Being a Bridesmaid - Part 2: The Hen Do

It feels like forever since I was a bridesmaid and it feels like even longer since the hen do but it’s not a night that will be forgotten in a hurry.

Apparently in my mother’s day (the mid-80s) a hen do consisted of going down the local with your best friends and that was that.  Twenty-five years on and things have evolved somewhat.  Luckily in my case I wasn’t organising a trip to Faliraki or anything equally horrific, expensive and classless to see my best friend enter married life.

To get me prepared for what was involved I read a book on how to be a good bridesmaid.  Sadly it was aimed at the sort of vacuous woman who thinks liking cocktails and shoes constitutes as a personality.  The key, so the book told me, to all elements of being a bridesmaid was to be ‘fabulous’.  This was not the practical advice I had hoped for.  See below the picture of the aforementioned useless book.

The hen that I organised was for 26 people.  That is a lot of folk.  But whether organising for six hens or a hundred, the only thing you have to do is make sure whatever you do the bride has fun.  Obviously nothing so niche that the rest of the group are going to hate it but as long as you play to the bride’s tastes she is going to love it and that is all that matters.

The bride picked the venue, the activity and the meal as she was 1. incredibly organised and 2. she lives in Glasgow, I no longer do, so it ensured she got the night she wanted rather than me guessing on what places would be good.

I asked everyone for a deposit about four months prior to the event.  This weeded out the people who were never going to come but who may have dropped out later.  On the actual day I only had one person drop out due to illness rather than seven who could have quietly agreed to attend but had no real intention of being there.

On the evening itself games are incredibly important.  They give structure to proceedings and define it as something different to an ordinary night out.  We played Mr and Mrs.  It’s easy to find questions online, just compile your list of favourite questions from a simple Google and adapt it to be more personal to your friend.  I made it multiple choice and added in extra answers that I knew might catch her out.  For every question she answered correctly I gave her a bit of hen do tat - tiara and veil, sash, bride to be straw and shot glass etc.  I opted for nothing in the shape of a veiny penis.  She’s going to see one veiny penis for the rest of her life, one in neon pink is neither romantic nor becoming of an evening for ladies in their mid-twenties.

We played a second game that was of my own devising.  It was called ‘Play Your Kevs Right’, a rare moment where I used a pun for the purposes of enjoyment.  I sent a group email to those attending asking for pictures of the bride and groom looking happy together and ones of Kev (the groom) doing generally stupid things.  I then put the best on bits of card and the bride had to guess if the next picture in the pile was a good one (Moragulous) or him being daft (Kevastating).  It was in the style of Play Your Cards Right and highlighted something you should not underestimate in planning a hen - you will have to deal with stupidity in people you’d previously assumed were intelligent.  I asked for unique pictures that Morag may not have seen and more than three people copied ones from Facebook and then sent them to me thinking they were doing me a favour.  I could have done that, why would I be asking strangers to do this for me?

Nudity was also not part of my plans, I chose not to have a stripper.  I did have a ganders to see what was available locally.  It turns out strippers are surprisingly expensive and none that I found in the Glasgow area were remotely attractive - tattooed middle aged muscle man anyone? 

Obviously every person is different but as the bridesmaid you should know what makes your bride different and what she will and will not love.  Once the activity and games are out the way you get to enjoy the night like all the rest of your hens and you get the added thrill, if everyone is having fun, that you organised it and helped do something special in preparation of the big day.  Remember, should the worse happen and it is an absolute disaster everyone is guaranteed to get drunk and probably won’t remember how bad it was in the morning anyway.

Jumpy

New Year’s resolutions are funny things.  Usually they are made in the knowledge that it sounds like a great idea but will never succeed.  I do not like failing and so have started to only makes ones which I am sure I will be able to keep.  This year’s was to go to the theatre at least once a month.  Two-thirds of the way through the year, so far, so good:

January:  A Round Heeled Woman

February:  Wicked

March:  Absent Friends

April:  Jersey Boys

May:  One Man Two Guvnors

June:  Abigail’s Party

July:  Sunshine Boys

The inclusion of musicals in my life isn’t something I would normally condone but if I can get a cheeky lastminute.com £10 ticket I'll go with an open mind and usually don't hate them.  As a rule though, I’m still against spontaneous singing.

Speaking of lastminute.com deals, that is how I ended up going to see the Jumpy matinee on Saturday.  I got restricted view tickets for a bargain £15.  Buying restricted view is always a bit of a worry if you don’t know the theatre.  I’d been to see One Man Two Guvnors in restricted view as it was the only way to see James Corden in the role in December.  How much I actually saw of him was dependent on the movements the man in front of me made while laughing and the handrail next to my face. 

So scared was I about buying restricted view that I had a dream a few nights before where I got to my seat and all that was in my line of vision was a wall, I was convinced it was going to be a nightmare.  I really shouldn’t have feared as when I collected my £15 ticket I got an upgrade to the Royal Circle.  That meant I saved £40 on an unrestricted view, happy, happy days. 

As much as I love a bargain, spending any meagre amount is still a waste if the play is no good.  

