You and I remember Budapest very differently...

Hello my darlings! I haven't blogged for ages because I am SLACK. I am SLACK. And I have been busy. Since we last met, I have spent Halloween with Audrey Niffenegger and Erin Morgenstern, lost my life in the zombie apocalypse for the second year running, looked at lots of taxidermy, won NaNoWriMo for the third time, and machinated on a very secret project. But that's not what I'm here to write about today.

Today, I want to tell you about Budapest. Let me begin by saying Budapest is sexy. Very very sexy. It's about as sexy as Prague, which is pretty much the sexiest a place can be. Suffice to say, when I am a millionaire, I will be dividing my time between Budapest and Prague.

We got off to a cracking start, free airport booze and champagne on the flight. And then we were there. 


It's such a gorgeous place, the architecture is magnificent and huge, the scale of the buildings stands as testament to human vision and ability. To stand and look up at the awesome St Stephen's Basilica lit up at night is a beautiful thing to do. And that beauty is only enhanced by the availability of HOT WINE ON THE STREETS!

Yes! Budapest is another of those glorious cities which sells hot wine at regular intervals. I made the most of it. We arrived at our beautiful hostel, located opposite the National Museum and settled in. Most excitingly, we had a mezzanine floor in our room. In the flat of my dreams, I have a mezzanine floor, which is where I will slumber and dream so imagine my excitement when I find our room has one!

Then imagine my fear as it dawns on me there is no railing, and though I'm not normally one to fall out of bed, if ever there was going to be a time, this would have been it. Rest assured, dear reader, I survived. On our first night, we perused the Christmas Market, before heading back for a sleep. Which did not end with me as a broken heap of flesh and bone on a wooden floor.

The more observant amongst you will have noticed by now that I'm saying 'we' and not 'I'. This is for one very important reason. I DID NOT TRAVEL ALONE. And blimey, was I scared. I've grown a bit used to mucking around in strange places on my bod, so the idea of spending time with someone else was slightly nerve-wracking. What if she (by whom, I mean Pris, my former housemate and best muggle friend) didn't want to go to the zoo? What if 6 hours of wandering around aimlessly was not her cup of tea? What if my stream of endless inane chatter bored her to tears? Now, I know we've lived together before, but holibobs are different. Holibobs are about either; a) relaxation or; b) exploration. I'm a 'b' kind of girl, but not everyone is and I was apprehensive of a potential clash of interests. 

Happily, my fears were unfounded and Pris was just as excited as me to go and explore Hungary. 

On our first full day we rose and we walked! We saw the Chain Bridge and Parliament and the Shoes on the Danube Promenade and many streets and buildings. Then we found Margaret Island. It's situated in the Danube, between Buda and Pest and I'd heard a rumour there was a tiny zoo on it. We'd also heard we could rent bikes and cycle around it and we thought that might be fun, a bit of a cycle around with frequent stops for hot wine. 


And then we realised we could rent a pedal car! We choose our baby, called it Fülemüle (Hungarian for nightingale and the only word we knew at the time) and off we went. Pris drove and we investigated some monastic ruins and a bit of a convent and then I wanted a go.

I cannot drive for love nor money. Within moments I'd crashed us into a tree and we had to be hauled out by a very amused Hungarian man. Tail between my legs, I toddled off for a wine and a calm down. Later that night, we ate at a restaurant called Fülemüle (see what we did there?) and then we went off to the amazing Szimpla, escorted by Hassam from the restaurant, who had taken a bit of shine to me (seriously, he asked me how many men had told me I was beautiful and I replied with "Not enough". Stay classy, Mel).

It's easily going to be one of my favourite pubs in the world. It was so eclectic and vibrant and unique, based around social space, art gallery, meeting place and music space. On Sundays they host a craft fair there, people bring their art and their films and it feels genuinely Bohemian. We had beer and wandered around it and smiled at strangers and it was a beautiful night.

I loved it so much that I returned the following day after the ubiquitous zoo trip, where I saw and photographed many animals and had a very exciting encounter with a sloth. It almost touched me. I almost let it. Then I got scared and ran away. 

I had to go back and investigate Szimpla, just to make sure it was as good as I had thought it was (I'll confess, I was slightly under the influence the previous night, we had wine with dinner, sampled palinka and were given a free glass of Tokai wine to boot). It was, it really was. I spent a few hours with a nice man called James, who was travelling alone and we swapped stories about our trip before I had to leave for dinner.

On our last full day, we went over to Buda, strolling over the Chain Bridge and using the siklo (a funicular rail system) to get to the top. Buda is very different to Pest, classy where Pest is slightly grittier, Buda is reserved and regal where Pest is friendly and approachable. Both sides are beautiful, but very demonstrative of the fact that beauty comes in different forms. 

We toured the Castle Hill district, viewing palaces and ruins and the Fisherman's Bastion and Matthias Church, before heading just outside the walls to the Hospital in the Rock. A former hospital-turned-nuclear-bunker, it was a glorious peek into the mentality of Hungary during the Cold War and the lives Hungarians led under Soviet Rule. The Hospital was only opened to the public in 2002, for decades it had remained a secret from the world, cared for by a man and his family who could tell no one where they lived or what they did. 


The hospital was so secret, that when it was transformed into a nuclear bunker, fuel and water were piped into the facility via secret pipes hidden in the flower beds of Matthias Church. The staff there were told they had to arrive at the bunker within fifteen minutes of hearing the siren warning them of attack. Once there, the doors would be closed for three days, during which time they'd have no contact with the outside world. Only after that would they be allowed to open the doors and begin working as a hospital treating potentially contaminated patients.

After that, and because I really enjoy being underground, we went to tour the Labyrinth under Castle Hill. It's an 1050m long subterranean dream and I was in my element. The lighting is kept low and there's no escort or guide. They just let you loose in there. Even more exciting when a man comes around with paraffin lamps, hands you one and promptly turns all the lights out, leaving you in the darkness with only the lamp as your light source. 

Naturally, we toured the whole thing again by lamp-light, endlessly delighted with the Dracula chambers (he was imprisoned in Buda for approximately ten years, in the labyrinth system). It was so so exciting and it would have been amazing to camp down there over night. By 'amazing' I meant undoubtedly terrifying, but hey, one life no fear.  

We had dinner (after our escape from the labyrinth) and then went to an absolutely bonkers Hungarian nightclub, featuring papier mache foxes mating atop the bar, and owls with breasts watching over the dance floor. We found a room which looked a bit like my auntie's sitting room, complete with glass cabinets with knick-knacks and passed a merry hour in there, before heading on back.

After a wonderful, bittersweet last morning at the Christmas market, we left Budapest behind, arriving back in the UK just in time for some kind of meteorological judgement from God.  This is why I don't like to leave places. Amongst other reasons.

So there, in a nutshell, is a glimpse into Budapest. Honest to God, I know I say this about everywhere I go, but you have to visit it. You have to. It's the most amazing and vibrant and exciting city (barring Prague) that I've been to. 

I am in love with Budapest. And I got the feeling Budapest loved me, too.

