Turning 30...

A funny thing happens when you turn 30. Aside from suddenly being ineligible to be a new writer (according to many organisations whose business it is to find and develop new writers) you also start to deal with things you never even had to think about in your 20’s.
My 20’s passed by in a blur of DJ’s, destinations and daydreams and I wouldn’t change a second of it but in your 30’s you find you have to start making decisions, hard ones and sometimes irreversible ones and you can’t help but long for the carefree life you'd got used to living. Saying goodbye to your 20’s is hard but it's because, deep down, you know that from this point on things will only get harder.
You suddenly have to make choices about the kind of person you want to be and who you will spend your life with. About whether you get married, have children, change career, move to another city, buy a home etc etc etc In your 20’s you think these decisions will be made in beautiful moments of clarity, perhaps mid conversation with your closest friend or a moment alone watching a sunset over a beautiful vista.
As far as I can tell they’re not. You don’t get that movie-montage moment where you realise who you love and run to the airport to tell them or walk off into the distance to realise your dream. What you get is crap flying at you from all angles and the decisions you make are usually just ways to make sure the crap doesn’t completely drown you and result in you winding up on some internet list of humiliating ways to die. Hannah Rodger – deceased due to accidentally drowning in the crap that she didn’t want to deal with.

I recently coined a phrase for all this (sometimes I make up weird phrases for things so that they seem less scary) and that phrase is ‘crap attack’. It’s perhaps not the most mature use of the English language but it is one of the most honest. I was barely 6 months into my 30’s when my first crap attack started and this is the story of how it went...

Friday 11th March 2011 is, for many reasons, a date I will never forget. I had two things to do that day. I had to go for a routine medical test at the hospital which I was told would take about an hour or so and then I had to drop a script in at Soho Theatre. It looked like a relatively easy day ahead.
At the hospital they looked at my symptoms and my family history and they suggested I should have a more thorough test than the one I was scheduled to have. The registrar advised me that although I hadn’t had the 24 hours preparation or the sedation for this other test I should go ahead with it. I was in agreement. I mean, if you are going to get naked and have an embarrassing test done then you might as well go the whole hog. The last thing I wanted to do was to have to come back to the hospital...oh the irony.

So we went ahead and had the more thorough test (which was a colonoscopy). Though I’d really rather not, I feel I should explain what it was like. I was awake, lying on my side, looking at a TV screen which showed the images the fibre optic camera was seeing as it travelled along my colon. In the first part of it they found some abnormal tissue growths (about 8 polyps) and removed them. I wasn’t exactly happy to see them there but I was relieved. It made sense of the symptoms I had been having and they were easy to remove. Well, I say easy but I watched this doctor in awe. He would move the camera near the growth, open an electric loop, capture it then burn it off and extract it. Imagine the hardest computer game you’ve ever played, then imagine it taking place inside someone’s body, then imagine them watching you as you do it.
If we had been doing the test I was scheduled to have we would have stopped there and we all might have thought we’d got what we came for. But he kept going. At this point they kept telling me to pass wind, that it was natural due to the procedure and probably the only time anyone would be happy for me to lie there and repeatedly fart. I was still laughing at this when the doctor asked his colleague to go get a surgeon. Even though they were running over by half an hour and the visibility was getting poorer the further they went, they had found something else and needed the senior surgeon to take a look.
He came in and told me that I had a nasty tumour and would need surgery to remove it. I nodded at him desperately trying to pay attention to everything he was saying but actually wondering how on earth I could have a tumour.
They kept asking if I was in pain and although it wasn’t exactly comfortable it wasn’t painful and I somehow managed to joke that if they thought this was painful they’d obviously never had a bikini wax. Afterwards they took me straight up to get a CT scan. If it was cancerous they wanted to see if it had spread to other parts of my body. If. Such a small word, such a big meaning. The technician at the scan came out and told me I had to drink a jug of a sweet, pink contrast drink and that I could take all the time I needed to drink it. I sat there and made the 1st decision – not to let the crap overwhelm me. I pretended it was my mates laying down a drinking challenge and I drank it as quickly as I could. What else is a misspent northern youth learning how to down pints useful for if not things like this?
The scan itself was over rather quickly and easily and they said I could go home. I walked out the hospital across Westminster Bridge and even though I was stood in a massive crowd of people I felt incredibly alone. Sure there were people I could call - and my family and friends have been nothing short of amazing throughout all of this - but I wanted someone to make it all better and the truth is no one could.
So I made my 2nd decision. Having spent years as a Production Manager I was trained to think of the worst case scenarios for a shoot and come up with ways to cope if they happen. I decided that this was not going to be like that, that it was all still to play for and that I just wouldn’t worry till I had something to worry about. I walked over to Soho Theatre and handed my script in, then I went home, had a late lunch, told my family the news and got ready to go see a friend of mine in a play.

As I was getting ready to go to the theatre I got a phone call telling me I had been accepted on to the Old Vic New Voices TS Eliot US UK Exchange. I was extremely delighted but I’m sure I didn’t sound it to the lovely lady giving me the good news. I wanted to sound excited that I would be one of 7 writers selected to have a brand new short play on at a theatre in New York but I had no idea if I would even be well enough to go. Though I didn’t say anything to them at the time I was worried that I might end up letting them down and was taking the spot from someone perhaps more deserving of it simply because they were healthy. But I also felt like I had earned it and I experienced a very calm determination to take part in it, no matter what. In the morning I discovered the biggest battle I would ever face and in the afternoon the Old Vic New Voices gave me a reason to fight it.

A couple of weeks later I saw my surgeon to assess my condition and schedule the operation. At this point the biopsies and CT from that day had not shown any cancer but he told me in no uncertain terms that we couldn’t be sure that I didn’t have cancer and would not need chemo until they completely cut it out of me so they wanted to do it as soon as possible. He also told me a more conservative surgeon might also perform a colostomy so all in all I felt like I was in good hands. I asked him if we could at least schedule the surgery around my trip to New York. Luckily for me he only did this surgery on Mondays and due to Easter and the bank holiday weekend the first Monday after my trip to New York was also his first available slot. There was a bizarre divinity to the whole thing. Oh, how the universe likes to give with one hand but take away with two.

So I went to New York and I had an amazing, mind-blowing, life-altering time. Then the following week I went in to hospital and had about 15 inches of my colon removed with a laproscopic right hemicolectomy and appendectomy. The night before I went into hospital I joked that I would soon be as good as qualified to script my very own episode of Holby City or Greys Anatomy and I was rather blasé about the whole thing. I kept telling concerned friends that I would be fine, I was just going to spend a few days doped up on Morphine and then I’d have a few weeks of watching movies to recover. Oh, how I was wrong.

It was painful. It was hard. It was frustrating not to be able to do anything. It was humiliating to have to ask a nurse to help put your slippers on. It was horrific just going to the bathroom. Overall it was just terribly humbling.
In the first few hours after the operation the nurses would ask me to take a deep breath and assess how much pain I was in. They did it to make sure I was getting the right amount of pain relief. They would also remind me to do this when the pain was too much. Like the first time I got out of bed they said I had to keep breathing through it. I made my 3rd decision to never forget this and I still do it now. It’s a great way to be aware of what’s going on but not let it take over. To breathe in, be aware of the pain but to then breathe out and carry on regardless.

The funny thing about recovering from this type of operation is that there is very little movement you can achieve without moving the middle of your body. That’s why they call it the core. So to sit up and take a drink, to reach for something, to change position, to walk, laugh, cough, sneeze or cry it all involves using your core. Coughing was the worst. You spend so much time lying down that you have to cough to clear your chest but at one point it hurt so much to cough that I was in tears. And of course I couldn't give in to the tears because it hurt just as much to cry. So my 4th decision was that every time I wanted to move – no matter how little the movement was – I had to go for it. I realised that if you think about how much it might hurt you’ll spend ages trying to find a way to do it so that it doesn’t hurt and you just end up in a dull but more destructive kind of pain. So I went for it. Sat up, got up, coughed, went to the toilet, showered and went for a walk. Whatever they said I needed to be able to do before I could go home I did it, despite the pain. And the more I did it the more the pain started to go away. The metaphor of finding a way to live your life whilst the people around you save your life was not wasted on me.

After 4 days I was allowed to go home to recover but after a week at home I got an infection in my wound. Though it might sound strange this was the worst part of the whole thing. It was like going back to square one, like falling down the biggest snake on the board in snakes and ladders. I could barely move again, I was on 2 different types of antibiotics as well as 5 different types of painkillers and I was miserable. For the first time in a long time I felt like my body had betrayed me. I didn’t mind that it had grown a tumour without telling me and had done so about 30 years too early. I didn’t mind I had to go through a painful operation to get rid of it. But I badly wanted it to heal and it wouldn’t, at least not as quickly as I wanted it to. So my 5th and final decision of all of this was something I wish I had decided years ago. I decided that I would stop focusing on the outcome and instead look at the progress. I stopped asking myself if I was fully healed but if I was more healed than yesterday and consequently things got better every day. Instead of trying to be somewhere I couldn’t be I was perfectly happy about where I was instead. Eventually the infection went away and with it went the pointlessness of the anger and frustration that it had brought.

