Lost at Sea - Part 2

This is the story - or the bits of the story, the put together recollections - of a trip across Europe I took in July 2001. I was 20, naive, resourceful, terrified, full of hope and travelling alone. You can read part one here.

I'd never been on a plane before. Growing up, our holidays were always to near-ish seaside towns never more than 90 minutes drive away - Skegness, Mablethorpe, Bridlington – and we didn’t have a car so we’d be dropped off by a relative who’d come back for us the following Saturday. There’d be me, my mum, my Nana, my cousin, a couple of aunties, and we’d stay in a flat for a week and have late 80s / early 90s fun (on the beach with our buckets and spades, bingo, slot machines, talent competitions…) Different trips and journeys to this one. 

Two things stand out about this going-on-a-plane thing. One, I was at an actual airport – a big and exciting place I’d only imagined until now - and I was at the bit where I had to be x-rayed (customs? I still don’t feel at one with the terminology). Anyways, the Security person, officer – she was female, and she asked if anyone could have put something in my bag without my knowledge. I still had it on my back – my huge big rucksack bought a month or so before by my best friends in support of my journey. They sewed my name on it too, ‘Tree’ (short for Teresa) next to a lovely big tree, rooted the ground (ironically) ‘So you don’t forget who you are’. They may not have said that. It just feels like they did.

So could anyone have put something in this massive bag without me realising?

I glanced back at it and said, ‘Um, well, I’ve been wearing it, so I can't really tell, so yeah, someone could have put something in there.’ It just seemed best to be honest about it.

Security officer customs lady sighed. ‘OK, I’m going to ask you again. Is there any chance someone could have put something in your bag without you knowing about it?’

I scrunched my face up. ‘Um…'

She gave me a look. Eyebrows as high as they could go.

I was getting it now. I had to say NO. So I said, ‘No?’

She nodded and let me through.

The second standout memory of my first-time-going-on-a-plane experience came as we took off. This was the moment where I suddenly realised what I was doing. As we speeded up along the runway, going faster than I had ever gone before, at that miraculous moment of taking off, of soaring, I filled with tears, and for the first time I asked myself why I wasn’t doing this with a friend. But it was too late. I was on my way to Amsterdam, on my own as I had insisted I wanted to be, with no booked accommodation, just a rough route I wanted to take, and a plan that I’d be in the south of France about a week and a half later.

… more soon …

Lost at Sea - Part 1

When I was 20, I spent a month travelling across Europe on my own. Last week I started writing about it, responding to a writing prompt "Lost at Sea".  The whole trip was a bit of a mixed experience, and my expectations were so out of sync with the reality. So looking back on it is interesting, and maybe useful. I'll share some of the reflections here over the next few weeks. 


At 20 I was naive enough to tell people I was going ‘to find myself’. Luckily I had enough self awareness to deliver that phrase with sarcasm and knowing, but I did believe it on some level. I believed I would have a deep and wonderful experience. That I would meet interesting people, eat good food, drink wine in street cafes, speak French, take deep breaths on mountains, not care if I missed a train, not plan too much, be free and easy and only decide where I’d go next on a whim. I did all of those things. But what I didn’t have was peace as I did them, and so I didn’t have a deep and wonderful experience – I was sometimes lonely, even when I was with people; and I was sometimes afraid, even when I was safe.

I wasn’t scared of anything external, not really. I didn’t think anything bad would happen to me, like being mugged or kidnapped (and it didn’t) and before I went if anyone questioned my judgement (on her own, a young girl, no mobile phone, hasn’t booked her accommodation, in unknown places, etc.) I’d say ‘bad things can happen anywhere,’ and feel extra mature about my outlook. I remember a few people (Mum, Nana, Grandma etc.) asking with worried brows, ‘But can’t you get anyone to go with you?’ I was aghast – of course I could – if that was what I wanted, but I didn’t. I’d had this idea, I’d bought a couple of guidebooks, a return flight to Amsterdam, a train pass, an incredibly heavy timetable showing details of ALL trains in Europe that summer, and I went.


(... more soon...)

good rejection

Had a lovely rejection from Granta Magazine. I've even been bragging about it, using it as an anecdote: "Yeah, got rejected by Granta..." etc. Badge of honour. I knew it was a long shot sending something to them, so when they replied with - 

"Thank you for submitting [story title] to our magazine. We read it with interest and enjoyed it, but ultimately decided that it was not right for our pages. Please keep us in mind for your future projects."

