A Very English Complaint About the Weather

It's not that the weather here is bad, nor that it is particularly good. What is so damn irritating is that it's changeable. Dressing every morning involves a skilful act of layering, so that when the clouds disappear, you can shed one (or more) cardigans and jumpers and refrain from sweating too much, and then when the clouds cover up the sun again – as they inevitably do – you can pile all the woollies back on, plus a beanie for good measure. Oh, and never, ever go anywhere without an umbrella. Just because it's sunny now means nothing. After the third or fourth time, you learn.

Last Monday was beautiful. You can't imagine how beautiful it was, comparatively speaking. We're drawing towards the end of October, smack in the middle of Autumn, in cold and rainy Wales, and the sun was shining, the clouds didn't hover once, and it was so warm that I was walking around the city in a singlet top and jeans. Granted, I was also wearing a scarf, but that was almost entirely due to aesthetic purposes. I came to the somewhat premature conclusion that perhaps Autumns weren't all that cold this far south.

Of course, then we haven't had a dry day since. And there have been moments when I doubted that my warm woolly coat would keep me warm even til the end of November. But I think I underestimated it. I think with the right combination of jumpers and scarfs, I might get away with it until February in York. We shall see.

I've always been one to appreciate a rainy day. Of course, in Newcastle, they're slightly less frequent than in Swansea, and rarity tends to make something special. Now, I'm just getting a little tired of walking everywhere with the damp patch at the hem of my jeans climbing higher and higher with every puddle I walk through.

But then, I was walking home through the park the other day. The trees still wear most of their leaves, but there is a thickening layer of gold on the ground. It wasn't raining, but it had been, and the bark on the trunks had soaked up the water to become a rich, dark brown, almost black. Against the dark of the tree trunks and the white-grey of the clouds in the sky, the green leaves stood out, washed and bright. A gust of wind swirled the fallen leaves up in the air and for a moment I just stopped and watched. Somehow, everything looks richer, more alive after a little rain.

Third Nomad

It seems I can't sit still. Well, I never could, hey? But at least here and now that's how I'm supposed to be. Weeks are for Uni work, and weekends are for jaunting all over the countryside. The weekend before last (and, yes, I do realise that I am being a little slack in the update stakes, but life is for the living, yeah?)I went on a little overnighter to London to visit Brett for his birthday. Which was a mixed-emotion event. On the one hand, it was absolutely awesome to see Brett. You know, I'm doing really good here, there's nothing like the overwhelming homesickness that crippled me during parts of my Slovakia experience, not even close. But then, its just so comforting to see someone from home. And its easy in a way that new faces and new places just can't be. On the other hand, the place I stayed was full of Aussies and Kiwis, and at the moment, that's just too much of a good thing. That environment seemed to bring out the traits of our cultures that I am least proud of: our tendency to get loud and drunk and to fill a place with ourselves, forgetting that there are other people and this is their place more than ours. And I just kept wanting to ask them all: If you just wanted to be drunk, loud Australians, spending all your time with drunk, loud Australians, why did you come here to do it?

But I realise that this is probably the exception, not the rule, to their stays. That, having been on the road, living amongst foreign people and customs that this is probably their respite. Their chill out moment, where they too just long for the ease of familiarity, just for a little while, before heading out on their way again. And I realise that there may come a time when I want this respite as well.

And I can't deny feeling elated by hearing Machine Gun Felatio sing Pussytown on the Antipodean-friendly jukebox.

So, for the first time in six weeks, I heard an Aussie accent. I heard a whole bunch of them, and Brett and I proceeded to celebrate his thirtieth birthday in the pub below the youth hostel that we were camped at. When the pub got too full and happy hour finished, Brett and I strode out into the night and caught the tube to (somewhere I forget) where we met Janine and Sned. Brett went through uni with Janine and I worked on a production of Ubu Roi with her last year and they are on their way up North to Janine's native Scotland, only here in London for the night. And so we sat and had a few beers with them and spoke of plans for future travels and gossip from home. Then, after sleeping in the bunk with a roomful of snorers, I had breakfast of jam and toast and the biggest cup of the blackest tea I could find in the bar downstairs. Brett and I then wandered around the streets of Shepherd’s Bush before I had to catch my train back home again.

