If I used all of my pissed off energy right now, I’d make my suitcase trot after me without needing a touch. I’d open a ferris wheel at a fun fair and only charge people in bad jokes and bad dance moves. I’d load up my Macbook with hours and hours of battery and watch 12 Audrey Tatou films and call all of my Skype contacts and blog in the best detail ever written. If I could use all of my pissed off energy right now, I’d send a thousand mechanic birds, their beaks snapping in savage elation, tearing like darts into that man, that fucking twat of a man, who has just made me miss my train. Shit.
It’s 4:30am.
I’m freezing. I’m hungry. I am 100% knackered. I stagger to the desk, turn off my alarm and stumble like a zombie to the office. From there I ring the taxi firm, book my cab for 5am and then grumbling, make my way back to the infirmary.
Back inside, I grope about for my clothes on the floor, get dressed and quietly start packing away the remainder of my things. Anthony and Rickey don’t even stir as I gather my bedding and take my suitcase to the drive. I wake them up for a final goodbye- both have already told me that they won’t remember the farewell when they actually wake up- advise them to stay away from men with guns in New York and enjoy groggy hugs before slipping outside into the darkness.
I wait by the house, my eyes harassed by weariness. I wait under the light where I can see the whole camp looming up at me from the dark. I wait. I wait. I wait.
By 5:04am, I know something’s up. I dash inside and call the firm.
‘He came to pick you up and you weren’t there!’
‘I’ve been stood here for 10 minutes’.
‘He waited by the road, you weren’t there, so he left’.
‘Well I’m not by the road, I’m by the house’.
I try to keep my cool.
‘It’s 5 o’clock in the morning- do you expect me to walk down a pitch black drive to the road?’
‘It’s not my problem’.
‘Yes it is. I have a train to catch in ten minutes and I need a taxi now’.
‘Ah, yes, yes. I’ll send one back now’.
The panic starts to set in. My train leaves Middletown station at 5:18am. It is never late, it is always on time and it is coming in 12 minutes.
I stand waiting and the minutes just spew away- they’re on my hands, they’re on the pavement, they’re all over my luggage and there’s nothing I can do to stop them. By 5:09am, my hands start to sweat, my heart starts to thump and the fury is building in my head. I grab my suitcase and hoist it behind me. There is no way in hell that I’m walking down that dark drive and the playground is my next safest bet.
My suitcase feels like I’ve packed up all the stones from the creek. I’m tearing past the monkey bars thinking ‘please don’t come and drive past me, please don’t come now’. As I heave my case up the hill to the road, the car lights from the road glare down at me and I think ‘this is not cool. I’m a girl, standing on the side of an empty road in the middle of the night with thousands of pounds of goods on her and I’ve got 7 minutes to get to a train station.’
At 5:12am, my phone is weeping from the international infliction and I’m weeping hot, angry tears to the man at the taxi firm.
‘The man came for you, it’s not my fault you were not there’.
I feel like screaming in the phone.
‘I’ve been here for over 20 minutes, my train leaves in 5 and I’ve got a flight to catch. I need a taxi right now’.
‘He will be there soon, I guess’.
I wish phones would let you squeeze your hands through the receiver and punch the person on the other end. I want to kick his eyes out.
The man’s still blabbering on when I see it, the taxi rolls open and I hang up the phone, throw my suitcase in the backseat and jump in the front and shout-
‘Train station, now!’
‘When’s your train?’
‘5:18’.
‘It’s 5:14! Shit!’
We’re flying down the road, we dodging traffic; we are definitely and most certainly speeding. The driver cuts two red lights and swerves past Sam’s Club. It’s 5:17 and I know we’re close. He pelts through the car park, turns at the stop and shouts ‘can you see it?’ and I look down at the station and it’s there. The train is there. He urges the car forward as my heart is having spasms. Half of me is saying ‘it’s here, it’s here, it’s okay, it’s here’ and the other half of me is saying ‘it’s about to leave, it’s about to leave, it’s about to bloody leave’. As we screech to a halt, I look up and the train starts to stir-
‘No, no no-'
My hand flies to the handle, I throw it back, I sling myself forward and as I feel the protest of stone against my feet, I see it moving. It’s shitting moving. I flail my arms in the air, I’m getting closer, they’ve got to see me, please stop! I catch the eye of the train warden by the hatch- he looks back at me- I scream ‘STOP!’- he looks down the train- I scream ‘STOP!’ again and-
The train keeps moving.
It keeps moving.
It keeps moving.
I let my hands fall to my head and I’m speechless. I’m angry and I’m crying. I’m shocked and I’m livid. I’m freezing, I’m hungry and I am 100% knackered.
The taxi driver doesn’t know what to do or say as I just stand there, despising the train, loathing the man and at a complete loss. Finally, when the train has disappeared, I ask-
‘How much does it cost to drive to Newark Airport?’
‘About $150’.
‘Shit’.
I run to the schedule.
‘Can we catch it up at Suffern?’
‘We can sure try’.
‘How much is that going to cost me?’
‘About $75’.
I curse.
‘Fine. Let’s go’.
We run back to the car and again we’re racing, chasing the train down. As I sit in the passenger seat the radio goes and that man, that imbecilic twat of a man, calls-
‘Did she get there?'
‘No, she just missed it and now can’t get to her flight on time’.
‘It’s her own fault. I sent someone to her. She didn’t tell me she had a train to catch’.
I want to reach out and rip the radio out of its socket. I want to bash it into the dashboard. I want to scream curse words down the line, push my hands through the receiver and throttle him.
I sit in silence.
The driver calls him a dick and I laugh.
‘That, my friend, is an understatement’.
Ten minutes later, the driver radios for the train schedule and thinks he can make it to Harriman before the train does. We zig along the intersection and zag through the cars on the highway. At 5:46 we arrive at Harriman, a cool 4 minutes before the train. I tug my luggage out of the back seat- there’s grass everywhere- and I thank the man profusely before handing him over a crisp fifty. Fifty dollars gone in 25 petrol minutes.
I’ve enough time to buy my ticket and as I grapple it from the machine, the train pulls in. I drag my case on behind me and collapse into a seat. I catch my reflection in the window and I look terrible. I’m pale, my hair’s everywhere and there are large bags etched into my skin like sallow smudges of my frazzled eyes but alas, I’m here and that’s what counts.
