Boiling Point

I watched Boiling Point last night. It’s a British indie so my boyfriend and I had to traipse into central London for a 9:30 PM viewing at a Curzon cinema. I was knackered. 

It was the most worth while cinema trip I have ever made. It is all done in a genuine single take. 95 minutes inside a small restaurant, in and out of the kitchen, out into the back, into the toilets, along the narrow bar. A busy night for a new restaurant, every character is, as the title suggests, at boiling point. It was like watching a dance. Despite the high levels of stress throughout the film, I wanted to stay in the world. 

It was so clearly such a beautiful team effort. Every performance was stunning, the writing was seamless, the atmosphere was real. I wanted to cry at the end for several reasons, some that I won’t spoil, but a lot of it was because it seemed like I had just witnessed the hard, incredible work of a lot of people. 

What’s the reason for making a film? Not least a film that won’t make millions, that won’t necessarily even reach an audience of millions. I’m not sure. But for me this film demonstrated the giddy, intense joy of creating a story and telling it well. 

And it was also a film about the innate goodness of people. That people are not evil or bad, but when they do stupid or harmful things it comes from a place of fear, pressure and vulnerability. I enjoyed a character getting a talking to until we followed her into the toilets to hear her cry. And then I wanted to cry with her. Because she wasn’t bad, just scared, misguided, alone. 

Life, even in its most intense, awful parts, can be light and funny. Even if that lightness is fleeting, it still weaves in and out of us like a sharp breath of relief. Boiling Point depicted this beautifully. 

I’m not going to tell you to go and see this film, I just wanted to share the joy I felt from watching it. My heart was in my mouth the whole time. But it was brilliant. It was people being really, really good at what they do and it felt like a privilege to have witnessed it. 

New year, new me.

I am going to write this post about the New Year. About the love I found in the old one. The things I learnt and gained and lost. Although really I was lucky, I felt that not much was lost at all. Lucky to have lived a year free from grief. I worry now as I write this that I am jinxing myself. But that’s not how life works. Life just happens. Grief will always come, but not because you taunted it with things going well. 

I started the new year singing an unexpected karaoke round of “shuddup of ya face” in my lounge with my parents and friends.

I then woke up the next morning and couldn’t walk 2 yards without needing to lie on the floor very, very still. 

In the week since I’ve done all the things one does in the new year to commemorate a healthier, better life. I haven’t touched any alcohol, I’ve eaten a whole load of vegetables, I’ve been to the gym. I’ve written things, I’ve applied to stuff. I pulled myself together after losing half of a submission I’d spend 2 hours on. Not before crying in a cafe Nero whilst my boyfriend tried to console me. 

And I feel good. The sun is shining today, and we plough into the new year as fast as we left the old one. I am ready for all the excitement and adventures, unpredictable and surprising in their nature, that lay before me. Here’s to the textured, beautiful, wild future. 

Just some words

So, I wasn't going to write today. I have had a long day at work. I have sent emails, and inputted data, and logged and saved and 'actioned' various things. Eight hours filled with that and then I went and did the shopping. I had to get the marzipan and the royal icing ready for the Christmas cake. 

And then I got home and I unpacked the shopping and I opened the bag of 'Christmas nut selection' for a snack. Then I sat down and applied to anything I could think of that might give me an acting or a writing job. Did I mention? I'm looking for anything that might allow me to act or write. For money. Or not. 

And I'm tired now and I'm thinking, "I'll write tomorrow." I'll stop now and I'll scroll through TikTok on my phone to let my brain turn off. But do you know what would happen tomorrow? I would get to this exact point in the day and say "I'm tired, I'll write tomorrow." 

So I wrote today. It's not much, but I did it. I got some words down. I constructed sentences. I feel the better for it. I can cross off a thing on my to-do list. Now I will stop and turn my brain off. 

Good night. 

I have turned 24.

I turned 24 last Thursday. I have reached the age now where every time a birthday comes around I think "God, that went quickly. How on earth can I be this old?" and also "wow, remember when I was younger and I felt old then? That Mollie didn't even know what was going to hit her." Which I'm assuming is just a sentiment I will now have forever and ever. Not least because I haven't actually reached a quarter of a century yet. 

To celebrate I ate a lot of very delicious food, drank copious amounts of alcohol, and sang very loudly into a microphone with my closest friends at karaoke. I felt very full, in multiple ways, but mainly with love. 

