Quitting Diet Coke: Day 1

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On Sunday night I ran out of diet coke. I checked the usual hiding spots in the garage – there’s usually a half drunk carton of 24 cans under an old drum kit full of rat droppings – but even that stash was down to zero. I heard somewhere that you can use coke to clean your toilet bowl and that it’ll melt rust off of your bike, but there was none hidden away in the cleaning cupboard beside the bleach and the scourers. I had just spent my last pennies on a tub of Tesco’s finest pre-prepared cookie dough, so buying more cans of liquid platinum deliciousness wasn’t an option. I would have to quit.

I also realise that drinking a minimum of six 330ml cans of diet coke every day for the past two months is probably only good for pickling my intestines, and I’m pretty sure I’m gonna start pissing formaldehyde soon, so quitting seemed more and more like a good idea.

Premature ecokeulation

Day One: Monday
10am: Monday morning went off without much trouble. I had a sip of water (quite possibly the first time I’ve had plain water in two weeks) and had juice with breakfast. Coffee to replace the caffeine.

1pm: By lunch time I was a mess. My teeth were aching and my ear drums were being accosted from the inside with hammers made of sadness. I felt miserable.

7pm: By dinner time I had lost my appetite and just wanted to bathe in the filthy brown bubbles while surrendering myself and all my ideologies to multinational corporate greed, but I didn’t, I held out, because I’m poor right now and have no choice. I thought about selling old underwear on gum tree so I could run down the shop and buy some more of the self-hate juice but I was too lazy, and couldn’t think straight at the time.

2am: After breaking through the concrete floor of the garage in case someone had Hans-Soloed some diet coke into my building just to fuck with me, I found a stash of twelve 150ml cans of diet coke.

2.02am: My mouth tastes of rust and happiness and my tummy is full of bubbles. I failed at quitting, but I slept like a happy, happy baby.

Can I see your ID?

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It’s not an earthquake or a death in the family, but I’m completely over getting IDed whenever the opportunity arises. Last week I tried to buy a set of knives to replace the blunt spoons I’ve been using to get cucumbers into a salad format, when a boy with an unsettlingly small face and fish eyes demanded proof of my age.

I’m a grown-ass woman. (Not grown enough to know whether that hyphen is necessary). I do my own laundry, I make a mean cheese on toast and I’ve easily read at least three Harry Potter books.

I get that they have to be careful and ensure that they sell cigarettes, alcohol and knives to people who are responsible. But it’s really frustrating when all I want to do is get drunk and stab people.

I thought I had it rough

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I’ve been away for the past month or two, traveling. Berlin, Prague, Vienna, Budapest, Krakow, Warsaw. A week in Rome. I thought I would do a lot of writing while I was away, but I ended up gawking around and scribbling occasional brain farts of little value.

I did get a lot of time to redraft and revise my play Pillars of Sand throughout my journeying, so there’s a plus.

Rome was incredible. Here’s a poem by Michelangelo, having a whinge about painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

I’ve grown a goitre by dwelling in this den–
As cats from stagnant streams in Lombardy,
Or in what other land they hap to be–
Which drives the belly close beneath the chin:

My beard turns up to heaven; my nape falls in,
Fixed on my spine: my breast-bone visibly
Grows like a harp: a rich embroidery
Bedews my face from brush-drops thick and thin.

My loins into my paunch like levers grind:
My buttock like a crupper bears my weight;
My feet unguided wander to and fro;
In front my skin grows loose and long; behind,

By bending it becomes more taut and strait;
Crosswise I strain me like a Syrian bow:
Whence false and quaint, I know,
Must be the fruit of squinting brain and eye;

For ill can aim the gun that bends awry.
Come then, Giovanni, try

To succour my dead pictures and my fame;
Since foul I fare and painting is my shame.

A week at Arvon

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I went to stay at The Hurst a few weeks ago (perhaps a month ago?), and since I scoured the internet for blogs and reviews before I went, I feel it’s my duty to add to the mix.

The course I went on was specifically for playwrights and was open to people at any stage in their writing – some people came with drafts of full length plays while others came empty handed. The venue was the beautiful Hurst, set in the middle of nowhere, with no interwebs or mobile phone signal in the vicinity. Some managed to find pockets of signal, but they weren’t on O2. The radio silence was essential to me getting work done, however, so I can’t complain.

