Jack of all trades

Chapter Nine: Pins and Needles

2009-12-05T06:16:00.000-08:00

After a lull in the project of late due to several circumstances, I was eager to get back into the swing of things as soon as I could find a new skill. And yet, when offered a lesson in acupuncture I was more than a little hesitant. I'm hardly needle-phobic, but the idea of pushing sharp pin after sharp pin into someone's body in order to relieve pain seemed completely paradoxical. With a series of cancelled offers behind me though, I wasn't in a position to turn anyone down, and so on a cold Friday morning I found myself in Borehamwood, permitting a small Chinese woman to stab me in the back twelve times.
I had been contacted by Dr. Sue Liu a week or two before our meeting, and from her website had discovered that she, with 27 years of experience, was more than qualified to give me a lesson. After meeting her on the high street, I was taken to her office - a small, unfussy room - and got talking about the intricacies of using people as human pin-cushions.
Acupuncture is of course more than a sporadic poke of a paying customer, a therapy with uncertain origins and debatable results. Theoretically, stimulating any number of the several hundred pressure points over the body can relieve tension, alleviate stress, or even cure addictions, with a point near one's ear lobe supposedly influencing one's desire to smoke. Pins are used for the best effect, but with children a simple pinch will achieve a similar result since acupuncture probably isn't perceived as a good excuse for child abuse.

The inimitable Dr. Sue, acupuncture expert.

Sitting in Dr. Sue's office, I was talked through the logistics of the therapy, which had taken her more than two decades to perfect. For acupuncture is all about the combination of pure effort - learning the hundreds of points and the expertise - and an awareness of the individual. Each one of Dr. Sue's clients require different help, have different pains, possess differing degrees of skin thickness (apparently you don't want to go too deep into the tissue). With such complicated considerations, I knew I wasn't going to be leaving an expert, but I was eager to get more of a taste of what the craft was about.
Of course, letting me perform acupuncture on a complete stranger was never going to be on the cards, so once I had been talked through the logistics of the craft I offered myself as a guinea pig. After checking my blood pressure and having filled in the obligatory medical form, I lay on her table and tried to relax as she kneaded my back to find the areas of most tension. Deciding that my my neck and lower back were the places requiring the most work, she got to work. Face down on the table, I could hear the ominous preparation of the as she ripped open the individually packaged needles. Starting on my neck, I felt a sudden sharp pain, and then another, and then another. Twelve needles later and I could only imagine what my back looked like, although the sight of it would probably have made me throw up through the hole in which my face was placed. Once the needles were all in though, I was able to relax and imagine the benefits of the exercise. After a prolonged silence - I have no idea how long I lay there, I may have even fallen asleep at one point - Dr. Sue pulled the needles out (see right. That's my blood. She could clone me if she so wishes) and treated me to some other of her specialities, like tuina and cupping, a process involving spherical glass jars used to remove tension from tissue. Following her impressive tour de force of therapy, the session was complete, and I begrudgingly got up, feeling relaxed and refreshed.
Depending on the case, acupuncture therapy can be used from a single session to several a year, and so an aching back is going to take more than one quick meeting. It has to be said, though, that I awoke the next morning feeling as fit as a fiddle but, as usual, with nowhere to go. My lesson in acupuncture had been a reeducation in the pleasure-pain principal, and while it's clearly not for everyone due to widespread natural aversion to needles and alternative therapies, it's undoubtedly not without merit. So if the winter has brought out the old woman in you and you're aches and pains are becoming intolerable, I recommend you give a thought to my new welfare advisor, Dr. Sue.

