Shy or Wicked?

I'm shier than shy; shier than most, but it's something I'm always trying to overcome. Yet I find myself in situations where I wish I wasn't so timid. And often, I can't work out whether this shyness is really down to not being able to speak or not wanting to. 

  My hands aren't sculpted for holding things. My long spidery fingers, contrary to belief, aren't very good at gripping. Things drop; they split, they break, falling from the great height of the middle of a 5ft 7" eighteen year old girl.  

  I dropped a pot of soured cream and chive crisp dip in the supermarket the other day. I wasn't surprised and even less so to find that the lid had popped off and a dog-poo dollop of the sauce had made its way from the pot onto the floor. 

  I should have known it, but why? Just why? 

  This wasn't ASDA, either. This wasn't Tesco. This wasn't Sainsbury's. It was Waitrose. And, of course, I was the only person in the store who seemed to have spilt anything. My nana rushed off to find a cleaner who promptly told her that he'd be over to clean it up in a minute. 

  I stood awkwardly over the mess, angling my feet into a weird two sided triangle. 

  Where was that cleaner?

  The food belt was running forward. My 700 gram box of Rice Krispies was trundling down to the cashier. I couldn't stand here like a penguin until he came. There were people waiting.  

  Next customer please, was flashing behind me. Choices, choices. 

  I glanced at the man behind. He was wrapped in the allure of his sausage roll, flaky pastry sitting all around his stubbly chin. 

  He probably saw it. But what if he steps in it? Should I tell him? How would I break it to him? 

  It was trivial. How would I break it to him?! (I genuinely thought this.) I wasn't telling him his dog had just died. I was making sure he didn't skid down the aisle on the creamy dip! And...I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell him. I just walked forward. 

  I smiled at the cashier. 

  Oh no. I haven't just done that.

  My nana came back. 

"He said he's on his way." 

  Right'o. I needn't tell the man then. 

  But he was oblivious. It seems the savoury pastry had balled over all his senses. He was unpacking. I could see it. Soured cream and chive; right by his foot. 

 "Excuse me-" but it was too late. He'd smeared the sauce with his shoe and now had green herbs clinging to his trouser leg. "Oh no!" My nana continued. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Oh, you've got it on your trousers! I just called the man to clean it up!"

  "That's alright," replied this rather handsome looking man. Rugged and blonde, tall and well-spoken. "It seems I've done the job." He was adamant not to look my way. I couldn't even have the cashiers attention in diverting my attention. She was handing him tissues and watching him scrape it off the bottom of his shoe. 

  He knew. And he knew I knew. But I didn't tell him. 

I felt a fool for it. But I can't work out why. Was I really to shy to say anything? Or did I want to tempt Fate, just to see of he'd walk in it? This happens a lot and, likewise, I just have no idea! 

Books and the Monks

  The quaint village stereotype is so easily found on the Isle of Wight. Scouting various bookshops today, I witnessed the absolute intrinsic hold of little villages. As I'm starting Uni there's a few course texts that I need to get and, since it's a chore I absolutely LOVE, my nan and I have been scouring nearly all of the islands bookstores. We've been to the usuals; WHSmiths, Waterstones but, being as cheap as I am, I'd much rather get them second hand, then marking the pages with annotations and giving them away when I'm done won't hurt quite so much. We've looked it Charity shops but often the book supply is frugal so we've taken to older shops stacked to the ABSOLUTE brim with paperbacks in all sorts of conditions. That smell of weathered parchment and musty covers is much like a drug; it's an addiction that leads me to add to my ever expansive bookshelf of unread novels. 

  I found a couple of the titles I needed but freezing and in need of a hot chocolate we went next door and ordered a drink and some cake. It was only very small but beautifully laid out in a way that is so common in seaside towns, particularly those of Cornwall. 

  We moved on to yet another bookshop afterwards. It was a shop with every wonder you could think of (apart from the novels I needed!)

  It was a house, renovated into a bookshop. Three storeys high and separated by section into the different bedrooms of the house, it was a book lover's paradise. You can probably imagine how ill I felt by it all! It was magical by all standards tucked away as an unassuming shop decorated like those newsagents that no one but locals or passing travellers go in. If the cashier hasn't told us about the layers of books we wouldn't have known the scale of novels. So the ground floor and hallway were made up of the new books; penguin classics, nature and poetry. Taking the door to the left lead you to the base of the stairwell and out the back of the ground floor, lay shelves and shelves of second-hand thrillers and normal fiction in what was, effectively, the kitchen. Various others were stacked under the stairs. As you took the flight to the first floor, the walls were lined with alphabetically ordered fiction, the front bedroom was a collection of war, history, true crime, nature and gardening books, with the neighbouring room full of philosophy, religion and English literature. Back down the hallway, a small airing cupboard was opened with numerous children's titles joined to a smaller bedroom housing EVERY children's book ever desired; Rupert, Enid Blyton, Harry Potter, magazines, Roald Dahl, everything. And, what was more, if those categories weren't enough you could take another, equally long staircase to find adult's health, psychology, arts and creator books on the third floor. It was mesmerising and I was so so lost in the variety and reasonable prices. 

