Living for Disco

I signed up for a writing course, many moons ago. It was one of those ones you see in the back of the Guardian, that promise you you’ll make millions after selling your masterful works of fiction, and if you don’t, you can have your money back, blah blah blah. Anyway, they are very patient. I think I finished one assignment back in 1999, and they still have me on their books. I have a yen to try again, despite the fact that I’m not very good at writing fiction, really. It just sounds so contrived.

So, I phoned them up and asked them if I could have a new set of materials, as mine were a little out of date. Of course! they said and asked me to provide my name (which I had no problem with) and the first line of my address, which was a bit tricky.

You see, I used to move around ALOT. It just seemed to happen that way naturally, which is why I find it so amazing that people generally tend to stay in one place for years and years. The longest I’ve lived anywhere after leaving home is my little house in Namibia.

So, I went through my addresses.

There’s the address in New Cross, where I used to live on a hill with my then boyfriend, way back in the days when I had long hair and thought that 25 was OLD. It was quite nice really – the neighbours were friendly at first (until they started throwing things at each other and breaking windows), and once when I was walking back from work, I shared a silent spliff with a friendly rasta who joined me on my trudge up the hill.

Then my father died and my brain went into meltdown. LIFE’S TOO SHORT, screamed the part of me that had wanted marriage and a nice flat in Brockley. So we moved onto a narrow boat instead. That was also quite nice. We used to sit out on our deck, drinking beer and watching seagulls persecuting the local heron, and listening to the travellers squatting in the lumber yard setting fire to stuff. We had a lovely little squirrel stove, and in the winter, we got coal delivered by boat. Then, after a blissful 18 months, they decided to turn our little corner of the Grand Union Canal into a shopping centre. I think there’s now a Cafe Nero where our garden shed used to be.

So, we followed my ex-beloved’s other dream and moved into the top floor of a tower block. The lift smelled of piss, our downstairs neighbours listened to crap music at top volume at weekends, and we had solitary bees nesting in the window frames. However, we had a fantastic view of London. It was extraordinary – we could see all the way to Paddington from Battersea. And then, not three months later, we split up and I moved out. This move represented the last move I would make that would result in living with sane and normal people, and it was, alas, to be a short one.

I moved in with my best mate, and amazingly we are still best mates. Probably because after about 6 months, she bought a place, and I had to find somewhere new. This is where it gets interesting.

I went to look at a flat in Tulse Hill, which was half finished, but had potential written all over it. The kitchen was amazing, for starters, even though nothing really worked properly. I realised pretty early on after moving in that it was half finished because the girl who owned it was broke, and in a heated battle for possession with her ex girlfriend. There was a dog involved too – the poor mutt was caught in the middle. After a heated grilling, involving questions regarding my feelings for power tools and doc martens (I am not joking) they let me move in. They didn’t seem to mind that I wasn’t a lesbian, and introduced me to the other waifs and strays that drifted aimlessly around this ghost of a house. In the end, I felt like a ghost too, disconnected and shiftless. Things worsened when I realised that they couldn’t afford to keep doing the place up, and that it would take years for it to be properly inhabitable. Even the garden resembled the jungles of South East Asia. You couldn’t hang your clothes out without getting grass seeds embedded in the weft and weave of your undergarments. My bedroom was the size of a cupboard, and there was nowhere else to go. In the end, I solved the problem by moving to the Middle East, and living out of a suitcase for a year.

I came back briefly after six months, and moved in with an ex-colleague with anger management issues, who used to make me hold the torch for her while she picked slugs off her tomato plants and slung them into next door’s garden. I left again, and returned to suitcase-lugging, slug-free living.

Then, when I finally did come back, I moved in with a guy I was seeing. The house smelled of fags, and was full of junk. The carpets looked like someone had found a pile of sick on the floor, and then swirled it around with a dirty shoe. I once opened a bag of bread to make toast, and found that a mouse had burrowed right through the middle of it, leaving a trail of droppings in its wake. There were slugs in the bathroom. The guy himself was awful. He didn’t understand why I wanted to go and meet friends, as he’d dropped all his. His way of expressing disapproval was to cease all conversation until I had apologised enough to appease his scarred and bitter soul. Every time I came home, I would be greeted by accusing stares and a wall of silence. At a new year party shortly after I moved in, he behaved so sullenly that when he told me he wanted to go home, I uncharacteristically told him to ‘fuck off then’. He did. He walked the six miles home through the early new year London streets. I moved out.

