I don't really know clouds at all. Daejeong.

I never quite got used to crawling through the attic. The windows were irretrievably caked with dirt, casting murky shadows across the dark room, in swirls that showed at some point, someone had tried to clean them. It was hopelessly dark. I'd go up from my bedroom, clambering up on my elbows. Once up, I'd sit with my legs dangling through the hole, eyes shut, for two renditions of Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau, until my eyes adjusted. Like I said, I never quite got used to it; my heart would pound and my mouth would go dry. Once my eyes had adjusted - sightless as nightmares - I'd bolt through, often in such a hurry I'd scramble through the eaves on my hands and knees, with no further goal than to make it through the dark and into the light.

My. How very biblical.

I spent every free moment that summer sitting up on the roof. The roof formed an M shape, and the hatch opened out in the middle V part, which sort of flatttened off towards the tip, forming a comfy space to sit. I'd lean against the sloping part of the roof and read, or I'd lie flat on my back and watch the clouds.

It's been a long time since I whiled away an afternoon picking shapes oout of the clouds.

I went on a temple stay, while I was in Korea. Its something I'd had organised for a while - spur of the moment choice, heavily influenced by a desire to spend some time in Seoul and see some of the surrounding area - and then I successfully forgot about it until my plane tickets came through the post.

It was all very exciting. I thought they were a gift from a mystery admirer who wanted to whisk me away for a weekend of consolation sex and champagne, but obviously not.
What I got, though, was a week of meditating and Buddhist teaching, followed by a spontaneous fortnight worth of wandering around Seoul, where I got slapped round the back of the head by an old lady.

The temple stay was amazing. There was a question and answer session on our first night; we sat on the floor with cups of lotus flower tea, and I waited, and I listened, and I got all introspective and curious and asked, "What are we doing here?"

The question was roughly as out of character for me as the rest of the trip.

He gave me a wide beautific smile and said, "We are drinking tea."

Either that was a linguistic glitch - which I doubt, his English was better than mine, lots of multi-syllable words - or a hint to live in the now. Which is my default position, and unfailingly gets me in trouble.

But, for perhaps the first time in my life, I decided to take him at his word.

South Korea, chopstick master class and new friends. Japan, hot springs and a wedding invitation. Russia again, Petersburg and Moscow, a broken wrist. Eastern Europe, backpacking across Poland. Woring in Spain, au pairing and bar work, La Coruna and Madrid, some remembered kisses. Came back briefly as documented, month of absolute unlimited debauchery and good memories before the itchy foot syndrome kicked in. Ran out of money in Italy, where I discovered a side to the country I'd completely missed last time I was there - travelled up from Venice to a small town just up from Rome by public transport and plain luck, and was told that, actually, Italian men aren't rude in the slightest, because if I wasn't so pretty they wouldn't stare, so really it was all my own fault. Concentration camp hop, week of absolute sobriety. Switzerland hike, Oktoberfest, Bulgarian spa, herded sheep in Toulouse, helped thatch a roof in Hereford, helped break apart an interior wall in Hackney-
"Are you sure this is ok? I mean, that's a LOT of building going to come crashing down on top of us if we fuck up."
"Dolly, it's fine. Trust me. Just think about how much lighter it's going to be in here without this wall."
A good excuse if there ever was one to hoist a mallet and start swinging.

Which brings me, pretty much, to where I am now. Which is working in a call centre in Old Street, living in highly embarrassing circumstances in London Bridge and trying to scrape enough money together to move into a flat, pay off my overdraft and be able to stop living off soup and reduced Sainsburys food.

It's certainly something of a comedown for a North London princess such as myself.

I'm back at my mothers' place, house-sitting for a few days, and in a fit of inspiration borne from the fact I'm not smoking this week had me scrambling up into the attic and out the window.
As it turns out, I'm not scared of the dark any more.
It looks like nobody's been up there since I was a child, a good many years ago now - the window was jammed shut from dust, cobwebs and general neglect, and by the time I managed to cajole it open I'd forgotten it was still daylight outside. The light pouring in around the edges of the window made me blink a little, and fall back a step.
I'm not sure I like metaphors.

And on some days that were the very finest of all days she could feel only sunshine and see just a strip of blue sky.

I spent the afternoon lying on the roof in the delicate Autumn sunshine, alternating reading some of my favourite books from my teenage years - sometimes, a little humourous comfort reading is essential to ones emotional survival - with just lying back and watching the clouds pass.

"The great cat burgular of Santiago de Compostela"

The longer I know you, Alice told me switching from sympathetic to grumpy in a heartbeat when she realised I was focusing on entirely the wrong aspect of the story, the more of a caricature of yourself you become.

I have been mugged four times in the last year.

Thats a nice statement to stand alone, isn't it? First time - Nepal, last summer. I wasn't too embarrassed about it, as he was much bigger than me. I instantly threw myself into exploring all the dramatic outlets of the situation - in terms of police, emails home to friends and family alike, a trip to get what Joel refers to as a Refill but I prefer to term Getting a New Passport, which felt uncannily like I imagine applying for a bank loan would feel, complete with suspicious glances and difficult questions about What I'm Doing With my Life.
The second time was in Yemen last Decemberish. Not very exciting; no verbal interchange, no split second moment of eye contact compounded by heart stopping panic as you wonder exactly how much this is going to hurt. But one knife that struck me even at the time as being somewhat bigger than necessary. But, in all fairness, a pair of nail scissors waved in my general direction in a threatening manner would probably have had me handing over my handbag.
My bad. My tendency to wander around the less touristy areas of a city gets me into trouble fairly often.

