But... Why?

We all do things that we don't agree with or want to do for the sake of our loved ones. They can be tiny things, but we all do them to keep relationships running: it's called 'compromise'.

A friend challenged me the other day about one everyday compromise I make. It's a cultural/ religious dietary rule I follow without believing with it or really agreeing with it, but I follow it because 1) it's very important to my immediate close family and would deeply upset them if I don't follow it and 2) it doesn't harm myself or anyone else around me. My friend challenged me because I admitted that I wished I could eat some stuff, being a natural foodie, but I had long ago decided to respect my family's wishes. The conversation more or less went like this:

"But why?"

"Because it would really upset my family if I didn't do it."

"Why does it matter?"

"It matters because I don't want to hurt my family."

"Why are you willing to compromise your own beliefs?"

"I'm not as such, just keeping one of the precious few things that link my identity to my family's."

"But why do you need to follow someone else's way of identifying themselves for your own identity?"

This is one of the reasons I really respect my friend, who's not afraid to ask the tough questions. However I was also annoyed- the question 'why' can be used an infinite amount of times and a final root answer never found. And besides, why did I have to justify my actions, anyway? My friend was satisfied in my lack a sensible or logical answer to the final question. I did have a response in my mind though: how do we identify ourselves without other people to identify with? But I didn't carry on the debate,not wanting to answer a question with rhetoric that would lead to even more debate. Also, my friend is religious and I am not- a huge difference in mindset that puts all similar debates about the human condition at a stalemate.

It's a good practice to have though, if ever you are in a personal bind. Ask yourself why, and what your motives are. Or better yet, find a friend who isn't afraid to ask the tough questions. Just be sure that you're ready to face them!

Just Dance

In a fit of whimsical madness, I decided to try K-pop dancing this week.

I stumbled across the dance group searching for a C-pop band I usually listen to, who also happen to have a K-pop incarnation. The dance group have been learning one of this band's routines this month, and since you can just drop in on any session to learn a section of the routine at a time, I thought, 'why not?'

I'm not a natural dancer. You'd think being a musician would make me good at dancing by default since I'm at home with beat, rhythm, coordination and the like, but you'd be mistaken. Sure, like almost anything else, if I set my mind to it I could be reasonable at it, but it's definitely not one of my natural talents like making music or cake or crafts. I know I'm never going to be a dancer. Hell, I even know I'll never have the time to go to regular classes to teach my arms and legs to work together in harmony. So why bother at all?

Well, what a sad world would it be, if we didn't try things just because we weren't instantly good at them?

I've often been been called for doing things that are a 'waste of my time'. After some debate with people with this view (usually well-meaning family members), I've realised that that the concept of something being a 'waste of time' to these people translates roughly as 'doing something that doesn't better yourself in a way that will allow you to further your career, earn more money and be more successful in life.'

What an even sadder world it would be without personal enrichment.

Really, this calls into question what 'success' really means, as a life value. In today's society, I suppose it means to have lots of money, own your own two-bedroom property and car and to go on lots of holidays abroad. If this is all that's important in life, than surely you must spend every waking moment assuring you are doing everything in your power to achieve these things?

There's a problem with this mentality, though. The most obvious one is all work and no play makes Jack a crazy axe-wielding psychopath (or maybe that's only when you work in a haunted hotel). The big one- the big, scary one that everyone tries their best to ignore- is the fact that you can't take it all with you when you die. At least, it doesn't seem that way. For all I know when you die little ghost versions of all of your life's belongings follows you to the afterlife, but for now I'm guessing now.

In your final moments of earthly awareness, as you contemplate the series of events that became your life, are you going to regret not spending more hours at the computer on that Excel spreadsheet? Or will you regret never getting round to doing that thing you always wanted to do because you were always at your computer on that Excel spreadsheet?

Money can help to buy happiness, but if you don't take the time to find out reflect inwardly on what makes you happy, then you're pretty much screwed. Other people can't make you happy either, really (although they certainly help a huge amount!) The only thing that can truly make you happy is yourself- and that, in itself, can take quiet a bit of work. Without working on yourself as a person rather than yourself as a commodity, you could have all the money in the world and feel empty, and be surrounded by as many people as possible and still feel lonely.

