Lower Back Turtled

The turtle on my back weighs on me. He is not so old, but he is worn and in need of repair. I meant to get him touched up before I left the Smoke for Madrid, but then time got the better of me.

My turtle doesn't mean anything. It was a suggested and chosen image because its shell could be a canvas for whatever design I wanted. I spent weeks doodling in a notebook I bought at Selfridges specifically for this purpose. My doodles were experiments in form and figure and colour: would any of these merit permanent ink on skin?

I opted for primary colours: red, yellow, blue*.

With time, the yellow has completely faded. The blue is more an aqua green than royal blue, but my turtle has a head, little feet, and a tail popping out from under his faded shell.

The design and colour scheme has caused some confusion. A furtive peek, and my turtle was confused with the Union Jack. This confusion made me laugh.

How keen was I to become British?

White-collared men seem particularly interested in the fact that I have been branded. It is a mystery to me why they find it such a mystery and why this demographic is so keenly interested in seeing the bit of old ink that occupies my lower back. A bit of skin does wondrous things.

I got my turtle in 2002 in a parlour in the back streets between Covent Garden and Holborn. The parlour isn't there anymore. As soon as I came across a doodle that would do, I began scoping out places to bring my drawing to life. There was a place in Notting Hill purported to be the venue where Robbie Williams went to get himself inked. I walked by once, twice, three times. I took a breath and went into the anteroom. I tried to look like I belonged. I looked at the designs that covered the walls. I scampered out after a perfunctory viewing.

The place that isn't there (between Covent Garden and Holborn) anymore was much more inviting for a girl like me. It had an arte-nouveau, red-pleated leather sofa and portfolio books full of example artwork. The man behind the counter smiled at me and asked if he could help. I left with an appointment to return the following week.

During the course of the inking, I thought I should make conversation. I was bent with my belly over a type of massage stool; the man had inspected my lower back for nuisance-some moles and freckles. He began the task of injecting ink into my skin.

"So, where did you learn to do this?" I asked.

"Jail." He chuckled.

I paused.

"Oh. Really? What did you do?"

He paused. He smiled.

"Oh, just being young. You know."

*The Internet informs me that me and my knowledge of colours is dated. When did the primary colours come into question?

Anxiety Uncovered (?)

I am half way through my holidays. I have learnt that I can say 'recharge my batteries' in Spanish (recargar mis pilas). In my waking moments, I honestly think that I have recharged my batteries: I have taken my time at the gym; I have not stressed out about not posting here; I have run the errands I wanted to run when I wanted to, and even managed to fit in an errand that had fallen off my list months ago.

I have not once worn a pair of trousers I have owned since January.

I will be so glad to have those newly hemmed trousers back from the tailor!

My sleeping moments, however, seem to betray my conscious sense of serenity.

I am an active dreamer.

Over the past week I have dreamt ...

1. I am on a plane. It seems about to land. I realise the flight attendants have not gone through their landing procedure. Logic leads me conclude we are about to crash land. I look out the window. We are going down fast. I am calm as I think, "This is it. I hope it doesn't hurt."
2. I find a contact lens on the bathroom counter. I decide to try it on for size. It sticks to my eyeball. Everything is blurry. I cannot get it out.
3. I am a passenger in car. The driver is a woman about my age. In the dream I must be a teenager. The other passenger is another girl of our age. We are friends; though, in reality I don't know these girls who have seeped into my head. We are in the wrong lane and desperately need to turn. The driver cuts across various lanes of traffic. It is not a comfortable ride.
4. I am a witness to an act of violence: a petite, blond woman is buried up to her neck in rich, dark earth. She is calm. She acts as if it is a game. She has always been privileged. "Nothing bad could ever really happen to me." I know what she is thinking. She is showing patience with this game. A group of raggedy children circle around her. One of them swishes a scythe and her head rolls off. She dies with a wry, serene smile.
   

I wonder what these dreams mean. Am I wrestling with an undercurrent of anxiousness or am I merely suffering from watching too many episodes of Mad Men in one sitting?

