tbr-tangential

On the Steps of St Paul's

2011-10-24T18:51:00.002+01:00

The last time I sat here, I laughed as my aunt did an awful impression of the homeless woman from Mary Poppins, singing Feed the Birds in a croaky Cockney accent.

Years later and I'm back, sitting on those same steps, the same incredible building. I wish I was sitting here listening to my aunt sing songs from Mary Poppins. Instead it's a man with a guitar singing about soldiers dying, the people suffering in silence and a ruling elite that doesn't listen. The same place, but a different world. For those of you not from London or the UK, the pavement around St Paul's has been taken over by tents, the site of Ocuppy LSX's first camp in the city. And here I am, surrounded by Guy Fawkes masks, signs lamenting the state of the economy, a man playing a penny whistle and several people, like me, who have just come for a look.

Yes, just a look. But this is the second time I've come here in as many days. I feel like I can relate to the people sleeping here day in, day out. Do I understand the ins and outs of global economics? No. Can I suggest an alternative? No. But I do feel angry. I am confused, exasperated and generally fucking miserable with today's society, where little seems to make sense. At least to me. And it's these feelings, I think, that I share with those who have taken up residence in the shadows of the cathedral.

I wish I had a voice. I wish I had somebody to represent me. A government that cared for something other than credit ratings and bankers. A government which tries to protect the nation as a group of people, rather than an economy.

I know it's all interlinked. I know that a booming economy would remove the necessity for many of the austerity measures taken in the name of removing the evil deficit. I understand that. I'm just fucking fed up of it.

And that, my friends, is my deep and meaningful take on Britain in a time of austerity. The best, most perfect words I can find to describe what I feel when I read the news. Fucking. Fed. Up.

On A Budget

2011-09-14T22:28:00.001+01:00

I've been out for cocktails. It's mid-month, so this is a risk as payday is still a long way away. But I've been trying for so long to live within a strict austerity budget in a seemingly endless attempt to reduce the debt I'm in. Initially I viewed it as a challenge: anything the ConDem government (was there ever a more apt abbreviation?) can do, I could do better. I was determined to be financially solvent by the end of 2011. I had purpose.

The summer, therefore, has been something of a damp squib - and not just because of the weather. No holidays, few big nights out, minimal expenditure and old, faded clothes.

Yet now the novelty has worn off. I'm close to breaking point. Close to embarking on a FTW spending spree on credit cards and money that's not mine but that the bank seems more than happy to provide. The end is in sight, but the monotony of my existence has become painful.

So cocktails it was. And despite the ample amount of gin, rum and whisky, I can't shake this feeling of irresponsibility. Unemployment figures are up, but I have a job. I may feel frustrated at being 26 and still living at home, but I have a roof over my head. I have a family, friends and at least some money each month to piss right up the wall.

This feeling is compounded when a homeless person stops and asks me for change. I start my usual "sorry, I haven't any change" response, but it sticks in my throat. I give her a pound, but that seems woefully insignificant compared to the amount I've just spent on alcohol. It doesn't seem right. Maybe this is a symptom of what's wrong with society? My inability to go without, I mean. My feeling so hard done by when really, I am among the better off.

Yes, I am broke, most of the time. But I'm still part of society. I'm not excluded, ignored or kept on the edge. I think back to my time working in local government. I hated the job, it wasn't something I wanted to pursue, but it was hard not to empathise with some of the people I met; many of whom had suffered and still do suffer the exclusion and fear I've thus far managed to escape.

It's partly this experience, I think, that causes the boiling rage inside when I read comments under right-wing newspaper articles, or when I hear the government demonising the 'benefit scroungers' that are supposedly bleeding our country dry. All this, from a group of people who have, I imagine, never known hardship, nor even approached it unless it offers a PR-friendly photo opportunity.

This city - perhaps even this country - is a cruel mistress. London is, in my opinion, an incredible place. Much like an outdated office block giving way to a gleaming skyscraper, she changes her look, her mood. At times the streets seem paved with broken dreams rather than gold. At others she glistens like a huge Christmas tree, beckoning to you, offering her cultural delights, her unrivalled social scene, a feast for someone with the money and inclination to gorge themselves on.

And so I find it impossible. I can't imagine my life without London, but at the same time I can't imagine being of the few with the means to really enjoy everything on offer.

I will settle for the middle ground, which I can, I hope, realistically aspire to. I will try and resist the seduction of happy hours, 2 for 1 offers and everything else that's distracting me from my route to financial solvency. At times, it will be boring. At others, it will be difficult. But the end result will be worth it, I think. There's enough to worry about (double dip recessions, illness, the volcano under Yellowstone National Park) without adding money to the huge pile of woe. So back to the budget, Read, and stop whinging. You could be a whole lot worse off.

Fuck...all that from a mojito...maybe drink is my problem, rather than my budget.

On a Dilemma

2011-06-21T21:06:00.002+01:00

I had planned to start this post with a call for you to refrain from judging me, but I've changed my mind. I want you to judge me. I want to know what you think of what I did, of what I thought.

I shall start from the beginning. I was waiting for a train. A light drizzle, typical of the Great British summer, fell gently over the platform. The overhead wires crackled and fizzed, the raindrops collected in shallow puddles. I felt at ease. I like the rain.

The train pulled up and the doors opened. And elderly couple pushed past, rushing further up the train to get on another carriage. I assumed they just wanted to be at the front.

