To be honest, after you have written the best first piece, the second tiring phase is always wanting to retain the vibe for the sequel. I have been drafting only the title for so many attempts. I named it, I put the weather, the Celsius degree, and even thought of one of the lines I got during my course with Tracey to be the perfect title. You see that? I’m a perfectionist (read: selective perfectionist). Oh, speaking of perfectionist, I remembered a time when I got an interview to become a teacher with the Government. One of the panel members said I was a perfectionist and that it was the most dangerous trait for becoming a teacher, but surprisingly, I got the offer. How does that sound to you?
Oh, by the way, this second story will be about a place called Farringdon, located in Zone 1 in London. The irony of the visit was that, as top-tier as Zone 1 can be, I was in disbelief to witness how average Farringdon was compared to Mayfair. It was like a normal view from a 90s rom-com. I even asked ChatGPT what Farringdon could be compared to in Kuala Lumpur. It said Bangsar or KL Sentral, and when I thought of Abdullah Hukum and the area accelerating towards The Horizon, I nodded. Fair enough.
My mission to Farringdon was to attend a class with Tracey Hammett, a writer from the BBC Digital Children's Channel and also a creative writing teacher. I attended a creative writing class with her at one of the arts academies there. We took the Elizabeth line as the strike was still ongoing, and that was enough to add to the tension of having cold weather in the summer. Yes, I was among the blessed-not-so-blessed people during that period of time. Heatwave? It ended before we arrived here. The temperature went as low as my mood when I realised I had packed light, assuming the hot weather would remain. Don’t ever judge me if you think I wasn’t checking the forecast. Of course I did! But you know, London... "no matter the weatherrrr...". Arsenal predicted it long before I was born, showing how London's weather looks like. Unpredictable, just like a woman. Silly me, I failed to understand me (the weather). So, I went to the class, I mean, the whole time in London, with the same one and only outer layer; the blazer.
As soon as we reached Farringdon, I said to my husband, "I wanna go back to the hotel. I can just skip the class." I don’t know where I got the guts to attend a course in a very foreign place, which ironically, I had never done even in my home country. And now, I was between life and death, deciding whether I wanted to walk into the building. I put myself in the perspective of my clients before they attend the programmes I execute at my office. I think this is how they feel whenever they think of stepping into the premises? Perhaps? But Nisa... that was our home. We could code-switch into Bahasa if we started to stutter. But here? I suddenly remembered how desperately I wanted to come up with an answer when my husband asked what "kelip-kelip" was in English. I said, "lamp lamp." He burst out laughing for weeks before we finally got the correct word for it. It was "firefly." I cried.
1.57 P.M at the Academy's Lobby
"Welcome, love. What class are you looking for?" the front desk lady asked after the 10th time I had thought about whether or not to enter the building. "Emm... Hi! I’m looking for Tracey Hammett's creative writing class," I said while showing the lady a screenshot of my ticket. "Oh, it’ll be up here, darling. And we also have a loo at this level if you wish to have some time before the class," the lady said with a very warm smile. "Oh, thanks!" I said briefly. My eyes were on the spiral stairs that led to the room upstairs. It was so chic, I told myself. I started climbing the stairs behind the registration counter while my husband waited at the lobby. I knocked on the door and a young man opened it for me. There I was, stumbling upon the very intimate space where I would be taking the course. I was assuming it would be a lecture hall like at the university, but it was actually a compact meeting room with only eight people around the table. I was one of them. And to my surprise, I was the only Asian in that class. Everyone else was local, and I was like, what on earth was this decision? But no worries, I got you, baby! (I’m the baby.)
There were 2 men and the rest were ladies, and Tracey was sitting opposite us. "Welcome, everyone. I never thought we’d have a full house today," was the first introduction from a warm and welcoming Tracey Hammett. "Hi... hi... hello..."The echo of everyone greeting each other came with smiles, of course, and tiny waves to each other. I said, "Full house?"This English setting was so far from my Malaysian nature. Our definition of a full house would be at least 60 people, or hundreds in a theatre setting. Anyway, it was a relief not to see so many people. I honestly love this kind of class. On our table, there were pens and papers and several books, which I loved the most. As a traditional reader and writer, I love holding a pen and paper, and smelling the pages of a book.
