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cosmolinguistThe first thing I have to tell you about today is that everyone was naked.
Well, okay, not quite everyone. And not quite naked. But there were some people (mostly women, though I did see one guy who'd taken his shirt off and hung it from the waistband of his trousers) who at first glance seemed to be wearing their underwear. Actually I think I have underwear that covers more than some of their outfits did. And I know my mother has less-revealing undergarments.
I'm reminded of what![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
puffpastry recently observed concerning this phenomenon:
I felt like I was wearing a parka and thermal underwear by comparison. I only realized this may not have been the best day to wear my Batman t-shirt when I noticed how hot my back and shoulders were under the black cloth. My jeans didn't feel friendly and comfortable as they usually do, but instead heavy and oppressing and damp with sweat which they thoughtfully had both produced and held near the skin for me. My feet were hot and itchy in my socks, and the socks were trapped in Doc Martens that made me feel like a big clompy ogre. And every time I reached up to pull my hair back from my forehead, the wind obligingly whipped it right back in front of my eyes, making me feel bothered as well as hot--and neither in the good way.
I went in the Arndale to use the toilets and bask in the air conditioning. Having done the former of those things but not enough of the latter, I decided not to leave by the most direct route but instead to walk around inside a bit more. One of the first things I came to was a place called Supercuts. Hm, I thought. £10.95 for a haircut? From £10.95, even! That means more than £10.95, really, you know. I studied the prices, painted (or glued or whatever) to the glass in big letters--that's the sort of advertising I look for: the one that tells you straight out how much things cost because that's their major selling point--and noted that the mere addition of shampoo apparently made it cost three pounds more. "Hmph," I hmphed, and drifted away.
But soon I was back. The idea of getting my hair cut rather short again had been creeping around the edges of my mind for a few weeks, and short of slicing up my clothes I couldn't do anything else to cool down. Admittedly I could find better uses for eleven pounds (At least! my brain told me. Eleven if you're lucky!) but c'mon; I hadn't had a proper hair cut in a while, and my parents had just kindly given me a bit of cash. Haircuts are the sort of thing they'd approve of paying for. So I walked in and very soon found myself saying those fateful words: "I think I want it short, and, um, spiky or something." Sorry,soltice. (She told me I should keep it long.)
But I do like it. I definitely felt cooler afterwards--in both senses of the word. It's sad how much different the world looks after a new haircut. I meandered through the Arndale and wondered why no one stopped to comment on how great or cool or at least different I looked. I admired their restraint, disappointed though I may have been in it.
I walked back towards Piccadilly, from whence I'd come, and smiled at the idea that I'd passed these street musicians, these soap-bubble sellers, an hour ago when I looked rather different.
I met Andrew after work and we bought our tickets for Liverpool. We were going to see Brian Wilson. We were just in time to catch the train, and after Andrew mentioned that Richard Whiteley died, we found ourselves in a nice little conversation about the differences between US game show hosts and British TV presenters ... and then just differences in the two countries' television in general. Lots of interesting stuff to think about there.
An announcement broke in to tell us that we'd be delayed because of a fire on a train ahead of us. After murmuring concern for the passengers on the train on fire and shivering at what nastiness that could mean for the people involved, I got around to asking if this would affect our plans too terribly. I didn't think it would--having to wait until Andrew finished work meant we were cutting it a bit close, but we still hoped to see his fellow Beach Boy geeks before the show, and while that might be snatched from us it seemed we'd be all right for the show itself as long as nothing else went wrong.
So of course something else went wrong. There were more announcements I couldn't really hear and certainly couldn't understand, but Andrew began to get very agitated. The driver said the train was stopping in Preston, and we hadn't wanted to go anywhere near Preston. "That's kidnap!" he said. I smiled a little but it died quickly when I saw how serious he was. Of course he was serious--this is Brian Wilson! Think of the implications!
In Preston we found out that the next train to Liverpool would get us there at ten to nine. The show started at eight, and doors opened at 7:30. Our chance to get there by 7:30 was rapidly diminishing, and Andrew was getting more agitated and belligerent all the time. The people at the information/help place weren't that much help to us, as the first bit of information they offered was that they worked for Virgin and couldn't help us much with the other train companies. They tried to sort out what train we'd been on, but that proved difficult as it seemed we'd actually been on the wrong one even before the diversion to Preston. There was some confusion over whether it was a Northern or Trans-Pennine train we should have boarded and/or did board. But they all told us it wasn't theirs; they hadn't had a train where or when we had gotten ours, or they had no idea what diversion we were talking about. (This is why Andrew thinks all three train companies should die.) No suitable replacement plans could be made in time for them to be worth anything.
After everyone was thoroughly frustrated and we'd lost all hope of our £70 tickets and £16 train fare being worth anything to us at all, we resigned ourselves to going back to Manchester and having Very Strong Words with both Trans-Pennine and Northern tomorrow. As we stood on the platform waiting for that train, I did something I really did not want to do. Dismayingly, but unsurprisingly, I started to cry.