The next address was just as short. I moved in with an old colleague who was seeing a taxi driver. He’d turn up at 4am, and they’d have exuberant sex until the small hours. I learned to love earplugs. They were so loud one night that the neighbours called the police. Oh, it was fun. Then she left, and in moved a girl who appeared normal when I interviewed her, but who lost half her body weight within six weeks of moving in. She was skeletal. She ate nothing but grapes. I used to hear her get up in the night, make toast, and then puke it up in the bathroom. She said she was doing it to punish her married boyfriend for dumping her. I’d come home to find her watching the food channel on the TV. I left.

And now comes the period when I started this blog, four years ago. My ex-flatmate was, I am convinced, obsessive compulsive. She didn’t want a flatmate, and if I so much as put a book in the living room, I’d find it on my bed the next day. I was there on suffrance, because of the money, and I felt it every minute. Friends refused to come round, because they felt so unwelcome. She’d come into my room and make my bed, rearrange my cushions. She’d throw frightening temper tantrums for no reason. It was miserable, so I moved to Cambridge.

I loved Cambridge. My flatmate was an old, old schoolfriend, who likes whisky and fine wines. He’s the most accommodating person I can imagine. At one stage, when he was redoing the kitchen, we spent the week cooking our meals on the barbecue on the balcony, and drinking much wine. We had fun, and then I moved to Namibia.

Trying to remember all my addresses has been a real memory lane extravaganza. I’ve had to piece the last ten years together based on the A-Z and my hazy memory of routes to and from stations, and working on whichever nuthouse I was living in at the time.

I don’t really expect anyone to read this post – it’s probably excruciatingly dull. I wrote it for myself, an exercise in remembering. My life seemed so fractured and piecemeal most of the time back then. I never knew where I was going to be, I never felt settled or happy. Ironically, it took a move to a new continent, and flirtation with a nervous breakdown to discover the peace and calm that I now feel. I’ve found my home now – it’s not a house or a flat; it’s my life with my husband. I feel anchored and safe, and, finally, happy.

We fancied a quiet night, and there was a DVD player in our room, so after dinner, we took a look at the hotel’s vast collection of knock off DVDs. I can heartily recommend the Bali Spirit Hotel, if only for it’s abiding love for the oeuvres of Jason Statham and The Rock.

We found a copy of a Jackie Chan film – Rush Hour 3 – and as I love all things Chan, we settled in to watch it. It was either that or some highbrow softcore porn dressed up as arthouse, featuring Natassja Kinsky and Malcolm MacDowell, but I make it a rule not to watch highbrow softcore arthouse porn when I am on holiday. So, Rush Hour 3 it was.

Anyway, we realised that some bright spark had thought to subtitle the film, for people who may be deaf. The subtitles turned out to be vastly more entertaining than the film itself, which, truth be told, isn’t very good. I’ve no idea who was responsible for the subtitles, but I hope they are living a rich and happy life somewhere, as they fully deserve it.

As an example, the word ‘brother’ was translated as ‘you’ throughout. Tricky, particularly as the plot involves Jackie Chan’s evil adopted brother. It was relatively confusing. Also, at one point, Jackie Chan witnesses his boss being shot, and shouts “Everybody down!” in order to save the day, as he does. This is what appeared on the screen:

My favourite by a long way, however, is this one, that accompanies the following piece of dialogue:
Evil adopted brother to Jackie Chan “We both know you won’t kill me”
Jackie Chan to evil adopted brother “You know nothing about me”

If anyone can tell me why exactly this translates as it does, I would be so grateful.