  But, at 3:05pm, the wonders of the day were far from over. 

  There is something so intoxicating about a place like Quarr Abbey, our next stop. Spontaneously and despite the rain, we had decided to visit in passing. The serenity, the smell, the exclusion, the divinity and the leisure of the pigs that roam the grounds was just divine! 

Places like this are a true mark of unfailing beauty. Churches and monasteries never fail to captivate me. I always find myself there. The church is such a wondrous place for me. I always think on how it became; how religion was so deeply upheld. The multiple religions that float about today; Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity, Islam to name but a few, are all upheld today as there were in their origin. Whilst the world has changed; things have become, others extinct and yet, though many can guess at the rate of inclination in members, religion prevails. 

  I often think I'd like to be a nun. And then I think again. I have deep admiration for such servants of God. The devotion of their lives in accepting religion in the most remarkable way through embedding themselves in such ancient forms of society. It's inspirational. Regardless of whether you are religious, places of worship always have something to offer; if not a special place, perhaps peace of mind, silence or hope in the knowledge that religion is only one stem of belief in a system of unique thinkers.

All in all then, I had such a lovely day full of many o the things I love; books, walking, nature, eating and religion! 

Hours spent at the top of the bus

Rain, for all the irony, can be just like fire. It can disfigure like the lick of orange flames. And coupled with the wind, it can reap havoc. But when there is a break, that relief of warm sun, that spread of blue sky, it is all that can be desired.

My favourite bus route is the Number 8 to Sandown. Sitting atop the double decker on a perfect and crisp afternoon, your vision stretches across dales, across yellow pasture and across scuzzy trees leeching the landscape like moss. As of yet, my eyes know no greater beauty than the untouched wilderness of the rural Isle of Wight.
 It's been a wonder, a chance to marvel the English countryside in the dilapidated summer. Though the warmth of the bright sunshine can fool no one, it casts a beautiful sheen over the hills. It's a wonderful sight. I've been getting about the Island lately by bus. It's pretty cheap and roaming the area is a lovely way to spend a few hours!

I always say that when an English summer is like this, there is no place I'd rather be and this stands, somewhat, today. Though I've seen more of the world now than when I made that first statement, it does still hold true. There are a few places I would love to be right now but that's not to say that leaving England wouldn't bring pain. The scenery is absolutely BEAUTIFUL and I get myself so lost in the picturesque. All I long for is to be out in it; to eat sandwiches in an isolated field, to rear sheep and turn out horses. Seeing life from the top of the bus, I long to keep rabbits and walk my dog, to pick shells from a shingle beach and to read with the sting of wind on my face.

That tranquility is outstanding. I've been really blessed and I know it's such a cliche; all everyone in England seems to talk about is the weather. But when everything's going a little bit downhill, the continuance of the weather and it's temperamental nature can fill those awkward gaps and take your mind off a few things.

I'm ever so lucky to have this break; to have the ability to move from scene to scene, country to country watching the world from a different perspective because it true; the weather does direct perception. It does so in such a way that, if this gorgeous sun continues, I'll soon be proclaiming England - rightly and wrongly - to be the greatest country on this Earth! :D

Dear Ol' England

Why is it that everyone walks with a stern brow? A pouted mouth? A chip on their shoulder that's big enough to make them waddle? 

  I agree; cleaning the bins in front of Morrisons isn't any fun. Talking people through banking accounts, having to pay 10p for a bag at the Hospice shop, seeing the sun eclipsed by the clouds, advising people on the best SIM card at Phones4U aren't all that fun or exciting either - but they could be. 

  For me, there's a fundamental difference between living in Dubai and living in England; the amount of people who seem to want to live. There was but one man, a kind gentleman in Nationwide, who seemed happy. He was interested to hear about the perks of Dubai and was forever questioning, happy to answer and polite. 

It's a generalisation I know but I'd forgotten. This sadness. This glum. This stubborn detest for everything. A smile, dare I say it, seldom seems acceptable here but is such a desperate necessity. 

A frown won't stop you hating your job. Moaning won't make a sun appear. Berating the driver in front of you because they're driving too slowly won't persuade them otherwise. But neither will a smile - but it might do. And even if it doesn't, it will make the day alot better.