Send Me On My Way

To go anywhere, you always have to leave the place before. That's the hardest part for me. 

I'm a bit of a baby. I cry pretty easily and think that my life (and the world) is ending way before its time and at the smallest of situations. 

Every time I leave Dubai I can't help myself from crying and every time I go back to Dubai from England, I am hit with a wave of sadness at leaving. It probably doesn't help that I listen to songs like Let me love you by Mario (which used to make me upset as a child) and then a repeat of the Titanic theme song will resound without my calling on it. 

But I hope this time that some Pharell Williams will get stuck in my head this time!! :D

I didn't expect to be as upset about leaving my job as I was today. I had already been reeling of letters of appreciation in my head for weeks and finally putting into action my earlier preparation was sad. 

To be truthful, I didn't think that I warranted a leaving do or even a card. I had only been working there since March and viewed myself as a bit of a rusty spoon in the grand scheme of things; I had the potential to be useful but I probably wasn't the first choice implement for dinner service. 

So when I got hugs and loads of little letter written in a card, I was over the moon. 

Cards are some of my favourite things. 

I often think of places that it would be nice to be homeless in, as though they exist! When I walk round town or visit a new place and see a dry, cosy place , I make a mental note. 

If I'm ever homeless, that's where I'll go.

I pack for this unfortunate journey in my head, thinking of what things I would take. As well as a haversack stuffed with all my money and warn clothes and blankets, the other things getting shoved in there are my favourite selection of cards that others have written to me. I'd take my 16th and 18th birthday cards from my parents and brothers, leaving cards and my mini books of notes from college in Dubai when I graduated last year. (Is it weird that I've planned this so thoroughly?) 

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A couple of days ago, I spat out the most spontaneously philosophical sentence that I've ever thought of. To be honest somebody most probably had already got there before me but the concept was still novel to me and I prided myself on the fact that I had thought of it. 

I am a huge fan of the Humans of New York blog. I check it twice daily and especially in the morning to get some inspiration to kick start the day. One of the distinct photos I remember was a little girl posing in the street. She was asked: 

"What do you want to be when you're older?" 

To which she replied: 

"A person." 

Such a spontaneous nugget of her mind held such philosophical connotations for the entire human race. It encapsulated me. What is it, I thought, to be a person? Does anyone actually want to be what we now see as a person? 

It's such a conundrum! 

My auntie took me to Wimbledon last week. Everything was all a bit easy going and so when we came out the wrong exit we were unfazed to go back and correct our error. We were heading for Wimbledon station - not the one we had arrived from - and it was taking a while to walk up this hill and all through the town. 

After a while, my auntie said: 

"I hope we're going the right way." 

I replied: 

"I don't think it matters where you're going, as long as you know where you've come from."

Bam!!

I meant it as a comforting thought that f we did get lost, we could always retrace our steps and go back the way we were meant to go. 

As long as you know where you've come from. How clever of me! Ahaha! 

As I walked out of work today, my last ever shift, nothing rang more true than this statement. It didn't matter where I was going. I ought to remind myself of that. 

I know this statement isn't always true. Career-wise it's nice to know how high you can go, and probably for life, having some kind of plan is desirable. 

I have no idea where I am going now. I'm going back to Dubai, that's a given. But I what's next? I could do anything, go anywhere without another thought. I know what I've got in my back pocket: the experiences that I've learnt from work. I have the knowledge of where I've been. 

Unemployment is a scary limbo. Almost as scary as living under a bridge outside Macdonald's with your 16th birthday cards. 

I quite like spontaneity, it stops you from hindering yourself. If you have no plans, then you can accept everything. But not knowing when the next pay slip will come in when your running up a tally in rent and bills isn't something that I want to really think about. 

 

For me, it now doesn't matter where I'm going, so long as I go somewhere. I've come from a lack of experience to being accepted in a company that believed in me more so than I believed in myself. 

Nothing describes my time at work like the word: "lovely" - a word that I use all to often but that can do justice to the passion of happiness and delight. That or "sterling". 

So, no, when I find myself in a panicky rut (which I do quite often) I'll remember my own little quote: it doesn't matter where you're going, so long as you remember exactly where you came from. :D 

 

Run, run, run away Baby!

There was something so special about being back at a school sporting event at an athletics club. Seeing colours. Children screaming, ice cream vans, sun glasses and the relay. Everything about it brought back sweet sweet memories. 

As a child, I told myself that I hated sports day. It was partially true. I hated sport but yet I loved the day as a whole. No school, tanning, eating outside and a general sense of happiness. What could be better? It was like a holiday, in the temperamental English weather of a field just at the back of our school. 

I relished in the idea that I would be part of one of the activities, every year. I was disgustingly below average at everything but half decent at running. As much as I hated it, I knew that I couldn't have a sports day without joining in. I replaced injured or reluctant classmates (and never managed to live up to their expectations) and I was buzzing. I was secretly waiting for my Usain Bolt moment. When I suddenly, after no training at all, flew across the track in record time. I thought it every time. And every time I was disappointed. 

On my last sports day, in Dubai, I felt like life as I knew it was over. No more days of boosting school morale in an attempt to promote sport. None of that. Just adult life. End of story. 

Now, I don't feel like I ever get an opportunity to go back onto the athletics track. There is no need. There aren't hundreds of children anticipating their run and waiting to pick positions for sports. Just me. 

As my cousin flew round the track on her relay run, I was on the verge of needing a pee. I knew that feeling. The baton handover. When it was all up to you, and I would always need a wee. 

