As i sit here at my desk after a long day, I'm pondering life.
Which direction i am going to take, my friends, my intrests and what I spend my time on.
I recently took up rowing, which, obviously, conversely and ironicly takes up time. Leaving me less time to spend on other things.
You can't half do rowing, you either do or you don't.
What is strange is that i seem to spend my time doing other things now, less time on facebook, less time doing very little, more time in the bath, more time aching, more time writing, more time tired, less time at home, less time arguing, more time organising.
Having less time, i think, is slowly teaching me to appreciate and use the time i have to do things i want to. rather than wasting it.
I don't know what i want to do when I'm older, i wish i could be a full time photographer, but that's very unlikely. I know which A Levels I'm going to take, just deciding on which kind of English. No idea about university or whatever yet though.
My friends are fine really, just the same as usual, i just see less of them as a group and more of the ones I want to see.
Starting rowing was a very ironic decision, and now I've been doing it for a short time, i almost feel that I have to apologise to someone, i get it now, and i regret my earlier naive point of view. It annoys me that I acted how i did, but what is in the past is, well, in the past.
I've also gained a new interest in writing and reading. Well not a new interest, an old one that I assumed i was terrible at.
Thats the rubbish thats going on in my head, as per usual. Today was very mixed, rowing wasn't brilliant I rowed the whole session with a broken seat, and my coach only looked at it when i'd Shawn the wheel off. The dentist took seconds as usual, then i met up with charlie :D
which was really good, had a really nice afternoon. Bought slumdog millionare and an overpriced moleskin notebook.
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Sunday, 25 October 2009
100. The Que.
I'm sitting on a plane. The seats that surround me are blue, and the one directly infont of me is too close for comfort. The average age on this flight appears to be rather young, as all I can hear are young children chatting, shouting and giggleing away, acompanied by the sound of mario kart and the rumble of the plane. My mother sits on my left, Reading, her eyes look tired and her face is a little pale with
the cold that she seems to have befriended. As she reads she turns each page as if it was made of gold, her dainty hands like spiders.
A trolley travels down the central isle, ever so often meeting a person coming the other way, a manouver that only a morbid anorexic would be able to complete.My gaze turns to the window, I look out, almost blinded by the glare of the sun reflecting off the cloud.A black bag sits at my feet, made out of leather and has two straps, one short and identically styled, and when the other strap is out of view makes it look like a designer nosebag. The second strap is much longer, and made out of canvas with a pink stripe. The contents are what you'd expect from a piece of hand luggage. An iPod touch, phone, purse; issue of vouge and two paperback books. These two books are distinctly different, one is large, pattened with a decrotive cover advitising a prize it has won. The second is small , black with a picture of a vampire on the front. It is teenage fiction, easy to read with a simple storyline designed specifically for the minds of teenage girls. The components of the plot are very simple, school, relationships, the future and issues that girls of that age may possibly face. It's not a complex book, not one that will have needed much research, the places described are enirley fictional and the book never designed to be realistic.The other has a complex and intresting plot, contains detailed description of the placed concerned, talks of art, science, religion and politics, shortlisted for the man booker prize.
As I sit here, the irritating sound of the child behind me's rattle creeps up on my nerves, like a tiger. The sound wanders around my head and leaves me dreading each innocent shake.My mother has fallen asleep, her book now stowed in the pocket infront
of her.
The child has dropped it's rattle, it let's out a small welp of displeasure and the mother promptly returns the irritating object to the child, the shaking continues.A que of people has formed behind the trolley, either trying to return to thier seats or getting up to the loo. A small child stands at the end of my row, he is a young boy and is faced with the behind of the man serving from the trolley. The boy is begining to get impatient. His mother looms down on him from behind with a gleam in her eye, she is proud of her son it seems, and looking forward to the holiday at
the end of her flight. The boy, being young and nive toward polite practice in his current position looks up at the man, and says the only thing he understands to be enirley correct, 'excuse me, please' his voice winney with childhood innocence.
The flight attendant is dealing with a customer and dosen't hear the boy. The boy looks up at the man as he is ignored, he looks straight at me as I watch him, then up at his mother who is looking the other way. He takes his small hand out of his pocket and pokes the flight attendant three times in the bottom. The flight attendant is startled, turns around, and looks straight over the childs head. He glances down at the boy and chuckles a nervous laugh. He politley asks the que to move backwards to the next avalible place for passing.The boy beams a cheeky grin as his mother scoots him off.
©
the cold that she seems to have befriended. As she reads she turns each page as if it was made of gold, her dainty hands like spiders.
A trolley travels down the central isle, ever so often meeting a person coming the other way, a manouver that only a morbid anorexic would be able to complete.My gaze turns to the window, I look out, almost blinded by the glare of the sun reflecting off the cloud.A black bag sits at my feet, made out of leather and has two straps, one short and identically styled, and when the other strap is out of view makes it look like a designer nosebag. The second strap is much longer, and made out of canvas with a pink stripe. The contents are what you'd expect from a piece of hand luggage. An iPod touch, phone, purse; issue of vouge and two paperback books. These two books are distinctly different, one is large, pattened with a decrotive cover advitising a prize it has won. The second is small , black with a picture of a vampire on the front. It is teenage fiction, easy to read with a simple storyline designed specifically for the minds of teenage girls. The components of the plot are very simple, school, relationships, the future and issues that girls of that age may possibly face. It's not a complex book, not one that will have needed much research, the places described are enirley fictional and the book never designed to be realistic.The other has a complex and intresting plot, contains detailed description of the placed concerned, talks of art, science, religion and politics, shortlisted for the man booker prize.
