Development week -The Big Read (through)

This post relates to my debut play, Blue Lines, which has won the Hive Award 2019 and will be presented as part of Manchester Fringe.  Have a look here if you want to find out more about it:  

Wadda week.

World Book Day. International Women’s Day.  I got my mooncup in on first go.

It was a week of major wins.

It was also the week of the read through of my play, Blue Lines. The first time that I would hear it outside of my own head, read by other people.  In front of an audience of even more other people.

No wonder I’m still in my pyjamas today.

My play is super personal.  It’s based on my experiences of infertility – of being the woman who ‘is maybe leaving it a little bit late’.  People rarely see the feet pedalling frantically below the surface, do they?  I got sick of saying ‘we’re still trying’, which it would appear was the only acceptable response to enquiries about my lack of baby.  I digress – the play, yes the play – is an encounter between a teacher and student and the relationship that develops between them.  That’s all I’m saying.

Bearing in mind that it’s personal and it’s the first play that I’ve ever written, it’s a lot.  Oddly enough, I had no issue sending the piece off to my mentor, Tim Firth, to read and give me feedback.  He was reading it.  Somewhere else.  not loud enough for me to hear him.

Fate smiled on me though – the actors I worked with were intuitive and sensitive and despite having only a quick read through online the night before, did a great job of capturing the essence of both characters.  I obviously had to sit on my mouth (not a thing I know) to stop myself from interjecting, to ask them to try things out again, and over the course of the hour I produced the kind of fine, clinging sweat that I associate with wearing too many fine layers under an anorak.

But the feedback was what I wanted – it was positive but also constructively helpful, pointing me towards areas of plot and some dialogue that need clarifying, tightening, cutting or enhancing.

 

I just have to do it now.

Vanishing Tricks

The ballet barre was a Christmas present.  It was matt black, had a slightly bevelled appearance and was made of the kind of material that would never warm up and this was its greatest advantage; as a hot sweaty pre-teen then teen, I would spend hours pressing different parts of my face and cheeks against its implacable surface as balm to my feverish hormonal outbreaks.

Thinking back, it was probably actually a dress-rail on its lowest setting.  It was stand-alone with little feet on wheels.  Yes, it was a dress-rail, something that became more obvious once we started plonking discarded shell suits and training bras on top of it.  My mother still uses it as her ‘holiday rail’ because of its ability to hold an inordinate number of white linen trousers without crumbling.

 

The point is, it was purchased as a gift for me, as a ballet barre.  At the time, I consumed dancing, aiming always to be on the cover of The Dancing Times, a magazine which consistently featured a dancer mid – feat on its front cover. I wanted to be photographed en pointe, in attitude, my leg an impossible curve reaching up between my shoulder blades.  And I would go to dancing lessons three or four times a week to help me achieve this.  and because I was young and there was bit less flesh between my waist and thigh (and I don’t just mean buttock here, I mean that spread of flesh which creeps up round the sides towards the middle), I could fling my legs back and strike a pose that could pass for a Dancing Times Cover.  But I didn’t practice at home.  The ballet barre, like the stereotype of every ballet teacher that you have ever come across in film or fiction, remained in the corner, aloof and imperious but unused except as a cool resting place for my cheeks or temporary (read permanent) clothes hanger.

Aged 16, I got thick.  That aforementioned bit near my middle , though by no means as prodigious as it is now, suddenly toughened up and refused to budge for arabesques or attitudes and jumps, any jumps, took a nano-moment of effort and consideration before execution.  In response, I did what some girls would do in this situation; I cried, ate more, felt bad, tried a detoxifying seaweed wrap, ate cottage cheese, ate more then ate nothing.  And still my body failed to live up to expectations.  And now the ballet barre offered little cool comfort to my fired cheeks, displaying all the summer dresses, flimsy playsuits and bandeau tops that represented my attitude-flinging, floaty-jumpy past self.

 

Yes, I’m equating body size and success – not because it’s right, but because it;s how it was.

