Why Sherlock Holmes makes you WANNA...

You know when you become so obsessed with fictional characters that you start dreaming about them?  When you become so absorbed in a book that you think the characters are all your best friends?  When you somehow manage to convince yourself that the song you are playing is the soundtrack to your life?  And that each dance move you bust out on your way to put the kettle on (again) is somehow documented by a camera ...and that maybe one day you'll get recognised for your killer shapes by some dance scout? (Do dance scouts exist?) Okay that last point is a clear digression from the subject at hand...ahem...

What happens in the human mind when any of the above happens is a real mystery to me.  But it is simply magical! You can't put your finger on quite how to describe that sense of excitement you get when you first hear the intro to a song, that you realise instantly, is soon to become your favourite.  I wish you could put that moment in a box and keep it forever, because it's pretty much like falling in love.  That feeling lasts such a short time, but is the reason that song holds such an esteemed place in your head.  You memory of how good that feeling is, holds the song in a moment, a past moment, where it can do no wrong.  Your imagination carries you off into the sunset.  You're walking along the beach with the love of your life, or flying through the sky, not a care in the world, or trapped in an eternal summer - so long as that song plays.  It's just like....the song...it just...makes you WANNA...

Then comes the moment that you've crossed the line.  The line between the perfect amount of plays and overplaying it.  When you go into that dark corner, you can never get back that feeling, that sense of excitement, that knock-you-off-your-chair-and-roll-onto-the-floor-in-shock reaction.  You can barely remember what it was like.

Fastforward in time now.  You've managed to forget that song.  Or that episode of Sherlock Holmes (or book, whatever it is...)  Life has carried on, and so have you.  You keep on watching the same old stuff, listening to the same old stuff etc. etc.  Then, all of a sudden, you are reminded of Sherlock for some reason (I dunno, your friend mentioned it or something...)  You decide to watch the first episode again. BAM!

"What was the BAM?" I hear you ask.  That was you being bowled over, all over again.  It's like you never even watched it in the first place.  Suddenly, you find yourself falling in love with him, like the past year never happened.  It's irresistable, the whole process is involuntary.  It's happening and you can't stop it.

That moment, my dear friends, is what I like to call The Great Re-discovery. (Yeah, you can probably think of a better name for it yourself...)  The point is, it's pretty amazing how fickle your memory can be.  It's also amazing how exciting and 'OOOOH' and 'I can't believe it' and magical the whole thing is.  I do love it.

One great thing about being a writer, is that (hopefully) I have the capacity to allow this to happen for other people.  I like the thought that maybe one day someone will put down my book, after reading a particular chapter, and have their thoughts entirely absorbed in a fictional world that I have created.  I am ever hopeful that this may be the case, as I managed to achieve The Great Re-discovery myself, with my own book, this very year!  I was seeking inspiration for my current book, and decided to re-read a chapter I had written in another project for some ideas.  I re-discovered a character that I had almost forgotten about.  What a guy he was.  Suddenly, I had that feeling of excitement all over again.

That is why I love writing so much.  I get completely immersed in a different world, with some pretty cool characters.  If only they existed!  One day you will get to have a read, and then I can only hope that one character makes you WANNA...

The Jar

Once I had a jar
I kept everything in there
From sea shells to pins,
And all shiny things
And, oh, for the contents, I cared.

Over the days and the years,
the jar began to get full
I needed a space,
a real special place,
somewhere for my affections to lull.

I discovered I owned something else
that soon replaced the jar
I could fit all the love
and affection and stuff
right here inside my heart.

But then a problem arose
for not everything that went in
put a smile on my face,
or a skip in my pace,
and it seemed my heart was burning.

You see, I wasn't the only one
who could add things to my heart
anyone can lean in,
with a wink or a grin
and add baggage that could smart.

At first you wouldn't guess
that they'd left anything there
but once you've let them in
they can do anything
and it really isn't fair.

I wrestled with closing my heart
and giving up collecting my blessings.
It's a free-for-all
if I don't withdraw
this privilege to those I let in...

