Normal service resumes

The Womud - courtesy of Karen Williams
You can find more images of Womad 2007 at Efestival

It's been a manic couple of weeks away from the Ministry as I took a fortnight's leave. I spent 4 days at the Womad music festival in Wiltshire in a series of very, very, very muddy fields. I camped with Kit Kat and the lovely Loobie Lou, along with a whole group of other Womad favourites and a huge teepee. The music, as was the case last year, was amazing and the company made the whole event perfect. We even came to love the mud in all its diverse, shiny brown glory.

When I got home from Womad, I faced a week of moving from the Heights to the Loft. This has been one hell of a job, carting boxes and furniture down six flights of stairs and then up another three. I could not possibly, at all, in any conceivable way have managed this without the help of a whole bunch of people who gave of their time, vehicles and consistent good cheer - though the latter cannot be strictly said to be true of me at all times, I'm afraid! - and the roll call of angel troupers is as follows - in alphabetical order, so I don't have to worry about prioritising:

The Bean - who despite feeling like he wasn't contributing anything, made sure that the Heights was finally emptied of the remaining detritus to be given away, and without whom, the new estate agents would have had to get a skip for

Handsome, talented and clever Ben - who simultaneously combines the abilities of comedian, actor, raconteur, interior designer and all round style guru with effortless finesse and one of the most mischievous and filthy senses of humour I've ever encountered after mine

'Koala' Chris - who helped us move on the very first day of transferring stuff to the Loft on one of the most beautiful days of the year, when there must have been so many other things for him to be doing that were more pleasant, and who will haunt Kate's nightmares for years with his rendition of a German porno soundtrack - Ach ya.....

Gorgeous and universally fancied Dan - who leant us his sack truck (why, but why do they have this name??!), sat and teased me on the grass and has yet to fulfil his promise of finding me a nickname that equals the one I've given him of 'Spoon' (because he's a little stirrer)

The ever wonderful G - who has painted my new front room already and displayed tenacity beyond the call of duty in her attempts to move furniture and boxes despite everyone's protestations not to, and who always managed to find just one more 'little thing' to do before leaving the Loft each night at some ungodly hour

The gorgeous, bubbly and ever-faithful H - who leant of her van, her time and her partner with endless generosity, and who kept me laughing and singing at points when I thought my head was going to spontaneously combust

The man of peace himself - no, not Jesus - but James, who kept us all in coffees, me in green teas and had enough distance to gently suggest when I really needed a night off. Never has the sentence "You seem a bit stressed" been more understated

The endless energy force that is Kit Kat - who wowed everyone with her ability to run up and down stairs in flip flops whilst carrying impossible loads and who never failed to chivvy us into managing 'just one more' load

Charming, helpful and beautiful Lainee - who made the kitchen at the Heights cleaner than it has ever been in the whole time I lived there, on the very last day we cleared it, who stayed up late with me in the Loft watching episodes of Black Books even though she had work the next day and who always has a little dance to share

Beautiful and calming Loobie Lou - who cleaned two rooms in the Loft, provided constant good humour and never failed to make me laugh like a drain with her repertoire of facial expressions. My particular favourite has to be the 'I know I'm not meant to say it but I've thought it so here it is' grin

The big Bro himself, Matthias - who defies belief with the speed with which he can carry heavy objects up and down stairs without complaint and with the stamina of an Olympic athlete, even though he would much rather have been in a pub garden with his mates. Love ya BB.

Good natured and strong armed Phil - who lifted more than all our combined weights over a period of three days without complaint, and who sat through an hour and a half of Ntl's technical support hotline with unyielding patience until my home internet connection was sorted

Strong man Steve - who dragged himself away from a sunny garden and several cold, cold beers on one of the hottest days of the year to drag boxes down from the Heights into the waiting car, and who kept us all laughing with his and my brother's endless battle of wits

To all of you, the very, very, very biggest of thank yous. Moving house, like splitting up with a lover, is one of the most stressful times of your life and I really couldn't have done it without all of you. Moving house, that is, not splitting up with a lover. You've all made me feel like one of the luckiest women on the planet with your dedication to my move and reminded me that people are good, kind and capable of some of the most remarkable acts of generosity. I am starting to believe that altruism does exist after all.

Finally, a big welcome home to the Chief, who I have sorely missed over the past two weeks. He came to visit me this morning at the Peace Cafe for my volunteer shift and complimented me royally on my latte skills, which set me up perfectly for my third shift here. He's back off on his travels for the next week, so I will have to continue to miss him for a while longer yet. Have a great time, Chief.