And then when she won, that was the proud icing on the top moment which requires such pre-planning and effort. She sat in the 1st spot, smiling. A winner. But she would have been that to me anyway, even if she hasn't won. (I, finally, understand all this parental pride!) 

I wished that I could go back to those days, however uncomfortable and embarrassing they were. I have a feeling, in another 'Olympic super-athlete moment' that I might actually be good at the hurdles. There are days when I see a nice field in the sun and just want to run and run and run and run and run. That's got to count for something. 

I'll try it. 

I'm pretty surprised with myself at the moment - wanting to do running, missing sports day, watching tennis: who am I? 

Day at Wimbledon!

Sport, as you might have gathered, isn't really my thing. Until recently.

When I saw wimbledon on the telly, everything looked the same. Everyone in white on the same pitches, hitting a ball about and then somehow, Andy Murray wins. For me, it was about as interesting as football and even less so than cleaning the floor with a toothbrush. 

But, when my cousin suggested that I come to Wimbledon, my perception suddenly changed. It wasn't about the sport that I was going. It was more about the atmosphere. Strawberries, cream, Pimm's and sunshine. That was Wimbledon. And that was a true English summer. 

So my auntie and I hopped on the train, stopped off at Sainsbury's, bought our supplies and collected our tickets. 

Now, I have no idea how to score tennis. Something about lines and shouting ''OUT!" I was excited to see the games, but I didn't really know how I would cope with the middle 'slog' when I had no idea what was going on and who was getting points. 

But, as soon as we got in there, my enthusiasm started kicking in, my cousin whispering to me the techniques and rules of play. 

My first game was the BEST! And it probably didn't help that I was watching the 3rd highest ranked player in the world: Stan Wawrinka! 

GO STAN!

 It was a brilliant game and I came this close to touching him as he left the court!

After that game, I thought that I had pretty well solidified my knowledge of tennis. I knew the rules, or so I thought. Until I was introduced to breaking serve and suddenly lost all sense of the game. I couldn't remember how may sets you had to win, or games or what gave you an ADVANTAGE point (if that's even what's it's called). 

We flitted about for a few hours afterwards, snapping shots of a topless Mahut and taking shameless selfies on Henderson Hill. 

Mahut

Shameless Selfie 

I was quite contented to just sit on the hill, eating a picnic. It seemed so surreal to watch Federer on the TV and know that he was actual a stone's throw away!

For our final game we went back to Court 2 to watch seed Jelena Jankovic lose to Kaia Kanepi! We couldn't have planned it better.

Jankovic

Kanepi

I was on a roll and walking the wrong way to the train station we came across a gold postbox - my first one! And it was Andy Murray's - an obligatory photo ensued. 

Now, I've never been to Wimbledon. In fact, I've never even really had the urge to go. But when the opportunity was thrown at me, there was no negotiating the fact that I was going! 

So, as I watched hit after hit from racket to ball, I sudden wave came over me. 

I watched the ball skid across the court. My auntie had told me that you could buy tennis balls that had been used throughout the day from a certain kiosk. She said it was a relatively cheap way to get a souvenir. 

Then it got deep. 

I realised that all the pictures I'd been snapping and any souvenirs that I would have of the day were just material. I couldn't take them to the grave. I could only have the experience. The memory. And why did I even need the memory? It would be nice, of course. But it wouldn't get me anywhere. 

What, I thought, What is experience? 

What is experience if not just being able to say: "Yep, I've done that!" 

I began to panic. Maybe I shouldn't just be in life for the experience of watching. My experiences need to be doing. And in that short moment, I made a resolve to find something that I absolutely LOVED and do it with fervent passion for the rest of my life. 

I soon knocked myself out of this trance, before it got too deep and centred around what the point of life was if we were to die. 

Apart from that slight mishap however, I had the most brilliant day and came out of it with a new drive and motivation. Sport: they say it's good for you! (In more ways than one!) 

Caroline Wozniacki (potentially???)

When the saints come marching in

Life is full of experiences and the new ones can't always compare to the old ones.

The carnival was perhaps one of the best things about coming back to the village where I lived so many of my years. It was an old experience. One of those precious ones.

As I arrived at a friend's house for the second leg of my moving houses until I finished work, 30 people were dressed in costumes and wigs. The front door was open and overflowing with people as though it was a can of beans. But the little chatter, excitement and mass of colour took me back to some place special.

It turned back the clock. Took away all the nastiness, the privatisation of individual lives and angry mob of technology. And it brought back family time, picnics, horse and carts but most importantly a massive expression of character. 

It was the latter that's my favourite. And as I sat on the lawn waiting for girls and boys adorned in colourful 'cartoon' outfits, a boy told his friend: "we're from Old Basing. Mighty, mighty Old Basing." It wasn't so much that we were mighty in the sense that we had some grand influence within the UK but we had, for one day a year, a colourful union of people who came together in hoards in the sun. And that was a very powerful statement. 

It was a shame that I couldn't be with mum and dad and my brothers on this day, but, as though in their memory, I sat on the grass banks I used to remember, and watched the parade come to me. 

Old memories are great. And then a new experience hit me: I found it slightly strange to be peeing in a port-a-loo. It wasn't for the sweltering heat but the fact that I had never actually used one. When I told myself, I found that prospect weird. Not that it should be but I had just never had an excuse to use such a toilet. And for certain I wasn't  imagining it to feel like I was riding in a car: gear stick and everything at my side. 

A port-a-loo. How novel! It took me somewhere else. I felt truly rounded by the experience. Merging old and new: how exciting!