Wolverhampton journal 1: Tips on procreation

Choosing a new hairdresser in a new town can be a daunting task. But this time I’m feeling fairly confident. This place comes highly recommended. I enter the dimly lit ground floor where a panda-eyed teenager sits, ideally filing her nails. With a grunt and a yawn she gestures towards a staircase. Upstairs I find two girls singing along to Heart FM (Beyonce: "Single Ladies"), as they sweep up clouds of bleached and black hair. The shorter girl smiles and points towards the corner chair, so I take my own coat off and hang it on a cluttered stand and sit down, wishing my hands were not quite so clammy.

Hairdresser: Highlights today is it?
Anna: Um, no. I’d just like a simple cut... perhaps a couple of inches off.
Hairdresser: Right (* she twiddles her comb idly through Anna’s hair) Over to the sink then.
*hairdresser vigorously washes Anna’s hair, taking little care not to let dribbles of water slide down the back of the neck. She then returns Anna to the chair and gets to work on the cut.
Hairdresser: Doesn’t sound like you’re from round here.
Anna: No. I’ve actually just moved here to be with my boyfriend.
Hairdresser: ooooh! Having a baby soon then?
Anna: Umm... no. Not just yet.
Hairdresser: How old are you?
Anna: Ummm... I’m twenty-nine.
Hairdresser: Twenty-nine??? You better start soon. I’m twenty and we are already trying, my boyfriend and me. You’ll have to have them soon or they’ll come out deformed.
Anna: Oh. (*closes her eyes and counts to ten, nervously plays with her fingers)
Hairdresser: You know, I’ve heard some women over forty try and have a baby. Forty! It’s disgusting.
Anna: (* clears throat)
Hairdresser: Mind you. You don’t look twenty-nine ... so your kids will probably be ok. Not strange, like. I wouldn’t waste no time though... to make sure.

exile

Wishing you all a...

Charity Christmas Cards

Over the last week or so Barcelona City Council has been busy climbing up large mechanical ladders, attaching Christmas lights. While Christmas doesn’t come as quickly and as incessantly here as it does in the U.K. there is no longer any denying that it is rapidly on its yearly way. At the cat sanctuary a few cats have started to sneeze, and there is a lot more huddling together going on. I thought I would like to try to raise some money to help cover additional winter vet bills.

Soooo...I have designed and made all the cards you can see below. The pictures have been made using Wordpaint and I have produced these images as photos which have been glued onto cards. Each picture can be purchased on either shiny white or matt green. They come with a matching envelope and are individually packaged (very professionally ;->) in little plastic covers. I have taken pictures of all of the finished cards but as they are shiny surfaces there is a bit of light blur and so I have also included the images below each card example so that you can have a clearer idea of how they will look.

Order directly from me and all proceeds will go to the cat sanctuary, El jardinet dels gats, (http://www.eljardinetdelsgats.org/en/).

Buy 1 card for €2 OR 5 cards for €7.

I am happy to post them to you for whatever the p+p comes to.

At least take the time to browse below and feel free to pass this on to any friends that might be interested:

1) Angels



2) Shepherd

3) Manager a+b

> As you can see this one comes in two different colours.


4) King

5) Bethlehem

6) Donkey

You can also place an order by emailing me at annasthought.hotmail.com.

gorilla haiku

What do they dream of

Curled up together tightly?

Milky mistiness.

String

My possessions aren’t as safe as they used to be. Pants, computer wire, fingers, socks, lamp, belt, earrings, jumpers and bags are searched for (in that order) and viciously attacked by tiny little teeth and claws. While this might bring great fulfilment to the two resident kittens it can get a bit much at times. This morning I found a new white hair. Yesterday there was a close call: I walked into the lounge just in time to see the sleeve of my white cardigan disappearing under the sofa accompanied by the soft sound of jubilant grunts. A sharp mind is required to keep on top of the constant onslaught. Top tip: distraction techniques. The less sophisticated the better. So when we tied an old ragged string – the edge of a faded tea towel – to the back of the wooden chair we gained an unusually long respite. With concentrated determination the battle of the string began.

Yayo

Noble old feline sitting tall

Sniffs disdainfully at a passing fly,

Set aside all alone

Quietly avoiding a brawl,

Angular lines, long whiskers imply

Sad times he has known.

A monstrous threat

The habitual peace and tranquillity of a garden refuge for abandoned cats is suddenly shattered by the piercing shriek of a small male child. Urgently pushing his greasy face up against the fence he tries to force his stubby, fat fingers through the mesh holes.

“Urghh. Urgg.” He grunts.

And then more urgently, “Eeeeerg. Urrrrrrrrrg.”

The three cats who had been dozing in the quarter hastily retreat behind the nearest tree.
Boy lets out a frustrated howl, letting his jaw drop down to his chest, revealing a fowl mouth of yellowing teeth.

“Muuuuuuuuuuum. Muuuuuuuuuuuuuum. I want a cat. I want that cat. Give it to me nooooooooooooow. I want it now.” He jabs one thumb in the direction of unsuspecting Vania, a gentle black giant who leaps away in horror.

