The first impression I had of Great Yarmouth was one of a provincial hellhole, populated by a particularly ugly breed of illiterate half-humans and all the while hiding behind tack in order to conceal the underlying layer of scum (in every sense of the word) for whom the little seaside town is unfortunate enough to play host - but after two weeks camping in the aforementioned hellhole, I have come to the conclusion that, actually, it's not that bad.
The campsite is utterly devoid of any kind of atmosphere, but the facilities are clean, very clean indeed, and therefore I was content during the ten days we spent there. And the ice cream van that came trundling around between six and quarter past with military precision gave generous portions, even if Greensleeves is a weirdly ominous take on the traditional ice cream jingle.
Probably the best thing was being so close to the sea. Five minutes walk would find you curled in a blanket in a sand dune, protected from the cold wind and left to listen to the waves banging the shore and read a book. I've read a lot, the last ten days. Fight Club. Vernon God Little. The Picture of Dorian Gray. The Motorcycle Diaries. Pride and Prejudice. I'd forgotten how much I love reading. It's the best kind of escape from a monotonous existence, or a painful reality.
My only venture into the amusement arcades was, I suppose, victorious; my sister and I toiled at the 2p machines for a considerable portion of the afternoon and came away with a painted wooden duck each.
One afternoon, I went with my parents to the Hippodrome Circus, having seen posters all over the place for a week. I was sceptical, thinking that because I'd seen one circus I'd seen them all - but ohhhhhh my, it was amazing. Incredible. Mindblowing. Just. Perfect. I don't care if you're a friend living in Lowestoft or one of the 15% of my readers apparently residing in Russia, go, go! It's a permanent establishment, the Hippodrome, with a couple of different shows a year, showing for a few months at a time. I hope to return to Yarmouth in winter for their Christmas show and bring everyone I know. I left with the overwhelming desire to become an acrobat.
I came home of the mind that, once you get used to it, Yarmouth has its own kind of charm that you just don't get in nice places.
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During my Yarmouth stay, a short train journey brought me to Norwich station last Saturday to meet with friends for the annual gay pride march! I had a wonderful day, getting "I ♥ PRIDE" painted on my face, drawing a rainbow on the faces of others, accumulating brightly coloured merch, meandering to the big park, eating strawberries in a sensuous manner, ogling a blue-haired angel, getting down with Morris dancers, inadvertently finding ourselves marching with the Tories, invading Caffe Nero in a tastefully rainbow fashion, loitering by a river, basking in our homosexual tendencies in the receding lights of the Norwich Gay Bus, completely freaking out over the train tickets home, etc.
What struck me as wonderful was just how much love there was. Everywhere. It was the nicest atmosphere. Everyone was so very affectionate and lovely, to groups of complete strangers openly asking for a hug on the grounds of we like your wings, heh heh heh.
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| I'm sorry! I didn't get his beautiful face! |
Bring on Pride '13! Already planning my outfit. It's going to be luminous.
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And, so, home again.
Seventeen years of being a loner has been ample time to reach the conclusion that, unlike people whose moods take a natural downward trajectory in winter (called SAD - it stands for something, don't remember what), during the summer holidays I seem to deflate. Sink into megadowndom. Probably caused by extended time spent alone, which, while I love spending time by myself, turns me into a bit of an obsessive maniac. While I have something safe into which I can channel my obsessiveness, I'm generally harmless. Just a little unpleasant to be around. Routine! I crave routine! It's depressing, no doubt, considering that my idea of a perfect life constitutes no routine whatsoever, to think that, should I ever reach the point where I can support myself with my writing, I shall almost definitely be spending most of my time... bummed. Cashing in on my megadown with depressing short stories.
If you get the opportunity, watch Jon Richardson: A Little Bit OCD while you still can. A lot of it rang true. And now I have ammunition against unhelpful people being flippant because they don't understand.
Leo is almost eleven months old... He's getting so big! It never fails to completely and utterly blow my mind, just how gorgeous he is. And chubby. Brilliantly chubby. Always.
"Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us."
- Pride and Prejudice
If you get the opportunity, watch Jon Richardson: A Little Bit OCD while you still can. A lot of it rang true. And now I have ammunition against unhelpful people being flippant because they don't understand.
Leo is almost eleven months old... He's getting so big! It never fails to completely and utterly blow my mind, just how gorgeous he is. And chubby. Brilliantly chubby. Always.
"Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us."
- Pride and Prejudice
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