Why do I keep a note of them? Because overheards provide wonderful material. I heard a man say to his mate at a bar: ‘To some people, it’s black and white with Nazi criminals.’ That one found its way into the mouth of a short-story character.
The phrase is to keep one’s ears to the ground. I recom mend keeping one’s head up, to catch the end of businessmen’s back-and-forth; the denouement of an argument; the riffs of reuniting friends. Nuggets of intrigue, comedy, shock. Please go on: I’m listening.
EMPTY CITIES
There are times of the year – the height of the summer holidays or the period between Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve – when city roads become bare and the pavements clear. Queues dwindle. Buses proffer seats. The clicks of heels echo around empty underground stations. Breathing in lifts becomes a thing. Running is to run undisturbed.
Living and working in a city is great, but you can’t escape the rat-race clichés: escalators of necks craning over phones and commuters rearranging themselves in a suited Rubik’s cube to allow a train door to close; the struggle to find a space in a pub and the very British request to ‘perch’ at the end of someone else’s table.
But when the non-native citizens of cities untether themselves from the flat whites, the desk lunches, the club nights, the traffic jams and the naff ads; when the out-of-office responses go on and suitcases are filled with swimming gear, or presents, and rolled on to platforms and stuffed into the boots of taxis: that is the magic. That is the smoothing out of terrain like a new map, revealing things gone unnoticed.
You remember those amazing shots of an empty Westminster Bridge at the beginning of 28 Days Later? Andrew Macdonald, the film’s producer, explained how they achieved those scenes: by filming in July at 4 a.m., waiting for the sun to come up, grabbing an hour or so of emptiness before rush hour. Before the fumes, the flapping newspapers and the cacophonous soundtrack of city life: barriers beeping, doors hissing, exhaust fumes sputtering.
I will never forget when I spent an entire journey on public transport by myself. Past 11 p.m. on a bank holiday Monday, I was returning from elsewhere as the rest of the capital moisturised, took out their contact lenses and prepared for the return to work. I, meanwhile, boarded a vacant carriage, then alighted at a station without a single soul in it. A mouse scuttled past, but – did I imagine this? – slower than normal.
There are opposites to all of this, of course: the year-round lido swimmer bombarded by fairweather dippers when temperatures hit 27°C. The galleries suddenly packed out by blockbuster exhibitions. The quiet park hosting a funfair. That is when I look forward to time off during school terms and mid-December breaks.
What I am saying is this: I encourage you to take a holiday, but my motives are not entirely altruistic.
STAYING OVER
I can’t remember how much I enjoyed – or didn’t like – sleepovers as a child. I suppose it depended on the other guests. They are not something I recall having a strong opinion on. Yet I find staying at friends’ houses as an adult immensely pleasurable. In truth, I find staying anywhere rather exciting, and hospitality in general a lovely thing. I occasionally stay in fancy hotels in the city where I live, just for a night, to break up the monotony (and for the rooftop pools).
On trips abroad, I enjoy staying with locals. But there is something specifically satisfying and, more than that, comforting about staying with pals. I’m sure a large part of this is that I somehow have friends with fancy houses in beautiful locations. I have friends with a stunning house in Oxford, mates with quaint cottages by the seaside.
A second factor is that my friends, in general, have their shit together more than I do: a domestic goddess I am not (despite my love of homeware and design). The feeling of being invited into someone else’s nest provides a privileged kind of contentment. Friends are the family we choose.
Late-night chatting by the fire and catching up over shared washing-up. Making time for breakfast with fresh orange juice, when the visit is on a weekend. Or mutually pulling on coats and picking up coffee en route to the train if I have crashed on a weeknight.
What I love best, though, is the juxtaposition between the warm familiarity of a friend you know and love, and the subtle high of a twist on the everyday. A different type of toothpaste (is it nicer than yours – fresher?). A shower that works an alternative way. Kitchen utensils you don’t own and can’t name. It is like snooping in a National Trust house, but one that is lived in by occupants you care about and who aren’t racist.
Perhaps the crux of it is: I feel safe. I feel wanted. If someone is willing to make up the spare bed for you, they must hold you in some regard. If someone pops their head round the door to offer you a cuppa in the morning, they can’t secretly despise you, right?
Maybe people who come from picture-perfect homes and archetypal nuclear families don’t have this joy. Maybe they are spoiled. But for me, there is a special type of bonding in someone saying, ‘Of course there is room at the inn.’ Of course, I return the favour – but not before warning you about the radiator that makes a super-weird noise in the night.
MASSAGES
It sounds indulgent, and that’s because it is, but I adore a massage. I worry that they have been tainted in popular consciousness by creepy co-workers lurking over interns, or sepia memories of adverts in phone boxes promising ‘happy endings’, or perhaps villains in films casually issuing directives for genocide while face down wearing a towel.
Really, though, is there anything better than a massage that hits the spot, or multiple spots? That kneads knots and soothes skin, pummels away pressure and works out worries?