I am a writer by day, but in between working hours I sing and play musical instruments, bake and decorate cakes, learn languages, meet with friends all over the place, run, create cute cuddly things out of felt and wool, knit, and now apparently I try to dance. Why? Because all of these things make me happy, as well as finding new challenges and experiences in itself. Maybe K-pop dancing won't be one that sticks quite like all of the others, but for now, I'm happy with it being one of the things I remember on my death bed and think, 'Haha! That was pretty crazy but fun, huh?'

Surrounded by Weirdos

On the train. Where else?

Reading quietly in my carriage, on my way back home from my Wednesday evening Mandarin class, I distantly noticed that a man had gotten up from his seat opposite me to sit next to me. I didn't really question why he had decided to switch seats mid-journey, engrossed in my book as I was. What I did question though was the increasing cramped conditions due to his arm sneaking further and further from the arm rest (which he had taken firm command of), and over into my space. I kept shifting sideways, hoping he'd just stop, but he kept shifting even more so our bare arms were touching (being a hot summer's day, everyone was wearing short sleeves).

I considered asking him to budge up- I'm not usually one for demurring- but since incidences of violence from such 'challenges' as that have been on the up and this guy looked like the type to look for a challenge, I decided just to hold firm. It's not fair to judge on appearances, I know, but I wasn't feeling lucky.

As I became increasingly irritated at someone else's (very hairy) arm trying to get to know mine better and venturing into my ribs, the train stopped to let on another flow of people. In the now empty spot opposite me now sat a wiry, twitchy guy with very curly hair, who promptly got out an entire pre-packed pasta salad and a bottle of Mountain Dew and proceeded to have his dinner on the train.

I didn't really mind too much: perhaps it had been a long day at work and this was his only chance to grab a bite. What did start to become a bother though was when he started belching loudly and wiping his mouth ostentatiously. Bother became slight worry when he put his now-empty salad pack back in his rucksack, chucked the bottle behind his seat and began to sway a little. Was he feeling unwell?

I considered asking if he was alright, but suddenly he began to twitch and shake ever so slightly, like he was trying to shake off invisible flies. I decided to stay put. I became very glad for my decision not to interfere, because soon every so often he'd bend over, head between knees, shake his head and mumble something, before emerging with wild eyes.

Two stops later and the hairy-armed guy, to my vast relief, got off. I wasn't completely at ease though: twitchy guy was still opposite me. At least there was only one strange person to worry about, though.

That is, until a lady on her mobile phone took the place of hairy-armed guy by my side.

I didn't really pay attention to her at first. Slowly, however, I began to pick up patterns in whatever she was saying over the phone. I couldn't understand the language, but whatever she was saying sounded a little like "I'll make you soup." Slowly, I realised that she was saying this over and over again. "I'll make you soup. I'll make you soup. I'll make you soup. Aha. Aha. I'll make you soup."

And then I realised we were still underground, with no possible phone signal.

"I'll make you soup. Aha. Aha. I'll make you soup. I'll make you soup."

Twitchy guy strode jerkily off the train a few stops after, but I was alone with the lady on her phone next to me for the remainder of the journey.

I had 15 minutes of "I'll make you soup." before my final stop at the end of the line. As the train pulled into my station, I got up, and so did the lady on her phone.

"I'll make you soup. Okay, bye."

I stared after her in disbelief as she strode off.

~End~

And the Ukelele Makes Ten

I made my peace with music, recently.

We've always had quite an intense, turbulent relationship. I started playing the piano at the age of four, going on to complete a professional diploma in performance before I'd started university as well as Grade 8 in flute within four years of taking it up, and then earning Grade 8 singing within two years of taking proper lessons. I even ended up learning and taking a performance exam for the mbira at university. By the end of my musical education, I could play:

-Piano
-Flute
-Voice
-Guitar
-Lever harp
-Mbira
-Djembe
-Marimba
-Recorder/ tin whistle (beyond primary school level, that is)

I'd performed on each of these either as a solo or as part of a group at various and endless concerts and shows, and although the relationship was time-consuming and stressful (as many long-term relationships with anything can be), I thought the love would last forever.

