And I don't know it...

Well tonight I'm off to the Bluecoats in Liverpool to hear some poetry done proper like.

Unlike mine.

Perhaps I should get an MA in it, and then mine would be proper too. Like.

Oh I'm coming over all self pitying and moany. Think I'll go out instead. This isn't a healthy frame of mind!

Whenever I want you, all I have to do...

Horizon, a BBC2 programme, had an episode called 'Why do we dream?'

It's absolutely fascinating, but, for some obscure reason, the programme makers have decided to dilute the science with frightening, horror film images of dreaming and sleep; long corridors that warp slightly with the view of the camera, slightly transparent images projected onto the twitching faces of unconsciously sleeping bodies, and thrashing, shouting dream-ridden somnambulists staring with unseeing vacant sight in the grey-green glare of the nightsight camera. Even the scientists themselves are introduced with Stoker levels of menace- close ups on eyeballs and twitching, blurred images, as though they'd somehow been beamed down from the nearest passing spaceship, and abandoned to analyse our dreams.

There's no doubt that dreaming can leave people feeling vulnerable, but that's only half of the story. Maybe even a quarter of the story. Humans must sleep or they die. And when your relationship with sleep becomes complicated, in any way, that has a massive impact on your life.

When I was a child, I walked in my sleep. I also talked, sang, debated, screamed, and now know, having done a little research as an adult, suffered from night terrors. Dreaming occurs when your brain is asleep but active, but your body is totally paralysed to stop you acting things out. On a very, very basic level, sleep walking is when the 'paralysed' bit doesn't work, so you act out your sleeping brain's commands; night terrors are the opposite, when the 'paralysed' bit works just fine, it's just your brain isn't asleep- in fact, you're paralysed but awake. I grew out of that, and out of the sleep walking, and, don't get me wrong, my complicated sleep patterns were dealt with very positively by my parents, who had a light touch with my sleep walking; even as a teenager, they never made it a problem, it was more interesting than stressful.

That said, I hate going to sleep. The one thing I didn't grow out of was the nightmares. I have vivid and distressing dreams; sometimes they're violent or extreme enough to be nightmares, sometimes they're just intensely upsetting. I often wake shouting, or crying real tears, distressed and frightened, and very disorientated.

So I was fascinated to learn from this programme that REM sleep, previously believed to be the powerhouse of our dreams, may be only the centre for very negative dreams, with other, more positive dreams occurring during non-REM sleep. And that people who have suffered from depression being more prone to REM sleep in a night than people who aren't depressed.

This is good news. It's interesting, factual, exploratory, and very, very helpful. I feel calm and reassured by the research and messages it is discussing.

So who on earth decided to fill the programme with images so frightening, so reminiscent of nightmares, so likely to recur during the night, that I've had to turn it off, and... and... well I don't admit this easily, wait until there is someone else here to watch it with me... so I'm not alone.

A good, REALLY good BBC programme, for me made too difficult by the need to tap into the popular astrological, medium, palm reading view of dreams, through their choice of filler images and background music. So the people who really need to see it, have to look away. I could make comparisons, but... I wouldn't want to distress anyone.

Hmmm.

Never Make Decisions After a Bottle of Wine...

(Part One... I suspect!)

Ok, so the NaNoAnon group met last night, for post- mortems on the Mills and Boon. It was a really good night, ending up in Pizza Express for buy-one-get-one free pizzas and pasta (thanks to moneysavingexpert.com) and lots of chat. Anyway, as tends to happen when you put six terrible creative minds in a small space and ply at least one of them with white wine, ideas were flowing by the end of the night, and one of them seems to have developed a life of its own.

So, for Red Nose Day 09, which is March 13th, we'll be launching twimerick, a limerick-a-thon, in person and online, to raise money for Comic Relief. The twitterate amongst you can get updates by following @twimerick or @livtwim.

There are many details to be decided, which I will blog at a later stage, but at the moment we all feel quite excited that we can raise money doing something we all enjoy- drinking coffee... oh, no, I mean, writing :-)

Watch this space!

Naked: Nurses... o_O

It's five to two, and, whilst flicking aimlessly through the TV channels looking for something soporific to lull me to sleep, I've stumbled upon 'Naked: Nurses'. Now, don't jump to conclusions, this is not (entirely) about to be a feminist rant about the exploitation of the female form for the titilation of the general public, but I do have deep concerns about this programme. It's one of a series, in which a group of people who work together embark on a series of challenges designed to tackle their insecurities and deal with their negative self images head on, culminating with a 'get naked' challenge, a la Gok. The first in the series was a group of beauty therapists, four female, one male, with their final challenge being life modelling, posing for an art class.