A few days ago I got my full test results. I don’t have cancer. I have a syndrome that creates these polyps and if left untouched can turn into cancer so I will be monitored by specialists and by geneticists for the rest of my life to make sure my body and my family stay healthy and risk free.
I had waited quite a while to hear this outcome and obviously I was really pleased with the results. But it’s a strange feeling. It’s like getting a gift that as soon as you get you want to give to other people too. I want to give the same gift to my family who are also at risk from this syndrome. I want to give it to the girl opposite me on the ward who had a similar operation as me but, even as I was leaving the hospital, had still not been able to get up out of bed due to the pain. I want to give it to the woman next to me on the recovery unit who was told that despite coming through a painful operation to remove a blockage in her bowels would still die in a few months because her cancer was so advanced. I am totally and utterly relieved that this painful episode of my life is almost behind me. But I am acutely aware that for many others it has only just begun.

In the last 3 months I have made 5 decisions that have helped keep this crap attack at bay. The 1st was to not let it overwhelm me. The 2nd was not to worry until I had something to worry about. The 3rd was to remember to breathe. The 4th was to commit wholeheartedly to whatever I was doing and the 5th was to focus on the progress, not just the outcome. They weren’t made in moments of clarity during beautiful sunsets (although the picture above, taken from my hospital bed, was not exactly a terrible vista) they were usually made in moments of sheer panic and if they were hard to make, they were even harder to stick to. But they got me through and they stopped me from drowning in the crap...in this case both metaphorically and literally.

So why am I writing all this embarrassing detail on a publicly visible blog? Because cancer is a silent, deadly disease, it invades and attacks, it is stealthy and scary and perhaps if we all talk about it a bit more, about our losses, our battles and our near-misses then we might just beat it at its own game.
Since this happened to me lots of friends and family have told me about similar experiences, symptoms, worries and I keep saying let’s not wait till things get like this for us to share. Let’s not hide, let’s not be embarrassed and maybe we can all be more aware of what’s going on in our own bodies and with each other.
I was lucky, really lucky with early detection and prevention. I was lucky because I recognised that the symptoms (often diagnosed as IBS) might be serious, I asked my GP for a referral, not once but twice, and I was treated by some of the best doctors and nurses in the country. Whilst I wouldn’t wish any of what I’ve been through on my worst enemy I hope that we all might be so lucky because the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.
And if I start to go there in my head then I go back to those 5 decisions to help keep that crap attack at bay too.
The truth is I still have a lot of those hard, grown-up, life-defining decisions to make but you know what? I’m not as scared of them now as I used to be.
In a way nothing has changed yet everything has changed.
Maybe that’s what your 30’s are about. Yes, things get harder to deal with, but once you deal with them, really deal with them that is, then they get a hell of a lot easier to live with after that...

Hadrian's Wall

A few weeks ago I did a charity walk along Hadrian’s Wall with my Dad and his wife.
It was hard work going up and down the Northumberland hills for 8 to 10 hours a day sometimes in the rain, sometimes in the sun.
And then dinner in a marquee with plastic chairs and camping on cold, hard floors were not exactly the best way to get ready to go back for more. But me, my dad and his wife were always there for each other with a hug and mug of hot chocolate too!
And you know what it, it felt good to do something.
It felt good to be outside.
It felt good to be a tourist in my own country.
It felt good to share something other than phone calls with members of my immediate family.
It felt good to do more in 48 hours than I would normally do in weeks.
(You never know how much you can push yourself until you have to).
But most of all it felt good to – no matter how much it hurt – to just keep on putting one foot in front of the other.

When I got back a couple of friends – completely separately but simultaneously – mentioned that they might go live abroad. One to Canada, another to Mexico, another might move to Hong Kong for work and a couple might go to Australia.
It all sounded so amazing so like rats on a sinking ship I started to wonder if there was something wrong with living in London.
One of my mates said I should come with her and I said I didn't want to leave London. For a long time afterwards I wasn’t as convinced as I had sounded!
London is tough, polluted and expensive and it’s nowhere near the countryside or the coast. Other places might be cleaner, safer, warmer have better economies and be more picturesque too.
Why don't I want to leave if everyone else does?
Why don't I want a new adventure?
Where has my adventurous travelling mindset gone?
I said I would only live in London 5 years and that was 6 and half years ago maybe it is time to think about moving on?
I started thinking maybe it's about more than just the location...

When you are writing they say your location should be like another character.
So my play about the Burnley race riots is not just about Burnley it’s about a place that exists where tolerance and integration totally failed a whole community.
I’m also writing a short film set in a prison and it’s not just about being in a prison it’s about a place inside you where good and evil aren't as easily defined.
So if it’s not just geography but more like psychology I started to think about not just where home might be but what home means to me.

And I think home is living in your own skin and bones and feeling comfortable with that.
All of my mates who are totally comfortable in themselves have that reflected back by the place they live.
The ones who feel like a square peg in a round hole are always thinking about where to go next.
It's weird, I think you only feel comfortable in your own skin by growing up.
You only grow up by moving further along the road that you have put yourself on.
And I think it's only when you move along the road your on do you find the place you call home.

With some people I know it isn't where they live that is the problem it's the road to where they're going that is.
They don't know where that is so they are going all around the country or even the globe to find it. They are dating everyone and no-one at the same time, they are changing hobbies or jobs more often than sheets on their bed, they are essentially running away because they don't know where they want to go.
We seem to be a generation completely unafraid of globe-trotting but totally petrified to say where we really want to go.

If my friends do move away then I will completely support their decision to do so as long as it’s what they want in their heart of hearts.
Maybe home will be on the other side of the world for them; I'm not saying that it won't be or that they shouldn't go. I'm just saying sometimes the easiest way to find home is not to look outward across the horizon; it's to look inwards at your soul.
Look at who you are, what you want and what you are willing to do to make it happen.

Pick a road and start walking.
It might be the wrong road, but it’s not a life sentence.
It might go in the opposite direction to where you thought it might go but it’ll probably be better than standing still.
I don’t want to leave London because I can see where I am going.
I get annoyed when I don’t think I am going to get there, or am not getting there fast enough. But I am on my way somewhere. And that somewhere is right here.
It’s hard work, it takes sacrifices, dedication and discipline but, no matter how hard it gets, I just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
If I did it on those hills in Northumberland hills I am pretty sure I can do it here!

I would be nothing without my friends so if I could say anything to help them I’d say walk far, walk tall and walk to places you have never been to before or ever dreamed you would go to.
But if you do nothing else just keep walking...hopefully you will find you’ve walked all the way home. And wherever you end up I will try my very best to be there for you...with a big hug and mug of hot chocolate too!

My date with Me

Yesterday I did something I've never done before.
I took myself out.
I quite often tell friends when it's needed I will take myself out and have a word to calm myself down or shut myself up - or usually both - but this was different...
After yet another bad cold I had decided to clear a whole week in my diary to do nothing but rest, recuperate and relax.
But by Tuesday I was better and I was bored...
I stayed late at work and tried to find some friends to play with - thinking I could walk into town and into an adventure of some kind - but last minute availability is not always a strong point for many Londoners so by 7 o clock I turned off my work PC and gave up.
But by then something in me just didn't want to go home.
It's not that I don't like my home (I love my house and my housemates) but I realised I just didn't want to do the same thing twice in 2 nights.
Friends often ask me how I can spend 2, 3, 4 nights a week writing - doesn't It getvboring doing the same thing every night? But here's the thing, you never do the same thing when you are writing...in Thailand they say same same but different, maybe that's what I missed...

So, anyway, I took myself out.

I got some Thai food (which was amazing), I had a glass of Rose wine (which was lovely) and I bought myself the last seat for the next film screening at the cinema.
It was fun and I felt strangely empowered.
I didn't feel lonely, I didn't feel I had to pretend to be on the phone / waiting for someone.
I was taking myself out for a nice night and I didn't care who knew.
Today though I felt the need to reflect and I couldn't help but wonder if it was because my life was lacking spontaniety or independence and this had been an act of rebellion in some way.