- I was pretty happy. I felt like one of those gameshow contestants who hasn't won but they've had a lovely day out. 

It was nice for them to say I should keep them in mind for future projects. It means sub again, right?

Because about a year ago, I sent something else to different magazine, who also rejected the story but also in a lovely way:  

"While this particular submission isn't quite what we're looking for, we were very impressed by your writing. We hope you will feel encouraged by this short note and send something else in the near future. We look forward to reading more."

I was really heartened by that. I thought - ooh, they're eager. I'll strike while the iron's hot! 10 days later I sent them something else. Alas, twas too soon. They didn't want it, and they asked me to leave it at least a month next time. I felt less like a gameshow contestant and more like someone who's been dumped and has been asked to give the other person space. 

So I'll wait a respectable amount of time before trying Granta again. Don't want to come on too strong.

a month without Facebook

This isn't one of those gloating posts about how improved life is without Facebook. I hope. If it is, tell me - I'll delete it.

But because this is my blog and I write about myself here (big head) I can tell you that having a break from Facebook has been a key ingredient in - but not the whole picture of - a really productive month or so.

I like FB but, as I said before, "I am also a bugger for getting lost in it and that can make me feel a bit lost from myself."

Have any of you ever 'deactivated' your Facebook? I have, several times (sometimes for years at a time) so I was ready for what FB would do. Once you click that button to leave, it does its best to make you stay by showing photographs of you having a great time with various people on your friends list. It tells you these people will miss you. It names them. Siobhan will miss you. Ian will miss you. etc. Only a lot of the photos it showed me this time were with people I haven't interacted with in ages, so it wasn't that effective. FB needs to update this algorithm (that's the first time I've ever used the word 'algorithm' - no idea if it's right). I still would have deactivated, but I would have liked in that moment of going to have paused and reflected, with sadness, 'Yes, Ashley WILL miss me.'

For me, life without FB is easy. For something that can take up hours of my week (or hours of a day, even), it actually leaves no hole. Sure, my friends will be having funny conversations without me, and after a night out I don't get the 'Oh god let's see the photos/videos' moment (or maybe that's a positive), but really - I find it's what-you-don't-know-you-don't-miss. I might reactivate at some point. I probably will.

But this Facebook-less month has succeeded in making me feel more connected. I've written more, read more, and made more story submissions than I ever have in a month. Looking back at my submitted stories records for the past year, I averaged 1-2 submissions a month. But this January I made 5 submissions, and have made another 2 so far in February. A few of those were new stories, a few were rejects which have been edited and polished, and one was a pitch for a commission for a blog residency at a magazine I love. I sent work to an oh-so optimistic place, and some to a new magazine I discovered and really really like. 

And I wrote something for radio, for the BBC Opening Lines. I also researched the kind of stories they go for, and found this gem from Claire Fuller. Because my time online hasn't been dominated by looking at social-media, I've had the impetus to follow links to short stories to read with my morning coffee, instead of FB news feeds. I'm just making my way through the 6 stories which are available to read online from The Sunday Times Short Story Award. So far, The Referees by Joseph O'Neill is my favourite, but I also really liked The Ways by Colin Barrett. 

I've been reminded how useful, and sobering, and inspiring, it is to read the stories that are winning the big prizes. This year's Costa Short Story Award winner, Fishskin, Hareskin, by Zoe Gilbert, is just amazing. 

But my increased productivity hasn't just been down to no Facebookin. I'm pretty sure that the news I had at the start of year about my shortlisting in the Magic Oxygen Literary Prize (the results were announced at the weekend- I was awarded a 'Highly Commended' prize), and the longlisting at Bare Fiction, have been useful pushes / prompts / confidence nudgers.

And then there was just the sense I had that I wanted to get some stuff done. So stuff is getting done. Hope your stuff is too.

Faces / close but / diaries

The lovely people at Magic Oxygen have made a gallery of all their shortlisted writers' faces. See that photo of me there on the right, with the rather red lips? Well they've gone kind of BLACK in the version in the gallery. I used to wear black lipstick - or was it dark blue - when I was fifteen and a 'Sweaty' - that meant I listened to Nirvana instead of dance music. The gallery also has info about the other 19 writers I'm shortlisted with, and it's nice to be amongst such a fine bunch. Have a look here.