Chapter Eight: SoCo for Everyone

2009-10-29T04:42:00.000-07:00

As anyone who knows me would testify, I am not much of a drinker. Since the week that followed the end of my exams (there were woo woos involved. Pitchers of woo woos. And a pole. Details are not necessary) my vulnerability to sudden drunkenness has been starkly evident, and I am felled by amounts of alcohol that wouldn’t render fourteen-year-olds on park benches tipsy. Apprehensively, then, I accepted an invitation to Southern Comfort’s launch of their new cocktail recipes and the offer of a mixing lesson, and with memories of vomit-strewn gutters braced myself for a mess.
The party, held at a gallery near Oxford Circus, was a preview of SoCo’s new campaign pictures, and I was there to interview Remi Nicole and Frankmusik about their participation for t5m.com. Luckily for me, though, the PR team offered me a cocktail-mixing lesson beforehand, and I was introduced to resident mixologist Giles Looker. A bespectacled gentleman in a maroon velvet jacket (I want one), Looker has turned his passion for alcohol (some would call that alcoholism, but one man’s treasure…) into a lucrative profession, and he started off giving me a few tips for perfect mixing. First of all, a cocktail can rest purely on the standard of the ice. It is impossible to produce a perfect cocktail without a perfect ice-machine, and since Looker recommended ones that cost in excess of a few grand, it appears that I will be sipping flawed drinks for years to come. Without the flawless shape, size and temperature of the ideal ice cube, the dilution of the drink will occur too quickly, and the balance of the drink will be off kilter.
‘So what?’ I hear you wonder (Literally. Chapter Seven’s Tarot lesson has unlocked my telepathic abilities), but for Looker, everything is in the balance obtained in the mixing. A good cocktail should blend sweet with sour and strong with weak, and without the balance you are left with something too extreme for the palate. A good mixologist must always be aware of what each ingredient is bringing to the drink, and with a sweet base like Southern Comfort, adding extra sugary substances renders extra bitter ones vital. The new campaign is all about showing people that a SoCo and Coke is not the only option, proposing several tasty cocktails inspired by the drink’s New Orleans heritage. Looker talked me through a couple; the Southern Belle, the Bayou Fruit Cup, the Crescent City Smash; before teaching me how to make the Louisiana Jam.
To make the Louisiana Jam, pictured left with Remi Nicole, we started off with an empty jam jar, which I added two cocktail spoonfuls of apricot jam to. It’s a perfect way to start a cocktail; who doesn’t have jam?; but as it becomes tempting to turn the final contents of every jam jar into an alcoholic beverage, you might want to book your place at Alcholics Anonymous. Next came the Southern Comfort in a generous measure; he tried to teach me the stylish way to pour, holding the neck of the bottle before flipping it vertically, letting it pour for three seconds (about 35mls worth) before flipping it back. One second later and there’s Southern Comfort everywhere and I apologise for screwing up the most simple of tasks. The same little trick is required to add the 20mls of lemon juice. ‘Surely’, I think to myself, ‘I can’t spill this again. A monkey could master the art of turning a bottle upside down.’ Needless to say, in a few moments there was more liquid on the bar then there was in the jar, and any hopes at glass throwing were abandoned for the welfare of those around me. Adding a splash of sugar syrup to balance out the sour lemon, and eight slapped mint leaves (giving them a good whack releases the smell), all that was left was the crushed ice. And then the genius of the jam jar was unearthed, its lid providing the perfect way to shake the ingredients, encourage the slight dilution of the ice, and unlock the flavours of the mint. My enthusiasm for the shaking process was childlike, but by then I had sampled three cocktails and was in no fit state to handle glass. I could, however, just manage the final garnish, a sprig of mint and lemon wedge (always match the garnish to the drink’s content) and promptly drank the result, a sweet and tasty cocktail reminiscent of a mojito, the jam giving a really nice kick. Cocktail mixing is about skill and precision, but it is also just about knowing what goes together, so while I certainly don’t have the flair for the job, I definitely have the tastebuds. Three more cocktails later and clutching one of my favourite things – a goodie bag – I stumbled out into the darkness, searching for jam.

For recipes for the full range of Southern Comfort's new cocktails see bigeasycocktails.co.uk