More to the point would I feel inclined to do it again?
The truth? No.
I did enjoy it and I have no shame in admitting I did it but deep down it's just nicer to have someone to share things with, a loved one, a friend, a colleague even.
After years of not having time to hang out with the friends I love because of my writing I found myself in an evening with neither my writing nor my freinds so I treated myself. But I would rather have someone to treat, someone to take out, someone to have an adventure with than do it again on my own.
After nearly 3 years of rushing to class, rushing to the theatre and rushing home to work on projects with looming deadlines I had always looked longingly at restaurants, bars and cinemas and said one day I will have the time to just unexpectedly walk in to one of you places and enjoy myself.
Now I do.
And I think I had to prove that to myself.
I remember once seeing a doctor say in a movie (so it might not technically be true) that if someone is suffocating you need to give them air but if you give them too much it will kill them just as quickly.
I felt liberated last night but almost too much so.
And today I feel a bit like the movie protagonist who after getting what they have wanted the whole movie realises it's not what they want anymore.
Sometimes if you give yourself the very thing you have been longing for you remind yourself that what you already have is better.
Taking care of my health is important and taking as much time to relax as I do to rush around is important too.
But I don't want to have lots of free time I want to write.
And when I do have free time I don't want to spend it on my own I want to see my firends that I don't get to see when I'm writing.
And I guess I want a little bit of spontaniety every now and again too.
When I walk past a busy restaurant, bar and cinema I don't have a longing to go in. But I know I could if I wanted to.
And that...for now...suits me just fine.

Graduation

I graduated from my MA a fair few weeks ago and much like everything else in life the event itself wasn't nearly as much fun as the pre-event hype or the post-event celebrations - I took a few days off work and we all went to the pub, some of us went to the theatre and a couple of us even went to a castle.
All in all it was pretty momentous, the MA has taken over more than 2 years of my life, it is certainly the end of an era but the start of... well, I'm not sure what.
Was I pleased about what we'd all achieved? Sure.
Was I relieved to be out of the debt and stress of studying? Definately!
Do I feel like it's made a difference to my life? Sort of...
On one hand it has been amazing, I think differently about writing, about drama, about language and character, about life, love and everything in between.
I talk about it differently too, it's not a faraway dream or a dirty secret it's what I spend my time doing and inevitably talking about.
Friends and family are really supportive too - they ask about my work even when they don't understand anything about it and it means so much when they do; when they care about it for no other reason than simply because I do.
Yet on the other hand there's a nagging doubt that I am - much like when I graduated from my BA - overqualified and under experienced and it's getting harder to fight my way out from under this blanket of inexperience.
Much like the state of the current economy there are more of us under here struggling than there were before. And there are, as you get older, fewer opportunities to take risks, to be brave and to throw caution to the wind...
Yet I feel like that is exactly what I need to do.
Clearly I didn't miss the lecture on dramatic irony!
I explained my situation to a friend the other day and in a rather more rambling version than this I said that being a new writer is like trying to get into the hippest party in town.
I feel like this MA has given me the key that opens the back stage door to the party, but I can fling the key into the lock as much as I want - I still can't get access to the party till someone invites me in.
Maybe I will get in one day, maybe I won't.
But for now I have the key and that's good enough.
It might not be an open invitation to my future but it's sure as hell better than nothing. And that's certainly worth celebrating...
So...anyone for the pub?

Heading Home...

Day 10...The last day of the trip.
I was leaving early evening on an Easyjet flight so I spent the day just hanging out wih some of the group who were leaving the next day.
We went to the Medina and had ice cream then wandered round picking up a few last minute souvenirs. Then we had some gorgeous fresh squeezed orange juice before heading down to explore the Saadian Tombs.
They took us a while to find - the streets were very narrow and the Moroccans seemed to have an aversion to signposts - but they were worth it when we did.
They were really grand but really subtle and we all had fun taking some arty shots and wandering round the labyrinth of streets again afterwards.

Soon after that I headed back to the hotel and set off to the airport in a cab.
It felt weird going back past all the sights that I saw on the way into Marrakech. I took some shots on my camera to try and capture the famous Marrakech sight of Palm trees in the foreground and snow-capped mountains in the background. But it only seemed to capture how I was feeling in the black and white setting.

At the airport my bag was over the weight limit but they let me off (when does that ever happen?!?) and I got through airport security really quickly which left me plenty of time to get a drink and a snack and catch up on my journal.
After a quick lap of the waiting area I decided to treat myself to a sandwich and a beer when I realised I had used the last of my Moroccan Dirham on the cab.
I looked around for a cash point, I asked where the cash point was and there wasn't one. I went to pay with my card and they wouldn't accept cards so I had over an hour to sit and try to quench my thirst merely with mind over matter...
It didn't really work so as soon as the Easyjet drinks tolley was wheeled out I ordered enough for about 4 people and then nodded off.

Arriving back at my house felt really strange as I'd only lived in the house about 3 months so it was like coming home to a place that didn't quite feel like home.
I was glad to be back but - like always - I was gutted that it was the end of the holiday.
I honestly don't know when I'll be able to afford to go away next, especially not somewhere like that.
But then again two months ago I didn't know I would even be going on this trip.
As I tried to lug my ridiculously jam-packed bag into the house without waking my housemates I couldn't help but think that perhaps the purpose of the holiday was to remind me that you never know what's going to happen and that it's ok to not know.
I didn't know how things would turn out with my mum and I didn't know what the rest of 2010 would bring but that was ok.
And maybe, just maybe, if you want something badly enough you'll get it.
I certainly wanted a holiday this year and was lucky enough to win one.
And I won it from a company called Intrepid Travel, if 'Intrepid' means fearless and brave then I think the real bravery is just admitting what you want and having the balls to go after it.
Whether that's entering a holiday competition or going after your dream job or telling someone how you feel about them.
Saying it out loud is the first step but doing something about it after that are sort of the most important steps. Though I didn't know they would, my steps took me all the way to Morocco where I met brilliant people, saw amazing things and laughed and shared and discovered so much.
So, if you haven't already done so take the first step somewhere new right now...you just never know where you might end up.

Happy travels!

Back the way we came

Day 9...It seemed strange that it was our last day in Essaouira, our last day of being on the road and our last day together as a group.
We had seen and done so much together and had got to know each other really well it felt a bit like the we were ending just at the beginning.
That's not to say we didn't make the most of our time left.
The weather was nice so I decided to wear a dress that was summery but not revealing armed with that and my aviators I finally felt like I was on holiday.
We spent the morning shopping and we bought clothes and shoes and bags and jewellery and as well as drums and artwork and sooooo many scarves that I feared they might actually run out!

After lunch we went back to the Riad to collect our belongings and - typically - now that I had finally learned to navigate my way through the alleyways of Essaouira we were now walking down them for the last time to meet the coach to Marrakech.
The last leg of our trip was simply to head back to the place where it all started.
As I sat on the coach I wondered how often we do that in life.
This blog is named after the town I did most of my growing up in and I think that a lot of time I seek to understand myself not just by looking at the path ahead that I am trying to take in life but by looking back at the path I took to get here too.
It got me thinking about the play I am writing at the moment where one of the characters puts her future in jeopardy when someone from her past lands uninvited on her doorstep. It's my attempt at dramatising a crossroads - the path that lead you here and the one that will lead you away.
I didn't really think much more about it till we walked back through the Medina in Marrakech. Everyone seemed to hassle me more than I remembered, they were grabbing at my hands and bag. Plus after everything we'd seen the things that once seemed exotic to me now just seemed to be cheap rip offs of the real thing that undoubtedly originates from further afield.
My mum believes that you can never really go back anywhere but I think you can, but only if you have already let go of the past.
In terms of this holiday - Marrakech hadn't changed, but maybe I had.

That evening we went for our last meal together and sat outside even though it wasn't that warm (that might have been the fault of the Brits - 'oh it's not absolutely freezing course we can brave it outside...') and we went round the table saying what our best bit of the trip was. Unsurpisingly the desert was pretty high on everyone's lists and whilst the 4WD was my highlight a very close second was the second night when we slept in the Atlas mountains.
Sure the Gite we stayed in was freezing cold and the showers weren't hot but the scenery was stunning, the food was divine and we sat round the fire and chatted free from TV and news and in fact any agenda.
It was great and something I have made a conscious effort to do more of since I got back.

After dinner (my last tagine...) one of the Americans read out a story that she had written earlier that day about us all. It was set in 2020 and we were all meeting up in Paris. She had a little bit about everyone - what they were up to and how they had travelled to Paris. In it people had started their own company, adopted babies, travelled the world, won awards. She had remembered something that all of us had mentioned even if we didn't remember it.
It made me realise that you don't need to be a writer to tell a story and also the best skill you can acquire when you're dealing with people all the time is to listen to them. Really listen to them. And if you can identify with what they're saying then you might just be a better storyteller because of it perhaps.
I already thought she was an amazing person as she was a doctor and was really reassuring and helpful when I talked about my Mum. But this was really touching and a fun way to remember everyone and the fun we had together.
In case you're interested in the story we were meeting in Paris because a new play of mine was opening there and everyone was coming to the opening night (sounds good to me...) One of the Canadians had come to meet me as I - get this - arrived by swimming across the channel. When I got out the water I was asked how the temperature of the water was and I replied 'refreshing'.