I’m now sat in McDonalds in Newark Airport. I’m no longer pissed off. I’m no longer cold. I’m no longer hungry but good god I’m tired. The irony here is that it’s now 8:16am and I don’t even fly until 11:40. If I were to have got the 7:52am train, I would have just missed my check in. Now, I’m wishing more than anything that I would have taken that chance. If I had, right now I’d be sat on the train with Rickey and Anthony laughing about everything that’s happened this summer.
However, I’m sat here with my large Sprite and I’m content. I’m happy because I successfully finished camp without killing any children. I’m thankful for all the wonderful people that I’ve met through the course of these 9 weeks. I’m proud to have looked over many brilliant kids who have probably taught me more than I’ve taught them.
I don’t like getting sentimental but if I don’t reflect now, I fear I never will. So here we have it, the time has come! I tilt my hat and raise my Sprite to you and cheer ‘Braeside Camp! For all the running, the swinging, the moaning, the whinging, the cray fishing, the feather sticking, the gossiping, the cursing, the yellow t-shirt wearing, the ‘sneaker’ throwing, the carb eating, the chocolate craving, the laughing, the crying, the singing, the dancing, the winning, the losing, the kids and the counsellors- I bloody salute you all! You’ve done my summer good and proud and for that, I’ll never forget’.
Now down that drink and get some shuteye, for another disorganised adventure awaits! Oh Atlanta, sweet Atlanta! My beautiful second home where the peaches are peachy and the cobbler is gobblin’ good. It's 5 more days until ol' Blight calls and then my friends, this blog will be over and my 'real life' will begin. Am I ready for it? Probably not- so I'll just have to bloody enjoy my last few days of frolicking about in this fantasy land and take each day as it goes.
Sunday, 22 August 2010
Thursday, 19 August 2010
Wednesday 18th August 2010
I am such a dickhead.
There have been many points in my life where I have brandished myself with such a term (polishing a lit fireplace, walking around Wrexham with my dress tucked into my bag, asking a boy ‘so, ever had any diseases?’ on a date…) but this one takes the ticket. Literally.
Since the end of camp is rapidly approaching (can I get a 2 DAYS LEFT hoo hoo?), I thought it might be a good idea to check my flight to Atlanta. I logged onto my gmail, searched lastminute and up pinged the shiny ‘Here is your confirmation of spending all of your student loan on the first day that you got it, you massive nob’. I scrolled down, found what I was looking for and started to chuckle. For days I’ve been whinging about having to get the 5:18am train to catch my flight and lookey here, my flight is a good hour and a half later than I thought. Where on earth I got the time 10:20am from is unbeknown to me.
I’m about to click off the page when my page scrolls down and my eyes gloss over my flight home. It reads all the normal, boring stuff:
Atlanta Hartsfield Intl Apt (ATL) to Manchester International Apt (MAN)
Airline: DELTA (DL)
Class: ECONOMY
Departing: 19:35 Wed 25 Aug 2010
Arriving: 08:45 Thu 26 Aug 2010 Next day arrival
I smile at the information, hit the red ‘x’ just as I realise- wait. The 26th August? Aren’t I flying home the Friday? I smack my mouse pad against my browser icon and whilst waiting for it to load, I’m already thinking ‘lastminute are such idiots! Why have they got my flight wrong?’ By the time I’ve reloaded the email, I know that I’m the idiot. The great bumbling idiot that has managed to go for 2, nay 3 months, thinking she was flying home on Friday 28th August. Not only this, this idiotic ignoramus has made plans to see, meet, celebrate and socialise with people when she is not actually in the country. This perfect twit has also got a lift sorted for Saturday morning, noted ‘I’ll be back in the country on 28th’ on the bottom of job applications and made arrival plans at home on the night of her believed return. All of this is complete poppycock. All of this is just a figment of her imagination.
Once the initial shock and the ‘shitting hell, Chelsea’ took over, a niggle ruptured within me and my mouth let a giggle slip. Within seconds, I was sat on the couch roaring like a laughing gas addict. I don’t even want to start to wonder what they thought I was doing in the office next door but all I could do was laugh, think ‘Chelsea, you plonker’ and laugh some more.
Perhaps I should have been dwelling on the fact that 2 days of visiting friends in Atlanta have been swiped from beneath me, but in all truth, all I could think was ‘this time in a week, I’ll be on a plane, freezing to death with their rampant air con whilst I watch some syrupy love story that makes me weep into a Belgian man’s armpit who in the end asks me to move because his wife is getting jealous, and old women with mouths daubed with red lipstick will be trotting up and down the aisle in what seems like a how-many-times-can-you-say-y’all-to-the-passengers-without-one-stabbing-you competition’ and I thought 'ah, by gum, I cannot bloody wait'.
There have been many points in my life where I have brandished myself with such a term (polishing a lit fireplace, walking around Wrexham with my dress tucked into my bag, asking a boy ‘so, ever had any diseases?’ on a date…) but this one takes the ticket. Literally.
Since the end of camp is rapidly approaching (can I get a 2 DAYS LEFT hoo hoo?), I thought it might be a good idea to check my flight to Atlanta. I logged onto my gmail, searched lastminute and up pinged the shiny ‘Here is your confirmation of spending all of your student loan on the first day that you got it, you massive nob’. I scrolled down, found what I was looking for and started to chuckle. For days I’ve been whinging about having to get the 5:18am train to catch my flight and lookey here, my flight is a good hour and a half later than I thought. Where on earth I got the time 10:20am from is unbeknown to me.
I’m about to click off the page when my page scrolls down and my eyes gloss over my flight home. It reads all the normal, boring stuff:
Atlanta Hartsfield Intl Apt (ATL) to Manchester International Apt (MAN)
Airline: DELTA (DL)
Class: ECONOMY
Departing: 19:35 Wed 25 Aug 2010
Arriving: 08:45 Thu 26 Aug 2010 Next day arrival
I smile at the information, hit the red ‘x’ just as I realise- wait. The 26th August? Aren’t I flying home the Friday? I smack my mouse pad against my browser icon and whilst waiting for it to load, I’m already thinking ‘lastminute are such idiots! Why have they got my flight wrong?’ By the time I’ve reloaded the email, I know that I’m the idiot. The great bumbling idiot that has managed to go for 2, nay 3 months, thinking she was flying home on Friday 28th August. Not only this, this idiotic ignoramus has made plans to see, meet, celebrate and socialise with people when she is not actually in the country. This perfect twit has also got a lift sorted for Saturday morning, noted ‘I’ll be back in the country on 28th’ on the bottom of job applications and made arrival plans at home on the night of her believed return. All of this is complete poppycock. All of this is just a figment of her imagination.