A loud burst of Florence and the Machine indicated the start of the show.  Immediately I was a bit concerned.  Blaring pop music to fill time as the actors re-arrange the set or to indicate a change in scene can sometimes feel a bit am-dram, thankfully Jumpy managed to shrug off that concern very quickly.

Tamsin Greig plays Hilary, a 50-year-old woman with a teenage daughter who is more concerned about going out than her GCSEs.  Hilary’s relationships with her child, her husband and best friend all disintegrate.  Her job is in jeopardy.  She is dealing with a life where aspirations remain unfulfilled as her daughter, Tilly, sets off on a journey that she does not understand will feature disappointment and compromise. 

Generally the acting was very well pitched although at times the daughter was just a bit too Kevin the Teenager for my liking.

Jumpy is on until 3^rd November at the Duke of York’s Theatre, it's funny and touching and definitely worth a watch.

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To Be Norwegian

This blog has been abandoned the last few weeks.  Firstly due to a massive freelance job I had that was taking up every evening and secondly because of my long anticipated, very much needed Scandinavian adventure.   We started in Copenhagen, then Oslo for  the Oya Festival and then Gothenburg – all in the space of a week.  I was concerned all that travelling about would be stressful but it helped to break up the days and made it feel like the holiday was much longer, who doesn’t want that on a jaunt away?

Copenhagen was lovely, had great shops but horrendous weather.  En route to the Oslo ferry at Copenhagen docks we were planning on looking at The Mermaid, you know, the only thing anyone knows is in Copenhagen.  First of all the boy suggested taking a shortcut which led to us being greeted by some military fort that was entirely cobbled meaning he had to carry both suitcases rather than roll them behind him.  By the time we were back on smooth pavements he was incredibly grumpy from all the manual labour on holiday time.  This was then amplified by the downpour which led to him being “piss wet through” and therefore unwilling to walk further than was needed to see a statue about some story he hadn’t read anyway.

Gothenburg was somewhere I’d spent a few weeks when I was 18.  Due to being a poor student I didn’t really explore much the first time.  On a second visit it proved itself a thoroughly nice place but without a huge amount to do.  The highlight was undoubtedly when I managed to get us upgraded to a suite so it will always hold a special place in my heart.

Oslo was where it was really at.  Everyone is so well dressed, the standard of living is amazeballs (yeah, I said amazeballs) and even though it’s a major city it’s not all London and stressful on your arse. 

They also have the best building I’ve ever seen – the Oslo Opera House.  Now I’m not into architecture, I went out with an architect in my early 20s and in my experience, architects are pompous bores.  I love arty farty people generally and I am sure there are some delightful architects out there in society, I however have never met one.  Anyway, I digress, the Oslo Opera House looks like the future and you can climb up it, it's amazing.

The purpose of our stop-off in Norway was the Oya Festival which proved itself to be marvellous.  For instance, no-one was incredibly drunk and throwing cups of their own urine, something that puts me off all major British festivals.  I got to see my favourite Norwegian singer, Sondre Lerche, perform twice on the one day and we discovered Norwegian rap.  Something I was dubious about but now am finding myself mildly obsessed with.  See below for a combination of the two.

Feeling Very Olympic

Two golds have been won today by Great Britain, it’s making me feel very Olympic and patriotic – odd emotions for someone who isn’t generally either.

My air of Olympic-ness began, along with most of the country, during the Opening Ceremony when the whole world was shown the most perfect, quirky representation of Britishness.  The sheer joy I felt as the actual Queen Elizabeth II called Daniel Craig ‘Mr Bond’ was only tarnished by the fact I was clock watching during the proceedings due to an exceptionally early rise the next morning.  For the record, my definition of ‘early rise’ is anything before 7.30 on a weekday and anything before 10 on a weekend.  On Saturday I had to get up at 6.20.  Let’s all think about his for a second, that’s almost TWO HOURS earlier than I get up for work.  The fact I managed to do it and not die I view in the same league of achievements as Wiggins winning the Tour de France and the Olympic gold in the same fortnight.

I was up early to attend the first session of heats at the Aquatic Centre at 10am.  They recommend you get to the Olympic Park two hours in advance but the lines for security were non-existent and we got through in seconds.  Plus in an amazing bonus the helpers around the park were actually nice, not like those brutes that usually patrol big gigs and events.

Once inside the park I took obligatory grainy pictures of the sights before heading to the Aquatic Centre.  There was only one thing on my mind by this point - coffee.  Due to all that corporate sponsorship nonsense there is a fairly limited choice of food and drink.  I thought I had nothing to fear as Cadburys would be on sale and I could have some chocolate with my coffee to kick me up the arse into awakeness.  Alas, all they had when I got to the front of the queue was Nature Valley bars – thanks but no thanks kiosk worker.

Swimming just happens to be the sport we managed to get tickets for.  Prior to Saturday I’d never been overly bothered by it.  Seeing the heats didn’t necessarily make me aspire to be a keen amateur or want to go to watch more competitions but it was amazing to be a part of proceedings.  

Most of the heats we saw were of male swimmers.  Personally, men with very toned bodies don’t do it for me but seeing them all buffed and in their little pants gave me a real respect for their athleticism (not a pervert’s comment, promise).  As well as that, I hadn’t anticipated how people would cheer along and get into the spirit of things.  At points it was properly wild. 