Maybe Morocco hadn't been the perfect holiday, maybe it hadn't even been something I'd planned on doing but it had been amazing and I believe it was what I needed to do - to get outside of my comfort zone and experience something new - and sometimes, when you least expect it, you find yourself right in the middle of an experience that turns out an unexpectedly good story...

Keep your eyes open if you want to see where you're going...

Day 8...Our first day in Essaouira started with a walking tour of the town with a really amazing local guide.
After spending a week with a male guide who was lots of fun but not very informative about the country we were in our guide today was as refreshing as the sea breeze itself.
She spoke in great length about not just her town but her life as a single muslim woman. She spoke about her community, her faith and her friends as well as politics, geography and lifestyle.
It was fascinating and all too brief even though she stayed with us as long as she could on a public holiday (it was the Prophet's Birthday).
Of all the things I had seen and done in this country this short walking tour had been more enlightening about the people at the heart of this country than anything else.
The town itself is beautiful, a vehicle-free maze of tiny streets and alleyways bursting with different colours and cultures all leading down to the harbour.
Lots of whites and blues like the Greek Isles, lots of mosiac tiles, lots of different fabrics and textures; It's a photographers dream and I had a great time trying to understand the town and their people whilst capturing it through my camera lens.

Afterwards we went for lunch down at the harbour and had a feast of fresh fish - straight off the BBQ which was amazing.
Then as the rain started we headed indoors - most if us choosing to use this time to have a Hammam (a public scrub and steam bath experience).
We were washed clean, scrubbed of our dead skin, covered in a mud wrap, washed and massaged which was fabulous, to say my skin was baby soft would be a huge understatement.

We all met back up at our Riad and sat round listening to the rain on the roof while we had snacks and wine. When the rain eased off we went out for more food and more wine in a gorgeous little restaurant that - after some of the places we had eaten in and even though we were just sat at the bar - felt like a real treat and even though we were eating tapas style felt like a real Moroccan meal too.
After we polished off our plates and drained our glasses my roommate for the trip wanted to go and sample the crepes that we had spied almost as soon as we arrived so we headed towards the harbour in search of our sugarhigh.
At the crepe stall we met some French guys who were in Essaouira to do some Kite Surfing and we teamed up with them to go find a bar to have a drink.
Unfortunately none of the bars would serve alcohol to our guide who was a muslim so we spent more time walking along the beach than we did drinking and not suprisingly lost of our new French friends along the way.
We stopped at a random bar that agreed to serve all of us and had a drink before heading back to the Riad. However on the way back a Moroccan guy put his hand on one of the girls shoulders and what was probably not something with malicious intent blew out of proportion and ended up with a group of guys surrounding our guide who was trying to defend her honour.

Luckily the whole thing seemed to blow over and we were back in the Riad, chatting on the roof in no time...we had a lot to chat about it because it had been such an eye-opening day and it made me realise that there's a big difference to holidaying in a country and really seeing it.

Anything is possible...

Day 7 and I went for a quick dip in the pool this morning.
It was much warmer than the last pool, but it wasn't exactly warm either.
One of the Americans in the group saw me from her balcony and asked what the temperature was like and I said it was refreshing and it actually was.
After holding the group up at dinner last night while I phoned home I was determined not to be the last one on the bus today so went down early and was actually the first to load my stuff on the bus.
Our first stop was a tannery where I treated myself to a leather satchel.
I had wanted one since I started my MA and had always said I would have to wait till I had earned it. Here, where they were made and only 3 months away from graduating from the course I felt like I could finally buy one.
Regardless of the fact that I felt like my play still wasn't complete and regardless of the fact that I had no idea what my future held I was chuffed to bits with it.
It was a writer's satchel and it was mine.

We stopped at a supermarket to grab stuff for a picnic on the beach and a few of us grabbed some cold beers out the fridge too - it might be a muslim country but we were on holiday so if they were selling we were buying - so a few of us enjoyed a quick beer in Agadir!
I said to my roommate for the trip that I couldn't concentrate on my food when the water looked so inviting so we rolled up our trousers and went paddling. Unfortunately after about 10 minutes a wave came out of nowhere and soaked us. I was wearing combat shorts so they dried really quickly but she was wearing jeans so wasn't as lucky.

After lunch we hadn't been long on the bus when a little boy flagged the bus down on the other side of the road. He wanted to show us the goats in the trees.
I thought these goats were a myth and that we wouldn't actually see them but then again here I was on a holiday that I had won as a prize which is unheard of.
It just goes to show that anything is possible!

After a few photos were taken we jumped back on board and drove on to Essaouira where we would be staying for the next couple of days.
As we approached the town the sky above the sea was moody and it made the town look really dramatic and I was soon to discover that it was.

Dawn in the Desert

Day 6 and if I didn't want to miss a second of it yesterday it seems I got what I wished for. The alarm went off at 4am and after only a couple of hours in our sleeping bags we were heading back up the dunes to watch the sunrise.
It was hard work on the legs first thing in the morning but it was worth it.
When I reached the top of one of the larger dunes that some of the group had already gone up I had the urge to talk to the others - to moan about how hard it was walking up the dune perhaps or how much sand had gone in my shoes - but it wasn't a moment for that, it was a moment for quietness and calmness.
We each watched the sunrise, again in our own way but all together.
It made me realise just how much of life we go through where we all might think we experience the same things but no two people experience something in the same way.
Also, how often do we get the chance to just sit together and think, to reflect - to not fill every moment with chat or TV or noise of some kind?
It was lovely...
The view was breathtaking and the scale of what we were looking at - the enormity of the landscape before us - was just profound.
As someone trying to be a writer there are very few moments in my world where words don't take me over it was nice to embrace the... stillness.

Again the sky changed colours before us and as the day sprang to life I couldn't help but think of how scary it must be for people to try and navigate their way across this terrain and my thoughts turned to the people back home that I loved dearly who I knew would be facing their own challenge today, perhaps the biggest they ever would.
I really believe that if you dig deep down within yourself it's not just you that you feel. I hoped my mum would feel that I was thinking about her and I wished I could show her this sunrise because - for me - it belonged to her.
Because that sunrise with all it's beauty, strength, resilience, power, hope and magnificence was just like her.
It made me realise there might be a million ways to say you love someone but sometimes you don't need to say it out loud.
I wandered down the dune and found a little spot for myself and sat down.
After a few moments and a few tears I let out a whisper, like a little secret between me and the sand.
It was everything I needed to say for everything that I couldn't do.
All I could do then was sit here and hope for the best. So I did.

After breakfast the girls - bless them - let me sit in the front of the car so I could take photos, which I did but if I was honest my head was elsewhere.
When the 4x4s stopped so we could look at fossils in the rocks I wandered off to be by myself and our driver Hussein - though he hardly spoke any english - just came and stood next to me and smiled.

When we arrived back in civilisation most of the group was relieved that the bumpy terrain was over and we had access to cold drinks and normal toilets but I was gutted. It was the end of of this particular adventure for me which was perhaps one of the biggest adevtnures I might ever go on. And I don't just mean the desert.

We headed back onto the bus and stopped in a tiny little town for lunch where we had to wait over an hour for our food. It's not the worst thing in the world to sit in the sun and chat to people while you wait for fresh cooked food but we had just come from one of the most exciting landscapes on the earth and had been ushered into a tiny back garden of a restaurant that had an empty swimming pool to look at and not much else.
I was getting impatient and sunburnt so I took myself off for a walk round the little village we were in. There wasn't much to it but there was a lot going on - people going about their business, selling their wares and sipping mint tea; just getting on with their lives.
I rounded back towards the restaurant and just as I did 2 dust devils whipped up in front of nowhere, flew past me and went zipping down the road - right down the middle of it - as if they had sat nav which was sending them on their way and then they disappeared, just as quickly as they had appeared.
For some reason this made me feel better. Perhaps my impatience at the restaurant was frustration at the lack of control I had over circumstances both here and back home and those dust devils made me realise that control is useless; as soon as you have it, it can disappear again.
It doesn't make you stronger, but maybe not needing it might.
Knowing that you have the strength to face something without knowing quite what it is you are facing is surely a much greater skill than having control.
I sat back down and (finally) ate my food and I realised that on this trip, despite being run by a company called Intrepid Travel, you are really looked after. And I'm not used to being looked after. And maybe travelling to countries where it's much safer to be shepherded around isn't my kind of travelling. If I like to have the freedom to change my route or restaurant as I please does that contradict my last statement about not needing to be in control?
All this echoed lots of things about my life back home and the frustrations I feel about my job and my career and the fact that for me they are still two different things. I have spent time and money equipping myself with the tools to try and be a better writer and I feel like there's a world I know about but I'm just on the outside of it looking in. A strange combination of having a key to open the door to your dreams but also having to wait for someone else to invite you in too.
It seemed this holiday was bringing up lots of questions that I had been trying to avoid in my life especially as I head towards my 30th birthday.
Maybe that's what holidays are supposed to do, because of my MA it had been a while since I've been able to have one and the last time I went on one (Thailand with my wingman) my life was decidedly simpler.
I had just been in one of the most unpopulated places on earth yet I didn't feel like I had gotten away from it all. But maybe that was the point. The more remote the place - the more the only place to go...is within.

