In Cupid’s Garden

In the not so countryside just pass Greater London there is a small cul de sac which sits in the middle of almost nowhere – between fields of undecided green and yellow and woods that hadn’t quite matured to the status of forests. In the garden of one of the larger houses Steven sat quietly on the patio swing  pretending to be incredibly engrossed in an email or text message and not listening to his wife and in-laws in their animated conversation; he couldn’t understand a word they were saying as they spoke in their own native language. The family were of course friendly and warm towards him and he knew they loved him very much – but they still seemed to forget that he was there once they started to get excited about a topic; this he didn’t mind so much since it always gave him the chance to sneak away to his favourite place in the country.

During one of these frequent family get togethers while the sun was beating down on them on a late spring day, Steven found the opportunity to take a walk on his own through the field beyond the garden and get away from the noise and the children running between the jabbering adults. At the end of the field were the woods filled with thick trees of ash and alder, bushes with berries of various colours and a dirt path that led eventually to another field at the other end of the woods. He walked along the path for a little while until the leaves above him eclipsed most of the sunlight and created beautiful dancing shadows that moved with the breeze; he turned right into the trees – leaving the path entirely. He walked briskly through the shadows, touching the trunks of each tree as he weaved passed them until he came to a small slightly circular clearing, the grass was still slightly moist from the previous down pour but it didn’t matter, Steven slumped himself down and looked up at the sky. The leaves separated here just enough so that he could see the blue sky about him, clouds swirling playfully as the day rolled on and distant birds chattered among themselves. He was completely happy and started to drift off into memories of the years that had passed.

Steven remembered the day he first saw his wife, how she’d greeted him indifferently on his first day at work alongside her. He remembered how he’d dismissed her as being cold and uninteresting, that her perfect bun had been too tight and that her suit was far too authoritative for her position at the company. He smiled at the memory. He remember how nights of overtime work had been more of a pain with her for the first few months, how she insisted on taking on the role of team leader and he’d insisted the same – they’d disagree about everything, criticise each others work method, argued over the smallest details. Steven remembered the office party where they’d first learnt to be more friendly (after a few glasses of wine and bottles of beer under awkwardly arranged ballons and streamers), how they eventually became friends, good friends and then how he realised he was slowly falling for her. Everyday she greeted him casually, he found himself beaming up at her, her jokes became funnier – his more awkward, how coffee to discuss the week’s meeting became drinks after work at the pub and then dinner to discuss interests and movies on the weekend. He remembered how he fell for her confidence, her laugh and the way she pursed her lips when she couldn’t quite figure out a problem. After so many years now, he still couldn’t believe how lucky he’d been to find himself working with her and how every morning he still found he loved her even more than the night before.

In the  middle of his daydreaming he heard the breaking of several branches and rustling of leaves, Steven tilted his head towards the noise and saw his wife hopping into the clearing with a content smile on her face. She was so incredibly beautiful, it still took his breath away. He smiled up at her and remembered the day he asked her to marry him; right there in that clearing.

Maxine, Prada Parenting in Suburbia

Every weekday morning in a corner of Greater London – like every other part of Britain at that exact time – the parents rush to get their children to school. The mums (and some dads) of this particular suburb walk up to the tiny side gates of the infants playground – laden with school bags, prams and overly hyper children; some try their best to seem cheery, others are completely engrossed in thoughts of work to return the muttered “good morning”s thrown their way and then there are those who have yet to really wake up.

A parade of parents at various stages of ‘readiness’ walk toward the doors of their children’s respective classrooms, hoping that the teachers have opened their rooms early and they don’t have to wait outside surrounded by benches and climbing frames that make them look like giants. Parents in work shirts, tracksuits and pyjamas, some fully prepared for a day of work, others half so. Groups of weary moaners complaining about the night before or the worries of tomorrow, rushed mums with far too much makeup on – smears of lipstick hurried applied and clumps of mascara carelessly hanging off their lashes and then those with none at all; eye bags from sleepless nights with the babies worn like battle scars, eyebrows permanently etched in disapproval or annoyance, prams being pushed with children still too young to leave at school – screaming for attention or wanting to follow their older siblings around. Mornings are always chaotic and every adult standing in the playground wore the signs of parenthood on their faces; apart from one.