 

If only I’d listened to the ballet barre, i think I would have made some different decisions.  After all, I was talented, but not resilient.  I should perhaps have taken it up on its silent challenge and practised.  Working on my technique and strength may have kept me in attitude for a bit longer, but I felt at the time a bit silly on my own and besides Golden Girls was on.

But that’s working on the assumption that I wanted to strike a pose badly enough.  the humiliation of not being ‘good’ anymore was great, but not so great that I would switch off Rue McClanahan.  I didn’t do anything to change the situation, except starve myself, which felt like control and looked to me at least, like success.  Maybe the ballet barre was begging to be a full time clothes rail, that I should give up, if giving up was what I wanted to do.

The choice I made, my vanishing trick, was a semblance of choice.  I punished myself by not eating and I’m still negotiating this terrain today.  i could have built up my resilience, kept practising, gone for it and felt that transcendent joy that comes from working hard at something.  Or I could have made a damn decision, sacked it off, filled my life with other, better things (like food).  But my vanishing trick was successful at the time; I was thin and I had no energy so I could fall between the gaps.  And it felt lovely for a bit.  But now when I see young women (mostly) making that false equation between success and silence, both physical and mental,  I hope that they have a ballet barre or a clothes rail or just somewhere to lay their hot heads in the summer and think again –  and reflect – and that they decide to make a choice and not pull a vanishing trick.

Sleep fighting, or I how I learned to stop moaning about tiredness and use it as a source of delirious creativity

Last night was not a vintage night in my household.  We were very much awake for most of it, so much so that I just had a mid morning nap, brief and blissfull, on the playstation console.  My son is also feeling the burn, pressing his forehead and eyes into any available solid object like coasters and baby wipe packets, while hankering after any unavailable solid object (I saw the way he looked at my slipper).  But it is his damn fault that we are tired, with his constant flailing and griping – when will he learn?!! By 8 months, they should have this down, shouldn’t they?  But no – if my son were a Viking, he would go by the name of ‘Theodore, the Sleepfighter’.  So, yes, we are really tired.

 

Fact 1 – no one is surprised when, as a new parent, you say you are tired.  Fact 2 – gatherings of new parents will try and out tired each other with anecdotes of extreme acts  committed while tired (you were so tired that you put your car keys in the fridge? I was so tired that I voted for UKIP!)  Fact 3 – it is an entirely boring conversation to have, up there with routes taken to destinations and one’s health.

 

I am going to own the tiredness.

 

So my son is a little peaky today – teething undoubtedly, grouchy, pissed off.  He’s okay though, in fact he is now asleep in his chair, beaten but unbowed.  Instead of trying to sleep (what a loser would do) or cry about being tired (same), I will use my delirium to think about all the ways T would have been treated through history for his current, slightly ‘off’ condition.  Bearing in mind that I have no sense of history, or geography, which is akin to having no sense of time or space, which is akin to being accurate, this should be a short and highly speculative (i.e historically false) list.  Here we go:

 

Viking era – T would have been offered to the Gods.  His moods would be used to discern the weather.  I think he would be a talisman.

Middle Ages – T would have been diagnosed by a monk with having too much bile and would have been covered in leeches.  If this didn’t work, he may have been declared a devil child.

Victorian Era – he would have been diagnosed with something, anything, in front of a paying audience.

Early 1900s – He would have been diagnosed as hysteric and sent for dream analysis and then a cure in Switzerland.

1920s – given rum

1950s – given some of those new fangled wonder drugs that everyone is talking about

1970s – bathed in breastmilk and forced into tree pose while someone cleansed his aura with a mung bean

1980s – sterilised and placed in a hyperbaric chamber

2010s – analysed via online forum by various warring factions  who weigh in on the best possible way to treat him based on what they had read online.  This in itself would then become an online story on a clickbait website.

 

As it is, I will watch him for a bit and then give thanks for the fact that he is asleep and then quietly retreat to somewhere comfortable … like a playstation, for example.

 

Night night.

 

 

 

 

Facing the awkward, or how I use the word ‘dick’ repeatedly to describe my past behaviour but not directly apologise for anything.

