I have often wondered why we end up having the friends that we do. What attracts us to them and them to us? Is it our similarities? Similar interests or similar fashions? Or do we like to unconsciously swim away from traits that we find in ourselves and pick friends that are our complete opposites? Opposites do seem to attract; sweet and sour, hot and cold, tall and short, fat and thin, rich and poor and even at times intelligent and.. less intelligent.
Do we even pick our friends or are they occasionally forced upon us? Are we friends with the other girl that got left out of playing kiss chase because no one wants to kiss her either, resulting in no other choice but to team up to form the ‘undesirable two’.
Finding friends at school is like trying to get hold of the perfect dress that has recently gone on sale. Those who arrive at the shop first manage to grab the dresses that fit them best, but if you arrive too late you are left with the slightly baggy around the chest dresses, the ones that don’t really fit but they will do.
Emily was my baggy dress. She was a largely plump girl, with a perfectly rounded face. This face always seemed to be creased with an eye squinting smile that often looked like she was experiencing mild pain. Her lips were thin and noticeably chapped and when they opened they released a high pitched twang in her voice. Her mannerisms were always exaggerated: when she laughed at jokes her laugh turned into a brutal cackle and when she’d hug me hello she would boisterously launch her arms at me causing me to topple over.
As a child I was relatively timid, or ‘painfully shy’ as my mother would say. I would never leave her side when at a children’ party and when I was spoken to I would hide underneath mums coat. To the observer I was a very blonde and scrawny little girl; I wasn’t much of a talker and tended to keep myself to myself. The complete opposite of Emily. Emily’s family were all incredibly similar to her, when I walked into her house I felt small and inferior, an alien to their way of living and acting. However, in a strange way I didn’t seem to mind. I would happily spend my time with this slightly over powering brute. Once, we even went as far as sticking our hands together with super glue so that I would never have to leave her house. Obviously our plan failed when my mother was forced to enter the house to help Emily’s mother prize our hands off of each other’s using fairy liquid and water. To my mother’s relief, when I left to go to a separate secondary school I never saw my opposite, Emily, again.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Book Review of Nigel Slater’s ‘Toast’
Nigel Slater uses the ongoing theme of food to provide an interesting structure to the autobiography of his childhood and early years. However, the memoir is much more than just a catalogue of food. It is a memoir of the senses – the colours, tastes, smells and textures of the different foods are lovingly described, and these all evoke memories of childhood experiences, both happy and sad. Often the tone is nostalgic, as for example he describes the pleasures of eating sweets which are no longer commonly found in shops. There is also frequent humour in Slater’s descriptions of tastes and textures and the discovery of new and ‘exotic ‘ foods such as spaghetti illustrates this.
Food is used to set the scene for many of his childhood experiences. For example it is always a background to the description of his relationship with his mother. He obviously loves her very much but is frustrated with her lack of cooking skills, ‘how could you let the flapjacks burn?’
After Slater’s mother’s death food is used in a battle of wills between father and son as his father tries to force him to eat things that make him feel physically sick. So, in this autobiography, as in everyday life, food is never simply food, it always connotes other things such as comfort, love or control.
Although Slater’s technique is an innovative way of structuring his story, after a while the obsessive focus on food becomes rather relentless, although it does convey his passion for something that is to become his career.
Food is used to set the scene for many of his childhood experiences. For example it is always a background to the description of his relationship with his mother. He obviously loves her very much but is frustrated with her lack of cooking skills, ‘how could you let the flapjacks burn?’
After Slater’s mother’s death food is used in a battle of wills between father and son as his father tries to force him to eat things that make him feel physically sick. So, in this autobiography, as in everyday life, food is never simply food, it always connotes other things such as comfort, love or control.
Although Slater’s technique is an innovative way of structuring his story, after a while the obsessive focus on food becomes rather relentless, although it does convey his passion for something that is to become his career.
Thursday, 29 October 2009
Book review of Alison Bechdel's 'Fun Home'
‘Fun home’ is an autobiographical ‘tragicomic’. Comics are multimodal texts – they create their meaning through images as well as words. Traditionally, comics are light weight, entertaining and fictional but they can be a powerful medium to express feelings and explore serious issues. Bechdel’s graphic autobiography explores the tensions that occur in her family life including her father’s gay affairs and his suicide. In ‘Fun Home’ Alison Bechdel tells her childhood story using a form similar to a graphic novel. However, unlike most graphic novels which are about super heroes or fantasy worlds, her work concerns a funeral home or a ‘fun home’. The title of the book is ironic considering that the most amount of ‘fun’ that Alison Bechdel appears to have is when they spot a snake on a camping trip which even then is depressingly related to her father’s suicide.