I entered Bare Fiction's Flash Prize a few months ago, didn't get on the shortlist and had already enjoyed marking an X next to it in my submission diary (photo of that in last post). But I had an email yesterday to say I did make it onto the longlist of 30 out of 461. One of those 'close but no cigar' moments, which bring a mix of feelings. Ultimately good ones, though.

On my days off I've been enjoying a bit of time with my teenage diaries - here we are together.

For ages I've been meaning to get them into some kind of chronological order, so now each one (there are over 70) has a small white sticker on the front saying when the diary started and ended. I rediscovered some stories I wrote back then too -  horrible stories - mostly about love. Two characters, Megan and Jake, plague nearly everything with their smug creative relationship. Jake is always playing the piano and Megan is always off somewhere writing poetry.

Although I'm a writer and my other half is a musician I absolutely do not accept that I have somehow forced a life path identical to the way I thought it would be when I was 14. No. No. No.

Oh crap.

Shortlisted, deactivated

New Year's Eve, daytime. I say to Mario:
"This is the first year since I started sending writing out that I haven't had anything published or shortlisted. But that's ok. I mean, it's how it works. Ups and downs. Ebbs and flows."

CUT TO: New Year's Day, morning. I open my emails, this from Magic Oxygen Literary Prize:
"Dear Teresa, Your story 'Waking', has made it through to our shortlist of ten..."

GET THIS: The email was sent at 11.59am, in the very last minute of 2014. Funny, huh?

Goes without saying I'm mega happy about this. A great end to one year and a boost of a start to the new one. It's a story that started out as a flash a few years ago, then took on a new life and more words and various edits, has been sent to quite a few publications / prizes and got nowhere...

EVIDENCE:
Here is a photo of my Rejection Section 2014



It's a bit blurred but I can tell you the word 'Waking' appears 4 times, so that's how many times it went out last year.

Note all those crosses. When I hear (or don't hear) a piece of work hasn't made it, I have to say I enjoy making those little crosses, they're cathartic. It's like the end of hope and the start of hope all at once.

So, fourth time lucky (probably double that if I checked how many times I subbed it in previous years). That thing has happened where a particular reader / judge has read it, and it's risen to the top of a big pile (800 entries). It might even now win a prize. I won't know if it has until mid-February, but it will be published in an anthology, and just being in the last ten is a wonderful feeling. I will, of course, keep you posted.


I have also deactivated Facebook ('What, all of it?!' a friend quipped when I announced this to him a few days ago.) No, just my account, as I have done before, when the fug of Facebook gets too much and I need a good soul clean. I am a fan of Facebook, I love and appreciate many of the people I talk to on there but I am also a bugger for getting lost in it and that can make me feel a bit lost from myself.

So I've done a bit more Tweeting in the past few days, but I've also written a lot more, and read a lot more, and felt more peaceful. GOOD.


No big end of year post, but I will say 2014 was the happiest year I've had in a while, maybe because I got a fringe cut in my hair ('bangs' in some parts of the world). Myself and my fringe wish you nowt but good stuff for the year ahead.

Tips for Customer Service Workers Part 42: My Till is Going Slow

One of my day jobs is in customer service. Sometimes I write about it.

Extract from The Customer Service Workers' Handbook 

Part 42:

My Till is Going Slow 

Potential Settings: Anywhere which uses a single line queuing system, such as fast food restaurants / ticket booths / coffee shops / supermarkets / banks / virtually any retail

Keywords: transaction, inconvenience, technology

Scenario

Your till is taking longer than it should to process a customer’s transaction. There is just you operating the tills, and you have a queue of people waiting to be served. This has happened before and you know it’ll just take a few minutes for the till to kick into life and catch up, so there’s no need to call a colleague or a manager for assistance. But you have in front of you a customer who is having to wait anything up to an extra three minutes for their transaction to be completed, not to mention the line of other customers who are also being affected by this three minute wait.

How can you best deal with this situation?

First things first: Apologise and explain to the person you are serving that the till is being slow. This is easily done by saying, ‘Sorry, the till is being slow’. Most people will accept this and wait patiently, but some may not. The most common customer response to your apology is: ‘It’s okay,’ but you will know by the tone and style of delivery whether or not it really is okay. The main thing to look out for is looseness or tightness.