One has to learn how to be the subject of a good massage. The most important aspect is matching with a good masseur or masseuse (it is similar to finding a suitable psychotherapist). Do you want a talker and, if not, is this person someone you feel comfortable with in silence? I have a habit of filling silences out of awkwardness, even in situations where it is perfectly acceptable not to speak – and if you are filling a silence out of awkwardness, that is not relaxing.
Also, will your therapist bring up truly out-there alternative medicines that verge on conspiracy theory? Again, not relaxing.
Deciding on the type of massage (Swedish, sports or deep tissue?) and location (home or parlour?) is another consideration. I would never enjoy a massage in my home because I know I’d end up noticing a flaking skirting board or books wearing coats of dust. Plus, a folding table would remind me of an ironing board and that, again, is not relaxing.
I much prefer the trickling water features and being offered tea on arrival, despite the fact that there is never time to drink it; I like statues of Buddha that seem offended at their environs. My massage place is next door to my hairdresser, so I make a double trip (massage first, otherwise the oil greases up my haircut).
The final thing is to become comfortable with one’s body. I have learned not to care if I have a blemish where a bra strap has rubbed or my legs aren’t shaved, or the underwear I am wearing is practical.
Massage is thousands of years old, and crosses cultures and continents, so there must be something in it. I’m no fan of its grand medicinal claims; but there is also no peer-reviewed paper on why an almond Magnum makes me feel good, and I don’t question that it does. After a good massage, the world always seems lighter, as do I.
CHOCOLATE
Some people are allergic to chocolate. It’s possible that whoever came up with the axiom ‘to count one’s blessings’ had just learned of this. Others apparently just don’t ‘like’ chocolate, which, if true (I maintain suspicion), there really ought to be some kind of support group.
I go through phases with chocolate. I always like it, but, similar to whichever spot in the house the cat chooses to sleep in, my preference changes. A classic bar of Cadbury Dairy Milk is a current favourite. Breaking the squares off seems almost a subversion of a bread-related religious act – and especially because I’m not sharing it.
Sponge, lemon drizzle and red velvet are all good cakes. But chocolate is the indulgent best. With its thick, rich but familiar icing, chocolate cake is casually deluxe in the manner of a fur coat slung over the back of the sofa.
The truly pompous chocolate is dark. Dark chocolate whispers green leathered roll-top desks. Imported rugs and bathtubs with feet. People claim to dislike it because it’s bitter, but the key is homing in on prime percentage. For me, that’s 70 per cent cocoa. 70 per cent is good bitter, like the fizzy bite of champagne that sneaks in alongside the sweetness. I have a friend who swears by 90 per cent, which is insane.
Its opposite is ‘advent calendar chocolate’ as I call it: the cheap and cheerful variant that comes in the form of edible coins and baubles. Or in packets picked up in foreign street markets with knock-off names. This chocolate is a rentable city bike; fun for a stint but not a proper vehicle. The dumb boyfriend of chocolate.
Selection boxes cause much anguish: I want it all but get worried about hurting the feelings of the ones I pick late. (NB. I am not claiming this is normal.) Meanwhile, Terry’s Chocolate Orange and After Eight Mints speak to me of Christmas but are at least available all year round, should the fancy take (and here a pointed and disapproving glance at Creme Eggs).
The only chocolate I see no need for is liqueur. These just seem to me the world’s smallest and least satisfying shots. Oh, and Aero. Aeros, are, quite literally, a waste of space. Plus, they have the consistency of decades-old mortar. Still, it’s chocolate. So I’m not going to say no.
DAY TRIPS
OK, let’s get the bad out of the way: the portmanteau ‘daycation’, a monstrous offshoot of the almost-equally offensive ‘staycation’. Given that I believe day trips are twelve-hour delights, they do not deserve to be labelled in such a painful way.
Wherever one lives, and whatever one feels about that place, there is never a downside to going on a miniature jaunt. It’s a means of experiencing the world in bitesize; broadening one’s horizons, but not too much. If the trip goes badly, it doesn’t matter, because: a) it is short and b) it has the effect of casting a new light on one’s regular environment.
One thing wealthy people do not understand about those with lesser financial means (and judge them for) is how they manage to – shock horror – own mobile phones, or laptops, or things that cost a few bob. What they are missing is that people who can’t afford never-ending luxuries will focus on treats to make the mundane bearable. Big treats saved up for, perhaps, or indulgences little and often.
Most of us cannot afford always to take five-star holidays to white sands and waters as clear as vodka, but day trips to British pebbles or birch trees or historical cities are in reach.
There are multiple thrills. The planning itself is exciting. Firing up Google Maps; browsing whatever the place has to offer and drafting an itinerary, bookmarks galore. I want to visit art galleries, swim in the sea, eat Victoria sponge and sip at hand-warming coffee, pose outside National Trust homes as though I live there. I’ll admit I’ve never pulled off being ‘good’ at museums. I guess I like my history to be under my feet, on location, or on the pages of a book.