Once the initial shock and the ‘shitting hell, Chelsea’ took over, a niggle ruptured within me and my mouth let a giggle slip. Within seconds, I was sat on the couch roaring like a laughing gas addict. I don’t even want to start to wonder what they thought I was doing in the office next door but all I could do was laugh, think ‘Chelsea, you plonker’ and laugh some more.
Perhaps I should have been dwelling on the fact that 2 days of visiting friends in Atlanta have been swiped from beneath me, but in all truth, all I could think was ‘this time in a week, I’ll be on a plane, freezing to death with their rampant air con whilst I watch some syrupy love story that makes me weep into a Belgian man’s armpit who in the end asks me to move because his wife is getting jealous, and old women with mouths daubed with red lipstick will be trotting up and down the aisle in what seems like a how-many-times-can-you-say-y’all-to-the-passengers-without-one-stabbing-you competition’ and I thought 'ah, by gum, I cannot bloody wait'.
Monday, 16 August 2010
Sunday 15th August 2010
Don’t you love those times when you laugh so hard that you can’t breathe, tears are spluttering down your cheeks and you clutch your side as a furious tickle seizes your body? Well imagine being riddled with that whilst you’re supposed to be getting 9 young girls to be silent. There Shamia (my new co-counsellor) and I were, our shoulders jiggling up and down whilst we plastered shaking fingers against our mouths and through our howling called ‘sh-sh-sh-shhh gi-girlsssss, got to be qui-ahhahaha-ett’. To make it worse, we were laughing at one of those times that not even the greatest raconteur could emulate and display it’s farcical nature. But hush, hush, yes I’ll give it a bash. I know you’re itching to know so I’ll just try and replicate it as best as I can.
We were laughing at the smallest, cutest boy on camp getting enthusiastically high fived by one of our girls after a performance. The boy behind him sees this hero worship and the excitement dazzles in his eyes, his hand outstretches in eager anticipation, itching to collide hands with the girl and receive his commendation. He gets closer, the girls hand lies extended, beckoning him to come closer and as he brings his hand down with a mighty force, the girl swiftly turns away taking her hand with her, leaving the boy to pelt past her and slap the air with shame.
See, I told you it wasn’t funny. But in that moment, in that quick fleeting wonderfully hilarious moment, it was the funniest thing I’d seen in the whole wide world. The oblivious girl, the disappointed boy, the way he continued to trot with his arm held out for a few seconds after. It was all magic.
So it’s Sunday. SUNDAY. I’ve been counting down the days with my 12 pack of coke cans. This should mean that I have a cool 5 left yet alas, as I poked my head into the fridge yesterday; I was destroyed to find that they’d all gone. Now, I need to point out that when I say ‘destroyed’, I do mean that put-in-a-bin, carted-off-by-bin-men, squished-mashed-and-crushed-into-a-pulp kind of destroyed. I would have instantly hit the floor, called out a star-wars worthy ‘noooooo’ and grappled the legs of my nearest counsellor if the floor hadn’t been encrusted with bits of egg and tomato sauce. Yum.
However, I have received news from afar that Donna of the highest order of Dick, has sent me a package of Galaxy, KitKat Chunkies and posh lollies from the Grosvenor Garden Centre- what an absolute babe! No sugar crave can be better quelled than by the delicious British nibbles. How I laugh when the kids state that ‘Hersheys is the best, yo’ (they really don’t speak like that). I have a catastrophic fit every time and think ‘ah, you deprived children! If only you knew!’
Speaking of what do they know, the answer is- not a lot. Now, I realise that this may seem harsh but as a lady who gained a colossal 69 in one of her essays in first year (that’s right, brain kapow) I most certainly have done my research, anyalsed my points and mapped them out accordingly for you to make up your own mind also.
At siesta, the need to entertain set in, so Shamia and I devised a general knowledge quiz to test their agile young minds. With the prize of sweets, the stakes were high and they were all willing to prove themselves. After 7 questions, we collected in their papers and for the next 7 minutes, Shamia and I laughed. Oh how we laughed. I shall share just a few of the beautiful answers we received:
Q: What is the capital of Spain?
A: 2 girls said: Mexico, 2 girls said: China and one said: England
Q: What gets wetter the more you dry?
A: Your pee
(Actual answer for you curious folk: a towel)
Q: What 4 countries make up the United Kingdom?
Now, not one person got this completely right. Only 2 mentioned Wales, which made me die a little inside, but here were the vast array of other answers that we attained:
A: Brazil, Spain, France, Asia, Africa, Australia, USA
USA?!?!? YOU THINK YOUR OWN COUNTRY IS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM?! Bobl bach!!!
So, after this, you think I would have stopped. You think I would have called it quits and sent my shaking head elsewhere to pry on other things. Yet alas, my desire to distil some knowledge, some trickling of sense out of them provoked me to start yet another quiz at snack time as to decide who should get the bigger slices of cornbread. This is was I discovered:
Chelsea: When was the First World War?
Girl: 1987?
Chelsea: Badly not
Girl: 1992?
Chelsea: Bloody hell
Chelsea: Name a place that America has sent its troops in the past 5 years?
Girl: Oooh, oooh, oooh! I know!
Chelsea: Yes?
Girl: PARIS!
Chelsea: Who is the richest American woman?
Girl: The Queen of England!
The worst was when a girl could not tell me the date that the plane crashed into the twin towers. I was devastated. I was like- this is your country! This is your history! Why don’t you know your history?!
Apparently I haven’t got it the worst though. Anthony asked his kids when 9/11 was and they spent minutes going through all the months before they realised he’d given them the answer already.
Though perhaps I have ridiculed them enough, I shall end on a couple of things less topical that have made me chuckle.
Campers say the funniest things
Chelsea: So why did you like this boy?
Girl: He was super cute
Chelsea: Right… anything else?
