Monday, March 22, 2010

35) Fly A Trapeze

I thought the reaction from people was bad enough when I said I was climbing Ben Nevis, but when I told people I was attempting to learn how to fly the trapeze, most of my friends wanted me committed.

I've no idea why I added this one to my list. I can remember watching circus performances as a little girl and the trapeze artists always seem so death defying and highly glamorous in their sparkly outfits. Unfortunately for this particular 'Aerial Workshop' held in the Yorkshire Dance Company in Leeds, there was no sign of any sparkly outfits just jogging bottoms and t-shirts.
A fabulous teacher who immediately put everyone at ease and talked you through each move thoroughly ran the class. There was no pressure to do any of the moves, especially for me with a very dodgy back. I personally didn't fancy damaging a disc this close to my moving date for my new house, so the teacher helped work around this and where as others were trying the 'Archangel' or the 'Spider', I was happy just with the fact that I could get up on the trapeze and do the odd move that wouldn't risk my back.

The trapeze itself was about 6ft from the floor. There were no harnesses just a safety mat to lad on, but it was really weird, as you felt incredibly safe once you were on it.

The whole session lasted 2 hours, which was more than enough time to sufficiently practice the moves. At the end of the class I was completely shattered. The energy you require just to get on the trapeze is unbelievable and the day after I feel very battered and bruised.

Would I do this again? Definitely! I do need to lose some weight first though and get a lot fitter and then hopefully I can work my way through all the grades from beginner to experienced. So you never know, I may just run away to join the circus after all.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

I'm Back

I know it's been a while and all that and no I haven't fallen off the face of the earth, just incredibly busy with our house move and currently living in a sea of boxes. You will be pleased to know that I've still had time to chip away at my list. I've been reading some more books of my Top 100 list, as well as learning a new task (more details to come) and planning a few more activities to do once I complete my next set of tasks. I'm also on BBC Radio Nottingham this Friday (19th March) so I will be updating listeners to what I've managed to complete since my last appearance.
Update on a new task coming soon!

Monday, March 1, 2010

Thaw Blogsplash

Ruth's diary is the new novel by Fiona Robyn, called Thaw. She has decided to blog the novel in its entirety over the next few months, so you can read it for free.

Ruth's first entry is below, and you can continue reading tomorrow here.


These hands are ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set to take this photo. It’s a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as if we’re being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded wings. And you can see her insides.

The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and folding. Her veins look as though they’re stuck to the outside of her hands. They’re a colour that’s difficult to describe: blue, but also silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the world.

I’m trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I’m giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think that sounds melodramatic, but I don’t think I’m alone in wondering whether it’s all worth it. I’ve seen the look in people’s eyes. Stiff suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave, reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I’ve heard the weary grief in my dad’s voice.

So where do I start with all this? What do you want to know about me? I’m Ruth White, thirty-two years old, going on a hundred. I live alone with no boyfriend and no cat in a tiny flat in central London. In fact, I had a non-relationship with a man at work, Dan, for seven years. I’m sitting in my bedroom-cum-living room right now, looking up every so often at the thin rain slanting across a flat grey sky. I work in a city hospital lab as a microbiologist. My dad is an accountant and lives with his sensible second wife Julie, in a sensible second home. Mother finished dying when I was fourteen, three years after her first diagnosis. What else? What else is there?

Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. I looked at her hands for twelve minutes. It was odd describing what I was seeing in words. Usually the picture just sits inside my head and I swish it around like tasting wine. I have huge books all over my flat; books you have to take in both hands to lift. I’ve had the photo habit for years. Mother bought me my first book, black and white landscapes by Ansel Adams. When she got really ill, I used to take it to bed with me and look at it for hours, concentrating on the huge trees, the still water, the never-ending skies. I suppose it helped me think about something other than what was happening. I learned to focus on one photo at a time rather than flicking from scene to scene in search of something to hold me. If I concentrate, then everything stands still. Although I use them to escape the world, I also think they bring me closer to it. I’ve still got that book. When I take it out, I handle the pages as though they might flake into dust.

Mother used to write a journal. When I was small, I sat by her bed in the early mornings on a hard chair and looked at her face as her pen spat out sentences in short bursts. I imagined what she might have been writing about; princesses dressed in star-patterned silk, talking horses, adventures with pirates. More likely she was writing about what she was going to cook for dinner and how irritating Dad’s snoring was.

I’ve always wanted to write my own journal, and this is my chance. Maybe my last chance. The idea is that every night for three months, I’ll take one of these heavy sheets of pure white paper, rough under my fingertips, and fill it up on both sides. If my suicide note is nearly a hundred pages long, then no-one can accuse me of not thinking it through. No-one can say; ‘It makes no sense; she was a polite, cheerful girl, had everything to live for’, before adding that I did keep myself to myself. It’ll all be here. I’m using a silver fountain pen with purple ink. A bit flamboyant for me, I know. I need these idiosyncratic rituals; they hold things in place. Like the way I make tea, squeezing the tea-bag three times, the exact amount of milk, seven stirs. My writing is small and neat; I’m striping the paper. I’m near the bottom of the page now. Only ninety-one more days to go before I’m allowed to make my decision. That’s it for today. It’s begun.

Continue reading tomorrow here...