A writer’s tool is language and this is usually used to create mood, movement and narrative structure. However in graphic novels it is the images that help to create these factors. Colour helps to create the mood that is suitable for a ‘tragicomic’ so in this case it is blacks, whites and greys. This use of colour, or lack of, reflects the morbid tone of the story and it works to inject this gloomy and depressing tone into the reader. The facial expressions of the characters are a further method used by Bechdel to create mood and movement. The parents especially are continuously portrayed as emotionless and negative looking.
For me, the images brought the story to life because there was no need to form a mental picture of the characters and the setting, it was already done for me, bringing me closer to the author’s experiences.
Clumsy Child Syndrome
'She is so gracefully clumsy,’ my ballet teacher announced to my mother at the end of my second and last ever lesson.
‘Clumsy’ was a word that was going to pop up frequently when I was the topic of conversation. It would be said in anger, ‘For god’s sake Jessica, can you stop being so clumsy,’ it would be said with a sense of pity, ‘Oh poor Jessie, try to look where you’re going this time,’ and it would be mentioned as the topic of someone’s ‘witty’ joke, ‘here comes Jess, everyone hold on to your drinks!’ – (a joke frequently made by my hilarious father).
As a child, red wine seemed to be my unconscious target.
A particularly vivid memory comes to mind whilst scanning through my large mental list of possible accidents to relate. As an 8 (soon to be 9) year old I was still being dragged along to my parents’ dinner parties. I say ‘dragged’ but in truth I don’t remember being too bothered by it. Sitting silently curled up in the corner of an unnecessarily large sofa I remember being very conscious of the glass of red wine that was being carelessly placed down in between sips. As the adults’ conversation gathered speed, my brain was urging me not to move my legs,
‘DO NOT MOVE YOUR LEGS!’
I was concentrating so hard on not moving my legs that I seemed to fill them up with pins and needles. The tingling fuzzy feeling became so excruciatingly irritating that my leg seemed to lash out, of course knocking over the glass of wine that was standing so proudly on the edge of the coffee table. It’s strange, but moments like this always seem to be remembered in slow motion. The glass slowly shifted its weight to one side and the deep red liquid was forced to slosh out on to the white carpet and spread itself as far as possible across the floor. My father’s eyes shot a disappointed look in my direction and the host of the party hurried to the kitchen to pick up salt which was supposedly meant to magic away stubborn wine stains. My face began to heat up and embarrassment waved at me from across the room. I had plastered burgundy poison over a pristine white carpet and the magical salt was not hiding it. This was at the beginning of the night: dinner had not even begun, so I had to sit in the corner of that unnecessarily large sofa all evening whilst my burgundy poison slyly stared up at me.
‘Clumsy’ was a word that was going to pop up frequently when I was the topic of conversation. It would be said in anger, ‘For god’s sake Jessica, can you stop being so clumsy,’ it would be said with a sense of pity, ‘Oh poor Jessie, try to look where you’re going this time,’ and it would be mentioned as the topic of someone’s ‘witty’ joke, ‘here comes Jess, everyone hold on to your drinks!’ – (a joke frequently made by my hilarious father).
As a child, red wine seemed to be my unconscious target.
A particularly vivid memory comes to mind whilst scanning through my large mental list of possible accidents to relate. As an 8 (soon to be 9) year old I was still being dragged along to my parents’ dinner parties. I say ‘dragged’ but in truth I don’t remember being too bothered by it. Sitting silently curled up in the corner of an unnecessarily large sofa I remember being very conscious of the glass of red wine that was being carelessly placed down in between sips. As the adults’ conversation gathered speed, my brain was urging me not to move my legs,
‘DO NOT MOVE YOUR LEGS!’