Girl: Yeah, he had a nice smile
Chelsea: Yes, but anything else?
(Cottoning on) Girl: Oh… his rocking abs?
Counsellors say the funniest things:
Udi: Today is good. I’m relaxing, I’ve been in the shower and I’m watching my favourite programme, air crash investigation.
Bites to date
Piss off. This is a sensitive subject that I no longer wish to discuss.
We were laughing at the smallest, cutest boy on camp getting enthusiastically high fived by one of our girls after a performance. The boy behind him sees this hero worship and the excitement dazzles in his eyes, his hand outstretches in eager anticipation, itching to collide hands with the girl and receive his commendation. He gets closer, the girls hand lies extended, beckoning him to come closer and as he brings his hand down with a mighty force, the girl swiftly turns away taking her hand with her, leaving the boy to pelt past her and slap the air with shame.
See, I told you it wasn’t funny. But in that moment, in that quick fleeting wonderfully hilarious moment, it was the funniest thing I’d seen in the whole wide world. The oblivious girl, the disappointed boy, the way he continued to trot with his arm held out for a few seconds after. It was all magic.
So it’s Sunday. SUNDAY. I’ve been counting down the days with my 12 pack of coke cans. This should mean that I have a cool 5 left yet alas, as I poked my head into the fridge yesterday; I was destroyed to find that they’d all gone. Now, I need to point out that when I say ‘destroyed’, I do mean that put-in-a-bin, carted-off-by-bin-men, squished-mashed-and-crushed-into-a-pulp kind of destroyed. I would have instantly hit the floor, called out a star-wars worthy ‘noooooo’ and grappled the legs of my nearest counsellor if the floor hadn’t been encrusted with bits of egg and tomato sauce. Yum.
However, I have received news from afar that Donna of the highest order of Dick, has sent me a package of Galaxy, KitKat Chunkies and posh lollies from the Grosvenor Garden Centre- what an absolute babe! No sugar crave can be better quelled than by the delicious British nibbles. How I laugh when the kids state that ‘Hersheys is the best, yo’ (they really don’t speak like that). I have a catastrophic fit every time and think ‘ah, you deprived children! If only you knew!’
Speaking of what do they know, the answer is- not a lot. Now, I realise that this may seem harsh but as a lady who gained a colossal 69 in one of her essays in first year (that’s right, brain kapow) I most certainly have done my research, anyalsed my points and mapped them out accordingly for you to make up your own mind also.
At siesta, the need to entertain set in, so Shamia and I devised a general knowledge quiz to test their agile young minds. With the prize of sweets, the stakes were high and they were all willing to prove themselves. After 7 questions, we collected in their papers and for the next 7 minutes, Shamia and I laughed. Oh how we laughed. I shall share just a few of the beautiful answers we received:
Q: What is the capital of Spain?
A: 2 girls said: Mexico, 2 girls said: China and one said: England
Q: What gets wetter the more you dry?
A: Your pee
(Actual answer for you curious folk: a towel)
Q: What 4 countries make up the United Kingdom?
Now, not one person got this completely right. Only 2 mentioned Wales, which made me die a little inside, but here were the vast array of other answers that we attained:
A: Brazil, Spain, France, Asia, Africa, Australia, USA
USA?!?!? YOU THINK YOUR OWN COUNTRY IS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM?! Bobl bach!!!
So, after this, you think I would have stopped. You think I would have called it quits and sent my shaking head elsewhere to pry on other things. Yet alas, my desire to distil some knowledge, some trickling of sense out of them provoked me to start yet another quiz at snack time as to decide who should get the bigger slices of cornbread. This is was I discovered:
Chelsea: When was the First World War?
Girl: 1987?
Chelsea: Badly not
Girl: 1992?
Chelsea: Bloody hell
Chelsea: Name a place that America has sent its troops in the past 5 years?
Girl: Oooh, oooh, oooh! I know!
Chelsea: Yes?
Girl: PARIS!
Chelsea: Who is the richest American woman?
Girl: The Queen of England!
The worst was when a girl could not tell me the date that the plane crashed into the twin towers. I was devastated. I was like- this is your country! This is your history! Why don’t you know your history?!
Apparently I haven’t got it the worst though. Anthony asked his kids when 9/11 was and they spent minutes going through all the months before they realised he’d given them the answer already.
Though perhaps I have ridiculed them enough, I shall end on a couple of things less topical that have made me chuckle.
Campers say the funniest things
Chelsea: So why did you like this boy?
Girl: He was super cute
Chelsea: Right… anything else?
Girl: Yeah, he had a nice smile
Chelsea: Yes, but anything else?
(Cottoning on) Girl: Oh… his rocking abs?
Counsellors say the funniest things:
Udi: Today is good. I’m relaxing, I’ve been in the shower and I’m watching my favourite programme, air crash investigation.
Bites to date
Piss off. This is a sensitive subject that I no longer wish to discuss.
Friday, 13 August 2010
Sunday 8th August 2010
After executing a nimble dance routine at my year 8 pantomime, I was very surprised to hear my Mum and Dad (more commonly known to me as Jon and Donna) exclaiming with tender relief that I could ‘actually dance a little bit’. I enquired further and there they delved into my childhood, stories down pouring on me as if I’d unlocked a secret vault in a secret bank of a secret order. Stories about scabs upon scabs, knees crumpling under my own weight and my lack of confidence to do anything more than peek out behind my Mum and grumble a few angsty words of infantile stubbornness. Donna even went as far to say ‘you were the most uncoordinated child we’d ever seen. We really did worry about you for a while, Chels’ which made me analyse my entire mobile life in a flash and then I realised- bloody hell, they’re right.
I am quite possibly one of the clumsiest, most ligamently challenged people out there. Take day two of me working in a restaurant for instance. I was just hurrying some glasses of water to a table when a child scurried in front, so I swerved in what I probably though was a graceful arch yet seconds later, water was cascading down onto the child leaving him drowned in my maladroit mess. No amount of scrabbling to the floor with paper towels or apologising profusely could ever etch the ‘at least we’ll get a cheaper meal’ drones that boomed from the parents or the fact that all my fellow workers didn’t know me well enough to laugh at me, so instead pitied the inept, young girl that knelt basking in her sea of embarrassment.