How wrong I was. As I settled into my seat and the train pulled away, I heard a man muttering further down the carriage. It was a whisper at first but the volume increased steadily. I soon realised that most of what he said wasn't in English. That's not a problem in itself; I am, as you may know, an avowed lover of language. It was Arabic. At least I think it was. A constant monologue that grew from a whisper into a chant, into a shout. It was interspersed with cries of "LIGHT OF THE DAY" and "Your blood is the same colour as mine!" A wee bit sinister for lunchtime on a Sunday. The rest was, quite literally, foreign to me. I thought I could hear the odd "Inc'Allah" which, from repeated listening to an MC Solaar song of the same name, I know to mean "God willing."

So that's why the elderly couple changed carriages. That's why everyone else was shifting in their seats, exchanging worried glances and, at intermediate stations, following the exodus into the adjoining carriages.

And so, I found myself in a dilemma. He who prides himself of being accepting of others found himself itching to get off the train. The crazed liberal inside me was screaming "Look at you! Where are your egalitarian ideals now? What happened to live and let live? What next? Starting sentences with 'I'm not a racist but...', or 'You can sleep with whoever you like but I'll have none of that under my roof!' You...you Daily Mail reader!" But there was another voice, a nagging doubt. A fear building up inside. A desperate call for self-preservation, in spite of my oft-touted liberalism.

What should I have done?

What I did, was stay on the carriage. I did so with my headphones in but my iPod off, a sense of impending doom writhing inside me.

I'm not sure what the above makes me. Was I stupid to stay on a train on which I felt unsafe? Or did ignorance rear its ugly head and prove that I'm not as accepting as I think I am?

I've been thinking about it a lot today. We live in a state of paranoia. You can see it on the tube sometimes, or on trains, at airports. It's exacerbated by what I think is a very British reaction to any public declaration of fervent religious belief; awkwardness.

I know full well that this man was not representative of all Muslims, all British Muslims or probably even all the Muslims on that particular train, who probably don't make a habit of praying loudly on public transport. II don't even know what he was saying - it could have been something really quite pleasant. Nor do I subscribe to the Cameronian belief that multiculturalism has failed. His lifestyle, upbringing and outlook are as alien to me as the beliefs of the man shouting on the train. But that's ok. I wouldn't, for one minute, wish for a homogenous society in which everybody thinks, feels and acts the same.

But I'm still not sure what I should have done, or whether what I did do and did feel, was right.

On the Dark Recesses of My Mind

2011-05-16T21:12:00.002+01:00

Surprise! I'm not actually dead, despite my lack of posting.

In the last month or two I've been living life to the full. Inspiration on things to write about, however, has been thin on the ground.

The one noteworthy realisation I was struck with during my prolonged absence was that my brain is actually quite big. Bigger than I ever really give it credit for. Fear not; I am not boasting about my IQ or my ability to remember obscure Eastenders characters from ten years ago. Let me explain.

As you may or may not know, I lived in Italy a while ago. It was a special time that has given me a wealth of happy and not so happy memories to look back on and cherish. And, as it turns out, it gave me more memories than I realised. When I went to Italy at the beginning of March, I was taken aback by the number of forgotten memories that came flooding back. Sights, sounds and smells all triggered recollections that I didn't realise I had.

And that's what I'm impressed with; the huge, unfathomable depth somewhere in my head that holds memories I don't actually remember. God knows how many situations I've been in or conversations I've had are sitting there, somewhere, waiting to be woken up and set free by a trigger it's impossible to predict.

This in turn reminded me of studying Proust in my first year of university. He talks about eating a certain type of biscuit that his grandmother gave him when he was but a petit garçon. Eating the same type of biscuit years later evoked a wealth of feelings and memories of his childhood. They all came back, in glorious 3D technicolour, from a biscuit. For the first time, I think I understand where he's coming from.

I just think it's a shame there's not some cerebral filing system that I can dip into when I'm at a loose end. A talking computer system that I can turn on and say, "I'm bored. Show me something I've forgotten." I want to see all the things I don't remember, the things filed under 'Insignificant' and 'Not Worth Remembering' that my brain backed up nonetheless.

Good on you, Brain. I applaud your hard - and unappreciated - work. You grafter you. And your next mission, if you choose to accept it, is to find me some inspiration for my blog, because I miss that even more than the things I don't remember.

On Signs

2011-03-22T19:52:00.002Z

There are roads that I cross everyday, literally minutes from my house, whose names escape me. I have literally no idea what they're called. This makes it incredibly difficult to give people directions; any instructions I give are usually something like the following:

"Go straight on until you get to the pub, turn right onto the road with all the hairdressers then turn left at the second phone box. If you reach a tree that looks a bit drunk, you've gone too far."

Pretty unhelpful, I'm sure you'll agree. It would seem that I've unwittingly developed the ability to completely disregard any signs or symbols that are displayed to make my life easier. Where others see road names, I see a blank space.

I blame this problem fully on the immense amount of information that my tiny brain is expected to handle on a daily basis.

The streets are littered with to let, to rent, for sale signs. Each sign has its own logo, a website and phone number. Double yellow lines indicate no parking, on train platforms they say stay away from the edge. Pound signs, percentages and price tags clutter shop windows that display one of a million possible brands. No smoking, no access, CCTV in constant use. Rallying points, health & safety notifications, planned tube delays.

It's no wonder that, when faced with such a barrage of information, my brain has decided to block it out rather than embark on the troublesome task of working out what I need to know and what's irrelevant.

No; I do not need to know the name of the company maintaining the scaffolding I walk past in the morning. At least not at the moment - if it falls on my head then rest assured that I will track you down.