I’m going to be completely honest – I have, in the past, been a bit of a dick (in the past?).  Who hasn’t? I respond in my head, somewhat defensively.  Well, yes, of course, we have all been dicks whether we admit it or not.  I am still in two minds as to whether I would rather have a palimpsest memory which would erase all dickish, awkward, embarrassing vignettes from my past life or if I would rather hold on to them, in the vague hope that one day I would ‘use them’ to become a ‘better person’.  Instead, these dickish memories just resurface at inopportune moments and often in such acute detail that I have to sing whatever other words I can think of out loud to drown out the image.

 

I am not going to share what these dickish memories are – I am not ready for such bald, invasive therapy (my sphincter just puckered like a flautist’s lips at the very thought of it!)  But today, I decided to confront the awkward – and try to work out why these moments are so awkward.  I’d read a little bit about emotional agility here, and I liked the idea of dealing with an inner critic as a source of possible information about ourselves, rather than a voice to be ignored and ultimately controlled.  Could I do the same with dickish memories?

 

Most of my awkward memories revolve around people I am no longer in touch with – I judge myself unfairly against other people and their reactions; to the extent that I often see colleagues and friends as an extension of myself and my somewhat harsh self image.  I am far more likely to dwell on a friend that I have lost than a friend that I enjoy spending time with – and over the years I have lost a fair few friends, either through my own volition (although I find it hard to even admit that) or because they just stopped calling. For example, I am not in touch with anyone from university – why is that?  So, in the spirit of ringing in the new, I am contacting  former acquaintances again – in some cases 19 years after we first met.   I’m focusing on the ones where I think my essential 21year old dickishness may have been the decisive factor in our parting ways.  This is telling – I don’t recall the other party being dicks at all – which means possibly I am viewing all this through a pair of shit coloured spectacles and actually, me not being in touch with them has nothing to do with my behaviour and everything to do with the fact that you can’t stay in touch with everyone.  In which case, by dusting off the hotmail contact list I am essentially opening myself up to a whole host of awkward moments anew.  What larks!

 

Of course, my other natural state is envy – so if anyone that I haven’t heard from in over 10 years is doing particularly well, there is a great chance that I won’t reply to them.  Kidding!  Again, in the spirit of ringing in the new, I will greet everyone with a generosity of heart that I am working on devotedly like a Shaolin monk at his calligraphy.  Naturally, through my shit coloured spectacles, I have to consider the grave possibility of the worst possible response: Nefny Who?  But at least that would mean that if I failed to make an impact for my dickishness on said person, then I can probably safely delete that awkward memory from my guilt-drive.

 

What do I want from this?  To be in touch with people whom I once liked?  To see if I can be forgiven? To exorcise my dickheadedness? To prove that I am a different person? Who knows?  Perhaps the challenge lies in facing one’s own awkward past lives rather than the abundance of renewed friendships that may (or may not) ensue.

Enjoy the ride, man

There a few things for which I stop and congratulate myself; to be honest it is not, on reflection, because I do little to be proud of , because I am more often involved in pulling baby porridge from my hair (am I alone in enjoying the sensation?)  But here is one thing; since my son started crawling and rolling or both at once – crolling? I have raised nappy changing to performance art.  I would happily charge someone to come in and watch me change a nappy – stick some ‘Tubular Bells’ behind it and I could sell it to Cirque du Soleil.  After extensive reviews and rehearsal,and an out of town run, my son and I have decided that nappy changing should be a) done in total silence (effort grunts are acceptable) b) he should be allowed to coat his own hand in sudocrem and c) at least one limb should moving contrary to the rest of the limbs at all times (my own or his).

 

I am also proud of my ability to use my son as an excuse for all manner of slovenly behaviour.  Grocery delivery man arrives and STILL in pyjamas? I have a 6 month old baby, so …… you know (raise eyebrows and nod to self as if this is more than sufficient justification).  Floor of kitchen resembles that of a lowdown tapas bar on the outskirts of Malaga?  Well, you know, with a 6 month old baby, it is just so hard to keep it clean and etc etc.  My son is now 8 month olds – I am not neglectful , this just demonstrates for how long I have used these particular line of thought.  Again – practice has raised it to an art form!