I was recently asked to help a friend in acting out a mock interview with a celebrity and as I watched the video back, I winced as my elbows threw awkward angles, my hand swung sluggishly by my side and my whole demeanour oozed ‘I am not in the slightest bit comfortable right now’. In my head, this girl named Chelsea carries herself with- I certainly wouldn’t go as far to say grace- but perhaps a lazy ease that is warm, is inviting, is saying ‘I’m not at all proper but how do you do?’ Instead, I have realised that this is not the case. I am a walking dysfunction.
You may be starting to wonder the point of this, or how this has anything to do with camp. Have I sacked that all in? Have I hung my mosquito netting up for good? Well, not at all, my friends. This weekend I went back to Emma’s with Rickey, Anthony and Udi. This weekend I enjoyed swirling feverish coffee around my mouth, tracing my fingers down the binds of spry, new books and wandering around streets stirred with the sultry graces of summer. This weekend I went roller-skating.
Bam.
When the others announced their preference to the evening’s activity, I was more than keen. An image rekindled in my mind of rollerblading on my small patio back in Bangor-On-Dee and I thought- 10 years down the line; surely I can’t have lost it. As we arrived at ‘Roller Magic’, my confidence started to smart and by the time we’d paid our $8, laced the roller skates to our feet I was thinking ‘what in the bloody hell were you thinking, Chelsea’. These were not blades that snapped like roulette wheels around your feet. These were skates that felt like jittery platforms looming below me. When I asked Anthony how I stopped in them, he replied ‘you don’t.’ ‘Sweet Jesus’ I thought. ‘I am actually going to die’.
On the dance floor I was amazed to see people execute dancing that I’d call impressive in ballet pumps. They sashayed left and right, pivoted all around before zipping before me in a dash. I would have been quite content with just skating around like a cat in high heels had it not been for the fact that my companions were all more than capable of showing off. Emma swiped the dance floor with her ‘I brought them from home’ blades, Anthony twirled onto the back of his skates and Rickey, well, Rickey is an entirely different story.
Rickey, though most certainly not of the awkward, clumsy kind, was absolutely the most entertaining thing I have ever seen in my human life with my human eyes. Any dance move that is brandished as ridiculous on a normal dance floor, he tried. He twisted, he spun, he dived. He fell, he fell, he fell. There was one point where a group of teenagers on the side could be heard shrieking in amusement at his outlandish moves but I applauded them with my laughter. I was enthralled by his devotion to doing whatever the hell he wanted and I commended him for it greatly.
By the end of the evening, I’d accomplished skating a perfect circle around the hall with only one significant fall. I even tried a little shakey shakey disco action but this required me to stop skating and therefore left me terrified to restart again.
I’m afraid I’ll never be a fluid skater, a light-footed dancer or even a mediocre waitress but hey, at least I tried. Plus, you never know with these things. Things come in waves of fads all the time. Flared jeans, skinny jeans. Big boobs, small boobs. Sports cars, super-destructing the environment cars. Perhaps the age of the awkward is just leering in the future? Perhaps we’re on the cusp of the new vogue, the era of the cumbersome coots that is I? Perhaps one day when I slip and nearly drown a small boy with 4 pints of water I’ll get cheered and applauded and my picture will be put in a museum?
Unrealistic? Perhaps. But a girl can always dream.
I am quite possibly one of the clumsiest, most ligamently challenged people out there. Take day two of me working in a restaurant for instance. I was just hurrying some glasses of water to a table when a child scurried in front, so I swerved in what I probably though was a graceful arch yet seconds later, water was cascading down onto the child leaving him drowned in my maladroit mess. No amount of scrabbling to the floor with paper towels or apologising profusely could ever etch the ‘at least we’ll get a cheaper meal’ drones that boomed from the parents or the fact that all my fellow workers didn’t know me well enough to laugh at me, so instead pitied the inept, young girl that knelt basking in her sea of embarrassment.
I was recently asked to help a friend in acting out a mock interview with a celebrity and as I watched the video back, I winced as my elbows threw awkward angles, my hand swung sluggishly by my side and my whole demeanour oozed ‘I am not in the slightest bit comfortable right now’. In my head, this girl named Chelsea carries herself with- I certainly wouldn’t go as far to say grace- but perhaps a lazy ease that is warm, is inviting, is saying ‘I’m not at all proper but how do you do?’ Instead, I have realised that this is not the case. I am a walking dysfunction.
You may be starting to wonder the point of this, or how this has anything to do with camp. Have I sacked that all in? Have I hung my mosquito netting up for good? Well, not at all, my friends. This weekend I went back to Emma’s with Rickey, Anthony and Udi. This weekend I enjoyed swirling feverish coffee around my mouth, tracing my fingers down the binds of spry, new books and wandering around streets stirred with the sultry graces of summer. This weekend I went roller-skating.
Bam.
When the others announced their preference to the evening’s activity, I was more than keen. An image rekindled in my mind of rollerblading on my small patio back in Bangor-On-Dee and I thought- 10 years down the line; surely I can’t have lost it. As we arrived at ‘Roller Magic’, my confidence started to smart and by the time we’d paid our $8, laced the roller skates to our feet I was thinking ‘what in the bloody hell were you thinking, Chelsea’. These were not blades that snapped like roulette wheels around your feet. These were skates that felt like jittery platforms looming below me. When I asked Anthony how I stopped in them, he replied ‘you don’t.’ ‘Sweet Jesus’ I thought. ‘I am actually going to die’.
On the dance floor I was amazed to see people execute dancing that I’d call impressive in ballet pumps. They sashayed left and right, pivoted all around before zipping before me in a dash. I would have been quite content with just skating around like a cat in high heels had it not been for the fact that my companions were all more than capable of showing off. Emma swiped the dance floor with her ‘I brought them from home’ blades, Anthony twirled onto the back of his skates and Rickey, well, Rickey is an entirely different story.
Rickey, though most certainly not of the awkward, clumsy kind, was absolutely the most entertaining thing I have ever seen in my human life with my human eyes. Any dance move that is brandished as ridiculous on a normal dance floor, he tried. He twisted, he spun, he dived. He fell, he fell, he fell. There was one point where a group of teenagers on the side could be heard shrieking in amusement at his outlandish moves but I applauded them with my laughter. I was enthralled by his devotion to doing whatever the hell he wanted and I commended him for it greatly.
