Wake Up! There's a Revolution Going On!

27M BCN REVOLUTION from Paco Ruiz on Vimeo.

 

I’m disturbed.

Not by the news but by the lack of it.

There’s a revolution taking place in Britain’s most popular holiday destination and no one seems to know anything about it.

I’ve scoured the papers and found nothing.

If my brother didn’t live in Barcelona I might still be ignorant.

Lucky there’s such thing as facebook.

Some still think social networking sites are a waste of time but today facebook has provided me with more news than all the national newspapers put together.

The spontaneous demonstration I’m talking about began in Madrid on the 15^th May.

A group of citizens, deeply frustrated with the government, came together to demand political, economic and social change.

They felt there was no one standing up for them.

They had had enough of carrying the burden of the economic crisis on their shoulders whilst the politicians rushed about saving banks and the most powerful companies (all the while paying themselves a handsome wage to literally last a lifetime) and letting the rest face 20% and increasing unemployment and consequent loss of homes and livelihoods. Youth unemployment in Spain is even higher than in Egypt and Tunisia at 45% and the choice for many is leave the country or face homelessness.

On the first day there were 24 arrests in La Plaza del Sol.

Still, 30 people remained overnight.

On the 17^th May, two days later, there were 200 people camping in the plaza.

Hundreds turned to thousands.

Officials tried to illegalise the protest in preparation for the local and regional elections, but the demonstrators reminded them that they weren’t there to ask for a vote.

The torch was lit and its light spread rapidly to Barcelona, Bilbao, Valencia and Sevilla.

My brother told me about the thousands of people camping out peacefully in Plaça Catalunya, organising food and wash areas for the masses.

Hang on a minute!

If there were hundreds of thousands of people peacefully protesting on the streets of all the big Spanish cities, why isn’t it on the news in England?

On Friday 27^th May, things turned nasty.

A decision came from the top to clear up.

The Mossos d’Esquadra (Catalan Police) were sent in.

Did I mention it was a PEACEFUL demonstration?

There were families, elderly and children.

The police fired rubber bullets and beat people with clubs.

121 were injured.

Watch the video.

It makes my hair stand on end. It makes me feel sick.

In Madrid came the message: ‘We are with you Barcelona’ – a rare show of solidarity between the historic rivals.

The demonstrations continue.

What disturbs me is that this attack on human right was not shown on the news.

Why not? What are they trying to hide?

It makes me all the more inquisitive.

I want to be a part of it. Something inside me has just woken up.

EN ESPAÑOL (traducido por Miguel Barreto)

Estoy perturbada.
No por las noticias, sino por la falta de ellas.
Hay una revolución que está teniendo lugar en el destino de vacaciones más popular de Gran Bretaña y nadie parece saber nada al respecto.
He rastreado los diarios y no he encontrado nada.
Si mi hermano no viviera en Barcelona yo aun seria ignorante.
Por suerte hay cosas como facebook.
Algunos todavía piensan que las redes sociales son una pérdida de tiempo, pero facebook hoy me ha dado más noticias que todos los periódicos nacionales en conjunto.
La manifestación espontánea de la que estoy hablando se inició en Madrid el 15 de mayo.
Un grupo de ciudadanos, profundamente frustrados con el gobierno, se reunieron para exigir cambios políticos, económicos y sociales.
Ellos consideraron que no habia nadie luchando por ellos.
Habían tenido suficiente con llevar el peso de la crisis económica sobre sus hombros, mientras los políticos se apuraban a salvar a los bancos y las empresas más poderosas (a la vez que se pagaban un atractivo salario literalmente por el resto de la vida) y dejar a los demas enfrentar un desempleo del 20% y aumentando, y la consiguiente pérdida de hogares y medios de subsistencia. El desempleo juvenil en España es aún mayor que en Egipto y Túnez en el 45% y la opción para muchos es abandonar el país o enfrentar la indigencia.
En el primer día hubo 24 detenciones en La Plaza del Sol.
Aún así, 30 personas pasaron la noche.
El 17 de mayo, dos días más tarde, había 200 personas acampando en la plaza.
Cientos se convirtieron en miles.
Los politicos trataron de ilegalizar la protesta en la preparación de las elecciones locales y regionales, pero los manifestantes les recordaron que ellos no estaban allí para pedir un voto.
La antorcha se encendió y la luz se propagó rápidamente a Barcelona, Bilbao, Valencia y Sevilla.
Mi hermano me habló de los miles de personas acampando pacíficamente en la plaza Catalunya, organizando áreas de alimentación y de limpieza para las masas.
Espera un minuto!
Si había cientos de miles de personas protestando pacíficamente en las calles de todas las grandes ciudades españolas, ¿por qué no aparecía en las noticias en Inglaterra?
El viernes 27 de mayo, las cosas se volvieron desagradables
La decisión de desalojar vino de arriba.
Los Mossos d'Esquadra (Policía catalana) fueron enviados.
¿He mencionado que era una manifestación pacífica?
Había familias, ancianos y niños.
La policía disparó balas de goma y golpearon a la gente con los garrotes.
121 heridos.
Vea el video.
Se me ponen los pelos de punta. Me hace sentir enferma.
De Madrid llegó el mensaje: 'Estamos con ustedes Barcelona” - una rara muestra de solidaridad entre dos rivales históricos.
Las manifestaciones continuarán.
Lo que me molesta es que este ataque a los derechos humanos no se mostró en las noticias.
¿Por qué no? ¿Qué están tratando de ocultar?
Me hace querer saber mas.
Quiero ser parte de ella. Algo dentro de mí acaba de despertar.

