Barcelona:

So you can guess what this post is going to be about, can’t you? I know I say it all the time about holidays, but seriously, I LOVED Barcelona. I could quite happily live there, and I’m quite jealous of James’s cousin and her husband who get to do just that for three years while he works there. If you lived round the corner from that beach, would you want to live anywhere else?

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1. High School Musical
Disney have a lot to answer for. How dare they make such a cheesy, cheery musical that appeals to children, grown women and gay men alike? Curse the Disney Channel for having a High School Musical marathon this weekend, with HSM1 & 2 back to back, sing-along lyrics and a dance-along instructional version too. How is a boy supposed to get any work done? James rolled his eyes until the big finale kicked in and we both reminisced about Same Difference performing it last year on the X Factor. Ah, good times. Anyway, back to the film: rent it, buy it, watch it, love it. I defy anyone not to be thoroughly bursting with joy by the end. And if you need help with the routine, you know who to call.

2. Xtube
Anyone who owns a computer looks at porn. It’s axiomatic: get internet access, start looking at naked people and clearing out your cache, temp files and history every time you log off. Judging from the look of horror on your face I’m assuming that you haven’t been emptying out your PC properly because there’s no way you just don’t look at porn. Now, being a cheapskate, there ain’t no way I’m paying for it: enter xtube.com. There are probably questions to be answered about the type of person who would willingly post home-made films of themselves going at it on a web site for the whole world to see – I certainly wouldn’t – but I’m willing to overlook them if you are. Well, this is about guilty pleasures, after all.

3. Gas
In any kind of company this is something to be frowned upon, and even if I know you have read this blog and you ask me about it I will maintain that trapped wind is nothing to be proud of and certainly not to be enjoyed. Of course, when you are on your own it’s a different matter. Burping in company is not so bad, and even to be applauded depending on the company you keep, but the other end is a different matter. Farts are like children: you love your own and hate everyone else’s, and if you are screwing your nose up while you read this, be honest with yourself. When was the last time you were alone, felt one coming and secretly congratulated yourself for delivering it with style? (With extra points if even the dog leaves the room.) There’s a smile specifically for this kind of thing, and we all know exactly how to make it.

4. Barbra Streisand
Like the woman says: “we’ve got nothing to be guilty of”, and yet I can’t bring myself to confess that I do quite like her. There are a couple of reasons; firstly, if I confess that I am a closet fan then I can’t make fun of James any more for his die-hard support for the woman. Second: how gay? Admit I like the woman and I might as well tattoo a big rainbow on my forehead and hit the streets in denim hotpants while shopping for nail varnish. I’m not one for keeping it in the closet, but I’m not one for raving about it every day either. Finally: habit. I’m so used to not liking her that it grates to ‘fess up. Here goes then: I like Barbra. And worse, I love Barbra and Donna Summer’s ‘No more tears’, too.

5. Crimewatch
Does anyone actually watch this thinking they will help in the solving of a crime? I certainly don’t. Crime-fighting credentials notwithstanding, five million people are not civic minded enough to tune in with the sole aim of making the country a better place. There is an element of entertainment about the show – a degree of schadenfreude – that makes me feel a bit uneasy about watching it; so much so that I rarely turn it on any more. It’s like looking in the back of ambulance: you know you shouldn’t be doing it and you really don’t want to, but the chance that you might see something really gory is too much of a temptation and you can’t help yourself. They know it too, and trade off it: I haven’t seen any policemen looking like Rav in my area lately. That said, if appealing to my perverse nature means that they help solve a murder or two, then who I am I to argue? From now on, I will hold my head up high!

So, now you know mine, tell me yours. It’s only fair.

1. Pick up the nearest book of 123 (or more) pages.

“Words Apart: Losing your hearing as an adult” by Lesley Jones, Jim Kyle and Peter Wood. I am at work, after all.

2. Open the book to page 123 and find the 5th sentence.

The first of these descriptions is almost a comforting one, and like the earlier description of a snowy landscape, presents a recognizable description.

3. Post the next 3 sentences.

The second however introduces a sense of isolation and discomfort. It agrees with Ramsdell’s (1962) claims about different levels of hearing – being aware of things outside on a different level from those close at hand. This sense of isolation is more common than comfort in the accounts given by the people interviewed.