 

But I have been thinking about the end of Maternity Leave and the big return to work.  All around me I am seeing mothers lose their shit at the thought of going back, mothers for whom Maternity Leave and childcare has been not so much a roller coast ride as a log flume.  There’s been lots of water and the trajectory has been pretty much downwards for the duration.  I am sure there are private moments of intense joy and calm – I know there are!  But the public aspect of early motherhood is characterised by fraught interactions and the idea that martyrdom is good.  This seems pretty universal across the forums of motherhood – from the coffee morning meet up, to the WhatsApp group, to the mothership (no pun in- well maybe pun intended) – the online discussion.  Intra-mum exchanges, in my experience are 75% of the time on the subject of their child’s health and development and usually conclude with a plea for reassurance or consolation.  I know that from time immemorial, mothers have come together to discuss their children and find solace in the tough times, but add to this the layer of singular angst surrounding return to work and the tension reaches panic room level.

I am on a life raft – a unique life raft which offers baby yoga and sensory sessions, but a life raft nonetheless, floating along, evaluating my own and my son’s life  and finding them pretty pleasing thank you very much.  Gradually I notice women disappearing – I don’t see them do it at first – suddenly they’re not there anymore.  And I notice women around me noticing this – and I start to hear a low pitch whining noise, and then I realise it is coming from the woman next to me.  And then I see her do it – she leans back and throws herself over and I never see her again.  And the mood on the boat, which had been so pleasant up to now, starts to change – it gets rockier, the women start to cry and the waves get rougher, because we’re lighter in number and I have to prepare myself for leaping over the side.  I want to spend as much time as possible just staring at my baby because I WON’T EVER SEE HIM AGAIN but I also want to enjoy my last moments of freedom as a person who has hobbies and a social life, so I divide my time between speed-reading books described as ‘life-changing’ on the sleeve and cuddling my baby – and feeling guilty about not doing the other all the time.

 

And then, I hope, I’ll get pulled over the side.  And it, like most things, will probably be fine.  Okay, I may not always have porridge in my hair to look forward to.  But I will probably even enjoy being a worker and contributing to society, not just feathering my own nest. I may even enjoy wearing clothes again.  Who knows?  All I can do at the moment is try to reason with myself and my frankly hysterical response to returning to work.  Did I mention that I have two months left before i go back?  Yep.  Ages.  But it is the Crucible effect, infectious.  Once one person starts frothing at the mouth about visiting nurseries and arranging pick up times, we all do it.  But I am determined to enjoy the ride for a s long as possible, dammit – a concerted fightback, if you will.  Here are a few things that I will try out to keep myself in check:

 

Make a list of things that are good about work.

But some new clothes for work

Give the hysteria I feel about end of Mat Leave a name and face, a character.  Mine has cats, flyaway hair and writes afternoon dramas starring Jason Priestley for Channel 5 (none of which are green-lit)

Sit still for a bit every day and be calm.

Plan in a few trips.

Wear pyjamas and don’t stress about the food on your floor.  Or your face.  Or in your hair.

All suggestions gratefully received!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alright

I never do anything fully, so I never do anything at all.  This phrase popped up in my journal this morning.  It’s a restless day, a day for the stay at home mums (as if any mum is genuinely a ‘stay at home’ mum now – we’re all too busy attending sensory/swimming/playdates).  But it is stay at home today, because of an unexpected and very beautiful snow fall which is now into its fourth hour.  Plus my son (I have a son now, eight months) is asleep in his chair and the house is more or less tidy and yes I’ve changed the TV License so well done me.