By the end of the evening, I’d accomplished skating a perfect circle around the hall with only one significant fall. I even tried a little shakey shakey disco action but this required me to stop skating and therefore left me terrified to restart again.
I’m afraid I’ll never be a fluid skater, a light-footed dancer or even a mediocre waitress but hey, at least I tried. Plus, you never know with these things. Things come in waves of fads all the time. Flared jeans, skinny jeans. Big boobs, small boobs. Sports cars, super-destructing the environment cars. Perhaps the age of the awkward is just leering in the future? Perhaps we’re on the cusp of the new vogue, the era of the cumbersome coots that is I? Perhaps one day when I slip and nearly drown a small boy with 4 pints of water I’ll get cheered and applauded and my picture will be put in a museum?
Unrealistic? Perhaps. But a girl can always dream.
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
Thursday 5th August 2010
Why on earth did those berks from the Father’s Union climb onto a roof, clad in batman outfits and heckle ‘let us see our kiddie winkles!’ I have been a single Dad for 3 days now and let me tell you, I am in no rush to scramble up to the top of my shack with my bikini over my clothes and declare my overwhelming love for my little’uns.
Emma, my co-counsellor and ‘Mum’ of the cabin- why I’ve been regarded as the Dad every session, I will never know- left on Tuesday due to being ill and needing some home comforts. I felt like gripping her ankles and saying ‘take me! I’m ill too! I’ve got extreme childphobiaitis!’ but alas, here I am with my squabble of girls.
One of the toughest things I’ve found is waking up. As the alarm goes off at 7:30am each evening, I now have the overbearing knowledge that if I don’t get up, no one does. Also, I fear my ‘wake up’ methods aren’t as PC as Emmas. A girl lay in bed yesterday refusing to move so I hoisted myself up and started bouncing on the bottom of her bed singing ‘Wake up it’s a beautiful morning’ in a delightful falsetto voice. Now this may sound like a jovial wake up call to you but I think it’s worth mentioning how crap these beds are, they’re like prison cots. I could hear the springs cursing me as I dug my feet into the fabric and tugged the bed sheet up with my toes. In fact, I almost started singing a song that my Mum used to sing to get me out of bed before I realised that this would be a sincere acclimation of becoming her- I’ve already found myself saying things that she used to say to me like:
Girl: She hit me with her fork!
“That’s nice.”
Girl: I’m boreeeeeeeeeeeeed
“Well do you know what else is boring? YOUR WHINGING.”
and that old nugget: “If you haven’t got anything nice to say, don’t say it at all!”
I haven’t quite made it onto pretending I don’t know the kids and asking if they’ve lost their parents which Mrs. Dick used to do to my youngest sister in Tesco all the time. However, I still have session four to go and this blog needs some spice.
Nevertheless, as I bounced up and down on the bed, the girl suddenly flung herself from her blankets and did two military style rolls across the floor. ‘Amazing!’ I first thought ‘What a career in stunts this girl has!’ until I saw her face scowling at me from the lower rungs of the next bed. ‘Look what you made me do’ she grumpily asserted which made me laugh even more. This girl, each and every morning, hurls herself from her bed and commits someone to the dastardly deed. I put my hands up in a solemn salute and yelped ‘twas not me Sir but by gum, what splendid rolling that was if I ever did see it’. She cracked a smile and I thought ‘phew. Charges diverted. Good word Sergeant Little Dick’.
However, despite all my hardships I’ve had a right old laugh as well. At the closing camp fire this evening I decided to treat the audience to a bit of old Blighty and after watching my co-counsellors give out certificates, I strutted up to the front with my scarf draped across my shoulders and knighted every single one of my girls with a twig and a red paper crown. Though at first a few were embarrassed due to their boyfriends sat in the pews (which is ridiculous, all boys love princesses. Disney taught us all that from a young age) by the time we went for our celebratory Papa John's pizza they al had them perching on their heads at jaunty angles. I was properly proud.
Tomorrow I am off to Emma's house again but this time with Anthony, Rickey and Udi in lieu. I am massively looking forward having some time to chill out and not spend money before waddling back for my LAST SESSION OF CAMP! Time flies when you're eating pies, eh?
Emma, my co-counsellor and ‘Mum’ of the cabin- why I’ve been regarded as the Dad every session, I will never know- left on Tuesday due to being ill and needing some home comforts. I felt like gripping her ankles and saying ‘take me! I’m ill too! I’ve got extreme childphobiaitis!’ but alas, here I am with my squabble of girls.
One of the toughest things I’ve found is waking up. As the alarm goes off at 7:30am each evening, I now have the overbearing knowledge that if I don’t get up, no one does. Also, I fear my ‘wake up’ methods aren’t as PC as Emmas. A girl lay in bed yesterday refusing to move so I hoisted myself up and started bouncing on the bottom of her bed singing ‘Wake up it’s a beautiful morning’ in a delightful falsetto voice. Now this may sound like a jovial wake up call to you but I think it’s worth mentioning how crap these beds are, they’re like prison cots. I could hear the springs cursing me as I dug my feet into the fabric and tugged the bed sheet up with my toes. In fact, I almost started singing a song that my Mum used to sing to get me out of bed before I realised that this would be a sincere acclimation of becoming her- I’ve already found myself saying things that she used to say to me like:
Girl: She hit me with her fork!
“That’s nice.”
Girl: I’m boreeeeeeeeeeeeed
“Well do you know what else is boring? YOUR WHINGING.”
and that old nugget: “If you haven’t got anything nice to say, don’t say it at all!”
I haven’t quite made it onto pretending I don’t know the kids and asking if they’ve lost their parents which Mrs. Dick used to do to my youngest sister in Tesco all the time. However, I still have session four to go and this blog needs some spice.
Nevertheless, as I bounced up and down on the bed, the girl suddenly flung herself from her blankets and did two military style rolls across the floor. ‘Amazing!’ I first thought ‘What a career in stunts this girl has!’ until I saw her face scowling at me from the lower rungs of the next bed. ‘Look what you made me do’ she grumpily asserted which made me laugh even more. This girl, each and every morning, hurls herself from her bed and commits someone to the dastardly deed. I put my hands up in a solemn salute and yelped ‘twas not me Sir but by gum, what splendid rolling that was if I ever did see it’. She cracked a smile and I thought ‘phew. Charges diverted. Good word Sergeant Little Dick’.
