Day 38 – Roller skating and why home is not always where the heart is
So first things first, where is the photo of lady Elinor I hear you ask. The dress is here and yet there is no girl in the dress, a mystery. Well in spite of being a bit of a lazy daisy this week I have finally decided to put you out of your misery. Yes I did wear the dress all day but by this point in the evening I was simply too tired for photos partly because I had partaken in a new sport called roller derby, like rugby but more fun and with a high risk of injury which makes it slightly cooler; the other reason was a dreadful argument I had on arriving back home with the giant. 
On this day of 365 dresses, day 38, I was feeling (largely as a result of the previous nights dreadful disappointment) a little bit blue, grey, and other non bright or sparkly colours of the spectrum. I had to leave the boy behind and as we have had a few troubles it was not easy. I also had to climb on to a train where I was once again confronted with idiots; idiots who charge £1.50 for a cup of tea; idiots who eye you up through sunglasses which aren’t dark enough whilst sitting next to their poor spouse; idiots who drink red wine from a bottle before midday and idiots of course who think its ok to run a train service which is nothing short of appalling. By locating a couple of magazines on the train I finally started to feel as though I might make back some of the £300 I have spent on rail travel over the past three months. I am unemployed for goodness sake, how can they get away with this, it is preposterous. 
Anyway enough of the rant, in short at the start of the day I was depressed and at the end of the day I was exceptionally depressed but there was a small short two-hour window spent with my sweetheart of a sister at Roller Derby when I was happy and writing this now I struggle to remember it but I was.
Roller Derby is an amazing sport from the states where, as I now understand it you have to knock people over and skate really fast. When I first get there I must admit I was surprised at all the padding and by the girl sitting taking photos with a plaster cast round her leg. I was wondering what need there was for such decoration when all we were doing was having a disco party, there were sweets and flapjacks after all. It turned out that when my sister invited me to a roller disco she actually said derby. The two are it would seem rather different and when I asked our tutor, who kept teaching me how best to fall, why it was one would be falling she looked at me rather alarmed. “Do you know anything about roller derby? Anything about the hitters?” Well if I was not a braver woman I would have immediately left, I knew nothing of these hitters or of the heathen sport of which she spoke. It turns out much of those of us in the beginners pen were not aware of what we were there for. We were being trained like pawns to be used during practice. Roller derby is a team sport, one which you have to sign a waiver for which absolves them of your death. 
It sounds dreadful but turns out to be the most fun I’ve had since hockey games at Canterbury Court and cadets. It is dangerous, my bottom is severely bruised and I have mini anxiety attacks about my weak ankles and wrists, but you are padded up well and they only let you get in on the game if you wear a gum-shield. We learn how to do spinning stops, sliding stops, race relays, play tag and it turns out I am quite good at running on my breaks, though look a little too like a ballerina than a rolling rocking roller derby girl (I am secretly happy about this as it looks like the lessons paid off after all and I no longer prance like an elephant). I guess it doesn’t help that I am wearing sparkly tights and a pretty dress or that my hair is down unchecked by a bobble.
Fortunately roller-derby is a place of great female solidarity. 
Whilst in the outside world women are waiting patiently to get their claws into each others men, or so the press would sometimes have us believe, in here we look after each other and there is a great community spirit. There is no bitchiness, of which I was aware; I am lent a bobble by a friendly lady and we all cheer each other on. I even get teased about my porn star falls, (both knees, both elbows, face hits ground) and I don’t mind because it is just teasing.
It is great to find a sport which is physical yet does not feel aggressive. It is very competitive and amazing exercise, my thighs feel like thunder and every muscle aches. When I leave I am desperate for a bath and a hot water bottle and so when I receive a surprise attack from the giant I am most upset. I leave the place buzzing with endorphins and on being collected by my kind parents I was chattering away and unfortunately said something which put the giants back out and from here on it was less than forty minutes before I was upstairs crying to the boy like a child as he flipped out asking why the hell it was I get on ok up at his and at his parents but fall apart as soon as I get in the door. He does not mean it he just feels helpless but I know what he means, my home life is always on a higher stress level but it is as much my fault as anyone elses.
I do not know why it is myself and the giant clash. He is not a bad giant, like Hagrid’s brother Grawp he has good intentions, and is even able to form strong attachments, his only problem is he, like all giants is territorial and is not a fan of calm and collected communication as a way of doing battle. Yelling is much more effective he feels and I believe it was my unexpected early arrival upon his territory/ home that led to his show of strength. I foolishly joked about his pride of place, his giant throne which is the comfiest chair in the house. He did not take to it kindly and cited my annoyance at his response as another example of my rashness which meant I was manic. I miss Manchester, I’m starting to think it is time to leave the home of the giant and seek smaller dwellings.