Mum chips in “It’s ok darling. Don’t cry my precious.”

She calls out through the fence. “Hey! Yeah, you. You over there! You giving these cats out? I’ll take that one. That ugly black thing.”

Boy interrupts “Give it to me noooooooooow. Muuuuum. Tell them to give it me noooow.”

Vania turns his back on them and calmly stalks away to the far side of the garden. He sits proudly with his back turned, cleaning his face. Suddenly he pounces an unsuspecting fly. Then he returns to his washing routine.

A starry adventure

The other side of town

Visiting the "really quite rich though not necessarily famous" involves a healthy hike: in order not to risk sinking as low as public transport the wannabes simply ordered the city council not to construct any metro or bus stops in the zone. Whilst they don't quite live as high up on the hill as the "really far too rich and quite probably famous", they are still high enough for the wind to feel ever so slightly cooler.

Here the convenience of high street chains has been abandoned in favour of obscure and surprisingly somewhat pokey boutiques. Displayed on glossy headless mannequins are street-long parades of almost-not faux fur coats with random tassels, definitely faux Eton jackets and miniscule lacy, baby-pink ballerina dresses. The impracticalities of such an existence are embraced by beady-eyed ladies who patrol the local park with ugly, overpriced designer dogs trained to sniff out any wandering, trespassing vagabonds. This probably explains the chorus of yaps as I walk past. A select number of people below the “standard stipend” are expected to be seen out of doors from time to time: the starched white uniform ought however to be worn and a brisk pace should be maintained in order to prevent instant excommunication to the immigrant barrios way down below. An occasional insurgent slips through the net: a toothless sinewy old man whizzes past the poodles, gleefully intoxicated by the speed of his rollerblades, his spiky red T-shirt billowing rebelliously; a not quite yummy mummy tosses a crisp packet into the gutter; a blazered teen with knee-high socks crouches behind a tree coughing a cigarette.

Kitten Haiku

Autumnal fluff with
Interspersed blue and rose-pink
Warming my belly

Bench Behaviour

In Barcelona benches are not primarily designed for taking a five minute rest when out shopping or for sitting and eating an ice-cream with a friend.

Benches belong to the señoras.


Packs of them congregate on a daily basis at their chosen bench which they occupy together for hours at a time; gossiping, nodding wisely and watching the world go by.

Peaceful. Knowing. moulded into the woodwork.



You’ll know when you are sitting on their bench when you feel an icy stare on your back, followed by the slightly impatient tap of a walking stick or even a sharp throaty cough. It is inadvisable to take on the challenge ... if you do the hairs on the back of your neck will soon begin to tingle and your face will flush red until you feel like all your innermost secrets have been learnt by those steely ent-like eyes behind you, only in order to be hummed later from pack to pack, spread like sticky honey throughout the city.

The Sadness of George Sand

Gegants are extremely large papier maché figurines, intricately clothed and painted to represent legendary figures: kings, queens and mythical folkloric characters. The hollowed-out, wooden-framed body allows a large, presumably quite strong person to clamber underneath, lift the thing up and make it ponce down the street in flamboyant carnivalesque parades. Each city in Catalonia is represented by unique gegants: in Barcelona look out for Jaume I and Violant d’Hongria as well as the Gegants de Santa Maria de Mar:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2Zk7krmF_U

La Mercè, patron saint of Barcelona, according to legend, appeared to Jaume I one late September evening way back in 1218, proposing a saving-Christians-from-the-blood-thirsty-Saracens campaign. Much later, in 1687, the virgin Mercè delivered Barcelona out of the perils of a giant plague of locusts. In ongoing grateful celebration the city celebrates every September: fireworks, dances, music, correfoc and gegants ...among other things.

While Violant’s eastern European origins draw attention to the early cultural diversity of the nation and its celebrations, in the postmodern global era the cultural integration and indeed also non-integrations are ever more visible. In this year’s warm ups to Mercè, intercultural synthesism raised its head quite appropriately on the Rambla, where two new gigants were officially inaugurated under the watchful eyes of Jaume and Violant: Frédéric Chopin and George Sand.

As I stood watching, a happy tipsy little Pole excitedly taps me on the shoulder announcing that his friend personally supervised the creation of the monster figurines. “Catalans are practically Polish,” he added with a grin.

I turned back and found myself fixated on Sand’s face; she seemed to be lost in a tragic world of anguish. Whereas Chopin just looked formally dull. Perhaps she wasn’t enjoying her 1838 visit with Chopin to Barcelona (represented here), before going on to Mallorca. Her giant lips are too tense to be painted so red and they somehow clash with the deep blue bags that have been boldly streaked under her eyes. This doesn’t seem to be the face of the rebel writer, vivacious defier of the social and class norms of 19th Century France. Dressed in prim robes she seems far removed from the perils of male garments and aromatic cigarette smoke. Is it the sudden conformity of the gegant costume imposed upon her that brings sternness, a heart-rending solemnity to her demeanour? Is it a growing sexual apathy? Surely not regret for times gone by? Is she worrying about her children and their uncertain futures? Is that heavy fabric itching her papier maché skin? Or is it a foreboding of the hard conflictual times to come, with Chopin’s deteriorating health a reminder of her own iridescent but also ephemeral youth? She writes: “One changes from day to day, and...after a few years have passed one has completely altered.”

