Red Lipstick

"Hey, you're beautiful! Gorgeous!"

I didn't realise the rickshaw driver was hollering at me until he cycled past, his hand reaching out to stroke my hair: I had become the unwitting victim of a cycle-by petting. What surprised me more than the unsolicited contact, however, was my instant, knee-jerk reaction as I recoiled away from his touch.

"Eww..!" I said, laughing and scrunching my nose up like I was in primary school and the rickshaw driver was a little boy with cooties. I didn't notice his reaction as I was too busy laughing at the ridiculousness of the driver's grabbiness and the childishness of my reaction.

I hadn't noticed that the driver had been catcalling me because I wasn't expecting it. I usually dress smartly enough when out and about, but I happened to be going to a 1940's style event with a few friends- so my long hair, usually tied back in a braid, was curled in Hollywood-style waves, and I wore a striking red lipstick. The rest of me was pretty much the same- a smart black dress I often wear to work and ankle boots with sensible-ish heels. I don't tend to get catcalled or chatted up, and I didn't think that a bit of red lippy would be enough to turn me from Everyday Tash to someone to be grabbed at like a can of beans at the supermarket.

What makes guys think they can act like that, though? What happened to just saying hello, or chatting? I'm lucky that I haven't had to experience this too often, but I have other friends that get this kind of treatment all the time. And even I have, although not too often- the last time anyone showed any interest in me in that way ended in almost two years of persistent harassment and borderline stalking which has only just recently stopped (I hope). I think if it weren't for my male friends and family I'd have long ago lost faith in men. Thankfully all I have to do is think of them and I realise that there are just quite a few weirdos, creeps and socially awkward people out there- but of course, not everyone is. Saying that all guys are creeps is like saying all women are crazy. This is wrong, of course: everyone is crazy. I suppose life is all about finding the people that are your special brand of crazy to get along with.

All the same, guys- if you're ever riding a rickshaw and pass a pretty girl you don't know, reaching out to stroke their hair as you cycle by is very unlikely to get a positive response.

Enjoy Every Second Your Way

My friend Sarah and I were trying to find the end of an immense queue for char kway teow noodles at the Malaysia Night festival. There were queues everywhere, full of all kinds of people waiting for all kinds of food, an organised chaos of interweaving lines like the London Underground. My British little heart looked at all the queues and found them beautiful.

Most people were happy to give other hungry and friendly strangers tips on where they had found the interesting food they were holding, or which end of which queue belonged to which food stall.

Of course, some were still a little bit too much on the British side.

"Hi! Hello! Um... excuse me, is this the queue for that stall over there?"

I smiled hopefully at the lady in the queue. The lady gave a mildly terrified look, as if I had just asked her to choose between her money or her life. Her eyes then unfocused, and stared right through me, a watery polite but insubstantial smile hovering on her lips. She turned away, having apparently decided I was some sort of ghostly apparition. Sarah giggled as I threw my hands up in exasperation.

It was my birthday earlier this week. I'm older, and none the wiser, and still asking strangers in the city questions while trying not to freak them out with my forthrightness. I also haven't been posting for the last couple of weeks- in fact, for two more weeks than I realised: this gives you some sort of idea of how badly I'm keeping track of passing time at the moment. My weekday evenings are packed with Mandarin, ukulele, Dungeons and Dragons and dance, my weekends are packed with cool friends, my kitchen is full of the cakes I've baked, my absolutely free time is non-existent. And I'm having a shedload of fun learning new things, catching up with old friends and meeting new ones.

Let's do another year!

Annihilated Knees- Part 2

It's a really twisted part of human nature to instantly want to do something that you're told you absolutely must not do. Sometimes it's not even a conscious choice.

I went for an MRI scan on my knees this morning, not really knowing what to expect apart from making sure not to wear metal before being pushed into the middle of a giant high-powered magnet. I also knew before they told me that I'd have to hold myself completely still for an extended amount of time.