 

Stay at home – what sort of image do these phrases conjure up?  Home …comfort, home …safe, home ….sweet home.  Stay ….put, stay …still, stay ….calm.  All lovely and soothing if taken in isolation but far from accurate depictions of my experience.  When I genuinely am a stay at home mum (i.e today), these connotations are kind of soporific; I totally understand how people become sofa-locked when they are ‘stay at home’.. We become children – we work on a task and reward basis and if I ‘stay at home’ too long, the task reward ratio becomes ever slighter.  Day 1: I tidy out the drawers, freeze several meals and sort out life insurance, therefore, I shall meditate for half an hour and make a pot of tea.  Day five: I haven’t watched television for an hour, therefore I shall watch television for an hour.  You see? Who is the bigger baby here? When my son is awake, he is active, engrossed.  Sometimes I lose half a day being ‘stay at home’, dreaming of the things I’ll do when I’m not stay at home in the same way that, out and about, I dream of the things I’ll do when I’m ‘stay at home’ again.  Plus ca change.

This is not self-criticism, but written more in the spirit of acceptance.  The day is busy, but busy in a way that I never thought I would find busy – with dishes and nappies and stacking cups.  Being temporarily sofa-locked, I am going to wildly paraphrase here, but I’m thinking of the section in The Golden notebook when Doris Lessing writes about a change in her heroine’s character, when she moved from appreciating a certain hour as when day turns into night to seeing it as the ‘time to put the vegetables on’.  The day can be meted out thus; but it is no bad thing, it is how things are, for now. Continue reading “Alright”

This Charming Manc

It's a condiment!

The last couple of months have been filled with the kind of dread and anxiety that I imagine baby cows experience on the veal truck to nowhere.  Leaving London felt impossibly big and the time I had to complete all the ‘things I haven’t yet done’ seemed ridiculously small.  Even the shit bits were romanticised; I gazed at the puke on the pavement like it was morning dew, the shouty smelly weirdo at the tube station became the last bastion of eccentric London.  Sullen moody queue pushers were smiled on fondly.  Could I really be leaving all this splendour behind?

To be honest, by the final week, living as if I were in a film was getting a little tiresome so I was ready to make the break.  The only time I remember being genuinely upset was when it was time to say goodbye to the guy who works in our cornershop.  Friends I know I will stay in touch with, maintaining relations witnewsagents will be more difficult, so the reality of not ever seeing him again was genuinely affecting for both of us.

The move was stressful and long and everything we hoped it would be, so enough of that.  Permit me to be really smug instead.

Manchester. is.  great.  Possibly (and it’s early I know and I haven’t been to work yet) even better than London.  There, I said it, Cockneys! Here are my reasons why, a wide ranging mix of cliche and genuinely excellent observation:

1.  Less pigeons.  This is a major factor for me as I hate those little turds.

2.  Black pudding is practically a condiment.  And it is really good black pudding!  In fact, breakfasts are across the board fabulous; I recommend Teacup (which has a very hands on owner in Mr Scruff, purveyor of fine tea, fine music and a Manc legend) and the Koffeepot, which is like your favourite bits of every previous era rolled into one.

3.  People are friendlier.  Boring but true. The only snake in the grass that we’ve come across so far has been the estate agent!  Football fans are not known for their top table manners, but at Old Trafford recently, people were kindly stepping aside to let people out of the rows in front and everyone was thanking everyone else profusely like it was Oscar night!

4.  I can walk everywhere from my house.  To the station, the theatre, the best bars and pubs.  No more Transport for London Journey Planner!  And I can get to proper real-life countryside (see pic below) in less than 45 minutes!

5.  Traffic lights turn green quicker.   I offer no empirical evidence for this, but I have waited on enough stubborn red men in my life to know a quick and fortuitous change when I see one.

6.  Great Northern Institutions, like Wilkinson’s, where you can get everything for £5.  Never knowingly undersold?  Pah!  Never knowingly disappointed, more like.

7.  And finally; 2 x fish and chips with gravy = £10.  This one alone is enough to guarantee a mass exodus to Lancashire.  Please don’t come.  We don’t want you.

Why stay south, I ask you, why stay south?