4. Tag 5 people.

I don’t know if I know five blogging people. How about Gnightgirl, Rocketstar, Brian and I’ll have a think about the rest?

And if that’s not enough to keep you entertained, what about a little writing-based game? Ernest Hemingway is the author of the classic six-word story: “For Sale. Baby shoes, never worn”. The idea is self-explanatory: tell a whole tale using as few words as possible. If we finish writing group early we play this game, creating our own. We usually let people off if they go up to ten, but I’m going to be strict: seven-words exactly. No more: no less. Here is mine:

Waiting for test results. Fancy a gherkin.

Have a go and put your efforts in the comments. Come on, be brave: it’s the holidays!

Coming out is not a once-in-a-lifetime event: it’s not even once a month in my experience. From the start I have been very lucky and, even including the whole grandparent fiasco, everyone has been supportive and understanding. I can still remember the first people I came out to, and the order; if I needed to make a list of most trusted friends then I would only have to write it down. Although my official ‘coming out’ (if there is such a thing) was March 2005, I actually dipped a cautious toe in the coming out pond in June 2004. It took me nearly one year to go from closet case to something approximating out-and-proud. Some were more daunting than others: my sister, my parents, and I remember being particularly worked up about telling Ben for some reason (it turned out to be a total anti-climax).  There were some memorable responses, too: when I said I was bi, Mike replied quite matter-of-factly that I “could have anyone in the pub then”; when I told Alex he asked if it was still alright to mock me with “gay boy”.

I’ve never blogged about my ‘coming out story’ because it’s not a story in the traditional sense, and if I wrote it all down it would actually be pretty boring. There was no beginning or middle, and certainly no end. Coming out doesn’t just happen: the dramatic revelation before assembled friends and family is soap opera gold, but a highly unlikely means of breaking the news. In the real world, coming out takes place over a long period of time, like a drip feed, filtering through friends and family, percolating down to the most extreme reaches of your social circle over a period of years.  If coming out to people you love takes so long and is such hard work, why should I have to come out to the postman as though it doesn’t mean anything?  Because I’m a minority and that’s the price you pay; you shouldn’t have to, but really, what’s the big deal? I got my box and he went about his day without a second thought.  Coming out to the postman doesn’t matter because he doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.  It is too obvious to state that coming out is harder for people you care about.  Coming out at work can be harder still.  Work colleagues exist in a grey area: you didn’t choose them, you have to spend all day with them, and unless you’re some kind of masochist you have to get on. So while you might make your instant assessment in favour of telling the postman, things are a lot less clear cut when talking to people who should be your friends, but aren’t.

There’s no easy answer. I am constantly surprised by the decisions people make: those I would expect to simply lay it on the line are often the ones who stay in the closet the longest, whilst the reverse is also true: the quiet ones are often the most direct.  I didn’t really have a choice in my current job: I had been on a date with the photocopy repair man who turned up in the first week.  How could I resist telling that story?  Fortunately I work in a very accepting and open-minded environment, and it would have been almost disingenuous of me not to come out right away.  Talking about my boyfriend is as natural as not liking bananas, and I’ve had more in-depth conversations about the latter around the office.  But we are not all so lucky and I can see why others might not be so forthcoming in revealing their orientation: not every work place is as forward-looking as mine.

I won’t be in the same place forever and I wonder whether I will be so forthright in my next job – potentially on the other side of the world.  That said, I’m not exactly shy and retiring: I probably won’t have a choice.

Write a short tale with only one adjective.  This is designed to exercise your descriptive abilities without using describing words.  (Technically ‘out’, ‘more’, ‘another’, and any numbers are all adjectives, so we stuck with the age-old rule: if it fills in the gap in the phrase ‘the _____ cat’, then it’s not allowed.)

The flags were out.  Peter had been away for a year and the family were queuing outside the in the terminal, waiting for him to emerge from behind the double doors and return home.  I was at the front, of course; a benefit of the growth spurt that never came: I could squeeze to the head of any crowd.  He would have a tan and he would have lost weight, too, but he would be Peter, and nothing would ever change that.  And so we waited.

A few passengers emerged; the crowd craned their necks to peep past the doors into Customs.  I peeped too, and reported what I saw, which was nothing.  More and more were admitted into the terminal; more and more into the arms of their families.  But not Peter.  And we waited.

I didn’t turn around as Mum crushed up against me: I recognised her weight on my back. 

