbing is a foray into the vast depths of unknown. Plus the gaps were really small and he has proper sausage fingers. (Sorry, honey. It's no secret.)

I went to a hen-do in Whitby, and almost got a tattoo; more on that when I get it. I also went to the wedding: Emily Sandhu is now Emily Hart. And, I suspect, back from her 3-week honeymoon. (She doesn't read this, but: TEXT ME BACK, woman.) It was lovely. I took some photographs for her. Here's one of the lovely bride, who bossed me around for about a year while I worked at Halifax:

And this is one she took of me and Rich. I believe I was saying something like, that's enough, woman, I want it back now.

It made me want to look at pretty dresses. So I did. :) I love this:

- though it's a far cry from the original search I did, which brought up this:

Ahhh... black lace. Yum.

Anyway, what else... went to see the parents this weekend. That was fun, and brilliant because the dogs got on like they were little brothers and sisters (though technically, in the world of adopted dog children, Hiltz is Fizz and Dag's uncle). Very cute. Hiltz (my dad's dog) is a little poorly but will hopefully be better soon - they suspect he has a duff pancreas so he needs some Creon capsules in his life. One of the kids I work with takes them, so when Dad told me, I was like, ooh, miss, I know the answer! - swot. Got TWO banana bread loaves from Rich's mum Christine (heavenly, that was - toasted, with butter. Unrivalled...) and some cooking apples from my dad, so I'll be baking an apple cake today, I think. We had lunch on Sunday - Jimbo and Rikkitikki were there, with girlfriends I might add - Hello, Kelly and Katrina - and of course, Joe was home too. He introduced me to Jon Mayer, not in person, but via youtube - very talented guitarist. Worth a google.

Last night I drank two halves of cider and I've never been so drunk. It was less than 5%. I blame sleep deprivation. Either that or I'm turning Japanese.

(Sorry about the lack of clickable links... Blogger is being a dick.)

Monday, 7 June 2010

Bat of Nat, Bat of Nat, where have you been?

I've been on the big ship!

A ship so big that Charlie (who's two) couldn't get his head around us being on a big ship, and kept asking to go on the big ship. You just try and explain that one to him.

I haven't been on the big ship all this time. Just last week. Before that I was finishing my creative writing course and working, and spending too much time... oh, heck. On Facebook. I know. Sorry. It's crossed the line, though, and given me a good reason to almost abandon it. Almost, because I'm using it to keep in touch with someone I know through Rich who was diagnosed with Leukaemia recently, plus his fiancée who is in the process of moving to Sheffield. I'll probably miss everyone else's news. (That means both of you, sister-cousins, so when you have your babies, you had better let me know.)

Let's just pause for a moment and say hi to those bumps. Particularly Laura's, who is due TODAY. You're running out of time, bump. Pull your soon-to-be-acquired tiny white socks up.

So, yes, I've been on holiday! A proper holiday, not one that involves rope or rubber shoes or rocks of any kind (well, other than nasty yet expensive ones made of compacted carbon). It was Rich's Dad's 60th so that meant we all got to go on a cruise... I'm not sure how that works either, but I don't look them gifthorses in their mouths, no sir. I am tanned! And I didn't put any weight on either, which is quite phenomenal, when I think of what we ate. Best not to think about it, really, or I will stop writing and simply pine. It was truly a cruise of loveliness. Ahhhhhhh.

But, back to reality. Or to pre-holiday reality, since there's a lot more of that to write about. Like... erm. I'm not sure, actually. All I really seem to do is wash up and brush dogs' teeth. Think, Natalie.

Ah, yes. I wrote a monologue from the perspective of a snail.

It's been marked, I'm not sure whether I can post it yet, but it scored well - just a shame it was too short for the assignment. I was dead set on writing a monologue for as my chosen publication, so that was that. (Read: Didn't have enough time to research something else.) The final biggie mcbiggington was sent via post and hasn't been marked yet. Or has, but is in a batch that haven't. Or something. I dunno when I'll get the lowdown on that one. But I feel rather free, now. I've actually been thinking of things to write in my little red notebook. Not got round to writing them yet, but the thought is present, and that's a start.

Here is a snail.

That's right, it's an origami snail.

Because: Something else I haven't done yet but would like to, is make origami earrings, since this was the only interesting post on FB after a week away from the dratted thing. God bless Wikihow. Hm. So, this isn't the most interesting blog post I've written. But before I go, I'l share two facts that I learned yesterday.

1: Contrary to what you might have read, lettuce freezes very well. It only loses the plot when you defrost it.

2: Lettuce makes surprisingly nice curry.

Ok, that's all for now. I'll go back to the notebook and think of some interesting stuff to write next time.

