Baby Booties & The Rest

I'm at that age where my nearest and dearest are coupling up and sprouting sprogs. Having previously thought that children were annoying and noisy small people commonly found in supermarkets, I have been swayed by the unfathomable loveliness of my friends' children. I can watch them like a box set of Mad Men....for hours and hours. I am told parents have to do more than watch but, for me, the loveable 'aunty' figure, I can just sit and gawk at their little brain cogs whirring round as they find joy in the simplest of things.

This fleet of newborns required celebrating and traditional gift giving. Reluctant to feed the overweight monster that is the baby products market, I decided to make my own baby booties out of felt. I got a pattern off the internet and customised them with different colours, trims and ribbons. This was reasonably straight forward and enjoyable and I was actually quite pleased with the result. I got a bit carried away and started making baby booties for anyone I heard had reproduced recently, including my boyfriend's saxophone teacher !?!

I got so cocky I decided to branch out into accessories and toys. Big mistake. Turns out the general principles of felt booties can not be applied to hats, stuffed star fish and rattles. The first miniature disaster came in the form of a hat (or a bar mitzvah cap) for the delightful Caelan Sheehan ( who is not Jewish, incidentally). Here he is (pictured above left) sporting said hat/cap. He is one and a half now and I made it for him when he was still a baby but, even then, it was ridiculously small. A banana has been added on the right for scale. It is not included in the skull cap and booties gift set.

Having amused Caelan's parents with his miniature hat, I was not deterred. I embarked on two toy-making projects at the same time: a stuffed starfish teddy and a rattle. The starfish was a bit of the wonky raggy-doll variety but it was looking reasonably presentable half way through.....until I gave it a face. It had wide circular blue eyes and a red smiling mouth. I thought this would make it look friendly like a cartoon face. Instead it looked manic and frightening like a drag queen on crystal meth and vaguely reminiscent of Heath Ledger as The Joker. This little gem went off to the lovely Elisha Lewis who sucked it, which is a sure sign of approval in baby terms.

Hot on the heels of this triumph I turned my attention to the rattle. I filled a plastic bottle half full with rice. I fashioned a handle out of wire and stuck that to the top and covered the whole thing in green tissue paper. It was looking odd but salvageable at that stage. I thought all it needed was a bit of brightening up so I glued on lots of multi-coloured shoe laces. This looked quite good but the plastic tips would catch as you ran your fingers round it- not a good thing for a soft, scratchable baby with eyes! I stuck fluffy pom-poms on the scratchy bits (disaster and a choking hazzard),  I put ribbons round it that kept moving out of place and then, in a moment of desperation, I covered the whole thing in sellotape. This gave it a surprisingly disturbing quality. I think it was the layer of clear plastic wrap that gave it an air of bondage and made the whole thing look more like a cheerful sex toy than a baby's rattle. After I had that thought, there was no salvaging it. It went in the bin, never to be seen again.

Has making baby booties and the rest changed my life?
I am still a keen bootie-maker. They make a fine alternative to the branded, twee, overpriced tat from the high street and they have the love and time I put into them. I wouldn't say they had changed my life particularly but it does make me smile knowing that these little booties are going into boxes that will be dusted off one day as a fully grown person is told that they were their first shoes.....and something about what a wonderful friend I was....so talented....so giving....blah blah blah. Legacy! I've got legacy!
Rating: 4/10
Comment: I found the edge of my capabilities fairly quickly with this one. If I can't be brilliant at it then it's not going to give me what I'm looking for....an identity through genius. I have given lots of treasured presents to friends at a special time in their lives, though, which means a lot to me. I have also invented a new line in comedy - comedic toy-making. It's quite long-winded but the punch line is hilarious.
Development Ideas: Make adult size felt booties for my hippy-friends......or maybe I could do a line in cheerful sex toys??

Dancing Queen

Dancing is one activity that I can trace back to my childhood, offering a welcome counterweight to my fickle nature. Of course, beneath that veneer of continuity lies the same old story-  I've tried every type of dance going and, within my adult life at least, not stuck at one kind for more than 6 months at a time.

There are 2 kinds of dancing: one is an expression of something inside of you and, for most people, something that happens involuntarily when drunk. The other is the kind people teach you in a class. For professional dancers these two become one. They are so proficcient in their art that they can express themselves within the confines of the rules and steps of their dance. For the rest of us, it's one or t'other.