I don't even want to know which local authority manages the road I'm walking down, what the soup of the day is in a restaurant I can't afford, or what percentage APR a certain bank's best new credit card offers.

I accept that this information is important for somebody else, and that there could come a time in which I need to know something that I've previously ignored, but at the moment my head is too full of stuff to filter the visual assault I'm faced with. It's almost like I'm sleep-walking; I take absolutely nothing in.

At least that's how it was, until three weeks ago when my job took me on a brief trip to Paris. The leafy boulevards of the French capital were littered with just as many signs and symbols as its less pretty British counterpart, but they seemed so much more interesting. Different phrases, different logos and a different language. It forced me to look, to open my eyes, and since I've been back I've found myself looking around again, taking things in.

It's what I needed, I think. A chance to step back and see something new and exciting (including a chance to meet a real live blogger in her natural habitat). It dragged me out of the daze I've been walking around in for so long, and made my days that little bit more interesting. Sometimes it takes being dragged kicking and screaming out of your comfort zone to make you realise how comfy it is.

On Vocation

2011-02-27T17:36:00.003Z

I feel like I'm on a train, I don't know where it's going and I don't really remember getting on. And I'm not really sure whether I want to get off or not.

As 'Flubberbean' (or a poorly disguised N) pointed out in the comments to my last post, the all-singing, all-dancing return to the Blogosphere I had planned has failed quite spectacularly.

The thing is, to bring an oft-repeated and increasingly tired excuse out of the bag, work has been taking over my life, again. I think I understand what stress is now. Not stress as in a medically diagnosed condition, work-type stress, you know. The kind that finds you while you're sitting on the train on your way to the office and fills you with dread. That wakes you up in the early hours of the morning with a chilling reminder of all the things you simply must do first thing and absolutely mustn't forget. The kind of stress that's not content to just wake you up, but also leaves you lying in the dark composing emails and studying reports in your head.

My job has started to take a previously unheard of toll on my real life. I suppose it's par for the course as you get older. And I accept that this is something I need to learn to handle, if I'm to climb the career ladder.

The thing is, while I'm grateful that increased responsibility is being thrust into my questionably capable hands, I find myself wondering whether I'm on the right ladder. Is this definitely what I want to do? Is this really for me? Or did I just fall into it?

Many of these questions stem from panic I think - when you take new things on there's a period of transition where everything feels up in the air. But it's also sparked some serious soul-searching.

At work I'm surrounded by creative types. Designers born with an urge to draw, editors with an innate love of words. Looking at them, I can't help but feel jealous. Then there's N, or Flubberbean as he's taken to calling himself, who was born with a mind that works like a computer. I'm sure he sees the world as a sequence of 1s and 0s, of if statements and hidden code.

Could it be that everyone is born with a set of talents perfect for a certain role? Perhaps everyone has something they're good at that, if nurtured in the correct way, will make them perfectly suited to a particular function. But how do you find out what your talent is? How do you know what you're naturally good at unless circumstance lets you find it?

One of my biggest selling points, that I plaster over CVs and cover letters, is that I speak French and Italian. But this isn't something I was born with: I liked it at school, so studied it at university, so feel duty bound to use it professionally so as to justify the horrible amount of money spent on developing it. Circumstance, coupled with choices I made when I was too young to understand the consequences has led me to where I am today, and I find that frightening.

If there were a magic test that could dig out one's hidden skills, where would I be instead? I wish I knew whether I am taking the right road. Then again, I very much doubt that I was born with any useful talents, and chatting, slouching and simming won't get me far at all. Damn shame that, I'd be King of the World if they were sought after skills.

On All This Woe

2011-02-07T07:22:00.000Z

I've not updated my blog for a while now. I'm sorry about that. The reason for my absence is that as soon as January ended I spent an entire week dancing and singing around its grave. With that now well and truly out of my system, I've returned. With a vengeance.

All apologies aside, back to what I wanted to discuss. I should begin with the admission that I talk too much at work. I can't help it; I'm encouraged, in fact, by the two colleagues I share a desk with, who are capable of chatting just as much as I am. We've come to the conclusion that the days fly by if you fill them with meaningless, inane chatter - so much faster than if you fill them with meaningful, productive work. Yesterday, our topic du jour was mantras; the phrases we live our lives by.

My boss' was something about not wasting time worrying about what other people think of you. The other person offered 'live each day to its full potential' as his choice. I thought both of these efforts were a bit wanky, if I'm honest, and prepared to wow them with the (Shakespearean!) phrase that I have adopted and refer to in times of need:

"All these woes shall serve for sweet discourses in our time to come."

Suffice it to say that my mantra was not greeted with the awe and appreciation I thought it deserved. One argument was that I was just trying to sound cultured and, in doing so, sounded pretentious. The other - and the one that really hit home - was that it suggests that the present is always going to be crap.

And when I say 'hit home', I mean it - it really did. It was a revelation, of sorts. I've realised that living my life like this is like waiting in an airport for a connecting flight - I've left the comfort and warmth of the past, and I'm waiting to arrive in a distant and happy future. In the intervening period, I've resigned myself to putting up with discomfort, impatience and boredom.

Those of you who have persevered and managed to stick with this blog for a while will know that I'm fairly obsessed with the past. This manifests itself in the music I listen to, the fashion I appreciate and the places I feel most comfortable. Give me Motown over dubstep, dusty old books over new technology, a Victorian terrace over a skyscraping penthouse apartment. The past holds an endless fascination to me - both my own history and the histories of the places and people around me.

