Feeling reflective. And I don’t mean because our current hot weather is making my face so shiny, others are using it as a mirror. It’s down to The Lockwood Echo heading full-pelt towards its second Birth-ersary. I already have a post planned for that. My first Birth-ersary was very much in the ‘looking back, taking stock, fill it with so many metaphors people won’t understand what you’re trying to say’ camp, therefore I’m changing tack and will be making this coming celebration an all-out smorgasbord of self-promotion. That’ll be fun, won’t it?
In the meantime, it’s been a while since I’ve had the itch to say something, so I thought I’d poke my head above the parapet, bringing my reflective mood with it, and offer you a peek at Planet Lockwood. I have learnt SO MUCH about myself in the last two years. Some people have come into my life and shown me how to be. Equally some people have come into my life and shown me how NOT to be. Only my epitaph will reveal how well I fared.
But rather than a mundane list of strengths and weaknesses, I’m going off-piste in search of total randomness. I doubt I’ll need to travel far. Here then are a few completely disconnected, out of context and utterly without value things I’ve learnt;
My Writing Curve;
- I cannot do satire. Humour is my go to. Humour with Heart is my ambition. But to put in writing something which is effectively a personal attack, deserved as it may be, I baulk. I love acid wit. Sarcasm? Bring it on. But I can’t go through with a satirical submission if names are named. I’ve tried and failed. A more generalised assault on a group of people. That I can do. It comes down to what that person can or can’t change, and so often satire targets what can’t be changed – personal looks – and I struggle to separate that from, for example, skin colour or disability. Of course there are jokes under that umbrella which wouldn’t be classed as offensive, those from/by kindred, or a joke ABOUT race rather than against race. So satire is something I laugh at, before my conscience says ‘shame on you’, but I can’t deliver it. I think there’s a word for that; Hypocrite? Yeah, that’s it.
This was not supposed to be an essay! Anyway, potted version; If you were born without eyebrows, that is not to be joked about unless YOU deal with it by joking. If you were born with eyebrows but have chosen to shave them off, then used a Crayola crayon to draw slugs in their place well, I’m sorry, but you’re fair game.
- I will never not trip up over USED to. Use to? Used to? Once did but not no more?
- Before I post anything I’ve written, know that I have been through and edited out on average forty-seven ‘that‘s. There was one, right up there look. Could I have done without it? Probably. Did anyone teach me this stuff? No. Will I always use ‘that’ before omitting it or changing it to ‘who’ or ‘which’? Yes.
- On the plus side, I have learnt the trick for ‘practice’ or ‘practise’, ‘licence’ or ‘license’ etc. Next week I will learn what a pronoun is and why professional writers read.
- I can’t have food around whilst composing a publication. Because I keep stopping to eat. I can’t think and eat at the same time. Eating will always prevail.
- And I start WAY too many sentences with ‘And’.
My Personal Curve; (is classic pear-shape, but that’s not what this post is about).
- I’m odder than originally feared.
- I have led, and continue to lead, a fairly sheltered life. I think I’m reasonably streetwise and people-smart (
thatwhich is why I aim to spend as much time indoors as possible), but I haven’t done much ‘life’. That’s not to say my life has been dull. Anything but. I just seem to have spent so much of it waiting. For permission, for confidence, for fear of being pushy, for fear of usurping others. For fear of fear.
- I don’t tan well. My DNA is that of Freckly Celt. I can tan if I take the slow road. But as they say; ‘No tan is a safe tan’. I’m not so white I glow in the dark, in some places my freckles meld to give a distant illusion of ‘taupe’. I would love to have the type of skin
thatwhich glistens with the golden glow of sunbeam kisses, however the sun doesn’t kiss my skin, it punches it then makes it look like I’ve been playing in dirt. Unevenly. And after a shower, what little bronze I’ve excitedly gained usually turns out to be just that. Dirt!
- A recent excursion reminded me I have a natural talent for finding staircases; even ones
thatwhich aren’t there. I have a gift for ascending a staircase, be it in a mansion, a hotel, a hospital, and then confidently descending what I believe to be the same staircase, only to find myself in a completely different part of the building. My partner was once left very perplexed at a friend’s wedding, patiently waiting for me at the bottom of what we’ll call Staircase ‘A’, as I went in search of the Ladies Room. On my return, I flounced towards him, from along the corridor, slightly aggrieved;Me: ‘I thought you were going to wait for me.
‘He: ‘I am waiting for you.’
Me: But I, clearly wrongly, assumed you’d stay at the bottom of the staircase
thatI went up.’
He: ‘Uh huh.’
In our mission to then solve the mystery, we were unable to find what we’ll call Staircase ‘Doesn’t Exist’. And I then spent the rest of the wedding with my legs crossed, in fear of ascending any stairs in case I never saw anyone ever again.
- I am not a comedian, but I believe I can churn out an amusing anecdote. Some of you have been kind enough to agree. Those who don’t, well, maybe this is not your rodeo. But I enjoy this SO DAMN MUCH, I now have the confidence to keep churning.
If you did indeed find yourself amused here, please look out for that aforementioned Birth-ersary post coming soon to a screen near you. If you found yourself BEmused, you’re confused. You’re actually experiencing amusement. Trust me. If you were none of those things then, like I say, it could be that this is not your rodeo. So give me back my horse, don’t go near that bull and take your cheap spurs somewhere less interesting. You’re more than welcome to stop by the Twitter corn dog stall on your way out, but if you didn’t get any kicks here (though the horse did try), you’re probably not gonna get any over there. So beat it, Kid. (I’m British. I have no idea what a corn dog is nor why I thought this was a good ending. Forgive me.)