Until the end of university, when I burned out.

The first sign was when my new piano tutor at university began to put pressure on me to work towards a second diploma. The way the Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music works is this: you have Grades 1-8 (which everyone knows about), but afterwards there are three further levels of professional qualification: Diploma, Licentiate and Fellowship. It's not particularly for someone as young as I was to reach the diploma stage. So of course when I began my music course at university, my new tutor was eager to push me even further.

The problem was, though, that I was just so very tired of relentless examination. Playing the piano had always been a source of joy and escape for me at school, even at times of high pressure. At university, despite being used to pressure, it just stopped being fun. It started to just be all about Impressing People. Even worse, my new tutor was slightly dismissive rather than encouraging, telling me 'You won't be able to play that', or 'Oh, but everyone knows how to play that' (the latter after I learned a certainly-not-easy piece completely by heart in a week). I stopped feeling like the piano was my instrument, and started feeling like a delusional child.

I made the decision, much to my tutor's disgruntlement, not to continue to Licentiate level, and to focus on other areas of music.

The course I enrolled on was very 21st century music-orientated, which at first I thought would be interesting, but I very rapidly learned just wasn't my cup of tea. Having to write experimental abstract music felt like Monet might feel if someone dragged him to the Tate Modern and told him to be more like the artists there.

I clung to every unexamined performance, savouring every gig with my medieval band, taking in every moment with my African drumming group, revelling in every rebellious piece of music I played on the piano that wasn't what I was due to play in the next exam. Slowly, though, people in the groups I was in drifted away either graduating before me and moving elsewhere in the country or losing interest in playing themselves. The day the music proverbially died for me, though, was the day I handed in my last ethnomusicology assignment in my final year.

I loved ethnomusicology. I swear I was a stone's throw away from dreading my hair, wearing tie-dye and travelling the world in the name of music because of ethnomusicology (only I've always been too disgustingly middle class for that to ever happen. Although isn't travelling the world to spiritually find yourself a middle class thing?) Anyway, when it ended, so did my enthusiasm for music. All music thereafter was  purely academic, and since music had always formerly been connected to my emotions, I became detached from it. After graduation the piano lid closed, the flute remained in pieces and my voice went back into hiding. My loving eighteen-year relationship with music had died.

Mourning was difficult. Everyone who had known me as an accomplished musician kept reminding me of that amazing concerto I performed in, or that time I sang a solo part for BBC youth choir of the year, or that gig where I only had a few days to learn twenty popular songs on the piano by heart, etc. etc. etc.

It felt a bit like the heartbreak of splitting up with your partner, but with everyone reminding you how great you were together. I tried to salvage the relationship, I really did. I tried going back to why I loved music, playing only music I enjoyed listening to. It didn't work: I put my fingers to the piano keys, and I dutifully played the notes, but that spark just wasn't there any more. Even worse, it felt too much like I was trying to reclaim my 'glory days'. I told myself that I knew from the very beginning that I'd never be a professional musician, and I admitted to myself that I'd never be the admired musician that I once was: those days were behind me. I moved on.

My creative nature, however, was still very much alive. Eventually I discovered my knack with words, and writing became my career. I started baking and decorating cakes as a hobby, discovered felting, started going to the gym and took up Mandarin evening lessons after work. Five years on, I've made good way in finding out who I am without music, having previously believed that music was all that there was to me.

I thought that the story had ended happily enough, until relatively recently.

I began to stumble across musicians and artists who reminded me that music can be fun- for example Pentatonix, who have successfully proved to the world that a capella can be awesome, and Steam Powered Giraffe, who perform as steampunk-style robots. I rediscovered old idols, from Imogen Heap to The Beatles. I started properly listening to music again. I started to sing along.

A few weeks ago, a friend posted on Facebook about a taster ukelele workshop, and something went 'ding' in my mind. I signed myself up, roped another friend in and went to the workshop last week. By the end of it I was smiling so much my face hurt. Yesterday I went to a ukelele shop, tried out a few, and bought one. I also signed myself up to regular group lessons, so I can play music with other people again.