I have always loved my own perculiar brand of dancing. You couldn't teach it, there are no steps, definitely no rules and it's the most fun thing I do and have ever done. (I know what you're thinking, but I put that in a category of it's own for which 'fun' doesn't seem the right adjective). The kind of dancing I've done in classes has been more complicated and over the years has become part of my failed search for fulfillment.... and my failed search for thin-ness - double whammy! I've done ballet, salsa, hip-hop, popping, locking, street, contemporary and, most recently, Jive. I've been competant but not brilliant at any of the above which is the ever-repeating narrative of my pursuit of greatness.

After some months attending a beginners street dance class, I was getting quite confident and a bit bored so I decided to give the intermediate class a go. It was all going quite well until those dreaded words.....'partner work'. These are the words I dread hearing in a dance class. I don't want to dance 'with' (as in actually touching) other people in a dance class but even I didn't realise how bad it could be. It's important when doing a routine with someone else that you are a similar size. So, when I (a five foot and a fag end titch) got paired up with a six foot elephant woman, I was surprised, scared and too emabrrased to say anyhthing to the dance teacher who was giving me a wry smile. He went on to show us a routine which involved rolling over each others backs, swinging our legs round each other's heads, crawling under each other's legs and a fair bit of lifting / throwing. Whichever way round we started, we ended up stuck at some point with me supposed to be lifting her or swinging my leg over her head. This should have made us both laugh. There should have been jokes about mice and mountains but she just looked at me as if to say, "What? Stop wasting time and get your leg over my head you beginner class wannabee!!" She was sighing and tutting with impatience as she percieved my lack of ability to mount her as a sign of my dancing inexperience rather than her mammoth-like physique. It's hard to say "I could do this if you weren't so massive so back off!" That neverending dance class was a socially awkward nightmare with a shared performance at the end as the cherry on the cake.

I never went back to that class and thankfully never saw the elephant woman again. Although I went on to other dance classes after that, it did make me less adventurous in my approach and more likely to stand close to an exit at all times.

Has dancing changed my life?
The expressive dancing that comes from inside will always change my life. It brings alive a part of me which lies dormant in every day life and makes me feel something without thinking it first. Everyone should have something that does that. The dance of the class variety may be a thing of the past for me however, at least for now. I am so sick of the painfully slow step by step approach that takes all the enjoyment out of dancing....and the threat of being paired up with someone twice my size for contact work....shudder.
Rating: 8/10
Comments: Dancing is something I think I am actually good at and I enjoy it. It enrichens my life and makes me feel free from myself in fleeting moments of joy. It gets 2 points deducted because I don't have the discipline to make myself better at dancing so I feel like I haven't fulfilled my potential inviting that school report phrase, "Could have done better."
Development ideas: Go out dancing more and develop my own style to the next level until everyone wants to do it and it becomes the next craze sweeping the nation and then the world......by Tuesday week. 

Animation

The good thing about the futile search for meaning and a sense of self through leisure activities is that you get to try a lot of different things. None of them bring you what you want, of course, but it keeps life varied. Last year I started going to a short film night where I saw several charming and wondrous stop-motion animations. That familiar combination of awe, aspiration and an overwhelming disappointment and frustration with myself came over me. I have a voice in my head like one of those competitive parents in American films who say 'why couldn't you be more like that kid?' That's when I know I've found my next 'answer'. If only I could be like that, do that, make that.... I'd surely be all the things I want to be. There is a promise on the horizon and I set off at a sprint towards it but the closer I get, the more I can see the detail and the picture starts to look the same as the rest, the same as the present. Then I wait for the next promise on the horizon to appear.

My sprint towards becoming a charming and wondrous stop-motion animator began with a six week night course. We were advised to create something simple, perhaps moving bits of coloured paper around to music. So, inevitably, I created my own set and staged a scene from a live Bill Hicks show using cowboys from Poundland, real mud from the garden and hand-crafted tumbleweed. Apart from the college room having to be fumigated after my 'real mud' went really mouldy between sessions, the whole thing was a great success. I like to think of it as 'knowingly naive', which basically means it looks shit but I like it.
http://youtu.be/i27H7RyGMLE

Following this early triumph, I decided to enter a city-wide competition to create an animation to be set to a silent film score. The winner and the runners up would have their film shown at the Symphony Hall to an audience of 2500 people with the Birmingham Symphony Orchestra playing the score live. Deluded? Quite possibly but that is the nature of the sprint.