However, despite all my hardships I’ve had a right old laugh as well. At the closing camp fire this evening I decided to treat the audience to a bit of old Blighty and after watching my co-counsellors give out certificates, I strutted up to the front with my scarf draped across my shoulders and knighted every single one of my girls with a twig and a red paper crown. Though at first a few were embarrassed due to their boyfriends sat in the pews (which is ridiculous, all boys love princesses. Disney taught us all that from a young age) by the time we went for our celebratory Papa John's pizza they al had them perching on their heads at jaunty angles. I was properly proud.
Tomorrow I am off to Emma's house again but this time with Anthony, Rickey and Udi in lieu. I am massively looking forward having some time to chill out and not spend money before waddling back for my LAST SESSION OF CAMP! Time flies when you're eating pies, eh?
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
Sunday 1st August 2010
There’s something nice about sitting in your own sweat. Grim, I know, but still.
My girls and I have just trotted around the camp twice with quick intermissions of star jumps, squats and sit-ups. We finished it all off with 5 laps around the swings before splashing ourselves cool in the water fountain (2 girls looked like they’d drowned) and scrabbling into bed.
Why this sudden urge to be fit and healthy? I put it all down to the Olympics yesterday. Joined with a boys cabin, we formed the formidable country (or ‘non-country’ as my snooty peers like to call it) of WALES. I made some rather excellent signs that nobody got including:
‘WALES. Dwi’n hoffi coffi’
‘Charles, The Prince of Wales, isn’t Welsh,
BUT HE WISHES HE WAS!’
‘Tom Jones is my homeboy. Innit la’
and
‘WALES. The kind that don’t need saving.’
It took everything in my being to not write one declaring:
‘WALES. We’ve got the biggest dick in the ocean’
However, that whole I-like-having-a-job-and-don’t-want-to-be-stranded thing stopped me. Darn my respectable priorities.
After an abysmal morning of volleyball and tug of war -which may I add is NOT a sport destined for small children, thought we’d killed off half of them- we were feeling slightly downhearted. However, after our fierce Welsh chant stirred the throng of eager athletes, we were game for the afternoon activities.
So, teaming with positivity, we sliced through the pool (freestyle and sweater race) and nimbly manipulated the track events and today, were awarded with a shiny 3rd place. Okay, so there were only 4 teams but the fact we didn’t sludge in at last place (sorry Ireland) was a galactic achievement in itself. Bravo Wales, bravo.
Sunday was and always is a slow day. However, Sunday is also my mega break sit about on Facebook day. This evening, I spent my extra hour off looking at 56 million pictures of my co-counsellor Rickey on his flickr page. Blimey, that sounds awfully pervy. He was there though and gave me a commentary of every single one that went like this: ‘Ray, he’s a nice boy’, ‘Katie, she’s a nice girl’, ‘my bike, it’s nice’ and ‘that’s Ray again, he’s a nice boy’.
In my head, Sunday also means that the session is almost over. I have but 4 whole days left before extreme coffee relaxation time begins. Coffee relaxation is almost an oxymoron but I don’t bloody care. All I know is that I want, want, want. However, I’m definitely going to miss this session’s kids. They have been the closest to being friends if I’m allowed to issue that word to campers. Yet, and I can’t help feel that I’m jinxing myself here, but due to the small numbers, I’m finding myself bored. This blog (which can I just point out is way over 10,000 words now. Wow) has been increasingly more about me this past week than about the kids and camp and this makes me sad. This was not the aim and I promise that if you keep with me, I’ll try and rummage about for some top notch stories.
TOP NOTCH STORIES!!! I just remembered one. A camper put a grasshopper into Emma’s welly today which she proceeded to squish when putting on and thus killing the poor blighter. The child would have easily got away with it had she not been so smug with her ploy, the balmy bugger.
Bugs life is playing in the background and I’m going to attempt to write some of this novel of mine. I wrote the first 34 words before which have absolutely no relevance to anything. Ah, bit like this blog, eh?!
Kids say the funniest things
Chelsea: Did you enjoy your tacos, Taco?
Taco: (face of disgust) NO! I don’t eat my own kind.
The words of one of our meal time graces are: Thank you kitchen, for giving us foooood! Alas, I heard the older boys singing:
‘Fuck you kitchennnnn, for making us fattttt!’
Definitely one of those times you have to turn away and laugh.
Counsellors say the funniest things
Udi: I interviewed Bill Clinton once in Sri Lanka. I think he was coming onto me. I’d shaved my beard, you know, so I looked feminine.
Bug bites to date
56. I've been told that the 2 humungous ones on my ankle and back look like spider bites. Nice.
My girls and I have just trotted around the camp twice with quick intermissions of star jumps, squats and sit-ups. We finished it all off with 5 laps around the swings before splashing ourselves cool in the water fountain (2 girls looked like they’d drowned) and scrabbling into bed.
Why this sudden urge to be fit and healthy? I put it all down to the Olympics yesterday. Joined with a boys cabin, we formed the formidable country (or ‘non-country’ as my snooty peers like to call it) of WALES. I made some rather excellent signs that nobody got including:
‘WALES. Dwi’n hoffi coffi’
‘Charles, The Prince of Wales, isn’t Welsh,
BUT HE WISHES HE WAS!’
‘Tom Jones is my homeboy. Innit la’
and
‘WALES. The kind that don’t need saving.’
It took everything in my being to not write one declaring:
‘WALES. We’ve got the biggest dick in the ocean’
However, that whole I-like-having-a-job-and-don’t-want-to-be-stranded thing stopped me. Darn my respectable priorities.
After an abysmal morning of volleyball and tug of war -which may I add is NOT a sport destined for small children, thought we’d killed off half of them- we were feeling slightly downhearted. However, after our fierce Welsh chant stirred the throng of eager athletes, we were game for the afternoon activities.
So, teaming with positivity, we sliced through the pool (freestyle and sweater race) and nimbly manipulated the track events and today, were awarded with a shiny 3rd place. Okay, so there were only 4 teams but the fact we didn’t sludge in at last place (sorry Ireland) was a galactic achievement in itself. Bravo Wales, bravo.