But if I don't have a jar
where I keep all the things I love
where will I keep
my firm, steadfast belief
in a Heavenly God from above?

How will I exercise patience?
How will I think with my gut?
My own intuition
would become a pale vision,
without the guidance of love.

I guess I have a heart
with an automatic door,
where you can't control
who touches your soul
and it hurts when you have to let go.

Still, I'd never swap for a heart
that's locked under key and chain -
you can't find happiness
in loneliness
and you'd never love again.

"Who's trying to put you in a box? Have you told the police about this?"

One of the things which will (probably) never get old for anyone ever is taking quizzes about what sorta personality type you are.  This kind of categorisation has been going on ever since Freud was a twinkle in his Papa's eye (*please note: this is not a history lesson, I don't actually factually know if this is true...)  And the reason why we like it so much is because we like ourselves.

It's no secret that the most important thing to you is, well, you.  Although I know many selfless people, there is a natural tendency for humans to be absorbed in self.  This isn't something to be down about - in the words of Jason Mraz "We're only human", and afterall, we're hardly as bad as Descartes! (he seemed pretty wrapped up in himself didn't he? "I think therefore I am..." yada yada)

Lately, I've seen a few things doing the rounds on the Internet concerning extroverts vs introverts.  This caught my attention for a few reasons.  Firstly, I used to know exactly what I was out of those two.  It was clear as day.  I didn't want to talk to anyone I didn't know, I had a few close personal friends who knew a lot about me, the rest were people I got along with but wouldn't exactly be people I shared my secrets with...and I would make countless excuses up to avoid social interactions with people, even my very close friends.  Yes, I was as introvert as a snail, a tortoise or...or...a hedgehog!

Somewhere along the line though, I think my introvert self got turned inside out.  I saw something on Buzzfeed (okay, I know, not the psychological point of reference that Carl Jung would be proud of or whatever) which made me think twice about the introvert me.  The description of the extrovert in each picture reminded me of...me!  The person who never shuts up, always tries to connect with people, comes off a little clingy because of the need to just be talking, to anyone, my want to be the centre of attention and of course my recent 'hobby' of talking to strangers as though I know them.  "What could all this mean?" I asked myself.

Well, I did some soul searching.  I thought about that time in English in Year 9 when I got the chance to play Lady Macbeth and got a little buzz from performing in front of my class.  I also thought about that time I pretended to be interested in a packet of custard powder in the Co-Op because I saw someone I was friends with from the CU at Uni and didn't want to have to speak to them.  And I was curious.

I came across the term "ambivert".  Yeah, weird, I know, someone resented being labelled either one or other and decided there was a name for someone who is not strongly either way inclined. 

Despite having done a number of quizzes (all with different results about whether I'm introvert, extrovert or ambivert...or belong in the lunatic asylum (thanks for the insult Jung!)) I came to no conclusion really, other than the fact that, apparently, I would make a good salesperson (?!)  And so, I decided, that I didn't want to fit in a box.

I mean, who knows me better than a quiz I found through the medium of Google?  Precisely - everyone.  Even Alex who works at the Sainsbury's Local knows me better than a quiz on the Internet (*disclaimer, I don't know if anyone who works at the Sainsbury's Local is called Alex...)

I know me.  I know that I don't fit into these boxes.  I don't even fit into that box 'ambivert' that is reserved for those people who don't like being in boxes.  Because, well, I'm claustraphobic and stuff. 

I'd like to think that there's a whole row of boxes with a bunch of people in, all confused about their identity (Descartes is sobbing "Who am I?" Freud is shouting back "I am your Father!" Darth Vader style from the box next door...) all the while I am jumping around like a loon on top of the boxes, singing something idiotic and trying not to fall in.

I think, somewhere along the line, I got lost in this metaphor.  But, if this post is nothing more than nonsensical ramblings, at least I can be proud that I managed to reference Freud, Descartes, Jung, Jason Mraz, Vince Noir, Darth Vader and Alex from Sainsbury's Local all in the same blog post!