Chapter Seven: Tarot on the Cards

2009-10-10T11:50:00.000-07:00

Derren Brown has been spending a lot of time recently trying to impress the world with his supernatural abilities to predict the lottery results and stick us to your sofas. Many are in awe. Most, however, seem more shocked by the gullibility of those unable to move from their pleather suites than Brown's hypnotic and psychic acumen. Needless to say I am of the latter group, always a little scathing at those who believe in ghosts, auras, telepathy; anything unquantifiable really. On the search for new skills, however, I bit the bullet and suspended my disbelief for a lesson with Ellen, Elvis fan, German, and tarot card reader.
It was already dark by the time I arrived at Willesden Green, North London, and as I awaited an answer at her door I braced myself for a Professor Trelawney, all beads, thick glasses and a surrounding cloud of incense. It was with mild surprise, then, that I greeted Ellen, a spritely blonde with an inestimable age; she could have been twenty five or forty and I was loath to shatter the facade of agelessness. She welcomed me into her small bedsit room, a strange mish-mash of Elvis memorabilia and pagan symbols. I sat down at the table (it was actually an upturned cardboard box with a cloth over it but each unto one's own) and had a quick chat about the attraction tarot holds for her and her thoughts on psychic ability. An enormous portion of the mind of a human being is untapped potential, brain matter that's never actually utilised. According to Ellen though, psychic and seemingly supernatural activity, even apparent miracles, are the result of normal people simply accessing this potential, unlocking their psychic intuition to achieve more than most deem possible. It was a compelling pitch considering that I was anticipating something about an alien deity or Mayan calendar, and while I was apprehensive she began to show me how it was done with a step-by-step reading.
I had only had my cards read once before, when a crackpot gypsy-wannabe told me I'd be married by the next year. Two years later I've had no need for the something blue, so as I shuffled the ornate cards (Ellen's pack was a strange one, cartoonish suits and neon colours, not what I had been expecting) I wasn't looking for anything at all accurate. The simple process of shuffling whilst concentrating on an issue or question supposedly leaves an essence imprinted upon them (I can only assume it fades before the next customer arrives), and while I was tempted to concentrate on a fake question in order to catch her out, I instead went for the earnest approach and thought hard about my career prospects. Ellen laid the cards out in a Celtic cross formation, just one of many options in tarot reading but one that she favours personally. For those starting off, the formation you choose should just be whatever seems best to you (the same can be said for the cards themselves), but the Celtic cross formation is useful for a past/present/future analysis. Each card meant the following with Ellen's reading:

1. The issue
2. The help/hindering factor
3. The past
4. The near past
5. The future
6. The near future
7. The shuffler's attitude
8. The opinions of friends and family
9. Hopes and fears
10. The eventual outcome

I quite liked the systematic nature of the process and think that I'd adopt it as my personal format if I took tarot up permanently. I assumed that Ellen would proceed to actually turn the cards over, but I was mistaken. Psychic intuition is, after all, about feeling, and so she started to sense my future from the back of the cards and started the reading, surmising from my apparent essence a meticulous and highly organised approach to my life that had dominated my past, and would be of benefit in my future. Having got a general feel of my preoccupation from the back of the cards (fairly spot on but admittedly vague so far), she turned them over and talked me through the results. Intuition is, of course, vital, but the suits (wands, cups, coins and swords) and pictures (death, the tower etc) have distinct meanings which must be considered in relation to one's psychic feelings. The death card, being the obvious example of misleading ones, means change and transformation rather than an upcoming fatality. The cards, then, told of a celebration or emotional satisfaction in my near future and success overall with a couple of more specific references that seemed fairly acceptable. To a certain extent, of course, positive statements about one's character are always going to sound good to the ear, and while Ellen was a very pleasant and sincere woman its easy to see how someone a little more callous could work wonders with access to obituaries or census records. As an experience, there's something nice about having your cards read, even if it's just a way of being told by a stranger that everything will be fine (Ellen would never disclose horrific news to anyone, thinking "you will die a painful death" is a little unfair) and to just keep at it. She is also completely against regular readings, so financially speaking she seemed to have her client's interests at heart, an unexpected approach which I found rather endearing.
Having gone through the meanings of each suit and image and clarified a few more issues, I knew I was ready to try it. Logistics, however, are of course only the beginning, and while my session with Ellen taught me the basics, if I'm ever going to be serious about tarot I'll have to hone my psychic tuition. Sadly my recent exodus to London and the resulting pollution and noise is, according to my teacher, not the best move, as solitude and a closeness to nature are ideal for such a task. Perhaps, then, I won't be rivalling Derren in the near future, but with a bit of effort
I just might be able to avert the occasional car crash. So next time I call you telling you to get off the plane you've just boarded, you should probably just do it.

Ellen is available for affordable tarot card readings. E-mail her on ellenpresslymail@googlemail.com for information.

