Coffee, make up, headmistress, phonecall, writing: Wait...

This isn’t a coffeehouse post, even though it technically could be, cos here I sit at the coffeehouse.  Same one as usual.  It just doesn’t feel like one.  It just feels like me listening, and cribbing what I hear.  Phone conversation:

“I’d really like you to take this on.  I’m not trying to pressure you, Alison is quite keen and we can roll this into a single arrangement…”

Lots of women are doing make up, slowly and carefully.  I must have come in at some magic time of day.  I always think it’s weird when women do make up in public (you wouldn’t get dressed in public would you?).  Watching the states of face go on – the complete illusion, be it good or bad, or eyebrow filling in from nothing.

“I didn’t realise that was an issue.  However, if she wanted to work for more than 3 days a week, she has asked for a guarantee I would…”

There’s a woman I recognise as headmistress of a school in the next borough, sitting diagonally across from me. Blonde hair, just past shoulder length.  Black dress, small flowers.  Cornflower cardigan.   Not the voice on the phone.  Laptop.  A diary with a page for a day, A4.  She is deeply immersed in her stressy allocation of activities and/or people to relevant days.  There’s much hand to furrowed brow, hand to mouth with pen in tight fist.  Much deep breathing as if she’s trying to keep calm.  Her shoes are like tap shoes, delicate and cloppy sounding as she keeps moving her feet about.  Such an active pantomime of pressured work she’s doing, as if she’s acting for a camera (or me, or anyone, that can see her from the corner of our eyes.) I’m sure she really is working, and worried, and has an awful lot to do…but all the really loud sighing and blowing out?  The single-minded absorption in her work, but so much theatrical action to go with it.  Goodness dear, says an imaginary granny next to me, knitting needles clicking, you ARE busy, aren’t you?

                                                       *

I’m expecting women to do work differently to men.  Not expecting all this shitting jargonese I can hear from this phonecall; all these obfuscatory important sounding buzzwords.  The harsh all business bulldozing tone of voice: “If you’re concerned how others in the office might perceive –“ See, she’s pulling out issues a man might not, but the tone of her voice is grating and hard.  It’s all variables she’s ticking off a list, it’s not that she sounds like she cares or has time for this conversation (“she wants an exit strategy”).  She just wants the person at the other end to do as she wants them to.  She’s covering all the issues she can find (“any concerns whatsoever, we know the territory is one of your concerns”), so that the woman on the other end will capitulate.  After a barrage that’s too fast for me to get down, she pauses and says: “if that helps?” periodically.  I don’t like her at all.  She’s not even one of those women of whom you’d say ‘I want her on MY side, not against me’.  I just don’t want this fast talking manipulator anywhere near me.  I want her to stop talking, take a breath and listen to what the person on the other end of the phone is trying repeatedly to say to her.  For a start.

Damn, her phone call is long (“much easier for me to extend her contract, potentially I could do that if it’s what you felt…” – false language of caring, maddening).

Not sure what I expect. Maybe I have stupidly higher standards I apply to my fellow females?  I wish the headmistress had quietly and calmly gone about her business, without all the signalling to all and sundry that she is Very Busy, Possibly Too Busy.  Who does that help/benefit?  I didn’t feel sorry for her, the way she was flipping back and forth those pages made me feel she was disorganized if anything.  I wondered why she had come to the coffeehouse to work when she was clearly befuddled with stress – she’s had four cappuccinos, and she didn’t order decaf (I really am a very nosy earwig, y’know).  Her face remained blank and guarded throughout, but the rest of her body, though trying to speak control, spoke chaos.

And the other woman?  I want her to send an email and let the other woman get a word in edgewise.  She laughs, a big blowsy barking sound, forced out. (“It makes far more sense to do that, time-wise, yes, much more efficient” – see, now organisation is annoying me.)

“…with the funding regime.  Is this what you want to do from your perspective?...contracts, I will know by October…role with those options…does that help at all, it allows me to plan for longer term, as well…was costing him 90 thou pro rata, one of the reasons I left him alone…”  Blimey.  90 thou pro rata?  That’s one feck of a part time job she’s discussing there.