The future I envision, meanwhile. is a hazy ideal, a land without debt and without trouble. It's what's left after I unpick the tangled mess of issues I convince myself I'm currently burdened with. It's calm and it's peaceful; a Shangri-La waiting at the end of a long and winding road. My vision of a perfect future is also, of course, hugely unlikely, but I wouldn't look forward if I were being realistic.

What this boils down to, I suppose, is that while I place huge importance on what's happened in the past and spend many a wistful moment imagining a warm and cosy future, my present is passing me by. It's sneaking by almost unnoticed while I'm waiting, while I'm looking back or daydreaming. It's as if every day is an obstacle, something to be wrestled with and dealt with as soon as possible. I treat each day as I treat my emails - I can't wait to flag them complete.

I know it's a bit late to be making resolutions, but I'm scared by the fact than if and when I do reach the light at the end of the tunnel, I'll have nothing to look back on except decades of seriousness, concern and worry. I think I want to have some more fun. I'm sorry if the tone of my posts of late has been somewhat tedious and difficult to get through. But there is an end in sight; I've decided that I've had enough of the woe - bring me the sweetness. Now. Please.

PS Congratulations Lauren on being 20sb's featured blogger for January!

On Wordless Gestures

2011-01-17T22:39:00.013Z

I used to blog fairly often about the books I read, but I haven't done so for a while. This one, however, I can't let pass; it's a book I feel I have to talk about. It's called Silence in October, by Jens Christian Grøndahl, and it's incredible. I think I've mentioned before how if I read a sentence or paragraph that I like, I underline it, or dog-ear the page. Well, I like so much of this book that it's now in very bad shape. One of my favourite parts is the following:

"People kiss each other because they don't know what else to do. You have nothing other than your silly lips, your silly hands that brave the same language while the world changes."

The reason I like this line is that it set me thinking - yes, the rusted cogs in my brain creaked back into action, at last - about body language and gestures. Not handshakes, or nods, or waving. They're all open to different interpretations based on the culture within which they take place, or so I believe. But kissing, and hugging. Things like that are universal, aren't they? They're almost primal. Spoken and written language changes as time passes; new words are created, old ones given new meanings, some disappear altogether. But physical signs of affection remain pretty much the same, don't they? I know that fifty years ago it would not have been wise to eat face in public, but I imagine that face was indeed eaten behind closed doors. And, even if it wasn't, if some pent-up Victorian woman was feeling a bit low, I'm sure her equally prudish friends would have given her a hug to cheer her up. It just makes me wonder how far back these things go. I mean, do monkeys cuddle?

My brain has been out of action for a while, as it's been under significant pressure from a procession of bad moods, so this unexpected activity was a welcome change. It was so welcome, it went one step further, dragging me off on a wild, hippyish tangent. Basically, as far as I'm aware, everyone loves a cuddle, regardless of their nationality or culture*. They are things that we all have in common; they transcend the social and cultural barriers that have grown between us over time. Somewhere, below the civility, the history and politics there's a bond that links us all. Don't get me wrong; I love cultural difference, I think it's fascinating, but it's also nice to be reminded that there is something more basic, something we share.

And as I walked through the City with this playing on my mind, I started to see it as a giant ant nest, home to the thousands who work and play here; linked to hundreds of other ant nests by trains, planes and unspoken methods of communication that predate the societies we know.

[Right...come back down to earth, Tom.]

What sparked this ridiculous post, besides the quote from Silence in October, was the way my Saturday night ended. I had been to a party and, true to form, I had drunk far more than was good for me. In fact, I went to the party knowing that this would be the case; lately I've been feeling like things are unravelling, starting to go wrong left, right and centre. The chances are these things will all pass, but I was desperate to push everything that was pissing me off out of my head and determined to have fun. And I did, until the walk home, during which a stream of drunken and nonsensical words poured forth from my silly lips and created an argument. But there came a point where words failed me, they weren't explaining what I wanted to say. And that's when a hug dragged me back from the brink of drunken despair, quelled my misplaced anger and forced the monster that is That-Drunk-Tom back into its cage.

Really, when you've had too much to drink, and your problems well up inside you so much that you start an argument for no good reason before collapsing into a puddle of misery - when you feel that low - it's the wordless gestures that help the most. Those silly hands and silly lips the book mentions help more than page upon page of beautiful words or hours of well-meant advice. And there's somebody, who may or may not be reading this, that should know that I'm grateful for their patience on Saturday night.

On London

2011-01-05T23:15:00.004Z

I got the wrong train today; a mistake for which I was rewarded with a 25 minute wait at a station in an industrial estate in east London. Too tired to read, I had nothing to do but wait. I'd never been to this station before, but I had plenty of time to get acquainted with it as I paced up and down the lonely, rain-soaked platform. I discovered that the time on platform one was two minutes faster than on platform 2 (evidently the station straddles a time zone - who knew?).

After reading a few timetables, walking around and staring at my shoes for a while, I decided to clear out my phone; deleting numbers for cab companies I'll never use, month old text messages and crappy photos. As I was culling the 'Notes' folder I found the beginnings of a post I started months ago while waiting for a friend, but never finished (I think I'd probably had a fair bit to drink, as it sounds pretentious - you've been warned):

I lean against a crumbling Roman wall; to my left a Norman castle. In the distance straight ahead the newest addition to the city's skyline stretches towards the clouds. Cranes flank it, piling floor upon floor; a tower of concrete, glass and steel.