No big deal- I can sit still for  long periods of time engrossed in a book or watching a film. It's the same thing, right?

Wrong.

We're always shifting, twitching, moving every so slightly. No-one's really like a statue.

Each knee took 20 minutes to be scanned, and because I wasn't used to the terrible din of the machine and the weird feeling of pressure during some of the cycles, the muscles in my legs involuntarily tensed up. Try as I might, I just couldn't get into a zen mode. Halfway through one of my legs very suddenly twitched, and the radiographer switched intercom system on. I heard him sigh a little.

"Okay, we're going to have to do that one again, you moved a little."

"Okay, sorry!"

The poor radiographer had to buzz in a few more times to remind me to keep still. It was all very well telling my brain this, but my leg muscles had other plans.

I was also given a panic button to press if I went into shock in the machine (I can see how this would happen to some people- you're very enclosed and the noises and sensations are enough to freak anyone out). Of course I knew I mustn't press it for no reason, and I certainly didn't need to- but the entire time my hands got a twitching feeling, as if to tell me "Go on, the button's right there, you know you want to!"

Steampunk Shenanigans

This weekend I attended another costumed event with a few friends, this time at Lincoln's Weekend at the Asylum Steampunk Festival, the annual largest-gathering-of-steampunks-in-Europe.

The funny thing about it was it was my first time a) attending a steampunk gathering and b) dressing up in steampunk attire at all, so I thought my Steam Powered Giraffe-inspired clockwork robot would either be too weird or too lame. I got a shock when half of my day turned into posing for photographers from various backgrounds (only one or two were a little on the creepy side- one was quite a bit more than a little creepy but I made a swift disappearing act).

I was also pretty proud that I managed to put my face on in only 15 minutes as we arrived late thanks to a sudden taxi drought. During my test-runs, my makeup usually took no less than 45 minutes. However I did have to forgo some of the shading and depth effects and stick to simple. Next time... at least whenever I smiled I looked terrifying. Job well done?

Lincoln was beautiful, made even more dream-like and surreal the amount of people dressed in period-fantasy fusion. I also love the fact that Lincoln has a street on a really long and steep hill called Steep Hill. It definitely earned its name.

Can you imagine cycling up that? Or even down it, now that would be terrifying.

Until next time, Lincoln.

Dodging Death

I was just about to switch everything off thie evening when Mum came downstairs, exclaiming how something had blown the bathroom light out upstairs. I shrugged it off- it happens. What did make me get up to investigate was ten minutes later, after Mum had gone back upstairs, when she called down saying that she could smell burning.
I went upstairs, and sure enough there was a faint smell of something burning. But not a smokey smell (which would have been bad enough)- this smelled like burning plastic.

We hunted around to the source of the smell, until I noticed that it was actually coming from Mum's room itself. Mum discovered that it was, in fact, her TV pouring out evil, invisible and silent fumes- all the while still working otherwise as normal.

We quickly switched it off, although in the short space of time we discovered the source of the smell, the fumes had gotten so bad that I had to cover my nose and mouth with a towel to get close enough to fully unplug it. We threw the windows in the room open and closed the door.

Here's the kicker- normally Mum goes to bed much earlier than this, and sometimes falls asleep in front of the TV while it's still on (despite me lecturing her about doing this on many an occasion). Mum could have been gassed to death in her sleep without a sound. I would have been downstairs, completely unaware until I went upstairs, or possibly in my adjacent room, also being silently poisoned. Or, the TV would set alight. Either way, if Mum hadn't been up later than usual (ironically watching TV instead of falling asleep to it), Dad may have come home from his night shift to bodies, burning or both.

Sobering thought.

I've moved Mum downstairs to sleep on the sofa for the night while the fumes dissipate from her room. In the meantime I've been periodically checking the TV to make sure it stops fuming, which thankfully, it has now.