After lunch we drove on to Tarradount, a town famed for having large red walls. We didn't see the walls but I didn't mind because the frustration of the day had already left me feeling quite suffocated.
I phoned home and spoke to my mum which was a big relief. It's a universal fact that you can imagine things to be far worse than they are and it had turned out to be true - the not knowing about the thing had been far worse than the thing itself.
We went for a rather strange dinner and then had what was becoming our late night tradition of drinks and card games on the roof but I was shattered.
Maybe it was the lack of sleep, the extreme temperatures, the overwhelming emotions or all 3 but I had to say goodnight early and this time I couldn't wait to get to bed.

Desert Driving

Day 5 and I got up and went for a quick dip in the pool this morning.
I say quick dip and I'm not exaggerating - it was much colder than I thought it would be so after about 3 laps I was ready to get out.
We had breakfast and boarded the bus, everyone seemed quite excited as we were off to the desert.
For a lot of people I think this was the main reason they booked this trip, for me it was another day of amazing stuff that I didn't know I would have in my life.
As I took my seat at the back of the bus I couldn't help but think wouldn't it be nice if I could start every day feeling this way.

First stop was a local library famed for holding ancient texts of the Koran and copies of old Berber poetry. I had no idea what any of it said but it looked more beautiful than anything else I had ever seen written down - it seems in Morocco even the literature is Art.
We then went to a pottery place and we were given a tour and a demonstration before a chance to buy some of the handiwork. I loved the stuff there and could have bought loads if we weren't enroute to a desert campsite so I settled for a couple of small bowls - perfect for olives and dips back home.
We then had a picnic in the sun before heading out for a rather bizarre camel ride.
It was fun but it was weird because it was obligatory, the hottest part of the day and we were only just in the desert. I'm not saying I'd like to have been on a camel in the middle of nowhere at night time either... so I just came to the conclusion that perhaps there isn't a perfect time/place to ride a camel!
(They are supposed to be functional not fun after all)
I'm not sure why we feel that riding native animals in foreign countries should be part of the tourist experience, but I just tried to enjoy it.

We then stocked up on our water supplies and boarded 4x4s to head to our camp.
This was hands down one of the most fun things I have done in the last few years.
I was sat at the back - feeling every single turn of the wheel and bump in the road and I loved it! I felt like a kid again, I know there's a thrill to getting on any mode of transport when you're abroad but this was on a whole other level...
The terrain was awesome - unimaginable to be driving along it - no roads, no traffic, no warning of dangers. Our driver was excellent and the 4 of us had such a laugh with him, it made me so giddy to be using such man-made technology to cross the uncrossable. There we were speeding headlong into something desolate and uninhabited and it was oddly liberating.

When we got to camp we dumped our bags and headed up the dunes to watch the sunset and compared to the drive and there was an unexpected calmness to looking out and seeing sand as far as the eye could see.
We wandered around in a little group, laughing, taking photos... I felt like we were together but all experiencing this in our own way too.
I thought the Sahara would be rough and hard and uninviting but it wasn't, it was just quiet and unassuming and almost spiritual.
The sky slowly started changing colours above us and the temperature and consistency of the sand seemed to change beneath us too.
We just sat and took it all in and no matter how long we sat there it never looked the same as the last time we looked at it.

We went back down to camp and had dinner and then all sat round the fire and then about 5 of us decided to sleep out by the fire under the stars.
It took me ages to get to sleep because even though it was pitch black and I couldn't see the stars without my glasses I didn't want to miss a single second of all this.

Trials and Tourism

Day 4 and we headed off to quite a few tourist stops today.
We went past the local movie studios - with props from The Mummy still displayed outside - then onto a charity called Project Horizon and a spices and herbs shop.

We had a picnic lunch in a palmerie and later visited a Jewish Kasbah, which I really wanted to enjoy, but couldn't because I had a strong sense that they just didn't want us to be there.

It was a fun day with a slightly strange ending and we were keen to get onto the next day and - what we all hoped would be - the biggest adventure of the trip so far.

Drums and Dancing

Day 3 - After I woke up and took the quickest shower in the world, I stood outside of our gite and tried to call my mum.
It was Monday morning and she had some medical tests happening this week, but I couldn't get hold of her so I just left a message.
We walked back down to where we'd left the bus yesterday and I was chatting with two of the girls.
We ended up chatting about racism and I happened to tell them about a play I had read that covered it in a really intelligent way.
As we walked down from this tiny Moroccan village in the mountains, I realised that since leaving London 48 hours ago I had talked about writing a LOT.
I wondered if that made me self obsessed but I think, and I'm still not sure, that if you love something that you don't do all day every day you talk about it every other minute of every other day until it does become the thing you do.

The drive to our next location was along some of the most stunning mountain roads I have ever travelled on. They were windy and dramatic and unfortunately a lot of people in the group were suffering from travel sickness. I felt really sorry for them because they couldn't wait for these roads to be over but I couldn't get enough of them.

We arrived at a place called Ait Benhaddou which is a UNESCO world heritage site and the location where scenes from movies like Lawrence of Arabia, The Mummy and Gladiator were filmed. We walked up through the Kasbah there and watched the sunset which was beautiful.
Afterwards we went to a cous cous and tagine cooking demonstration by a guy called Action Man - so called because he had been in many of the movies filmed here - and then headed back to our hotel for dinner.
After dinner we sat round and listened to some of the locals play drums and sing songs which was great. They tried to get us to join in and kept asking us to sing an english song and the weird thing was I couldn't think of any.
In the age of IPods and Playlists the one song I couldn't name was a song that gave a sense of my country.
Luckily the Canadians came up with a hockey song and I was glad because aside from our national anthem and football chants I had nothing.
After that the guys had us all up dancing for a while before we sloped off to bed for some much needed rest.

Fresh Air & Fires

Day 2 and we headed up to the Atlas Mountains outside Marrakesh.
We got off the bus and did some hiking before sitting down for an amazing lunch.
We then went for a walk round the local village which included having mint tea with the locals and seeing the school.
The lady sharing the mint tea with us asked if we would refrain from taking pictures, we agreed but wondered why and our guide explained that there was a European tourist who took a picture of a Traditional Berber woman and used her head on an underwear model's body and put it on the internet.
Since then no one has been allowed to take photos of any Berber women.
Isn't that a shame, that one person's idiocy can ruin a whole culture's view of tourism and technology?

After dinner we sat round the fire and chatted and played cards.
It was great to get to know everyone, where they were from and what jobs they do.
At one point one of the women said she had a job with a lot of extra hours and hadn't had many weekends off, I agreed with her about the lack of weekends and said I could count on one hand the number of weekends - whole weekends - I had away from my desk last year.
On hearing this one of the women gave me an article from the guardian paper that she had brought with her about the top ten tips from writers about writing.
One of my friends has written a blog about this article and he didn't have a lot of love for it (http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/writersroom/2010/03/writers_10_rules_and_why_i_hat.shtml) but for me it was like a breath of fresh air.

As we sat round the fire I would read a bit of the article and make notes from it and then play a round of cards and I kept alternating like this depending on what game was being played and how many players they needed.
I couldn't help but wish it was this easy to alternate work with play back home but for now - just like the day we'd had - it was really nice.

Outskirts and Olive Groves

Day 1 of my adventure and I was shattered.
An early start after a late night was not a good combination.
But I was excited, the holiday that I had been worrying about and waiting and wanting for ages was finally here...
On the easyjet flight, amongst the screaming babies and foriegners, was a posh couple sat behind me who annoyed me all through the flight but none more so than when we were coming into land in Marrakesh.
As we saw the first few buildings the woman - going for the gold award in pointing out the obvious - said oh that must be the outskirts.
A part of me wanted to block out the noise of her but a few moments later she pointed out that we were flying over olive groves which I - with my short sight - wouldn't have noticed and I realised that this was not a holiday where quick judgements and assumptions were going to help me.
I needed to leave my London cynicism behind and open my eyes to a new experience and a new culture otherwise I would ruin this for myself.

As I made my way from the airport the taxi driver - who spoke no english whatsoever - kept pointing out tourist attractions. I think he felt sorry for me being on my own bless him.
I got to the hotel and met my roommate and we went to the Medina for lunch before our group briefing where we met the rest of the gang.
It was an ace, friendly and gentle start to the holiday and we all couldn't wait to find out what lay ahead.