Standing around in Paddington Station, feeling slightly sorry for myself after a night of beer and interrupted sleep, I get a phone call from Jess and we speak for an hour of gossips and goings on. It was so very lovely to hear her voice and catch up on what everyone has been getting up to, but I would really hate to be in charge of her phone bill at the end of the month...

And then this weekend just gone, I went to visit Cardiff Castle. Like most castles I have visited so far, Cardiff Castle is made up of many parts, some dating way back to the times of William the Conqueror and some parts more recently renovated. Part is still in use today, for weddings and receptions and to receive Prince Charles and other dignitaries when they visit Wales. They have rooms in this part of the castle set up as they would have been in the Victorian era, which was when the last of the renovations were made by an architect named William Burgess. This guy specialised in highly ornate, Eastern inspired decorations. Painted ceilings, patterned floors and gold leaf abound. My favourite was the Arab room, which was a sitting room for the Marques’s wife and, funnily enough, was inspired by the architect's visits to the Middle East. It had beautiful patterned floors in coloured marble and what they called Harem windows, carved so that you can see out from inside the room, but it's very difficult to see in from outside.

Afterwards, I wandered the streets of Cardiff for a couple of hours. The shopping streets of Cardiff are all interconnected by little enclosed arcade streets with boutiques and cafes and quirky little gifts stores. I resisted many a temptation in the two or three recycled clothing stores I found. Aren't I good? Then I spent around a quarter of an hour standing and watching an electric string trio grin cheekily and whirl their way through show tunes and jazz numbers and finally four and a half minute’s worth of the history of music.

And tomorrow is Thursday, my day off. I have a day of cultural enlightenment planned for myself in which I will visit the Art gallery (the main one, and any others I can find on the way) and then a trip to the Marina, to visit the Dylan Thomas Museum and the other museum that I know is down that way, but the name of which currently eludes me. To end the day, I plan on sitting in cafe Mambo, or the Monkey cafe, sipping tea, munching on a cookie and updating my (much, much neglected) paper journal. Can't wait.

But.

So, Geraint got back from York on Monday and spent the rest of the day with me. Afternoon sex, and deciding against a movie because Swansea hasn't got Serenity yet. Pool and Guinness in the Bryn; music and Guinness at the Uplands Tavern; and cheap girly vodka drinks and dancing to rock & roll at Envy til two in the morning. There was hand holding and drunken frolicking and so much dancing, and I feel comfortable with him, and little tummy-tickling feelings when I look at him and I had an wonderful, awesome night.

But.

But I just don't think it's any more than that.

Which may be due to the fact that I'll only see him once or twice a month between now and Christmas, and the knowledge that ultimately I'm going to be moving on in February. Or it may be because he reminds me too much of the boys I used to go to school with, and I've just moved on from there. Or maybe we just don't have a strong enough connection.

But he's lovely. He's caring, and intelligent, and considerate and light-hearted and good-humoured, and so far I've had nothing but a good time with him. And really that's all that matters, right? And in consideration of the fact that we're hardly going to see each other, its a good thing that I haven't fallen head over heals for him, isn't it? I think I've finally made it the place where I want to keep it casual and I'm happy with that.

A friend, to help me explore Wales, and certain parts of its culture.

And I got a part. I think its only a small part, and I think this because my character’s name is merely "The Reporter" and my name was fifth from the bottom of the list. I haven't read the script yet, so I could be wrong, but we're going to go with that. She's a character in the German play, The Visit and our first rehearsal, a script reading is on Monday evening, so I guess I'll find out more about the character and the story then.

I'm glad I got a part in The Visit, for a few reasons. Firstly, because I miss the theatre and I want to be a part of it again. It gives me the chance to meet people and be involved in the society. And it was probably better to get a part in this one, rather than Streetcar because The Visit will be performed in early December, thus not interfering at all in any travel plans I may make, whereas Streetcar would involve me needing to still be in Swansea in February, when Jess and Darko and I should be making the start on our journeys. So its all good!

Auditions

So, I joined the Drama Society. You know what I’ve learnt? That Crazy Theatre People are the same the world over.

Last Thursday, we had our first Social – which meant getting dressed up like we were from the eighties (sigh) and heading out into town. Yes, people in public saw me with big teased hair, badly coloured eye makeup and far too many bangles up my arms. I am so ashamed.

