What The Fuck Is Video Art?

Last night saw me in The Joinery up on Arbour Hill, pretending to be cool and wishing to fuck that I was wearing a black poloneck and a mullet instead of curls and a pink satin alice band. I never know what to do at art exhibitions, particularly avant-garde ones. This is in part because I'm not actually sure what avant-garde means, other than it generally applies to stuff my nana wouldn't like.

But it's all about leaving your comfort zone, right? "They have Alsatians here!" exclaimed my brother as we darted nervously through the traffic in Stoneybatter. Presumably it's all poodles and pomeranians in Monkstown.

Having trailed across the city from Grand Canal Street, we loitered outside the gallery, finishing our cigarettes. Smoking makes us look cool. I lack the manual dexterity to smoke roll ups, so instead I smoke expensive and pretentious slims called Vogue. My cool factor would increase exponentially if I could roll, I reckon, but for now I'll just feign it fashionably in the dim light.

Through the window I can see a huge screen, lots of distressing white and flashing images, tracked by the sound of a baby squalling, a high pitched, insistent cry that makes you want to comfort it, or smother it with a pillow. I think abstract and artful* thoughts to myself as I pull on my cigarette, mulling over what this piece says to me about the human condition (and my mothering instincts). A lady comes barreling out the door with the screaming child in a buggy and I realise that unless we're looking at performance art, I have been talking through my hole.

The piece is called Babel, it transpires, and is an apocalyptic (video) postcard to a technohead with a minuscule attention span. Perhaps it is about me after all. After some earnest posturing in front of the various video installations (there are headphones dangling from the ceiling... should I just hold them to my ear, DJ style, like I'm not that bovvered? Or hog them and stand engrossed, pretending to get it now that I can hear the images?) I move into the second room where I am delighted to discover some bona fide performance art in the form of Julian Longchamp and the Apostroph' Ensemble's Somnambule. This time I do stand, engrossed and pretending to get it while a trio of musicians hide behind a sheet, playing an atmospheric soundtrack to a surreal film. When the piece ends (I know it was the end, because there were credits) the uncomfortably close crowd give an uncomfortably restrained clap. I didn't start it, reigning in my compulsion to applaud their performance for fear it might be uncool, but I joined in with faux ennui. Clap clap, yes, very good. All the while thinking I must pick up one of those sheets on the way out so that I sound like I know what I'm talking about when I write this up on my blog. So that people will think I'm cool.

I'm not. So this evening I reverted to form; dispensed with the poseuring and stuck with what I know. Chilli, mostly. Piquante, with parmesan, grated love, honest warmth and hugs.

*You're right, I don't understand what artful means either.

Isn't That Stevie Wonder?

World Culture's flavour tends to spoil a little in the persistent rain and Saturday afternoon brought a downpour, so after a late breakfast we went back to bed to read the papers. I snuggled up to him and proceeded to read his newspaper over the top of my book (because the grass is always greener) feeling smug and pleasantly bourgeoisie (I reckon it was the pancakes). He started to laugh. "How delightfully middle-class! Perhaps later we should go to that little ethnic festival, darling!" he trilled, in an awful approximation of a plummy southsider. "I hear they have some brown chaps with drums!"

Buke Worm

No longer under any obligation to spend every waking hour either studying or pretending to study, I can once again spend the majority of my (sober) free time with my nose stuck in a book. I passed my exams by the skin of my teeth... I ended up with a 2:1, which doesn't quite sound like scraping through, but I can assure you that with a 60% passing grade and a 59% mark in one of the modules, it is scraping through with bloodied knees.

And so, unfettered and free, I managed to get through no less than three novels over the course of last week's holiday. The first was Hakuri Murakami's After Dark, purchased in the airport and read on the plane. I always feel cheated when I finish one of Murakami's novels; their brevity may be key to their beauty but they leave me hungry for more. An English teacher of mine once flattered me with a similar accusation but it was years before I got the reference - he marked me down to a B- and scribbled a note saying that my story was infuriatingly like one of Mr. Wilde's cigarettes.* I thought he was just being a cunt.

I read Nicola Barker's Darkmans next, which I'd bought on a whim because it was big and heavy. It meant that I had to carry a shoulder bag rather than a handbag for the week and that I developed a squint and a hunch, but it was worth it. It was clever, confusing and very very funny. The nightmarish images of Scogin the jester seeped into my own dreams, however, and it made for an uncomfortable week's sleep. I believe Ms. Barker has penned a few others so I'll be down to Rathmines library with a list on Monday morning.