I’ve never been to Bali before. I’d heard great things about places that are not Kuta, and determined to go to a couple that have been on my ‘must go’ list, primarily Ubud. Ubud, for those not in the know, is the cultural capital of Bali. Home of the best cooking, wood carving, batik, weaving and painting (more of this later) and perched amongst the lush rice paddies and jungles, it is somewhere I imagined wafting around dreamily while watching butterflies at play, and picking up treasures for buttons.

I was particularly looking forward to our room at our hotel, the Bali Spirit, which, on its website, looks like a veritable Eden. I can only surmise that their photographer was extremely talented. The hotel is, however, aptly named. Like Bali, it puts you in an environment of unsurpassed beauty, and then proceeds to fleece you of every penny you ever have, and ever will earn.

Ubud is insane. It’s a shrine to Mammon. I’ve been all over the world, but I’ve never been anywhere so completely, mind-bogglingly packed to the rafters with stuff. If you ever want the real secret to the world’s deforestation, go to Ubud. I can’t imagine that there are enough people alive in the world that could use all of those carvings. If you ever want a statue of Father Christmas, portrayed as a cat, go to Ubud. Care for an unrivalled collection of really BAD paintings of frangipani flowers? You know where to go. Enough sarongs to start a decorative yurt business? Yup, Ubud’s yer man.

The only really successful way to bargain for something is if you actually, genuinely don’t want it. I learned this from the distressing experience of being chased down the road by a frail looking old woman, who was hanging onto Gordon’s shirt and shouting a series of random numbers at him. She chased us for ages – further than an old woman should rightfully be able to chase a couple in their early middle age. I speak a bit of Indonesian, and begged her to stop, but she was still whacking Gordon’s elbow with an ornately carved wooden box half a mile down the road. The next day we hired a moped, although to be honest, I’m fairly sure she could have chased that with some alacrity also. Daily I dreaded turning round to find her hanging onto the tailpipe as we zipped down the frangipani-lined road, but fortunately, this did not happen. We considered having t-shirts made that said “No Thank You” so that we wouldn’t have to say it any more.

Unfortunately, everything we did like seemed to cost the earth. We discovered a beautiful piece of Ikat weaving that looked as if it should cost around £20. The actual price knocked me over the road into the nearest bar, where I failed to purchase a gin and tonic, due to the mysteriously patchy availability of hard liquor in various drinking holes in Ubud. 23,000,000 Indonesian rupiah, which is what the item cost, is almost £1500.

Overall, I wasn’t sure I cared much for Ubud, but the place grew on me, rather like a favourite scab that is satisfying to pick. While it wasn’t the peaceful haven of culture I’d envisioned, it had a liveliness and rough charm that gets under your skin. When I heard about the increased security and travel warnings due to the execution of the Bali bombers on Saturday, I wanted to phone someone and condole, but of course, there is no-one there that I actually know.

We were repeatedly suckered and fleeced, and daily were parted from our cash so quickly that we barely blinked before our wallets were empty. However, when I read about the warnings for tourists to stay away from Bali in the light of possible retaliation from Mujahid, I couldn’t begrudge any of the money we spent. It promises to be a very quiet Christmas for the Balinese.

1. We have bought a wii. It is amazing. I’m not very good at games and things – I tend to be shit at killing enemies, and I don’t like the Doom style games where I seem to always die in a haze of blood and confusion before I’m out of the starting gates. However, the wii is very easy for me, as all you need to do is point, and click, and wave the remote about and things happen on the screen. I can play tennis! I am a crack shot with a crossbow! I rock at Mario Cart (a bit)! I am doing very little else. My brain is turning to mush and I have already started dreaming about target practise, and Lara Croft. Actually, dreaming about Lara Croft isn’t all bad. It sates my Angelina-crush.

2. I am now too thin for my dress. My weight loss regime worked a treat, and when I went to try on my dress the other day, the evil bridal shop witch told me that I’d lost the look I wanted because the corset lacing on the dress back was meeting in the middle. Admittedly I couldn’t respond as she was demonstrating how large the dress was on me by pulling the stays so tight that my ribs cracked, and blood spurted from my crushed internal organs out onto the pristine changing room carpet, but I did see her point. I will have to put on half a pound or so just to get it right. Fortunately this means that I can now eat cheese and drink wine with impunity, for I am TOO THIN and must be fixed.