Two lattes and a cappuccino, please

Photo courtesy of the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute

"If we, as citizens, do not support our artists, then we sacrifice our imagination on the altar of crude reality and we end up believing in nothing and having worthless dreams."
Yann Martel, Life of Pi

It's my first day as a volunteer at the Peace Cafe, and I must confess to some nerves. I couldn't sleep last night for recurring fears of milk that wasn't frothy enough and seven lattes ordered on the trot.

By midday, I am presiding over an empty cafe. James, the owner, has been brave enough to leave me here alone while he goes to run some chores, and I've already made several herbal teas and two espressos. You can call me Barista Girl, who in my mind is a new sort of superhero, putting the world to rights, one cafe au lait at a time.

The ambience of the cafe is lovely, and when I've quit being so nervous of screwing up, I think I'm going to love it here. There are a lot of things to remember, and a lot of washing up to do, but the potential for zen activity is high and I think it could be the perfect balancer for my other job (the volunteering has brought my job count up to three now) working for the local authority.

A few regulars come in, but the weather is unfriendly and word of Monday openings haven't spread yet. It still manages to be an eventful day, where I am propositioned by a cross-dressing fetishist (that's a story in itself, but I'm saving it for dinner party anecdotes), learn to make espresso with foam and listen to the rapport of a couple who are occupying two separate computers:

Him: "Are you still looking for jobs on there?"

Her: "Yes. Why, are you bored?"

Him: "Yeah."

Her: "Have a look for a dog then. You know, check out different brands."

Him: "I think they're called breeds."

In the quiet moments, I pick up Yann Martel's Life of Pi - James has a whole library of reads out in the back room, specialising in the spiritual - which I have at home but have never read. I'm captivated within the first few pages, which is always a sign of great writing. In the first few pages of the novel, he mentions the beatific smile of the three-toed sloth, who decorates the top of today's post. I can see what he means.

Apparently, it's very hard to disturb a sloth - not that I'm recommending you try.

If you come upon a sleeping three-toed sloth in the wild, two or three nudges should suffice to awaken it; it will look sleepily in every direction but yours. Why it should look about is uncertain since the sloth sees everything in a Mr Magoo-like blur. As for hearing, the sloth is not so much deaf as uninterested in sound. (It has been) reported that firing guns next to sleeping or feeding sloths elicited little reaction. And the sloth's slightly better sense of smell should not be overestimated. They are said to be able to sniff and avoid decayed branches, but (it has been) reported that sloths fall to the ground clinging to deacyed branches "often".

Now that's my kind of animal. A sloth would be at home in the Peace Cafe, where the ambience would support their intrinsic sense of peace. He wouldn't be as good a volunteer as me, though. I've got better breasts.

Hot Shot

I have recently discovered that my pool skills have gone to pot (do you see what I did there - to pot - ah, the hilarity). Two weekends in a row I've ended my Saturday night by playing drunken pool (same as the normal kind, but you tend to stagger round the table more and pot the white often enough to justify the use of the phrase 'playing like a girl') in Havana, and both times I've astounded myself at how entirely inept I've become at it.

Don't get me wrong, I won both weekends, so I'm doing something right. But pool is a game where you can pot the most tricksy shots and miss the obvious ones, which makes you look a bit like a flukey twat. I've got to practise. I want to be the Queen of Pool, the Top Dog at the Table, the Lady of the Cue - actually, scrap that, I think the last one might be a porn film.

Last night, myself, Lainee, Dr Dan and his beautiful girlfriend Hannah decided to attend not one, but two of the Oberon Project's gigs around Southsea. The first was at the Black Bar, where we caught two bands playing back to back (by which I mean one after the other, not sharing a stage in a bizarre and probably musically unsound way). The bar was packed and one solitary barmaid was buzzing around it attempting to serve everyone - though not simultaneously, of course, you'd have to be Rainman to keep track of the bar bill.

We knew we had come to the right place when two men next to us shot past us at great speed, hit the floor and were rolling around. We all tensed, anticipating a fight, when suddenly it became apparent that the two guys were actually hugging, and had, in fact, hugged so overzealously they had fallen over.

"That's a lot of bonding," said Dr Dan, eyebrows raised.

We stayed to watch the two bands (and, for me, to people-watch a lot - there were some great outfits in the Black Bar last night, but full points for effort to the Dermot O'Leary lookee likee in faded jeans, white shirt, black tie and grey cardigan), before heading down to Havana as Dan was desperate for some heavy metal.

Unfortunately, we missed the bands, but did arrive in time for Lainee and I to catch a couple of games of pool. We caught up with Clarkie, of the Oberon Project there, who was kind enough to act as my Critical Friend and provide a running commentary on my game.

"Sarah, that was rubbish," he helpfully observed, as I messed up an obvious shot on the black.

"No, seriously, it's not funny any more," he pointed out as I missed it again.

So, I've decided I need to get back into the game. I'm going to practise my pool skills until I've earned the nickname Golden Cue.