The Hurst was given over to the playwright John Osborne (yeah, that Look Back In Anger John Osborne) by some wealthy actor, and today it’s sponsored by various dramaturgs, actors, writers, and generous donors. The toilets all seem to be sponsored by Dame Maggie Smith. I wondered if she had used the one I used. I had deep thoughts everywhere at Arvon. Students stay in the servant’s quarters of the main house (where I was) or in the clockhouse, which also houses a clock.

There were about 12 of us all in, though after day one that dropped to 11 (I believe this is an uncommon occurrence) on an Arvon course. Our tutors were Tanika Gupta and Leo Butler. They were great, you should read their plays. And see their plays. And do other things with them.

A quick breakdown of the week:
Monday – everyone arrived between 4 and 6. We were served an epic meal, with desert and drinks. Come 7pm the tutors took us upstairs into a den of cozy words and cushions where they introduced themselves, let us ask questions and gave us an overview of the week. I did the washing up – you wash up in a team on the night before your team cooks dinner – everyone does it once in the week.

Tuesday – 10am, so not too early, we all headed down to the barn/studio and had a workshop up until lunch at 1pm. The workshop consisted of a lot of introspection, and involved a lot of tears and sadness. Also, throwing a ball around. We wrote monologues and were given some homework. Lunch was ready for hungry bellies upon our return to the clockhouse. Food over, free time until dinner at 7pm. Some write, some wander, others wonder. Some do all three. Dinner – I made it, with others. Beschamel sauce, aka Bishamel sauce was my crowning glory for the week. Also, pie and fruit, etcetera. Wonderful teammates. My duties are done for the week. Leo did a reading from his play Faces In The Crowd.I cry a little (inside). The night goes on late. My new friend and I play scrabble. This is how writers party. Kind of.

Wednesday – 10am, more ball games. More introspection. More tea and biscuits. People are hyper talented. I feel small and stupid – that’s more me than the course or anyone else. This changes by the end of the week. I think. Tamsin Oglesby comes to visit us this evening. She talks to us about her process, where she gets ideas from, what it’s like to work with directors, how she got her plays staged, and we do some readings. We have some strong actors in our group, I’m awed. Tamsin is lovely and stays up to chat with us over drinks.

Thursday – 10am. The second to last day, we get set special homework specific to whatever it is we’re working on. People begin to get apprehensive about the showcase on Friday evening. I nap the evening away – late nights with new friends have caught up to me. Tanika shows us a DVD of Banglatown Banquet, a lovely TV movie made for the BBC that she wrote. I stay up late with buddies and watch a fantastic Danish film, Adam’s Apples. Recommend it very highly.

Friday – 10am. Panic. We have to read to each other tonight! We have to have something to read. We must convince others to act in our plays. Must. Print. More. Copies. The showcase goes very well – lovely to hear how much work has been developed over the week. The variety amongst the group is.. well, various. I think I know how my play has to end. We stay up late again.

Saturday – Everyone up and out by 10am. Some people have already left. I’m glad I brought my car. We wave off others and then get waved off ourselves.

I’m happy to say that my writing improved significantly over the week. The tutors, the accommodation and the food were fantastic (though I do hate washing up). The view from my room was beautiful. I lucked out and got a double room to myself, and I got to share a toilet that I’m pretty sure Prof McGonagall / The Dowager of Countess of Grantham has used.

If you get the chance – go.

10 Alternatives to Popcorn at the Movies

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I will happily admit that I am the grumpy asshole who demands complete silence at the movies. Yes, that includes your unnecessarily loud breathing. Come back after you’ve had that checked out.

I don’t know who had the genius idea of serving popcorn and nachos in a place where you’re supposed to sit in silence for at least an hour and a half, but instead of squeezing into “the box,” jumping back in time and forcing him to destroy his own creation ala Miles Dyson, I have instead compiled this list of 10 alternatives to popcorn that will prevent that grumpy guy kicking the back of your chair.