Shop Girl Changes her Colours

Enough is enough!

The longer I go without writing, the harder it’s going to get.

Soon I won’t be able to spell my own name.

I’ve got a new one of those.

Well, I might have. My passport doesn’t run out for 4 years so I’ve still got time to decide.

You probably thought I was on my honey moon. I was not.

But I have been busy.

This week I cast aside my Shopgirl identity and took to the streets as Promogirl.

I had been waiting for my first mission for quite some time.

Previous calls to duty had coincided with my wedding week, which I was not going to cancel over £8.50 an hour.

On Tuesday my time finally came and I donned bright orange and took to the streets of London to promote a special sort of swaying stool.

I wasn’t exactly saving the world but I felt happy setting off into the sunshine with my leaflets.

The question of how to write and make some money has been an ongoing worry of mine.

The suggestions have always been the same: teaching English or doing translations.

I taught English for a year and during that time I hardly wrote at all.

Instead I spent my evenings cutting up magazines and designing ‘educational’ games to keep my students happy.

As for translation work, please send some over because I can’t find any.

Promogirl is a refreshing new option.

I like the idea of going somewhere different each day and I love that I can choose when to work.

Best of all, as it’s not a ‘proper’ job it makes me feel even more like a real writer!

Shop Girl and the Date's Happy Ending

The Final Countdown

I’m currently trying to whiten my teeth.

I’ve got a gum guard in my mouth laced with gel.

After this, I might plunge my feet into scalding water in an attempt to melt a dead layer of skin.

Yes, it can only be: The Final Countdown.

At 1pm on Saturday 7^th of May, my father will be walking me down the aisle.

This weekend I brought home my wedding dress in a beautiful patterned box.

The nerves arrived soon after.

Last night I was awake for ages buzzing with nervous energy.

I tossed and turned and couldn’t even focus on one particular disaster.

My wedding disaster dreams are quite traditional I’m afraid.

The recurring ones include:

· Forgotten rings (specifically, forgotten in wrong country)

· Red wine spillage all down my dress (before I’ve even sat down)

· No one singing along to the hymns (eerie quiet)

· Food poisoning (cutting the day very short)

That last one is a recent development and the result of thinking too much.

The wedding is going to be in Spain so we have to be ready a week in advance.

Family will be arriving in the days running up to the wedding from England, Spain and Colombia.

The Fiancé has told me not to worry about anyone but I’ll feel terrible if we lose a relative at a tourist attraction or someone gets pick-pocketed in Las Ramblas.

I’m imagining head counts and loudspeakers.

In general, I’m probably imagining too much.

Oh, I’ve just thought of another disaster!

Dodgy tan lines!

I’ll just pop my feet in some scalding water and think about that for a minute.

Lost the Plot

To my horror, my plot is turning to sand and falling through my fingers.

I need water to thicken it so I can make my castle.

But I appear to be in a desert surrounded by sand and wind and bad ideas.

The way I’m panicking it may as well be my own life falling apart.

I’m getting married next month which arouses little anxiety in comparison.

At least in my own life I’ve got the hero sorted!

Panicking is not going to help though and neither is a shot of something strong.

I need to calm down so I can see clearly.

I turn to a creative writing course book* for guidance and start to read the section on plotting.

It's not long before I read about my own first draft which is ‘shapeless’ and ‘fails to meet with {my} intentions.’