Chapter Six: Blazing Saddles

2009-10-05T12:52:00.000-07:00

In 1999 rom-com Notting Hill, Hugh Grant's William Thacker must pose as a journalist in order to see Julia Roberts' Anna Scott at a press junket. His magazine of choice, it transpires, is middle-class cornerstone 'Horse and Hound', and so it seems logical that if I am ever going to get in with famous people I am going to have to be able to pass for an equine journalist. It all makes sense. With this in mind, I took a golden opportunity and accepted an offer to join newfound friend Charlotte for a weekend of riding and shooting on her farm in Stokenchurch, a small village in Buckinghamshire with an amazing Nepalese restaurant, a heinous pebble-dashed church and not much else. As we drove down to the farm, pheasants darted across the conker-screwn road and we turned into the most picturesque valley I've ever seen, complete with rustic farmhouse (they have an AGA! Swoon!) and stables for four horses. After a quick cup of tea I changed into her mother's jodpurs (is it awful that I'm contemplating a pair for everyday use?) and, having previously acquired some tweed, I was ready to ride. Charlotte introduced me to Bigwig, the strapping chestnut horse that I would be riding, and she gave me some quick pointers to keep a mind. The most important thing to remember about horses is that they are animals and not machines, and that riding them is about negotiation rather than dictation. If a horse feels forced into doing something then they're not going to like you very much, and when you're sitting on top of something that can throw you off at twenty five miles an hour, you want to keep on their good side.
With that in mind we led Bigwig into the arena, and I hauled myself up (you're supposed to almost swing into the saddle in one graceful swoop, but as samba taught me I have very little grace) to get started. Having learnt the basics of rein-holding and foot-placement we set off in a slow circle around the pen, giving me some time to dispel the fear of impending death from my mind. Having absolutely nailed the slow walk (by which I mean 'having let the horse walk around') we moved along to figures of eight and circled routes, and while so far we hadn't gone beyond the simplistic, I was really feeling more comfortable with Bigwig. There was one thing that I was still finding difficult though; imagine you meet a lovely new friend with beautiful chestnut hair and big brown eyes. Then imagine repeatedly kicking said friend in the ribcage. It's all a little bit awkward, and however much you tell yourself that horses have stronger skeletal structures and thick skin, you can't help but feel a little guilty. Aversion to S&M aside though, we made quick progress and moved on to the final task of the day; the rising trot.
The rising trot involves, unsurprisingly, rising from the horse, standing up in the stirrups before sitting back down in a repetive motion which complements and encourages the horse's trot. Watching Charlotte's demonstration I was certain that it was going to be easy enough, but as I held on to Bigwig for dear life, the last thing on my mind was an action that made falling off more likely. After bouncing up and down for a while I realised that it wasn't working, but soon enough I was managing fairly well. I may feel a little violated by the repetitive thwacking of the motion (so so sore right now), but next time I find myself pretending to be from 'Horse and Hound', at least I can teach Julia Roberts the rising trot.
The next day I awoke ready for shooting. Considering my reluctance to kick a horse, I was relieved to be informed that no birds were to be harmed in the making of this blog. Charlotte and her father took me and the guns into the woods surrounding the farm (again, I'm being very trusting with this project!) and we set up the clay pigeon rig. Shooting a fast-moving object, strangely enough, isn't about speed, but precision. By following the tail of the clay's path with the barrell of the gun you get used to the velocity, before levelling it with the target and pulling the trigger. It is initially difficult to not just go for it all guns blazing (chortle), but once you get used to the tennis-racket like movement of the shot (a single sweeping one rather than the erratic batting of my own technique. If anyone can teach me tennis by the way it would be greatly appreciated!) then it becomes strangely enjoyable. Watching the clay practically shatter into dust mid-air felt completely exhilirating, and after a few tries I had improved on my precision and the stroke of the shot. I have never been a violent person, but holding a smoking gun and watching tiny pieces of debris spin through the air brought out the OJ Simpson in me. It's probably best that we ran out of shells, I may have got a little too excited and shot Charlotte.
And so I returned to London, jodpurs off but tweed still intact. My weekend in the country had been great fun and I'd learnt the basics of two very twee skills, but the fact that I found the rifle so bizarrely alluring perhaps hints at a very successful career in armed robbery in London. With a little bit of practice, I may be able to make my getaway on Bigwig.

