Skip to main content

On the highs and lows of a London weekend

With little in the way of coordinated physical mobility, I stumbled out of my flat at some point during Sunday’s early evening. My destination? Earth’s core. Well, the Southbank Centre if you want to ground this blog post in reality, but it could have been Earth’s core for how far away it felt, and how improbable that I would arrive in one piece.

Such is the game of London Cultural Roulette. Buy a ticket in advance for an amazing event you know will make you a better person, and only hope you don’t get completely sozzled the night before so you’re not half dying en route to said event.

It seemed particularly galling that on this occasion, the event I was headed to was part of the London Literature Festival (my people! My type of festival!) and the reason I felt like death was hovering over my shoulder was because of freakin’ Halloween. An event that has become so mired in commercialism I’m surprised Valentine’s Day hasn’t thrown a tantrum.

It's good to be a well-rounded human, right?

And so after patting myself on the back, and front, for managing to make it to the venue, I considered my seat with apprehension. My muscles were still in shock from the previous night’s dancefloor antics and I offered a silent apology to them all as I sunk down into a chair that, blessedly, felt more comfortable than it looked. Fog, though, still obscured most my brain and as the event began, I only hoped I’d stay awake for most of it.

The panel of poets, writers and publishers walked onto the stage and I managed a feeble clap before giving up on the taxing activity entirely.

Wait.

Did I… SMOKE A CIGARETTE LAST NIGHT?!?!

I glanced at my friend, who looked to be battling her own hangover demons and made a mental note to ask her if I had SMOKED A CIGARETTE LAST NIGHT!!

I re-focused on what was happening on stage, on why I had pulled myself away from the comfort of the foetal position. Sylvia Plath. More specifically, Sylvia Plath’s letters. Right. Good.

Wait.

Did I… SMOKE A MENTHOL CIGARETTE LAST NIGHT?!?!

Jesus.

No, concentrate. Sylvia Plath. Letters. Right.

With aching limbs, a foggy head and a mouth that now definitely tasted ashtray-like, I considered admitting defeat and began considering an exit strategy that would cause the least disruption to the literary crowd I was surrounded by. A crowd that definitely didn’t smell of last night’s booze.

And then Sylvia Plath’s daughter, Frieda Hughes, walked onto the stage.

Just like that, I was awake.

I gave my full attention to what was happening in front of me and the fogginess began to clear. We, the captivated audience, were then treated to the most beautiful readings of a collection of Plath’s letters. Her wit and talent, drive and steadfast focus shone through each word. Just as did her loneliness and isolation, depression and angst. Her all-consuming love for Ted Hughes was laid bare and I couldn’t help but give a sorrowful laugh when she likened them to a happy version of Heathcliff and Cathy.

I’m not sure at what point the effects of Saturday night left me completely, but by the event’s end, I could hardly remember why I had considered it such an effort to leave the house. Because if a weekend in London can teach you anything, it’s that you can be (almost) in the gutter outside one of Stoke Newington’s finest establishments one night, and be listening to the hauntingly beautiful prose of Sylvia Plath.

 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

On the existential crisis of the weekend

  Weekends used to be what life was for. Two days of freedom and relief from the weekday routine, from the grind of office life, from waking up with an alarm. The sweet, giddy euphoria of a Friday night was made all the more intoxicating if you had plans to socialise, go to a gig, watch a film, eat at your local Italian. Not only did you get your socialising/culture/food fix in, but you then had two more days of doing the very same thing. The weekend also offered endless pottering-around-the-house hours since usually it was a space you scarcely saw during the week. A Saturday started with a little light cleaning was one sure way to make you feel as if you were ahead in the productivity stakes, and made the Netflix binge that followed feel earned.   Friday night was balanced out by the cold sweats of Sunday evening but still, the weekend was always worth it, regardless of whether you didn’t move from the couch after Friday night work drinks, or beca...
Post a Comment
Read more

On my first trip abroad

  I took my first overseas trip when I was in year eleven. It was to Noum é a, New Caledonia and it almost didn’t happen. The trip’s purpose was to improve the French language skills of those of us insistent on studying French during our last two years of school, believing the subject a necessity for our futures when we would most certainly be in Paris living our best French lives being all Parisian and speaking fluent French and just being all chic in our Frenchness and you get the picture. The first step on this road to being so Frenchy so chic, was a week’s trip to this South Pacific island wherein we would live with the locals, have 3-hour French lessons each day and immerse ourselves in the otherworldness that comes with visiting a place far removed from that in which you live. But whether it was the 3-hour lessons or the 3-hour flight, not enough of my classmates put their hands up to make this trip a reality. Cue teenage woe-is-me angst, the shedding of many tears, thr...
Post a Comment
Read more

On learning a new skill

So how many new skills have you mastered during this Covid-19? Are you fluent in Latin? French? Turkish? Is your personal brand lighting up Twitter/Instagram/Facebook as you sell the wellness candles you cooked up in the kitchen after you created an online festival but before finishing a new dress made from scraps around the house you can wear when you next meet a friend for ‘exercise’ with a keep cup full of ‘coffee’? Spoiler, it has wine inside. Thought so. But guess what. It seems that if you haven’t managed to generally improve yourself, and a substantial number of people online, during this dire time of unprecedented crappness, then apparently you’re doing it wrong. (Bonus points if said improvement was expressed in a language other than that with which you were born). Having missed this chance at enlightenment earlier in the Covid-19 mayhem, this week I decided to give it a go. To change up lockdown life for the better. I vowed that no longer would I spend my ...
Post a Comment
Read more