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.  I haven’t seen him yet.”

“Well shout when you see him,” she said, and she withdrew.  The crowd closed around me, and I was alone again.

The passengers started to thin.  We waited.  A trickle of tans now, none of them Peter.  The crowd had dispersed and regrouped: people waiting and leaving, waiting and leaving.  And us; waiting.

Peter was not on that flight.  He had cancelled his ticket in Sydney and said nothing.  We went home without him: my mother, my father and I, and our three broken hearts.

Pascale sorted out the evening’s entertainment (she knows the London Deaf scene and was happy to show me around) and lodgings, and off we went. It was sign, sign, sign all evening and at a couple of points I did get a bit overfaced – you’d be surprised how different the same language can be in another area of the country – but on the whole I think I held my own, and James would be proud to know I participated fully in a discussion about when and how to use the ‘c word’ in both BSL and English. James will not be so glad to know that we were talking about it at 4 in the morning; we got to sleep at half-past.

We got up at 7.30. I don’t know if ‘exhausted’ is strong enough a word, but it goes some of the way. I remember the days when I could survive for weeks on end with three hours a night and plenty of drinks in-between – what happened there, eh? Nonetheless, we managed to drag ourselves out, looking thoroughly respectable, if a little pale, and throw up our stand in record time. For those of you who mock my pedantic planning or fanaticism for a routine, take heed: if you do the work beforehand, it doesn’t matter that you were out till dawn the night before.

The day went swimmingly and I caught my second wind at about 11am. Again, it was sign, sign, sign all day long – it just as well I absolutely love it – and by the end of the day I was physically drained. And yet facing the drive back to Bristol. Two-and-a-half hours in the worst driving weather in recent years and right through central London to boot. Amazingly I made it home in one piece, only to go out again for more drinks and the fulfillment of throughly enjoyable obligations. I got to bed just before midnight.

James forced me out of bed at half-past eight, only it wasn’t half-past eight: it was half seven really, because someone stole an hour overnight when the clocks went forward. Bastard. At half-nine we were on the road again, this time to the Forest of Dean for ‘Go Ape’. We did this last year for my sister’s birthday (when we had the shitty courtesy car) and I remember it being hard work, however much fun you have. I was not looking forward to swinging through the trees after eleven hours sleep in three days, especially given the dreadful weather. However, gung ho Sven soon forgets he is tired when he gets underway: the minute I was up on the zip-lines I was happy as Larry.

One delicious Sunday lunch at a charming country pub later and we were off home again, where I sat down and realised just how tired I actually am. So count your 573 words and be thankful I bothered to sit down and write them at all. Back on form next week, I promise!

Third place: Richard McCourt a.k.a. ‘Dick’

Children’s presenter Dick is the kids’ favourite. How many times have I been told by chuckling parents that their offspring have only been hiding behind their legs and laughing to themselves because I look like “Dick from Dick and Dom in da Bungalow“? Yes, more than a few. And not just the kids: I’ve had random women in bars come and ask me where my sidekick is, too. Yeah, funny.
Upside: Children’s TV stars have got quite good looking in recent years. Twenty years ago it was Jimmy Saville or no one: not a comparison anyone would thank you for.
Downside: I can’t stand their tv shows. Can’t stand them! Are You Smarter Than A 10 Year Old? Seriously?! My face on that dross? I feel violated.

By far the most popular choice, I have been compared to Kris Marshall since My Family hit the airwaves in 2000. Eight years of “You know who you look like? ‘Nick’ from My Family!” followed by riotous laughter, which makes it difficult for anyone to take you seriously, because ‘Nick’ from My Family was an idiot. However, he was a very good-looking idiot and it seems quite fanciable, which is nice for us both. Poor Kris only makes it to number two though, because now he’s gone blond the likeness is somewhat diminished.
Upside: James had a major crush on Kris Marshall. Fortunately he is straight: I am not.
Downside: If he switches sides, I’ll be single before the end of the week.

Peter Krause gets pole position for two reasons. Firstly, he’s a grower; the older I get the more people mention his name before they remember that ‘Nick’ from My Family also bears a resemblance to yours truly. It’s probably got something to do with wrinkles and laughter lines, but we shall call those ‘marks of distinction’ and remain optimistic about maintaining a youthful appearance until I am fifty. (On Thursday night I did convince everyone that I was only 26. Result.) Secondly, he’s pretty fit and this is my list. You’d all do the same.