ADDENDUM: I am such a prat. I forgot to tell you about the BEST BIT. When we got over to Buda, we could hear the alluring sound of Medieval plinky-plonky music. We investigated and found AN ARCHERY RANGE. I haven't shot in about two years, so I was inching my way over to a glorious little recurve number when I spotted it. A CROSSBOW.

I paid my fee and shot that little beauty and it felt like coming home. I was a bit rubbish, I won't lie but it felt good. SO GOOD. 

Then, the following day at the market, I found crossbow charms. GUESS WHO NOW HAS CROSSBOW EARRINGS?! 

The Curious Case of the Dolls House Girl.

My friends are really clever, I'm regularly astounded by how talented they are. Today, I'm mostly astounded by the cleverness of Laura and Cathrin, who perform their quirky and unique songs under the delightful moniker 'Goodnight Astor'. Not so very long ago, they released their debut album, The Curious Case of the Dolls House Girl, a concept album surrounding the events leading up to the murder of a housemaid in 1900.

Each song introduces us individually to a cast of shady characters, all of whom have a secret to keep. The songs are all delivered in unique style, the music, melodies and instrument choices tailored to the personality of the desperado they represent, each one revealing tantalising snippets of information about the person and the case, through to the conclusion.

Which does not conclude the case. If you want to know who killed The Dolls House Girl, you're going to want to pop your deerstalker on and get deducing. 

So I did.

Track one: The Case

The opening track begins with the delicate sounds of a jewellery box being wound and played before it becomes a simple piano track that introduces us to the case; in 1900 a maid is discovered dead, in the home of her employers.

We discover that the master, the Lord in this situation, is out. He appears to be at the opera. With his wife. I deduced this from the lyrics, which specify that 'They'll be home soon', not 'He'll be home soon.'

Oh good. That wipes the two of them off of my suspect list. There's no way they could be at the opera AND doing a murder. Why would they even bother to kill the maid anyway? We all know from Downton Abbey that good, reliable and trustworthy maids are hard to find. Unless there is something we don't know...

Track two: The Butler

It seems though there is more than meets the eye to this Butler. He reveals the now-dead maid was twenty, having held her position for some time. We also learn she was a bit nosy and that the butler isn't too saddened by her death.

AHA! THE BUTLER DID IT. CASE SOLVED.

Not so fast, grasshopper. Let's have a look at why The Butler didn't like her. Did she perhaps spurn his advances? Unlikely - a butler during that time would have worked his way into his position over many years, and his job would have a great many privileges and perks. Franternisation with other staff members, if discovered, would have lost him that and he'd be very unlikely to jeopardise his position for a lowly maid. Even if he does have a secret yearning for someone. Someone forbidden. Like a housemaid. He speaks of having a secret, a secret he hopes she took to the grave. A secret she likely learned accidentally, as we know she likes to pry. It's almost certain she didn't read "Butler hearts Maid" in his diary, so it must be something she overheard. And now she's dead, he's hardly going to still be worried about it if it concerns her. So who is The Butler's mysterious paramour?

It also emerges that something that was there before, now isn't. This is vexing The Butler, so it's not a great leap to surmise it's a household object. Given the fact a girl is now dead, it's easy to assume that the missing object was the murder weapon.

So she was murdered in the house, with an object from the house. Which means the killer must have had access to the house and their presence would not be a cause for concern. Aha indeed...

Track three: The Gambler

The Gambler is a jaunty, vaudeville-esque little number, with rolling piano chords and jazzy high-hat and snare raps which evoke a character who is flamboyant, charming, morally bankrupt and, above all, desperate.

When I first started to look at this, I was utterly convinced that The Gambler was blackmailing another character, namely The Butler's secret lover, who I will reveal later. I believed that The Gambler's sister, The Maid, (he says in the lyrics "sister dear, I'll miss you" - The Maid is the only dead character. Take that, Sherlock) had revealed to him the identity of the erstwhile lover and he was using the information to blackmail them to keep it quiet. However, on later examination, I've changed my mind. I believe The Gambler is blackmailing someone else. I also believe he's caught in this spiral of blackmail and gambling to try and retain the love of another character. More on that later.

Finally, I'm a little worried his sister was stealing from the house, to pay her brother's gambling debts. The line which begins 'Sister dear I'll miss you,' ends with 'You'd always foot the bill.' But how would a housemaid, who would have earned around 15 guineas a year, been able to pay off his debts? Unlikely that she would, not without topping up her own funds a little. Unless he was also using his knowledge of the affair to blackmail someone in return for his keeping it quiet. Mentioning his sister footing the bill might not mean she literally handed over the cash. She could have easily just supplied him with the means of extorting the money from someone else, using knowledge.

Track four: The Lady

My favourite track on the album, The Lady is a wistful, mournful peek into the mind of a woman emotionally destroyed by love. The harmonies between the girls on this track are simply gorgeous, the lyrics and music are simple and sorrowful and I love it.

The Lady. So, it seems the Lord was having an affair. And she knew. She talks of scandal, the impact it would have on their reputation and how she won't be separated from him. She says 'lonely nights and wandering eyes are taking their toll'.

It is The Lady who I think The Gambler is blackmailing. He talks of how he's read about them in the papers, and that he's made a pretty penny from his sister's not so pretty end. He says 'got to pay to keep your man.' It's clear from the song that despite his apparent indiscretions, The Lady loves her husband still, and would take him back in a heartbeat. The Gambler says he'll lead along his lady until the diamonds fall away. The Lady is the only character in the tale that could have diamonds, assuming they are real diamonds. I believe The Maid foolishly revealed information to her brother about the Lord's little dalliance and The Gambler is happy to use that to extort money from The Lady to keep his own dearest darling happy.

But what is he blackmailing her with? The potential social stigma of revealing her husband is playing away, or something more sinister?

Track five: The Maid

In this song we discover that the maid too, is in love. With someone she shouldn't be. Someone who steals glances at her. Someone, therefore, who lives or works in the house she works in. Given that the last song introduced us to a woman almost crippled by the grief of having a straying husband, and for reasons I'll reveal later, I believe the girl was having an affair with The Lord of the house. A man she is horrified to find, before her untimely demise, seems to have no intention of accounting for his actions.

She says: 'Won't go in the background, won't go unnoticed,' so clearly her Romeo is happy to leave their affair as a bit of a josh and say no more. I don't think this went down too well with her, given that she 'has a gift he can behold'. Was she pregnant when she died?

Track six: The Spy

I've decided The Spy is Russian. Based solely on the way the girls sing it, he's Russian. This is another one which reminds me of The Beatles, though possibly in their slightly madder days. There is something very trippy and spiralling about this number. Which isn’t apparent at first, given the military precision of the drum track. But it happens. Trust me.

God, The Spy. I don't know. I don't know at all. From the lyrics, I surmise he has interests in The Gambler, The Dancer and The Doctor, but I've no idea what it is. He talks about wanting 'The girl', and wanting to know who killed her. He talks about running the house and playing the mouse...

Wait.