Ms. Maxine Elton refused to look as worn out as her fellow parents everyday and instead arrived with her pretty daughter, Lana immaculately dressed at all times. Maxine stood straight and elegantly tall – usually wearing her gold blonde hair pushed into a neat bun away from her angular face, oversized Chanel glasses hiding whatever eye bags gave the illusion away (regardless of how gloomy the weather was), and a small black Prada tote slung casually on her arm. Her shoes were always designer and always heels that were at least 4inches high, and her lips were always glossed. Although she was perfectly friendly toward the other mums and dads, she seemed to distance herself from them – often finding herself in an early phone call to some very important sounding friend or to her charming husband.

It amazed Maxine that she was a parent – even though Lana was already six! But it was her goal to not fall into the trap of parenthood, to not become the overwhelmed parent with wild hair and a pale face. Before she was married, Maxine had spent most of her life as a dancer, she wasn’t by any means exceptional – but she was good. Her posture and body oozed confidence and she loved the glamour of the stage, the lights, the silence of the audience, the beat of music that dragged her about as if she were a puppet – she loved it all. All her dreams centred around her art and her passion; until she met Richard.

She had changed so much of herself so they could be together and start a family. She gave up the road, the wild parties, the drunken escapades, the luxuries performing afforded her, travelling, living in the centre of everything and eventually, she gave up her dancing. Maxine became docile, more controlled for her husband and later her daughter, she loved her family so much and Richard spoilt her as much as he spoilt Lana and she was happy in her picturesque suburban house. she could ask for anything and it would be hers; but she sometimes wished for the days of carefree partying all night and dancing all day. So although she had grown up and become a parent, Maxine was not quite ready to give up all the glamour of the past just yet…

In a little suburb of Greater London, the parents rush to take their children to school, each mum and dad would have the same look of weariness in their eyes, even though they would try disguise it with smiles and cheery “hello”s and “good morning”s… except one. Maxine Elton would be seen every morning in the playground standing elegantly in her heels – with her hair in a neat bun, her oversized sunglasses resting on the bridge of her nose and a Prada bag nestled in the crook of her arm.

Tabitha and the Apocalypse

Walking down a small street lined with houses and the large gate of an all girl’s school in the middle of West London was a tall woman with short white hair streaked with bits of light green and crescent moon glasses. She wore a denim vest – which sported a number of oddly shaped silver badges – over an oversized faded pink shirt, loose black trouser, scuffed combat boots and a look of permanent superiority and disapproval on her face. She walked along the road towards the main street with purpose in each stride and pushed passed the group of giggling secondary school girls who strolled in front of her, her eyebrow cocked high as they started to protest at her rudeness – but on she walked.

Tabitha Russell was a woman coming close to her 50s and she was on a mission; she had no time for pleasantries or politeness of any kind – indeed, if everyone knew what she knew no one would have time for that nonsense. Because Tabitha believed that the world was coming to an end; and very soon. She had for the past few years been gathering supplies so that she would be ready for any disaster – whether it be natural or extra terrestrial. Although there had been no signs of an apocalypse in her quiet little street, she had somehow managed to convince herself that it was soon. She had gone so far into this idea that at the end of her garden stood a very sturdy and rather unattractive bunker – and in it she had collected canned goods, dried meats, seven oxygen tanks, an axe, a tool box, several first aid kits, a tin helmet (to deflect the alien mind control), snow boots, a baseball bat, over a hundred books, gallons of water, a generator, an inflatable boat, sunscreen, along with countless other items that she believed would be needed.

Although the thought of an apocalypse terrified Tabitha to no end, she was comforted by the fact that she was so well prepared. She would walk (or rather strut) down the road with her head held high and her nose pointed straight up into the air as she passed those silly people who continued with their lives so casually. She could not see how no one else could not see the signs, it almost drove her mad with anger. And although she was a smug person, she was not a completely mean, Tabitha eventually did decide that it was only fair to warn her neighbours and those who would listen of their impending doom. So after about the second year of preparations she came to the conclusion that it was now time to concentrate on trying to convince the rest of the world that they too should prepare before it was too late. Unfortunately after a year of her shouting and stomping in Hyde Park Corner Tabitha realised that she was never met with thanks; instead people seemed to laugh or briskly walk away – as if she were mad! This was of course frustrating and she had decided that she should give up. Today was to be her last attempt to save the rest of humanity, clearly those who wouldn’t listen didn’t deserve to prepare. In her mind, as long as the word was out – she had done her part.

So after a long evening of shouting and giving evidence and meeting people with many a raised eyebrow, Tabitha went home. The long day had worn her out and all she wanted was a hot cup of tea and the sound of the radio. As she sat in her armchair with her feet wrapped warmly in a pair of blue wooly socks and her tea in hand, she forgot all her troubles and smiled to herself; wishing silently that the world would not end just yet as she was far too comfy to do anything about it.