10. Quiche

Soft, squidgy, pie-shaped and best of all, silent – quiche will fill you up, keep you (relatively) healthy and will stop me from punching you in the face.

Quiche at the movies: quichies

 

9. Mashed Potatoes

Like a gentle, noiseless cloud of fluffy tastyness, mashed potatoes will melt in your rowdy, unwelcome mouth and will help you focus on the wonder unfolding before you.

MashedPotatoes

 

8. Candy Floss

For those of you with a sweet tooth, candy floss is an acceptable and currently widespread movie theatre treat. I approve of this, given that it isn’t served in a plastic bag. Crumpling your wrapper and grating my eardrums is equivalent to your Lil Wayne ringtone blaring in the final scene of Memento.

Candy Floss

 

7. Cheesecake

Cream cheese, sugar and a buttery biscuit base. You can have your cake, and eat it. Quietly.

Cheesecake

 

6. Jelly

Oodles of wobbly joy in small, fruit flavoured glooples, jelly is the catch all solution to your fiercely important mid-movie munching needs. Let your teeth slide mutely through the glossy curves of a pot of raspberry jelly when you need it most – which is apparently right at the start of all punchlines in all movies, ever.

jelly

 

5. Mushrooms

Lightly tossed and heated with a touch of garlic oil, freshly picked mushrooms are essentially little bursts of colour and flavour in an otherwise dim and boring period of your life spent in a dark room with strangers.

mushrooms

 

4. Marshmellows wrapped in 2-ply tissue paper

Puffy flavourballs of love, marshmellow can come in multiple flavours and will coat your mouth in sweetness before you can say ‘lol, I don’t get it, why’d he cut that guy’s ear off? Michael Madsen you so crazy! JK love you bro’

staypuft-marshmallow-man

 

3. Grapes

Healthy, juicy and delicious, these sweet spheres of unfermented love will fill the most demanding of talkative, unrelenting mouths.

grapes

 

2. Nutella (fingers only, no alternative crunchy dipping complimentaries

If none of the other alternatives to popcorn have tickled your tummy fancy, then this one certainly will. Nutty without the noise, chocolatey and creamilicious, Nutella will take your mouth to a place filled with the eternal sunshine of a nutless mind.

nutella

1. Air

My final suggestion to you is to grab a seat, save your money (it already cost you £10 to get in here!), sit back, and enjoy the sustenance provided by the lovely writers, producers, directors, actors and crews that have come together to create something for your viewing pleasure.

Do you have any other suggestions?

The Great White Silence

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The Great White Silence

Herbert Ponting was a professional photographer who Robert Falcon Scott brought onto his crew for his tragic Terra Nova Expedition to the Antarctic in 1910. Ponting filmed footage of the preparations and early journeys down to and documented this expedition, later editing it together into his silent documentary, The Great White Silence.

herbert ponting camera robert falcon scott antarctic terra nova polar expedition

From the bfi’s notes at the screening:

The film captures the journey to Antarctica aboard the Terra Nova life in camp, the indigenous wildlife – seals, killer whales and (of course) penguins – the landscapes and ice formations. Most remarkably, though, it records the men themselves happily preparing for the journey to the Pole, demonstrating how they will cook and eat and sleep in their tent on their three-month walk through the frozen wastes. Scott, Wilson, Bowers and Evans sit around showing off their reindeer-hide sleeping bags, smiling and chatting over pemmican hoosh (a stew made of dried meat and melted snow). These are the very men who would die on the journey, in the very tent that would become their tomb.

The archive’s team restores the original footage as Ponting intended it, and renders a sharp, high resolution image. Together with Simon Fisher Turner’s new, haunting score including ambient sounds recorded in and around the crew’s equipment and the ship.

The poignant, beautiful moments in this documentary come in watching the crew’s interactions with each other and their environment. Ponting also creates a great shot of the ice breaker on front of the ship cutting through the ice surrounding them, which he captured by dangling precariously on a plank jutting out from the side of their ship. The knowledge that this footage was filmed approximately 100 years ago to date really blows my mind and reminds me of the power of film as a medium and how it can capture the stories and strength in epic human endeavours such as this.

dog siberian herbert ponting camera robert falcon scott antarctic terra nova polar expedition