I was concentrating so hard on not moving my legs that I seemed to fill them up with pins and needles. The tingling fuzzy feeling became so excruciatingly irritating that my leg seemed to lash out, of course knocking over the glass of wine that was standing so proudly on the edge of the coffee table. It’s strange, but moments like this always seem to be remembered in slow motion. The glass slowly shifted its weight to one side and the deep red liquid was forced to slosh out on to the white carpet and spread itself as far as possible across the floor. My father’s eyes shot a disappointed look in my direction and the host of the party hurried to the kitchen to pick up salt which was supposedly meant to magic away stubborn wine stains. My face began to heat up and embarrassment waved at me from across the room. I had plastered burgundy poison over a pristine white carpet and the magical salt was not hiding it. This was at the beginning of the night: dinner had not even begun, so I had to sit in the corner of that unnecessarily large sofa all evening whilst my burgundy poison slyly stared up at me.
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Book review of 'Stuart, A Life Backwards' by Alexander Masters
‘Stuart, A Life Backwards’ is a biography about a homeless psychotic drug abuser. He is an interesting subject for a biography because usually they deal with celebrities, historical figures or people who have done something noteworthy.
At Stuarts own suggestion, the biography is written backwards. The narrator is Alexander Masters and it is mostly his voice that we hear but he also uses letters, diary extracts, and records of interviews to construct Stuart’s story and add validity to the account. When the story begins the reader is already informed of Stuart’s supposed suicide and though it is told backwards, the narrative does not proceed in a chronological straight line. The question must be asked why Masters chose this technique of playing with the timeline. In parts it can be confusing for the reader when trying to locate themselves in the story. Perhaps this technique is trying to mirror Stuart’s ‘chaotic’ persona.
Stuart has had a life full of prison sentences, drug usage from the age of thirteen and homelessness. Many of his problems can be traced back to his childhood when he was horrifically abused by his family and others in positions of trust. Yet despite this, Stuart is presented as endearing and surprisingly likable.
The biography has the effect of making people more aware of the social issue of homelessness and challenges some of the stereotypes that we might have of homeless people. It is a common belief that people are homeless through faults of their own, but after reading this account of Stuart’s life the reader sympathises with him and realises that he is not entirely to blame for everything that has gone wrong.
At Stuarts own suggestion, the biography is written backwards. The narrator is Alexander Masters and it is mostly his voice that we hear but he also uses letters, diary extracts, and records of interviews to construct Stuart’s story and add validity to the account. When the story begins the reader is already informed of Stuart’s supposed suicide and though it is told backwards, the narrative does not proceed in a chronological straight line. The question must be asked why Masters chose this technique of playing with the timeline. In parts it can be confusing for the reader when trying to locate themselves in the story. Perhaps this technique is trying to mirror Stuart’s ‘chaotic’ persona.
Stuart has had a life full of prison sentences, drug usage from the age of thirteen and homelessness. Many of his problems can be traced back to his childhood when he was horrifically abused by his family and others in positions of trust. Yet despite this, Stuart is presented as endearing and surprisingly likable.
The biography has the effect of making people more aware of the social issue of homelessness and challenges some of the stereotypes that we might have of homeless people. It is a common belief that people are homeless through faults of their own, but after reading this account of Stuart’s life the reader sympathises with him and realises that he is not entirely to blame for everything that has gone wrong.
Who is ‘normal’ anyway?
‘Jessica Shore? Would you like to come through now?’ I handed mum my bag and scarf and grudgingly followed the short jolly woman across the room to the door boldly marked ‘assessments’. The room was claustrophobically small, just big enough to fit a desk, 2 chairs and one feeble looking shelf. We were forced to sit uncomfortably close to each other. I could smell her coffee breath infecting the air. ‘Right then Jessica, we are just going to carry out a few tests to find out what the problem is, ok Jessica?’ Her upbeat voice was beginning to infuriate me, why did she persist with this patronising tone and why was she saying my name like that? Does she think I don’t know my own name? Does she think I’m stupid?
It was an ear achingly cold morning as me and mum left the house, pacing towards our bright purple Nissan Micra. We had to leave five minutes early to scrape off the ice that had stubbornly welded itself to the front and back windscreens of the car. We sat in silence all the way to the assessment. I denied that anything was wrong with me. I wanted to convince mum to turn back but she was nervously concentrating on the early morning rush hour traffic.
