Lost in Translation

Lost in Translation

So we were debating the various complexities of an all-white choir putting on a production of the African-American opera Porgy and Bess (I am now in my 30s and these are the conversations I have on a Saturday night), when my friend suddenly paused, narrowed her eyes and said suspiciously, ‘wait a minute, is this going to go in your blog?’

Well, quite patently, yes…. I have discovered that, since I’ve started writing a regular blog, people seem to be a lot more careful what they say around me. Which is not going to make for entertaining writing at all. Come on people, give me the juice! Or I’m going to have to start making friends with unsuspecting strangers in order to source my material. Which lead me to wonder (‘I couldn’t help but wonder….’) what happens to the friends of people who are actual writers? Do they simply accept that most of their lives are somehow going to end up in their mate’s next novel? There is something of the parasite feeding off the host… I remember reading an article about an author in which he was accused of using other people’s misery for his own gains – and being very dispassionate about, for example, a friend’s suicide. However, so far nobody has started avoiding me - or de-friended me on Facebook (the ultimate friendship cut off) - so until I am told otherwise, I will continue to plunder my acquaintances for material.

If that’s OK with you.

I have also been told that I need to issue an apology to the boy in my office who I accused of being A Gay last week. Apparently, he’s as hetero as they come. This is despite the fact, so far that this morning, he has showed me his shiny new white trainers (Olympic edition Adidas) and was most recently sighted hanging around the cake shelf, debating the various merits of chocolate cake VS  victoria sponge with The Confirmed Office Gay. Yes indeedy, the testosterone is flying around our office. Ooh it’s like the changing rooms after a Man City match. Speaking of which, The Confirmed Office Gay has just played 'Hot Stuff' at full volume in tribute to Donna Summer.

 Just when I thought it couldn't get any more macho in here.

In other news, my sister has been sharing the cultural differences between England and Spain with me. She is teaching English in Barcelona, and one of the exercises she set her students was to explain what really gets on their nerves. Apparently the most popular complaint was ‘I hate it when I get in the elevator and people don’t say hello to me’. WTF? In the UK, surely we would think someone was chatting us up/ mentally unhinged/ about to mug us/ plain weird if they spoke to us in the lift. HELLO, WE DON’T SAY HELLO UNTIL WE HAVE BEEN INTRODUCED! BY A MUTUAL ACQUAINTANCE! AND THEN WE STILL MIGHT PRETEND WE DON’T KNOW YOU FOR SEVERAL WEEKS!

This also brought to mind the language barrier she faced when she was living in Thailand. I recall her telling me about the Thai women in Dunkin Donuts who called her a silly bitch (in Thai) when she asked for more milk in her coffee – unaware that she could understand them. And then there was the time that her boyfriend came home all upset because all the women thought he looked really old. Apparently as he walked down the street they were shouting ‘sixty, sixty’ at him. This later emerged to, in fact, be ‘sexy, sexy’ – in an Asian accent. It’s amazing the differences a couple of letters make.

Speaking of lost in translation, I was listening to ‘Let me clear my throat’ this morning, and it took me a good few minutes to recall that these were the words, and not ‘Let me check my coat’. Further to this train of thought, I have only recently discovered that Lady Gaga’s ‘Edge of Worry’ is in fact ‘Edge of Glory’, and Will Young’s song ‘Jealousy’ is not ‘Jersey’. For ages I was singing ‘And it feels like Jersey/ And it feels like I can breathe’. I thought he was extolling the virtues of the clean fresh air on the beautiful island of Jersey. Yeah - not so much.

That is all. I have also been signed up to e-harmony by my Cackling Female Friends, but I need to steel my nerves before I am ready to write about that particular ignominy.

The Hobby

The Hobby

I don’t want to end up old and alone. I know that sounds terribly pathetic/ non-feminist/ needy/ bordering on desperate, but it’s true. Isn’t that true for everybody? Nobody really wants to think that they’ll be spending the evening of their lives sat in Drucker’s with a stale scone for company. And nobody to share the apricot jelly with.