In the last few years I have become a softer, calmer, more accepting version of myself. I move forward into a future I have no way of predicting, and it no longer frightens me so much. I accept it. I accept that there may be harder times ahead, that I may feel greater pain than before, that I may lose and grieve and get lost. I also accept that none of that is real until it happens. I have no control over anything except the way I experience the world. I choose to be calmer, I choose to be softer, I choose to be compassionate in as many ways as I can. 

And whatever happens, whatever happens, I know that I am surrounded by people who love me deeply and who I love deeply back. It's all going to be okay, baby. It is all okay. 

The quandaries of arm knitting.

On Saturday I went to an arm knitting workshop. I went by myself and I had been excited about it for a long time. I sat in a room with some other women and learnt to knit with just my arms and a ball of yarn twice the size of my head. 

And yet, for some reason, I still felt by the time the afternoon came around that I "hadn't done enough with my day." I had successfully made a blanket with my arms. This, according to the little voice in my head, was not enough. 

I think the idea is that I am not "pushing myself hard enough." Not applying for acting and writing jobs every hour of the day. Not practicing. Not doing every little bit I can. The two hour workshop I had enjoyed that morning, a gift to myself, was not good enough. 

The fact is that learning a new skill was every bit as rewarding as it sounds. I chatted to some nice people. I physically made something that I am proud of. The blanket a beautiful, bright green and is very warm. The fact is, not everything I do needs to contribute to the future of a career or a way of making money. The irony is that by doing something mindful and rewarding I was waking up that creative part of my brain. The fact is, I had a lovely Saturday being peaceful and relaxed. The fact is, that little voice in my head should, for the most part, be completely ignored. 

Forgetting to write.

It is surprising to me that I haven't written a blog post since August. Although, for the last two years my regularity in posting has been getting worse. I am busy at the moment, but I have always been busy. I wrote pretty much every week through out sixth form and my degree. So what's changed? 

I think perhaps I am more inwardly contemplative than I was before. I still write, but I feel more hesitant to share my views knowing that they are something which evolve and change constantly. Most of the time I am simply unsure of what to say. Do I write about current affairs? Do I express my opinion on the hot, controversial topic of the month? 

In most areas I have a lot of listening to do. I am not sure that my voice is necessary in some of the topics I have been thinking about. I am still a part of the conversation, but I don't know how much my blog posts can contribute to that. 

On the other hand, maybe all of that is wrong. Maybe I've been ignoring my writing, ignoring building up that muscle. Maybe, when and if I write something about myself and my experiences, or try to shed light on something, I move at least one person. That is more than enough for it to be worth it. 

Maybe I should stop fussing and putting it off. Maybe I should just write something down, practice, get better, share something of myself. 

I wrote this and realised how much I miss it. Idiot.  

Friends and Pen Y Fan.

Two Saturdays ago (I think, time is doing its usual thing of escaping any kind of sense or reason) I dragged two of my closest friends up Pen Y Fan, in the Brecon Beacons. When we started it wasn’t raining as much as the air was wet. A cloud swallowed the top of the mountain, a cloud into which we were headed. I was determined that despite the weather we would reach the top, see no views, and come back down again. You can’t come to the Brecon Beacons without climbing a hill! I had said to myself before the holiday. My friends were ever so slightly bemused by the fact we were about to walk up into the grey, unknown mass ahead of us. 

At some point, perhaps half way up, we discovered that I was the only one wearing a properly waterproof coat. The others had coats that were fine for a light shower of rain, not for being literally inside of a cloud. I think this caused slight resentment, but onwards we pushed. 

Being a bit more used to walking up hills than the others I kept a steady pace ahead. Waiting occasionally for them to catch up with me, each more sodden than they had been before. I was excited by the weather. I couldn’t see 10 paces ahead of me, but I liked the adventure. 

Within about an hour we were on the plateau near the peak. Here we could see the dark grey of the wet stone underneath us, and the light grey of the cloud enclosing all around us. And nothing else. We giggled as the wind grew stronger and we made our way to the summit, using the strange figures of other walkers a few paces in front to guide our way. And then, all of a sudden, we were there. We stood right on the top, asked someone to take a picture of us, wild looking from the rain, and then started to make our way back down.

And that was it. That was me dragging my lovely friends up a hill. No breathtaking views, no picnic on the top, but we did it. And all the time I thought, how funny is this and how lucky am I to be walking here with two people who love me, making an adventure of one rainy August morning.