Preparing for a Prize

I won a holiday.
That's not a sentence I ever thought I'd say but it's true.
I entered a competition that I saw on an email newsletter and a few weeks later, thanks to the lovely people at Intrepid Travel (www.intrepidtravel.com) I was getting ready to go to an exotic place that I had wanted to travel to for a long time; Morocco.
At this point, after finishing my MA last year and feeling pretty exhausted, I really needed a holiday.
I was making plans with friends on how we could sneak away for 3 or 4 days, sharing airmiles, borrowing accomodation, even collecting holiday vouchers.
I was determined to get away even though I had no money to do so and then low and behold I won one.
Believe what you will about cosmic ordering, but mine certainly worked.

As I started to get ready for the trip by doing the usual things like buying a travel guide, insurance and a first aid kit I realised there was of wealth of things I didn't know about the place I was travelling to.
It's their winter but how hot is that?
I was going to the desert but do you need insect repellent for there?
I wanted to be excited, and don't get me wrong winning a holiday is pretty damn exciting, I felt grateful and relieved but if I'm totally honest I was nervous too.
I felt some trepidation about going somewhere that I hadn't actually decided to go.
Also the cynic in me couldn't quite believe that I would actually just turn up and get the holiday without being tapped for some 'additional costs' (which I wasn't).
I discovered that the biggest reasons for not doing something are ones you come up with yourself.
I wasn't sure what the trip would be but I had a feeling I would give me a chance to discover a whole lot more...

I've recently been ill.
Not just a-little-bit-sniffly ill but all out, cripplingly, repeatedly ill.
In that time I haven't felt much like blogging, or like writing, or working, or flirting or dating or talking or socialising in anyway...
The one time I threw caution to the wind because I was feeling a bit better and went to a friend's house for Sunday Roast I ended up even more ill than I had been before.
My GP now recognises me immediately and doesn't even listen to my chest, look in my mouth or ears or any of that, he justs takes one look at me and writes out a prescription...
Either he's not a good doctor or I have just spent the last 4 weeks looking like a corpse that has been warmed up and wheeled in to his office just in time to die again.
It all started at the doctors actually.
I went for a flu jab; as I have a congenital heart condition I recieved a letter urging me to get the vaccination which I did on xmas eve just before travelling along the snowy roads to home.
The side effects of the flu jab are symptons of flu - which I thought I had.
Xmas was a wash out for many reasons but not least because I was unable to eat my xmas dinner and not able to take even a sip of alcohol.
Two days later when I went to get the train back to London but was too weak to even pack my bag I realised it wasn't just flu like symptons.
What developed was a horrid sickness bug which I think I caught from my housemate and narrowly avoided passing on to all my family.
Thanks to my mum and some super strength Pepto-Bismal I got better and got back to London literally the day before New Years Eve.
I was pleased that I could still go out with my friends, I looked forward to starting the new year healthy and was also just happy to be away from a toilet bowl.
I realised at this point that New Year's Eve is not a lucky time of year for me; I had spent quite a few recent New Year's Eves ill.
Last year I left a perfectly entertaining party early as I wasn't feeling too good and was ill for the first 3 days of 2009.
The year before I had only just recovered from a bad cold when New Year's came round. On a quick trip to the supermarket only 6 hours before I was going to see my friends DJ I picked up my bag of shopping and put my back out. Thanks to some amazing heat patches and super strength painkillers I was able to still go out.
But I couldn't drink or move much...
When you look back at the photos you can't tell I was sober and in pain and I still managed to get a new year's kiss so for the dawn of 2008 all was not lost.
The year before that I had arranged to fly to Belfast with my wingman but I was ill.
My mum, my boss - everyone I knew in fact - told me not to go.
I was determined not to be beaten so full of flu and stubborness I boarded the plane armed with enough Vicks and Lemsip for a small army.
Though I was quite miserable and exhausted from the journey the evening was good fun and on New Year's Day as we headed back to the airport in a taxi we witnessed one of the most amazing sunrises I have ever seen.
Despite everything it felt like I was supposed to be there to see it, snot and all...

So this year I had just recovered and managed to go out, it seemed like I had broken my New Year's curse.
Then I woke up on New Year's Day and the right side of my nose would not stop running and my right eye would not stop watering.
This lasted a few days and when it finally went it was replaced with a god awful head cold which every time I turned too fast or bent down made me feel like all my sinuses would explode then and there.
This went on a couple of weeks and then I got a cold, by this time I had settled into a routine of getting through the week at work and then feeling rubbish all weekend and I was sick of it.
All that energy and enthusiasm you tackle a new year with was wilting.
Worse than wilting it had vanished and replaced with was a bitter frustration.
I felt like a kid that couldn't go play outside.
I said to a friend of mine that I felt defeated.
Maybe it was some small insight into how it must feel to suffer from depression or other mental health illnesses.
I wanted to feel good about myself, to go out and live my life and stop being ill but I had no control over it whatsoever.
And it was the lack of control that was getting to me.
I was trapped into feeling emotionally whatever I was feeling physically.
It wasn't mind over matter it was matter taking over my mind.
Then my head cold developed into a full blown cold and cough.
I had 2 days off work and a weekend to recover but when I went back to work on the Monday by 5pm I was shaking and sneezing again.
The cold and cough returned ten fold and despite ridiculously strong antibiotics from my doctor I was off work for the best part of a week again.
Last week I went back to work and I was feeling much better but was still coughing so I went and got a repeat prescription of the antibitoics which I finish in 3 days. Though I am almost 100 % better - breathing through both nostrils now and only coughing for about an hour in the mornings I feel completely wiped out.
I guess that's what antibiotics do to you and after what will be 14 days on them and over 6 weeks of various illnesses I'm not surprised I feel this way.
I know there are many worse ways to feel and luckily I have an amazing holiday coming up which - as long as I don't catch anything else - will, I'm sure be just the tonic I need to finally feel healthy again.
All this definately hasn't been fun but it has got me thinking.
Health is so important.
Not just big health stuff against big diseases but little health stuff against little illnesses.
I've practically just slept through xmas, New Year and the first 6 weeks of this year.
Why?
Because I must not have been taking care of myself?
Because perhaps I needed a holiday more than I realised?
Or was it because I went to get a flu jab?
I can't help but think that the very thing I thought would prevent this caused it to rain down on me.
It just seems too ironic that by trying to stay healthy I had ended up more ill.
Maybe if I hadn't tried to strengthen my body I wouldn't now be so weak.
As it valentines day I can't help think that it's a bit like tyring to protect yourself from getting your heart broken by never falling in love...your heart still breaks, just in a different way.
Maybe I shouldn't try so hard to protect myself from being ill or for that matter from being hurt.
Perhaps if you worry about something maybe you are just writing an invitation for it to happen.
One thing is for certain after this - I am never going to take my health for granted.
I'm quite fortunate that I never really did before because I was born 2 months premature with a heart condition and the doctors thought I wasn't going to make it.
I don't have to dig very deep to appreciate just that I have made it this far but I'm going to make an extra effort to be grateful for what I have when I have it and not to worry about what will happen next or how I might stop it.

I didn't make a new year's resolution because I was ill and in fact I haven't for the last few years for the same reason but I am going to make one now.
Carpe Diem.
Seize the day.
Not just because one small flu jab means you can't enjoy the day but because one small twist of fate and you might not have even got this day to begin with.
Seems a tall order to remember to be grateful every day but I'm going to try.
After all it can't be any harder than remembering to take your antibiotics every day and I seem to have been doing that just fine...
Stay healthy everyone - in every sense of the word.
x

Four times a bridesmaid...

In my opinion there are certain things you believe in when you are a little person that you don't when you grow up;
Santa, The Tooth Fairy, The Easter Bunny etc
And for me, on that list, was the idea of weddings as a symbol of love.
Sure, I thought it was true when I was little, in fact I thought they were amazing because I got given a new dress to wear to my 1st wedding which was my cousin Ian's wedding!
It was purple with black spots and had matching socks.
Oh yes, back in the days/age when wearing socks with dresses wasn't retro it was normal!
I loved this dress, I loved the big celebration, I loved seeing my cousin's wife look like an angel, I loved being spun round the dancefloor by my uncle and I loved my first sip of babycham too!
I had a fabulous time and I wanted one of these weddings one day.
Then about a week later Ian left his new bride for another woman.
It was worse than realising the sound of Santa coming down your chimney is actually your dad retrieving presents from the loft.
Ok, maybe it was a one off, I wasn't about to give up on the idea totally just because I had one dumb cousin...I didn't know then but it would turn out I would have quite a few more...
The first time I was asked to be bridesmaid was another cousin's wedding.
She had 8 bridesmaids and put 4 of them in Lemon and 4 in Navy Blue.
You can guess what colour I was in can't you?
Yep...Lemon.
The dress was particularly puffy (as was my hair in those days) so I basically looked a cupcake all day.
I did enjoy the champagne this time - a privelege I was not legally old enough to have which added even more so to the joy of the day.
I found out later that my cousin had walked in on her groom in bed with her mother the night before the wedding and had married him anyway.
I guess my aunt was the only person who actually had a dilemma when asked what side she was on - the bride's or groom's!
I didn't feel quite so bad about looking like a cupcake...
Turns out there are worse things in life!