Ok, well maybe not Golden Cue, it sounds too phallic. But something else that's impressive. Any ideas?

The one with all the random thoughts in

I had a surprise dinner invitation last night and didn't get a chance to blog, but I've had some lovely verbal feedback about the poems and most recent short story.

My mum's comments made me laugh the most. The first thing she said about my short story was, "Anyone who makes someone wear a bridesmaid's dress like that deserves to be cheated on."

I explained in some choice terms that this definitely did not qualify as literary criticism. And - in case everyone else is curious - it was the only picture I could find that showed a dress that looked like it was hanging up (as the dress was in the story) rather than it being on a mannequin. Now I'm going to get emails from women complaining that their bridesmaids dresses were exactly like this or similar, and like so much else (including my existence), it will ultimately be all my mother's fault. Who'd be a mum?

I've promised tonight to go down to Commercial Road at midnight with my friend Paris to collect the new Harry Potter novel. I was drunk when I agreed to it, of course. I may take my broomstick and hat with me, but who would notice?

In my travels through the world of collective nouns, I have come across some real surprises (yes, I really do spend my time this way - I'm not telling you any of my other hobbies, you'll think I'm weird), some of which include:

• an abomination of monks
• a prickle of hedgehogs
• a crash of hippopotami
  

As I'm writing this in the Peace Cafe (if you haven't been yet, come down on Monday - I'll be the one serving you latte), the cheeky chirpy Clarky just asked me what the collective noun for a group of writers was. I was shocked to note that I didn't know it, and when I looked it up, I discovered there wasn't one. He suggested a "wretch" of writers and a "wriggle" of writers, before we decided that one probably didn't exist because writers are fairly solitary creatures and rarely travel together in packs - too competitive!

On another, random note (as if it hasn't been random enough), I don't know if any of you are keeping up with the travels of the rather amazing Laurel of the Cold Photo blog (see link right). Her last few posts have been amazing and are worth checking out for the photos alone - make sure you have a look when you get the chance. I've pinched the picture accompanying today's post from her site, a picture she took whilst climbing a Siberian mountain. Now that girl is impressive.

The Dress

The washing machine cycle ends with a whimper. She hears it sound a whine from the kitchen and lifts herself up onto one elbow towards the window. On the field outside, cars are drawing up for the wedding and she watches, expressionless, as guests clamber carefully from their cars. Women tiptoe towards the yard, avoiding the sudden snatch of their heels in the dry earth, still soft from two day old rain.

The television behind her is switched on but muted. She can neither here nor see Kylie spinning around in tiny gold hot pants. She is too high up to catch more than the low murmur of guests as they speculate about the food, the ceremony, the rumours of recent discord amongst the family. Earlier, when she woke before dawn, the screams of gulls were competing with the mournful whistle of the starlings across the morning air. It had seemed like another world. A world with no cars and no guests in it. A world with no wedding.

The birds are not singing now, and under her breath she notes, "I do not think that they will sing to me."

Below her, deep in the house, she hears a door slam and, anticipating her mother, she springs from the bed and runs the short distance across the room to lock the door. She leans her naked back against the cold white door for a moment until she can hear her mother's heavy, determined, tread approach and she returns to the bed.

She perches nervously on the edge, her wary eyes on the door, waiting for the sound of knocking. When it comes, her mother's voice is not far behind.

"Loren?" There is a pause and an audible sigh, "Please just tell me you're dressed. Your hair and make up won't take long, but please. God. Tell. Me. You're. Dressed."

She looks at the dress before she can help it. It hangs on the side of the wardrobe like an accusation. The outfit chosen for the bridesmaids - the two sisters of the bride - not too formal, but smart, clearly for an occasion. She had hated it from the moment her sister brought it home.

"Jesus. Loren. Please. You promised you wouldn't be like this. Not today. It's just one day. Come on honey, please?" Her mother's voice is cajoling, gentle, a familiar plea.

She stares at the floor, knowing the sweet tone of persuasion will not last. There is a long silence. She cocks her head, uncertain if, lost in her thoughts, her mother has wandered away. But moments later, there is a hard, angry banging on the door. It makes her jump and she reaches, without thinking, for the pillow, bringing it slowly to her face.

"I can't do this, Loren. I just can't fool around like this with you today. Get dressed. Sort yourself out. Come downstairs. If you're not down in ten minutes I'm sending your father."

There is a pause.

"We've been through this. Today is not the day for one of your temperamentals. It's Samantha's day. Samantha's and Ben's."

She inhales deeply into the pillow, as the footsteps echo sharply away.