3. I have finally fulfilled my dream of owning a definitive ’80s compilation without having to be embarassed about it. This is because after the swing band have finished their set at our wedding, we’re having CDs played, and if I can’t dance to Footloose and Wake Me Up Before You Go-go at my own wedding then life is just not worth living. Mind you, it probably won’t be for anyone else. I’m going to be up there on my own, in my imaginary leg warmers, pretending I’m 12 again and desperate to know who this band Duran Duran was that everyone was talking about in reverent terms. I only knew Nana Mouskouri, and songs about ‘my love being a cherry with no stone’ didn’t really cut it in the cutthroat world of teenage angst.

That is all.

Just this minute, I got a lovely email from VSO. It begins as follows:

“Dear Rachael,
Having only recently returned as a volunteer, it can be quite tough ensuring a semblance of a social life on a budget. Gigs go out of the window, dancing is kept to a sober minimum and meeting friends can only be done on a monthly basis. The incredible finale to our 50th Anniversary could hold the key to your partying-on-a-shoestring problems: phenomenal artists, amazing venue, fantastic guests, all for a budget friendly price.”

I am composing a reply:

Dear VSO,

Thank you, once again, for emailing me with this lovely special offer without bothering to find out anything about me first. I understand that you have MANY returned volunteers on your books, and that it must be difficult to communicate in a personalised fashion, but may I suggest that you refrain from making assumptions in your emails? Particularly as you took the trouble to address this to me personally. You know what they say about assumptions – they make and ASS out of U and ME. Ha ha. I always enjoyed that little joke.

I would like to point out the following: It is now almost a year since my stint as a volunteer ended – would you class that as recent? In that time, I have thankfully been able to secure gainful employment, and am not as restricted in my ‘semblance’ of a social life as you might imagine. I have been lucky enough to attend some live music events in the last few months, and have been privileged to enjoy listening to Hot Chip, Bjork, Laura Veirs and Joan as Policewoman, among others, at VERY reasonable prices, and with a fabulous view of the stage on each occasion.

With regards dancing, I do this on a weekly basis at the very least, as I am learning to jive in preparation for my forthcoming marriage. Occasionally – mercy! – I even have a glass of wine during the evening.

I am also slightly confused as to your crieteria for measuring the frequency of meeting friends. I would be interested to see your calculations. In any case, sometimes my friends come down to Bournemouth, where I live, to see me. Sometimes I go to see them. Although I don’t see them as much as I would like, admittedly, this is rather due to a shortage of weekends in the year than an inability to stump up £6 for a Saturday fun fare on the National Express bus service.

I thank you for your offer of solving my shoe-string party budget problems. However, I’m not sure that this offer is all that it seems. For a start, the £15 budget friendly tickets that you mention appear to be tucked away at least 3 miles from the stage at the Royal Albert Hall, which as we all know is a little on the large side. They also appear to be ‘restricted’ viewing seats. Last time I took a restricted view seat at the theatre, I was forced to ‘watch’ Kevin Spacey perform in the Ice Man Cometh from behind a 2 foot wide pillar. It was a less than satisfying experience. All your other tickets appear to begin around the £32 mark.

In addition, as you may be aware, the UK has residents that live outside the Greater London urban sprawl. Yes! I know – those crazy kids! It would take me some considerable time to travel from home, on a school night, to the Albert Hall, the extra expense of accommodation and food, as well as the transport costs, which, once you take into account the astronomical price of petrol in these times, as well as the cost of parking in our glorious capital, will in all likelihood push my budget evening up well over £100. All that, and I will have to rise at 5am in order to make my way through rush hour traffic and make it back to work on the morrow.

I realise that I’m probably being unfair to you, and that I should be thanking you for notifying me of this fabulous opportunity. However, your insistence on making sweeping assumptions about who I am persists in driving me up the wall. There are better ways of approaching people. Please, for your own sake, get a clue.

Many thanks,

Rachie