The rules dictated that the film had to be set to a given clip of music, it had to be about Birmingham and feature an iconic image of Birmingham. I chose a music clip that sounded like a chase scene and ended up creating a paper-model world of Birmingham where the Birmingham bull comes alive and wreaks havoc, gathering a throng of angry townspeople in his wake.

http://youtu.be/hwmNPTLLaRE

Following it's initial conception, the making of this short film was quite an up-hill struggle. There was a death in the family, the animation software I had acquired wouldn't work and I had just over a week till the deadline. However, me and my friend, Steve, had already spent several hours cutting out hundreds of tiny paper people so there was no going back. Chaos prevailed as I got closer to the finnish line. Two days before submission I had to travel home to Yorkshire to attend a funeral and a birthday party. All the footage had to be uploaded and roughly edited together so I could take it up there with me on a USB stick (where it would go on my brother's laptop for final editing).

The day before the train to Yorkshire I spent hours taking pictures of tiny people chasing a tiny bull round a tiny Birmingham. The drama culminated at the Custard Factory, where custard-calamity ensued. I had to get the consistency of the custard right so that I could pour it on to the set slowly enough to take individual pictures of it moving. To achieve this consistency I had filled every pot, pan, bowl, jug and empty vessel in my kitchen with custard and poured it on all the available flat surfaces. I finally got it right and shot the last scene. There was no time to clear up. I had to get on my motorbike with the footage and ride up to my boyfriend, Fitz's house where some totally legitimate, newly acquired software awaited me. I got it all into one movie file before bedtime. At the crack of dawn I had to get up to ride back to my flat, get my stuff (including outfits and cards suitable for both birthdays and funerals) and get to my train. My bike wouldn't start because it was frozen over so Fitz had to give me a lift and by the time I got home, it was time to leave.

I returned home four days later to find some very disturbing scenes in my flat. Tiny paper people lay strewn in set lakes of custard, their facial expressions still visible through a gelatinous yellow film. Paper limbs poked up though a rubbery yellow floor a mini-me lay face down, drowned in custard-lava. It was an odd experience clearing up the wreckage and disposing of the paper people and I felt a sadness while I did it (but then I still feel sorry for teddy-bears who are left by themselves).

It was all worth it because I discovered the unending joy of custard powder and cold water. It's amazing. I don't want to spoil it for you. If you have custard powder in the cupboard then you're all set for a fun night in. Oh yeah, and I got a runner up place so my film was screened at Symphony Hall!

Has animation changed my life?
I'm now working on my third animation so it does seem to have stuck longer than other things. It also takes a lot of patience (not a quality I have in abundance ) so I think it's good for me in that sense. I don't feel like it has changed my life, but it may have made a successful transition into being a past-time. I'd be amazed if I carried on with it (just because of my track record) but I hope I do because I think I actually enjoy it.
Rating: 6/10
Comments: Animation hasn't made me into the person I saw on the horizon so it can't score too highly on the scale. It has been full of adventure, though, in it's own way and I have discovered little parts of me that I didn't know were there.
Development ideas: Make short animations with a social comment to make people think about the world they live in and the people that live in it with them.

Activism

I've always had an earnest interest in current affairs and human rights issues but my short attention span and fickle lack of commitment to one thing for more than five minutes don't lend themselves to social activism. These traits are generally frowned upon by the brothers and sisters who fight for a cause that is right and true....to the end....not till you start hula hooping salsa classes.

This year I decided enough was enough. It was time to put my money where my mouth is. Less talking, more doing.  Having said that, the only examples I've got to share with you involve me sitting and listening to other people talk and some writing on post-it notes. I haven't tied myself to a railing yet or even been arrested. Nil points!

First I went to my local mosque for a talk about the East Africa crisis. I was late because I'd been having my hair done. Not a great start. They had already started so my friend, Pete, and I scurried in and sat at the back as inconspicuously as we could. At first I put the uncomfortable staring down to a general frowning upon lateness but it turns out it was much worse than that. Pete soon spotted that we had sat in the 'red chair' section, which had cleverly been separated off from the rest of the blue chairs in the room. This section was just for women. Not for Pete. Once we realised our error it was quite difficult to know which social taboo to break. Do we disrupt the event by getting up and moving to another seat thus drawing even more attention to our mistake, or do we stay there and undermine the whole red chair section, challenging the faith choices of the the 'red chair women'? Tricky. Our very British compulsion not to cause a fuss prevailed and we stayed put..and very uncomfortable.  Think Monty Python's 'The Life of Brian'. "Are there any men in the red chairs?""Noooo", he squealed.