Not Quite Fitting-in

On my third day of holiday, I got my haircut. I went to one of the funky-cool retro places on c/ Manuela Malasaña. It was the second time I went to this particular place, but only the first time I managed to get my hair cut then and there. The first time I went I had made an appointment. When I arrived, I found a note on the door that apologised for the inconvenience, but due to technical problems the place was closed. All appointments would be taken at the nearby Chueca branch.

Chueca is not far from Malasaña. It is equally funky-cool, but with more of a homosexual than retro colour. I pulled out my fancy phone and used the uber fancy location services service in order to get myself to Chueca for my haircut. All in all, I was not satisfied with my first Juan de Dios experience. The ambiance lived up to the funky-cool first impression I had had, but the staff seemed to be full of their funky-cool selves. My appointment was the last of the day, and the funky-cool staff seemed in a rush to wet (and wash?) my hair, chop it, take my dosh, and push me out the door. I felt robbed of the luxury experience that having a haircut in a funky-cool locale should be.

Yesterday, my decision to get a haircut was made whilst I walked the streets like a tourist. I decided not to go to Juan de Dios, but rather to a different hip spot in, also in Malasaña, a place recommended by a friend. Unfortunately, this type of spontaneous haircut decision limited my choices. My friend's spot couldn't fit me in. My feet led me back to the doors I had found shut on my previous visit to Juan de Dios. Juan de Dios were able to fit me in within 15 minutes. I agreed with myself to give them another shot.

I recognised one of the staff from my visit to the Chueca branch. S/he was a striking height and beauty. Long legs. Long arms. Long blond hair. Perfectly applied eye make-up and pink-lined lips. S/he was not assigned to me. I was a bit disappointed. I listened to her nasally Madrileña Spanish. The native male tone overshadowed by femininity.

The girl who came to collect me from the orange armchair in the waiting area looked like a stray kitten recently rescued by funky-cool staff at a retro hair salon. She was petite in every way (height and weight). Her hair was done in a mussed and messy way. Her clothes were torn and tattered, but clean and carefully arranged. She had an air of nonchalance, and I thought, "Great. Here we go again."

The aloof rescued kitten, however, proved to be patient with a foreigner's twist on her mother tongue. She listened politely and finished my sentences when I struggled with the technical jargon related to getting a funky-cool haircut. She properly washed my hair in the manner that verges on massage. It almost made me purr.

Now that would have been a twist.

She snipped quickly, but carefully. She applied product only after showing me the tube and making sure I was ok with it. When her skinny arms held up a mirror to show me the 360 view of her work, I noticed the tattoos: hair-cutting shears on one arm; a looking glass on another.

My, she must really be dedicated to her profession.

I wondered about my choice of tattoo.

Should I have gone for a computer or phone or a modem or maybe just a string of 0s and 1s for bits and bytes?

It's important to know that even though you are nerdy as hell, you can still mingle with the funky-cool.

Kitchen in Use

A chicken carcass is boiling in my kitchen. The Dog has stopped her pacing and has lain herself down in front of the stove. She looks as if she has lost hope, but just in case . . . .

On my 2nd day of vacation, I have decided to make some chicken soup. On Sunday The Man got caught out by some sniffles which have turned into the flu. He's still slogging it into his office, but I think he'll like to have some chicken soup to come home to. Not less important: I will like some too. I don't get sick that often, but I would be very annoyed if I came down with the flu on my two weeks of vacation in paradise.

I only learned to make chicken soup the first time I lived in Madrid. The Man introduced me to the idea of saving the skeleton of a pollo asado, boiling it up and adding carrots and potatoes and whatever else might be at hand. I think it's funny that I should have learnt to make chicken soup in Spain when I don't think it is something that Spaniards normally make.

Or maybe I'm wrong.