Sunday was and always is a slow day. However, Sunday is also my mega break sit about on Facebook day. This evening, I spent my extra hour off looking at 56 million pictures of my co-counsellor Rickey on his flickr page. Blimey, that sounds awfully pervy. He was there though and gave me a commentary of every single one that went like this: ‘Ray, he’s a nice boy’, ‘Katie, she’s a nice girl’, ‘my bike, it’s nice’ and ‘that’s Ray again, he’s a nice boy’.
In my head, Sunday also means that the session is almost over. I have but 4 whole days left before extreme coffee relaxation time begins. Coffee relaxation is almost an oxymoron but I don’t bloody care. All I know is that I want, want, want. However, I’m definitely going to miss this session’s kids. They have been the closest to being friends if I’m allowed to issue that word to campers. Yet, and I can’t help feel that I’m jinxing myself here, but due to the small numbers, I’m finding myself bored. This blog (which can I just point out is way over 10,000 words now. Wow) has been increasingly more about me this past week than about the kids and camp and this makes me sad. This was not the aim and I promise that if you keep with me, I’ll try and rummage about for some top notch stories.
TOP NOTCH STORIES!!! I just remembered one. A camper put a grasshopper into Emma’s welly today which she proceeded to squish when putting on and thus killing the poor blighter. The child would have easily got away with it had she not been so smug with her ploy, the balmy bugger.
Bugs life is playing in the background and I’m going to attempt to write some of this novel of mine. I wrote the first 34 words before which have absolutely no relevance to anything. Ah, bit like this blog, eh?!
Kids say the funniest things
Chelsea: Did you enjoy your tacos, Taco?
Taco: (face of disgust) NO! I don’t eat my own kind.
The words of one of our meal time graces are: Thank you kitchen, for giving us foooood! Alas, I heard the older boys singing:
‘Fuck you kitchennnnn, for making us fattttt!’
Definitely one of those times you have to turn away and laugh.
Counsellors say the funniest things
Udi: I interviewed Bill Clinton once in Sri Lanka. I think he was coming onto me. I’d shaved my beard, you know, so I looked feminine.
Bug bites to date
56. I've been told that the 2 humungous ones on my ankle and back look like spider bites. Nice.
Sunday, 1 August 2010
Saturday 31st July 2010
I think my co-counsellor Sandro thinks I am a cat. For the last few days he’s taken to nuzzling up to me on the couch, massaging my back and on my break just now, he actually started stroking my hair. I am unsure to which of my characteristics he has likened to the feline species; perhaps it’s my mesmeric powder blue eyes, my svelte agility (ho ho ho) or maybe just the fact I have a particular penchant for salmon? All I know is that the more I do not tell him to desist in this activity, (I haven’t yet since photo tagging is an awfully banal pursuit and I’ve found that ‘here kitty, kitty, kitty’ is mildly comforting in the least) I will actually turn into a cat for real and spend my evenings making sardine brûlée and putting lonely hearts ads up in my alley for forlorn spinsters.
I have just sneezed 3 times in a row. Mmm. I like sneezing. It is my favourite germ expelling activity of all time.
Today, I got pissed off. I don’t know where it came from or why it occurred, but all I know was I was of the grumpy sort. Can it be that I was feeling too positive about this session? Could it be that there is a quota on how happy one can be before a negative twinge stipples your veins and whooshes throughout your body in a quick thump, wallop, kapow? No, definitely not. So where this emotion came from, god knows, but though I have
1) learnt that I do like children and do like working with them (phew)
and
2) completely and utterly enjoy the company of my co-counsellors (even when they think I am a pet)
I have realised that I bloody miss me.
Okay, so you’re sat there thinking ‘what a vain old coot’ but I know that you also get what I mean. It’s that time when you close your door behind you, recline in your chair and just go ‘ahhh, hello me, we meet again’. And though I normally don’t take to chatting myself up in such a tawdry manner, I do miss sitting alone and just being. I miss reading in bed, writing at my desk, strolling into town, sitting in coffee shops and giving people’s outfits marks out of ten, counting mad people on the bus, dodging buses like a mad person and more than anything, I miss telling people that I love my me time. I have no opportunity here to watch their faces twitch in bafflement as I say I like being alone. You are constantly surrounded 24/7 and though this fulfils all my social check boxes (tick, tick, tick) I’m still left longing, nay, yearrrninggg for my little room in Manchester that will be just mine.
Alas, for now: what will be will be. I’ll keep on with my chummy ways and who knows, perhaps if I’m extra nice, someone will leave me a large estate home in the back end of nowhere for me to folly about in the bird bath. I’ve heard that mad people sometimes do that with their cats and Sandro may just fit the bill.
I have just sneezed 3 times in a row. Mmm. I like sneezing. It is my favourite germ expelling activity of all time.
Today, I got pissed off. I don’t know where it came from or why it occurred, but all I know was I was of the grumpy sort. Can it be that I was feeling too positive about this session? Could it be that there is a quota on how happy one can be before a negative twinge stipples your veins and whooshes throughout your body in a quick thump, wallop, kapow? No, definitely not. So where this emotion came from, god knows, but though I have
1) learnt that I do like children and do like working with them (phew)
and
2) completely and utterly enjoy the company of my co-counsellors (even when they think I am a pet)
I have realised that I bloody miss me.
Okay, so you’re sat there thinking ‘what a vain old coot’ but I know that you also get what I mean. It’s that time when you close your door behind you, recline in your chair and just go ‘ahhh, hello me, we meet again’. And though I normally don’t take to chatting myself up in such a tawdry manner, I do miss sitting alone and just being. I miss reading in bed, writing at my desk, strolling into town, sitting in coffee shops and giving people’s outfits marks out of ten, counting mad people on the bus, dodging buses like a mad person and more than anything, I miss telling people that I love my me time. I have no opportunity here to watch their faces twitch in bafflement as I say I like being alone. You are constantly surrounded 24/7 and though this fulfils all my social check boxes (tick, tick, tick) I’m still left longing, nay, yearrrninggg for my little room in Manchester that will be just mine.
Alas, for now: what will be will be. I’ll keep on with my chummy ways and who knows, perhaps if I’m extra nice, someone will leave me a large estate home in the back end of nowhere for me to folly about in the bird bath. I’ve heard that mad people sometimes do that with their cats and Sandro may just fit the bill.
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