I went to see Mark Thomas who got me all fired up about Palestine. That spurred me on to go and see a talk given by an ex-American soldier. That was an eye-opener and I left there thinking I had to 'do' something. Then I slept and it went away. Most recently I've been to a day run by CAAT (Campaign Against the Arms Trade). I was late (again) so I missed the handy bit where they show you a video which encapsulates everything you need to know in 5 minutes. I arrived just in time for excruciating 'audience participation' exercises with post-it notes. The most memorable part of that day was making small talk with a blind man in the break. I asked him why he'd come along. He worked at a local college and decided he needed to be better informed if he was going to teach others. I said, "yeah, otherwise it's be like the bl........ cough...splutter....good idea."

Has activism changed my life?
It's been a bit of a non-starter really. I do care about people and injustice but I haven't translated that into action yet. I'm also a bit intimidated by people that are so passionate and focused too because I just see a gaping void reflected back at me where my heart should be.


Rating: 4/10
Comments: It's a strange phenomenon but all the 'right-on' lefty do-gooders are also pale-faced, sandal-wearing misfits with awkward social skills. I'm with them to a point but I don't feel part of their family. I need to find my own way and a kind of protest that suits me. I like John and Yoko's idea of staying in bed. Now that's the kind of activism I could get involved with!

Development ideas: Come up with my own ingenious forms of protest....like watching Mad Men episodes with only cups of tea and salt and vinegar chip sticks to sustain me until they stop female genital mutilation.

Crafty Beggar Creations

Propelling me to the next roller-disco, motorbike and brass band is the possibility that I might find the answer. The question is more difficult to figure out but it is something like, why am I unhappy? Maybe it’s just the scourge of the middle classes: to be spoilt to the point of rendering everything meaningless. So I fret from this to that in search of a remedy, something to fill the void.

Being sat at a desk 8 hours a day staring at little letters appearing on a screen in front of me is contributing to my slow, dull mummification so, I have hatched reckless escape plans in the dead of night which have, so far, come to nothing.

One of these plans was to start my own business called 'Crafty Beggar Creations'. I wanted to make my own paper from which I could make greetings cards, diaries and scrapbooks. Everything I produced would be found or recycled and made into something new and beautiful. 

As with most ideas that go nowhere, I spent most of my time agonising over the name. I was quite set on it being something to do with the Wombles to start with, but they’re a protected name-species. Then the name ‘Crafty Beggar’ came to me in a ‘eureka’ moment. I was delighted with my punning genius until I found my thought-twin on the internet. It was too late. I had already named my child so I settled for adding the word ‘Creations’ on the end so I could secure my own domain name for a website.

The hours I spent consumed in this naming process seem a little wasted now given that I’ve done precisely nothing with it. The idea went up like a firework with a burst of light and sound cutting through the daily mediocrity of life and then faded to nothing in the night sky.

The stumbling block came when I tried to run before I could walk. What any 'normal' person would do is build up a stock of cards and other items to sell and start by flogging small numbers to local retailers, whilst beginning to sell items online with the view to developing a website. Not me. I hate waiting. I prefer to skip to the end. I wanted to give up my job and my flat and rent a unit at a local print-works which was being renovated to become a centre of artisan businesses. These units were advertised as combined working and living spaces so I thought I could cut down on my outgoings by living and running my new business in the same place. This all seemed quite feasible to me with my budget calculations and forecasts until I went to see the space. It was absolutely freezing….and dark….and damp. The units which were supposed to be suitable to live in had stairs leading up to a wooden platform which was almost big enough to put a single mattress on….welcome to the living quarters.

That was the end. The bubble popped. Paper production slowed down after that and has since ground to a halt. I still do handmade cards for friends and family but the website lies dormant.

Did Crafty Beggar Creations change my life?
Although my actual situation has not changed as a result of 'Crafty Beggar Creations', I think it did help me with a mental shift into conceiving of more possibilities for myself. I never even thought about setting up a business before so I think the whole process, although mostly hypothetical, did widen my horizons.