Running the house? Like a butler? Playing the mouse? Discreet, like a butler? The mission being hard? LIKE A SPY PRETENDING TO BE A BUTLER?!

Is The Spy also The Butler?

Track seven: The Lord

Yup, he was boffing The Maid. He talks about committing a crime; the crime that I believe he is referring is adultery, which for a man in his position was not really a crime. But to a man who clearly had a bit of a dark moment and seduced a housemaid behind the back of his loyal wife, it would seem criminal. He says he loves his wife, he's sorry for the hurt he's caused. I also think it might have helped that The Maid was MENTAL. He talks about her inability to let go, heck, in her song even she admits she's having some problems with it.

Track eight: The Doctor

Ah yes, The Doctor. How his heartbeat races when a certain someone stares at him oh so intently. We know from The Spy that The Spy had plans to interrogate ‘the medic’. But, assuming my premise that The Spy and The Butler are one and the same, and that I pondered whom The Butler was pining for, could it be The Doctor’s heart is racing, not from the pressure of being questioned, but from lust? Are The Doctor and The Butler having a bit of a carry on?

I think so.

Again, The Doctor talks of something being ‘forbidden’, just as The Butler did. He talks of innocence, touching and hearts yearning. He questions whether the love was ever real. He then says ‘Was his love ever real?’ Whose love? It’s my belief that he is talking of The Lord’s love for The Maid. If she were pregnant, The Doctor would know, as at some point she would have to have seen a doctor to have it confirmed. And unluckily for him, he seems to be the only one around.

So, The Butler/Spy questions The Doctor, wanting to know what he knows. Why? If he is a spy, he’s not going to care to much if his ‘master’ is having it away with a maid. But what if he has another purpose? What if he needs to know about The Maid, to lead him to her brother, The Gambler, and his lover? What if his purpose in being there is nothing to do with the murder at all?

And where does that leave the poor Doctor when his forbidden love eventually disappears into the night?

Track eight: The Dancer

I don’t like The Dancer. I think she is a devious little minx who is nowhere near as clever as she believes. She’s enjoying pretending she’s putting on a show, trying to impress someone. Which means someone has let her into their plan. The only two likely suspects, in my opinion, are The Gambler and The Spy. She’d want to impress The Spy, assuming she knew what he really was. So of course, a bit of devious activity would appeal.

She talks of playing a part; ‘I learnt my lines you, taught me well’. And whoever it is, she loves them as she’s adamant that ‘no-one’s going to take my man away’.

I believe it’s The Gambler she’s talking about. Firstly, why would anyone take The Spy away? He’s a spy; he’d be gone way before it gets too hot in the kitchen, and of his own volition. But The Gambler… If he is blackmailing The Lady, he’s playing a dangerous game. Game. The very word The Dancer says in her song; ‘This game got out of hand’. Gamblers play games. By ‘out of hand’, I believe she is referring to The Maid’s death. Which prompts her to seek help from beyond the veil…

Track nine: The Medium

I’m a bit unsure about her. I’m not largely sure she has anything to do with the case, other than using her powers to reveal that the murder weapon is hidden in the theatre and is a china beast. She does say some very intriguing things though, leading me to suspect that The Dancer is not her first client.

‘Oh, she came to know, how her love would go, as she tore the world apart. How could she know, that her time to go, would be soon and she’d depart.’

The Maid saw The Medium. The Medium foresaw her death, foresaw that The Lord would try and pull away, though too late for The Maid. So The Maid took action in the only way she could…

Track ten: The Conclusion

Aha! We discover that the murder weapon was a china Basset hound. And also that the killer had an alibi, as the narrative clearly states it will be proven false.

So… Who had an alibi? The Lord and The Lady… Both of whom had motive to kill The Maid, and easy and unrivalled access to the house. And both of whom allegedly spent the night at the theatre.

I might be wrong, but here, here is my conclusion to The Curious Case of the Dolls House Girl.

The Maid was having an affair with The Lord. She loved him and initially believed him to love her. At some point, she sought out The Medium to determine their future. When The Medium told her it wouldn’t happen, that The Lord would never leave his wife, The Maid got herself pregnant in a last-ditch attempt to win him.

The Maid confided in her brother, The Gambler, who used the information of the affair, and therefore ensuing scandal, to blackmail The Lady for money to keep his lover, The Dancer, in the manner she in her shallow, showbiz way had become accustomed to. The Lady would never have told her husband of the blackmail, because of the loss of face and pain it would cause her to hear him admit to his indiscretion. A woman in her position could never confront her husband with that information, both for social and practical reasons.

The Doctor confirmed The Maid’s pregnancy, before revealing his knowledge to The Butler, his own love. However, The Butler is also The Spy, positioned in the house to get close to The Maid, seeking knowledge on her brother, The Gambler.

On the night of the murder, The Lord and The Lady leave for the opera. But one returns, perhaps faking illness. They kill The Maid with the Basset hound ornament and leave her dead, taking the ornament back to the theatre with them and secreting it there, in the territory of The Dancer. She finds the ornament, recognising it somehow, possibly from a description The Maid gave to her brother, prior to her death. She feeds this to The Gambler, giving him the ammunition he needs to ramp up his blackmail on the Lady.

Because The Lady killed The Maid.

Finally, The Lady knows The Butler is The Spy. He was hired specifically for that purpose, at The Lady’s behest. Feeling guilty over his affair, The Lord acquiesced to her wishes, allowing The Spy into his home. His job is to keep an eye on The Maid, report her actions back to The Lady, and discover what he can about her brother, with The Lady hoping for information that will turn the tables on The Gambler. It is the discovery of her pregnancy, via The Spy’s chat with The Doctor, which prompts The Lady to kill her supposed rival. 

What no-one, other than The Maid, knows is that The Butler/Spy has fallen in love with The Doctor, a crime in 1900 which would bring shame and imprisonment on them both. What began as a simple investigation turned into love, and then fear as The Maid learned that The Butler, who The Lady knew to be The Spy, was in love with The Doctor. Luckily, the Maid never had chance to tell her brother what she knew, which is just as well as The Gambler would have used it to his advantage. And possibly ended up in the grave next to his sister.

My initial workings out. A lot changed. A lot. 

So there you have it. My attempt to solve The Curious Case of the Dolls House Girl. Have I succeeded, has my tutelage at the knees of Poirot and Holmes paid off? Or has my penchant for salacious scandal run away with me?

Only Laura and Cathrin, and let’s face it, probably James know…

The Casual Vacancy

I've read The Casual Vacancy. In April, we found out the title of the book, leading to heavy speculation regarding what it would be about. "It's not for children!" was bandied about quite a lot.

And it's not. It's very much the anti-thesis to Harry Potter. 

But I'd be disappointed in anyone who says J.K Rowling can't write after reading it. I can see why it might not be everyone's cup of tea; it's brutal and bleak and distinctly non-magical. There are no miracles in this book. The lines between good and 'evil' are heavily blurred. But then, 'evil', in this context at least, is quite subjective. I suspect most evil-doers aren't consciously committing acts of evil, particularly the ones in this story. After all, everyone is the hero in their own story, and nowhere is that more apparent than in the shallow but idyllic village of Pagford. Beautiful, historic Pagford with its rolling fields and quaint cottages. And its poverty-ridden council estate. 