Ok so I can’t dance. Elaborate movement just does not agree with me. I feel nothing but awkward and overly self conscious when in a club with my friends, desperately trying to control my gangly long limbs and shape them into some sort of movement in time to some sort of beat. I am envious as my friends effortlessly show off their ‘oh so cool’ dance moves, impressing the praying eyes of the opposite sex as I shy away into the darkest corner or flee to the bar to get yet another drink. I just don’t have rhythm! But that’s quite normal, right? I suppose it might not be completely normal that I find social situations intensely and embarrassingly awkward. I just can’t interact with new people and I unwillingly project an awkward and unfriendly persona. Who’s to say what ‘normal’ is anyway? Maybe I am just a warped version of ‘normal’...
‘Ok Jessica, thank you for completing that set of tests, I will write up a report and send it to you within two weeks, Bye Jessica! Safe journey home!’ I was relieved to leave that upbeat, patronising, constant name using woman’s office but now I had to worry about what that report would contain. Two and a half weeks later it arrived on my doormat. It was marked ‘confidential document’. I ripped it open.
‘SUMMARY’
‘The information gained during this assessment indicates that Miss Shore has the learning difficulty, ‘dyspraxia’.’
Great so now I’ll be known as the dyspraxia kid. The report continued on to a description:
‘The Dyspraxia Foundation describes the characteristics as follows: ‘Dyspraxia is generally recognised to be an impairment or immaturity of the organisation of movement. Associated with this may be problems of language, perception and thought’....’Physical activities are hard to learn, difficult to retain and generalise and can be hesitant and awkward in performance.’
The report went on to describe my childhood and why I may have acquired this ‘disability’. But it is basically unexplainable. Just pure ‘luck’.
So this is me. I now have a label. I am ‘Dyspraxia kid’.
It was an ear achingly cold morning as me and mum left the house, pacing towards our bright purple Nissan Micra. We had to leave five minutes early to scrape off the ice that had stubbornly welded itself to the front and back windscreens of the car. We sat in silence all the way to the assessment. I denied that anything was wrong with me. I wanted to convince mum to turn back but she was nervously concentrating on the early morning rush hour traffic.
Ok so I can’t dance. Elaborate movement just does not agree with me. I feel nothing but awkward and overly self conscious when in a club with my friends, desperately trying to control my gangly long limbs and shape them into some sort of movement in time to some sort of beat. I am envious as my friends effortlessly show off their ‘oh so cool’ dance moves, impressing the praying eyes of the opposite sex as I shy away into the darkest corner or flee to the bar to get yet another drink. I just don’t have rhythm! But that’s quite normal, right? I suppose it might not be completely normal that I find social situations intensely and embarrassingly awkward. I just can’t interact with new people and I unwillingly project an awkward and unfriendly persona. Who’s to say what ‘normal’ is anyway? Maybe I am just a warped version of ‘normal’...
‘Ok Jessica, thank you for completing that set of tests, I will write up a report and send it to you within two weeks, Bye Jessica! Safe journey home!’ I was relieved to leave that upbeat, patronising, constant name using woman’s office but now I had to worry about what that report would contain. Two and a half weeks later it arrived on my doormat. It was marked ‘confidential document’. I ripped it open.
‘SUMMARY’
‘The information gained during this assessment indicates that Miss Shore has the learning difficulty, ‘dyspraxia’.’
Great so now I’ll be known as the dyspraxia kid. The report continued on to a description:
‘The Dyspraxia Foundation describes the characteristics as follows: ‘Dyspraxia is generally recognised to be an impairment or immaturity of the organisation of movement. Associated with this may be problems of language, perception and thought’....’Physical activities are hard to learn, difficult to retain and generalise and can be hesitant and awkward in performance.’
The report went on to describe my childhood and why I may have acquired this ‘disability’. But it is basically unexplainable. Just pure ‘luck’.
So this is me. I now have a label. I am ‘Dyspraxia kid’.