Looseness: the customer smiles as they say ‘It’s okay’ and they are relaxed enough to lean on the counter with one arm and perhaps even engage you in conversation external to the business you are conducting.

Tightness: everything about the customer is tense, in particular their shoulders, neck and face so that when they say ‘It’s okay’ they do it without opening their jaw.

What to do if the person you are serving is visibly annoyed by having to wait 

Be careful here because the stony atmosphere they are generating might make you talk more and say ridiculous things. A common trap to fall into is to suggest the till is having a bad day. While it’s true that this approach would be welcomed by a friendly and easy going customer – one who might even take personifying the till a step further and say, for example if it’s a Friday: ‘It must be ready for the weekend!’ or if it’s a Monday: ‘It must have had a big weekend!’– a lot of people are just not susceptible to this kind of play acting and will look at you like you’re filth if you even try it.  

Saying ‘Sorry to keep you’: should you or shouldn’t you?

This is a good, although risky, way to phrase an apology. It’s risky because if the person is feeling ‘kept’ already, you will either highlight this feeling inside of them and make them more of an indignant prisoner, or – and this is the hope – they will see the idea that a human keeping another human just by a small delay in the transaction process is ridiculous and they will feel some shame at their behaviour towards you so far. If this happens, they will redden and say, ‘It’s okay’ again, but this time they’ll mean it and you will feel the self-worth shift back into your body.

Note: If your customer is friendly and finding the whole delay process a bit of an adventure, saying ‘Sorry to keep you’ might lead them to exclaim ‘It’s no problem!’ and laugh loudly. This will infuriate the people who are waiting.

Keep your focus on the till or the person you are serving.

Do not catch the eye of the customers waiting in the queue. Most of them will be wearing an expression, and doing things with their body language, chosen specifically to let you know how much you are inconveniencing them right now.

Examples: pursed lips, arms folded, eyes staring directly at you. They will be shifting their body weight from one foot to the other more than they need to because this lets the other people in the queue know how inconvenienced they are right now. There will be at least one person tapping their foot. In some cases, there will be some muttering, including the sound ‘fff’. However, there will be some people in the queue who are fine with waiting either because they are enlightened or they don’t have much on today.  

What to do if the person you are serving isn’t annoyed.

The friendly and relaxed customer will probably be chatting to you as they wait. Be aware that if you indulge in conversation with this person, the people in the queue will think you’re just pissing about. Be sure to interject your chat with serious stares at the till, and even if it’s not necessary consider looking around the back of the till as if you are solving a problem with the wiring.

At last! The till has caught up and completed the transaction.

How the customer exits this situation, and how you bid them goodbye, will depend on their behaviour during the last 3 minutes. If they maintained their annoyance it’s always nice to be extra nice to them in the hope that you will highlight their not-niceness. But don’t hold any hope for this.

You can use ‘Sorry to have kept you’ as you greet each of the customers who have just had to wait. Once again you’ll most likely elicit the ‘It’s okay’ response delivered with or without sincerity.

Your till is now operating as it should.

Congratulations, customer service worker, you can go back to working to full capacity  with maximum efficiency.   


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If you enjoyed that, why not try this previously published extract from The Customer Service Workers' Handbook:

He or she is just not that into you: the disengaged customer - rude on purpose or by accident?

 

How To Take A Selfie

Do you think you look good today? Best take a selfie to check.

Is it a good one?

Yes. Fantastic. Post to all social media outlets with caption ‘just chillin’.

No. Do another.

Is it a good one?

No. Do another.

Is it a good one?

No. Do another.

It must be the light in here. Close one curtain. Put that nice ambient lamp on.

Ruffle your hair.

Think about how sad you felt that time you saw a dead baby bird on the pavement and it made you write a blog post about the cruelty of life.

YES: hold that face.

But now think about how sexy you felt that time you went out with damp hair and the wind gave you the best blow dry you’ve ever had and when you stopped to look at the wedding dresses in the wedding dress shop window you caught a look at your reflection and your head looked FUCKING ACE.

Now add that feeling in. That’s it. Do your SADSEXY face.

Is it a good one?

Wow that’s really not what you were trying to communicate at all, is it. Do you really look like that? Go to your favourite mirror and do SADSEXY FACE in it. Looks better in the mirror. Get your camera and take a photo of your reflection.