A little light reading then for the flight home; Siobhán Dowd's The London Eye Mystery. It had shades of Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time in that the narrator, Ted, shares many of Christopher's idiosyncrasies. He makes for an endearing, engaging and convincing storyteller and I found myself reading right through the safety announcements on board our Boeing 737, and all the way through the flight home (despite being a confirmed narcoleptic when it comes to public transport). The book is aimed at 9-12 year olds, and as I am all of 27 I feel I should pass it on to someone else who might enjoy it. So if anyone's got a spacky kid like me at home who'd treasure my copy, email me and I'll post it anonymously, and give them a mystery all of their own.

*A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? (The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde)

Thousands Will Be Disappointed*

I'm afraid I will be welshing on my date with Spencer Tunick. I've got a better offer - I'm flying to Bilbao on the 19th and home again via Biarritz on the 26th. It's just as well, really, I haven't managed to lose that two stone I had planned to lose and my Hollywood is still, well, very Hollywood (for some reason this makes me feel about eleventy million times more exposed than simply being naked).

So no nudie photos of me masquerading as art shall be posted on my blog. You may breathe a sigh of relief/groan in abject disappointment. Annie is planning to capture my radiant beauty in a photograph soon, however, and if her talented hands make me look half presentable I might post her effort here instead. Just so that we have something to look forward to.

*Or possibly just a few of you. There's really no accounting for taste.

Poetry Cornered

William Butler Yeats

• In a fit of facetiousness, I chose as my sister's thesis title a line from Yeats' dirge, September 1913 (Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, it's with O'Leary in the grave). As it happens, Yeats was an alumni of the same institution (then The Metropolitan School of Art, now the National College of Art and Design).

• When I was a kid I had a map of Ireland complete with portraits of her literary heroes. Most of them were ancient and beardy looking (I had not, at that stage, developed my preference for hirsute men) but Wilde and Yeats looked young and presentable, so I used imagine them as my boyfriends (there were no teen magazines or pop idols in our house).

• His brother Jack was an expressionist painter, and a very fine one at that. Were I the boys' mother, he'd definitely have been my favourite.

• Apparently William was big into mysticism and the occult. WH Auden criticized this aspect of Yeats' work as the "deplorable spectacle of a grown man occupied with the mumbo-jumbo of magic and the nonsense of India." I copy and pasted that from Wikipedia, so it must be true.

• All of his Irish mysticism stuff bores and annoys me in equal measure - I find it pretentious and very difficult to identify with. I imagine he would probably find me pretentious and very difficult to identify with.

• He is somewhat of a posterboy for unrequited love - having followed Maud Gonne around like a lost puppy for 19 years he finally bedded her in 1908. Whatever he did that night, he made quite an impression: By January 1909, Gonne was sending Yeats letters praising the advantage given to artists who abstain from sex. She must have made a more favourable impression on him, however, as he proposed again to her (proposal #346, I think) and also proposed to her pubescent daughter. He was still rattling on about their one-nighter in A Man Young And Old almost 20 years later (which must have pleased his young wife George no end).
  

Blame Annie and Tim.

Here's Why

I mentioned somewhat flippantly the other day that I intend to take part in Spencer Tunick's installation in Dublin on June 21st. I neglected to explain why.

Some of the people I have told about it since have balked at the idea of taking part, as have some of the bloggers who have written about it. Aonghus is one, and the question he posed was an interesting one: will this "art" be remembered in twenty years time? In a century?

I would argue that yes it will. I will certainly have a memory of the event in 20 years time and I imagine that the other participants will too, as I doubt getting bollock naked in public is an everyday experience for many of them. Whether or not it enters the canon of great works of art remains to be seen. Personally I doubt that it will, but that would in no way dissuade me from taking part. It will be an event - not just a photograph (though I will have a limited edition one of those too, which is something the flatmates would probably prefer I didn't hang in the sitting room).

I have no idea what Tunick's art means, but I'm getting an idea of what it means to me. Aonghus mentioned that the images Tunick has published fill him more with a sense of horror than a sense of wonder and I can understand why. Tunick's photographs, regardless of the artist's intention, represent whatever we choose to see them as metaphors for. For me they can sometimes evoke images of genocide; the beauty of the naked human form smothered in the crowd, sensuous curves and seductive forms suffocated. They speak to me too of more positive things; of shared experience, of simplicity. Of how alien the unclothed body looks when framed by the city. Of vulnerability and fragility. As photos go, they're fierce talkative. But the mere fact of them appeals to me more than anything else. How often do crowds of hundreds, thousands even, come together voluntarily to create a work of art? That gives me a sense of hope.

