How I (at last!) got the spark to write again.
The spark came on a train…
… though, this was no electrical fault. Nor was it a bolt of romantic frisson from a handsome fellow passenger (sadly). But a spark of motivation and impetus to put pen to paper and write again. Carriage 4; the coach of choice in my London commuting days and so often the source of motivation for musing and, gratefully, so it proved again. Month after month have passed with not so much as a scribble. Nada. Just a blank brain that wallowed in first-world problems, boring self-pity, and a longing for the creative flash of times past. Well let’s hope this is a sign of things to come. And let’s stop this feeling sorry for myself whilst I’m on. So tedious!
Boxes and Borders
So for the purpose of this piece/article/blog/whatever is it, I’m capturing it in way I did so smugly and succinctly on the day; a series of ‘episodes’ — each neatly packaged in its own little box like compartmentalised acts from a somewhat staccato play. I was feeling chuffed with myself at just how neat things looked in my writing book — all lines and boxes and borders.
Very orderly. Reading things back the words sometimes don’t sound quite ‘me’, if that’s makes sense. Very ‘proper’, a little earnest, perhaps. Even a bit… wistful. Ah well, just get them down. Transcribed from paper to keyboard, from page to screen. Just crack on Scotty, get on with it. Ah ha, now that sounds more like ‘me’. I’ve dared to press the ‘big green button’ (more of which another time) and get this ‘out there’. Finally committing to getting this ‘out there’ on a ‘Moody Monday’… four weeks after the ‘event’… and following a good go at it yesterday. But that doesn’t matter. The most important thing is that I’m doing it — moody and all.
The Grand Depart
The Sussex countryside flashed past; glorious, rolling expanses of green and brown providing a fitting foundation of beauty for the day that lay ahead. Bright and sunny, blue, crisp and clear skies. Feeling hope and contentment, anticipation and excitement… oh, and smugly grown up at the prospect of my long overdue solo ‘cityshuffle’ to the capital. For now, checking in in the way I always did so so readily — pen in hand, brain whirring, thoughts and words forming. Streams of consciousness easily forming shapes on the pages of yet another new book.
Where am I?
I stepped from the train in to what seemed to be the unknown. Mooching through the unrecognisable place from where I used to depart for my daily shuffle to work. London Bridge station, once grimy and seedy — yet familiar and comforting — now spanking, sanitised and, well, sterile. A sign of the times maybe? Or is this just the way things are these days? Lacking in character; gleaming identikits that leave you none the wiser as to where you actually are? Or am I just being a wistful fool? Onwards, strange one.
The Bells
I sauntered through Borough Market and followed the chime of the Southwark Cathedral bells in the way the Bisto Kids determinedly followed their trail of savoury aromas (Google it kids), somehow ending up seated and with candle in hand for the Candlemass services. Spontaneous and perhaps serendipitous with its meaning of birth, cleansing and renewal, whilst affording an enforced period of rare stillness in stunning surroundings. Beautifully bright Sunday morning sunshine illuminated the primary colours of the stained glass panes. Families, couples, singles, elderly, babies, tourists, locals, clergy and the curious shared a safe and respectful space. My heart felt simultaneously stretched and warmed by the gorgeous, stunning harmonies of the choristers. Hallelujah indeed. My always busy, yet rarely coherent mind chattered incessantly throughout with profound nuggets: ‘what will I eat next?’, ‘will it still be daylight when this ends?’, ‘am I overstaying my welcome at Tiff and Jon’s house this weekend?’, ‘will I ever write “properly” again?’, ‘are dogs always really happy?’ etc etc, but, for a change, I was ok with this… and I stayed… and I sat still (with the exception of my metronomic fidgets). The service was as beautiful as the choir’s voices, with my happy heart-warming nudging its way up the thermometer of earnestness following a post-service chat with parish regular Gill before I stepped out in to the sun… and ready to explore.
The Market
I hadn’t planned on going back in to the market after the (longer than I’d anticipated) cathedral service. No, I had a schedule to stick to here! I hadn’t come here for such folly as seeing what might unfold, and yet, here I was going with the flow. Interesting. Borough Market, once the place of my worktime lunch hour (which, looking back, feels somewhat extravagant) but so much better as a dawdling tourist… whom I may once have impatiently jostled past. How I cringe at the thought! I wandered the aisles; smelling, tasting, smiling, chatting. Taking it all in. A few pointless internal wrestles but I recognised them for what they were. I sampled the most amazing granola, though I can’t remember its name because the price tag rendered me incapable of retaining thought for a good twenty minutes or so. Its story was wonderful; made with the waste from an apple farm and other such great facts, all lost in the aforementioned void. But it tasted bloody delightful.