I got to see Michael Phelps swim (he did not do well at the session I attended) but even better than that I got to see the actual Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip.  The royals are a guilty, guilty pleasure of mine – it was like hitting the jackpot.

Upon leaving the park I went straight home to watch the road race and I’ve been glued to my screen watching all kinds of sports I had no idea I cared about ever since.  Somehow just by living in the city that the Olympics are taking place in makes me feel a duty to watch it all, to ensure that we maintain what we started in the Opening Ceremony.  

Is everyone else feeling Olympic too?

I Did

Were it not for an imminent adventure in Scandinavia my life would be feeling a bit empty at the moment.  The wedding of my two best friends has passed meaning I am no longer in full-on bridesmaid stress mode.  There is no more worry my dress will not fit, that I will mysteriously get ill and faint as I walk down the aisle, etc, etc.  No horrors occurred, the big day was beautiful and perfect and it didn't even rain or anything.  

As this blog testifies, my biggest fear regarding my duties was the speech I was asked to give.  Seeing as I banged on about it so much here, on Twitter and even in real-life to people’s faces I’ve copied it below for the whole world to admire…

Hello everyone.  Hope you’re all having a lovely day so far and that what I say in the next few minutes doesn’t ruin it.

I’m Samantha, Chief Bridesmaid.  Best friend of Morag from primary school and good friend of Kevin’s since uni.  Which means I’m in a very rare, very privileged position of knowing them both so well that I could fill a good hour with embarrassing stories about both the bride and groom. 

I am the reason Morag and Kev met, if I hadn’t invited Morag to Kev’s flat warming party four years ago we may all be doing something else today.  The fact that I know two such lovely, funny, and today now they’ve scrubbed up, attractive people speaks volumes about what a great judge of character I am. 

They are the only couple I have ever played a part in their getting together.  So if you’re single and looking for love if you come and see me after the meal we’ll discuss a fee and I’ll try and find you your own husband or wife.

As I said, I’ve known Morag since primary school, since we were both five.  I don’t remember the specific moment we became friends but I do remember lots about our adventures.

For instance when we were wee one of Morag’s favourite games was pretending to be a teacher, a game she still insists on playing to this very day. 

When we were growing up, our conversations about potential husbands never really went past members of Boyzone or Take That.  Little did we know that one day she would become Mrs Argue.  Married to the sort of domesticated soul that I once watched spend an hour lovingly prepare a dinner that was immediately trumped by the arrival of a Vienetta for dessert.

As me and Morag have got older we’ve remained close.  We’ve been on holidays together to Greece, Bulgaria, Oslo.  Norway’s not the only Scandinavian country that we are fans of, many a Saturday night has been spent on what we imaginatively named Sweden night.  This is a very complicated process.  It involves us going to Ikea, buying a lot of food and pear cider and then watching trashy telly while consuming it all and it’s a ritual I’ve really missed since I moved away.

Because I’m in London now I’ve missed lots of nights out with Mo and keeping in touch with her extended group of friends so it was really nice to see everyone who came to the Moragulous hen do.  Thank you to everyone who came and made it such a great night.  An extra special thank you to anyone who sent me pictures for Play Your Kevs Right and an extra extra special thank you if you sent me pictures of the hen when I emailed asking for those.  I’ve used them to get this photo album made, which is for you Mo.  Along with your new found cocktail making skills, it’s a little momento of the evening.

When I first moved down to England, Mo and Kev joined me for my first New Year away from home.  They had only been going out three or four months and as we sat in a pub on Hogmanay both of them were talking about how they were going to get married, going to buy a house, how many children they wanted, when they wanted them.  When I asked Kev how he could be so sure that he and Morag were going to end up doing all those things he said “when you know, you know”. 

Although he did recently tell me that he was looking forward to married life as then he’d become Morag’s problem for life, so he’s not always so romantic. 

I’m so pleased that the plans you both set out that night three and a half years ago are turning into reality and that two of my best friends have made one another so happy...

The speech ended with a toast and then obviously, rapturous applause (at least in my head it did anyway).  

Being a Bridesmaid - Part 1: The Dress

Before being asked to be a bridesmaid it was a role I had given little thought.  About the only thing I knew I’d have to do was wear a dress that was chosen by committee and not by myself.  As I am a vain fool, this was a big deal to me.  Normally I attempt to be the only person wearing my style, colour and cut of dress.  As a bridesmaid (unless you are solo) you are going to be wearing the exact same thing as someone else.  It’s a gut wrenching thought.

These are the cold hard facts of buying a bridesmaid’s dress...

A LOT of people will see you in your underwear

This was the biggest shock to me.  I’m no prude but I’m also not an exhibitionist.  People who need to (and most importantly, want to) see me in the nip are welcomed with no blushes or mock shyness.  However I’ve never been able to change in the open of a gym locker room without being sure that everyone else is staring at my little belly and thinking ‘fat cow’.

So imagine my horror when I discovered trying on bridesmaid dresses involved numerous middle-aged women seeing me in my sensible pants and bra.  Most bridal shops only stock one of each dress style in only one colour option so the dresses you try on are in sizes that most people will be able to fit into (smaller people are pinned in, larger people might not be able to do the zipper up).  The result of this is that a woman comes into the changing room with you, helps you into the dress and then secures you in it. 