And there is the crux of the book; all of the action contained within boils down to the problem of the Fields council estate. Pagford, sadly understandably, doesn't want it. They don't want to pay for it, they don't want the children that live there in their schools, or on their streets. But then Yarvil, the neighbouring 'big town'  doesn't want it either. Barry Fairbrother, a former Fields boy-gone-good, thinks that with the right help, everyone from the Fields has a shot at a decent, educated and drug-free life. The Parish Council strongly disagrees. So when poor old Barry drops dead on his wedding anniversary, battle lines are drawn between those want to continue Barry's fight and those who want nothing more than to fence off the Fields from their beloved village.

It's a winding sort of book; I realised three-quarters of the way through that I'd been cleverly drawn into a web of deceit and anger, without even noticing it. Characters are introduced rapidly, at first it can be hard to keep up with the myriad of personalities and their foibles, but at some point it just clicked and I felt as though I lived in the village, and was watching the events unfold alongside the cast, albeit with a lot more foresight than they had. 

And then I realised I didn't particularly like any of the characters. There were a few I didn't dislike, as such, and a few I outright wanted to slap, but none I felt a true connection with and that phased me at first. I'd always believed that one of the first rules of writing a successful story was to create an engaging character, someone you could see with qualities similar to your own, a hero or heroine to connect with, if you will. I'd always thought that you had to see through their eyes to be able to endure their struggles with the appropriate amount of understanding. 

But there is no-one in this book I truly connected with and yet I really enjoyed it. It was bitter-sweet to watch these lives unfold, to see how it spiraled out of control, how little things added up to make big things. I saw it head, ever swiftly, towards disaster and observed the minutiae of the characters' worlds exposed, literally in some cases. Some of their struggles, their dreams seemed so petty, some seemed almost ludicrous in their ambitiousness. This book goes beyond the characters to tell a story and it's the first time I've experienced that. But I wanted more. I marathoned through the book, and had that sense of delicious bleakness at the end that comes when you've left a bit of yourself inside the world you've just left. There were tears, and most bizarrely, the tears stemmed from a sense of impotent guilt, that I'd seen this coming, I knew the whole story and yet could do nothing to stop it from reaching the inevitable climax. In that, I think for the first time I made some connection with the characters. That I stood with them, aghast at my inability to do anything. And equally, at the end I closed the book and walked away, relatively unscathed, just as a lot of them did too. 

It's an uncanny, honest and fairly ugly depiction of the human condition at its worst, exposing all of the pettiness and greed that people harbour inside themselves when they forget they're just a small cog in a big machine, when they become or try to become insular and independant. But there is also hope. The Casual Vacancy comes chock-full of hope, and that's what makes it so compelling, in my opinion. That each character, for all their faults, dreams of it getting better, in whatever way they can.

It really is a good book. 

Best of all, my copy is signed by the lady herself! I was lucky enough to have secured tickets to go to the launch of A Casual Vacancy at the Southbank Centre on Thursday 27th September. After falling down the stairs and nearly killing myself (Ha, like that would've stopped me) Jules and I made our way into London, said hello to the usual suspects and settled in for a giddy evening listening the woman who is mostly responsible, however indirectly, for me being the person I am.


I won't bore you with the platitudes of it, but I did get emotional, in both the teary and the beaming sorts of ways, and I did manage to blurt a very heartfelt 'Thank you', at Jo when she was signing my book (she was drinking white wine, we should be best friends. I knew it). I was also 'quoted' in an (ahem) Daily Mirror article about it. By 'quoted', I mean they used a tweet which said I'd got the book, and the accompanying photo, and tweeted back at me to say they'd used them. Ah, the wonders of journalism.

A video can be seen here of the event, which featured a short reading, Jo being interviewed about the book, another reading and then questions from the audience. I did wave my hand about a bit, but was sadly not chosen, so instead I asked my question to anyone who stood vaguely near me in the queue. No-one knew the answer. Or they didn't care because why am I talking to them when J.K-blinking-Rowling is just over there...

It was an amazing night. I'm still in the phase where I'm clutching it to my heart a bit, being a little cagey about it because I'm still not 100% convinced it happened. But it did. And I was there. And I've read the book and I liked it. I liked it very, very much. 

Marra-Marra-Marrakech (to the tune of Paradise)

Hello!

I went to Africa! It was very exciting and happened very quickly, but basically, I ended up with two weeks off work and decided to go on an adventure. Destination: Marrakech. Marrakech has been on my list for a while, and reading Mary Russell books hasn't helped, and it seemed like too good of an opportunity to miss.

It was all booked very quickly, I bought a guide book and learnt how to say 'Hello' and 'No thanks' in Marrakechi Arabic and then I was off. I had a fake wedding and engagement ring to ward off any suitors, a selection of cardigans to keep the hot African sun from burning my shoulders and I also managed to wangle some last minute Typhoid and Hep A jabs. I was set!

I had no idea. None.

My first day started so well. I rose to the sound of birdsong echoing from the top of my open-roofed riad, descended the ornate staircase and tucked into a sumptuous breakfast. I fastened my headscarf and popped my sunglasses on and stepped out into Africa.

Turns out, Africa is hot.

I ran for cover in Cafe de France, a very famous institution right on the edge of the Jamaa El Fna. After a brief coffee and the chance to wop out my schoolgirl French, I bravely decided to venture forth.

If I had to describe Marrakech in one word, the word I would use is 'Chaos'. It's crowded and noisy, there are people on bikes and mopeds swerving around donkeys and pedestrians in the narrow, reed-roofed streets. People call out all the time, to friends, to family, to passers-by, greetings and attempts at sales and admonishments to young people on bikes. I very naively thought that because Easyjet flew there, it would be a standard tourist destination, if a little more exotic. It's not. At times it felt almost as though I'd wandered into a medieval scene, time-travelled instead of continent-hopped. None of what happens there is put on for tourists. You're much more likely to find a Moroccan seeking their fortune from a veiled lady with a deck of cards, or watching the snake charmers bait the snakes and play for them, than you are a tourist.

And it was overwhelming, especially because, as a white woman travelling alone, I stuck out like a sore thumb. I now have a good understanding of what it must be like to be a celebrity, how it feels to be pointed at, called out to, pulled at and followed. Thankfully, Marrakechi people are lovely, and as they were just as much of a curiosity to me as I was to them, we worked it out. I should have realised that in a country where so much effort is gone to to protect women from the eyes of strangers, me striding through the Medina in my cowboy boots would have been a little odd. It was probably also a bit naive of me to book a riad right in the old town, where Moroccans live, when so many tourists stay in the newer, European-ised Gueliz. But in hindsight, I wouldn't change it.