That is where the similarity 'How to Look Good Naked' ends. I have deep concerns about this programme, on many levels. The interactions are forced, the situations contrived, and the naked challenge is, to be frank, gratutious. Please understand, I am in favour of nakedness on tv; compared to the instances of violence, nudity is still seen as something 'shameful', and the fact that it is still illegal to show an erection (something that most of us in our lives are fairly likely to see for real) compared to some of the unlikeliness of say, Shameless or Skins... or Eastenders... is beyond comprehension. One of Gok's prime achievements is to show lots of nakedness, in a very relaxed way, that allows women (and men) to make a sensible comparison of themselves against the rest of the female community, as opposed to the airbrushed perfection in the media. And I'm in favour of the same 'comparison' being available for men. However, the nakedness here feels... well... I don't know. I'm uncomfortable.

That is not my main issue, however. More deeply, the thing that concerns me here is the 'quick fix' psychology that is on display. There are two 'experts'; Jonathan Phang, who clearly fancies himself as Gok but is way too bitchy behind the participants backs to be truly on their sides, and who is styled as 'mentor', and Emma Kenny, who is the psychologist. In the two shows I have seen, I've watched as the group are encouraged to shout their worst things about themselves to the sky... 'I am fat', 'I'm a bad mother'.... in an attempt to 'let go' of the negativity surrounding these thoughts... and, no really, made to do it a few times- "I'm sure you can do better than that... come on, just a little louder." They're then almost wrestled into a hug... "Yes, you let it out, there, there..." with those unable to squeeze a few tears labelled as 'hostile' or 'not up for the challenge'.

Having worked extremely hard myself in therapy, for a long time, I feel angered by the way this tears- and- hugging remedy is portrayed as somehow 'fixing' the people involved. On one level its shallowness is unproductive; on another, downright destructive, as people who are encouraged to tackle serious issues- long absent fathers, neglectful partners, are almost patted on the head for the effort, then disparaged if they somehow don't feel up to getting their kit off for the cameras at the end. I'm concerned that people will think this is somehow what therapy is really like, and that they will be put off trying it, when it is something that could really help.

I know TV can be rubbish; a diversion, a distraction, entertainment, and I also know that there is some excellent programmes taking on issues and airing debate, but... even by these standards, this show is disturbing. And more so as it's produced using my money by the BBC.

Hopefully, no-one's watching.

Please Don't Hold This Against Me...

Actually now I think about it, that would be a GOOD title for a Mills and Boon :-) Here's my contribution to the Wrimo M&B challenge. The other five can be found by following the links to their blogs. If I'm going down, I'm taking them with me. Oooo also a potential Mills and Boon title haha...

Chapter Five of 'Steer Me Home' by Eloise Jaimeson.

Corina slammed the door of the office and threw the huge pile of paperwork onto her already shambolic desk. “That MAN!” she growled, turning towards her wide- eyed colleague, June.
“Ohhh...” said June, a look of comprehension crossing her face. “Back from the meeting with the lovely Max, I take it?”
“Don't even joke about it, June. He's insufferable. I swear to you, one of these days..” Corina left the sentence unfinished as she pulled the tie off her unruly hair, shaking it so it fell across her shoulders before attempting to scrape it back into some semblance of neatness. “I mean, I know I'm the redhead, but he makes Genghis Khan seem positively reasonable.”
“And I'm guessing you made sure he was aware of your feelings before you left?” enquired June, with a raised eyebrow.
Corina looked a little sheepish. “Well, what else was I supposed to do?” she said, grumpily. “He said he didn't like the menus.”
“Ah.” June turned with a sympathetic look. “Are you going to redo them?” she asked, calmly.
Corina sank into her chair, all rage spent. She ran her hand across her head. “I don't know.” she sighed. “It's such a good account, if we get it.. well you know. Our reputation will be sky high. But I just don't know if I can keep... he's so.. so...”
“Awkward?” June supplied.
“That's putting it mildly.”
“Do you want me to take it over?” June walked over to Corina's desk and picked up the top sheet. “If he's really that bad?”
Corina stood and took back the file. “No, no.. it's ok, really. You've more than enough on your plate; plus I've done most of the background already. I just need to get my professional head on, and not let him upset me so much. He's just a client for goodness' sakes. I'll be fine.” Forcing a smile, Corina gave June a hug. “Now, on with these menus. No, wait, cup of tea first!”