The city I call home. My office, my playground. It panders to my every need like a doting mother, and demands and frustrates like a petulant child. It's old and new all at once; parts still sparkle while others fall into decay.

It's odd that I should find this now, sitting here. After months of it lying forgotten and unread among lists of songs I need to download, ideas for Christmas presents and the code I need to get into my office, it seems incredibly apt. No matter how often I call London my home, I know only a tiny portion of the city. The routes I travel every day I've memorised like the back of my hand (except, it would seem, the train route), but I'll never walk all of its streets, see all it has to offer, know it in its entirety. I'm like a river, following the same course day after day (with the odd tributary leading to pubs, shops and friend's houses) but I've barely scratched the surface. I deviate one stop from the way I normally go, and I'm lost, surprised and transported very far from 'home'.

So thank you, London, for reminding me who's boss, for keeping things interesting. I've much to learn, and even more to discover.

On January

2011-01-03T21:57:00.007Z

Hello Darkness, my old friend.

I'm not sure how much of this bad mood is due to my impending return to work tomorrow morning. I'd be tempted to lay all of the blame at my office door, but I know better. It's the new year, that's what's making me miserable.

I've never been one to make resolutions - or even plans. I'm not much of an optimist and I don't see the point in struggling to look to the future when I've perfected living in the past. Typically, once the clock strikes midnight on 31st December, I'm struck with the realisation that a new, uncharted set of 365 days lays before me. A hazy, unknown expanse full of hidden treasure and wicked monsters, wild seas and cozy fireplaces. I'm very much of the mindset that planning ahead is difficult in any sense but the most abstract - as I'm completely unsure of the treasure-to-monster ratio and so can't predict which opportunities will present themselves, which obstacles will block my path. I do, however, allow myself a moment after the fireworks, kisses and mumbling of Auld Lang Syne to hope for the best, to consider what it is I'd like to happen.

At the New Year's Eve parties I attend, it's almost unheard of that the night should pass without incident. There is usually a fight, an argument or flood of tears from somebody to distract me from my flight of fancy and reacquaint me with reality. [It's been two or three years since I was at the centre of one of these incidents - that's progress for you. There was a time that I was odds-on favourite to be the cause of any aggravation.]

And really, that's what January is, isn't it? A painful and undignified crash back into real life. A sad and nervous return to the big city, which looks so much greyer and unattractive without its fairy lights and festive decorations. A bleak midwinter to wade through, with little merriment or joy (due to length of time between pay days and the notorious VAT hike). Oh my God, it's grim - and made worse by the fact that it sits stubbornly straight after one of the most exciting, friendly months of the year. It's such a comedown - a 31 day hangover.

January; have you taken note of May's daffodils, July's long days, October's falling leaves and December's festivity? Do you see what other months provide to keep us entertained? Can you not even try to offer us something to cheer us up? There are no parties because there's no money, there are no flowers because there's no sun. If I had to sum you up in three words, they would be drizzle, debt and despair. And no, I don't think despair is going too far. For once, this year, I would like to have a fun January. Can you please arrange this for me?

I'll let you know how it goes. I'm not holding out much hope.

PS Sorry if anyone reading this celebrates their birthday in January. If this is the case, then you are a rare and sought-after example of January making an effort to improve its reputation.

On A Resolution Already Broken

2010-12-29T22:48:00.007Z

Once again I find myself returning to the blogosphere's warm embrace with my tail between my legs.

After months of worrying about my advancing age, my greying hair and increasingly severe hangovers, I began to consider growing up. I decided to draw a line under the excess of my youth and at least to grow old gracefully. I was happy with this decision, until Boxing Day - the day on which this new resolution came crashing to ground.

I blame myself. To be more precise, I blame this post. Did I really believe I could be that smug and escape unpunished? No; I should not have said that I've 'learnt from the past' because, quite clearly, I haven't. I'm still completely useless at handling my drink and shouldn't be allowed up past 10 o'clock.

I started early, you see. I noticed that my dad and my (younger) brother were nursing their pints slowly, savouring them and that mine seemed to be disappearing somewhat faster than everybody else's. I explained this by telling myself that they were drinking Guinness, which is very heavy, and therefore cannot be drunk as quickly as lager. And then back to the house, where I should have stayed up for a few hours to catch up with relatives I haven't seen in a few months before heading to bed.

Unfortunately, I did no such thing. I did catch up with everyone, I had many an enjoyable conversation. The problem is that these conversations tended to increase in volume and crassness with each rum and coke that passed my lips.

The clock strikes 6 in the morning. The house is asleep, or at least it would be if yours truly, his father and his cousin weren't belting out a rousing rendition of Band Aid's 'Do They Know It's Christmas'. My dad threw in the towel at half past 6 and climbed the stairs to bed. My cousin fell asleep on the sofa. I, true to form, did some washing up - smashing an apparently expensive wine glass in the process.

The next day I was the last one up. I had trouble looking people in the eye, that bad did I feel. In fact, I felt so bloody bad I also had trouble walking, staying awake, talking and sitting upright. A group of particularly bedraggled people gathered in the corner - Those Who Stayed Up Late. I went to join them, and glanced briefly at their hungover faces before a wave of nausea demanded that I close my eyes. With my dad, my brother and two of my cousins I sat and listened as they patched together the night before. Apparently my brother made my dad go round the circle and tell everyone that he loved them, which we all found terribly amusing after so many years of him being emotionally closed off.