Rating: 3/10
Comments: I’m mostly just disappointed in myself when I think about 'Crafty Beggar' because it really shows up my lack of commitment to anything that doesn’t come easy to me. I think of myself as being quite a determined person and that whole ‘episode’ is like a blot on my self-perception, forcing me to face the truth – I’m a bit lazy really. 
Development Opportunities: I still have the website and all the equipment to make paper so I could continue to make cards as a hobby and even get a stall at a Christmas market and try and flog a few. I just need a few more hours in the day.

Brass Band

Being a brilliant musician would be like reaching the pinnacle of my personality-mountain. I would exist freely in my boundless artistic expression and live a bohemian, fast-paced, free-love existence. I started playing the trumpet a couple of years ago and I haven’t even got past the foothills yet. This is mostly down to my total lack of dedication.  I decided to join a brass band. Like a Sherpa taking me further up the mountain, I thought it would force me to play at least once a week and maybe even shame me in to practising. I went to try out for the City of Birmingham Brass Band.

The rehearsal was due to start at 7.30. I arrived at 7.32 and they had already started. A conductor who begins a rehearsal bang on time values punctuality. Not a good start. I decided to wait and just have a listen to the kind of music they were playing until the half-time break when I could make my entrance. After about ten minutes sat on a chair outside, a man with a trombone rushed past me: another latecomer. He looked at me a little confused and asked what I was doing. He explained that there was no break and ushered me in to the hall announcing, “This is Amelia. I found her outside”, before leaving me hanging in the awkward silence as he went to take his seat.

Three members of the band had to get up to go and get my cornet, an extra chair and a music stand. Then everyone else had to move to make room. The conductor looked at me with a bemused expression and asked, “So, where do we put you then?” In a panic of self-deprecation I said, “Just put me with the worst one.” Everyone laughed and he replied, “That’s not how we tend to put it. I’ll sit you with Elly tonight – no offence Elly.” Great! Not only had I fully disrupted the whole rehearsal but I managed to insult a band member and humiliate myself in the process. It’s amazing what you can achieve in ten seconds.

I’ve had my ups and downs in band. Downs would include spending a day in the pissing rain playing to a handful of patriotic toffs for some half-drowned jubilee celebrations and being humiliated at rehearsals when the conductor asks me to play by myself (just in case the others were in any doubt that I’m incompetent). Ups would include playing in an area contest (serious business in the brass band world), playing at Stratford-upon-Avon bandstand for another bunch of patriotic fruit-loops (in the sunshine this time) and making a new friend in 3^rd cornets.

Did a brass band change my life?

Two rehearsals a week certainly has changed my life. A significant portion of my leisure time is now spent perpetually under-achieving at the same thing.  If I abandonned everything else and just concentrated on playing in the band and practising my trumpet outside of rehearsals, I could actually be quite good (I can tell because I’m surviving without putting any effort in at all right now). I am, sadly, unable to focus on one thing – all part of my desperate and flailing attempts to find meaning and fulfilment.
I get glimmers from it though. When I manage to play something well or we give a good performance, I get a real buzz from it.

Rating: 6/10

Comments: There is no short cut to musical genius. Being in a brass band is fun (sometimes) and hard work (most of the time) but can’t pull me up the mountain without me putting more time and effort in (more than 2 nights a week?!?). Unbelievable!

Development Opportunities: Apply myself? Not likely.

Become an experimental jazz trumpeter…you can play whatever you like and say it’s ‘art’.   

Motorbikling

 
In the spirit of effective time management I scheduled a mid-life crisis straight after my 30^th birthday. It’s best to get these things out of the way then I can just relax my way through mid-life. As proof of my premature existential panic, I bought a motorbike. I had enjoyed riding on the back of one before so it wasn’t completely out of the blue but it was quite out of character (which was the general idea).The split down the middle of my personality rumbled and cracked under the strain as the curser hovered over the ‘confirm bid’ button on eBay. The captive prisoner of fun prevailed and I bought a Suzuki GN125. I was initially exhilarated and extremely pleased with myself for being so impulsive (in quite a drawn out way). I envisaged myself riding down open roads in the sunshine, pulling up to my destination and unleashing my lioness mane, shampoo advert style.  This dream-bubble was abruptly burst when I saw myself in the mirror for the first time with all my kit on. I’d got some motorbike clothing free with the bike. Unfortunately, the former owner was a man so when I got the oversized leather jacket and gloves on I looked like I was wearing my dad’s clothes. I topped this look off with a pair of geek glasses and a helmet with the word ‘climax’ emblazoned across the front.