Silver Hair by Candle Light

They sat across from each other with content smiles on their faces. The sky outside had gone dark and the cafe staff began to light candles as a soft jazz number playfully danced on the speakers. The room was empty as they looked around, the lighting was almost as delicate as the glow of fireflies, shadows rested merrily on the wooden interior and twitched every so often as the candles flickered away. These two could be themselves in a place so detached from the noise of the city. This nook was their own for hours, with only the waiters and occasional lone customer to remind them that the world outside still existed.

To us spectators, Alistair and Perry were old friends, sharing old stories and drinking the worries of the world away in small cups of espresso. As night rolled in they looked like happy old pair sipping their glasses of wine and reliving their youth – but it was so much more than that. Yes, they were friends – the oldest and dearest, but something connected them far more than friendship could describe; it was a connection they had denied since they were young – and at times still denied. They loved each other in a way they hardly understood for so many years. They acknowledged the feeling of complete devotion and adoration of one another; but silently, never acting upon it now.

When they met, Alistair and Perry would shake hands warmly and a combination of both utter happiness and an overwhelming sadness would flow between them. They would never embrace each other – for fear of never letting go. This was enough. After decades, this had become enough. Alistair would stare at the wrinkles that were etched into his friend’s face and still see the same sparkle in his brown eyes that captivated him when he was in his twenties; when Perry laughed, it was if they had travelled back to a time where their hair was not white and their bodies were strong. They were young again – smoking and drinking until the light touched the star filled sky. Perry would take his hand silently, turn it over and examine every line, every crack, every vein as if they told a story – their story. They had been through everything together since childhood; fun, games, love, heartbreak, sorrow and joy; every moment of confusion and every sure decision, every secret. Nothing had broken their bond – even they had tried to once, but something always brought them back together in the end.

And so, they lived lives they could be proud of, and they grew old. As time passed, they needed each other a little less – but there are still times when their hearts ache for each other’s company; both would often find themselves thinking about the other and longing to see his smile, hear his voice, remember all the nonsense they’d been through. Alistair and Perry would  meet in their nook, spending hours together – having lunch, then tea, then wine, then dinner until closing time, and then they would part. As they took each other’s hand to shake goodbye, Alistair and Perry would linger in that moment; holding on to something they knew they couldn’t ever have again. Both would stroll out into the starless night and separate, returning to their own families.

 

-H.

John Doe’s Scotch and Scandal

Down the steps to a basement bar in West London dances a young man, alone. He ignores the giggling twenty-somethings stumbling across the dance floor bathed in lights that change colour, and scoffs at the boys demanding their drinks at the bar. He spends an hour frantically moving to the beats blaring out of the speakers, and then two hours or so staring into his glass of scotch as the ice slowly melts and water trickles down onto the wooden table.

For the past three months he’s walked in each Thursday at around 9pm and hopes no one will bother him. The bar staff have accepted his strange presence, politely ignoring him and giving him the  space he silently demands – only acknowledging him when he orders a drink. He would always come in with the same sad look, his small lips turned down and slightly open, his auburn hair brushed neatly away from his face, his jaw tensed and the lids around his green eyes puffy. When anyone would try to speak to him, he’d force a smile, nod and walk away as soon as he saw an opening. No one ever found out his name or why he adamantly refused any company. He’d order, dance and sit in the darkest corner he could find, never looking up from his drink.

In truth, the young man danced and sat there hour after hour to distract himself – because he knew that every week his wife would be having an affair.  She would make up some vague excuse about going out with the girls or seeing a friend, but he knew. He couldn’t sit at home and wait for her to come back – and see how her cheeks were still flushed and her skin still glowed beautifully with heat and desire. It destroyed him, but he couldn’t confront her; he couldn’t bare to even think about the idea of going their separate ways – she was more than everything to him.

So, every Thursday he was at this bar – waiting for her to go home and tuck herself into their bed. At first he’d gone there for revenge, to find a woman and take her back home and have his wife catch him. Maybe she might feel even a fraction of the pain that had tormented him day and night – but he couldn’t do it. There was no anger left in him, just the desire to wake up from the numbness – a constant wish that nothing was real. His heart was so broken that nothing made sense, all he could do was dance and pretend nothing was happening. Every time he thought about how she tortured him week after week, how guiltless her smiles and kisses were, how every time he touched her he could almost hear her laughing at him – his soul died a little more. He thought about how he could go straight up to her, tell her what he knew, scream at her, throw her out, kill any man who even looked at her, hurt her, wrap his fingers around her slender neck – his fingers went cold and every breath he took was painful. The thoughts – if he lingered on them for too long – drove him mad; they were too intense, too dangerous. He scared himself, and he couldn’t risk losing control – he couldn’t lose her.

