The art of high brow sleeping

On Friday I tried to be cultured, proper high brow and everything. I went to see Wuthering Heights, the ballet, at the Lyceum. We got our friend Sally a ticket for her birthday and I figured I'd tag along for the LOLs. I'd never been to the ballet before, the closest thing was seeing Black Swan at the cinema and I'm obviously no connoisseur but I imagine that was like Strictly Come Dancing in comparison. One should be open to new experiences, life would be exceptionally dull otherwise, so the time had come to tick ballet off the list that now only really features opera. My preferences are usually distinctly low brow so I approached with reserved enthusiasm as opposed to gay abandon. 

In hindsight my preparations were somewhat ill advised, having been to a matinee screening of the joyless and slow paced Mommy at the rip off art house cinema that is Curzon (Showroom for president!) followed by a pint of Bernard in the Tap and a large chicken mole burrito washed down with a bottle of Desperado at Street Food Chef. I was possibly not in the ultimate frame of mind for breaking my ballet cherry. Lo and behold, halfway through the first act I fell asleep. Not the invigorating R.E.M. sleep either, rather the nodding off kind you do at uni lectures or work training days when you're trying your utmost to stay awake because it's not the done thing to zonk out. If only Alan Partridge would've burst on to the stage with a window climb dance move to rescue me from my slumber. 

Disco nap aside, my virgin ballet outing failed to inspire. It wasn't quite what I'd expected, less tutus and more theatrics. There's just something intrinsically odd to see quarrels, fights, a game of poker, death even, embodied through plies and pointes. Can't think of a situation where finding out that the love of your life has married someone else would cause you to sidle sideways on your tip toes. Maybe I'm just too much of a simpleton. Throwing smashable objects and screaming expletives would come more natural. It did feature a balletic sex scene however, complete with a doggy style thrust from behind, so all was not lost. Not quite sure what the well to do folk of S11/17 made of that one though.

It was surprisingly easy to follow the storyline, even if you weren't overly familiar with it beforehand. Seeing as it's a bonafide classic you probably should know the gist of the story. I certainly should, I read it in A level Swedish, or gymnasiet in Swedish language. That would be 'read' in the loosest sense, I kept falling asleep whenever I opened the pages. Clearly some things never change. We were given a choice of Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre to read and write a review of. Despite numerous half hearted attempts I never properly read the whole thing, finding it too complicated and uninspiring. Sleeping was by far the more preferable activity. There was no World Wide Web to bail me out, imagine that kids, but I somehow managed to bungle a book review based on last ditch skim reading. As far as I remember my teacher overlooked the glaring factual errors in a random act of mercy. The upshot is that I still to this day don't quite know the full story of Wuthering Heights, but at least it's been the source of inspiration for a whole lotta sleep. Insomnia remedy at the ready.

Throughout my GCSE and A level years I kept going through fads. In the early 90s I had a bit of a Nirvana inspired grunge phase. Flannel shirts and baggy jeans. I then morphed into a period of only wearing black from head to toe. Black jeans, black t shirts (particularly an Automatic for the People one), black coat. I grew my hair to shoulder length and wore it in a pony tail and felt that my tortured soul was largely misunderstood and miserable. This was followed by a weird retro phase when I was trying my utmost to look like an old man, inspired by god knows what. I 'borrowed' clothes from my dad and trawled round second hand shops on visits to my sister in Stockholm. Back then there was no such thing as vintage and second hand clothes shopping was the unfashionable prerogative of those who had limited financial flexibility. 

Pre-owned clothing has never bothered me. Refusing hand me downs is misplaced snobbery of the worst kind. It ticks plenty of boxes, environmentally friendly, communal, economical. So someone else has worn the clothes before, get over it. As long as it looks in good condition and doesn't smell of piss or faeces it's a go-er. There's an abundance of choice nowadays too, charity shops and vintage shops obviously, clothes swaps, online market places, and of course the mighty eBay.

I buy stuff from eBay in fits and starts. Months will pass without me even opening the mobile app and then I'll have a frenzy of watching and bidding and losing and thinking whatever. I've bought loads of stuff, new and used, at a fraction of the recommended retail price. Bargain Mecca. In particular I've bought designer clothing that I otherwise wouldn't have afforded. A raft of cheap Vicri shirts for around a tenner being my main eBay achievement. Noone does crazy ass prints better, trust me. And since they sit firmly in the formal category, previous owners tend not to have worn them that often which means they're usually in pristine condition. As new even. 

In the past I got carried away with last minute auction duels, losing track of the cost increase as the clock ticked down. Nowadays I'm more methodical and set myself a limit from the start. In the last couple of weeks or I've been on the hunt for cheap shirts and the fruits of my endeavour is this checked number from Zara for £6.60 including postage:

In excellent condition and would've cost around the £25-30 mark new. Bargain. I also happened across this long sleeved top from All Saints, which came in at £8.90 with postage. 

Also in excellent condition, smells of scented fabric conditioner, and at a guess £30-40 new. Bargain 2. Massive savings made on clothes that someone else has fallen out with, discarded in favour of more prized possessions. I'm down with that. Unlike Heathcliff I don't mind scraping the barrel and settling for second best, it won't make me bitter and twisted and scheming. On the contrary, I'll be fine as dandy and thanks to Heathcliff and co fully rested and raring to go.