Thursday, 25 February 2010

Hello there.
I've been forcing myself to write poetry all day, so bear with me.
Last proper entry on here - bit grim? Thought so. My apologies. Let's just say, since then, things are improving.. I didn't even panic today with one day to face up to the fact that I've done less than one week of work for the assignment due on Friday.. Still. Poetry. What's it all about, eh? Well, drunk Irish men and my Grandad, actually, but they're both stories to be told with the luxury of a computer, or some qwerty setup, at least. I am in fact typing this in on my bloody mobile, which is held together with a complex assembly of finger and masking tape. It's unique, I'll allow. So. Poetry. Yeah. The word makes me want to smash things. That's bad, isn't it. Lets not dwell.

What can I update you on? I've been to see some kind of tribute act that never was, full of prancers, everyone knew each other, everyone a performer. Some I've seen before. Quite a tight group. But it was funny, and even though the cider has given me stomach ache, and Fizz chewed up my headphones while we were out, I'm glad we went. A fair few of the people there are part of a trapeze group that I really ought to get involved in, and stop grumping about being an outsider. Y'know, people that'll appreciate the hair dye dilemmas (can you believe, my mother laughed at me when I said I was nearly 26 and still debating whether to dye my hair again) and all that shit. Or not. The trapeze stuff looked fun, anyway, last time I watched those people doing that stuff. Except Richard the Gymnast will kick arse at it and make me cross. Which brings me to my next point - I need some drumkit in my life. That's right. The eldest Jordan has no rhythm! I don't know why. He can dance well enough. So I have one chance to excel where he cannot. Other than being able to flex both wrists and straighten both little fingers, neither of which I really consider true talents; more a result of my not knackering myself in my earlier years. The hibernation years, we'll call them. So I'm calling all egg eaters to save their egg boxes for me. Can't have the neighbours putting a stop to my superiority plans. I will reign supreme! Also, I have visions of a cute sibling drum duet. A bit of QOTSA, the Dave Grohl era, oh yes. And whatever else. The sibling doesn't know yet.

Yes, well. Bit tipsy, we are. Sleep we shall. Wish me luck for poetry TMA 3, Y'all, yo?

Friday, 13 November 2009


Richard has been blogging more than me. I can't have this. I haven't been doing my OU work, either, which is worse. Work this afternoon. Work is getting better. Still not great, but I do have days where I enjoy what I'm doing. It's when I get home and remember all the little things I've done badly or not fast enough that I start to think I don't want to go back again. I wonder how long that's going to go on for.
As for the stupid pill. It was fine for a while (Richard even commented on how nice I was to be around, if you can believe that) apart from a little side effect that abolished the system of periods and instead established the 'whenever I fucking feel like it, you're having a Dolmio day' routine.

N.B: The Dolmio thing is Laura's joke, I can't take credit.
N.B: Dolmio is a fucking stupid word.

It did say in the leaflet that this might happen. So I waited patiently, and while I waited, I put some weight on, got some bad skin, and got GRUMPY. Not just grumpy. Outraged and emotional. Defensive. Ridiculous. At the moment, I am still functioning like an Italian restaurant, and I have a pizza face. But this is good. This means I have a very good reason to shove the implant up someone else's arse. (For the record, I am aware that this is not where they usually implant the implant.) It also means I've tried enough of the fuckers to demand something better, regardless of how much it costs the NHS. That's what I involuntarily wedge chunks out of my income for, is it not?

Dear me. The topic of my blog has become my battle with hormones.

Sorry about that.

Oh. I got 71 for my first creative writing TMA. Oh, yeah.
The heating is broken, the part for it cost about £90 including VAT and postage and all that shit. Don't even know whether that'll actually fix it.
We got some new (second-hand) sofas. We painted the dining room a lighter colour to avoid depression.

Oh yeah, it's been a while - I'm going to be a Godparent. That's right. And I've just finished reading The God Delusion. Oh, fucking yeah. I intend to smile sweetly in my white flowery dress (and red heels; I'm not sure how they'll go down) and answer all the questions and agree to look after Alfie's religious and spiritual wellbeing. But not mention that I haven't been christened, myself. And afterwards, present him with a massive encyclopedia, hopefully with a really fat section on evolution. And 'The Owl Who Was Afraid Of The Dark', because the dream catcher isn't working and he can't remember what his bad dreams are. Dolmio Laura said this would be the only legitimate time for me to wear wings. Fairy Godmother. I have a necklace on which is a heart with one wing, so that'll be a start. I might save them til later. I might make ALL the godparents wear them, that'd be fun. Richard wouldn't protest, but Shaun might...

Having burned myself in front of the gas fire, it's time to get dressed and walk this gurgling dog. She's being a dogfood snob because I've had homemade pizza for breakfast.

Have happy times. x