Try not to sing the Emmerdale theme tune - this is a shot from Ramsbottom (fnar), which is about 40 minutes from Manchester

Radio silence

We went on a visit last week – a sort of trip into my husband’s homeland, which is actually a grandiose way of  saying we went about half an hour out of London to Hertfordshire, to visit my father in law (who was fine, thanks) and one of my husband’s oldest friends.

I didn’t notice it to begin with, but his house (apart from the sound of his daughter upstairs and the weird wheezing of his mastiff) was dead silent.  The friend has given up television AND radio.  AND RADIO!  I totally understand the desire to chuck out the gogglebox, but radio I have always identified as the acceptable intellectual’s choice.  His reason was, he was sick of being broadcast at, and now read the newspapers (the sections that interested him) and watched TV series online when he wanted to.  I really admire him for this – at university, we learnt about ‘flow’, the idea that television is an endless stream of image and sound. You may switch on to watch something at 3pm and find, because the switch between programmes adverts, adverts and programmes is so smooth and subliminal, that the TV is still on at 2 in the morning and even though you are not consciously watching it, it is still spouting forth in you living room – which is bound to affect the old brain waves.

So I’m on a mission to reduce the television and radio that I watch – and to absolutely switch it off when not engaged with it.  On the evidence of tonight it has been lovely – I’ve done some writing, had a nap and actually listened to my own thoughts (you may argue that I have now ruined this by immediately blogging about it, but I’m actually quite proud of my non-tv evening).  I even found a use for the cauliflower that has been hanging around in my fridge for a while – a delicious and speedy curry, which I shall share with you now……

Cumin seeds

Coriander seeds

Ginger

Chilli

Garlic

Turmeric

Salt

Any random veg that is left at the end of the week – the more the merrier.

Get a wok on – add in chilli, garlic, ginger and fry for 30 seconds, add in dry spices and toss it around. Whack in the veg, get it coated in the spices, add a glass of water and let it cook down.  Add salt to taste.  Serve with rice, quinoa, whatever really.

Super good and a welcome break for my innards, which are still processing greasy cockney chips from lunch.  And most of my internal fluids consist of various white wine tributaries at the moment.  Not good at all.  A nourishing evening.  Please Buddha give me the strength to keep it up!

W T F?

British journalism: The rampaging lion of integrity.

Seriously.

I can’t believe what I’m having to listen to/read/see.

I am not a political being at all, but the eulogizing of David Cameron in the majority of Britain’s press makes me distrust this country’s ability to govern itself.  Day after day, I am subjected to some  the most partial cloying reportage under the tattered banner of ‘free press’.  Witness today’s  article in the Evening Standard, by Vassi Chamberlain:

Okay so SamCam is not quite first lady yet but here’s one prediction we can unilaterally call: the frumpy political wife is out. Our Jackie O and JFK moment is nearly upon us. Finally, we can boast of the loveliness that is likely to be our new prime minister’s wife.

Does that girl ever look tired? Does she have a bad angle? Does she ever dress badly? Just look at last night: while Sarah Brown looked neat but dull in a short red mac and Miriam Clegg dowdy in cardi and messy hair, a pregnant Mrs Cameron was luminous, pretty and groomed in her purple shift.

Disgusting on several grounds.  First:  utterly subjective.  Second:  utterly irrelevant.  Third:  Criminally chauvinist (women beware women).  Fourth:  widely distributed!  The Evening Standard is given out f. o. c near tube stations, a welcome piece of tat to fill the commute home with.  Really, keep your fanzine pap to yourself in future,  Chamberlain – you demean the profession of journalism with your puerile adolescent simperings.

And the Standard’s article is the soft stuff, the filler, at the other extreme we have the font page of Murdoch’s Sun (see picture), so desperate to hammer its colours to the mast that it seems to have forgotten that its primary function is to report current events and has turned itself into a Tory jazz mag.

God I’m angry.  Give me news, not shit opinion.  Not your opinion.

This election has totally swung on what the majority of the right wing press in this country has churned out and while it is a shame that a section of the public hasn’t developed their own point of view and choose to vote according to what the Sun tells them, I vow to never again, even in jest, turn to a free paper or Murdoch ordained news source for my information on how the world is turning.