I'm not one for prancing around in my smalls, much less for prancing around in my nothing-at-alls (I've written before about my insecurities). Taking part in the installation is going to present a major challenge to my confidence. I don't expect that it will help me to overcome my insecurities but at least it encourages me to engage with them. Besides, the rest of the folk there will presumably be suffering the same to a greater or lesser degree (I see mentions of shrinkage, inappropriate erections and - most worryingly - Guinness shits elsewhere) so there's some comfort in that. I chose the two pictures that accompanied my previous post deliberately because they represent my greatest fears about this installation; that we'll have to touch (shivers) or that it will end in a big mucky tangle of limbs (my third choice would have been the one where they're all bent over in rows - essentially looking up the arse of the person in front...). For all my bluster and bravado, it's going to be scary. But already it has opened fresh discussions in unlikely company on body image, self-confidence and decency. On that basis alone I think it is eminently worthwhile.

I think it will be an exceptional experience. I certainly fucking hope so - there's not much that gets me out of bed at 4.30am.

Here's Hoping The Weather's Fine

Touchy Feely
(AKA Düsseldorf 5 (Museum Kunst Palast) 2006)

Dear participant [how clinically formal!]

Thank you for registering to take part in the installation by artist Spencer Tunick in Dublin's Docklands on Saturday June 21st 2008. [no problem! I may chicken out if it rains, though.] We will be contacting you again the week of June 9th 2008 with further information. [tips on etiquette and current body hair trends, maybe?] We look forward to welcoming you to the event in June. [hopefully not with hugs]

Note: The installation will take place at dawn and will take approximately 90 minutes, including travelling to the site of the installation. During this time the participant will be nude for approx 30 minutes. [eek]

Durty
(AKA Brugge 5, 2005)

Rosie Does Her Sexy Irish Thing

Get your dictionaries out, kids. Tá an t-eagrán is déanaí de Nós* ar fáil...

(ar fáil mar PDF anseo chomh maith, muna n-oireann Issuu duit)

Aon Focal, Daw Focal

I rose from my bed at an unreasonable hour today to spend an interminably long morning interviewing trainee teachers. So keen was I to get the fuck out of there afterwards that I didn't even stick around for the free lunch, and I was starving. But I needed to get away.

For those of you unfortunate enough not to be Irish; a little background. We have two official languages here, Irish and English, and though most everyone speaks English only a minority are fluent in Irish. It is, however, a compulsory subject in both primary and secondary education and as a consequence all primary school teachers in the country are obliged to have a proficiency in Irish (let's not open a can of worms and call it "fluency"). Teachers who have trained abroad must pass an Irish language exam before we let them near the kids and teachers training here study Irish language and literature as part of their course. Which is where I come in. I don't teach them (thankfully) but I am drafted in a couple of times a year to put them through their paces and make sure they've done their homework.

It does not make for an ideal Saturday morning, and it's a good job they pay me an obscene amount of money* to do it. I had the same conversation 19 times over with 19 young women, each of whom broke out in a nervous rash at the sight of me and then did their level best to stay schtum for 10 minutes in order to avoid making any grammatical errors. Eventually most of them twig that I can't/won't let them go until they've spoken to me so that I might assess their language skills but this usually takes about ten minutes of gentle cajoling from me and a lifetime of fucking fidgeting and avoiding eye contact on their part. The conversations are excruciating, banalities exchanged in pidgin Irish** punctuated by uncomfortable silences and nervous laughter. They do, however, give me a valuable insight into the criteria for primary school teachers in Ireland:

• You must be from either Mullingar or Wexford
• If you don't play sports you damn well better play an instrument (preferably brass or woodwind)
• You must express a distaste for all things Dublin and a burning desire to move back to Mullingar/Wexford and Mammy as soon as possible (Mammy is always to be referred to by her full title and with a capital M)
• You must have no interest whatsoever in reading books (bar P.S. I Love You) or watching films (bar P.S. I Love You)
• Your summer holidays will be spend in Santa Ponza.
• Your musical interests will include Pink, Boyzone, Celine Dion and (bizarrely) Meat Loaf.

I fear for our nation's children. There is a strange and conservative atmosphere in the college - it feels more like a school (or a nunnery) and you know instinctively not to run in the corridors. The students are almost all female and wholesome with it, it's like one big girls' club.