So, in the vein of finding my Jack/ reassuring myself that I’d rather be alone, I have asked some of my friends to set me up with somebody suitable. And not just someone that will be comedy value for them (although I suppose it would give me something to write about). I have high hopes. And that’s despite my experience of Alison’s husband’s friends to date (pointing out when I’m exposing myself in that ill-advised Vicky Martin top with the doily-type pattern down the front/ telling me I could have bought 3 pints with the amount I’d just spent on a Grey Goose martini. Yeah. And…?) Anyway, I’ve given up on men at BBC. And at the gym. The boys in my office spent this morning arguing over who was entitled to the last lemon meringue Krispy Kreme. Only one of them was gay.

(Allegedly).

And my most recent experience of Virgin Men was when one of the sales team examined a photograph of a gorgeous Olympic athlete in a sports magazine and commented. “She’s got no batty. Like an Ikea flatpack. I can’t work with that.” She’d be devastated, I’m sure.

In other non-panicking-about-impending- lonely-retirement news, I have also been thinking about hobbies. This was brought on by an evening jaunt around the Edgbaston reservoir, watching the various rower-types on the water. Every time I walk past the Edgbaston rowing club I resolve that I will join some kind of water-based sport in the summer – and become one of those happy outdoorsy type people sailing gaily across the lake. As soon as I get home I promptly forget this resolution - until the next walk, when I think about it again. And then forget. And so the cycle continues. I’d say it’s coming up to 10 years now that I have been considering my boating career. God, I could have entered the Olympics by now.

But I digress. My friend pointed out that, really, we weren’t like them – they were too “posh and row-ey”. Apparently, we’re common and un-row-ey. But it made me think about starting a new hobby. Unfortunately my track record with hobbies hasn’t been too great: there was the book club I started, with the book that I chose and made everyone buy. Within one chapter I decided that the book was far too dull for me to waste any more time on, and so Meeting One turned into brunch with wine, minus discussion of books. And then everyone lost interest.

 Then there was the salsa class I joined in Manchester, when I was living with Boring Simon. Simon was in IT Recruitment which, as my colleague pointed put at the time, was like ‘Boring squared’.  Boring Simon had somehow managed to acquire Fun Chinese Girlfriend, Ting Ting, whose enthusiasm for salsa persuaded me to attend a class with her. It wasn’t until 20 minutes in, when I was wondering how the hell everyone knew all the moves - and could execute them so quickly - that I realised that Ting Ting had tricked me into entering the Advanced class, the Asian bitch. So she merrily cha cha cha-ed away whilst I stepped on people’s feet and pirouetted the wrong way. Then I got Hand Raped by some random Italian guy when we had to partner up – who kept stroking my thumb in a forceful way - and all in all it was just a thoroughly unpleasant experience.

But I do feel like I have tried to be a joiner several times over the years. In the name of getting outside of my comfort zone I spent an evening at a 3 hour Experimental Dance class in a warehouse in Digbeth. The evening culminated in us having to spell out the letters of our name, using different parts of our body. And join this up into a dance. And then perform it in front of 2 dance instructors and the remainder of the class. That was amazing. There was the writing MA that I started, but then gave up on when I realised that spending 3 hours every Wednesday listening to other people read their writing in a Dramatic Voice was beginning to make me want to kill myself.

So… I’ve still not signed up for the rowing club. I’m guessing that, along with my yearly resolution to ‘write more’ and ‘save more’, I should just accept that I’m not really a joining kind of girl. I’m quite happy standing at the front of the gym, telling everyone else what to do. Control freak? I just like to think of myself as Girl Who Knows Her Own Mind.

Post Soaps

Post-Soaps

I think that my experience of the British Soap Awards 2012 can be summarised by the following:

Highlight of the night – I discovered that Hold Ups, as opposed to tights, are much more comfortable.