The grocery store provides a small pre-packaged carton of almost all the essentials for a chicken soup: celery, carrots, something I think is a shallot, but now that this word comes out, I realise I don't really know what a shallot is. Normally I would add onion and potatoes, but today I will substitute the potatoes for rice because I happen to have some. And I'm too lazy to chop anymore onion ...

I must admit some failure.

In addition to chicken soup, I decided to make a modified version of a Spanish tortilla. I like to substitute sweet potatoes for the white potatoes; and I like to add something green. I have made very good sweet potato - broccoli tortillas (any good Spaniard would deny me the use of the term 'tortilla' in this context).

Today I opted for spinach instead of broccoli.

I think I have previously experimented in this less than successful way. I seem to recall a waterlogged tortilla. I seem to recall previously reminding myself to steer clear of spinach in my pseudo-Spanish tortillas. It's a faint recollection ... similar to how some of us might re-read books for "the first time". I might have even written a post on that previously failed tortilla. Possible re-writing is not nearly as comfortable as possible re-reading.

I might take a little nap.

Two Weeks Taken

I had decided that when the RFP madness came to an end, I would take some time off. Just for me.

"Maybe I'll take an intensive Spanish course." I told myself.

The day after I submitted my request for annual leave, a potential customer beckoned. My annual leave was postponed by a week because I was needed on a small, Mediterranean island. The journey to the island required an early morning start and a late to bed finish. Whilst there was a bit of fun in breezily stating, "Oh, I have to be in the Med for such 'n such a meeting" on the whole, the journey was tiresome. Long hours after a long month quelled my enthusiasm for trips to small, Mediterranean islands.

Today my holiday starts. After the initial postponement of my annual leave, I decided to treat myself, not to a mere week, but to a full two. My colleagues don't seem to believe me when I tell them I'm not going anywhere.

Who takes two weeks off from work and doesn't go anywhere?

Just because I'm not going anywhere doesn't mean I don't have plans: leisurely mornings at the gym, leisurely afternoons at WIFI enabled cafes, and early evenings in an intensive Spanish regimen.

Possibly not the most exciting of plans; but just what I need right now.

I'm Tired

I don't know where to start the latest story of my life. I'm not entirely sure it's even a story. Or noteworthy. Work has consumed me.

Or have you let it consume you?

For months after moving to Madrid, I struggled with my professional identity. When I moved from London, I moved away from my colleagues and an office. My link to coworkers became the telephone.

Have I ever told you how much I hate the telephone?

I moved away from my role as a manager of people to a developer of business. The new role started slowly. Too slowly. I had time on my hands and felt guilty when I didn't fill it with important work related things. I compensated by accepting calls from inconsiderate colleagues at unreasonable hours and taking on responsibilities that didn't strictly fall within my remit. I didn't see myself developing any new business. I worried about failure. I unnecessarily tied myself to my desk. I made meaningless tasks last an entire afternoon.

If I suffered a little malaise, it didn't surprise me. I am a creature of routine, and my life had been turned upside down.

You did it to yourself. This was voluntary.

And it was good. I knew my self-imposed changes would initially be a challenge to which I would adapt; my new life would be more wonderful than I could have ever imagined. I forced a new routine on myself. I woke up and went to the gym and made myself healthy lunches.

So what if I ate them at my desk.

At the end of July one of the business develop-y things I had been doing to occupy my time popped, and an RFP* with an early September deadline was issued. It bode poorly for August. There would be a lot of work. I braced myself.

A wholly unexpected, other business develop-y thing popped in mid August: another RFP with another early September deadline. I dove into the challenge of over-extending myself like a kid dives into Haagan Daz. For a time, I tried to balance Spanish classes and blogging and work committments with dog-walking. I woke up and went to bed in a daze. The Man expressed concern.

"Just wait until early September. I'll be back." I told him.

It is just about time to come up for air. Not quite; but almost. In the meantime, I'm afraid I'm still struggling with the whole idea of balance.

RFP: Request for Proposal or Ridiculous Fucking Project (that inhuman humans subject upon fellow humans)*.