Reviews #5
Feat. Folkestone, The Hot Cross Bun
24th March - 7th April. Since allowing myself the grace to write these Reviews every second week, rather than weekly (as before), I have been amazed at the amount of extra life-time I have given myself. When I suddenly turned off the 300 burning hobs inside my mind, I ended up sitting like a happy moron, unable to do anything for days. Mouth slack, jaw unclenched for the first time this year. I ignored the Instagram adverts for furniture sales and LGBT parenting talks. I ignored the invites to overpriced saunas on icy gale-force beaches, I ignored my own need to wee. Vegetating, soft, soggy, I scrolled my brain into blissful simian shrinkage.
I thought it didn’t matter, cause I suddenly had so much time. But as I shrunk further into stillness and my nervous system began to relax for the first time in my entire life, so the laziness grew. The list of priorities in my head morphed into a different order, with cutting fingernails at the beginning and writing way at the end. The adrenaline that forces me to write as best I can as often as I can, was replaced with an urge to find a nice outfit on Vinted. When I finally returned to write this review in time for its due date (yesterday), I found my thoughts trying to swim through jelly on their way to land on the page.
Instead of living to write, I spent the past few weeks living to live. The results were fascinating, disappointing, stupid and mostly - unfamiliar. In taking a breather from my primary job as a writer, to teach Pilates or make invoices or sit, staring shellshocked like the people on the tube at 7am, my drive to write dwindled. So, I have learnt an unbelievably important lesson. To never give myself time off from writing again. The words are like a little bird threatening to fly away. I need to catch it and cage it, if only to show it to you.
Contents:
Folkestone
Hot Cross Buns
Yoga
Folkestone
Category: town. Rating: 7.5/10. Visited: Sunday-Tuesday in March. Attire: layers of cashmere, puffer and boyfriend’s gloves. Cost: n/a. Vibe: arty, bygone era, relaxed. My mood: stressed, excited, tired. Where: Kent.
My boyfriend and I needed a break from the horrors of London. For the whole time I have known him, he has fantasised, threatened and suggested living in a cabin in the woods. I too, have had momentarily lapsed visions of growing my own food, keeping a lively chicken coop, and cutting down trees to burn when the nights become longer. But then I remember that I prefer to have my legs waxed, my phone charged, my world waiting with bated breath for my next fabulous move. You cannot be a champagne socialite in the woods. You can’t even be a socialist in the woods, cause you can’t change anything from there except your own body temperature.
Anyway, I needed access to wifi and a printer on account of an impending visa appointment, so I suggested we go to Folkestone instead. We drove out, arrived at our Airbnb and begun pottering around. Neither of us knew anything about Folkestone other than that we could hike to the Dover white cliffs and our friend had adored it in summer. We had expected a tiny Whitstable-like sea town. Instead, population 50 000. My boyfriend quickly realised that he would not be recovering from stress here. But, oh, it was beautiful. Sexy in the Edwardian era, the town/city is covered in old stucco mansions. One can see the ghosts of lords and ladies stumbling along the promenade home, after a ball in the Grand hotel, stealing kisses and giggling despite their crushing corsets.
In summer, this is probably the most perfect place to be in the United Kingdom. I am impressed that it has remained undiscovered and apologetic that I might have undone that secret (if anyone is reading). We stood on the top of Zigzag path and caught our breath and watched as an older woman in costume and swimming cap, walked into the silent sea. It was 11 degrees but there was a spiritual moment of sunshine. The flat sea reflected a pastel rainbow like the rainbow on the side of a moving fish and the woman swam out and then floated for a while, a tiny speck. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. I wanted to be her, to know her, to thank her. I could feel how marvellous she was going to feel that evening, her Blundstones forgotten by the door, fire-place roaring, cup of tea in hand.
Hot Cross Buns
Category: food. Rating: 7.5/10. Ingested: annually for 27 years. Attire: pajamas, usually. Cost: about £2. Vibe: yummy, surprisingly religious, grown-up. My mood: hungry, satisfied. Where: the parts of the world that have been colonised by the British, and obviously in the UK.