Max Clarkson had always known he would be a success. He'd bought his first classic car at the age of fifteen, a Bentley, with money he'd earned and saved from Saturday jobs and paper rounds. It was a wreck, but he'd read and learned and studied and worked, and eventually he'd sold it for twenty times the amount he'd bought it for. From that moment on, he was hooked, and even though he now owned and managed five sites, selling and renovating classic cars for the rich and famous, he still liked to get under the bonnet of a car, strip the engine down, feel the grease on his hands.
Lazily, he picked up one of the posters advertising the summer rally. She'd done a good job, and he wished he'd told her that. Not that she'd given him chance. She'd stormed out of the showroom door almost before he'd said anything. He sighed, and put the poster back on the desk. His hand hovered over the phone as he considered calling her to tell her, but then he pulled himself up. His life was complicated enough without getting involved with a crazy red-headed events manager. Even if she did have the most amazingly long legs. He smiled wryly to himself and picked up the phone. He was her customer. She could damn well be nice to him, the amount he was paying her. And she could damn well let him take her for dinner.

Corina wrapped a towel around her head and walked over to the wardrobe. Opening the doors she stood, wondering what on earth she could wear to a dinner she'd rather walk over hot coals than go to. One by one she started to take dresses out, holding them against her towel clad body, and looking in the full length mirror. “Too short....”she mused, discarding the dark green. Several others went the same way- the burnt orange chiffon was too revealing, the fail-safe black was too low cut. The last thing she wanted was him thinking she was making an effort. Finally she settled on the safe silver grey polo neck with black trousers. “Smart, casual,” she thought, though she knew the restaurant they were supposed to be going to was actually very dressy. She dried her hair and looped it round before clasping it at the back of her head, and once dressed, completed her outfit with the new knee length black boots she'd treated herself to at Christmas. Most of them would be hidden under her trousers, but the four inch heels gave her a satisfying boost, height wise, though she knew he'd still be an inch or two taller. Finishing with a spray of her favourite perfume, she looked at the result in the mirror.
“Professional. In control. I don't know what your game is, why you want dinner, Max Clarkson, but dinner is what you're going to get.” She smiled at herself, wishing she was as confident inside as she seemed on the outside. What was it about that man that made her so... volatile? She didn't like being near him, he unsettled her.
“It's just because this account means so much to you. That's why he bothers you,” she said out loud, decisively. Grabbing her bag from the bed, she headed out of the door of her first floor flat, trying hard to believe her own words.

Dinner was hardly a joyful affair. Max was charming, the perfect gentleman, but Corina knew she was on less than sparkling form. As they'd read the menus in the quiet bistro he'd taken them to, having ditched the five star when he saw what she was wearing, he'd commented again on the menus she'd prepared for the coming car rally. Feeling the fury rise in her stomach again, she'd swallowed hard, and from then on had been determined to bite her tongue. She knew this made her seem aloof, cold even, and she hated herself for it, but it was the only way she could stay in control.
An increasingly frustrated Max tried again and again to engage her, even resorting to talking about the rugby team he'd played in when he was twelve in a vain attempt to keep the conversation afloat. Finally, when she'd declined both dessert and coffee, he gave up, and called for the bill.
“I'm sorry you've had such an unpleasant evening,” he said, as he handed over his credit card.
Corina felt faintly ashamed of herself. “It... it wasn't unpleasant,” she stammered, looking down.
“No, really, don't worry about it,” he said, getting to his feet. “I'd hoped we'd be able to be friends as well as colleagues, but clearly that's not to be the case. I'm sure you're right, I'm sure it's for the best.” He picked her coat from off her chair and held it out for her to put on. She stood too, and eased her arm in, turning so he could offer the other arm. She felt his hand on her shoulder and a dart of electricity went through her, making her jump away from him.
A dark look crossed his eyes, and his face set. “Goodbye, Corina.” he said, and not even bothering to shake her hand, he walked away, throwing a note on the table in front of her. “Call yourself a cab, won't you?”

Corina looked down at the note in front of her and back at the closing door, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears. Brushing them away impatiently, she stood and picked up the money. Nodding to the waiter, she left and stood outside on the pavement, trying to get her bearings. It was a very quiet area, not somewhere Corina knew, and there were few cars or people around. She felt the tears welling up again and decided to walk for a while, clear her head. Why had she been so horrible to him? What WAS it about him that upset her so much? He'd been charming and funny, and so what if he'd mentioned the menus again. That was what she was there for, as his events manager, his employee... it's not like she was his lover, for goodness' sakes...
As she left that thought hanging in the air, she felt her face gradually redden. She thought back to the touch of his hand on her shoulder, and how intimate it had felt. Clasping her hands to her cheeks she realised, in shock, the reason he affected her so much. “Ohhh.. you silly, silly,..”