As I sit here, the irritating sound of the child behind me's rattle creeps up on my nerves, like a tiger. The sound wanders around my head and leaves me dreading each innocent shake.My mother has fallen asleep, her book now stowed in the pocket infront
of her.
The child has dropped it's rattle, it let's out a small welp of displeasure and the mother promptly returns the irritating object to the child, the shaking continues.A que of people has formed behind the trolley, either trying to return to thier seats or getting up to the loo. A small child stands at the end of my row, he is a young boy and is faced with the behind of the man serving from the trolley. The boy is begining to get impatient. His mother looms down on him from behind with a gleam in her eye, she is proud of her son it seems, and looking forward to the holiday at
the end of her flight. The boy, being young and nive toward polite practice in his current position looks up at the man, and says the only thing he understands to be enirley correct, 'excuse me, please' his voice winney with childhood innocence.
The flight attendant is dealing with a customer and dosen't hear the boy. The boy looks up at the man as he is ignored, he looks straight at me as I watch him, then up at his mother who is looking the other way. He takes his small hand out of his pocket and pokes the flight attendant three times in the bottom. The flight attendant is startled, turns around, and looks straight over the childs head. He glances down at the boy and chuckles a nervous laugh. He politley asks the que to move backwards to the next avalible place for passing.The boy beams a cheeky grin as his mother scoots him off.
©
99. Airport Scam
I clamber out of the coach after my brother, the cool breeze blowing at my hair. We collect our luggage from the hold and our parents join us, dressed for traveling. People are congregating outside the doors of the empty airport, the automatic doors are closed and there isn't an official in sight. More coaches arrive, full of the now sunkissed tourists I have spent my week with. As the crowd grew larger the emptiness of the airport grew. Holiday reps weave in and out of bemused families, answering questions and distracting the hyperactive children for a few precious seconds; When out of the linoneum void of the depatures lounge a tracksuit clad man appears. with coffee in hand he walks up behind the door, switchs a button and promptly disappears. The automatic doors ironicly opened and the flock entered the echoing airport.
After this flur of activity, more nothing. Check out clerks began to appear and the airport came to life, we moved slowly and through the masses of people to the departure lounge, were we were some of the first through. It was smaller than the previous room, with row upon row of cheap metal seating. We sat among the seats and the two shops in the corner opened up thier shutters, further conformation that this airport opened at most once a week. I made my way up to a kiosk selling hot drinks, a cheap metal affair embedded in a wall, with a ccompact glass cabinet filled with old looking sandwiches. A White board with a poorly translated price list sat slumped on a shelf behind the counter. A man from the only other family in the departure lounge stood infront of me. He orders two cups of tea, and recoils in horror at the price the lady gives him. He looks accusingly at the price board, which details a far lower price for the drinks. A civil, subdued disagreement bordering on an argument ensues, exacerbated somehwhat by the substitution of polite banalities with wild
gesticulations. The price board is promptly removed and the man is no happier, I get the distinct feeling that the price of a cup of tea in this airport will be heavily depenant on your personal appearance and tolerance for being ripped off. I give up on my previous intention of purchasing hot chocolate for my companions, so instead selflessly purchase four lolly pops for my own consumption. With the exchange rate in the current climate I just paid four pound fifty for them, I'm not amused. I have niether the energy or tolerance to argue the fact I can purchase the same goods in britan for under a pound. My parents laugh at me but still gladly accept their sweets. They ask if i have discovered why it was my money that bought the family's sweets. Bloody volitiale international money markets.
Jasmine Beverley Tredget and Maximillion Charles Long Bruges ©
After this flur of activity, more nothing. Check out clerks began to appear and the airport came to life, we moved slowly and through the masses of people to the departure lounge, were we were some of the first through. It was smaller than the previous room, with row upon row of cheap metal seating. We sat among the seats and the two shops in the corner opened up thier shutters, further conformation that this airport opened at most once a week. I made my way up to a kiosk selling hot drinks, a cheap metal affair embedded in a wall, with a ccompact glass cabinet filled with old looking sandwiches. A White board with a poorly translated price list sat slumped on a shelf behind the counter. A man from the only other family in the departure lounge stood infront of me. He orders two cups of tea, and recoils in horror at the price the lady gives him. He looks accusingly at the price board, which details a far lower price for the drinks. A civil, subdued disagreement bordering on an argument ensues, exacerbated somehwhat by the substitution of polite banalities with wild
gesticulations. The price board is promptly removed and the man is no happier, I get the distinct feeling that the price of a cup of tea in this airport will be heavily depenant on your personal appearance and tolerance for being ripped off. I give up on my previous intention of purchasing hot chocolate for my companions, so instead selflessly purchase four lolly pops for my own consumption. With the exchange rate in the current climate I just paid four pound fifty for them, I'm not amused. I have niether the energy or tolerance to argue the fact I can purchase the same goods in britan for under a pound. My parents laugh at me but still gladly accept their sweets. They ask if i have discovered why it was my money that bought the family's sweets. Bloody volitiale international money markets.
Jasmine Beverley Tredget and Maximillion Charles Long Bruges ©
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)