Hot Stuff
Next, I landed at the stall of my faffy approach to dining’s dreams; a smorgasbord of sauces, dressings, oils and chutneys — all of which made me feel ridiculously excited. Enthusiastic stall holder Robert was keen to ensure I tasted as much as possible, his attentive manner working a treat as I left twenty ponds lighter with a bottle of spicy sauce for sriracha-loving Tiff and a bottle of happiness — aka yuzu and wasabi vinaigrette — that seriously made my tastebuds (and the rest of me for that matter) very happy, for myself. I must say however, sampling a quick-fire rotation of fiery global fusions is not recommended for a delicate Sunday morning palette ‘sin agua’. I graciously thanked Robert with a forked tongue and perspiring brow. Lock up your sons, I’m bringing sexy back.
Si’s Chai?
I detected a waft of spicy chai and duly followed it to find a stall with vast quantities of weird and wonderful blends. Whilst not quite the stuff of my previous lyrical waxings (I love tea me), but still pretty good. My mind wandered, considering the delicious and pungent chai me and my old mate Lindsey used to brew, moving on to ideas of combinations with my other joys: ‘Si’s Chai’? There must be a market for that amidst all this coffee hipsterness, non? Seriously though, should I test this concept? What do you think? Chi and Chai? Chi, chai and brai (veggie). Too gimmicky? Too Partridge, a la ‘Youth Hostelling with Chris Eubank’?
Bagels!
Bagels, bagels, bagels, bagels, bagels, bagels… bagels (accompanied by bagel-shaped scribbles across the page). Worthy of repetition because that’s how nice they were. After scouring and, tragically, bordering on tearful yearnings for the offerings of numerous grain-based stalls (and wondering how much they must pay for their sodding flour, given some of the prices), I found Moishe’s, a traditional, family bagel stall, selling proper bagels at a price that — unlike its neighbours — didn’t require the subsistence of a second job (reading this back I appreciate the frugality of my North-Eastern roots shining through. This episode just needs the solemn tones of a 1980s Hovis advert parping away in the background. Another one to Google). I chose a wholemeal — delicious even on its own, with an authentically chewy middle lending the perfect bite to accompany my chai. I bought a couple of chocolate delights to take back for my hosts; swirly brown-patterned rings that I knew Jon (aka Jonny five Cakes) would just love. And he did. With a 50:50 butter to bagel ratio.
Going with the Flow
I perched on a wall overlooking London Bridge with my chai and bagel. Warm January sunshine gleamed off the ripples on the Thames. The smell of delicately-spiced chai filled my nostrils. The chewiness of the bagel squashed between my enthusiastic gnashers. A street performer rattled on with an account of how his grandparents met in between tooting something out on brass. Tourists selfied. ‘Yo Pros’ ran. Families chattered. I felt content. And calm. And quiet. Could it really be that I was going with the flow?
No shouldda (gone straight to the Tate)
No wouldda (been better if I’d bypassed the cathedral)
No couldda (gone for brunch somewhere)
Etc, etc etc.
I just did what I did, and it was just meant to be. And it was just… nice.
The Tate
I’d briefly stepped in to Lubaina Himid’s exhibition at another of my favourite-places-in-the-whole world — the Baltic in my native Gateshead — back in 2018 (I just had to search to find out when this actually was. Can’t quite believe it was that long ago!). That had been an unsatisfactorily hurried visit as the gallery was about to close, and I’d left with an unfulfilled promise to return for a proper look later, though never did. Keen to make amends, I recalled memories of brightly-coloured scenes of families that had transported me back to my own multi-hued and multi-generational experiences from my much-missed Grandad Adjei’s house in the 1980s. Anyway, back to the Tate before I digress in to tales of curry and rice, Teletext Bamboozle quizzes (another one to Google kids), and dancing All Night Long to Lionel Richie. Tam bo li de say de moi ya! Too late, I’ve gone…
… and she’s back!
I scribbled notes, took photos, wandered, sometimes I just stopped to sit on the floor and simply take it all in. I imagined stories and narratives from the images, I wrote a card to my Aunty Gina, I resolved and revisited and… well I just loved it.