After a while you start to get used to someone watching you dress and assisting, it feels sort of like having a lady servant which is pleasing for a short spell.  In overcoming my fear of a strangers seeing me in my pants I felt liberated, it made me feel in touch with my European easygoing side.  It wasn’t a sensation that lasted.

You will wear satin (or some other material you would choose to avoid for day-to-day living)

Problems with satin: it’s very unforgiving, it creases as soon as you sit, it can feel both too light or too heavy with the slightest change in temperature.  The truth is the majority of traditional bridesmaid dresses come in satin, it’s a horror you will have to live with. 

To minimise the paunch that the satin will inevitably make you look like you have, invest in some good seamless sucky-in knickers.  Even if you don’t need your belly held flat in normal outfits you will for this one.  Also aim to have zero VPL.  Pippa Middleton proved you can shine in a bridesmaid’s dress as long your arse looks good, follow her posh pert lead.

You will have to fight to maintain your own identity

Being a bridesmaid is an odd thing, for a day one of your best friends dictates things about your appearance that, should she attempt at any other time, you’d tell her to bugger off.  But because it’s her special day you don’t say anything out loud about the colour scheme or the satin because if that’s what she wants then you are more than happy to oblige.

As well as the bride, there are also the other bridesmaids to consider.  You have to work as a team, decide what is most important to you all about what you wear and push for that as one unit.  It’s remarkably different to any clothes shopping you will do again where your priority is to wear something that feels entirely ‘you’.

You will be wearing something that looks decent on all of you rather than the dress that looked AMAZING on you but not so good on the others but you are still you.  Refuse any suggestions that you should; all have the same hairstyle, same skin tone (it was briefly mentioned I was ‘too pale’ compared to others!), wear shoes of differing heels to be the exact same height,  have identical make-up.  You will only be a bridesmaid one or two days of your life, do not allow what you are for the rest of them to be forgotten.

The actual day that you shop, although testing at times, is best dealt with if you approach it as your moment to create a montage of you trying on different prom dresses ala a cheesy 90s teen movie.

That’s the dress covered.  Posts about the hen and the big day itself to follow soon.

Us and Them

This blog post has spent several days in my head, numerous times the tips of my fingers have hovered over a keyboard ready to write but I’ve never got past the first few lines due to my increasingly sore head.  Like a sickly heroine from an Austen novel I'm prone to feeling lightheaded and faint from being in ‘the wrong sort’ of light.  This is always worst when it’s gloomy outside and we have to use the dodgy overhead lights found in all offices that somehow bounce pain straight into the back of my brain.  Anyway, this is finally me committing words to screen – hurrah!

So what pertinent, amazing thoughts have I been thinking during those lost days?  Mainly they have been about doing up my new flat and my imminent bridesmaid duties.  Amongst all that, I also had a conversation about the differences between the Scottish and the English sparked by Andy Murray and the incredibly boring 'is he British or Scottish' debate.  He is of course both so let’s all stop having that conversation and making ‘Come on Tim’ comments too while we're at it, it’s incredibly tedious.

I’m Scottish and have lived down south for almost four years (a year and a bit in Norwich of all places and the rest in London town) and before I moved I never ever thought about my cultural identity.  Since I’ve been here it’s something I have to talk about more often that I’d like.  Obviously there are differences, my accent, words I say that I don’t realise - until uttering and seeing confused reactions - are colloquial, food I crave but somehow hasn’t found its way into the English diet.  But there are only three truly fundamental differences between us and them, well, as far as I can tell anyway.

1. Talking about the weather

In Scotland it rains A LOT, it's cold A LOT and when there is no rain the sky is still an ominous shade of grey.  So, on days where the sun shines and it is above 15°C we rejoice at our good fortune.  In England people seem to be in a permanent state of confusion as to why it is not a tropical paradise.  Unless it is beautifully sunny I am subjected to several conversations a day about why the weather is so bad.  It’s not bad, weather cannot be categorised as ‘bad’ until your house is flooded or you’re snowed in. When that happens, let's have that chat.

2.  Zebra crossings

The rules of the road are that when a pedestrian walks on a zebra crossing cars MUST stop.  In Scotland this seems to be understood and people walk onto the road and expect the people in the cars to know what to do.  In England this rule seems to not be taught to anyone.  I walk past two zebra crossings on my way to work and every day see people dithering at the side of the road waiting for the traffic to stop.  Hint, it will not stop until you step on the bloody road.

3. Puns

I like to pride myself on being fairly amusing and being able to find comedy in most things.  There is only one form of humour that I do not understand – puns.  The English LOVE a pun.  Up until moving I think I heard a pun-based joke as rarely as I saw sunshine.  Now I hear them regularly and am unable to respond because I just don’t get it.

Now, I’m no anthropologist so this is just my anecdotal musings.  However, I’m pretty sure that if David Cameron worked on the three things above then there’d be no independence debate and we'd be one big happy family.