How not to count calories and other things that will inevitably lead to doom...

This week it has been overwhelmingly apparant that the gaps in my knowledge are vast.  Last night I blew a fuse upstairs when I turned the bathroom light on and it popped, and I was suddenly plunged into darkness.  I was aghast, not really sure what to do, and debated just going back downstairs to finish watching the programme I had on the laptop, ignoring the issue all together.  Then I remembered that I need electricity to use the shower, and that, if I didn't have a shower, I would wind up rocking up to work the next day smelling of...well, smelling!

Thing is, when I was looking at houses before moving back up to Durham, I'd remembered having a conversation with the landlord's son whilst we stood upstairs on the landing.  He'd said something like "Oh, and the fuse box is right there, so you know if one goes you can just sort it straight out, that sometimes happens..." or something akin to this.  He'd pointed to the wall and I'd seen a plastic box and then above it, something else box-like.  I surveyed them both for a while, trying to look like I knew what he was talking about.  Afterwards, my boyfriend informed me that I'd been looking at the wrong thing.  I didn't question this because I had no idea which of the two things I was supposed to be looking at.  Anyway, long story short, now that I've been living here nearly a year, I'm quite aware that the "something else box-like" is in fact an electricity meter.  This means, by default, the plastic box below is the fuse box.

Right okay, but what is a fuse box?  This is the moment in a film when I have to go down to the basement with a torch, and there is a leak in the ceiling, and a rat-tat-tat-ing on the window whilst I'm trying to do something in a fuse box, but what?  What am I trying to do?  Of course I know now, because I had to ask my boyfriend, evidently, but.... that's a pretty ridiculous situation.  For a 25 year old to not know what to do when you blow a fuse.

However, I have discovered something even more ridiculous:  I'm 25 and I have never changed a lightbulb before.

This only became apparent once the power was back on, and I realised the bathroom light wouldn't switch on, and then I remembered the 'pop' which I think was the bulb going.  Somehow, now, I have to change the light bulb, and when I looked back to find my knowledge base to work from, I realised I didn't have any such experience.  And, honestly, I'm a little scared.  The light bulb has one of those weird, screw on shades over it, which I assume is also a natural habitat for a small family of spiders.

Still, although I've yet to tackle the light bulb situation, at least I no longer get 'Belfast' confused with 'Berlin', or think 'Seville' is an old people's home down south somewhere, or think the Cold War is called the Cold War because it involved Russia, and Russia can get really cold...

The gaps in my knowledge may be vast, but they are also ever decreasing.  And that's why any advice book I write will be better off telling people how not to do things, or how to avoid the everyday chore or problem.  Hence the title of this post, which may, one day, become a bestseller.

Maybe.

Room 101

Today I wish to discuss my pet hate, the one thing that tops my list labelled 'For Room 101'.  And it is all in the way you sign off your e-mails.  Consider this:

Dear Sir/Madam,

I am just writing to commend you on your excellent customer service.  The phone was answered in seconds, there was no automated machine asking me to press numbers on my phone, followed by the hash key, and there was no annoying hold music. 

When I outlined my problem to the member of staff who answered the phone, not only was my problem resolved without a fuss, but I received a complimentary free service for taking the trouble to phone you.

5 gold star standard of service, a very well done to you!

Best wishes,

J. Poole

Now take the same e-mail, signed off slightly differently...

Dear Sir/Madam,

I am just writing to commend you on your excellent customer service.  The phone was answered in seconds, there was no automated machine asking me to press numbers on my phone, followed by the hash key, and there was no annoying hold music. 

When I outlined my problem to the member of staff who answered the phone, not only was my problem resolved without a fuss, but I received a complimentary free service for taking the trouble to phone you.

5 gold star standard of service, a very well done to you!

Regards,

J. Poole


Regards?   Regards???  You just told me our customer service rating was 5 gold stars?  And now you offer me a simply 'regard'?  What is wrong with you?

