Have you ever felt like you’re starring in The Truman Show? That someone somewhere is writing a script which will entertain your viewers by either: watching your heartbreaking storyline develop (unfortunately we’ve all experienced heartbreak – apart from that woman in Scotland who doesn’t feel pain – see the other week’s news). There’s that hilarious event which occurs leaving them rolling in the aisles at your expense (this would be me every-time, as I’ve been told I’m far from sensible and quite silly). Or, something lovely happening which is then ruined by a dark black cloud hovering on the horizon (think couple about to marry and then she finds out he’s being carrying on with the best friend, just as they’re standing at the alter). Sometimes, whilst I’m contemplating the enormity of life and it’s twists and turns, latest revelations…I think that I am Truman and that the scriptwriters are having a jolly good laugh at my expense.
Firstly, to contextualise and for those of you who have never seen it, The Truman Show is a film about a man living in a real life soap opera – only he doesn’t know it. His whole life, from birth, has been controlled by the executive producer and scriptwriters, of the television show. Whilst all the people in Truman’s life are actors (even his wife), Truman is oblivious to the charade. Until one day, he begins to notice strange things. For example: a camera light which falls from the sky; the realisation he can’t leave his home town (the set comes to an end). The film is both funny (Jim Carrey, what do you expect?) and incredibly sad. It’s like watching the ultimate reality television show.
Rather prophetically, the film being twenty years old, it explores the danger of this all seeing,fabricated, reality led television world, which we now see saturating our screens on an hourly basis. Complete strangers lives been opened up to scrutiny and analysed by a hyper critical world. Which, ultimately, we often see being ripped apart…Awful stories about messy relationships, addictions and suicide are splashed across the front pages.l: all in the name of ‘news’. Chances are these ‘reality stars’ have been picked for their quirks or beauty – this then leading to their downfall. Lost in showbiz like one hit wonders. They can go from a pampered world of, somewhat, scripted behaviour, and VIP night club appearances and lapping up the attention for being famous for being ‘them’.
Imagine being paid for just being you!
In fact, if you think about it, actually, many of us are out there for all to see. We might not be paid, but our lives (by us, by others) are documented through the power of social media. But, unlike these easily led reality stars and Truman (at the beginning of the film), we are all masters of our own destinies.
So, thrills, spills and bellyaches…I might be in control of my life, but fate, like a well written storyline, can keep the viewers hooked. I for once would like a holiday from the ‘show of life’. Soap opera stars get a break after a major storyline. Reality stars get a holiday after coming out of the jungle. I just get sucked into other starlets subplots. Subplots which are costing me emotionally and financially (woe me ha!) Some of the subplots are like shockwaves from the earthquake of my sight loss. Some are just ‘life’ which when you’re in the middle of rebuilding yourself, can knock you and exhaust you yet again. The subplots are not mine to share, but my bit parts and fluff fillers I can.
Yesterday’s episode of the ‘Mad Ramblings Show’ went like this (and will possibly fill in some subplots):
Mad drive to London in the new, unexpected expense (failed MOT), large (we were all miserable when buying as we wanted a sports car but six into a two seater doesn’t work), car/bus (middle one calls it the paedo van). A visit to the wonderful Prof and his gorgeous Brazilian assistant. Blindness again due to mega eye drops. Patient watching in the waiting room (that clinic has some very important clients. However, my lips are sealed as to who I met due to patient confidentiality). Me: blind woman (lack of spacial awareness and annoying tubesters, plus reluctance to wear a badge or high biz vest, has made me decide I’m going to get a stick) being guided around by Him- a hangry man who can never read tube signs correctly (at this point I was actually more upset I didn’t see anyone glued to a train). Lunch in a flower garden, where I couldn’t read the menu and police the situation. This ultimately resulted in Him being mistaken and us ending up with ‘small plates’ (tiny morsels of exquisite food which I loved, but no good for a six foot food beast) and Hangry unsated Him snapping at the lady in the flower garden giving out free samples of fragrance (I could not read, nor see a thing as again, still super blind as it takes six hours). A walk through Green Park and Mayfair cleared away the angst and cobwebs. Temporary relief and an impromptu granny nap on the tube…cut to home and to bedtime (subplots and boring fillers you need know nothing about other than we watched – eye sight resuming – Toast of London, a bizarrely funny but cleverly written must see). We were exhausted. But then, my bed, my favourite place in THE ENTIRE WORLD (bed or Greece? Hmmmm) was soaked. Rosie Dog had made a filthy protest at me leaving her yet again (why couldn’t she have just glued herself to it?). This comes hot off the heels of last time I left her and she’d slashed my bed sheets in three places. Now, my beautiful pointer dog has never been destructive since her six month old puppy self was finding her feet. An emotional being, she has always needed constant cuddles, kisses and reassurance. Therefore, without the help of The Supervet ‘Noel’ (why can he not be our vet? Him says no as we will be living in a tent at this rate), and dismissing three AM fears of the Stephen King variety, I’ve diagnosed separation anxiety and am now briefing the immediate sub-plotters on how to support our Rosie Dog in her time of crisis. Upshot being, myself being princess-like, now requires (rather quickly as this royal lady cannot spend another night with the shaking RDog on a two seater sofa) a rather comfortable (no doubt pricey) king size mattress.
But, as I always say, we all have our own crosses to bear. Your journey/storyline is integral to your path. At times we can deal with the twists, turns, but in times of darkness it becomes insurmountable. Where, even the thought of answering the phone freaks the bejesus out of us. We ultimately must learn. And it’s this that we have to remember. We might be on a glorious high, however, another may not be. Also, not only does our own storyline affect others (exhibit a. RDog), by implications and stresses on causing upset in another’s life (guilty feelings linger often) but the sub-plotters are living their own storylines too. I’m lucky that I’ve had brilliant friends and family around me over the past past few months. Lots of advice, tears and plenty of laughter (thanks for the giggles!). However, a coffee can also lead (and always should) to sharing and I often think ‘there’s always someone worse off than yourself’, which, it seems, they are often thinking the about you.
Quiet life? Rest and recuperate they say? Not me, this is the bloody ‘Mad Ramblings Show’ and for want of sailing to the end of the set whilst trying to escape (watch the film) it’s real life.
But, it’s not about me it’s about you. Be kind to yourself (best advice ever from my beautiful K) and random acts of kindness can cost little and mean a lot. This means the storylines, subplots, fluff, are all written with warmth and a dark humour. This is far more conducive to living your own fabulous story.