Though compiling the list of things to do (TripAdvisor reviews read; Instagram pictures scouted) is part of the fun, even more so is following one’s nose once there. Sometimes, a trip will be so successful it might spill overnight. This is even more likely when with close pals, who make the best companions for these explorations. (This level of spontaneity depends on the company. New lover? Tired children?)
Domestic holidays fell out of fashion with the advent of budget flights; especially the trips to seaside towns that Victorians enjoyed so much. But with a crappy economy, our time-poor lifestyles, and flight-shaming in the light of a climate crisis – not to mention A PANDEMIC – I’d argue the great British jaunt is on the rise again. So, see you at a bus station in the hinterland, checking timetables.
GIG ENCORES
They say you should always leave people wanting more. And you should, but not too much more. People need to be sated, which is why phrases such as ‘full of joy’ exist.
This is especially the case when it comes to live music. If I go to a gig and there is no encore, I will be pissed off. I will give that band a poor review – if not professionally, then in my head. Not much tops the euphoria of an encore at the end of a fantastic gig: the feeling of everyone’s needs being met at the same time – sort of like an orgy, but with (possibly) stickier floors; the ripples of anticipation through the crowd; the call from stomping feet, the unanimous cheer. You know it’s coming, but we also know that the sun sets every day, and that doesn’t make it any the less beautiful.
Conversely, is there a greater disappointment than your favourite song being missed off a setlist and then having it not appear in the encore? There is not.
The best encores happen at those gigs that acts have billed as their last ever. I’m a huge Girls Aloud fan and I went to their last ever gig in my home city of Liverpool. True, Sarah spent most of it looking furious and pulling out her earpiece, but their banging pop catalogue still built to an emotional send-off. When the Maccabees, who provided the soundtrack to one of my formative love affairs, played out of their skins for a permanent goodbye at Alexandra Palace in London, I would defy anyone not to have felt moved by the sight of thousands of people pogoing to a song about a swimming pool (Latchmere, in south London), before gulping down the finale, ‘Pelican’.
Festival encores can be even more intense: at 2019’s Glastonbury, tens of thousands of people poorly rapping Stormzy lyrics back to him. Then there are the finales you wish you could have been at: Queen’s last ever performance with Freddie Mercury at Knebworth in 1986, where they played their encores and then Freddie left the stage, wearing a crown, to the national anthem.
To be sure, gigs can go on too long. But for the most part, I would challenge anyone not to come away from a perfectly executed gig finale, streaming out of the gates and the rabbit warren of venue corridors, with a racing heart and a smile, exhilarated and inspired.
PERFECT PENS
It is one of my greatest concerns that, with the ubiquity of tech, I now have the handwriting ability of Edward Scissorhands. I found myself composing a note to my neighbours recently and it took three attempts to make it legible. I used to carry a Moleskine around with me, as all writers should. Now, I just have my phone. This can be uncomfortable when it looks like I am rudely texting while someone is talking when I am in fact making notes.
As a child, I was such an obnoxious show-off that I recall attempting cursive – joined-up writing – while my classmates were practising print letters. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of joining up not only the letters, but the words too, so an entire four-page story resembled the rolling waves of the sea. The shame is still with me.
Over time, my handwriting changed from a tween style that looked like blown bubble-gum to intensely scribbled, squished missives. My lowercase ‘t’ transformed into a crucifix and my ampersands were a blasé loop. My love of writing was connected with the act of physically marking things. I wrote everywhere: on the backs of fag packets, inside cereal boxes, the margins of newspapers, my skin. The most enjoyable aspect of writing? (Apart from, perhaps, writing something good?) Writing with the perfect pen. I don’t mean a £350 Mont Blanc, because if you are writing with a £350 pen I will assume you are a banker and responsible for a lot of what is wrong with the world. I am talking about the mighty uni-ba
ll eye. This is one of the world’s most ubiquitous pens, adored for both its cushioned grip and its rollerball that glides across paper.
Many people swear by the perfect fountain pen, and I admit to liking their quill-esque nature, but I was scarred early on by having repeated leaks in school bags. (Also by having to wash my hands to a Lady Macbeth degree after using.)
I’m sure it isn’t true that words are better when inked, and whenever I hear of authors insisting on writing manuscripts by hand, I repress an eye-roll. But it’s a bit like when I change the typeface on Google Docs: one minute I’ve written something banal, then suddenly, after switching from Arial to Georgia, I am a genius. I don’t miss the wrist ache, but I do miss the scratch and scrape of a loyal friend. My kink is ink.
REGIONAL ACCENTS
I am from Liverpool, so am well versed in regional accents. Mine was never pronounced (so to speak) and, after living abroad, then Oxford and now London, it slip-slides; a baby deer on ice. Often people narrow their eyes at me, trying to work out where I am from. It may be unplaceable but as soon as I go back to Liverpool and spend time around scousers, it tends to pick up again.
This is something called the chameleon effect. We subconsciously mirror people’s accents and body language to fit in. It is not copying, but a natural reflection.
The Joy of Small Things Page 9