There's no place so unwelcoming as somewhere you didn't ask to be and only want to leave. I hated Preston's train station. I hated the shops. I hated the "Welcome to Lancashire" sign. I hated the staircases. I thought if I saw any of them for another second I'd be ill ... and I thought that within a few seconds of getting there. I was stuck with them for many more seconds; I think it was something like an hour and a half we were there, all told.
And I'd been around some very frustrated and tense people. Even a police lady for a while, standing there in her uniform and all its accoutrements, hair even shorter than mine under her black hat. I wasn't really participating much in the agitation, but I've become such an emotional barometer for this sort of thing that I found myself more upset--more visibly upset, at least--than anybody else involved. As soon as the tension dissipated--and with such an unhappy result!--I knew I was in trouble. I tried to concentrate on breathing, but soon my deep breaths were awfully wobbly ones and tears snuck out of my eyes to roll down my cheeks and onto my shirt.
Then they all ended up on Andrew's shirt, because he hugged me and told me not to cry. He, of course, felt horrible about this because he thought--and, indeed, still thinks--that he's directly and wholly responsible for my tears. I was in no state to tell him it wasn't him, it was the loss of the concert and all that money--half his week's wages, Andrew pointed out; this is what we get for booking ahead?--and getting in return only frustration and misery. I'm still not in any state to tell him; I can't really explain what it is that's made me start crying at nothing again after weeks and weeks of not-crying, what's made me have big ugly arguments with him over the tiniest things recently.
I felt stupid for spending so much money on my stupid hair today. I felt stupid for ordering groceries online and asking them to be delivered this afternoon before realizing that I wouldn't be here this afternoon for them.
Andrew took the day off tomorrow, anticipating an early-morning as opposed to late-night return from Liverpool, which is what happened the last time we went there for a concert, and he'll spend it yelling at train companies instead.
It just seems that everything's bad today, and I don't see how I can make anything seem better.
Well, okay, not quite everyone. And not quite naked. But there were some people (mostly women, though I did see one guy who'd taken his shirt off and hung it from the waistband of his trousers) who at first glance seemed to be wearing their underwear. Actually I think I have underwear that covers more than some of their outfits did. And I know my mother has less-revealing undergarments.
I'm reminded of what
puffpastry recently observed concerning this phenomenon:My home state and my new town seem alike in this respect; such balmy summer weather is rarer here in Manchester, but it does exist, and when it does, you can tell just by looking at people. And I looked at people a lot today, spending a couple of hours in Piccadilly station and a couple more in the city center.All around me, everywhere I go, are waiflike Minnesotans in teeny shorts, teeny tank tops, braless chests, naked arms and long, tanned, bare legs, and shoes that are barely shoes at all -- small fragments of rubber or palm fronds or corn husks held onto the bottoms of their feet with dragonfly wings and fairy dust. It is summer in Minneapolis, and what were formerly ski instructors and ice fisherman have turned into floaty tree sprites, and have freed themselves from the confines of everything I usually consider to be clothing. They are breezy, they are sexy and sensual, they are summer, they do not sweat.
I felt like I was wearing a parka and thermal underwear by comparison. I only realized this may not have been the best day to wear my Batman t-shirt when I noticed how hot my back and shoulders were under the black cloth. My jeans didn't feel friendly and comfortable as they usually do, but instead heavy and oppressing and damp with sweat which they thoughtfully had both produced and held near the skin for me. My feet were hot and itchy in my socks, and the socks were trapped in Doc Martens that made me feel like a big clompy ogre. And every time I reached up to pull my hair back from my forehead, the wind obligingly whipped it right back in front of my eyes, making me feel bothered as well as hot--and neither in the good way.
I went in the Arndale to use the toilets and bask in the air conditioning. Having done the former of those things but not enough of the latter, I decided not to leave by the most direct route but instead to walk around inside a bit more. One of the first things I came to was a place called Supercuts. Hm, I thought. £10.95 for a haircut? From £10.95, even! That means more than £10.95, really, you know. I studied the prices, painted (or glued or whatever) to the glass in big letters--that's the sort of advertising I look for: the one that tells you straight out how much things cost because that's their major selling point--and noted that the mere addition of shampoo apparently made it cost three pounds more. "Hmph," I hmphed, and drifted away.
But soon I was back. The idea of getting my hair cut rather short again had been creeping around the edges of my mind for a few weeks, and short of slicing up my clothes I couldn't do anything else to cool down. Admittedly I could find better uses for eleven pounds (At least! my brain told me. Eleven if you're lucky!) but c'mon; I hadn't had a proper hair cut in a while, and my parents had just kindly given me a bit of cash. Haircuts are the sort of thing they'd approve of paying for. So I walked in and very soon found myself saying those fateful words: "I think I want it short, and, um, spiky or something." Sorry,
soltice. (She told me I should keep it long.) But I do like it. I definitely felt cooler afterwards--in both senses of the word. It's sad how much different the world looks after a new haircut. I meandered through the Arndale and wondered why no one stopped to comment on how great or cool or at least different I looked. I admired their restraint, disappointed though I may have been in it.