And this is in no way a reference to sexual ‘escapades’ – if that’s what you’re thinking (Joe). It is simply that this was the main enjoyment of the night. Yes: the glamour of showbiz.

Now I don’t mean to sound ungrateful – I realise that I am very privileged to be allowed to attend the Soaps at all, and it is quite exciting when you first realise that you’re in the same room as the cast of Emmerdale etc. But the ceremony is boring. And long. And hot. And once you realise that Doctors was going to win exactly nothing – and the hours we had spent collating clips/ the co-ordinators had invested sorting trains and hotels -  had been a total waste of time, you get a bit fed up of clapping for Eastenders.

Then there’s the after-party – which generally consists of too much free alcohol, and nowhere near enough food. That might sound a horribly dull indictment, but I am an ATHLETE for god’s sake ;) and thus need to be fed every 3 hours. At the very least. There were a lot of Soap Stars standing around looking, frankly, pretty bored. Main topics of discussion: which Hollyoaks girl they’d like to shag; which club they must be photographed at later on.

 I bumped into a writer, D, from a Soap I worked in a few years ago. Who didn’t remember me at all. Always gratifying from someone you worked with for a year. Conversation went like this:

Me: D!

D: Er…. Hi….

Me: Do you remember me, I used to work with you on Soap X....

D: (Pause) Lily?!!

Me: No…. Sarah…. I was the researcher…

D: You’ve just started?

Me: No.

D: You’ve just finished?

Me: No (at this stage starting to lose the will to live).

D: You finished a long time ago.

Me: (Obviously) Yes.

D: Sarah…. Sarah…. Sarah Shortt! I do remember. Well you never wore those clothes to the office. And I meet so many new people darling. You see, this is why I don’t hang out with white people any more.

Cause you see I never meet any new people. In fact I’ve not met a single new person since I left the show – that’s how I can remember D. Plus I have an amazing ability to recognise people even when they’re wearing different clothes. I can even differentiate between people of other ethnic origins.

 I think I may be a walking miracle.

So that did put me in a grumpy mood somewhat, and he then accused me of losing my sense of humour. Well, being completely blanked by someone you worked with for a year can do that to you.

It should be pointed out that this writer is, also, white.

Anyway…. Aside from that little self-confidence booster…. I got papped falling out of a taxi outside Café Du Paris, exposing my pants, brilliant. Luckily I’m not famous so I imagine they deleted that picture straight away…. Managed to get in free by attaching myself to Ryan Thomas’ entourage, but tragically - because I had to make an emergency trip to the ladies’ room - managed to get separated from all my friends and thus wasn’t allowed into the VIP area. I spent a good 15 minutes attempting to persuade the evil bouncer to let me in, followed by a short tour of the dance floor by myself, followed by a jubilant 20 seconds when I thought I had managed to fox the bouncer by sneaking past when he wasn’t looking - ‘Aha!’ I thought, ‘I’m in! Screw you, Nazi Bouncer of Doom!’ – then sadly realised that, in my inebriated state, I had mistaken an ice bucket for a VIP barrier. And, in fact, was still in the land of the Common People.

The night finished in the hotel bar, where I discovered that the actor who played the racist in Doctors was, in actual fact, not a racist at all but A Very Nice Bloke. I managed not to throw up (hurrah), or end up with man juice on my Silver Princess Shoes, but didn’t quite reach the pinnacle of celebrity achieved 2009 when I met Biff from Saxon. You know. Who ‘This is Spinal Tap’ was based on. He’s mega famous and he texted me from Iceland a few weeks later. Yep, that’s just how the Shorttmeister rolls.

Re: the above (being blanked by people who really should remember you) - I think the insult of the night came from our illustrious leader at the beeb. He told my gorgeous Irish friend that, all dolled up, she reminded him of ‘My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding’. Just what every girl dreams of hearing when she’s spent an afternoon beautifying herself.

Apparently Matt Le Blanc was staying at the same hotel. Well, he missed out.