Day one saw me take in two beautiful palaces, the ornate but unfurnished Bahia Palace and the barren ruins of the Palace El Badii. One resplendent with beautiful Moroccan tile work, the other dusty and open, home to sacred storks and semi-feral cats. I had my first experience of being lured into a shop for Berber tea, met a nice man called Ismay who gave me prizes for passing his spices quiz. I was beginning to relax, to be calm navigating the winding streets (I had three maps, which all differed vastly in their street placements, so I abandoned them). The only dark side was not being able to find the tombs, but that was ok, I had tomorrow...

Then came the incident with the monkey.

Earlier in the day, I'd successfully avoided the snake charmers. I'd made a very special point of staying away from the chaps with the Barbary Apes, as a) I think it's cruel to keep them chained up and force them to pose with tourists and, b) I don't like apes. I really don't. Not a fan at all. I don't mind some monkeys, but there is something very sinister about apes, as far as I'm concerned.

So you can imagine my horror when I turn around after a tap to the shoulder and find an ape in my face.

I ran. Literally, across Jemaa El Fna and into a souk. I wandered it aimlessly for about half an hour, furious with myself. What the hell was I playing at, flying out to Marrakech on my own, on a week's notice? I was a twat, I'd be better off just staying in the riad. I wasn't cut out for this. I didn't speak the language, my French isn't brilliant and I can't find anything. I don't understand the customs, I can't bargain because I feel like I'm ripping people off and I'm tired of being called Lady Gaga (Genuinely my local nickname. Kind of learned to love it).

I found a cafe and sat down, ordering (of all things) a cheese sandwich and a coffee. And then the people next to me spoke. They were BRITISH. I've never, ever sought out people from home when I've been away before, but after the strangeness of events so far, it was welcoming to know I wasn't as isolated as I thought. We chatted, met another lady called Rose and she, noticing my wide-eyed stare, asked me if I'd like to have dinner with her. Turns out, she's there all the time, she hops back and forth to source things for her shop. The four of us had dinner. Then we had tea and cake.

When I walked back to the riad on my own later that night, I felt a lot better.

When I woke up the next morning, I'd grown some balls. Not literally, it's not like the food was cursed and I woke up as a bloke. Metaphorical balls. I'd woman-ed up. I could do this. I could. I just had to play the game properly. I had to stop expecting it to be like Europe or America. I had to calm down and go with it.

On the Friday, I went, with a lady I'd known for about 24 hours, to a hammam, where we stripped to our knickers and sat and allowed a nice lady to oil us up, scrub us down, plaster us with mud and then clean us up before we submitted to what was actually my first ever massage. I'm a convert, even if I did get insanely giggly when the masseuse touched my feet. I was so zen after leaving that place, I probably could have flown. We had a phenomenal dinner at Terrase des epices, I had pastilla followed by tagine and it was one of the best meals I've ever eaten. We talked for hours, swapping stories about other places we'd been and it was amazing. I felt, quite suddenly, at home.

Saturday, I really got into my stride. I was haggling like a pro, arguing the price of almost everything down. I got a taxi out to the beautiful Majorelle Gardens and spent a lovely afternoon wandering around an oasis of bright blue walls and plants. I had dinner at the Grande Cafe de la Poste and wandered around Guilez for a bit before heading back to the riad and having endless cups of mint tea with Kudus on the roof terrace and talking about the world. He told me he was orginally from the mountains, and that he didn't know how old he was or when his birthday was, as they didn't record things much out there. He told me about all the good things their King has done, and was doing, for the country and about life when he was young. It was lovely, to sit out under the stars and just chat. 

On my last day, I continued my BAMF-like bargaining for souvenirs and keepsakes for myself and my friends. and finally, finally sucked it up and got a taxi to see the tombs. They were beautiful and serene and everything I needed them to be. In the afternoon, I took another taxi out to the Menara gardens to wander in the olive groves, waiting for it to cool before I walked back into the Medina, past actual camels and palm trees. I had dinner at a restaurant, went to the only 'pub' I could find and had a beer (Morocco is a Muslim country and while drinking is forbidden to Muslims, foreigners can drink, but not within the sight of a mosque, and Marrakech has some beautiful mosques, so finding a drinking hole a tricky business), and then wandered back up to the Night Market for dessert and ginger tea. I watched a man do what appeared to be some voodoo forecasting, and a boxing match and went back to my riad to pack.

And I realised I didn't want to go home.

Earlier in the day, I'd haggled a shawl down from 300DH to 47DH, two antiseptic wipes and an insect-repellent wipe. I'd had more Berber tea with another shopkeeper. I'd seen a camel. I'd greeted someone in Arabic, had a conversation with another man in French. I was at home.

I did come back. I resented it at the time, but I did come back. In the end, Marrakech was absolutely everything I'd hoped it would be. It was mysterious and exotic and adventurous. I saw so many beautiful things, I'd been woken at dawn by the call to prayer.

I'm so glad I went. And so glad I didn't chicken out and hide when things got a little overwhelming. I'm really, really proud of myself for that. And really, really grateful, because if I hadn't screwed my courage together I would have missed out on one of the most magical and untouched places I've ever been.

King Mohammed has great plans to bring Marrakech into the 21st century but I hope he allows a bit of it, Jemma El Fna at least, to remain exactly as it is. 

Because it's already perfect, when you let go of your inhibitions and just give over to pleasure.

Cracking Cracovia - A weirdo's tale.

This time last week, I was in Krakow. A few weeks previously, I'd felt the need for an adventure rise up in my soul and so set about searching for a likely place. I have a list of destinations I'd like to try and visit over the next two years, and Krakow was one of them. So, after spending two straight days checking out flight prices, flight times, hotel/hostel prices and local temperature, I settled on crossing Krakow off of my list.

After the brilliant time I had in Prague, I decided to go alone again. Shortly before I left though, I had a conversation with a friend who pointed out that it was possible my behaviour marked me out as being a bit weird. She wasn't being cruel, or horrible, merely stating that perhaps some people considered it odd that I just go off by myself and do things.

This got me thinking; Am I a massive weirdo? Am I? She's right - I don't mind going off and doing things on my own. Though it's definitely not because I prefer my own company to that of others. Most of the time, it's just practical. I want to go and see a film/an exhibition/eat something somewhere, etc. Depending on what it is, I ask people who I think might be interested if they want to go too. Usually, though, it's a 'no', due to time, money, other commitments  Does that mean I should then not go and do something because doing it alone is seen as odd?  

My main group of friends is quite large, which means a lot of negotiation and advance notice has to take place if you want to get as many people as possible together. Everyone lives in different parts of the country, or in other countries. Also, everyone likes to do different things when they're away. I personally, like to spend a good 6-8 hours on my first day in a new place walking around and looking at stuff. Not everyone is up for an eight hour trek around though. And I know this, and I don't want to inflict my preferences on anyone else. Equally though, if I've paid to be in a new place, I kind of want to get to know it. I want to get a bit lost in it. And I like to explore. I like the challenge of being in a new place and having to figure out how it works. And I know I'm talking about Eastern Europe and not the Amazonian rain-forest and so by and large it isn't that challenging... But it's fun for me. I like to go and eat local food and not be 100% sure what it is. I like getting my free map at the airport and learning how all the streets fit together. I like sitting in cafes and bars and restaurants and listening to people talk, even if I can't understand it.