Since since adopting my ukelele yesterday, the only times I've put it down are to bake and update my blogs (and you know, to sleep etc).

After all this time, I think my romance with music may have been rekindled.

A Friendly DFL in Brighton

I spent the day in Brighton yesterday visiting my friend Vicky (the same Vicky I visited in Berlin during her time teaching there). The subject of what Brighton thinks of London came up when I mentioned that I liked how many of the streets shared the same name as famous streets and places in London (Bond Street, Trafalgar Street, Kensington Street etc).

DFL. Down From London. It's not generally something that's said in a positive light when uttered by Brightonians- wealthy, rude, arrogant Londoners buy up holiday homes and drive property prices up, make an almighty mess during raucous hen parties and stag nights, and generally clutter up the streets as clueless tourists during weekends. However, since I fit into none of those categories- especially not the 'wealthy' part- I'd classify myself as Mostly Harmless, like the entry on humans in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

I love Brighton. I love London as my home and territory and have no illusions of leaving, but I love Brighton as its own separate entity, with its own separate personality. It's something I never felt about Birmingham for example, despite having lived there for five years. It does have some similarities to Central London (particularly Camden Town in some areas, and Camden Town is one of my favourite places in the entire world), in terms of diversity and wonderful quirkiness. However it embraces these sides much more heartily than London rather than being politely embarrassed by them. As for the atmosphere, it's simply more pleasant. People joke about having to be a certain kind of person to be able to bear London: big, bustling, hectic, shiny, dangerous, brilliant London. Well, it's true: you do have to be a certain type of person to survive my city. I say this with a unique and exquisite mix of pride and shame.

I think you do have to have a small, bitter, hardened kernel at the centre of your heart to stand a city where millions of people are crammed into one small place, always in a rush and not allowed to look each other in the eye- or worse, smile at each other. I am definitely a Londoner: I can phase seamlessly through a solid wall of bodies on Oxford Street, mentally shut myself out on a Spam-packed tube carriage and never feel safe while feeling like it's normal to never feel safe. However, I also notice strangers that need a hand and help them, chat to sales assistants like they're human beings and, horror of horrors, smile. I think this small, alien part of me belongs in Brighton, even though the rest of me is and always will be organically Londoner. I'm not saying Brighton is without its own problems, but in any case, it's nice to know that that little part of me has somewhere to feel at home in for a while when it feels like an outsider the rest of the time.

Also, you can see the sea!!

Quasi-Multilingual Adventures

My status update from Facebook, 31st May 2014 (last week):

Brussels Chinatown = speaking French AND Mandarin today. 'Bonjour, 早上好!' Chinglish. Franglais. Franglese. Ow my brain.

It's awesome to know other languages, even if only a little. I can't understand three types of people: people who don't like animals, people who don't like music and people who don't believe in learning a little about another country's language before visiting.

You can't learn a language fluently just like that, but you'd be surprised at how just learning a few words and phrases can do, and how that in turn makes you familiar with the structure of another language, making you instantly feel a little less like an alien on someone else's planet.

Last week, I went on the trip to Brussels I won from the Godiva Chocolate Challenge (you can read all about the trip and all the lovely things I ate on my blog Tashcakes!) and I got to exercise some of my language skills. I was nervously looking forward to dusting off my rusty French, having done well at it at school up to GCSE level, after which I dropped it to take sciences instead (a regretful decision in hindsight, but you can't go back in time). Even so, although all I could only remember basic conversational French, I felt secure in the knowledge that I wouldn't have to know how to converse with someone about something like politics or global warming.

As a result, I was able to visit restaurants that the locals like, and experience more warmth and smiles from strangers (after all,  people do in general appreciate if you try to speak their language even a little). In fact, I ended up barely speaking English at all to anyone aside from my non French-speaking mum (my travel companion for the trip) and occasionally the hotel staff.

What I wasn't expecting was getting the opportunity to put the Mandarin Chinese I've been learning into practise.