When I see an e-mail signed off 'regards' I get a sick feeling in the bottom of my stomach, and start to retrace all my encounters with said person to see if I can find out why I deserve such an atrocity. 

The problem is that the word has a dual meaning, and my brain never thinks of it the right way.  You might have a high regard for someone, you might want to pass on your regards to someone, that's all good and fine.  But when you sign off 'regards' suddenly I don't think you're sending me warmest wishes.  Instead I think that you're merely looking at me.  I start thinking about the meaning  'a steady or significant look' (as defined by Oxford) and that could be anything from a stare to a downright hackey!  Since no-one tends to use it so positively anymore in conversation, when used in an e-mail I can think of it only in this negative context.  And the very nature of the word in its harsh-ness (re-Gards.  G-G-G) seems so far removed from anything polite.  I could very well use the sentence 'She regarded him with disgust'  which suddenly makes the 'regards' not seem so pleasant.

Okay, I think I've made my point.  I don't like it. 

And don't even get me started on 'kind regards'.

Best wishes,

Frankie

Prologue

For as long as I could remember, it had been like this. I'm sat in my room, waiting for my alarm clock to go off. It's always the same. I have the nightmare every night. The explosions, the shouting, people screaming, crying, angry, and then a really bright, blinding light coming towards me. Then I wake up, at pretty much the same time in the early hours, not able to go back to sleep. So, from between the hours of 5 and 6am, I just wait to hear that familiar beeping sound.

When the noise comes, it always shocks me. As if it didn't happen every day. And then I eventually reach down and hit the button to make it shut up. I do the same today too. I grab my towel and make my way to the communal bathrooms. Always pretty empty at 6.01am, I have the bathroom to myself. The shower is luke warm, but by the time I am awake it has got a little hotter. I rinse off large, frothy bubbles from my pale skin, shut the shower off and wrap the towel around myself.

By the time I make it to breakfast, the canteen is busy. I stare at the grey porridge in my bowl and try to pretend it doesn't taste like warm gravel slipping down my throat. I want to imagine it tastes nice, but I can't remember the last time I tasted something appealing. I have vague memories of one thing we used to have – before The Centre. Small beans, hot, in a sweet tomato sauce. They tasted really good on toast. I don't really remember what they were called. Memory of before The Centre isn't really encouraged in here.

I don't see anyone I know at breakfast, but it's likely they stole some fruit from the kitchens last night and are feasting on it in their rooms. I didn't go to the kitchens last night because I had a headache and wanted to get to bed early. Sometimes we have quite a lot of fun. No-one would know we're supposed to be crazy!

Well, that's what we think we're in for anyway. No-one's really sure. A bunch of reasons were given in the beginning, but those memories are beginning to slip away too. Maybe that's a symptom of a seemingly endless drag of days on end? Starting with grey porridge, ending with watery stew. Always the same. 

In the lounge everyone sits in the same seats, stands in the same spots, and plays the same games in the same order. Roy always gets the pool table first, and he takes turns with Dave for the first hour. Eventually that gets old, and they sit on the floor and try to remember what real coffee tastes like whilst the tea lady comes in with the powdered stuff. 

I usually sit on the sofa, staring at the pages of magazines. The dates on all of them have been blacked over. For all I know the people in the pictures are all be dead now. They do get changed, who knows how often. I'm not counting the days. All I know is that sometimes the stories are different. Maybe they keep re-using them? I might have read or flicked through these pages thousands of times. It's just habit now.

At some point I'm joined by Steph. Steph is some kind of sanity for me in The Centre. People rarely laugh here, but she's one person who can get a laugh or smile from anyone. She tells rude jokes. I don't know where she gets them from. She swears people keep writing them on the bathroom walls, but I've looked everywhere and can't find them.

Today she's arrived at the same time as the tea lady, so she hands me a cup of the weak, warm tea.

“Yo, so anything new?” she raises her eyebrows and looks at the magazine in my lap.