Since then, the memories have crept back. I had a great deal of fun, it must be said. I did not learn from past mistakes and retire to bed without making a fool of myself. I did not remain cool, calm and collected. We spoke of football, of music and people who are no longer with us. I sang, I shouted and I laughed until it hurt.

And then, the next day, I was sick down the back of my dad's head from the back seat as he drove us home.

A fifteen-minute drive later, we reached a motorway service station. As I wiped the vomit from my lap, and tried my best to wring out my sleeves, I began to think that next year I'll have to take my decision to grow up a little more seriously, I'm not 18 anymore, and if I'm not careful I'll have to start making my own way there and back.

On the Small Screen

2010-12-22T20:40:00.003Z

READ BEFORE WATCHING:

1. I have huge bags under my eyes. I am not a drug addict, I've just been out a lot lately, which coupled with this getting old lark is taking its toll on my once youthful features.

2. Despite what this may sound like, I am not going to turn up on your doorstep, so fear not.

3. I keep sniffing. I am not a drug addict. I've just been ill.

4. I'm making a 'I'm going to kill you face' at the beginning. This is unintentional. I don't want to kill you, not in the slightest.

5. This is also complete rubbish.

On Protest

2010-12-20T20:57:00.005Z

I'm not sure you'll remember my post about possibly becoming more politically-minded. Well, I did mean what I said, and as such I've been devoting no small amount of time to my political education. It hasn't been easy - I'm still trying to suppress the rage that seems to form as soon as I open a newspaper for long enough to enable the formation of an intelligent, considered and balanced opinion of current affairs. This intelligence, careful consideration and balance went right out of the window on the day of the student protests. The more I read, the more I saw; the more I became a monster. Twitter and news websites combined forces to work me into a righteous anger I've seldom felt before. And so, after work, I trotted down to Trafalgar Square for a look.

When I arrived there were very few people about. A few tourists were taking photos. A group of old ladies wearing sashes bearing the name of a children's charity were taking their positions for an evening of carol singing. It was all...lovely. I thought I'd missed the show, and was about to head back to the station when I saw it, in the distance. A huge crowd moving its way slowly up Whitehall. The chants grew louder. The writing on the placards grew clearer. The hoard of Britain's 'Feedom Fighters' grew closer and closer.

Then, all of a sudden, they were everywhere. Traffic cones flew through the air into the fountains, metal barriers crashed to the floor, the carol singers fled. A silent line of riot police stood unmoving on the steps of the National Gallery. And then a horrible thing happened. They started to pull the lights from the Christmas Tree. I looked on, AGHAST. I could hardly watch - but luckily the lights held their own. They are evidently very well secured. So the masked youths (how old does that make me sound?) tried a different tactic; they started a fire, and threw burning objects into the Christmas tree's branches. At this point I was beside myself and my Christmas Spirit lay crushed, on the floor, like a broken fairy light. In a daze, I turned my back and made my way home. I am so very far from hardcore.

However, apart from the attempted destruction of the Christmas tree (which survived mostly unharmed, by the way!) I'm all for the student protests - I back them, completely. I think. But it has to be one of the oddest moments of my life. The next day, any column inches the papers hadn't devoted to Charles & Camilla, told of the dangerous anarchist groups that managed to infiltrate the students' peaceful protest. I'm sure that's true to an extent - but I think part of the reason it spiralled so spectacularly out-of-control is that for the first time in ages, it's the young who are angry. Most of the protesters I saw were so bloody young. I applaud their engagement, but with all those hormones flying around and so few responsible adults, it was only a matter of time before things got messy. It's probably a sign of my age that my main reaction to what I saw was 'WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS?!'

But, in a way, that's the point - isn't it? Who should they look up to? How else can they really make themselves heard? Who can they trust to keep their best interests at heart? The politicians they voted for lied to them in a way that's far more obvious than is usually acceptable. Graduates and people already in employment turn away, glad that they were lucky enough to sail the sea of Higher Education in calmer, happier climes. Many this new legislation will affect are still not old enough to vote - silent victims of a government they didn't vote for. It's no wonder they lashed out - it's no wonder they feel abandoned, frustrated and angry.

And part of me thinks it's just the beginning. As high street shops are forced to close their doors on the busiest Saturday of the year by people disgusted by legal tax evasion, I can't help but think there's something different in the air. A winter of discontent it may be - but the past couple haven't exactly been joyous. It's almost as if somebody has woken a monster, it's yawning and grumbling and stretching for the first time after a long hibernation. British people are, perhaps, learning from their continental cousins. Or perhaps they are just rediscovering a forgotten art that fell by the wayside in the boom years. Where's the stiff upper lip? Where's 'Keep Calm and Carry On'? I think maybe they've been left behind, for now. Maybe I'm just being dramatic. Time will tell, I suppose. In the meantime, though, it's refreshing to see someone standing up for themselves.

On Christmas Past, Present and Yet To Come

2010-12-06T21:48:00.005Z

The fact that I have never read any of Charles Dickens' work has always been a source of shame for me. I've often felt that, as a British person with an appreciation of classic literature, it was nothing less than my civic duty to at least get to grips with his most famous works, if not immerse myself in his entire bibliography. And how better to start than with A Christmas Carol, at the time when the country is at its peak of festive merriment? So that's what I've been reading today. I know the story, of course - the Muppets taught me well - and the more i read the more I'm impressed with the timelessness of the lessons it contains.