I rather felt, at the time, that I was becoming quite the connoisseur of varying mugging techniques. I mean, twice does seem like quite a lot, doesn't it?

I was mugged again in Seoul a few months ago (post on Seoul - intense - and the Buddhist temple retreat - uncharacteristic and a half, but very cool - is forthcoming) by a very big man with hairy knuckles who used my hair to good advantage as leverage to bully me out of my Manolos and my money.

I felt rather like Carrie Bradshaw, except I wasn't in my home town and got to walk home in my barefeet. Ten minutes, but nonetheless.
My fucking Manolos.
Five minutes later, I fished a cigarette out of my jacket pocket and lit up. Nerves, you know. I smoked a lot when I was first learning to drive - high stress situations, both of them. Feeling less like crying I did another inhale - and got whacked round my head by an old lady looking downright furious. I choked on the smoke, had a slight panic attack, then realised my social faux pas.

I found, in the aftermath of that day, a huge amount of dramatic resources to exploit, finding the possibilities endless - you know; teary victim, outraged label queen, indignant fashionista, wry amusement, dry acceptance.

And then, very much more recently, I was in Santiago de Compostela and I got, if you can imagine this, mugged. A-fucking-gain. This time wins hands down over the others though; he was very pretty - I'm a bit cross that about that. Men that pretty don't come along everyday. Or rather, they haven't since I started working in a teeny tiny Galician village you'll never hear of, near Pontedeume which you might hear of one day, near La Coruña. Which is Google-able. Because the only men who've hit on me in the last four months were old men in the street, various inbred looking blokes from the village and the elderly caretaker. More of whom later.

So I'm understandably a bit put out that when a beautiful man does pop up in my sphere, he wants to steal my money.

But, to be fair, girls with character flaws like mine will always have the potential blindspot that makes them likely to give guys who look quite that beautiful all their money.

It's ok. I'm used to it now, I told my mother. I normally adhere to the 'Never tell your mother anything' rule, but . . . dramatic possibilties, you know. He was very gentlemanly about the whole thing, letting me open my purse and just give him the money. Which saves me the whole fuss and bother of canceling my plastic collection. Again.

I hate that this has happened to me so many times I can judge Gentlemanly Mugging Behaviour. Marks out of ten - did they take anything unnecessary? Did they have obscene amounts of body hair on their fists and, perhaps due to some hitherto unrealised hatred of those with decidely less body hair, feel it necessary to inflict pain upon them by tearing out a handful of their own glossy locks? Did they have a very big shiny knife that was waved in your vague direction that means you can't quite remember what they looked like but are pretty sure you could pick the knife out of a line-up?

I hate to admit it but Alice may well have been right. A variety of reactions that I can pick and choose from has always been my default position. It's all to do with defining a sense of self, something I'm working on.

All the glamour has gone out of being caught in lifts in this day and age

There was a power surge, and the lights flickered, once, twice, and cut out. We were between floors at the time, and a steely silence descended, just for a moment. The lift was full, about ten people, all of whom seemed to be alone. There was a long moment, where we all just stood around, isolated in the darkness, then suddenly the inside of the lift was lit - the power not having come back on, our companions seemed to have decided to create their own. Ah, modernish technology.

Let there be light, said the Lord. Let there be less of it, say the EU leaders of this hemisphere.

Just what is it about getting stuck in a lift that prompts people to call their families/ significant others? I swear one man was calling his limo driver, but my Japanese is sucky.
I ventured a quiet, "Joel? Is that you holding my hand?"
"Cupcake, is that you leaning against the door?"

Ah. We reshuffled. "Joel, was that man talking to his driver?"
"Aren't you claustrophobic?"
"Nope. Where did you get that from?"
"I'm going to be sick. Do you think we could prise the doors open?"
"Look, if you're claustrophobic just admit it. Anyway, thats quiiiiiite probably not a great idea. Aren't we between floors?"

"Have you got a swiss army knife?"

Because of course I carry small knives around with me all the time.

The inside of the lift was still dark, but there was a slightly suspicious scraping noise coming from the door.

"Joel! Stop that! Just sit and leave the door alone."
"I have to get out."
"Look, the last time you didn't listen to me, we almost got arrested. Remember?"
"Oh come on, there was no sign saying I shouldn't climb up the war memorial."

*shrugs* ADHD.

He went on."And who are you talk, missy? The last time I did listen to you, we wound up on a train to Fukuoka."
"Mmm. Well, even between us our Japanese isn't going to stop you getting arrested by the security guards for vandalising the elevator. And believe me when I tell you I won't even try to help you."

Another silence fell. "Um, Cupcake? Do you reckon they speak English?"
"Why, do you think that'd make you getting arrested as soon as the power comes back on any less socially awkward? Anyway, I think we're beyond that stage in our relationship now."

Someone giggled from another corner.

The lights came back on and the lift jolted back into motion; just after he'd started trying to persuade me to climb up onto his shoulders and look for a roof hatch. Or something. Movies do terrible things to a boys mind, don't they?

This mornings little adventure was considerably less exciting; possibly because it was daytime and my companions were all over sixty.

--------------

Now, I have a very important question. Do I go to Spain and learn Spanish, or Korea?