A couple of years later two of my cousins chose to get married in the same summer.
Until this point in my life I didn't know what true bitchiness was.
The first wedding was a cousin who is beautiful and kind spirited and had for many years been in love with a guy in the army who she hardly ever saw.
She had decided to get married rather suddenly whereas my other cousin had been planning hers for ages.
So the claws came out...
And this was not just Bride wars this was Mother-of-the-Bride Outfit wars, Father-of-the-Bride Speech wars, Cake Making wars, Seating plan wars, First Dance wars...
It was actually the loveliest wedding I had attended but was overshadowed by family members of all shapes and sizes bringing out the worst in each other.
To her credit the bride seemed not to care about the wars breaking out all around her one little bit.
I just thought it was a shame that a day full of love could be ruined by jealousy.
A while later I found out that the wedding was rushed because my cousin had gotten pregnant.
When I say her fella was away a lot, I mean he was away a lot and was to be away a whole lot more after this.
To this day my cousin has never said who the real father of her child is but it certainly explained why she could care less about the bridal bitching that day!

The wedding that was later that same summer, is actually my favourite bad wedding story so far.
It was the 2nd time I was asked to be a bridesmaid and I couldn't think of a good enough excuse to get out of it.
This time I was dressed in emerald green it wasn't quite as humiliating as the lemon coloured dress till my cousin's hairdresser decided I would wear a hairband.
This was the wrong side of the 1990's for hairbands but no one had told her!
Around the same time I had decided to stay on to college and university at the end of school and, as I was the only one of all my cousins to do this, I was literally the black sheep of the family.
A few of my cousins congratulated me and were genuinely chuffed for me but most of them decided not to talk to me.
So I literally had my hair and make up done for the wedding in silence.
Turns out the only thing worse than wearing a hair band is having it literally pushed onto your head while your cousins give you the silent treatment...

And so to the wedding...

The way these guys had bitched about the wedding earlier that same summer meant I was expecting a lot and to be fair nothing was left untouched with this one.
We drove to the wedding in a limo, I helped myself to the champagne in the back while everyone fussed over the bride.
The reception area was stunning, I helped myself to the champagne while everyone chatted.
The photographer was exceptionally talented, I helped myself to the champagne whilst waiting to be called for photos.
The wedding was ultra-traditional, they even had chimney sweeps at the church. And they did the traditional line up where you go along and shake everyone's hands.
My mum said she couldn't shake the groom's hand and I was quite drunk at this point and just wanted to sit down so we slipped into the main room without going along the line.
I asked my mum why she didn't want to shake his hand and she told me to ask one of my cousin's.
I was quite merry at this point so it took a while for the penny to drop but when it did it was a clanger...
That same cousin had confided to me on the hen party that she was sleeping with a man who was engaged.
Well, turns out she was now sleeping with a man who was married - to her own cousin no less!

All of a sudden I wasn't nearly drunk enough for this so I sloped off to the bar unnoticed. In the brief interlude between the line up and being announced into the room the groom had gone to the bar too.
He didn't notice me stand behind him at the bar.
He certainly didn't notice me see him take down the phone number of the woman behind the bar.
I'm not surprised my mum didn't want to shake his hand, she had no idea where it had been!
I got my drink and sat back down.
But I wasn't sat with my mum and my brother.
I was sat with all the other bridesmaids so I made sure I drank plenty more to cope with the silent treatment again.

I looked round the table.
I was sat opposite the cousin who's groom had slept with her mother and next to the cousin who was sleeping with today's groom.
When the best man got up to make his speech he said he didn't know of a happier couple than the bride and groom and I am ashamed to say that I burst out laughing.
The champagne had helped me decide that I couldn't take much more hypocrisy.
But even if I didn't like the way my cousin bitched about the earlier wedding and even though I didn't like the groom I had no right to ruin that moment for all the other family and friends who were none the wiser.
I think my brother took me home very shortly after the speeches and I'm pretty sure we had a great night getting drunk at home.
But the next day my aunt said she would never speak to my mum again because she didn't shake hands in the line up.
My mum was ostracised from her own family for having standards.
Needless to say most of my cousins didn't speak to me after the laughing incident either but they weren't exactly speaking to me before it anyway so I didn't feel a sense of great loss.

I have been to other weddings since and most of them have been much more joyous.
My dad's was, I'm not going to lie, quite a difficult occasion.
Not one I feel I can speak about much on here but one where I learned a very important lesson that, as a writer, you have to be able to stand by your words as much as you would stand by the members of your family.

My brother's was particularly fun, even though it was the day after my university leaver's ball I loved every minute of it!
I was bridesmaid again and for once the dress was gorgeous and I had a great time.
My mum's was ace too, she got married the day before I went travelling around the world just so I wouldn't be away when she did it.
I was bridesmaid again, it was a gorgeous dress again and instead of having a table plan my mum had one big table that everyone sat around.
And this huge table had more wine on it than I had ever seen before and, yes I drank a lot and yes, I laughed a lot, but this time in the right places and for the right reasons.
I set off round the world with a huge hangover and very aware that having been a bridesmaid 4 times that I was very unlikely to ever be a bride.
But that kind of suited me.

At this point I could concede that maybe weddings weren't all bad, but only if other people could concede that they weren't all good either.
That they don't paper over the cracks in a relationship, that they don't stop the truth being found out, that they don't make up for something else that is missing in your life and certainly the more you spend on them doesn't mean the more succesful your marriage will be.

It's been 7 years, almost to the day, since I set off travelling and in all that time I have happily held the view that weddings are great, they're just not for me...until now.

I recently went to a wedding that I knew would be the exact opposite of all my horror stories.
I knew it would be a room full of fabulous, wonderful people who were genuinely filled with love and excitement for the happy couple.
The reason being that the couple are two of the nicest, kindest, most wonderful people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.
You can't choose your family but you can choose your friends and I don't know how I was lucky enough to get the chance to choose these guys.
I knew their wedding would be all of these genuinely amazing things, but I just didn't know it would affect me so much.
It was only the 2nd time in my life that I thought 'I want one of these'.

Don't worry, I think the feeling will wear off...
I still have too many objections but it definately chinked the armour.

When I told one of the many very nice men I happened to chat to at this wedding that I didn't want a wedding myself he told me that it was as selfish to not want one as it was to want one.
I'm not sure I entirely agree with him but it certainly makes life interesting to look at things a different way...

I grew up believing in weddings until I found out they weren't real.
But I spent so long after that not believing in them that it feels strange to find out now that maybe they might be more real than I was ever able to give them credit for.
It's strange, it's a little bit like someone telling you they still stay up on christmas eve to see Santa or that they still find money when leave their tooth under their pillow.
You're not sure you would do the same but you can't help admire their conviction either...

According to the saying being a bridesmaid 3 times means I will automatically be ruled out of ever being a bride.
A week ago I was perfectly happy to be living proof of an age old cliche.
And maybe I never will be anyone's bride.
But right now, I'm not sure I'm going to let someone else's cliche decide for me.
Why should nice weddings automatically mean a girl should want one?
Why should bad weddings automatically mean a girl shouldn't?

Anyway...sod the cliche I've actually been a bridesmaid four times, what does that mean?
Maybe it means I get a bit longer than most people to work out what I believe in.
It's much easier to believe in that which you can see than that which you can't.
Maybe that's why my cousins wanted weddings so badly, perhaps they wanted to prove something existed that actually didn't.
In my opinion weddings are for couples that are truly in love but they are overused by couples that aren't.
And so a word to the wise; when true love exists you don't need to prove it (and that perhaps is when you enjoy it most).
And you certainly don't need dresses that make people look like cupcakes.

One more for the road...

I've noticed since I finished my MA that the 2 years of studying, struggling, staying in, non-socialising, watching, analysing, questioning, creating and generally tearing my hair out has, if nothing else, given me 2 wonderful things...

1) is the confidence to say - out loud and to other people - that I write.
Ok so I'm not a writer yet and I certainly am not a paid writer but I spend my time writing and I am not ashamed to admit that's what I do, in fact I am proud that it's what I am incredibly passionate about and not only shapes the way I look at the world, it shapes who I am and what I want in this world.

2) is a fairly decent drinking habit.
I am not denying that I used to drink a lot pre MA, I just didn't need it quite as much as I do now.
I love to come home and have a drink while I soak in a brilliant piece of TV writing or go to the theatre and have a drink, or to go out with friends and drink...it's become less about binge drinking my way through my weekends which my former self used to do and more about having a drink with most things I do...I'm not sure which is healthier to be honest!

There's no doubt that writers have a reputation for being the first one to suggest going for a drink and the last ones to prop up the bar too and that got me thinking about why writers drink so much, what's in that last mouthful/last glass/last bottle that we crave?