I walked back towards Piccadilly, from whence I'd come, and smiled at the idea that I'd passed these street musicians, these soap-bubble sellers, an hour ago when I looked rather different.
I met Andrew after work and we bought our tickets for Liverpool. We were going to see Brian Wilson. We were just in time to catch the train, and after Andrew mentioned that Richard Whiteley died, we found ourselves in a nice little conversation about the differences between US game show hosts and British TV presenters ... and then just differences in the two countries' television in general. Lots of interesting stuff to think about there.
An announcement broke in to tell us that we'd be delayed because of a fire on a train ahead of us. After murmuring concern for the passengers on the train on fire and shivering at what nastiness that could mean for the people involved, I got around to asking if this would affect our plans too terribly. I didn't think it would--having to wait until Andrew finished work meant we were cutting it a bit close, but we still hoped to see his fellow Beach Boy geeks before the show, and while that might be snatched from us it seemed we'd be all right for the show itself as long as nothing else went wrong.
So of course something else went wrong. There were more announcements I couldn't really hear and certainly couldn't understand, but Andrew began to get very agitated. The driver said the train was stopping in Preston, and we hadn't wanted to go anywhere near Preston. "That's kidnap!" he said. I smiled a little but it died quickly when I saw how serious he was. Of course he was serious--this is Brian Wilson! Think of the implications!
In Preston we found out that the next train to Liverpool would get us there at ten to nine. The show started at eight, and doors opened at 7:30. Our chance to get there by 7:30 was rapidly diminishing, and Andrew was getting more agitated and belligerent all the time. The people at the information/help place weren't that much help to us, as the first bit of information they offered was that they worked for Virgin and couldn't help us much with the other train companies. They tried to sort out what train we'd been on, but that proved difficult as it seemed we'd actually been on the wrong one even before the diversion to Preston. There was some confusion over whether it was a Northern or Trans-Pennine train we should have boarded and/or did board. But they all told us it wasn't theirs; they hadn't had a train where or when we had gotten ours, or they had no idea what diversion we were talking about. (This is why Andrew thinks all three train companies should die.) No suitable replacement plans could be made in time for them to be worth anything.
After everyone was thoroughly frustrated and we'd lost all hope of our £70 tickets and £16 train fare being worth anything to us at all, we resigned ourselves to going back to Manchester and having Very Strong Words with both Trans-Pennine and Northern tomorrow. As we stood on the platform waiting for that train, I did something I really did not want to do. Dismayingly, but unsurprisingly, I started to cry.
There's no place so unwelcoming as somewhere you didn't ask to be and only want to leave. I hated Preston's train station. I hated the shops. I hated the "Welcome to Lancashire" sign. I hated the staircases. I thought if I saw any of them for another second I'd be ill ... and I thought that within a few seconds of getting there. I was stuck with them for many more seconds; I think it was something like an hour and a half we were there, all told.
And I'd been around some very frustrated and tense people. Even a police lady for a while, standing there in her uniform and all its accoutrements, hair even shorter than mine under her black hat. I wasn't really participating much in the agitation, but I've become such an emotional barometer for this sort of thing that I found myself more upset--more visibly upset, at least--than anybody else involved. As soon as the tension dissipated--and with such an unhappy result!--I knew I was in trouble. I tried to concentrate on breathing, but soon my deep breaths were awfully wobbly ones and tears snuck out of my eyes to roll down my cheeks and onto my shirt.
Then they all ended up on Andrew's shirt, because he hugged me and told me not to cry. He, of course, felt horrible about this because he thought--and, indeed, still thinks--that he's directly and wholly responsible for my tears. I was in no state to tell him it wasn't him, it was the loss of the concert and all that money--half his week's wages, Andrew pointed out; this is what we get for booking ahead?--and getting in return only frustration and misery. I'm still not in any state to tell him; I can't really explain what it is that's made me start crying at nothing again after weeks and weeks of not-crying, what's made me have big ugly arguments with him over the tiniest things recently.
I felt stupid for spending so much money on my stupid hair today. I felt stupid for ordering groceries online and asking them to be delivered this afternoon before realizing that I wouldn't be here this afternoon for them.
Andrew took the day off tomorrow, anticipating an early-morning as opposed to late-night return from Liverpool, which is what happened the last time we went there for a concert, and he'll spend it yelling at train companies instead.
It just seems that everything's bad today, and I don't see how I can make anything seem better.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-28 12:39 am (UTC)http://www.whitelabel.org/2005/06/27/londons-shame-frame-by-frame/
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-28 09:11 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-28 01:05 am (UTC)Perhaps you should persuade Andrew, in spite of his severe and probably incurable Anglophilia, to pack you up and emigrate to Japan (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/2085641.stm).
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-28 09:11 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-28 01:05 am (UTC)My brother's wife is from Preston. Nice place, but I can definitely understand wanting to be somewhere else.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-28 08:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-28 09:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-28 10:05 pm (UTC)I'm sorry that everythign else was shit, though.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-28 10:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-06-28 10:31 pm (UTC)I think its due to the Preston Tourist board hiring rouge engineers to wreak trains and trapping people in that city