This is right up there with the time the ceiling collapsed in a patch right next to my bed with me in it, in terms of brushes with the grim reaper.

Hey, I Just Met You, and I Am Crazy (Part 2)

 I really wonder what on Earth is wrong with me, sometimes.

On Wednesday we were split into small groups during dance class to learn the next part of the choreography. I was hyper from dancing, as usual, and was chatting to another class member with whom I've never spoken with before. At the the end of the class...

"Well it was nice chatting to you!" they said, smiling.

"Whee!!" I skipped off at high speed.

... Told you I fail at meeting new people.

Pagliacci

Last week, it was the peak night for the Perseid meteor shower. I had just come in from three quarters of hour of stargazing, neck sore from craning up for so long. So far, I had seen nothing in the small patch of light-polluted London sky of my back garden. It was about 2:30am.

I sat down at my computer to take a short break. I saw the red banner of a breaking news story on my screen that had only been posted about ten minutes ago- Robin Williams had been found dead.

This post has been sitting in my drafts for a week now. I wanted to say something constructive and intelligent, and to express the strange and unexpected pain of losing someone I've never even met. I grew up with his on-screen shenanigans, marvelled at his talent and had heard stories of his kind nature, but I didn't know him; and yet I felt a little heartbroken. I couldn't find a way to express all of this. Thankfully, the internet, or indeed the whole world it seems, managed to convey these sentiments perfectly.

I was going to just delete this nod to Mr. Williams because I felt like I had nothing worth posting compared to everyone else, and certainly nothing as beautiful or thought-provoking as the heartfelt tributes that have gone out. However, I started to think about my own very personal dealings with the invisible but very tangible dead weight that is depression: both for myself and close friends. Then I began to think that if I can get through to just one person out there that happens to be reading this post- literally just one person in the whole world- and be able to help them just a little, then that's worth more than enough for me to post this.

There are days where you might feel like you could never be happy again. Or, just as bad, you feel like you could never feel anything ever again. There might be days where instantly when you wake up, you feel an invisible weight crushing down on you, and you wish nothing more than to just stay in bed and never get up again. There might be days where no matter what the hell you do you feel repulsive, unsuccessful and generally worthless to anyone or anything- and that either you, your loved ones, or both, would be better off if you just removed yourself from the world.

This is not the truth.

The sneakiest, most vicious part of depression is the way it convinces you that it's purely logical to feel this way. It's not. You have more worth than you can ever know, and are treasured more than you can ever realise. You don't deserve to be feeling like this at all, no matter what you tell yourself, and you have just as much right to be down as anyone else. Ignore people who tell you nonsense such as 'just snap out of it' or 'smile more' or 'be grateful for the life you have'. Depression is certainly not your fault, and these people are bloody idiots.

Most importantly of all, LET YOURSELF BE HELPED. You might feel like you don't want to burden others, but what good are the people on this earth if they can't support one another? Turn to the people closest to you, and sod the ones that run away- no-one needs people like that in their lives anyway, depression or no. Keep talking, and go to the doctor's to work out the best possible treatment for you. You know what? People with colds are lucky- they get streaming eyes, red noses, and sneeze and snort a lot, and they get all of the Lemsip and sympathy in the world. Depression is invisible, and more dangerously if you let it be- silent. So yes, there are people out there that will be of the "well I can't see it so it must not exist" ilk (again, these people are bloody idiots). Thankfully your doctor knows better than that. Go see them, and talk to them too.

I've been there. I nearly got lost. I'm back, and I'm stronger than ever. Sometimes it might feel like you could fall back into the pit. But once you realise the truth- that you deserve better- there will always be a safety net over the pit, and you'll never fall in again.

This is what I considered as I read the news that night, as well as how someone who has done so much good in the world can't feel of it for themselves. As for the Perseid meteor shower, I went straight back outside. I saw three little shooting stars and a great big one streak across the sky within ten minutes, this time.