She can still smell him, the acid sweetness of his aftershave, the vague after-scent of his sweat. She closes her eyes and breathes it in, remembering his face as it neared hers on the night of the engagement party. She can almost taste him again as the memory runs, old and familiar, behind her eyes. The images are so sharp they slice through her. The arch of his back as her hands move across his spine. The whisper of her name on his mouth. The sting of his regret in the morning as she failed to feign indifference. The final humiliation of his endless apologies.

She drops the pillow to the floor and lets the tears come. When they have taken her over, and finally given her back to herself, she is not sure how much time has passed. She picks up a creased shirt from the floor and stretches to pull it over her head, walking to the window. A small crowd are gathered in the courtyard of the farm, but she barely glances at them, picking him out immediately, a solitary figure by the side of the old dairy.

His head is resting against the wall as he inhales deeply on a cigarette, although her sister has told him many times she will not marry him if he smells of tobacco today. They both know it is an empty threat, that Samantha would not call off the wedding she has been planning since she and Loren were in their teens. While Loren had dreamed of tiny Parisian lofts and mornings spent consuming black coffee and roll ups, hunched over a notebook, her sister had made scrapbooks from Bridal Monthly, collected fabrics for wedding dresses and pictures of stately homes for her reception.

As if he can sense her, he turns suddenly toward Loren's window, places his hand to his eyes as he squints upward. She darts backward, catching her shin on the bedside table. She lacks the energy even to curse.

She remembers his worrying, wondering face as he asked her, "Are you going to tell, Loz? Are you going to tell Sam about this?"

She has loved him for as long as she can remember, from the first moment her sister brought him home to meet their parents. She cannot imagine denying him, she cannot imagine hurting him. It is a constant surprise to her that she could betray her sister with ease, but cannot bring herself to defy him. No matter what it costs her, she cannot tell.

She turns back to where he stands, still staring up at her window. Though she knows he cannot see her, she almost smiles as she sees him raise his hand up toward her, pointing with the other hand toward his watch.

It is almost time. She crosses the room. She reaches for the bridesmaid's dress.

Copyright: Sarah Cheverton. Not to be reproduced without permission of the author.

Ready to Fly

I started packing my belongings tonight in preparation for the big move from The Heights. This is hard. I begin packing with a sense of great determination and focus. There is little emotion. At first. I'm not consciously detaching myself from feeling, I just feel happily busy with so much to do.

As I pack away some Mrs Beeton cookery books (not much for the vegetarian in there, but they are a slice of my childhood, and as such, I love them), I notice a movement from the corner of my eye. It's a bat swooping from somewhere beneath my kitchen window out into the darkness. A memory hits me, hard and sudden, of my ex and I: we are stood, enchanted, at the window as a small colony of bats sweep around the yard behind my flat, in that hurricane year when we shared the Heights.

As an aside - I have a minor obsession with collective nouns - did you know that colony is also the collective noun for ants, beavers, lepers and penguins?
Course you did.

I remember this (the memory of bats, not the idiosyncracies of collective nouns) with a smile and a slight pull at my heart. As I turn away from the window and back to the kitchen, I look up at all the pictures from the children and young people I used to work with in Portsea and I wonder - what should I do with those?

So far my rule of thumb has been: if I haven't used it for a year, then it's going, but children's pictures aren't the same, are they? I look at the names on each one as I stand in front of them for five long minutes, wavering between options. I remember faces and laughter and the energy you only find in the young. The pull at my heart becomes a tug, it stretches and begins to hurt.

To distract myself, I start to look around the kitchen, but the mood has set in and everywhere are memories of ten amazing, volatile, painful, glorious years here in the Heights. Packing is hard. I shall miss being here.

I shall not , however, miss the stairs, I realise.

Then I turn my mind to the new flat, to try to capture the whole truth, not just the one I'm leaving behind. Immediately I know it has a name, just as I knew the Heights without thinking. My new place is The Loft. I know this because artists live in Lofts and the new place is all about the writing. The Loft is my room of my own. A whole new place waiting for me to define it.

I think of tall ceilings and broad spaces, open light and choosing colours for walls. I think of unpacking, a bandana wrapped around my hair (ideally I need some dungarees for unpacking, too, but I can work on this part of the fantasy later). I think of a new life, in this new place, with this new self unfolding before me each day.

I think I'm going to love it there.

Sunday, Monday

Flower without colours, by Gittevis at deviantart.com

She enters the cafe, stilling conversation

with hurt, wide eyes. The women give

shoulders and a space in which she can be heard,

while the men offer tea with gentle hands, and retreat

a safe distance to smoke, outside,

until the storm has passed.


The next day, I watch these men at their work,

relocating fish to the cafe. They are

strong arms, moving in a silence only broken

by instruction, question and command. I am

on the edges now, barely helping,

and lost without my women's chatter.


As I wait and watch them working, I wonder

if these men felt redundant in the face

of tears, as I do now, watching them

pour water into the old glass tank.