Maybe it's because no matter how eccentric we are we are also social creatures who love to tell stories and it's in our social DNA that alcohol and stories mix well, why else does most of the population have a night in front of the TV or DVD with a bottle of wine, or do they bear to hold the obligatory plastic glasses at theatres?

Maybe it's about gaining access to the unconscious certainly the only time I cry these days is when i'm either a) drunk or b) writing an emotionally charged scene.

Maybe it's because we're constantly stressed, not stressed like I've experienced before in management jobs but stressed because we're trying to birth our creative babies a lot of times without the equivalent of a creative midwife.
Maybe like an epidural alcohol eases this difficult and painful process?

Maybe it's an insecurity that even after we've said out loud that we write and cried our way through our difficult scenes that it will all mean nothing.
And maybe what we really crave more than anything else is meaning.
We want to find the meaning in things that's why we write and we want our stories to mean something to others that's why we work so hard at it.
What if they don't?
That's more than an insecurity for me.
That's a paralysing fear.
But surely the more successful a writer is the less insecure they would be and the less they would drink...I know for a fact that this aint true.

I get the sense that I could discuss the topic of alcohol till the cows come home but I can't make much sense of it (and it might not be terribly exciting) unless I really investigate my own relationship with it.
So instead of why do writers drink, I'll ask why do I drink?
And I think all of the reasons above are valid, but there could be one other possibility too.
To me I used to binge drink at the weekend - not excessively, just the same amount as any other young Londoner would - and then I would work my ass off all week to pay for the lifestyle.
There would be times I would be 'on' meaning nights I would be up for drinking and partying then nights when I would be 'off' meaning nights I wouldn't drink.
Since doing this MA these 'on' and 'off' periods are a lot less distinct, I can have just as many (or as few) drinks on a Saturday as I can on a Tuesday.
In fact if I do fancy a drink on a Sunday or a Monday I struggle to find a friend to drink with me because most are giving their poor livers a break from the excess of the weekend whereas for me the weekends are my writing time and not my drinking time.
I'd rather be hungover at work than be hungover when I sit down to write.
Also, I am never really 'off' because I never really stop writing.
I can be thinking of ideas sat at my desk, or on the bus, in the bath, in the supermarket, in the gym, chatting to mates etc
Perhaps a side effect of this is that the more often my brain is 'switched on' then the more often I will crave a drink to help switch it off.

I don't think I have a conclusion to why writers drink or why I like to drink maybe I'll think about it some more...
Maybe I'll write about it and see where the story takes me...
If I'm going to write about it maybe I'll have to do some more in-depth research...

Now, where did I put that corkscrew...?

It's been a while...

I haven't written much on here recently...I like to delude myself that there are fans out there eagerly awaiting my next post but there aren't, yet it still feels important to me for some reason to explain my absence:

I finished my MA.

I was so busy doing that I didn't have time to do anything else.
And then I celebrated finishing which took up all my time and even though I finished the course a month ago I have only just finished the copious amounts of celebrating!
And now...?
Back to business as usual.
Except, I have no idea what that is anymore.
Don't get me wrong, I couldn't wait to finish the course, to get to the end of the stress of delivering that final script, the end of the pressure knowing it would be used as our calling card and the end of the intensity of not having room for anything else in your life.
But I miss it.
I miss the structure, the deadlines, the constant challenges and surprises, the great tutors and mentors and of course my fellow writers.
I miss having someone to blame, for two years I have been saying - I can't go out/stay out/spend the day/night/watch this/read that/stay up/sleep in/drink this/eat that/buy those or generally afford to do anything...because of the MA.
There is no way I would want to carry on studying but there's also no way I would want to carry on living the life I had before the MA either.
And that's the scary part.
A lot of my friends have said they are glad to have me back on the social scene, glad I can actually say yes to their invites again, glad I can have dinner or a few drinks on random week nights again etc
And I have been doing a lot of all of that in order to make up for lost time!
I'm touched that they have welcomed me back with open arms but I am also terrified of actually embracing them back.
Because if I go out half as much as I used to I will never have time to write...
If I drink a quarter of the amount I used to put away I will never write anything of quality if I am doing it whilst suffering through a hangover...
If I travel across London on the sprawling nightbus network for just a tenth of the time I used to I will be so sleep deprived I will never even be motivated to write...
So it's clear that I can't go back to my old life and I can't carry on the one I've got used to whilst on the MA.
I need to forge a new path.
New rules, new discipline, new goals, new deadlines, the lot.
It's a bit like breaking up with someone, suddenly there's an MA-sized hole in my life and I don't quite know what to fill that hole with yet.
This last month I've been to the theatre 6 times, celebrated my birthday on 5 different occasions, had 4 friends come to stay, been to 3 friend's birthdays, had 2 weekends away and 1 massive 'end of MA' blowout has been liberating, rewarding, exhilirating, depressing, terrifying, inspiring, surprising, tiring and expensive!
But it's been exactly what I needed to get over the 'break-up'.
I think now my life will naturally be divided into 3 parts; my crazy TV life pre-MA, the none existent life I had during the MA and post-MA.
And this 'life post MA' is the one story that has not yet been written.
I suppose the only thing I can do is get writing...

Diversion Ahead

I have made a countdown calendar.
The no# of days left till my final deadline for my MA.
Today it sits on 43.
My fingers shake slightly as I type that. I think I'm in shock because, first of all, I am now counting my deadline down in days (how scary is that) and second of all I feel like I have so much work to do I should still be counting down in months (where did all the time go)
Such is life...right?
Writers - far more experienced and talented than me - deal with much more stressful deadlines than this on a more regular basis, in fact they deal with multiple deadlines at once.
But this one, for me, is as big as it gets. I really hope it will be the first big writing deadline of many big writing deadlines. As well as hoping it will be the first, I also hope it will be the last. The last one where I am labelled a 'student of writing', or a 'wannabe writer'.
Despite my hopes and my state of shock...I am feeling blocked.
BLOCKED!
I'm not even a proper writer yet but I get writer's block?
What is that about?
It got me thinking about that fact that a few years ago I had a man pal who I loved dearly and it turned out he loved me dearly too. In fact too much so - he wanted us to get together and I just didn't feel strongly enough about him to get into a serious relationship with him.
So for a while we just stayed friends. Not for long though. In true When Harry Met Sally style it was not possible to 'just be friends' - we would go out on nights out, have fun and then one of us would get emotional, we'd argue and then we'd talk for hours on the phone and meet up the next day and make up. I realised I was having a relationship with this man without actually having a relationship with him.
I talked to him about this and he said we needed to move forward or move apart.
We decided not to be friends anymore and - true to his word - I haven't seen him for about 3 years. Whilst there is no doubt in my mind that we had to stop our pseudo relationship somehow I'm not sure going cold turkey was the best option and I'm almost 100% sure that if I could do it over I would do anything but that.
Why am I thinking about all this?
Well, it seems the parrallel is I was having all the problems of a relationship without having an actual relationship and now I am having all the problem's of writer's block without actually being a writer.
I need to move forward or move apart from this story.
Seen as I am 43 days away from deadline it is too late to move away so I can only go forward.
If this block is a wall I am going to have to smash it down.
Ok maybe not smash it, but perhaps take it down one brick at a time.
Why am I blocked?
1) I feel like I don't really know what my play is about.
I mean, I know what it's about - I know what happens, who to and when. But I feel like I am still struggling to know why. Has this play evolved too far past what I originally wanted to say? Can I still say that? Should I be trying to say something else if the story has taken me somewhere else? Why have I come up with a story that doesn't say what I wanted to say in the first place? And how did I do that? I feel like I've been painting a sunset using green paint. Do I still say it is a sunset or is it actually just a green picture now?
2) Until I 'know' what it's about I feel like I won't know what the right form is.
And I have David Edgar to blame for this (no, not the new Burnley player)
His incredibly insightful article in the Guardian last weekend pretty much ruined my life.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/jul/11/drama-edgar-plays-theatre
Until then I thought I was telling a nice, little, interesting and dramatic story about Burnley. Then he made me see that the story is one thing, the plot is quite another.
And the plot, well the way the plot is shaped shows you what the meaning of the play is. That's great, so clever and true, I'm really glad he pointed that out while I am still in the process of writing my play. See point 1.
Oh...Crap.
3) Points 1 & 2 have - over the recent two weeks - combined forces and like some looming transformer-type monster have dwarfed every creative decision I've made till I have got to the point where I can't type a word without deleting it again.
Writing is putting words down in a shape that gives them meaning. Not putting them down, being unsure about the shape and then taking them away again. That's just typing.

I don't want to be a typist.
I want to be a writer.
I want to write this story.
I want to give it the best form it can have.
I want the meaning to resonate through each and every word.
I want to smash this wall.

If anyone out there has a sledgehammer...or a chisel...even a fork sized amount of wisdom to help me do this I would be most grateful to hear from you.

Well, gonna go and score another day off my calendar.
42 days to go now.

Gulp.