I Do (At Least I’ll Try)

Later this month my two best friends are getting married.  The bride I have known since I was four, the groom since I started university.  As I know them both so well, I have the honour of being chief bridesmaid.  Now obviously I am delighted by this.  I’ve never been a bridesmaid, I like wearing dresses and I get a little slither of the spotlight.  However this privilege comes with one condition - that I give a speech at the reception.

While I admire the bride for asking that the voice of a female cohort is heard in amongst men telling bawdy stories, as it is me that will be speaking, I’m finding it all a little stressful.

Maid of honour speeches, if Google is correct, appear to be pretty common in America.  Here in the UK, not so.  Unlike a best man, I don’t have lots of friends who have also been in the same position and can tell me what did and did not work for them.  And as I’m not expecting my audience to be expecting a bridesmaid to speak will they think that I’m just a very pushy lady who loves the sound of her own voice?

The actual writing, while tricky to know what to include, I am capable enough to do.  I’m sure I’ll be able to get a few laughs, I’ve always made up for my lack of faith in my face with my ability to make jokes.  What I’m struggling to imagine is the public speaking whilst trying to emote. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a very emotional person.  I cry regularly, primarily at terribly trashy television shows and sad adverts (the one for lottery funding where the mother watches her daughter live her dream is making me well up just at the memory).  My family are touchy feely in the very best sense of the term and we all tell each other we love one another every time we speak.  Yet the idea of standing in front of a room of people that I know well and telling them how I feel about the occasion is impossible for me to fathom.  This is probably a sign I’ve been in England too long and my ability to express my feelings is being repressed by association.

So while I use this blog as a distraction from writing the actual speech I can’t imagine giving, I think there is one important lesson for us all to learn.  The only couple I have ever played a part in the setting up of are getting married.  If you want a match made I will charge a very competitive fee to find you a partner for life – I do have a 100% success rate.

I AM A WRITER

Around about this time last week I got my first ever job as a freelance writer - 7 x 4.5 minute shows for broadcast.  Despite creating for broadcast in my day job, it felt like validation that I am in fact a real, authentic, genuine writer.  Up until the commission I had reassured myself I was ‘definitely a writer’ by staring at the word count (82,000) of my work in progress novel and the fact I write that on a MacBook.

It’s a miracle I got any writing work at all as there’s no proof of any recent scribings on this here blog, I’ve been so consumed with the novel that keeping this up-to-date just didn’t factor in. 

Having thought about it, I’ve decided it won’t hurt to get away from my page a night of ‘the book’ after work routine now and again.  So expect to see more posts than my usual once a year.  Exciting.

Escape

The door slams shut as Ewan's mum leaves the house.

It takes him a few minutes to process the noise she made, the aggression with which she has closed the door.  For a brief moment he wonders if she was crying when she went.  He would never know, he hadn't looked her in the eye as she said goodbye, he couldn't look anyone in the eye at the moment, he was too frightened at seeing people's reaction to him, to it, the awful thing that had happened.

Left on his own, he unpacks his things, checking he has everything he will need.  He gets down on his knees in the living room  amongst his belongings and re-arranges, re-folds socks, makes sure his pills are there, wondering if he will need to use his Swiss army knife - after much thought, his hand hovering over the opening to his backpack - he shoves it down into the bottom of the bag, just in case.

Packing complete, he walks through every room in the flat, checking there is nothing of importance left behind.  In the bedroom he looks out of the window onto the communal garden and wonders, if he jumped, if the grass below would cushion his fall from the second floor or if he would die.  He decides that he would probably die and that it would hurt.

Ewan is imagining the feeling of the wind rushing past his face as he throws himself towards the earth when his mother returns laden with carrier bags.  He takes charge of what she is carrying and dumps the shopping on the kitchen floor.

"Mum, this isn't all for me is it?

"Well, I don't want you to go hungry.  Plus, the cupboards were looking bare.  She obviously wasn't keeping a good job of looking after you."

A sharp look crosses from Ewan to his mum.  She doesn't register it.

"When you're gone, do you want me to get rid of the rest of her things?"

"Mum, she's been gone a week, it's too soon."

For a few moments nothing is said, Ewan's mum busies herself by putting things in cupboards.  Once there is nothing left to be put away she breaks the silence.

"Will you be back for the funeral?"

"I don't know...  I don't think so...  I'm not sure."

"You'll regret not going."

------

The car is filled with its familiar fragrance, a mixture of the air freshener she'd bought to get rid of the odour of his football kit and her perfume.  He breathes it in, it is both comforting and nauseating.

Ewan focuses on the road as he moves further out of the city, the landscape is unfamiliar, less memories are attached to it, less things remind him of her.

There is no particular plan of where to go,  he is just hoping somewhere will seem right.  Eventually he does, a secluded spot with a view of green rolling hills and a clear blue lake.  It looks like a postcard, like an illustration in a book, like a fantasy, like something that can't possibly exist when all his thoughts are wretched.

The tent is taken from the car boot, he sticks the poles into the ground, concentrating on building a steady structure.  The irony is not lost on him that he is constructing a safe structure to protect him from the elements in the countryside while his real-life back in the city had fallen apart.

The tent is built and Ewan sits inside it, alone.

