Invading crabs? What? WHAT?

I had a rubbish bank holiday.

I will not lie.

I was meant to go to Cornwall to see my little-middle sister (It is not that she is little around the middle, although she is, but rather than I have two little sisters of which she is the middle one. If that makes sense. You know it does.) before she embarks on a six-month-round-the-world adventure. But on Thursday night, just as I was excitedly warming up to pack (knee-bends, finger-flexes and so forth) she informed me that it was "not great timing".

Her boy (who is a bit errant) had recently volunteered to go to Swaziland for a charity. And had been suddenly posted. (Not in an envelope. I don't think. Although to be entirely honest, I don't actually know.) So they had only three days left together. Which they obviously wanted to spend in a flurry of intense love-activity.

Without me.

I cannot understand it.

In an effort to save a little of my woo-woo-three-day-holiday spirit, hub and I carefully and time-consumingly selected a portion of your best British coast to visit on Saturday.

I drove for many hours. We arrived at the coast. There was an old man with a hat and a toll booth. He told us the aforementioned portion of coast was closed.

For security reasons.

I wept, dear readers, I did. Shamelessly and in the car.

I had so been looking forward to an afternoon frolicking with my hub by the sea.

After I had recovered (a bit) we drove some more and ended up at a slightly grotty seaside town.

But.

There was a beach.

And there was the sea.

And even though it was VERY late in the day, the sun was still out.

So we had an ice-cream and paddled a bit (up to our knees) before clambering back in the Tickle-mobile and setting off home.

I know we will be moving to the sea in almost no time at all, but still.

It was a bit of a damp squib.

Humph.

There is little worse than a Grumpy Tickle.

The last romance

Hub and I didn't have a first dance. It wasn't really that sort of wedding. (It was in a field.)

But if it had been that sort of wedding, I think it would have been Don't Ask Me To Dance by Arab Strap.

You know I've felt like this before
I know you have felt it too
But maybe I don't want to dance
Cause I've not had as much as you

Our lives did not begin
The very moment that we met
I don't want to hold your hand
There is so much that I'll forget

You're no angel from above
You're the last girl I will love

Possibly a little too ironic for our own good, but still the most romantic song that almost exists I think.

Listen a bit (I don't know how to do listen a lot.)

PS. I realise I am posting a lot at the moment. I wonder if I should consider more deeply the old adage "quality not quantity", but frankly, I can't be buggered.

La crise!

I am having an existential crisis!

I did not know, until I read the existential section of the book I am reading about different kinds of therapy (kindly recommended by la bobo).

It is dreadful!

I am going to smoke cigarettes in cafes and wander the streets in the rain wearing a trenchcoat.

I might grow a moustache.

I am finding all of this reading about the different approaches to therapy completely fascinating. And with every one I think "Yes, that's it, that's definitely the one! The one for me!"

I am rather impulsive.

What is rather heartening, and rather wonderful, is that it has made me realise just how much I believe in people, in how precious we are, and in our ability to grow and change for the better.

There is one exercise (I am not sure if this is the right terminology. And I am used to working in theatre, where we do exercises all the time. Actually, I call them games, but important people call them exercises. They are not to do with starjumps. Anyway.) which is from the constructivist section (get me!) in which the therapist asks the client to write a description of herself as if she were the main character in a play.

It is called self-characterisation.

Now I am sure that this is to do with all my drama training, but I have been thinking about it a lot.

The idea is for the therapist to get a real picture of the way the person sees themself, to understand more clearly inside where the person lives. It provides a window into the way we invent and create ourselves.

The next step is that the therapist writes an alternative version, which is then worked on with the person until it gets to a description of someone that the person feels it would be possible to be.

Then they try it out for a week. Or so. And see.

See how they are in this new skin. How others react. How things change.

See it is possible to change.

I think this is A Good.

I am sure that from my naive standpoint, there is a great deal more to it than this, and there are many associated complications. But the point is, that it gave me hope.

Which is A Good.

As I said.

Path #2

I have enrolled on a counselling course.

It is big news, I know. I would be surprised if any of you are still on your chairs.

This whole theatre thing you see, has been getting me down. I have done the theatrical career equivalent of falling down the back of the sofa. The thing is, I quite like it down here. It is warm and cosy and there are lots of other exciting lost things to play with.

I may have stretched the metaphor too far.

The point is that I don't know if I am happy with the way things are going. Career-wise.

I couldn't be happier about moving by the sea. That is ace.

But I think I might have to face up to the fact that I will never be Peter Hall. And more importantly, that I am not really sure I want to be Peter Hall. His plays are boring.

Anyway. So for a while now I have been thinking what else I might be able to do.

And I thought about being a therapist. This is partly to do with my overwhelming positive experience over the past year or so, but also it was that other path that I didn't take when I was 18.

Does anyone else have one of those?

When we were about 15 at school, they made us write a list of the jobs we would like to do (I think the idea was to help us choose which A levels to take) and mine said actress and psychologist.

And I find, some considerable years later, that I am still interested in it.

So I am going to do a counselling course alongside my new job with the yoof, and see how it and I rub along together.

See how my other path actually pans out.

Maybe.

Miss T

You might have noticed, those of you who are kind and indeed committed enough to have returned here I hesitate to say repeatedly, but certainly more than twice, that I like tea.

I like tea a lot.

I consider a day in which under five cups of tea have been let us say enjoyed, to be an abject failure.

*takes a sip of tea* (fourth cup)

I sometimes consider that I should perhaps drink more water. Like those magazines and programmes and all tell you to do.

But, can I be frank?

It's not tea.

It's just not.

I worry about my hydration levels.

So I have some more tea.

Sometimes I wonder if I will turn into a cup of tea.

I think I would like it.

On Friday Afternoon.

Sometimes the unremitting, total and complete cynicism of others gets me down.

I wonder if it is a quality posessed solely by menopausal receptionists. Women who have spent their entire lives trapped behind a desk in front of which everyone walks. Watching others gaily and freely wandering around the open-plan office, exchanging pleasantries with their co-workers, occasionally making a cup of tea, or even popping out for a Special Cup Of Coffee.

The menopausal receptionist fumes. Quietly. And considers what colour she will paint her nails this evening. And whether her husband will once again awake from a nightmare at four o'clock in the morning, and cling to her like a child, preventing all chance of returning to that welcome unconsciousness that only sleep can provide her with.

She darkly refreshes Google, scouring the various travel-watch sites for any news of roadworks which will prevent her from visiting her elderly parents-in-law at the weeknd.

She smokes.

Benson and Hedges.

And considers that she could have been a hairdresser. Or a god.

Goodbyes (with hugs)

Last night I said goodbye to my therapist.

This is not the title of a Smiths song, but is in fact My Real Life.

It was a bit harrowing.

So with the move to Brighton and the starting of the new life and all of that, there is some stuff in the old life that I have to be doing the finishing with.

This includes my therapist. Who is lovely.

A year and a half ago I was in a horrible place. I do not mean this geographically you understand. I mean it americanically. Like they say. "A bad place" and stuff.

So my bad place. It was horrid and dark and I did not think I would ever get out again. It got as dark and gloomy as dark places ever get.

I was scared.

I wanted help.

And help came in the form of a sofly spoken Australian lady.

For the past year and a half she has been gradually shedding light in my darkness, untangling my tangles and planting little shoots of spangles that flare up whenever the dark threatens to loom.

She has helped me profoundly.

I thank her.

And was very relieved when I was allowed to hug her goodbye (one never knows with all these therapy boundaries and whatnot).

Life is changing, la la la... (I am trying not to be nervous about it).