Ooh wait - turn the flash off.

Oh and also light a candle and put it in front of the mirror.

DO NOT GET THE CANDLE IN THE PHOTO THAT’S TOO MUCH. You just want the mood of the candle. The glow.

Ok. Now take the picture.

Is it a good one?

Hm. It’s ok. It’s quite hazy. Quite arty. Ooh, arty is good.

Or maybe it’s wanky.

Point is even though it’s just a suggestion of your face it’s VERY natural and VERY effortless.

PERFECT. Post to all social media outlets.

 

just so you know,

I am still here.

The past month or so has seen work life speed up and writing life slow down. 

I've felt disconnected from the writing side of myself so to balance things out I had a pull to revisiting some non-fiction. It's done the trick. I feel connected again. Once a diarist always a diarist?

This particular bit of writing started out as a letter for The Letters Page. They didn't accept it for publication, but I see why now. It was quite rushed, I had more to say than I could in 500 words. The version I've written this week is twice that. 

So, a good experience.

But writing about real life opens the door to the old inner critic. She wants to know why I'm writing this. What I'm going to do with it. Because it's quite personal, you know. Are you going to put it in your blog? Might do. Why would you do that? Attention seeker. No, not that exactly. To communicate. To share. Share what a weirdo you were when you were eight? What if (insert person who might judge you negatively) reads it? Well so what. I'm not that bothered about what that person thinks. Aren't you? Why you thinking about it then? Seriously, fuck off now. You're such a drain. 

etc.

I will likely share the letter with you in the next few days. Check back soon.

There's been a lot of catching up lately.

Family visiting us, friends who live far away stopping by.

Then my best friend, Claire, got married just this weekend (she's been preparing since she was 4 years old; the rest of us since Andrew proposed back in Feb 2013). It was a lovely day. Romantic, fun, exhausting, happy. Here we are.

 


A few days later I attended a funeral. My Aunt Audrey, who was my Dad's sister, died last week. She was the youngest of three. My Dad and his other sister, my Aunt Edith, have already passed. So Audrey was the last of those Stenson children, and in that way the last close link to my Dad. But I'd only seen her occasionally over the last ten years or so, and usually at other funerals unfortunately. Isn't that the way? You see people at funerals and vow to meet again soon at a less sad occasion. We didn't manage to.

My Dad died when I was 16. When I was just getting to know him, or appreciate him. The last time I saw him we were talking about music I think (we didn't have the same taste then, but there'd be some cross-over now) and he told me he was a mod in the 1960s. This was possibly the most exciting thing I had ever heard. He then went upstairs and rooted around his wardrobe, coming back down with a mint and cream paisley shirt he'd worn in the 70s. It was 1997 and I was all about flares and collared shirts and long beads and anything alternative - earning me two nicknames at school: 'Indie Girl' from the cool 6th-formers in the years above me, and 'Sweaty Betty' from the townies in my year group. I WAS Indie Girl. And after that I was extra-original-authentic Indie Girl with my mint and cream paisley shirt.


It always felt weird for me around my Aunts and my Grandma after Dad died. Because I knew I was their last link to him, and it made me feel uncomfortable, and odd, and scared in a way. I'm not sure why. Pressure, maybe. No one did anything wrong, just the circumstances. Just the way it felt back then. Overwhelming.  

There are just a few Stensons I know now, pretty much just Edith and Audrey's children, my older cousins. But I can count on one hand how many times I've seen them in the past ten years. Despite this I feel a sense of unity of when I do, and I hang on to them a little tighter when we hug, maybe because - it's back to links - they are my only physical link to Dad, their Uncle.

At the funeral I got to meet one of my Dad's younger cousins for the first time and I asked him for any stories, any memories of Dad from when he was younger. He remembered my Dad being tall with a deep and booming voice. It was enough to bring a little physicality to memories that can become still over time.

Some photos of photos, so not great quality. Here I am with my Aunt Audrey. It's 1984, I'm about 3 years old.

And here's my Dad, in the South of France with his girlfriend (not my Mum) sometime in the late 50s, or early 60s. He's around the age he was when his cousin remembered him as tall, with a deep booming voice. (Perfect for singing Elvis covers, which he did when I was a teenager, in a band with his friends. Sooo embarrassing, I thought. Not now.)

Friends, a wedding, families and memories. A week of connections, really.