Every Thursday night, you’ll find a man, dancing alone in a bar – drowning in misery and denial. Scarcely even realising that every week, as he sips his scotch – he’s planning his beloved wife’s demise.

-H.

Tybalt Flynn and His Canine Companions.

Everyday we are treated to characters of unique dispositions – some of them delightful, some almost terrifying and some so fantastically odd you’d be half convinced that they’d just stepped out of a child’s storybook! Only in a city as wonderful as London could such peculiar sights be so ordinary.

One of these wonderful characters is of course Mr. Tybalt Flynn; whose parents were very theatrical and so he himself had grown up in a very theatrical manner. He had dedicated several adult years to becoming an actor and then a rock star – none of these dream had quite materialised into reality but the experience itself had made Tybalt a very confident and outspoken man.

He had spent time travelling through Europe – first with a wonderfully awful company of actors who had been booed off more stages than one would care to mention; then following the festival scene through mud and mosh pit for a number of summers before he settled back in London to try his hand at some more eccentric acting in dark corners of the city. He had never found time to marry and although Tybalt no longer had any living relatives, he lived a content life with his two black staffies, Angus and Otis. They were his constant companions and had been for years. Of course, Angus was his first dog and had been with him for much longer – you could see the evidence of age in the old boy’s eyes. It’s been 10 years since owner and friend first met, and Angus’ loyalty has meant more to Tybalt than anything. Otis is still quite young but he’s learning the same obedience and love of the older dog very quickly, and is the perfect bundle of innocence and happiness, this the energy the other two now lacked. And so, Tybalt loved them both dearly.

Tybalt, now a scruffy man of fifty-three who lives in a purple house just off Portobello Road with boxes full of trinkets and memories from his wilder years. He had short white hair and greying stubble grew unevenly about his face, he would always be covered in a mix of dust and layers of faded black clothing, drops of spiky silver hung from both his ears, a spare brown dog leash roped around a belt loop at his hip and his boots would be splattered with dried mud. Regardless of the weather, Tybalt constantly wore sunglasses and his favourite winter coat – which he’d picked up at a flea market some decades ago –  when outdoors.

He would walk down Notting Hill with his two canine friends and eyes would begin taking him in for a moment longer than what is deemed polite; this never bothered him much as Tybalt was quite convinced that nothing else was really worth staring at as much as him and his dogs in the high street. He enjoyed somewhat flamboyantly trotting through the crowds of tourists on a regular basis with Angus holding his own head high and Otis merrily bobbing along after them; on sunnier days Tybalt sometimes decides to even sing (or rather shout) a few songs out while his fellow men look on disapprovingly.

Now, this is all we know of Mr. Tybalt Flynn and perhaps you wish to know a little more. I’m sure that if you found yourself infront of that purple house just off Portobello Road and Tybalt happened to be coming out, he would gladly have your company down Notting Hill and would tell you the tales of his fascinating self.

- H.

New Series of Shorts

Over the past few months I have indeed been spending far too much time going out and far too little time actually blogging – or writing for that matter. So – with the help of a friend – I have come up with a way to put two of my favourite pass times together… Writing and people watching!

I’m sure you’ve all done it (or I’m a weirdo), sat in a little nook and just watched the world go by; well I take it a little further and generally decide to give people who catch my attention a little story to their daily lives… And I’ve recently started to write down these little daydreams.

To keep my blog up to date – I’ve decided that at least once a week I’ll be posting one of these ‘stories’ to entertain (or bore, as the case may be) you! I do hope you enjoy my little flights of fantasy as they will begin immediately

Yours,

- H

Rise of the Guardians

 

Well hello strangers! I’ve been away from the cinema for far too long and with Christmas on the way, we’re being treated to a few little gems this months! (Who else is super excited for the Hobbit?!).

So, yesterday I went to see Rise of the Guardian… one – because the animation looked amazingly pretty, and I have a weakness for dreamsworks and pixar things; two – I’m still a bit of a kid as one of the cashier guys will tell you (he may have smirked when we told him what tickets we wanted… then admitted he wanted to see it too anyways)… and three – well, it actually looked like a GOOD movie!