“Same as yesterday.” I note.

“It's really bad that the most exciting thing that happens to us is that we get a new magazine, or Dave finally manages to beat Roy at pool.” She smirks.

“Dave's never beaten Roy at pool.”

“I keep hoping. I've got a bet on him.” she winks. 

We don't bet with money, we bet with fruit. Steph's always lucky with the bets so she always has the most. Generally fruit is a real treat we get at weekends only.

The inner door opens and one of the security guards appear. This isn't common place, not unless there's a real commotion. Once Lisa Banks whacked Dave one in the face because she thought he'd stolen her plastic cup of tea. Security came in then. I don't think I can remember another time. 

“Jemma Right?” the guard questions, looking around the room. At the sound of my name I jump. The magazine falls from my lap. Steph stares at me, mouth open, eyes wide. I can sense other eyes on me as I get up and walk, like a robot, to the door.

“Come with me, please.” he says in a stiff voice. 

Once out the door I take nothing in but following him. He keeps looking behind at me, as though I'm going to run away. I'm too bewildered to do anything of the sort.

Eventually we arrive at a small box room which is generally used to isolate inmates during incidents like the Lisa/Dave scenario I mentioned earlier. I don't want to be in this room because it means discipline. And no fruit, even at weekends. And no chance of getting down to the kitchens tonight.

Inside the room is a small desk with a chair at either end. The security guard sits in one, and I automatically sit in the other.

“Jemma.” The guard says.

I nod, wordless.

“Don't say anything, just listen and nod, whatever I say, got it?” He demands.

I nod. I'm scared. I feel as though I'm in hot water.

“Tonight, at midnight, you're going to go down to the kitchens. There, you'll meet me. I am going to get you out. I can take more with me, I'd take you all if I could, but not now. It has to be done at another time. You know people. Tell who you can. Maybe five or six others, okay?”

I nod. I wasn't expecting this. It doesn't make sense. I don't even know what's outside. I don't remember what it's like. What if I don't like it? What if I want to come back? I probably wouldn't make it out. Why the kitchens? I had so many questions and the guard seemed to sense this.

“Quickly, ask me what you want to know. Just two questions, come on...” there was a sense of urgency. I guessed he didn't know how much time he could steal like this.

“Who are you?”

“I'm someone sent here by someone else. And any thanks you have are for him, not for me. I don't know too much about him, but I have a debt to pay him. This is how I'm paying.” he answers in a whisper.

“Do you know why I'm here?” I ask, the only other question that occurs to me at this time.

“You don't know?” he seems shocked.

I shake my head.

“After they found the felony gene, the government acted on it. I don't know if you remember the DNA tests, what with the memory erasure that goes on in here...”

“Memory erasure?” I begin.

“Yes, but there isn't time to explain it all...” the guard cuts me off, “After the test you all got taken in here. There's a number of other centres across the country, and all of you are a suspected danger to society. Prevention, it's said, is better than cure.”

“We're here because me might commit a crime in mainstream society?” I question.

“If you'll believe it.” The guard says with a large measure of scepticism.

I am stunned into silence by this revelation. The room is spinning. I don't know how I feel, and I don't know if I'm just having another nightmare. Or perhaps the guard is toying with me? It would be a cruel joke, but how easily played...

“Do you remember the time and place?” Suddenly I'm hurtling back to the here and now and realise the guard has just asked me a question.

“The kitchens, midnight.” I manage to reply.

“Tell five others. In secret.” he says, and then I am escorted back to the lounge.

***

I don't sleep. At least tonight there is no nightmare to be had, because I am simply in no state to dream. I watch the minutes as they barely move into hours. I wonder if anyone thought it odd that I didn't stay long in the kitchens after dinner? I knew I'd be back there very soon. I felt weird about the whole thing. Of course, I told Steph and Roy and Dave. Roy and Dave looked at me with some sympathy. I don't think they believed me at all. Steph was supportive, but I wonder if there isn't a part of her that thinks I've finally cracked? She assured me she'd tell two of the other girls she plays hockey with on Sundays. I wonder how they'll react.