Chapter Five: Bat out of Hell

2009-10-01T06:21:00.000-07:00

When my mother was a teenager, she returned home after dark and headed for bed, only to feel something moving beneath the sheets. Assuming her sister had played a prank, she took a look under the duvet and found a bat, nestled in its makeshift den, and needless to say she has never quite got over the terror. A parent's phobia often passes onto their children, and while I have never had to join my mother in fleeing from the twilit sky, the chance of consciously searching for the winged rats of her nightmares wasn't exactly on my must-do list. With the Twilight franchise picking up steam and an official Dracula sequel out now though, every vampire's favourite flying rodent is due for a renaissance, so I was oddly excited at the invitation to learn how to detect bats in their natural habitat.

A quick train journey brought me to East London's Plumstead and environmental science graduate Cally, a 24 year old grass enthusiast with a recent fondness for bats. The animal's association with the dark and their resulting use in every horror B-movie ever means that most would baulk at anyone who seeks them out, but as we walked to Bostall woods to await the sunset, Cally (pictured below right) filled me in on some basics that had me strangely intrigued. Of the five or so thousand species of mammal in the world, more than a thousand are bats, seventeen of which can be found in Britain in varying nubers, but with increased light pollution and destruction of habitat, numbers are decreasing and surveying is all the more important. With a heightened feeling of purpose, we ventured into the woods, both marginally apprehensive of being murdered in the dark by our new internet acquaintance.

Luckily, neither of us turned out to be psychopaths, and we progressed to bat-detecting. Wandering through the undergrowth at night was amazingly atmospheric, the moon just visible through the trees and the dark pathways silent and secretive. Task aside, it was shaping up to be a really nice walk, but I was here to learn something new, and so out came our means to finding the winged creatures. What looked like primitive walkie-talkies were basic bat detectors, little black boxes which pick up the high frequencies of bats as they fly directly ahead. As we ambled through the dark, I accidentally disturbed a few wood pidgeons, but it seemed increasingly likely that our search had been unsuccessful. And then, the sound we had been looking for emanated from the detector, a radar-like echo made by the bats for hunting purposes. From there, all you have to do is look up, and as the detector continued to sound we could see tiny little pipistrel bats fly intermittently ahead. The sight would have brought my mother to hysterics, but I felt an unexpected elation at having found them, slightly special at having seen something in its natural and almost mysterious habitat. Craning my neck got a bit painful though and we moved on on our route, eventually finding our way out of the woods (Cally knew her way, of course, but one never knows when your friendly bat-loving guide is going to bring an axe out of her shoulder-bag) and back onto the road. If a Plumstead native had looked from their window at that moment, they would have seen two shadowy individuals in the middle of a field, heads darting after the final bat of the night, looking more than a little crazy. But even though more than one dog-walker thought that we were up to no good, (as you can see from the pictures above it didn't help that I was dressed like a cat burglar) it was definitely worth it; Bostall woods are beautiful at night (do take someone with you who knows their way around!), and bat-detecting was a lot of fun. Shepherd's Bush may not be the best place to continue the hobby, but with a bit more bat knowledge behind me I'm certainly ready to embrace my inner Edward Cullen and pay more attention to the sky once the sun's gone down.

Cally is recruiting helpers for a new park regeneration scheme based in Beaulieu Park in Norwood. If you're between 16 and 24 and interested in design workshops, tree planting, woodwork and more then send your name to Cally at young_friends_of@yahoo.co.uk