I think I expect men to be machines at work (as a generalisation of course), and often, they do behave like that, as if scripts and demeanours are before them and they riffle through, pick and adopt whichever comes naturally at the time.  And I really do seem to expect women to do better than that.  Why?  We’re brought up to be constantly caring for others and watching people’s reactions and looking for approval etc…why on Earth would I expect us to be less prone to manipulative work behaviour and image making than men?!  I seem to expect us to engage with those we deal with with genuine interest – if they are lower in work status than themselves especially (don’t be a dick, as Stanley would say).

“That ok then? I’ll speak to you on Tuesday, cheers then Abby”, she says, and FINALLY lets the poor woman go, whose head must be swimming with demands, comparisons and scenarios.

Back to the makeup. That was interrupted. There’s a woman in purple coat, black faux fur ruff, smart.  There’s a big line of black liquid liner going on over large brown eyes.  A very funny squinty face as she’s applying it, too.

I think I may be after all work situations being an ideal of Quakerliness that probably never existed – where we all call each other by our names, not titles, or ‘sir’, or ‘Mrs’.  And when we listen properly when others speak, we try to find solutions, compromises, room to breathe.  Not battle, dominate, manipulate.  Wear down and talk till someone’s head is spinning.  I seem to unrealistically think that we can all leave our work at work too: that I am fed up and therefore should no longer have to hear long business conversations on trains, buses or in coffeehouses (places you go to to escape work, not an extension of work).  That was a good 15 minutes of that other businesswoman’s life I had to live with there.  She didn’t ask if she was impinging on the space around her, she just got on with speaking really loudly and inviting us all by default into her conversation.

The eyeliner woman finishes her eyes and moves on to her mouth, which gets lined in deep cherry red, then filled in with a very glossy corally red, via a palette and small brush, very dedicated work.  Then her colleague – I presume colleague, they have identical coats – it would be a bit creepy if two thirty something women were wearing the same exact fancy coat otherwise…must be some kind of uniform? – comes over with a truly resplendent slice of chocolate fudge cake.  This colleague has shown insight, and has already done her eye and cheek makeup (it’s the 80s in stripes over here), but not her mouth.  She delicately takes a fork (very long gel nails, in purply black), and proceeds to very genteely take tiny bites of the cake, and slide them off the fork into her mouth, very very slowly, while chatting away to her other clone.  Original purple coat is making the world’s saddest face as she realises she can’t eat the cake because of the heavy lip make up.  (I mean she could, she could break up a bit and carefully put it in her mouth without touching her lips, but this hasn’t occurred to her, and she looks like she might cry, as the cake does indeed look scrummy.  It’s sad, now I want cake too, and it isn’t mine, and I’ve run out of money!  These things my days are made of – resentment of certain sorts of people; and cake envy.  Sigh.  Clearly a bit of personal mental reorganisation also necessary.)

I start thinking about diets, Slimming World, Weight Watchers.  How diets go so well, then don’t?  Control.  The deliciousness of the idea of order, of food plans.  Point counting.  The amount you’d have to spend on food. The joy of not having to think or make choices for a bit because they are made for you.  But then you end up thinking about food constantly, and breaking the diet, followed by berating self, and what Josie Spinardi rightfully calls: “eating cos you ate”.  Pressure.  Versus mindful eating.  The merry go round of dieting.  

That not-mine cake is gone now, thank goodness.  The headmistress is gone.  The annoying phone woman is gone.   Purple coat and other purple coat, also gone.  All that’s left is an empty plate with crumbs on, a lipstickless fork.  I wonder if I can stretch that to be a metaphor for anything?!

                                                           *

Which reminds me of why I’m really here.  I’m sposed to be writing. There must be a story waiting to be told.  I have no clue what it is.  I used to want to write about everyday life, but very grounded, in an almost Virginia Woolf like detail.  Then put magic, or metaphysical things in it.  But I wrote less and less. No matter what détente I arranged with the critical demons, they just kept bothering me, endlessly.  It got worse, not better. I felt tired, endlessly insecure, second guessing my every choice and decision till I had practically no idea who I was.  In life as well as writing.  I still don’t have any clear idea of who I am other than a collection of changeable traits; some of which crop up with more frequency than others and in fairly reliable combinations.