We went to a very funky little cafe called Mambo where we had the entire downstairs room to ourselves and we proceeded to drink two-for-one cocktails and play silly drama-type drinking games.

I would just like to side step a moment here and point out that Britain has never heard of RSA. Nope, not at all. Pubs here will go to any lengths to get you totally trashed and violent and poor. Two-for-one cocktails, they’ll make your drink a double for an extra 20p, they don’t cut you off when you’ve had to much and I CAN BUY A DOUBLE VODKA AND REDBULL FOR £2 PEOPLE!!!! But at least they give you a little plug thingy to put in your bottle to stop people spiking it.

But anyway, back to the Drama Society. Tuesday night was auditions for two plays: A German black comedy called The Visit and A Streetcar Named Desire. I didn’t think I’d done too well, because I find it difficult to show my full potential in auditions. I know I could be the best damn Stella you’ve ever seen, but I find it hard to show you that when I’ve had fifteen minutes to prepare and I’ve never met you before. I think I did a little better on the audition for The Visit, simply because it was a more light-hearted script and it gave the opportunity to show a wider range of emotion than did the Streetcar piece. Well, last night I had a call-back for Streetcar, which was... interesting. Rather than being another audition as such, it was a workshop, which involved torturous dance style physical warm-ups, group discussions, improvised scenes and, of course, the all-important group audition staple: a game of stuck-in-the-mud. Again, I don’t think I really had the chance to show what I can do to my full potential and I’m not quite sure what the director was looking for in our efforts last night. So, I’m not holding my breath, but I am, however, now off to check the noticeboards to read the cast lists. Wish me luck!

Childsplay

I think it needs to be said that I believe I was sorely deprived having been denied the ruins of castles as I was growing up.

Having woken up (late) on Saturday morning, and facing a day without plans or designs I decided that maybe it was time to do one of the things my Lonely Planet Guide to Britain suggests is a good thing to do when in Swansea. So I caught a bus to Mumbles, the little village just outside of town. The village's real name is Oystermouth (which is really a bastardisation of the Welsh name for the village which I have forgotten), but sometime in the village's history it was visited by some French Sailors who nicknamed the town "Mamelles" in reference to the two suggestive lumps of geography in the coastline. The English then misquoted that as "Mumbles" and it stuck. This little village therefore has the dubious honour of being named after French Boobies.

But anyway, I caught the bus to Mumbles and had a wander around this pleasant, touristy, little seaside place and eventually found my way up to the ruins of Oystermouth Castle. Here, I got to climb turrets and stroll around battlements and lurk in basement chambers, and as exciting as it is for me to do this now, I kept thinking of how much the ten-year-old, or eleven-year-old me would have loved this. How, if I lived in close proximity to a site like this, it would have become my haunt. I was a very daggy child (not too much has changed?) and totally oblivious to the social standing I would have been losing, I would have paraded around this place as if I were the Lady of the Castle. Dragging my two sisters along for the game, we would have imagined grand balls and banquets, and arranged for diplomatic missions of the utmost importance to be carried out. We would have organised the great household, wooed non-existent Princes and given birth to great Kings and dynasties. Or, if I could lure some of the local boys into my game of fantasy, we would have staged epic battles and sieges and I'd have brandished my sword beside them as a warrior Princess.

All these things were done, of course, for I had a wild imagination. But instead the backdrop was the Australian bushland, and we built out stately homes in the roots of the paperbark trees. And whilst I wouldn't change that for anything, wandering through the foundations of a building that has seen all that we imagined, I wished that I was ten or eleven years old again, just for a moment, so that I could stand in the ruins of the room above the gate and order the drawbridge to be drawn and the portcullis to be lowered and for my soldiers positioned around the battlements to let fly their arrows and cauldrons of boiling oil. Instead, I listened to a very enthusiastic man talk about its history and the families that had lived within its walls, and I tried to imagine it being built, structure by structure over the centuries, before its roofs crumbled and the windows were blown out and before grass lined the floor and creepers climbed its walls. I think castles are my favourite form of architectural sightseeing. Churches are often better preserved and splendid, but castles are somehow just more romantic.