I've been taking evening Mandarin language classes once a week for nearly a year now, having decided that it's high time I learn how to converse in the common language of one half of my heritage. It's been going well- I impressed my Chinese family when I went to Malaysia earlier on this year (okay, more like entertained, but at least I was understandable when I spoke), and my fellow classmates often tease me for being the 'teacher's pet'. However I've only been able to practise in 'safe' environments- up until last week.

We ended up stumbling into Brussels' unofficial Chinatown on the second day of the trip, and to my delight the common language of the community was Mandarin. London's Chinatown seems to have more Cantonese speakers, my Chinese friends are all Cantonese speakers and my Chinese family primarily speak Hakka and only a little Mandarin, so I don't often get to practise with others outside of the classroom.

So, I went to a Chinese supermarket and spoke a little to the cashier in Mandarin, who to my relief understood me through my surely glaring Western accent. Best of all, mum and I decided to test our Mandarin skills at a little Chinese restaurant, where they literally only spoke Mandarin and a bit of French (at one point I asked our waiter- in Mandarin of course- if he spoke any English. He said no, and looked a little panicked, but relaxed when we continued in Mandarin). Both my mum's and my own Mandarin skills are a bit basic, but between us we were able to order, ask if they had Chinese tea, ask for extra utensils to share one dish and handle the bill.

It's a unique, amazing feeling to be able to speak to someone in a language other than the one you grew up with, and an even more amazing feeling to do so in another country. To many English people and Americans believe that they don't have to try learning another language before going on holiday because 'they'll probably all speak English there anyway'. I've even known some people who believe that everyone should know English when you go to another country. I believe this is just arrogance and laziness. Maybe I only believe this because I'm a linguaphile, and I find the variety of languages on this planet beautiful and interesting. Even so, people often forget that English itself is a patchwork mishmash of other languages that has been developed over a very, very long time.

Besides: when you go to a friend's house, you respect the fact that they have a different way of doing things, don't you?

Small Acts of Defiance

I'm a pretty straight-laced kind of gal. Okay, I'm a rather kooky straight-laced kind of gal, but I'm no firestarter or rebel. The wildest thing I've ever done is break into a park at 2am with a couple of friends, a picnic blanket and some snacks and fruit juice to watch a meteorite shower (we crawled through a wall of bushes to get in, all the while worrying about angry badgers).

However, every once in a while, I'll demonstrate my disdain for society's more silly unspoken rules, in my own small way. Breaking into a park on a Saturday night to watch the stars and have a non-alcoholic picnic instead of going clubbing was definitely one of those times (I still believe that secretly no-one actually enjoys clubbing). I had another of those moments yesterday on the way to London Comicon.

I've been looking forward to this year's Comicon for ages, because it's only the second time I would have gone in full cosplay- wig and all. I'm pretty proud of my costume: it took a lot of time and effort to put it together. Originally I was going to go with a group of people, also in costume. However, at the last minute, it transpired that I would now be the only in costume, as a result of either people dropping out or others not finishing their costumes in time.

It also meant I'd be meeting my remaining friends at the venue, and that I'd be travelling alone in costume.

On public transport.

To hell with it. I did it anyway.

Of course, since this is England, no-one made eye contact with me- instead there was a lot of surreptitious setting of smartphones to camera mode around me. And of course, no-one will sit next to you if you look like this:

(Especially if you put on a creeper face).

But to be honest, this is London: there are far stranger folk on the London Underground than a girl dressed as an anime character (Homura Akemi from Madoka Magica, for the record). As I got closer and closer to the venue, I ceased to become the only person in costume on my carriage, anyway.

Still, it does take a bit of guts to do what I did: I did have to remind myself just to have fun since I wasn't hurting anyone, and not to care about people thinking I was weird. Okay, they may be right, but I'm not bad-type weird.

This is an age of of self-image, where you can filter your life to look however you want it to look on the likes of Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. However, it takes a lot more effort to actually *be* the person you want to be in real life, with no filters or editing. The person I want to be isn't afraid to do something just because others might raise a judgemental eyebrow. Sometimes, to be the person you want to be, you just have to stick your tongue out at quirked eyebrows and do it your way.

Like a boss.