When I'm on my own, I'm forced to get more involved. I have to talk to locals and ask questions. I have to ask for help with things. I think that's good for me. It means I have let go of all the London-inhibitions I have about smiling on the street and communicating with people. It's either put myself out there and ask, or sit in my hotel room with a book until it's time to go home. And getting out there usually pays off as I find things off the beaten track I'd never have discovered as part of a group.

Also, there's no guarantee anyone I know will want to go with me to the places I want to go. But I don't think that should be enough to stop me from going. I don't want to be a person who sits at home, waiting for things to happen. I want to make them happen. I don't think this makes me particularly brave, or intrepid, or go-getting. I still think an experience shared builds the best memories. But at the same time, I'm the one who got landed with the job of living my life. So I think I have to live it the way that makes me happiest. And travelling, alone or in a group, is one of the things that makes me happiest. 

So - Krakow! 

Landed fine, met at the airport by a lovely man with a sign (I wonder if that will ever stop being a novelty) and onwards to the hostel. This was my fifth hostel experience and I've never been failed yet. They've all been lovely and this one had the added bonus of each room having its own shower and sink. And free breakfast, which I took ridiculous advantage of.

On my first day, I did the aforementioned 'walking around until my feet try and make a break for it on their own' thing. I got out my map, and marked it with the locations of the hostel, some bookshops, a cafe and a pub, and set off. Only to realise after about two hours and every shop being closed, that I'd rocked up on a religious holiday. I found this out in Massolit Books, which is an amazing second-hand English bookshop-come-cafe, secreted outside of Planty, the park that runs in place of the town walls around the Old Town. I asked the lady who told me this what I should do instead and she told me to 'Eat and drink. That's what everyone else will do.'

I took this advice to heart, stopping first for hot chocolate before walking down to Kaziemierz. Kaziemierz is the Jewish Quarter in Krakow, and I whiled away a lovely few hours wandering from synagogue to cemetary. Then to Old Town to go to the Pierogi festival. And I went NUTS. I had six - six delicious Polish dumplings and a beer and watched the band play. After that all died down, I headed off to try and find the Middle Earth pub, as I'd heard there was one in town, celebrating all things Tolkien.

Sadly, it had closed the year before, but I stayed for a drink anyway, before going to take some not-very-good night-time shots of Rynek Glowny all lit up. 

Day two dawned and it was the day of the Auschwitz I - Auschwitz Birkenau visit. 

It's every bit as harrowing as you'd imagine it to be. This was compounded by the fact is was an absolutely beautiful day. So I'm walking through this place of absolute horror, in sunshine, and watching groups of people walking the same paths once walked by the imprisoned. 

The contrast between the past and the present was stark and terrible, and yet I'm glad I went. I'm glad I saw the evidence of the evil that happened there. It served as a hard reminder that it's all too easy to dehumanise people, based on their colour, gender, sexuality, religion, ethnicity and lifestyle. It's easy to be scared of what you don't understand, to fear what's different. But, as the George Santayana quote says; 'Those who do not remember history are bound to repeat it.' We have to remember. And we have to make sure, somehow, that this is never allowed to happen again. 

In the afternoon, I just wandered about again, soaking up Poland as it is now, how it's rebuilt itself and, whilst always acknowledging the part it was forced to play during World War II, how it's striving to create a multicultural and tolerant place where all are welcomed. They're doing a bang-up job, too. I had another hot chocolate, bought a few bits (including the ubiquitous Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone in the native tongue) and then went back to the hostel for a bit of quiet time. Dinner was me being very brave and wandering the streets around midnight looking for the Kielbasa van. Found it, ate at it, loved it.

Friday was zoo day! Zoo day is one of the traditions I seem to have developed when I go to a new place. I like to go to the local zoo. Or animal park. Or aquarium. Or, failing that, Natural History Museum. But there will be a day when I'll wop out the camera and take some very suspect photos of animals. In another life, I would have been a wildlife photographer. In another life, I'd know how to compose a shot, but that's another story.

Krakow zoo is lovely. It's being redeveloped at the moment, so some of the enclosures are still of the nasty concrete and iron bar variety. But the majority are huge and airy and have enrichment activities to keep the animals occupied and alert. The keepers are friendly and knowledgeable and none of the animals exhibited any signs of depressed behaviour.

On the contrary, a fair number seemed hell bent on getting their end away. I witnessed a very public threesome between some of the baboons. I could have lived my whole life without seeing that. And the tortoises were going at it too, although I've never ever been to a zoo and not seen the tortoises making love. People say 'at it like rabbits', but I think it's the tortoises you've got to watch. Also, I did take that photo of the tiger above. That's one of mine. Every now and then, I can just about manage a decent photo or two.

The best thing at Krakow zoo were the bees! They had an... enclosure, for want of a better word, for honey bees, in their own hives, which are part of the zoo. And the honey the bees make? Oh they just sell that at the zoo in the HONEY VENDING MACHINE. Seriously, a machine that vends the honey made 100m away by the bees that live there. There was a video screen which told you how it was collected and which flowers the bees fed on. And then you could buy the honey right there. Now that's organic.


After the zoo (which I got to and from by navigating public transport, which was quick, easy and efficient and not the trial I made it out to be) I went to Wawel Hill, to have a gander at the castle and go into the Dragon's Den. No, not the tellybox show. The actual Dragon's Den. Legend has it that Krakow was founded by the mythical ruler Krakus, who built it above a cave occupied by a dragon, Smok Wawelski. and, at the top of Wawel Hill, you can descend down a dizzying spiral staircase into a cave under the castle hill, where the dragon is reputed to have lived. I like caves. It made me happy. That night I took myself out for a fancy dinner, wined and dined and ate wild boar and Baileys mousse and imbibed some fancy vodkas, and then pottered on back to the hostel for my last night. 

My last half day consisted of more walking and sampling foods that I hadn't tried yet. I ate Pączki and Smalec and enjoyed one a lot more than the other (Google if you want to try and deduce it). And then home-sadface-bloody England-preferred it when the Olympics were on.

And there ends my adventure in Krakow. I had a brilliant time, met some nice people, ate some ace food, drank some amazing beers and vodkas, learned lots of new things, saw tons of new things, walked on new streets and hopefully broadened my horizons a little more.
As for being a weirdo... I suppose it could be worse. I can live with it. 

Naked and laid bare. AKA Mrs Sparkly's Ten Commandments Award

Amy and I.

Hello! I won an award! I won a sparkly award!

A Mrs Sparkly award to be precise!

And what did I do to earn this honour? Bugger all. Except keep churning out the same old drivel.  However, it would seem that some people don't mind it so much, like my lovely friend Amy, who nominated me for this. So you lucky devils can in part thank her for my continued bloggage.