I love lots of things about my bike: her classic style and short stature (draw comparisons if you will). I like how I can still get both feet on the ground when I’m sat on her and how I can pick her up by myself. It’s a good job really because these are things that have become more and more necessary as I’ve got to know Suzie Suzuki. She is a changeable and temperamental creature with a cruel sense of humour.

I could mention the time she broke down in the pissing rain leaving me stranded miles from home. Or the time she wouldn’t start at 6.30 in the morning making me miss my train. Or the tightly sprung side stand that makes it almost impossible not to drop her every time I attempt to park. No, the experience that sums up the perseverance and determination required to be a free-spirited motorcyclist is my attempt to get to a work meeting this week. I greeted Suzie with a knowing smile and braced myself for whatever test she had in store for me. She wouldn’t start. I live on a slope so I pushed her to the road, put her in second and ran (sort of) down the hill on the bike and slowly released the clutch at the optimum point. Nothing.  I pushed her for another ten minutes to the top of the next hill. I did the same again but this time on a much steeper incline and…. ‘lift off’, she was running and we were away. Ten minutes in and I had to stop for petrol. She was warmed up by this point so I didn’t think this would be a problem.  Wrong. She wouldn’t start. Opposite the garage loomed a road leading up a hill. I took a deep breath and set off. The sun was beating down on me, prime conditions for pushing a motorbike up a hill in full leathers and a helmet! She started on the way down and we were on our way again. After a few minor hiccups, I arrived at my meeting late, hot, red and sweaty. That’s the kind of professional image I like to portray.

She started first time after the meeting but half way home she was back to her old tricks and, in the middle of a busy high street, she conked out at a set of lights. I was on a hill at this point so, after pulling over, I decided the only thing to do was to pull back out into the traffic and run down the hill on the bike to try and bump start her again. I gave it my all but only succeeded in entertaining numerous passers-by with my frog-like running style. By this point I was quite near the garage that I’d stopped at earlier and…the hill. The sun was even stronger by this point and I could already feel little rivulets of sweat trickling down my neck as I reached the foot of the hill. I reached the top and, after getting my breath back, I set off down again. Nothing. Not a sausage. This was a low point to be honest and she nearly had me beat. The lack of options open to me and the small group of people gathered watching me at the other side of the road spurred me on. Up I went again……and on…..and on….further up the hill. I had to stop five times on the way but I reached the top and almost dropped her from sheer exhaustion. Off we went and near the bottom she started up and gave a confident roar that said, “What this? This is easy!” She took me all the way home and rode like a dream the whole way. I think she knew I’d reached my limit.

Suzie has taught me a few things about myself: that I am capable of pushing a motorbike up the same hill 3 times, that life isn’t a shampoo advert and that character traits like being care-free and spontaneous don’t come on wheels.

Did a motorbike change my life?

When Suzie is on form I really love the feeling of flying down the road, leaning her round corners and accelerating till she starts shaking. These things, and the fear of dying horribly in a biking accident, make me feel present in the moment.  Despite the trials I have been through getting from A to B, owning and riding a motorbike has to score quite highly on changing my life, with points deducted for making me face my true-self (both in the mirror and metaphorically).

Rating: 8/10

Comments: Not quite the fantasy I had in mind but certainly a challenging experience that has changed my life for the better. Suzie has made me realise that I do have the capacity to enjoy the moment even if she makes me work for it.

Development Opportunities: Get a motorbike that works?  

Roller Disco

After receiving a pair of retro-rainbow-roller-boots for my 30th birthday, I was ready to hit the road - literally! I did a few laps around the local park before eating a tarmac sandwich. Undeterred, I persuaded a friend to come with me to a local roller disco. Do we go to the cool one for uber-trendies or the cheesy one at the old ballroom? We opted for cheese and we weren't disappointed. We passed a neon sign proudly announcing 'The Tower' as we giggled our way inside. A make-shift roller-rink with a challenging array of carpeted, stepped seating areas lay ahead of us. Michelle hired a pair of skates and I smugly went to put on my own pair. Having your own pair implies that you're not just a tourist passing through, you've moved into roller-ville and you're there to stay! You're like the mayor of roller-city! Such inferences were soon destroyed as I got to my feet.....briefly.

