The mere fact that I would attempt to write a blog is troubling, it rather assumes that what I have to say could be of interest to someone other than myself, and frankly I bore me at times. That said, one of my finest and blondest friends suggested I give it a whirl, so buckle up it may be a bumpy ride! The first people to read this will know me and will at least be able to put a face and voice to the words. Those of you that stumble into this world try to be kind, perhaps you could send imagined images?
I will avoid biographical details, think of it as a jigsaw puzzle with more than say 100 pieces, without the picture, or indeed all the pieces (I think Chicken Licken may have one of them?). I would say that my thoughts are my own, though in practice you may find that I have read it somewhere and forgotten, or, have stolen it to appear more well read. In general, please forgive this weak and idle theme.
So, here's the thing, I realised the other day as I was wandering to the railway station ('Oh Mr Porter what shall I do?') that I had nothing to link me to a career I had for pushing twenty years, nothing, no documents, pictures, proof of existence. While I was involved in it I preferred to keep a low profile and away from anything that could be described as the limelight. Now for reasons that will become apparent shortly this brings me back to the subject of ego, now I wouldn't know my Id if it fell on me, my ego is possibly what is seen every day, however, my alter ego may be my real self, or at least a shinier version. What is the point of this I hear you cry (well possibly just Laura), well, it is a preamble to finding myself in Bloomsbury Square, dressed in a kind of blanket that smells a bit like camel.
Clothing is an interesting thing, the fact that we wear it shows that - A. It tends to be a bit chilly in the UK and B. The human body in all its forms needs to be covered up, for the most part. I am not immune to its charms, but I have seen sights that make it difficult to believe in a humane God (insert choice here). Anyway, back to clothing, we are defined by it, and define ourselves with it, from say, wearing a band T Shirt or football top (I belong to this tribe) or by having the latest fashion item (I am up to date and part of the elite). Unless you are walking to the South Pole, decisions on clothes are seldom made on purely practical grounds.
So back to Bloomsbury Square - This weekend (December 1st) saw the 4th annual 'Chap Ball' (Google it, I couldn't explain) and my friends and I trooped along for an evening of music, dancing , cocktails and randomness. And here is the thing, the fact that I had clothed myself in the attire of a French officer of the 1940's in N Africa liberated me from the normal English convention of reserve and timidity. I had effectively been able to assume the persona that I would like to be, without the fear of rejection or failure. The net result of all this was that I could behave in a more natural way and get to speak and dance with some charming people. At one point I surrendered to the idea of a blind date, well, I was wearing the blindfold, not sure about the lady! In the context of the evening it did not seem the least bit odd, but I doubt if I would have agreed if I had been the go to work or go to the shops me. This begs the question why be a mundane version of oneself, we give the world vanilla when we are more cloves and cinnamon, or to put it another way if you happen to be Marmite do you portray yourself as bread so people don't hate you?
Enough for now, next time - tales of the Russian Embassy and Birmingham International Railway station.
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