After a while, emptiness presents itself, his stomach rumbles in hunger.  Rooting  around in the tent through the packets and tins his mother bought a few hours ago, he eventually finds something that takes his fancy.  The tranquillity is punctured as Ewan noisily crunches and chews an entire packet of ready salted crisps.

There is nothing else to do but sit and look at the view.  He isn't sure how long he sits there.

The bottle of whisky Ewan bought before he got on the motorway sits in the corner of the tent, next to the pills he'd stashed at the bottom of his bag.   If he took the lot and drank the bottle he'd be able to join her.  The beauty of the scenery would be a nice juxtaposition to his untimely death.

It starts to rain, he gets inside the tent and listens to the pitter patter of the raindrops against the tent.  They pepper the canvas with polka dots, of where the rain has landed.  The noise transforms him to their bedroom, listening to the rain bouncing off the window, rattling on the roof while they were snuggled in bed together.  Ewan struggles to get into his sleeping bag to keep warm.

The first thing Ewan knows about having slept, is when he wakes up to the sun brightening the inside of his tent.  It was the first time he'd had a full night's sleep since the phone call with the news.  The sleep was what he had needed, he feels refreshed, healed.

He had been anxious that she would haunt his dreams, but she hadn't.  Ewan was pleased she had not visited, had not found him here, he had escaped.

Coincidence

Matt gets onto bus, all the seats are taken apart from one next to Katy who has put her bag on the empty space.

MATT
Is this seat taken?

KATY
Oh sorry, it’s free, it’s yours if you want it.

MATT
Thanks.

KATY
You’re welcome... I always put my bag on the empty seat, I'm so petrified I’ll get trapped in by some obese, smelly, mentalist.

MATT
The seats are usually all gone by the time I get on, I'm always frightened the ones that are left are next to some weirdo who wants to make awkward small talk with strangers.

KATY
Is that my cue to shut up?

MATT
Oh shit, that sounded really rude didn't it? Oh God I’ve sworn now! I'm so sorry, I'm not really a morning chat kind of person... Although I guess that’s obvious.

KATY
You’re not doing a particularly good job of hiding it if I'm honest.

MATT
I’ll tell you what, I’m going to get my book out, have a read at that, and when it’s my stop we’ll have an awkward goodbye and if I see you on the bus again we’ll pretend this never happened.

KATY
I'm looking forward to it already.

They both get books from their bags and begin to read.

A few moments pass.

KATY
This is my stop, bye.

MATT
Bye.

Katy gets up and stands at the front of bus to get off, as she gets off Matt realises this is his stop too and
scrambles for his things.

On the street Katy walks away from the bus, Matt is a few steps behind and is unsure of his steps, knowing he looks as if he is following her. Katy is aware that someone is behind her and turns around to see who is there.

KATY
Should I be looking out my rape alarm?!

MATT
I know this does look a bit odd but I am genuinely walking this way.

KATY
Really?! Well if you keep your hands where I can see them, you can walk with me if you like.

MATT
Maybe you can help improve my morning conversation skills.

KATY
Hmmm, maybe... So where are you off to this morning then?

MATT
I'm starting a new job.

KATY
Oh, good luck, you looking forward to it?

MATT
Yeah. Well, I guess so. It’s just a bit daunting isn't it? All those new people, trying to make sure people like you and don’t think you’re a dick.

KATY
Seeing as I don’t even know your name yet but we’re talking like old friends, I'm guessing you won’t have any trouble fitting in.

Matt offers his hand.

MATT
How rude of me, I’m Matt.

Katy takes his hand and shakes it.

KATY
Katy, nice to meet you. This is my office building. The way this morning is going I don’t suppose this is where you’re going too?

MATT
Actually, yes, yes it is.

KATY
If I believed in a greater power I’d say fate was pushing us together.

They walk into the reception together.

KATY
I'm going into my office, have a lovely day.

MATT
I guess I’ll see you around.

Repetition: Part One

The silence lets Greg know that, for a few moments at least, it is over.

He rests his head in his hands and focuses all of his energy on not throwing up.  The nausea is just beginning to subside when another call beeps through to his headset.  Greg cannot bear the thought of regurgitating his script yet again and so hangs up on whoever it is that waits at the other end of the line - he hopes no-one is listening into his calls right now.

With bleary eyes he stares into the computer screen in front of him, his head is filled with half-remembered glimpses of what happened last night.  His skull aches attempting to retrieve the missing pieces from his evening, the events which led to Ally leaving that message this morning.  'What the fuck did I do?' he thinks to himself, but before he can contemplate the issue further he has to battle the urge to vomit.

Greg had read Ally's text message as he lay in bed, still drunk, this morning.  He groaned in shame before finding it strangely pleasing for the first thing he read in the day to be 'You are not a cunt x'.  It was just a pity such a positive statement could only be delivered to him after drunkenly harassing the man he is in love with.

It had been the strong pulsating vibrations of his mobile - alerting him to the existence of the message - which had roused Greg from his semi-comatose state.  There were still hours before he needed to get up for work but he only managed to doze off for a few more stolen minutes, the alcohol coursing around his body preventing him from gaining any more rest.  And now, the lack of sleep is telling on Greg's face; the stubble, the dark rings around his eyes, the red, boozy flush of his cheeks, all outwardly portray that he is tired and feels like shit.