Apparently this is where 'many writers hang up their pens and give up’.

But I’m not going to do that.

I’ve grown to believe in my characters. My problem is I just don’t bloody know what to do with them.

I continue to read.

Joseph Heller took ten years to write Catch 22.

I’m not sure if that’s supposed to comfort me.

I can’t bear the thought of anything taking ten years. I’m from the facebook generation where every creation and reaction has to happen NOW!

Basically I’m looking for an immediate solution to my plot problem.

I’m looking for the secret.

Reading the guide calms me down.

It dawns on me that I should be telling a story, not writing a novel.

The thought takes a hold on me.

I think I see a camel. It might be a mirage but I’m excited enough to stand up and wave at it.

‘Plot is for readers more than writers,’ author Val Taylor writes. ‘Reader’s ask, ‘what happens?’ For a writer the question can only be answered when the novel is finished.’

Which means I'll know where I’m going when I get there.

*The Creative Writing Coursebook edited by Julia Bell and Paul Magrs

Photograph by Elizabeth Hacker

Looking for Legs

I’m in Spain with three generations of my family.

We’re on a mission to decorate the house in preparation for my (future) in-laws visit.

They’re coming over from Colombia for the wedding in May, which may sound far off but then you haven’t seen what there is to do.

As I write this, my hands still smell of white spirit.

To date, I have painted three doors and my slippers.

In addition to improving our house for the special occasion, we’ve also been exploring possible refreshments.

You may have heard of the fine supermarket ‘Lidl’.

Forget the branch in South East London, the outlet in the nearby Catalan town is sheer quality and boasts an exciting variety of wines.

Whether they taste exciting is another matter.

On Tuesday we invest in a healthy selection ranging from 0.99 cents to 4.99€

The plan is to open a bottle (or two) each evening and mark it out of five stars.

First, we sniff.

“Rounded,” someone says, “Sort of.”

Then we taste, carefully.

Is that a hint of cherry?

Or is it blackcurrant?

Perhaps it’s Oak?

I read the label of the Navarra Reserva (expensive at 3.99).

“Tobacco and leather,” it says.

I’m not sure I want my drink to taste of either.

As our tasting continues, I get a sneaking suspicion we’re not connoisseurs.

“The question is, does it have legs?” My auntie says.

She swirls the wine around her glass and holds it up.

“What does that mean?”

Supposedly, if the wine has legs, it will visibly trickle down the side of the glass, (the inside of the glass that is).

The first wines we try are vinegary, get low scores and don’t have any legs.

The next lot are only marginally better.

On Day three we open a Rioja Reserva.

It doesn’t sting my nose when I sniff it, which is a good start.

It’s smoother on the tongue and I wonder if the previous acidic wines have numbed my taste buds.

I don’t swirl it around in my glass because I’m afraid I’m going to spill it and with seven of us drinking, there’s not loads to go round. My Grandmother is far from impressed with the tiny trickle in her glass and suggests we open another.

Does the Rioja have legs?

“It has more legs than a centipede,” Mum concludes.

It certainly gets the highest score at 23.5 out of 35.

But it’s not over yet.

There are still more to go.

The suspense... is palpable.

The First Draft

As planned, I completed the first draft of my novel last week.

Reading it was as difficult as writing it.

It was abysmal.

Of course it was! I’d basically scribbled out a story without adding any colour, smell or texture.

My characters were as developed as an amoeba without a nucleus.

Still, a terrible draft is better than no draft at all.

My current method is a backward one.

Now I’ve written the book, I’m going to start researching it.

I’m going to look deep into my characters hearts and wonder what they really want for breakfast.

What are their greatest fears, their strongest desires? What on earth is in their pockets?

My young heroine, Lilly, is obsessed with reptiles and wants to be a wildlife photographer.

I went to the library and took out ‘Iguanas for Dummies’ ‘Life in Cold Blood’ and an ancient copy on how to take photographs.

I now know some very interesting facts, including why my brother’s pet iguana died so prematurely when we were kids. Iguanas don’t eat bugs.

Getting to grips with who Lilly is will be a piece of cake compared to finding out who Alejandro ‘Alex’ Quintero is.... if that is his real name.

For starters, what’s it like to be a boy?

And what’s it like to grow up on the Caribbean coast of Colombia?

I don’t have all the answers but I’m going to have fun finding out.

Meanwhile, if you are a boy and were brought up in Cartagena de las Indias, please get in touch.