I see myself more and moreso, almost giving up on writing. Find myself focussing more and more on the outside work that I could do, contribute.  Obviously with my save-the-world, change-the-world inclinations, writing still should be the way to go.

But it feels less and less possible.  Regardless of me being convinced that it’s a fact that more minds are changed, and have been caused to think and re-evaluate by fiction and persuasive characters than by any political speech.  But my demons don’t let me write much anymore.  Nothing I truly value.  If I value it a bit less, like thinking aloud here, it piles out.  But actual stories, ideas for stories?  Characters coming and talking to me till I write them down, then carrying on and getting their own wind in their own sails whilst I listen and take dictation?  Not so much anymore, at all.  It’s like there is a black pit in my head.  Or a solid wall.  Or a dark absorbing fog.  I can’t even seem to begin to think of characters, or hear their voices as I used to, the characters having conversations with each other.  Where there used to be possibilities, endless wonderful choices, there’s now…nothing.  It just doesn’t come.  When I'm anywhere, doing anything.

I can’t be sure whether it’s because I question so much else in my life all the time and therefore have no clue who I am from day to day. Other than this questioning and doubting and questing for changed conditions.  Or whether it’s because I do seem to be focussing outward more: volunteering, job-hunting, taking Fluffhead out so much more than before because I can see he really needs to keep socialising. 

I’ve always wanted to write fiction, and I’ve always valued it.  And yet in many ways, this last year in particular – and it’s been coming a long time, I’ve never thought it less doable.  It really feels like I have almost (but not quite) given up.

I still read voraciously and connectedly, devouring the minds and visions and ideas of others.  I know my own visions are still inside me somewhere.  Though possibly their nature has changed; I may be looking in the wrong place, trying the key repeatedly to the wrong room.

Often, even blogging becomes difficult.  My own experiences feel either too boring (that’s downer thinking, I know: as anything can be interesting, depends on how described), or simply too long to do. To sort through thoughts in my mind seems too high a mountain to climb.

I wanted to tell you about Fry’s enormous ongoing back tattoo and the brilliantly interesting tattoo artist, watching the ooze and wipe of blood (“we use vegan ink here”); about my canvassing experiences, feeling politically engaged and purposeful (on and off).  And the soul destroying nature of modern job hunting.  About Fluffhead’s development – my serious worries about balancing work, child care and self-care.  Worries about money could not be more boring, but they are there too.  About a weekend away at the inlaws and Fluffhead’s first seaside trip: his palpable joy, the way he shook with cold as the sea washed over his ankles but he fiercely grinned, refusing to move and gripping my hand so hard.  Loving the sea so much and curling his toes through sand and seawater with such fascination and focus.

But when I try and tease any of this out, what I feel is tiredness, this yawning grey foggy tiredness.

And what I do is read.  Or consume vast amounts of TV series – loving to watch character development or plot savvy moves.  I analyse constantly even when lost in it.  And I do the same whilst reading: even when the writing is so good I can barely find technique, it repels my attempts.  Its joy both to be in it, of it, and to watch it work.  But doing it?

I just do not seem to be able to grab the mental level of awakeness to say anything.  Concentration and clarity seem to come and go and be of only moments duration. Fascinating.  A proper locked room, or wing, a whole wing of a house.  All I can do is keep showing up here, keep reading (both fiction, non fiction, history, philosophy – and writing books); keep talking to my writer friends, keep watching how it all works.

And wait.  Trusting that any moment, any day now, any character will come out of that room and talk to me.  Any plot, any idea, anything to actually grab me.  (Or they won’t.  Also a possibility.)

Wait.  Listen.  Pay attention.

And in the meantime…you get a lot of book and film reviews and other waffling, cos that’s what I am able to do.