In all seriousness though, it never fails to amaze me that people read the things that I write. It's very rarely insightful, or profound and I don't think I've ever helped anyone in any way through it. Primarily, this blog exists as a kind of diary for me, something for me to look at when I'm feeling a bit ungracious, ungrateful, or cabin fever has set in.

Once upon a time, I had a boyfriend who was a little older than me and I would get so jealous when he'd regale me with stories of all the things he'd done. I would compare my life experiences and adventures to his and feel as though I was lacking, somehow. After a while, he got a bit peeved at my whining and told me that;

a) I did plenty of fun and interesting things; and
b) I had plenty of time to continue to do fun and interesting things, so I'd be better off focusing on all the things I was going to do, instead of all the things I hadn't done.

As much as it pains me to say it, he was right.

I started out with this notebook, into which I glued all my cinema tickets, train tickets from big adventures, tags from gifts, reciepts from locations, etc. This notebook was a kind of scrapbook of my life. And it was only the beginning. As the book grew fatter, so did my wealth of life experience. So did my desire to branch out more... I don't just want to see a film, I want to be in one! Getting on a plane for an adventure is amazing, imagine how much fun it would be to jump out of one!

So I've been an extra in a film, I've done a skydive. I've grown.

Now I have folders, I keep everything. It all gets glued down onto card and then filed away in my big, sexy lever-arch folders. I annotate things. I take photos compulsively. As self-indulgent as it might seem to others, I keep these logs of my life because one day I won't be able to do this stuff anymore. Or I'll be dead. These things exist as testament to a life lived as fully as I'm able to. They exist to remind me in my darkest times that the world is a strange and beautiful place. They exist to drive me on to explore and dream and dare and try. They are my memoirs.

To cement my winning of this award, I have to answer the following questions and then nominate some other blogs, which I consider deserving.

Job done.

Describe yourself in seven words
outspoken, loyal, whimsical, cavalier, ambitious, obnoxious, sweet

What keeps you up at night?
Fear. Fear I'm going to die alone. Fear I'm going to fail. Fear I'll be poor and homeless. Fear people don't really like me. Fear no-one cares really about me. Fear that I'm repulsive. That I'm worthless.

My closest friends know just how crippled by self-doubt I am. I will analyse everything to the death. It only takes the tiniest thing to make me feel truly shitty about myself and then I will sit and catalogue every single one of my failings and use them to metaphorically beat myself bloody with. There's being sensitive and there's being me.

I'm not just saying this stuff. There have been nights where I've lain paralysed in bed, certain I'm on the road to nowhere and that in ten, twenty years time all the people I love won't even remember I existed. I'll be in some shitty council bedsit, staring out at a concrete jungle, hoping death comes soon and that I'm not lying rotting for too long before the neighbours report the smell.

I genuinely have anxiety issues about people hating me and I'm, in the dead of night, convinced that one day everyone will leave me and I'll be alone with my ugliness.

Whom would you like to be?
Despite the above, most days, I quite like being me. There isn't a whole other person I'd just like to be. But I wouldn't mind taking bits of other people and making a new, Frankenstein's monster-esque composite me. I'd like Michelle Dockery's face and figure. I'd like my friend Kylie's beautiful soul. I'd like Emilie's joie de vivre, Amy's determination, Caitlin Moran's wit, Joanne Harris's ability to weave a tale. As Amy said in her blog, I think most of all I'd like to be the best me that I can be. Maybe I should spend some time 'modelling' myself on the traits I admire in others and perhaps I'd be less likely to have a midnight meltdown. I may try it.  

What am I wearing right now?
I am wearing a mint green tea dress with a purple and blue pattern on, purple tights and no shoes (see left). I bought this dress for Florida last year. I'm always a little sad when I realise a special occasion dress has become an everyday dress, but this one will always be special, as it's a UK size ten, which was the result of some intense cheese and cake denial last spring so I wouldn't make myself sick in a bikini. 

What scares me?
Aside from thinking everyone hates me and that I'll die alone, poor and miserable in a bedsit?

Dinosaurs. Genuinely. I'm not trying to be quirky or cute, dinosaurs, or more specifically, the idea of them coming back, scares the pants off of me. 

Imagine, if you will, a small, eight year old me. I have recurring dinosaur-based dreams. In them, I wake in the night, convinced something is wrong. I go to the bedroom window and look out into the night. There is nothing. I watch until my eyelids start to droop and begin to turn, reassured, back to my bed. It's then that the Tyrannosaurus Rex rears it's head above the house opposite. I freeze in fear and then I see them. Skittering down the road to the side of the house, heading toward me are two, adult human sized dinosaurs, each with a huge, sickle-shaped claw in the midst of each foot.

Imagine then a short while later when a film called Jurassic Park is released.

It was as if Spielberg had mined the design for them from my slumbering little mind.

Still now, I treat Jurassic Park the way other people treat [REC] or The Ring. I read Jurassic Park and The Lost World, and Conan Doyle's The Lost World the same way other people read Stephen King. The fear that one day they might return terrifies me.

And I still have that dream every now and then.

Other than that, I fear ignorance. Racism, sexism, homophobia, bigotry, the mining of the natural world without replenishing its resources, anything that humans do without care or consideration for the people and the world around them. That scares me.

What are the best and worst things about blogging?
The best thing is putting down all these thoughts and ideas I have and compiling them into this space where I can get to read and then re-read them. And hearing other peoples thoughts and feelings on them. I love that. I don't think there is a worst, for me. It's a wholly personal thing, the way I blog. So if I thought it had elements that annoyed or upset me, I'd probably find another medium in which to document this stuff.

If I could change one thing about myself, what would it be?
I'd be more patient. And tolerant. I have such a short fuse for things which annoy me, particularly rudeness. I wish I had the grace to accept that sometimes, people will be unkind and that blowing up about it solves nothing.

Slankets, yes or no?
Oh hell yes. My parents got me one a few years back and at first I was deeply unimpressed. Thanks, guys, for this zebra-print monstrosity. They didn't help by screeching 'AHHHHHH - YOU LOOK LIKE CAT SLATER!' when I tried it on.

Cut to a month later and I'm reading at home. It's cold and I pull out the aforementioned monstrosity. I slip my arms in and OH MY ACTUAL GOD. WHAT IS THIS MAGIC?! IT'S A BLANKET WITH SLEEVES. I AM WARM AND ENSCONCED IN THE MAGICAL FABRIC HUG OF A BLANKET, BUT I HAVE ARMS!

Not to mention the fact if you put it on backwards it's like wizard's robes. Trashy, zebra-print wizard robes. The kind of thing I imagine Rita Skeeter or Madam Rosmerta would swan around in in their boudoirs.

Tell us something about the person who nominated you:
She is one of the kindest and most generous people I have ever met. And she manages to combine this with such strength of character. It's very hard to be both appropriately hard and soft in this world but she is. And with grace.