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
The Deep End
Monday mornings are usually dreaded by most school children. After a pathetic two days off, the week of lessons, teasing, and possible tellings-off are about to roll around again. This was not a concern of mine. I craved and longed for the week to last longer. I didn’t care about being picked on in maths by purvey Mr Crompton, or about sitting awkwardly next to the boy that smelt in English or even about waking early and sulkily trudging to school. I just longed for Friday afternoons between one and three to be scribbled out from the timetable and disappear forever. Friday afternoons were ruined by swimming lessons. The build up to this occasion would begin on Thursday evenings when I would half-heartedly carry out my chores of washing up and cleaning my bedroom. Pieces of food would be carelessly left on plates, tea-stains still rimming the bottom of cups, all because my mind would be consumed with constant anxiety about what was to occur the next day. I will always remember one particularly humiliating swimming lesson which deepened and intensified my embarrassing fear of water. After lunch on a piercingly cold January afternoon my class was teamed with the girls from 7F to begin the walk, lined up in pairs, to the swimming pool. I was paired with Becky Mason who was my safety net and fellow non-swimmer. We would always stick to the back of the line in hope that we would somehow get lost and no one would ever notice. Our plan always failed. The teachers would cunningly place themselves down the line of students, one at the front, one in the middle, and unfortunately, one at the back. Fully equipped with hats, scarves, gloves and an unattractive shiny blue puffer jacket each, we arrived at the entrance to the swimming pool clenching our draw string rucksacks filled with our swimming kits. As we got closer to the pool the pungent smell of chlorine stung my nostrils and made my stomach churn.
Mr Taylor was a large overly muscled man who carried a look of arrogance and disapproval. He had an unusually deep voice that always felt the need to shout even when having a one on one conversation. His lack of sympathy and his uncaring manner made him the worst candidate for the job of swimming teacher. But he was. The two classes, including me and Becky Mason, congregated in the reception area of the leisure centre. Mr Taylor was giving us instructions to be good and respect the space of other swimmers blah blah blah and then he suddenly shouted, ‘YOU HAVE THREE MINUTES TO GET CHANGED AND BE AT THE SIDE OF THE POOL, GO!’Panic filled every girl as we rushed towards the changing rooms and began stripping off, holding towels around us whilst awkwardly putting on our swimming costumes hiding our bodies from the judging eyes of others. We quickly pinged on our hideous lime green swimming hats and hurried to the pool side. Like always we were split into groups, strong swimmers, OK swimmer, and non-swimmers. This group consisted solely of me and Becky Mason. But unlike usual he did not just ignore us, in fact he seemed to go out of his way to make a spiteful attempt to humiliate us. After having free time to swim around, or in our case trying to doggy paddle, Mr Taylor took a strong blow of his whistle and called the non-swimmers to the deep-end whilst the other swimmers grouped in the shallow end waiting to see what we would be made to do. Fear immediately shot through me as we lowered ourselves in. We were given a rubber ring to pathetically and frantically attempt to make our way across the full length of the pool. My humiliation grew when I was handed one side of a pole to cling onto whislt Mr taylor, holding the other side, guided me to the safety of the shallow end. Everybody was laughing. We were humiliated and didn’t understand why we were being punished for our lack of skills. I never attended that class again.
Mr Taylor was a large overly muscled man who carried a look of arrogance and disapproval. He had an unusually deep voice that always felt the need to shout even when having a one on one conversation. His lack of sympathy and his uncaring manner made him the worst candidate for the job of swimming teacher. But he was. The two classes, including me and Becky Mason, congregated in the reception area of the leisure centre. Mr Taylor was giving us instructions to be good and respect the space of other swimmers blah blah blah and then he suddenly shouted, ‘YOU HAVE THREE MINUTES TO GET CHANGED AND BE AT THE SIDE OF THE POOL, GO!’Panic filled every girl as we rushed towards the changing rooms and began stripping off, holding towels around us whilst awkwardly putting on our swimming costumes hiding our bodies from the judging eyes of others. We quickly pinged on our hideous lime green swimming hats and hurried to the pool side. Like always we were split into groups, strong swimmers, OK swimmer, and non-swimmers. This group consisted solely of me and Becky Mason. But unlike usual he did not just ignore us, in fact he seemed to go out of his way to make a spiteful attempt to humiliate us. After having free time to swim around, or in our case trying to doggy paddle, Mr Taylor took a strong blow of his whistle and called the non-swimmers to the deep-end whilst the other swimmers grouped in the shallow end waiting to see what we would be made to do. Fear immediately shot through me as we lowered ourselves in. We were given a rubber ring to pathetically and frantically attempt to make our way across the full length of the pool. My humiliation grew when I was handed one side of a pole to cling onto whislt Mr taylor, holding the other side, guided me to the safety of the shallow end. Everybody was laughing. We were humiliated and didn’t understand why we were being punished for our lack of skills. I never attended that class again.
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