Reclaimed - If Only for a Short While

The 2012 Olympics are over, and I am bereft.  I managed to be home for the final full day of competition, and screamed with joy as Samantha Murray got a silver in the Modern Pentathlon, and marvelled at the poise and beauty of Anthony Joshua, as well as his unbelievable size, in winning the Super Heavyweight.  I even watched some of the handball final, and tried to spot a friend of mine at the basketball (failed!).  I was amused and confused and entranced by the closing ceremony.

It's hard to put into words what it has felt like over the past few weeks to watch it all unfold at home and not be part of it.  I'd planned to be here the whole time, and then I got that pesky thing called a job, and had to change those plans.  It was... upsetting, despite having an amazing summer and learning a lot. 

But trailing my giant suitcase from Leicester Square to Charing Cross yesterday, I felt something strange - happiness at seeing people with Union Flags draped over them.  Usually, if someone wears one of those, it brings up all sorts of repulsive associations: the BNP, the National Front, and visions of racist chants and vile behaviour.  So to have the display of the flag have a positive meaning was an extraordinary thing.  To have patriotism be genuinely that - a patriotic fervour in our nation - that of Mo Farah, Jessica Ennis, Greg Rutherford, Anthony Joshua, Louis Smith, Tom Daley, Chris Hoy, Nicola Adams, Bradley Wiggings, Kathy Grainger, Clare Balding - and not a synonym for for racism;; for Britishness meaning something other than just whiteness; this was a wonderful thing.  A weight lifted from our national consciousness.  It was truly liberating.  It'll be interesting to see how long it lasts...

Additionally, from a spectator's point of view, it was a glorious relief from the monotony of certain sporting events.  To really, genuinely, not give a flying monkey about the start of the footie season, or the PGA Championships (although nice work, of course, Mr. McIlroy), was a startlingly welcome experience.  I don't want football back, almost; at most, I want to enjoy the rest of the cricket season (although the England team is doing its best to ruin that, it seems).  I want something other than football, basketball, American Football, with their massive emphasis on money making to the detriment of all else, including health of their athletes.  Here were thousands of athletes who make little to no money from their sport, and do it just for the chance of competing to win; here were thousands of volunteers, making the Olympics work simply for the joy of doing that service.  It makes the "major" sports seem rather vulgar in comparison.

Having said that, no doubt I'll be back to screaming and yelling at Spurs in a couple of weeks, and for interceptions a few weeks later when the NFL starts up.  But, for now, not caring about it seems rather grand.

Lights Out

Last year, LCD Soundsystem's final ever gig, at Madison Square Gardens, marked the end of an era for me and TOH.  LCD's music, as I have detailed at length (and ad nauseum) on this blog, has accompanied us throughout our time in NYC.  Even after the MSG show, it continued:  the photo below was taken while we, with some of our closest friends, all extremely inebriated on Graark and Stormies and love and laughter, jumped and sang out our hearts to Home. 

But, as the year progressed, I found myself listening to LCD infrequently (down at # 11 for the past twelve months!  Unthinkable!); it seemed that the wedding and the gig had loaded the music with too much emotional meaning, as overwrought and pathetic as that sentiment appears to me when I actually write it down and re-read this.  So although I automatically purchased tickets to watch Shut up and Play the Hits, the Oscilloscope documentary about that gig, I approached the movie theatre with trepidation last night. 

I thought I would feel melancholic and unhappy that I would never see them play live again.  Instead, I sat and watched in a state of wonder, with a big fat grin on my face for 95% of the film.  I reveled in the memories of just how absolutely bloody brilliant the concert was.  In particular, the part with All My Friends was absolutely spectacular, capturing perfectly the excitement and joy and exuberance that song always brought to a concert.  I shed a tear with James Murphy when he did in the warehouse with all his gear; and I cried during Someone Great, as I often did at the gigs, and during their last ever live song as a band, New York I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down.  But instead of sadness, the film reignited and reinvigorated my love for LCD Soundsystem.  So expect my last.fm profile to reflect that in the upcoming days.*



* Provided, of course, that I can somehow stop listening to Frank Ocean's Channel Orange, which is absolutely amazing and I have been playing non-stop for the last few days.  

Savagery

I am, in case you were wondering, continuing to fight against the vicious insects that want to suck my blood dry.  I am still continuing to get bitten repeatedly.  The one difference is that I have learned to use anti-histamines in an attempt to prevent the ridiculous scratching, itching and misery that comes with the bites.

This ongoing battle is unfortunate because, thanks to the new job and my changed hours, I'm often home by around 6.30, when the little blighters are most active and out for blood.  Despite citronella candles and DEET, I'm still vulnerable; there's always some patch of flesh that the buggers find and exploit.  But it's oh so worth it to smell the lemon verbena and sniff the roses that are, despite our fears when we transplanted them, flourishing; and, above all, to see the fireflies flit around the gardens.  Fireflies don't exist at home, and they continue to be a source of wonder and delight to me, eight years after I arrived.  A true source of wonder (and a public reminder here to go and see the bioluminescence exhibition at the American Museum of Natural History. 

On Reading

I've been reading a lot more recently, thanks to my much longer commute and much shorter working hours.

Some of those books aren't about dragons.  Some.  Read about my capitulation to the rather fabulous mind of Zadie Smith here. 

Sweet Thing

My auntie Thea was a skinny thing; I have memories of straight hair and thin arms and legs, emerging often from baggy jumpers.  So it always tickled me that the thing that has always reminded me of her is chocolate.  And not just any chocolate, but Fry's Peppermint Cream. I'd never even really noticed its existence until Thea said it was one of her favourites.  I cannot remember how old I was when we discussed it, even.  But the next time I saw it in a shop, I purchased it, and delighted in it  - a thick bar equivalent of After Eights, this is a crisp, dark chocolate bar filled with stiff, minty fondant; I adore it.  Since, although I don't see it often, and certainly not in the states, when it's there I buy it. And, without fail, it makes me think of her.

She loved liquorice allsorts, too.  A real sweet tooth, Thea.

I can hear her voice so clearly.  Strong brummy accent, with laughter in it.  I'll never be able to hear Van Morrison without thinking of her. 

Last time I saw her - which was too long ago - she had dyed her normally brown hair blonde, and she joked about it being frivolous and a bit of fun; she looked great.  She would often slip out to smoke one of her ever present rollies; she danced away with us as we celebrated at my cousin's wedding.  It was my birthday, too; a rare treat to celebrate with so many members of my family.

Yesterday, flying back from her funeral, I searched WH Smith's in Heathrow terminal 3 for Fry's Peppermint Cream; they didn't have any.