This morning it seemed terribly apt. The snow has mostly melted, leaving the pavements covered in almost invisible patches of treacherous black ice. It was bitterly cold, and a dense freezing fog hung over the City, obscuring from view the top of the Gherkin and its new, and marginally taller, skyscraping neighbour. As Scrooge made his lonely way home through strikingly similar atmospheric conditions at the beginning of the story, so I scurried (and slid) my way to the office.

And as Scrooge ignored the pleas of two men seeking donations for the poor, so I avoid making eye contact with the people collecting for charities who camp outside Kings Cross, snaring unsuspecting commuters in their guilt-laced webs. It would seem then, that not so much has changed. Perhaps I'm not so different from Ebenezer. If this is indeed the case, then in what form would the spirits of my three Christmases appear?

THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST. I have perfected the art of holding a grudge, of clinging onto regret and embarrassment far longer than is necessary. From the Christmas Day I shot my mum in the face with a toy gun that propelled foam balls in whichever direction I pointed it (while shouting 'I'm not spoilt!') to the accidental flash in front of my cousin, my past Christmases have been full of moments I'd rather forget. Of course there have been happy times, too. They were predominantly happy, in fact. But it's the humiliations and awkwardness of my past that stay with me and colour my current outlook on life the most. My ghost of Christmas Past would be an amalgamation of all of these - the jokes gone too far, the drinks I really shouldn't have accepted, the tantrums and bouts of ingratitude. I was a snivelling child and a terrible teen for which I'll be eternally embarrassed - but these things have played a part in making me who I am.

Well, that was grim. But fear not - 'tis the season to be jolly after all and my CHRISTMAS PRESENT is a bloody jolly place. You see, I've learned from the past and used it to my advantage. I'm a better person, capable of thoughtful gifts and hiding the slightest trace of 'what were you thinking?' when I get presents I don't like. I've found a place and personality that I'm comfortable with and I've banished the majority of the demons that plagued me as I grew up. At the moment, I'm so chilled I put that icy pavement to shame.

And so to CHRISTMAS YET TO COME. It's hard to say what future yuletides will bring but in order to end this post in a way that reflects the unusual sense of optimism I'm currently enjoying, I'll stick to what I want and not what is definitely achievable. Some of you may already know that I'm yearning to move out. There are circumstances that prevent this at the moment, but one Christmas Day I'd like to wake up in a house of my own. I'd like to repay the favour so many have shown me. To cook Christmas Dinner for everyone that matters to me, maybe. A small thank you to the ever-patient family and friends who have stuck with me for so many years - through the bad, through the good and right up to the perfect. A bit ambitious, perhaps. Not least because I can barely cook a microwave meal, let alone a turkey.

But anyway, I hereby swear that, this year, there will be no bah humbugging from me.

On the Other Side of the Fence

2010-12-05T18:51:00.007Z

When I was but knee-high to a grasshopper, my parents took me with them when they went to see Cats. I don't remember it at all, but afterwards they bought a copy of T.S. Eliot's 'Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats', the poems the musical is based on. I read it over and over again, from cover to cover. I had my favourites, of course - and the cat I identified with most was The Rum Tum Tugger:

The Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse.
If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat,
If you put him in a flat then he'd rather have a house.
If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat,
If you set him on a rat then he'd rather chase a mouse.

Now I'm not all that fussed about chasing rodents, to be honest, but I think I share the Rum Tum Tugger's outlook on life. The grass always seems greener on the other side of the fence.

It's incredibly annoying - to the extent that I irritate myself. The week before last I found myself, as usual, crammed onto a train at rush hour. I was one of hundreds of people jostling for space, gasping for air, throwing 'don't-even-think-about-it' looks at the man with the suitcase as big as a car wondering whether to attempt boarding. As the train trundled along its underground course, I wanted so badly to be somewhere else. Somewhere quiet, comfortable and, most importantly, stationary. Somewhere I could be on my own with my thoughts.

Fortunately, I didn't have to wait long, as I'd booked last week off. Finally I'd have a chance to relax. I'd purposely made as few plans as possible and couldn't wait to do sweet F.A., all day long. When I awoke to find the garden covered in a thick blanket of snow, with more still falling, I thought it couldn't get any better. Snow makes everything seem peaceful, quiet and uncluttered. Everything was perfect; the ideal situation for a week of ultimate relaxation.

Around three hours later, I was bored out of my mind. I had nothing to do but sit in front of the TV, and the TV was annoying me. I wanted to go out, but the snow meant that no trains were running. I even rang the office, to see how everyone was. I was bored shitless, rattling around the house like an old woman whose children have grown up, moved away and don't talk to her anymore. It nearly drove me insane and the phrase 'be careful what you wish for' had never seemed more apt.

But I made it through. The snow came to my aid, in fact - it snowed so heavily that N couldn't get to work, so I had someone to talk at, which alleviated the boredom somewhat. At least for me. Looking back, I can't tell you what I did, it passed in a blur; a blur of complete nothingness that I'm pleased to see the back of. And so, tomorrow I make my long-awaited return to work; to the busy, bustling, exciting place that is London at Christmastime. I can't wait for to be back amid the bright lights, the loud noises, the fast pace. The train delays. Slow-walking people when you're already late. The walk to the station on an icy road. WORK.

I want more time off.

On Blogging

2010-11-23T20:56:00.004Z

The room, which had been buzzing with conversation moments before, was silent.

"That was painful," someone muttered, and they were right. Moments before, I had embarked on telling a story that in my head sounded interesting and relevant to the topic of conversation. It didn't quite pan out that way, and halfway through I wished I hadn't bothered.