My next step is to nominate 10 others:
This is going to be tough, as I dip in and out of blogs. But here we go, I can at least do seven and will add more if I remember them:

My friend Liv is on an adventure in Japan. This is her blog of how it's going:   http://herroyalhobbitness.blogspot.co.uk/

James blogs randomly but it's always a joy to read: http://wyatthaplo.blogspot.co.uk/

Leanne does regular and lovely YA book reviews: http://districtya.blogspot.co.uk/

Robin also writes insanely good, funny, witty and honest book reviews: http://redbreastedbird.blogspot.co.uk/

Amy. Does it all. http://turntothemusic.blogspot.co.uk/

Jamie writes about television and films and writing and pretty much anything else interesting. http://jamiekrakover.blogspot.co.uk/

Genny is lovely. I love her. http://cheeseymusings.wordpress.com/2012/07/02/my-big-black-cat/ 

      

Grown ups lie. ALL THE TIME.

Me: Hi, Mum, is Dad there?
Mum: No, he's taking Granddad home, why?
Me: Can I ask you a question? And will you be honest with me?
Mum: ...
Mum: Yes...
Me: What really happened to Benji?
Mum: The dog?
Me: Yeah. Benji the dog. What happened to him?
Mum: Your dad said he ran away.
Me: And is that true?

Adults lie. All the time. They lie about nice things, like Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. And they lie about big things too.

What really happened to Benji?

Earlier, I phoned my dad to wish him a happy Fathers' Day. We had a chat and then he put one of my nieces on the phone. When she asked who it was, I told her it was the Tooth Fairy. We had a brief, but highly amusing chat about the state of Granddad's teeth and that was it.

But then I started thinking...

I'd just lied to a child. A tiny child, who trusts adults to protect her and guide her through the evil soup that is childhood. What kind of monster am I? As if she doesn't have enough to be getting on with, playground politics, who's going to whose party, who's her best friend this week, etc., without me adding to it by outright lying to her.

Being a kid is HARD. 

Nobody takes you seriously. No-one listens to you. Everything is a predator, other kids, older kids, strangers, the bunyip, spontaneous combustion, dinosaurs. Life is a constant battle just to stay alive. Adults seem to be under the impression that to be a child is to be carefree and joyful. Once they cross the threshold into adulthood the dark side of childhood evaporates, leaving room for the really important stuff like interior decorating and being outraged at things they've heard on the radio. Things like how important it is to keep all your limbs inside the bed at night because if you don't then you will absolutely, definitely be eaten to death are forgotten. 

So given that, do they really need people like me messing with them? No. No they do not. The very last thing a child needs is me or my ilk toying with them like a cat with a mouse. They deserve my honesty. I will not be the adult who says "If you tell the truth, you won't be in any trouble."

LIES! 

Of course I'll be in trouble, are you kidding me? This is a trick, a dirty, sneaky trick designed to make me confess to a crime you're not even sure I've committed. That's why you're trying to bribe me with the false promise of absolution if I 'fess up. We both know you don't know for a fact that I did it, or you wouldn't be trying to bargain with me. If you knew 100% I was the perpetrator, I'd already be in solitary with no sweets for a month. I'm saying nothing, denying everything and you're just going to have to go to your grave wondering if I really was innocent. We've been here before, remember?

"If you tell the truth, you won't be in any trouble." 
"You're right! It was I! I did use your chapstick to write invisible letters to my best friend. And I'd do it again I tell you! I'd do it again!"
"YOU ARE GROUNDED, MADAM. BE GONE TO YOUR ROOM. NO SWEETS FOR YOU. YOU LITTLE DEVIANT."
"What? You said I wouldn't be in any trouble if I told the truth. I just told the truth. Now I'm in trouble. What kind of manipulative sicko are you?"

Lesson learned. Lie to adults. They will lie to you. Because if they know you've done it, they toy with you in a different way.

"And where have you been?"
"Oh, just up the field"
"Not in the woods then? You've not been to the pond?"
"Nope. Just up the field."
"I SAW YOU BY THE POND IN THE WOODS. I SAW IT. WHY DID YOU LIE?"
"I don't know, why did you ask me where I was when you already knew? Does that not strike you as a mentalist thing to do? What was the point in that? Do you feel clever now you didn't get caught in the conniving web of lies I'm spinning around you, Mother? Do you feel like Poirot now? Jesus."

Lesson learned. Adults only ask you seemingly innocuous questions when they already know the answer. Don't rise to the bait. Stay silent, stay strong. 

Honesty is the best policy, is it? Right. So, explain to me then, oh mature one, why it is when I'm honest, it's 'being cheeky'.

"Did you like the cake Auntie Mary made you?"
"No, to be honest, I think it was a bit heavy. Maybe try using less eggs next time. Or buying one, because I'm not going to lie, Auntie Mary, honesty is the best policy and in all honesty, your cakes are rubbish."
"GO TO YOUR ROOM, AUNTIE MARY AND I WON'T PUT UP WITH YOUR CHEEK"
"I wasn't being cheeky, I was being honest..."
"DON'T BACK ANSWER ME, GIRL. ROOM. NOW"

Or my favourite;

"It won't hurt, it'll just feel like a little scratch"
"Oh really? You're about to stick a needle in my arm. IN MY ARM. It's not going to feel like a scratch, it's going to feel like you're sticking a thin piece of metal into my flesh. THAT'S NOT WHAT SCRATCHING IS".

I won't have it. No longer will I kowtow to the cult of being an adult. I won't lie to children and tell them that honesty is the best policy. I'm going to be straight down the line with them. They'll thank me for it, when they're adults.

Oh right, yeah. The dog. Well, the story always was that he 'ran away'. My mum normally took him out for his walk but she was ill, so my dad did it. He came back, sans beloved family pet (he wasn't that beloved, he once ate the only blue crayon we had and then did blue poos everywhere, so all the poo was blue but the sky was forever white). Naturally, we were suspicious. Everyone (who's seen Lassie, and possibly Skippy) knows that lost animals find their way home after having a great adventure, foiling crimes, and saving lives. Benji never did and I've always secretly harboured the suspicion my dad is a murderer.

Mum said he went and looked for the dog and asked all around, but we did live in a small village surrounded by a lot of fields and woods and ponds, and he was still a very young dog, and it's possible he got into some trouble and died. 

We never saw him again. 

So today, after many years wondering whether the story that Benji "ran away" was just another of those horrible lies adults tell to children, I decided to find out the truth. I phoned them back, determined to solve this last, great mystery from my childhood. Did my parents lie to me about my dog? Did they, in fact, arrange for his death and try to hide it from us by saying he ran away?

No. He did just run away. I know my mum, she was too busy being relieved that I wasn't phoning from prison or announcing a pregnancy to be able to lie convincingly. The relief was palpable, there was just the right amount of confusion and concern. My mum's no actress, even over the phone. He ran away. I feel a bit how that lady must feel in Cold Case when she's put the big box of files back in the room with a big fat SOLVED sticker on it. I'd put money on it that tomorrow I'll see a dog, in the distance. A dog that bears remarkable resemblance to Benji. I'll smile at him fondly and the Smashing Pumpkins version of Landslide will start to play on my iPod.

And then the mystery dog will do a bright blue poo and I'll know my beloved pet is sleeping easy somewhere, his disappearance solved.
 
Case closed.