Not for me.

*It's probably not an obscene amount of money to anyone who has a real-life grown-up job but when you're a monkey like I am and you're accustomed to being paid in peanuts, it's quite the pot o' gold.
**Occasionally I get a fluent one and the conversation flows. It's still limited to Mullingar/Wexford and Cecelia fucking Ahern though.

Review: Lars And The Real Girl

A very considerate film about love, loneliness and mental illness.

I liked it.

Review: Le Scaphandre Et Le Papillon

I brought my Nana to see it last night. "Good choice, a film about a guy who has a stroke and then dies of pneumonia" muttered my brother, referring to Crash Grandadicoot's recent loss (stroke, followed by, eh... pneumonia). On paper it looked like an abominably insensitive choice of film to bring a grieving widow to see but my repeated readings of the book* over the years reassured me that she would find something in it to lift her spirits.

And she did, very much. I know this because once we got home, she called everyone she knows to let them know just how much she had enjoyed it. "It was very good. It had subtitles though, and the young lad in front of me had such a big head that I kept missing the last word of every sentence. Still, I got the gist of it."

*I thought the same actually, and hesitated recently over lending her my copy. But it was that or Meet the Spartans, so I took a chance.

Bookworm

Nana wandered over to the bookshelf, looking for something to borrow. "I don't know" she said doubtfully "they all look a bit dark". I scanned the shelves, looking for something she might like. Murder, apocalypse, suicide, death, abuse, genocide, alcoholism, unrequited love, loss; a catalogue of violence, vice and human suffering. I have a fine collection of books of which I am very proud, but I had honestly never realised that it was so fucking grim. Searching in vain for something that wouldn't further depress an elderly and grieving widow, I lit upon the one I read myself when I need a little soul - The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. And then remembered that Bauby wrote it after he'd suffered a massive stroke and then died very shortly after it was published. So maybe not.

She left with Roddy Doyle's The Deportees in the end, a harmless little book of funny vignettes about, em, racism.

Lá 'le Pádraig

I mentioned my sober and contemplative Paddy's Day - here are a few of the photos I took on my stroll. Town was packed to the gills with tourists, harried looking suburbanites with wailing sprogs and native urban terrorists, all apparently sponsored by Carrolls Irish Gift Shop. The south docks were very quiet, however. The only person we met was an elderly gent out for a cycle, who said he was sad to see all of the old history down there being lost.

Sad? I am and I amn't. There has been a lot of debate recently on the subject of cultural and national identity and what it means to be Irish (tis the season, I suppose) but I don't think I'm articulate enough on the subject to add much to the discussion. But you ramble inarticulately about all kinds of other things! cry the readers. Indeed and I do, but this is one I feel strongly about. So instead here are the pictures, and a little waffle I stole off teh internets about people throwing shoes.

Mucky Tunes: Stereo in the silt down by the Westmoreland Lock.

Ratz From The Flatz: Graffiti at Grand Canal Basin

Shoefiti: Ringsend

There's an interesting article on 'Shoefiti' on Wiki:

Some say that shoes hanging from the wires advertise a local crack house where crack cocaine is used and sold (in which case the shoes are sometimes referred to as "Crack Tennies"). It can also relate to a place where Heroin is sold to symbolize the fact that once you take Heroin you can never 'leave': a reference to the addictive nature of the drug. Others claim that the shoes so thrown commemorate a gang-related murder, or the death of a gang member, or as a way of marking gang turf.
Some claim that shoes are flung to commemorate the end of a school year, or a forthcoming marriage as part of a rite of passage. In Scotland, it has been said that when a young man has lost his virginity he tosses his shoes over telephone wires to announce this to his peers.
Others claim that the shoes are stolen from other people and tossed over the wires as a sort of bullying tactic, or as a practical joke played on drunkards. It may also be another manifestation of the human instinct to leave their mark on, and decorate, their surroundings.

I suspect the motivation in this case to be booze and bollix-acting rather than crack houses, gangland murders or sexual adventures but I suppose you never know. My favourite line in the Wiki piece was this: Others simply say that shoe flinging is a way to get rid of shoes that are no longer wanted, are uncomfortable, or do not fit.

Dubliners are nothing if not practical.

Déan Nós

Féach ar seo! Irish nua, snasta, spraíúil, suimiúil, sexy. Mar a deir an eagarfhocal, tá "beocht úr le mothú san aer, loinnir i súile an domhain mhóir, rudaí nua ag teacht ar an saol".