“Talking to yourself in the street. That'll get you locked up if you're not careful.” She jumped as he slammed the Bentley door, and walked round to her side of the car. She looked down, afraid he'd read her thoughts in her eyes.
“I thought you might struggle to get a taxi. I came back,” he said, his voice so soft and warm she felt the tears filling her eyes again. “It's a cold night and... Corina? Are you ok?” he asked, puzzled by her lack of response.
“Yes,” she whispered, and he drew closer to hear her.
“What's the... you're crying? What ever's wrong?” he said, and then his arms were round her, and she couldn't help it, she looked up at him.
For a moment the street disappeared and all that mattered was the strength of his arms, the depth in his eyes, his sweet full lips; and the look she saw reflected on his face made her knees weaken. She felt his arms tighten around her, pulling him to her, holding her safe.
“But you.... hate me....?” he whispered, wonderingly, searching her face for confirmation of what he was seeing.
Seeing the look of vulnerability in his eyes, Corina felt a rush of affection, and she smiled slightly.
“Turns out I'm not ALWAYS right,” she whispered, and could say no more as her words were drowned in his lips, her arms round his back, his hands caressing the bare nape of her neck, his tongue insistently seeking hers. A car horn suddenly sounded in the distance breaking the spell, making them both jump, and she could feel that he was shaking as he pulled away from her. He smiled at her and, holding her hand, he led her to the car in silent wonder, kissing her gently again before closing the door.

So Little Time...

Having not posted for a few days now, I realise just how much I've missed saying... how good Twestival was, all about my night out on Friday at the Rodewald Suite http://tiny.cc/L3tQ3 listening to the Matt Nickson Quartet (all three of them) play some very cool jazz, how much fun Saturday night with friends and Cranium was, how delicious Sunday lunch at the Foxcote near Chester was...

And alongside all those things that make me look like I actually have a life, some serious issues that have arisen today to do with copywrite and intellectual property; New Zealand's new laws http://tiny.cc/JOuiJ and Facebook's secret decision to steal all its users content http://tiny.cc/PDt6U being the two main ones that are causing concern, and some serious women bashing in the shape of a survey suggesting women who wear clothes and can't say 'No' in seven different languages are 'asking for it' http://tiny.cc/ZMCd2 and a delightful Facebook group dedicated to the delicate art of beating up women, http://tiny.cc/dveQA special honours going to Chris Brown.

All of which I could talk about, write about in depth. All of which really warrant a post in their own right. All of which would make me seem much cooler than what I AM going to actually post next.

The Nano group have a 1000 word Mills and Boon challenge for this month.

The deadlines is tomorrow night at midnight.

Mine will be appearing here. Please don't hold your breath...

*sighs...

Twestival

This evening I will be going to Twestival in Liverpool. For at least the third time, I almost typed 'Twestical' there, but I think that is something else entirely. Perhaps to be used in a modern version of the mills and boon challenge the nano group have going at the moment. I digress.

It's at Leaf Cafe, a venue which I've never been to, and it's an entirely new event- there has never been Twestival before, let alone one in Liverpool. There will, it seems, be live music, and auctions of items as diverse as spa treatments, photographs and Stephen Fry's socks (worn). Oh and of course, a raffle.

I had planned to wear jeans. No, let me rephrase that... I almost always wear jeans anyway, and I had considered which of my narrow selection of tops I might wear with them. But then... on twitter... things changed...

There was talk of... shopping.

Now let me say right up front; I'm not adverse to a bit of shopping. I find clothes shopping a little stressful, being not the size six that the fashion industry seems to have deemed worthy of wearing its broadest selection of clothes (don't start me...), but I do like having new things to wear. However, aside from the fact that I am skint, one thing I do find very stressful is shopping under pressure. I find shopping to a deadline for clothes is almost always result in disappointment- you can never find anything you like, and then the 'stand by' things you already owned that you'd planned to wear if you couldn't find anything always seem shabby in comparison.

It seems that for the aforesaid twitterers, the shopping trip was a success, and new clothes were purchased for display this evening. This may also be something to do with the fact that they managed to get out of the house in that strange time of the day they call 'morning', which probably relieved the 'panic' element I would have felt if I'd left the house at one o'clock. I look forward to admiring their look and congratulating them on their purchasing prowess.

For myself, I will just wear my jeans and be content. And hope there isn't a dress code... o_O

Procrastination

I am supposed to be arranging 'I Have a Dream' for the gospel choir that will be arriving here in one hour and fifty minutes. I also have to shop for food, and pack to go away later this evening. Instead, I am trying to rearrange the words 'Liverpool' and 'England' on my profile, so that they will be on different lines. This has included a significantly long phone call, and some rapid upskilling in HTML, along with a discussion about how different pages may communicate with different servers.

I really don't need to do that. I need to do the other things.

This is the story of my life.