Chapter Four: Strictly Samba

2009-09-27T14:45:00.000-07:00

Oh God. I cannot dance for shit. Most people can at least invoke some sense of rhythm from within, but I'm still scarred from a post-exams celebration involving a pole, two pitchers of Woo-Woos and Beyonce's Single Ladies. There are photographs documenting the event, it is worth noting, which will never see the light of day. Needless to say, dancing is not my forté, so luckily for me one of the first people to get in touch was Nifertiti Krzeminski, or Niffi, a young woman from Brazil willing to teach me either volleyball or samba. Having no desire to eat sand or be in the vicinity of a ball (I'm sure I'll have to face that fear eventually), I opted for samba, and we met for a lesson in the blissfully sunny Hyde Park.
With a degree in history from a university in her home country, Niffi (pictured left) had spent the last few years in London improving her English. I meanwhile, having had strange longings for academic pursuits since leaving Oxford in June, was delighted to discover that she wanted to learn about Shakespeare, and so the strangest trade so far was established. Having spent the entirety of my degree feeling like the stupid one (mainly because I was the stupid one), two hours going through issues surrounding gender, genre and staging and actually sounding fairly authoritative was strangely pleasant. Life, though, is all about balance, so I prepared to counter the pride with the embarrassment that would inevitably ensue from an attempt to dance.
After finding a nice, firm spot, Niffi gave me the lowdown on samba, a carnival staple in Brazil's four day festivities every February. After a display of the basic steps, she quickly progressed into an almost hypnotically rapid routine that seemed to come from nowhere, half choreography and half spontaneity. On attempting to master the three steps that form the crux of the samba, I struggled for an embarrassingly long time, not quite mastering the rhythm or the positioning. The problem was, of course, that I was overthinking the whole thing, attempting futilely to pack 'left foot forward for one beat, right foot back for half a beat, return left foot to right foot for one beat, ' into one second. It sounds incredibly easy, but repeating that again and again at increasing speed was as complex for me as it was exhausting, but it was clearly like the guitar in that you can stop thinking about it once you're used to the steps. Watching Niffi quite literally dance circles around me showed that it's about the rhythm, the velocity of the three step base causing an almost ripple-effect through the legs and the hips. Add to that a couple of bird-like arm movements, a few side-steps and (depending on what's available) a feathered head-dress and you're sorted. It's about what feels natural, letting the music take you and accepting that beyond the three specific samba steps there really aren't any rules; the reason behind my pole-based endeavours after exams was the fact that my alcohol intake had stripped me of my tendency to overthink everything, and while no one wants a repeat of that evening, it's a key realisation for the samba. It certainly helps that males are less obliged to go as crazy as women, which is a nice excuse, but after a bit of practice I was certainly improving my velocity and precision. Not exactly ready for Fame yet, (although I'm intrigued by the legwarmers) but with the help of a real-life Brazilian I'm on my way to becoming the smoothest stepper in the west. Or maybe West London anyway, I'm not fussy.

Chapter Three: Strings and things and fine array

2009-09-16T13:41:00.000-07:00

At every house-party I have been to back home in Wales, there has always been the horrible moment when someone, always significantly less drunk than everyone else, brings out their guitar. A song or twelve later and the rest of the guests despise the boy (it's always a boy) for thinking that they were simply desperate to hear his rendition of 'Smells Like Teen Spirit', and his girlfriend with the lip-ring (there's always a lip-ring) has to prise the guitar from his cankered hands. And yet, despite the unbreakable association in my mind between guitars and absolute arseholes, I had always envied those who could play. After my first guitar lesson, I'm a small step closer to being that annoying bloke at the house-party.
I met with Celino, 23, from North-East Spain, at his flat in Putney. Having moved to London only ten days before, he was willing to show me some basics in exchange for some English practice, and while I was apprehensive that my online correspondent may turn out to be a seventy year old murderer, I promptly arrived at our well-lit public meeting place with a borrowed guitar.

Luckily for me, Celino (pictured, far right) was as he had described, and an excellent guitar player at that. My initial attempts at producing a sound other than that of nails on a chalkboard were futile, but in less than an hour I was strumming like a cherub on a harp. We went through the chords, practiced going from G to E Minor and C to A minor, and while moving my fingers less than an inch across to another fret took far longer to get used to than I would like to admit, I got there in the end. My recent foray into bowling had left my fingers a bit sore though, so while I somehow managed a somewhat pleasant sound, I should probably avoid the flying trapeze or archery for a while; however will I manage?
There's a stigma, I think, that burdens the instrument to an extent. I'd perceived it as just that little bit less impressive than, say, the violin, the flute, or the piano, perhaps due to the guitar's association with the non-classical as well as its lingering presence at so many parties. After an hour of giving it a try though, as well as observing Celino's excellent musical prowess, it became clear that playing requires no less skill than any other instrument, requiring a speed and dexterity that surprised me. I'm not exactly ready for a band, but my Guitar Hero score is bound to improve. So next time you're at a house-party, and some annoying Welshman removes his guitar from its case, then do come over and say hello.

