This week of all times i decided to indulge myself. It is towards the end of term, and despite the fact that I should have my nose pressed hard to the grindstone i decided that i was too tired for life, especially the part that requires concentration, and brain-thoughts. I picked up a book that I have been meaning not to read for some time (unlike those ones in the slowly growing pile on the shelf that I actually have to read) found the warmest blankets in the house and settled in for the long-haul. The book was no challenge (hence why I am not supposed to be reading it, but instead should be taking lessons from its more intelligent cousins) but was a treat indeed, I will not tell the name of the book, but I will tell you that a 16 year old girl with dyed-blue hair recommended it to me, and it perhaps contains talk of Dragons (alas, not the dragon 'Smaug'. That would be less shaming).
I churned through a few hundred pages over the course of the day, only stopping occasionally to make food that would not get in the way of the book, nor soil its pages as i read (it is most satisying to be this functional about something fun, I think).
I cannot remember the last time that I had the time nor the motivation to spend this amount of time reading, despite my love for the printed tale and appreciated every moment as one in my own, personal heaven.
Well, anyway; the moral of the story is that when life gets you down (or you simply wish to run away) there is no place better than where you shouldn't be, and no task better than one you should not be doing.
Fuq da polis
Even 20 minutes before opening time, the Baltic has plenty of folks strolling in the doors, this includes the obligatory school trips whose sole purpose seems to be to shift seemingly limitless numbers of small, screaming, chattering children from the stoic isolation of the classroom to the quiet, contemplative space that is the (alleged) 'high' art gallery. I wonder why they do this; is it perhaps to ensure that the teachers 'earn' their state-size pay packets, perhaps to justify the 'cost' of the education that their children are recieving.
As I write; a massive group of A-level students have just been led straight past me into the gallery, dyed, straightened and gelled hair flapping starchily in the breeze, those who took advantage of the fresh air between the bus and the doors hanging back to finish their illicit fags.
The rest of the crowd coming in are in twos and threes, usually a couple taking a much younger child with them, or a single escort for a mildly younger charge. Another group approaches, and now I fear for my gallery experience entirely, I am going to run inside and attempt to grab a place in line ahead of this mass of noise-machines in tiny, blue sweaters
more to follow...