Stag Touble

With the rise of budget airlines the infamous rite of passage, known amongst other things as The Stag Do, has seeped beyond the British border, oozing its way into a variety of European host cities. Some unsuspecting locals might well be shocked by the eager city complicity in this growing industry. Take Barcelona as an example:

Stag advertising for the city uses words like physical, sensual, exotic and hedonistic.
Enthralled by such riotous promises, one swarm of happy Stagites jostle for seats close together on the 18.36 Bristol-Barcelona Easyjet (delayed) flight. The delay is as good an excuse as any to competitively consume overpriced alcohol in the departure lounge. The rabble's volume control is stuck on maximum and somebody announced that the first person in the group to be caught not making any sound would be denied entrance into the strip club later. The noise drowns out the automated Spanish security instructions, and the one with Dudu emblazoned on his matching uniform shouts, “ we can't effing understand you. Nobody can effing understand what you're effing saying.”

Now it's the English language safety instructions turn and the air hostess called Laura edges away nervously into the whirlwind of bowler hats that are being tossed to and fro, hoping to reach the safety of the eye of the storm. No luck there... the chorus breaks out:

Laura, can't you give me some time?
I've got to give myself one more chance
To be the man that i know i am
To be the man that i know i am
... I'm gonna need your love...

Relentless.

Battling against the seeming inevitability of the situation, the staff stoically begin on the snack trolley tour of the cabin. A rather frail looking lady in one of the last rows whispers, “a beer please.” “I'm afraid we've sold out ma'am,” responds Laura's co-worker Julie with the pleading smile.

As the unspeakable pleasures of Barcelona get ever nearer, the hysteria continues to escalate. At one point Stag himself stumbles down the passage way towards the back end toilet. Pausing for a moment to regain his balance he grinned slyly at a young child, pointing proudly to a graphic biro-pen illustration protruding out of his cut-off jeans.

As the plane finally sailed down the runway it's hard to know who cheered louder: us or them.
Clambering onto the bus that is waiting to take us to the terminal building, I see the stag party not so nimbly pinching bottoms- whoever pinches the least must buy all the drinks that night.
I'm lucky to find a small safe corner which is populated by an astounded group of Catalans, talking over the phenomenon in a schizophrenic jumble of Spanish and Catalan:

“They don't appear to have any self-control or dignity”

“Yes, yes. I wonder if they are all okay in the head”

“I think it must be something to do with the problems that they have with English girls”

“Quite right. I hear English girls are very frigid”

“Do you think they realise how stupid they look all dressed the same?”

“Of course Catalan men are much more handsome”

“Perhaps that's one wearing a pink shirt is gay”

“Probably”

“He has a very large nose”

“His knees are bony”

“Why don't they wait till later to molest the ladies ... in the club”

“English men are repressed you know”

......

The next morning I woke to the sound of a thunderstorm, and as I looked out the window at the pouring rain I allowed myself a moment of smug satisfaction in knowing that at least the party’s wild plans to pass the day at “the million beach chiringuitos (curingeyetoes)” might literally be washed away.

A Piggy Itch.

On Monday I went to Land’s End
Where I made an unusual friend:
“Scratch my back,” he requested,
“For I’m a little congested”
I oblige. He sighs: “I commend.”

Singing

Swinging and twisting our way under the city, the aircon. is off and the sticky stench is somewhat overpowering. With a sudden jerk we arrive at the next station, a small shriveled old man is flung hard back into his seat, setting his dentures flying out of his mouth, onto the lap of a smallish child sitting opposite. She shrieks. Piercing. Unfazed he reaches out a moley vein-ridden hand to make the retrieval, offering a gummy apologetic grin. As the train sets off again, clutching the teeth with his left hand, with his right he digs deep in his right trouser pocket and pulls out a grubby capacious handkerchief. Shaking it out with a quick, surprisingly strong flip of the wrist: a small initial – J – scarcely visible stitched into one corner. He clears his throat with a deep gargle, tilts his neck back with a sharp click and spews forward a ball of spittle onto the waiting rag. Squeak, squeak, squeak. Tilting back and forth in the carriage he rubs his chomping gear. Top, top, top. Bottom, bottom, bottom. Then with a grunt he reinserts. The girl has stopped screeching and stares now, with jaw hanging loosely open. He clears his throat again and staggering to his feet he bursts into loud, rusty song. Reaching the door as the train once more pulls to a stop he takes a moment to whisper to me: “you’ve got to make your way through life singing.” He winks.

Flighty Thoughts,,,

eternal plight of a researcher

Ama's bcn birthday oasis

grizzly