Chapter Two: Going Spare

2009-09-14T08:48:00.000-07:00

Five years ago I started working at Pizza Hut and was obliged to attend a team building day at our nearest bowling alley. Two games later, I emerged as the clear loser of a fifty-strong group, and was rewarded with a certificate and a lacklustre round of applause. I haven't bowled since, but with the combination of overpriced snacks, ugly shoes and middle-aged men in polyester trousers, that has hardly been a handicap. Memories of a coachful of people better than me still lingered though, so when I was invited to spend a few hours learning how to bowl I jumped at the chance to gain a skill I had for so long avoided.
I arrived in Lewisham ready for my lesson, and met Ashley Collins (right, with his trusted, weighted ball), a 20 year old who had worked as a manager at the local alley for just over a year. The end of the summer holidays meant that I was the only customer in the underground venue except for a team of pensioners practicing for a league match, so after a quick introduction, we got started. Ashley thought it best to start me off with the bumpers up, and as he observed my technique (when I say technique, I mean missing every pin despite the barriers that blocked most of the gutter) I didn't even want to acknowledge how bad I was. I was clearly in the right hands though; Ashley had been bowling for years and, luckily for me, didn't take the sport as seriously as some of the senile enthusiasts a few lanes over. After watching me 'bowl' for a while, we paused to rectify some problems (how to actually hold a bowling ball, for example) , discussed the logistics of the sport, and the difference between an aggressive and a non-aggressive ball; I, unsurprisingly, was not ready for aggression, and stuck with my 10 pounder. As the bumpers came down at the insistence of a spirited old man who had been watching from behind the ball-rack, Ashley and I made a breakthrough; the little brown spots that make lines on the run-up actually mean something, indicating prime points from which to start the steps. Bowling, it appears, is all about what feels natural, and while there are of course measures to improve, getting better is about finding the best starting point and series of steps for you. After a couple of gutter balls it became clear that I tend to draw too far to the left, and so bowling from the left side meant a more central path and, therefore, a more accurate shot. Before I knew it I was bowling like a, well, not a pro, but certainly a normal Pizza Hut employee, and as I perfected the 'right foot, left foot, ball back, sink on the right foot, let go at the centre, keep your arm straight' technique (also known as 'just throw the damn ball') I was getting frequent spares and even a few strikes. Embarrassment at failing at perhaps the most poorly rated sport in the world was fading, and while I was clearly nowhere near the level of those whose names adorned honorary 300 point plaques, it was nice to have noticed a marked improvement.
Becoming a better bowler, however, came at a definite price. The constant lunging, throwing and heavy lifting (I was born the same weight as my ball; my poor mother) was surprisingly exhausting after an hour and a half, and even as I type now my middle and ring finger are aching. I even have a thumb blister, which I think counts as my first sports injury. My school P.E. teacher would be proud. Sort of. So despite a shaky start and the shadow of my previous failure hanging over me, I discovered a new ability to bowl in a basement in Lewisham. Even the shoes are growing on me.

Chapter One: The French in the Trench

2009-09-13T10:33:00.000-07:00

Girls Aloud can't speak French. They let the music do the talking. I, however, can't dance either (all in good time) so was quite excited to start the Jack of all trades project with a French lesson. I studied the language for GCSE, and while it has been a while since then I was fairly decent at it once upon a time, so surely a quick recap session was all I needed. With this in mind, I met with Arnaud Dupont, a 25 year old Frenchman from near Marseilles who had moved to Alexandra Park less than two weeks ago. As I awaited his arrival outside a pub in Leicester Square, I looked around for someone who looked French before chastising myself for thinking that anyone actually looks French, but as the man in the trench coat approached me it was quite clear that I had been right; Arnaud was impossibly French in a strangely indescribable way, and as we found a seat I was confident that I was in the right hands.
It didn't take long for me to realise that I'd bitten off far more than I could chew. Arnaud's English was hesitant but nevertheless proficient, which would have made my GCSE pale in comparison even if I'd sat the exams yesterday. We mused for a while on the French words used by the English (Arnaud loved that we say je ne se quoi), of the merits of Blackpool tower compared with the Eiffel Tower, and I helped him with some pronunciation problems, but I had failed to consider the difficulty my hybridised Welsh-English accent would pose. Over the few hours we spent in the pub I became increasingly more aware just how poor my French was, and while I definitely learnt a lot about the country (the university system, healthcare, geography) and some useful vocab, I'm certainly not ready for Paris. At the very least though, Arnaud was a great guy (although anyone with a French accent gains automatic points with me) and as he tries to make it in finance at the worst time possible, it felt good to be of any use at all. It's a decent start to the project, and with a bit more integration and repetition I'm sure I'll be speaking the language of love in no time. If that fails, I'll just have to bite my tongue and let the funky music do the talking.