Upside: Look at him. Even I fancy him.
Downside: Is that weird?

This week’s topic was: “Under the influence”. Expecting a lot of drunken tales, I tried to do something different. It started out past tense, third person, but I think it works better like this.

On Sunday I think it is a hangover: the tender stomach and melancholy mood, the aftermath of the weekend. I blame it on the drink, my friends, the good times.

On Monday I blame it on a virus. I am run down and have laid myself open to all sorts of things. It is nothing serious. It is my own fault. I will recover. Silently I wonder what was wrong with me when I feel sick but know there is none.

On Tuesday I make an appointment with the doctor. I have never felt like this before: hungry but unable to eat. I feel like I am waiting for something: anxious, nervous. I lie in bed and worry knots into the duvet. I pretend that nothing is wrong.

On Wednesday a friend tells me how tired I look, how it sounds like it was a great party, how I haven’t stopped talking about it since; about the dancing, about the music, about the guests. She knows your name, your face, your history. She has never met you. I cancel the doctor.

I am a wide-eyed fool. I cannot stop myself from thinking about you. I cannot stop willing you to text or call but I know that you won’t.  I will have to deal with this mania and, if I think that I am over you, isn’t that close enough?

So, with my invisible passenger I made my way to Southampton and spent the night in fine company drinking fine wines and having a dance-off with Clancy after Lisa and I whipped him and Al at pool (and no arguments please – it was unfortunate that Lisa potted the white and we still claim the moral victory).  There is every chance that I managed to pass on my unwelcome guest to all and sundry throughout the night but them’s the breaks.

Saturday – the day of the reunion – and Barry (if it’s going to live on you, you should really be on first name terms) was only just introducing himself.  I thought I might have poked myself in the eye whilst throwing some award-winning shapes on the disco stage and thought no more of it.  Clancy and I sat around under our duvets for five hours (Gareth – avert your eyes: it was a chronic waste of a day) watching Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles (promising) and The Bionic Woman (dross), whilst Barry settled in under my eyelid.

The reunion came and went, but no gunge or itching indicated anything was amiss.  Another fantastic opportunity to spread himself around, no doubt; Barry must have had a field day.  The reunion was a bit of a wash out numbers-wise so his choices might have been fewer than anticipated, but all that hugging and hand-shaking!  What a night!  While I was wondering whether it really felt like a reunion at all: very few people I knew were there, the Student Union I knew is gone and a swanky new building has replaced it, the drinks were more watered down than I remembered and the whole thing ended at midnight; Barry was socialising with all and sundry, loitering on a pint glass or making a run for it when an air kiss got close enough to actually brush cheeks (it was a Drama reunion, remember – no contact baisers only).

Sunday: Barry makes himself known.  When I woke up my left eye was swollen, itchy, gunky and sore.  Liccy was alarmed: she had spent all night in the twin room with an ugly  contagion and might herself now be a victim.  She approached with her umbrella (giraffe print with a pink handle; fabulous) to shield her from the spray every time I blinked and confirmed the worst.  Of course, only being in my left eye it could have been worse, but the first thing you want to do is touch the other eye.  Oh, the temptation!  So far, touch wood, I am in the clear but having written this no doubt Barry will knock through to make full use of the space and tomorrow I shall be sealed up completely.

I spoke to my mother about it when she rang (I went over for dinner on the way home) and after the panicked “have you touched the other eye?  Well don’t” was out of the way the stock treatment for ailments was rolled out: wash it out with warm salty water.  Um, are you on smack, mother?  I am not putting hot brine into my eyes, especially when  it’s red, weeping and scratching when I blink.  My mother’s answer to everything: rinse it out with salty water.  Cuts and grazes: fine.  Septic piercing? Understandable.  Mouth ulcers?  Now you’re getting crazy.

So, as I write, yellowy green goo is building up in my lacrimal system and requires repetitive and tender cleaning every half hour or so, which is fun.  I’m in two minds about taking Barry to work tomorrow: he is a gregarious fellow but I’m not sure that anyone would extend their hospitality if they had the choice.  And he’s type to hang around on your keyboard or a door handle and force himself upon you when your guard is down.  But I can’t sit around at home alone either: Barry’s not one for chatting.

Bet your eyes are itching now.