The movie is takes the world’s favourite characters from our childhood and makes them, well… guardians of children. We have the Easter bunny, Santa Clause, the tooth fairy and the sandman. Essentially the boogey man is trying to create fear in kids and it’s the guardians’ task to stop him. The story first introduces us to Jack Frost, a boy who wanders the world making it snow and just having a bit of mischievous fun – he finds himself chosen to be one of these guardians and although he doesn’t take to the role so willingly, through this new found purpose he attempts to understand why he’s been on the earth for hundreds of years.

I found the story fascinating and the concept was wonderful. I loved most of it completely and although in retrospect it was quite cheesy, it wasn’t enough to get me to start cringing… well, until the last part. I won’t spoil it, but everything was beautifully written – perhaps it seemed to slow down a bit in some parts but there’s nothing I can really recall irking me until the end (not the whole end, just a bit of it!).

Animation and graphics? Absolutely stunning. I’m slightly disappointed I didn’t go see it in one of the bigger screens- or in 3D (and I’m not even a fan of 3D) – and am very tempted to go again. Visually – everything is flawless, the characters are charming and creative, the colours pop beautifully with each scene and it truly makes you want to be a kid again.

For a children’s movie, it’s packed with a lot of laugh out loud moments (but I’m very easily amused) and you’ll find yourself invested in the characters very quickly – even the side character are incredibly entertaining or cute or sweet or funny. It’s quirky and enjoyable throughout – for adults and children a like. If you do get the chance, I really think you should see it – nevermind how old you are. I could easily become one of my favourite animations – but we’ll wait and see how I feel after a few months after the holiday spirit has left me.

Go see it! It’s Christmas, if you’re going to see ANY Christmas(ish… not really) themed movie… this one should definitely be on your list

Happy holidays!

So, I spent the day in South Kensington museum hopping like I planned to and it made me remember how much I adore that area! It was raining so unfortunately I wasn’t able to go down to Holland Park after but then again I could have spent hours and hours more wandering around the Natural History Museum and V&A. I ended up not going to the actual exhibits I wanted to go see at the V&A since i agreed to go see them with a friend in a couple of weeks but I spent a lot of time in the renaissance/medieval gallery and rediscovered my love for doodling… although I will admit that i’m very rusty with a pencil! -.-
Never mind! I had fun so I thought I’d share a few shots that I remembered to take. Just because – but I should have taken so many more pictures! If you ever get the chance, definitely get yourself down to both museums and get lost!

(Also, after museum hopping, I decided to go pay a little visit to the humming bird bakery down the road… Ah how i missed their red velvet cake! <3)

Enjoy!

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-H.G

Autumn Leaves

So, like I mentioned in my last post – I’M HOME, and I thought I’d mention what made me happy to be home (apart from a decent internet connection of course )

Well, there’s no real suspense since I very plainly titled this blog as the answer. Autumn leaves! I didn’t completely miss autumn! My favourite time of year. Yes, it starts getting miserably cold and windy – but it’s oh so beautiful to see the leaves change colour and fall to the ground. I’m sure I’m not the only one who still secretly gets giddy when theres a pile of dried leaves on the ground and no one else is around. You know you love that crunchy sound when you step on them! Ah, one of the simple things that makes me ridiculously happy!

I haven’t been home that long yet so I haven’t had a chance to go down to the parks to go for a walk, layers of clothing and an updated autumn playlist on my phone. Honestly can’t wait – I may in fact have to postpone my museum trip tomorrow and divert to Holland Park instead (if the weather lets me)

I don’t think theres anything quite like autumn. I know we’re more close to winter now but the leaves are still falling and thats enough of a glimpse to make me smile.

When the sun is shining just enough to keep your face wash but the air is cold around you. You wear your layers under your coat and scarf with a comfy pair of boots to wander around in. Grab a coffee and just walk with your friends for hours – taking in the rich colours of deep browns, reds, yellows, oranges; kicking up leaves, getting lost in Hyde Park and talking. Then as it gets a little colder, you make your way to a warm cafe for a little winding down (soup or a pie from Le Pain Quotidien is perfect!). Later find your way home to the heating turned on, a cosy sofa, a blanket and a pair of fluffy socks; a hot drink (or a glass of red) and a good movie. Absolute bliss.

Ahhhh despite the weather, this time of year always has me in the dreamy state of mind!
If you need me, I’ll most likely be staring out a window at the trees and their beautiful colours! <3

-H.G