We negotiated the many carpeted steps to the dance floor like two new born foals who hadn't got used to owning legs yet. We arrived at the wooden floor and stood watching the daunting circuit of speed-skaters, drunk students and roller-virgins to the sound of 'Boombastic'. We saw a gap and courageously leapt in to the fray. I did a very convincing impression of an aeroplane with it's tongue out (for extra concentration) for a good few hours and thoroughly enjoyed myself the whole time. You'd think going round in a small circular pattern for hours might get boring but they already thought of that. After an hour they make you go the other way. That had us back in 'foal-mode' for the rest of the night. I consider myself to be an intelligent person but I couldn't apply the rules I'd learnt about how to turn right to turning left. I was run off the rink by an over-enthusiastic speed-skater at one point and as I waited for a gap to jump in and rejoin the race, I saw Michelle coming round the corner. She had a look of pure concentration on her face that made me wonder if it could be possible that she was also enjoying herself.

It got busier as the night went on until it was just one big roller-traffic-jam. A group of students all sporting fluorescent tutus insisted on holding each others hands as they wobbled round the rink. As not one of them could skate this meant a pile up of raving ballet dancers on wheels approximately every 30 seconds. As soon as they were up, they were down again - all of them. Funny lasted till about the 4th time then mild annoyance was quickly followed by roller-road-rage. This was definitely not in the spirit of the roller disco. Badly done Amelia.

An air of confused reverence grew as the DJs asked us to clear the floor and make way for....something or someone, it was all a bit muffled. The 'Britneys' and all the men in matching T-shirts started line dancing on wheels! They were frankly upstaged by a group of girls pulling some Beyonce moves later on but at the time we were very impressed.

The wedding disco DJs, the dated decor and the lady-skaters dressed up like 'Brittney' school girls took me right back to my youth when I used to go to Roller City' in Rochdale. I loved that place. I loved the darkness of it, the thrill of the speed-skaters as they nearly took your arm off, the Slush Puppies and the 90s dance chooons! Apart from the Slush Puppies (which were sadly missed), it was almost exactly the same. 'I've got the key, I've got the secret' was followed by 'This is the rhythm of the night'. Entering into this time-warp, I felt two things simultaneously: that I was the same as my 14 year old self, that the passage of time is illusory and age immaterial and, secondly, that the uncanny similarity of the two experiences highlighted a slight but pronounced difference and that difference was me, my 'olderness'.*

*This is exactly the kind of over-analytical thinking that makes it difficult to fully embrace the wanton-abandon of a roller-disco and why it is so important to me to release the 'less thinking, more doing' femme-fatale of fun trapped inside me!

Did roller disco change my life?
All in all, it was a really fun night full of giggles and a roll down memory lane. There were all sorts of people there, there was dancing on wheels, there were cheesy 90s dance tunes and a great atmosphere. On the other hand, there weren't any Slush Puppies, it was way too busy after 11.00, it was expensive and I wasn't brilliant at it straight away.
Rating: 6/10
Comments: Fun, but not enough to turn me into a fun person.
Development Opportunities: Combine roller disco with hula-hoop dancing (detailed later) and be the first super-flexy, hula-sexy, hippy on wheels!

What's this blog about?

Welcome to 'New Things Tried and Tested'. This blog is about all the new things I have tried in the last year and to what extent they have changed my life for the better.

With a short attention span and an ever-present need to live a fulfilling and stimulating life without much clue as to what that might entail, I frequently launch myself into new interests, hobbies and fleeting passions in the hope that they will be the answer. The idea is that these brief obsessions will be the key to unlocking the joyful, carefree and fun-loving woman trapped inside the controlling and over-thinking one in the driving seat. I am also optimistic that I might happen upon some latent, natural talent that has gone previously undiscovered. "All this time I should've been a cup-cake baking belly-dancer! Thank goodness I found out before it's too late!" This natural ability will then, of course, grow into an all-consuming passion which will become the focus of my life and add a sense of meaning equal to having ten children...who all discover a cure for cancer. I'll be like Van Gogh - I'll cut off an appendage if that icing isn't right!

I'm going to tell you about some of the new things I've tried and tested in the last year and assess how much they improved my quality of life, provided a sense of meaning and fulfilment and helped to free the incarcerated fun person serving a life sentence inside.