My Nana died on Saturday. Which is a god-awful beginning to a blog post, but I really just need to put it out there at the moment. For those who don’t know, Nana, or Nan, is a colloquial term for Grandma, usually maternal. I have (had?) my maternal grandmother, Nana, and my paternal grandmother, Grandmama. Spot the posh side of my family. I dare you. We've been expecting this for a long time, if I’m honest. She’s been ill for months, which caused quite a bit of disruption in our house, before she was finally rushed into hospital last Thursday. She died very peacefully in her sleep, and we’re all just glad that she isn't in pain anymore. Because she’s been ill for so long, we've all been reacting quite oddly to it all. Mum’s been on tenterhooks for the last two months, and now it’s finally happened she seems to have relaxed, and stopped being so nervous. Which is nice, but has also given way to, what I call, custard muscle. This is a made up disease, where someone has been tense for so long, that when they finally relax, they become a puddle of custard on the floor, and then fall asleep. Personally, I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet. I found out in the afternoon, on Saturday, while I was at a Welsh farmers market with my Dad, (see, posh side). Mum rang me up, and we had a very brief sob, before I put my mascara back on, and went to buy a lot of cake. Today I’m referring to it all as ‘bereavement mood swings’. I've spent the day either clinging desperately to everyone I know, or screaming at them to leave me alone (sorry, Ben). This is the song that’s been getting me through the day week month. It’s one of the very few songs that I've ever listened to and gone, “yes this is exactly how I feel and also the most inspirational thing in my whole life”. So I kind of recommend that you listen to it.
Bond had never been sure which view he like more; the one from the night time, or the one from the morning after. The nights lent themselves to shadows slanting across stretches of smooth skin, hands tangling in sheets and half admitted names taken on broken breaths. The nights are sin, and glamour, and that singular beauty that connects every human being on this filthy, dirty planet. No, Bond prefers the view from the morning after. When everything becomes clean again, and the make up and masks are washed away. When lies stay in dreams, and reality comes with waking up. Bond suspects that people are not unlike an etch-a-sketch. The lines build up over the day, and sleep shakes them free. Some people, of course, are more memorable than others. The ones that stand out are those who shed the lies like a old coat, too big, too hot.
It was my brothers 18th this week! Congrats to him for living this far. He went out and got a tattoo of a compass on his shoulder. I am yet to see it and pass judgement. Speaking of tattoos, my brother, step daddy and I all went to see the new Bond film last weekend (I'm getting round to the tattoos, honest). I'll be honest, I've never really seen a Bond film before. I've seen bits of some of the old ones (hello speed boat gondola), and once saw the beginning of Casino Royal, but didn't like the explosions. And I had no idea what was going on. So I'll admit, I went into that cinema with very low expectations. However, there were two things I hadn't counted on; my developing love of cartoon violence, and Ben Wishaw. Let me clarify, my mother mentioned him to me the other day, and I thought, 'Oh, he's cute, I guess', and then thought no more about it. But goddamn, that man is a blessing on the acting world. Also, I am Q. Fact. When I put glasses on, We do look disarmingly similar, especially the hair. Unfortunately this has rather gone to my head, and I don't think my teachers are taking too well to the requests that they only call me by my initials. Oops, right, tattoos. Every time I end up in a new fandom, I always come up with a related tattoo that I will one day end up getting done. This time, it is 00Q on the inside of my left wrist. Because, my god, perfect couple. I'll be honest though, it was an incredible film. The plot was excellent, the dialogue to die for, and cinematography that would make the director of Sherlock weep. The only argument I have against it is that if you know you're going to be chasing assassins though Turkey, please invest in a tie pin. Honestly, it would have made the whole job much similar. Or you just wear practical clothing, instead of a very expensive suit. In summary: I am Q, go see Skyfall.