Another call buzzes through.  Repeating the sales pitch his computer throws up at him, Greg realises several minutes into the conversation that he has not registered a single thing that he has said or done since it began.  Panic hits him and he attempts to zone in on what functions his body has performed whilst his mind has been pondering the many possible forgotten actions preluding Ally’s message being sent.  

After reading and re-reading the words Ally sent to him, Greg threw his mobile to the other side of his double bed filled with a sense of repulsion.  He turned his back on it as if it were a lover he was spurning.  Since then, he has not been in the mood to read the details of the calls he made, the catalogue of messages he sent and received whilst under the influence.  His stomach is not strong enough to deal with the reality of what is contained within the memory chips encased in the plastic box of his phone.  Greg does not want to access what secrets it holds and so it is switched off, in his pocket, burning into his skin - he is constantly aware of its presence.

On Greg's desk, the cup he filled from the water cooler as he entered the office is empty bar a few remaining drops of liquid.  If he had the energy he would go and get some more, but he does not, so he sits staring at his screen and feeling like he is dying.  Someone walks past his cubicle but his gaze does not avert from the computer.  He cannot look anyone in the eye through fear of what he said or did to them last night being mentioned.  The last thing Greg wants is to be reminded of his indiscretions.

With no warning things suddenly flash back to him, he can feel one of many glasses of wine in his hand, he is telling someone not to let him get too drunk - a comment which was clearly ignored, he angrily mutters "bastards" under his breath.

Memories of other nights where he has been the drunkest person at the party roll through his head.  Always unintentionally, Greg finds himself unable to realise when his body is saturated with alcohol and continues to funnel booze into his mouth, he resolves there and then that he is giving up drink for good.

Last night followed the standard routine of a night out for Greg, he had intended to have a few drinks then stick to water to stay fresh for work today.  Instead, as soon as he was standing at the bar all he wanted was to feel a bit out of himself, to distance his mind from his body which had spent the previous eight hours performing the most mundane and soulless of tasks.

From the brief comments thrown at him as he passed through the office on his way to his desk, Greg is certain of which pub they had stayed in for the evening.  Jumping back a few hours he can see himself sitting there, gulping down his third glass of wine, marvelling that he was starting to feel slightly worse for wear and enjoying the sensation.  Not that he tasted what he was drinking, swigging down the rich burgundy liquid it held no taste, he gasped between mouthfuls waiting for its effects to kick in.

Almost every shift at the call centre finishes with a few drinks, they are now an extension of Greg's working hours.  He and his workmates troop off to the pub en masse just as they do on their lunch hour and their speedy fag breaks before they have to log back onto their computers.

Greg hates working here.  During his shifts he can feel his brain slowly rotting as he performs actions which could just as easily be performed by an emotionally stunted robot.  He is the lead singer in a band, he has an Honours degree, he works the odd shift in a cool, arty pub - this was only supposed to be a stop gap until better things arose.  Better things have not appeared, and so Greg is reduced to drinking as much as is needed to help him cope with how let down he feels with life.

Although he does not even like the taste of wine, it is Greg's drink of choice as it gets him inebriated quickest.  At first he cannot stand the taste and takes only very small, measured sips.  Then, after a certain quantity - which he cannot quite pinpoint - he finds himself yearning for more of it and it begins to disappear quickly from his glass.  The warm feeling that it gives him in his belly spreads to his head and his groin.  He becomes emotional, yearning for love and affection - desperate to share his inner-most thoughts with those around him.  He is overly sensitive, beginning to feel rejected by those that he loves, all he desires is human contact.  This combination of sensations leads to one of two things, he either ends up crying that no-one cares about him, or he attempts to hump whoever is close-by.  Knowing this, Greg makes the reasonably safe bet that he cried down the phone to Ally, telling him he loved him and asking why Ally didn't love him back.  That or he invited him round to the flat for a fuck.  It is difficult to determine which scenario is more humiliating.

The fog in Greg's head is cleared by someone leaning over the side of his cubicle and attempting to discuss last night.  "...That was some good time we had, eh?  You ever get eating your chips, you were holding them while you spoke on the phone outside the club for fucking ages..." Greg does not look up, from the voice he deduces it is Dave but he has no interest in contributing to a conversation, he begins to talk on an imaginary call and only stops the pretence once he is sure Dave has wandered back to his own desk.

Greg's headache becomes more intense, aggravated by the chatter of people around about him and Dave's words ringing in his ears.  The smell of chips jumps to the forefront of his mind, he feels the gentle swaying of his body as he attempted to eat them.  Speech slowly filters through his brain, Greg hears himself speaking in a whiney voice as he tells Ally, "I am so sorry I'm calling you so late, I'm sorry I'm telling you all this but I really love you, I really do.  I am such a cunt I shouldn't have said anything, I'm sorry.  I'm such a cunt."  Greg squirms from utter, desperate embarrassment in his seat, he slams his head down on the desk and shuts his eyes as tight as he can, hoping somehow this will enable the memories to disappear back into the depths of his brain.

Smog

It floats above us, clinging to the air - heavy and thick.

We move tentatively, unsure how to manoeuvre around what looms over us.