I didn't put an alarm on, I knew I wouldn't catch a wink. Nothing alerts me to the presence of 11.55 but somehow it's there, and with my constant staring at the clock I realise within the sixty seconds that follow that it's time to get moving.

I put on my black, soft soled shoes. I doubt they'll make much noise on the landing. With a heart beating fast, adrenaline pumping, feeling anxiously sick and wondering if maybe I did make this whole thing up after all, I make my way, slowly and surely, across the landing, down the stairs and down the corridor to the kitchens. Every shadow has me jumping.

My hand on the handle of the kitchen door, I hesitate before slowly pulling it open and entering the dark room. It seems I am the first one here. Warily, I walk to the island in the centre of the room. I hear a noise behind me and sweep round, fast and on my guard. The door opens and in walks Steph and two other girls I vaguely recognise. I watch as doubt crosses their faces as they see me in the empty room.

“Hi.” Steph says, “Where are the other two?”

I shrug, “Maybe they won't come?”

Minutes pass. By now I'm doubting it too. I invented the whole thing. My imagination got the better of me. Now, I'm glad I didn't tell anyone the part about why we're supposed to be here – the felony gene – what a joke! They'd have a field day.

“Jem.” Steph whispers, “I don't think...”

And then the door opens behind her and Dave and Roy peer in.

“Come in!” I say, excited by their very presence. I can't believe they turned up. Then I remember that we don't seem to be doing any escaping and my heart sinks.

“We thought you'd be gone.” Roy says, and he doesn't seem sceptical, even though he should be.

“What's the plan?” Dave adds, in a soft voice that's barely audible.

“I'm the plan.” a voice comes from the darkness. 

We turn around and face the light thrown into the room by the open door at the opposite end of the room. A door I'd never seen until now. The silhouette of a man blocks the doorway. 

We stare at each other, not knowing what to say. Then we all share a look and blindly, trusting oh-so-easily, we follow the silhouette into the light.

The epiphany I had whilst cleaning the kitchen sink today!

Some may find it in the drink
I found it in my kitchen sink
when scum removed, something I see
my own face staring back at me

I always thought I knew that face
I'd been with her from place to place
I'd searched my soul, and knew my heart
I'd grown from that girl at the start

But after change, that came with growth
Not every change could fit the mould
the shape that some expect of me
I could not be, what I had been

I faced rejection, I was ashamed
Should I put this new girl back away?
Was I now a monster? How would I know?
For all my strength, what was to show?

I made a mask to hide behind,
a farce that I had peace of mind
I even had myself deceived,
did not see my insecurity.


But when I made my journey home
from travels that I'd made alone
and found happiness in being with friends
and another half, soul on the mend
I couldn't place the pain I felt
or why my heart was racked with guilt
and then it hit me yesterday -
I let self-doubt get in the way!

Everything I'd learned in the past
About a girl that's fit to last
who draws on strength from High Above
and strives to walk the Way of Love
had been clean swept off the floor
when hate walked through an open door
I let the devil dance on my pain
and forgot that cleansing comes from rain

Now when the dirty sink is clean
and I spy a person in that gleam
that only comes from elbow grease
(or maybe if you're using bleach)
I see this is a parody
of what this whole thing means for me...

Yes, I still know myself,
Not perfect but always gaining wealth
of the most desirable kind
by keeping Father God in mind.
And does He not grant my worth?
I'm one in kind on this whole earth
I have a value, loved by He,
why would I doubt what He taught me?

And yes, just like this shiny sink,
I might need cleaning, a lot I think!
But it's the many, many cracks in pots
that let light stream out such a lot

So I'll embrace this woman who,
in Jesus is made brand new,
and won't believe the worldly lies
that it's people who decide
the worth of each and every being;
based on what we do, or how we seem.

No, this is my epiphany,
I'm good enough, just being me.