Sadly I can’t vouch the same for my compatriots.  And therefore, we can pretty much welcome in 5 years (at least) of Tory rule.

Amateurism rules!

Thick and fast at the moment, eh? An impressive rush of what Julia Cameron (no relation to David, thank God) would call abundance.  Here’s today’s missive.

Still on a bid to do better, be better – took myself on a jog round the park, finally used the incredible Japan Centre near Picadilly to buy wonton wrappers, lovely fresh sushi and a can of oolong tea – just soaking up London on the first warm day of the year.  And then I did the unthinkable – I entered the ICA.

Unthinkable because the place is so bloody aloof.  Firstly, the door is small, more of a portal, so you never sure what awaits you – in fact all you can see is a large white desk with an aloof intellectually coiffed person sat behind it.  They don’t want you to come in – you’re wearing trainers, not brogues and may smell of sweat.  Not the welcome I imagine Billy Childish would want, and it was his exhibition that I wanted to see.  So I made it through the door, did some pretend texting while I got my bearings (no way was I going to ask one of the desk people, they would probably point out that they were part of the exhibition and I was an idiot for not understanding).  Finally, after much pretending to look at phone while actually peering through my jogger’s fringe (in your face art person!)  I located the gallery, established that it was free and entered.  Tentatively,  behind a robust German family who had felt no need to indulge in any performance art to find it.

I really like Billy Childish – I don’t know anything about him and the ICA keep you guessing by leaving out those effusive notices that accompany exhibitions at the Tate and tell you everything about the artist, the picture, the medium, the response, the period.  I think I heard on the radio that the ICA is a bit hard up, so the only introductory note points you towards a perspex box  full of leaflets on the wall and suggests that if you want to know anything, pay a quid and read away.  Being a student, I declined – not only do I not have any money – I also have the brains (what with being a student) to work my own narrative out.

The first room I enter is some of his more recent paintings and they’re stunning – really bold, a crazy palette, often appearing unfinished, but great.  They contain stories, relationships that you can invent, not in that abstract wanky whistle on a toilet bowl way, but including things like shadowy half glimpsed figures near a dead body – Kent noir. I’ve been reliably informed by the art critic (my boyfriend) that his paintings are shit, but I disagree.  I liked looking at them up close and at distance and when I left the room I kept peeking my head round the corner to reconsider.

Then I have to bury my head back in my phone as I try to work out where the rest of the exhibition is (this place is so arch and unwelcoming).  I end up in a cafe where people are sitting with Apple Macs.  Clearly whatever they are ‘working on’ is dull, as their heads tilt upwards whenever the next stranger stumbles in. I pretend text my way up some stairs into two rooms joined by a flamboyant yellow suit with an arm band emblazoned with ‘British Art Resistance’.  Turns out Billy’s a big one for causes and movements and then rejecting said causes and movements.  I like him.  One room is dedicated to his poetry and these woodcut frontispieces he designed for his publishing house, Hangman – so there’s writing and art – the poetry celebrates his dyslexia, pays no attention to punctuation or spelling and is quite conversational but never derivative.   Next door is playing Billy’s tunes on a loop and displays much of the artwork he came up with for his many albums.  And I had no idea he was so prolific!  More guises than Prince!

The music supports the impression that I’m building up of Billy (no thanks to the ICA leaflet) – its ‘jangly and shouty, but melodic, not arty Fourtet weirdness.  Eminently danceable.  There are two people with fifteen haircuts apiece on their head and they’ve decided to glue themselves to headsets attached to a video display of Billy Childish moving around on a screen.  I can’t be bothered to wait.  I think Billy would approve.  Actually, he’d possibly stage his own live performance art in the opposite corner (time to pretend text?), but I decide its best to go.

I liked the artist so much, I looked him up on Wikipedia.  He’s big into Amateurism, which I am translating as ‘having a bash’ – this I like, be it attempting to make dim sum or performing feminist cabaret.  I am an acolyte and I have found my true leader.  Childish, this one’s for you.