Tracey began the class with an ice-breaking session. I don’t remember the name, but I remember everyone's personality. The first lady was very enthusiastic. She even mentioned the books she was reading and several well-known plays that every local seemed to know except me! I felt so alienated at that time, like, what were they talking about? Then, the second lady, with grey hair and spectacles. She seemed radiant for her age, but one thing that captured my attention was the way she was. I mean, she needed constant support and encouragement to blurt out whatever was in her mind. Humble, but very much inside her own head. Next was a young French-Canadian girl who came all the way from Paris to London to meet her guy friend, who was sitting beside her. The young guy was actually the one who initiated the enrolment to the class. Then, we had an intern, a very much Sheldon in real life, and last but not least, an introverted girl who was an avid writer and challenged herself to enrol in this class as her boyfriend encouraged her to elevate her existing skills. Oh my God, I felt like I was describing myself.
"This is me... driving a blue mini metro through a red light..."
Tracey gave us random lines she had extracted from random books in front of her and asked us to pursue the line with our own creativity. After that, we had to present our work in front of everyone in the class. I loved the class. I love being expressive in writing because I can’t speak much about my feelings or what I’m thinking. The engagement was really good. I love it when a teacher gives students a chance to take over the class, to do it practically instead of simply absorbing whatever input is given. Everyone came up with their own masterpiece after the 10 minutes allocated to us. Then it was my turn. I can tell you, it was so deep that everyone went from "awww..." to "whoaaa...".
At that moment, I didn’t know whether I had to fake myself to match their bubbly storytelling vibe or indulge myself in my authentic style of writing. Yes, I’m very sentimental, very deep, melancholic and emotional when writing poetry. It becomes heavily distinctive when I’m writing a casual piece. I worried that I would have a really hard time crafting sentences while trying to become a different person. So, I retained who I was.
Everyone received fair compliments, but Tracey found me different from everyone else. She was genuinely interested in knowing about Rumi’s works, what I was currently reading, and exploring more about sentimental poetry. She spontaneously said I was her favourite student because we shared the same interest; poetry. I laughed awkwardly. I didn’t know how to perceive the compliment of being singled out from everybody else. But one thing that caught me was when Tracey said that, in writing, you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t need complex jargon to make your piece outstanding. You only need to be honest with yourself. The raw and most honest emotion is what it takes to captivate a human heart. Write anything that crosses your mind, literally anything, because your thinking is already a story to be told.
It was a reflection for me, especially about holding too tightly onto the idea of becoming a perfectionist. Since then, I write whatever crosses my mind as if I’m talking to you while looking at your face. Like we’re having a conversation. I tell, you listen, or sometimes you laugh. A rapport. That is an essential part of being a good writer.
Right after the class, I went straight down to the lobby. My husband was already standing there waiting to greet me. I said goodbye to Tracey and the other course mates. My husband then went to the washroom, and I remained at the lobby, sitting on the emerald sofa. Suddenly, a man approached me. "Are you from ballet class?" he asked me.
I was like, good Lord, with this blazer, headscarf, journal and pen on me, do I look like a ballerina??? Farringdon was full of surprises, like a candy with a surprise centre. I anticipated that this guy was trying to have a conversation with me. It always happened whenever my husband wasn’t around. Always. But I never thought I would encounter this in a totally foreign place. I said with an awkward smile, "No... I’m not. I was from a writing class... obviously, with this attire, I’m not taking ballet." He then replied that he had a friend who looked like me in ballet class. Logically, even if the face was the same, how could I tiptoe with these two-and-a-half-inch heels? A few seconds later, my husband came, and the guy went completely silent.
We then made our way through the door with a goodbye from the lady at the counter and a few of her colleagues. The chilly and windy weather seriously made my tummy crave something soupy and spicy. This time, we hunted for a Chinese restaurant. We went back towards Hyde Park Corner to find a Chinese steamboat place, but the location was too far and, with the cold weather, we decided to go to Bayswater instead. I got my mala soup, and it was a good ending to the day.
I giggled.
"What’s funny?" my husband asked.
"Am I looked like a ballerina to you?" I was bursting.
Only me, and perhaps the ballet guy, know the reason behind my terrible laugh.