Ní fheadar fútsa, ach táimse excited.

Manchán: Making My Job That Little Bit Harder

Last year I made a television series called No Béarla, in which I travelled around Ireland trying to speak only Irish. I didn't get on very well, especially in Dublin, where I was often abused and ignored. Outside the capital, people were more friendly, but they rarely understood what I was trying to say. What struck me most were the expressions I saw in people's eyes: shame, fear, anger, jealousy and yearning. I wanted to know what lay behind this complex cocktail of emotion...
(From today's Irish Times - The plot to make Irish an alien language by Manchán Magan)

I'd hazard a guess that the abuse, ignorance, shame, fear, anger, jealousy and yearning (really?) were a direct result of Magan's patronising demeanour and confrontational attitude. I remember watching the first series and thinking that although I speak perfectly fluent Irish, there's no way I'd entertain that gobshite if he approached me in the street. It was all the more disappointing because I had seen him interviewed by Páidí Ó Lionáird on Árdán before the No Béarla series was first aired and he came across as engaging, funny and genuinely interested in promoting an intelligent debate about modern attitudes to the Irish language. Then I watched it and thought "oh well, ho-fucking-hum then". I'm sure series II will be a revelation.

I'll review Des Bishop's In The Name Of The Fada in about an hour (I was out at a real life Gaeilgeoir thingy when it was aired last week - well done to the clever schedulers in RTÉ who broadcast it while Des was live on stage at the big gig for Seachtain na Gaeilge). I've higher hopes for that one...

Knick Knack Paddywhack

I rolled out of bed this morning, dressed myself from head to toe in mismatched shades of green, high-hoed it to Carrolls' Irish Gift Shop to purchase some of those flattering shorts with the fake arse cheeks hanging out the back (póg mo thóin scrawled across them in homage to the Oirish language) had some chugger paint shamrocks on my cheeks and forehead, climbed onto the roof of a phonebox down at College Green, heckled the Americans below as they jostled for a vantage point from which to view the parade and then hightailed it to a packed Temple Bar pub to spill Guinness, sing offensive rebel songs and drink til I fancied Burger King.

Oh no, wait...

I got up, met my brother, strolled into town to marvel at the efforts that everyone else had gone to to celebrate our national holiday and then headed to Da Pino's for a pizza (the remains of which are reheating in the oven as I type - aubergines, broccoli, pepperoni, chillies, sweet peppers and cheese). The weather was beautiful so we walked then from Dame St. out to Ringsend, following the Liffey and taking a few photographs along the way, talking through some of the things that have been going on for us over the last couple of weeks. They've been a difficult few weeks.

Back to my flat then for tea and a DVD (28 Weeks Later - terrifying, brilliant) and then another stroll, this time to Parnell St via George's Dock, where we picked up the Hurler and headed to the cinema to see Be Kind, Rewind (which was very charming, Mos Def more than making up for the annoyance that is Jack Black). We walked home again via Scruffy Murphys, where the lads had a Guinness each and I had an orange juice. I'm bursting with virtue and pizza now, and am going straight to bed before my halo slips.

Nerds

My brother, my BGF and I went to the Lightwave exhibition in the Science Gallery last night. I walked around with my mouth open a lot, admiring all of the pretty things and understanding little of what they were or how they worked. I badgered a few explanations out of the BGF ("No, I don't get it. So... no. I still don't get it.") and eventually just pretended to understand things because I was embarrassed at being stupid and he is a rocket scientist, or some such shit.

On Monday the three of us are going to PantiBar for Make and Do-Do. I'm nifty with scissors and glitter glue so I'll kick his know-it-all arse at that.

Crafty Bitches? I'm There!

Stopped In My Tracks

I spurned a number of invitations to romantic drinks and dinners yesterday evening to spend a bit of time with my grandparents. Crash Grandadicoot is still holed up in James' Hopsickle, I think he may be going for some kind of record. I took a stroll up there after I'd finished up in work yesterday evening, full of apprehension and snot. I was in no mood for the hospital, for its stomach churning smell of sickness and cabbage, for the small talk or the non-talk with whomever else might be visiting. But I needed to go, I still hadn't been to see him and I was feeling guilty about it and worried - worried that he might have forgotten me.