A New Sunny Spot
Capturing this, a updated episode to add to my tale. At last putting pen to paper again, albeit in a different city, but yet another sunny Sunday. Here in Princes Street Gardens in my new home city of Edinburgh; the bright sun streaming and squeezing between the spires. Telling me everything is ok.
Reading my inspired scribbles again. The Himid recollections and photographs that simultaneously inspired, relaxed, rejuvenated and… tickled me. A lovely combination for a sunny solo day in the ‘Big Smoke’. The ‘Jelly Mould Pavilion’ project; moulds decorated imagined depictions of what it means to be African. One in particular caught my eye — ‘Grandad, you’re there again man! Your colours, your face, your voice… I wish I could hear your voice and feel your hands. But strangely, I can and I am. Oh, I’m off again…
Men in Drawers
Just to be clear, I’m talking about painting of men inside wooden drawers. Not ‘real’ men in their pants. Though perhaps that’s one I might propose for a future ‘project’. These ones (before I drift off in to another disturbing Partridge-esque daydream of auditioning random blokes lined up in a multi-hued array of standard issues Y-fronts) were tiny, detailed creations of faces in drawers. Beautiful linings reminiscent of the wallpaper sheets in 1970s chests from my childhood. ‘Man in a Pencil Drawer’ and ‘Man in a Paper Drawer’: my mind drifted again, to Cambodia, and the exhibition I visited… I think it was in Chiang Mai. My memory is so rusty, but I seem to remember it was images of those who vanished during the brutal years of that stunning nation’s past. I wondered who Himid’s men were. Were they in drawers so they too might vanish when closed? Deep shit man.
The Operating Table
Who are the characters? Three sisters? Plotting, planning… resolving? The ‘sister’ on the left looks wary, defensive even. Her ‘sibling’ on the right is assertive — pointing and sure of herself. The story seems between those two, with the middle sister pulling back, whilst taking a glance — concerned maybe? — to the sister on her left. I shared the photograph — accompanied by my surface conclusions — with my Aunty Gina… who had altogether different (way more thoughtful and curious) thoughts on what was laid out on the canvas. Isn’t art great?! Not exactly the sharp observations of a Guardian Saturday arts correspondent, but they’re all mine.
Floating like a Butterfly
… though I could hardly be described as the most graceful of butterflies. More moth-like… announcing my arrival as I jerkily stumbled forth from a musty old suit. Keeping it classy kids. Digressing again. Catching sight of the time, which had flown past in a beautiful blur of bounties, I realised my carriage home awaited. With a heavy heart I briefly dipped my still excitable face in to the Performer and Participant exhibition en-route to the exit-via-museum-shop. I wished I’d had more time, taking in the Yvonne Rainer film with wonder. A silent, black and white video of the choreographer performing; graceful, contemporary movements that made me want to join in. Twisting, floating, stepping, sweeping (I’m doing just that as I write this… not daring to look up for fear of scaring my fellow café patrons). Silke Otto-Knapp’s black and white paintings were equally shape-inducing and loosening; my stiff shoulders swayed and tight hips shuffled as I studied the images of dancers in motion. I committed to bring this fun and carefree freedom back in to my life. A timely reminder. Loosen the f**k up man Scotty.
Going Back
A brilliant day that continues to make me smile and regroup every time I go back there.
Writing again, seeing again, being curious again. Maybe a touch earnest, frequently daft, momentarily melancholic, with bolts of caffeine and nostalgia-induced excitement.
Here’s to many more Scotty. Yes, you’ve got this!
The Final Curtain
My day had lasted for longer than expected, the hours flashing by as I eventually headed off for an early-evening train back through the suburbs and in to the rolling, and now darkened landscapes. Full of gratitude, inspiration and (I’m saying it, who cares) earnest joy for a fantastic day. With gracious and heartfelt gratitude for the characters who provided the casting of my wistful and wittering production; (in order of appearance) Reverend Nunn, Gill, Miss Muesli, Robert, Mr Moishe, Lubaina Himid, the lovely Hungarian lady at the Tate shop, and all of the extras and crew whose names I did not catch. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
So what’s floated your boat of late? Pray tell my friends. I’m all ears, eyes, hands and heart.
Happy Sunny Sundays and Moody Mondays to you all!