Eyes meet, transmitting silent signals, testing to see if we should continue the pretence of there being nothing wrong. Our bodies shift our weight as we squirm to find comfort where we sit together but there is none to be found.

We exchange words, uttered in the knowledge that they are loaded with meanings we dare not confront. We continue in this manner for some time, our eyes distracted by the moving images on the television screen whilst our minds take note of every movement, every potential thought of the other.

Above us the smog grows thicker, too dense to penetrate. To attempt to dispel it now seems impossible. Instead, we sit uneasy in the knowledge that - for the moment at least - it shall remain undisturbed, it will not be discussed. We allow it to fester until we are unable to move due to its presence.

Our bodies drift slowly towards one another. The distance we allowed to stay between us diminished as if we are trying to huddle together for protection against that which hovers above us. We can feel it close-in around about us, we are seeking shelter from each other.

Arms so close that the hairs protecting either skin intertwines with the others, they stand on end as if electricity has been passed through our bodies. Hearts racing, breathing becoming a little shallower, our eyes focus on the screen, attempting to propel ourselves away from this awkwardness.

Grey

Glasgow is grey - the sky, the buildings, the Clyde. So similar in tone that they merge into one impenetrable mass on the skyline.

I shift myself over to the side of my desk in order to gain a better view of the outside world. The bright strobe lighting of the office makes the dullness outside even more striking.

The rain that is falling is so fine I have to squint to make it out on its journey from sky to ground or river. It has not yet been raining long enough for puddles to form on the pavement but the thick, heavy cloud that hangs in the sky indicates that these will be there soon enough. I watch the river dimple millions of times from the tiny drops of water joining its swaying mass.

My attention is focused on the view for so long that the screensaver pops onto my computer monitor from lack of any work being performed, I notice this but am not bothered enough to cease my staring. I become startled when the occasional boat or person splinters the scene.

There are few perks in the job that brings me to sit at this desk and look at this view. Many people assume when I tell them where I work that there is an element of glamour attached to the tasks I perform every day - these people are wrong. In my months at this desk, in this office, at this television station - it is only the view that I consider a perk.

The Empty Vessel

I stare down from the bridge into the water watching it shine in the darkness below me. The street lights cast enough of a glow that I can see my reflection. I look at myself looking into the water and I do not appear any different to how I have always done. It is just my insides that have altered.

I had not suspected the evening would have so much of an impact on me. There were many things I was expecting to feel, but this was not it. For instance I knew that it would be awkward to see him again after all of this time - and it had been. I weirdly enjoy the strangeness we share when we are together. Even now that I do not love him I still adore being in his company, the odd moments when we touched thrilled me, the conversations we had will be replayed in my head for days.

I did not mean to come down to the river so late on my own. It wasn't until I had left him that I thought of visiting this spot. He will never know it but this place is very important to us.

A car drives over the bridge, its headlights bring me harshly into view for a few seconds. I feel exposed. I do not want to be alone in the spotlight, I want to be embraced by the night, I want to stay hidden.

There is nowhere but the riverbank to go if I do not want to be seen. Once I am down next to the water the only thing I can hear is my heart beating. I forget how loud it gets these days now that my chest is empty, my body a hollow cave where once it was filled with love for him.

It is not that I do not still have those feelings, it is just that I no longer carry them with me constantly. It was too painful to have that burden with me wherever I went, it is much easier to know that they still exist but are stored elsewhere.

I cannot remember the exact date that I chose to be this empty vessel. Which is strange as every other moment connected to him, no matter how insignificant, remains clear in my thoughts.

Whenever it was, that day was the same as all of the others days had been since I met him, I thought of him and nothing else from the moment I woke. The pain that I did not have some concrete sign that he loved me too was too much to bear. I could not have him in my life and feel this way anymore.

And so I stored my feelings neatly away in a box. I could not trust myself to be able to access them and so I tied a chain around it and locking it into position before throwing away the key. Within hours I would have been picking that lock and so I had to get rid of it completely. I came down to the bridge and flung it into the murky water. Instead of floating away and eventually finding itself at sea, the box splashed and sunk to the depths of the river.

I wanted the feelings to vanish yet I know that they remain on the riverbed, they are not as far out of reach as I need them to be. If I took off my clothes and dived to the bottom of the river I could touch the box, rescue it from lying there. Its chain will have rusted in the months that have passed but what is inside will not have rotted.

My heart races quicker in anticipation of being so close to what I want back so badly. I move closer to the water's edge, in the darkness I cannot tell how deep the water is. I sit on the cold ground and take off my boots and socks before plunging my feet into the water. It is chilly but not unbearable. I think I could manage to submerge myself in the water for the few minutes it would take to do what I have to do. If it were light I would not be able to do this, the daytime would show how dirty and dank the water is. But I cannot see anything except refracted light and waves.

I am suddenly aware of someone lurking behind me, I scramble to get out of the water and have just finished gathering my things when the tramp emerges from the shadows. He mutters something, he is still several feet away from me but I can smell the booze he reeks of, I mumble words in response and walk quickly back into the light.

Crossing the bridge to make my way home I look down onto the water but do not let my eyes linger at the spot where the box lies.

The chain will rust, moss will grow over the box and I shall remain hollow.