He used to call me #1 Grandchild, you see. He still might, on a good day. I'm the eldest of his gazillion grandkids but with a nudge and a wink he told me that it was more to this pecking order than age. It was a joke at the expense of the other kids; but fuck them, I like to think that he was partly serious and that despite my tragic lack of coordination and/or interest in sport I really am his favourite. He forgets things so easily now though that I was worried he might have forgotten me in my three week absence, and that would break my heart. This weighed down my walk, I was cold and hungry too, tired and cantalach. My mam called to see where I was at, we had our wires crossed and I was now going to miss dinner in my nana's - I got angry with her, short, ended the call in a fit of pique.

I walked on, smoking furiously and seething quietly for no good reason, trying to concentrate on the music coming through my headphones and fighting back the irrational tears. And then I noticed the Hybrid Love Seat. It's a fence, essentially, a boundary sculpture between the flat complex and the Luas stop at the hospital entrance. And it's lovely. It's thoughtful, engaging and beautiful street furniture. I stopped walking, stopped sulking, took a few minutes to read the plaque about the work, took a few minutes more to admire the bronze castings and then took stock of all that was bothering me and resolved to go for a hot chocolate before venturing up to see Crash Grandadicoot.

He was in good form, full of piss and vinegar. He sang Happy Birthday to me ("What's that song they sing again? What does it go like?") and demanded that I put my new boots up on the bed to show him. He told my nana that she looked well in her yellow sweatshirt - almost good enough to *mwah!* (making kissy noises through his gums). I came away from the visit delighted that I'd stopped by and delighted that I'd taken the time to stop by the kids' love seat on my way in, to gather my thoughts and get my shit together. I'll not leave it 3 weeks before I call in to see him again.

You can read all the bumf about the Hybrid Love Seat on the artist's site.

Beowulf Emasculated

I went to see Beowulf last night, in my latest effort to avoid doing any study in the evenings. It was awful shite altogether (though I'll admit that I thoroughly enjoyed it). The animation was unconvincing, the dialogue was cheesy, Ray Winstone was made to look like a buff Seán Bean. For some reason I had it in my head going in that the film had gotten an 18 certificate, so I was disappointed at the not-very-graphic nature of the violence and positively angry that they kept hiding Beowulf's willy behind candlesticks and such when he was fighting naked with Grendel.

Because there's just not enough violence and willy in films these days.

No-Fun Friday

Myself and the BGF went to see Atonement on Friday night. I'm not one for crying over films but I had to take a minute to compose myself before leaving to wipe the tears from my face and the snots in my sleeve. The BGF sniggered, he's not used to seeing me come undone. I don't think I'd have been as upset had I not read the book; I still remember the kick in the teeth I felt when I reached the final chapter and realised that she'd accidentally married her brother and that the man she thought was her father was really her aunt I shouldn't spoil the plot for anyone who may not have read it. Anyone who's read McEwan will know not to expect a happy ending, but though I've read the book twice the film's finale still felt like an emotional betrayal.

I went to the bathroom on the way out of the cinema to let the conspicuously dry-eyed crowd disperse so that I could leave with some dignity, and I got rightly pinkied. There I was, still snuffling and wincing at my red eyes in the mirror when the lady next to me smiled and said "Rosie! I thought it was you!" Em... who the fuck are you? It took me a moment to realise that she was a mature student who'd been in my class in college. "Guess who I'm hear with?" My brain did a shuffle, came up with the worst-case-scenario. Right on cue, there was an excited squeal and a flush from one of the toilet cubicles. Out she bounced, full of the joys. "Wow! Look at you! I'm thrilled, someone who looks as horrible and sweaty as I do after that cinema!"

I didn't. By any stretch of the imagination.

Being caught unawares and teary-eyed by someone who had relentlessly sucked the self-confidence out of me when we were in college together the last thing I needed. Honestly, I'd rather have been caught with my knickers down. So I smiled, tight-lipped, made my polite excuses, and left.

Did I fuck. Eejit.

I reddened, tripped into her recently vacated cubicle, tried to wee soundlessly and then forced myself to go out again, where they were waiting for me. "It's great to see you" I heard myself say. "Let's go for a cup of tea!". Shithead. We trooped outside to meet the waiting BGF, who noted the look of barely contained panic on my face and made a hasty exit. For the next hour I sat there swapping stories and being polite, wishing I was anywhere but there. They're both lovely people, don't get me wrong. The confidence-destroying comments are a manifestation of the blonde's own inadequacy complex, there's no malice in them, but the way she identifies herself with me (when I see us as polar opposites) horrifies me.

Meeting people like that (nice people, genuine people, people who really were delighted to have run into me) should be a pleasant experience and should leave me with a warm fuzzy feeling going home. Instead I felt lonely and mean.