You see, there's some sort of problem with the way I formulate sentences when preparing to say them out loud. It never works. I have an idea in my head that has the potential to be an interesting anecdote, an amusing joke, a poignant, deep and meaningful speech. Except it never fulfills this potential; the words stumble out of my mouth and lie in a heap - like alphabet spaghetti - in front of me. Attempting to follow one of these conversations is like bear-baiting, the thing you're contending with is desperate to leave you exhausted and confused, and it would take some skill to make it through without losing the point.

And then there's my accent. This isn't a problem with friends or family, of course, but it's incredible how quickly someone will assume that you're stupid based solely on the way you speak. The first time I realised I even had an accent (odd though that may sound) was my first year of university. The most cringe-worthy moment comes from a seminar on Roma Citta Aperta, an Italian neorealist masterpiece. At the time I knew nothing of literature, film or poetry, and had jumped headfirst into a degree course that was half made-up of all these things. Good move, Tom.

So I arrived, understanding what I was told but lacking the means to express it. This particular seminar was a massive turning point for me. We'd all watched the film, and been discussing it for half an hour. I sat at the back, as usual, avoiding the lecturer's eye lest she ask me a question. She asked if anyone had noticed anything in particular about the portrayal of the Nazi occupiers. The room was silent in response. Seized, all of a sudden, by a need to prove my worth, I ventured an opinion;

"Well, they're all, like, gay." I nearly added an 'innit' at the end there to make it sound even worse, but there's no need - it's bad enough as it is. I caught someone to my left rolling their eyes, some others actually laughed. The lecturer replied,

"Yes, exactly. There are definite homosexual undertones." I got it right, you bastards. I was right; I had the answer she was looking for, only I didn't have the correct words to express it. I realised then that this was generally the case in my literature classes - I knew these things, I noticed them, but I didn't know how to get the idea across without sounding like a complete chav. So I read an incredibly boring book on literary theory and criticism, and armed myself with enough knowledge to make myself sound like I knew what I was talking about.

So that solved that problem, but how often do you get into literary conversations at parties? Not often at all, so my complete lack of oratory skill remains an issue. My accent has improved (a year in Italy demanded it - otherwise the people I held conversation classes for could have auditioned for Eastenders). If you heard it now, you'd probably wonder what I was making a fuss about. I've buried it, almost. But I do lapse into it - especially after a drink - and I love it more now than I ever have before. I'd consider resurrecting it if I could do so without people thinking I'm retarded.

And so, to remind myself that I'm not stupid and to give me a place to communicate the strange things I think, I started a blog. I'm not sure why, but I communicate much more effectively in writing. Maybe that's because there's less pressure to perform; I can think, re-think, write and re-write. Then there's the added benefit that if someone doesn't get what I'm saying, I don't witness their reaction. I don't have to see their eyes glaze over as I struggle to pull the conversation back from the brink of nonsense. It's come to mean quite a lot to me, so when people say nice things about it I can be rather too gushing in my gratitude. But I'm British - we have to say please, thank you and sorry at every possible occasion, so my thanks to Amber, Tabitha, Risha, Kisekae, Gnetch and everyone who reads and comments. If it weren't for you, I'd be destined to a life of painful conversation - or silence, which may be preferable.

On Breaking the Monotony

2010-11-16T22:48:00.005Z

Lately the world around me has become somewhat grey and dull. As I sit here on the train, opposite a huge man who is taking up two whole seats [how many tickets has he bought do you think? Fare dodger], I find myself yearning for something exciting, something anarchically fun and completely unexpected.

This was prompted in part by last weeks' student protests, which I observed (via news feeds and twitter) from my cluttered desk at work. How I wished I'd booked the day off and joined them in their insurrection. How I envied their passion and their anger. I toyed with the idea of joining them, but decided that a picture of me scaling Millbank in the paper would do my credibility no favours.

The feeling grew deeper as I wrote my TASG post on what I wanted to be when I grew up - dragging up memories of how magical the world once seemed. But don't worry - this isn't one of my usual woe-filled posts. In fact, it marks a new beginning. I stand at a crossroads; on each side a road that leads to an alleviation of the gloom in which I'm currently lost. I will not sit idly by while my life is taken over by bad news, bad prospects and austerity cuts. I will take action.

To my left (for that's the direction to which I'd lean) is a road that leads to the land of political involvement, home of last week's Feedom Fighters. Perhaps, instead of moaning or silently fearing the future, I should get off my arse and shout about it. However, as Rachel tweeted last week, it's incredibly annoying to hear ordinary people talk about topics they don't really understand. To be politically involved, without sounding like a complete pillock, I need to know about stuff. Really know about it, inside out, or else I won't feel comfortable shouting about it. At the moment, I don't know anything about...anything. This will need to be rectified.

So to the path to my right, directly inspired by the memory of trying to jump into a photograph in a book when I was young. I shall stop viewing things with these adult eyes. I'll stop looking at price tags and newspaper headlines and retreat into a world of make-believe. No, that's incorrect. I won't retreat into it, I'll just do what I used to do when I was little, and imagine that there's more to the world than meets the eye. I have dubbed this option my Imagifesto. From now on, I'll imagine that there actually are castles on clouds, the tube is pulled by a team of invisible Harry Potter horses (top marks for anyone who remembers what they were actually called) and that the man opposite isn't just dangerously overweight - he's actually a giant, and therefore it's fine that he only has one ticket for two seats - it would be completely unfair to charge one species more than another. Already, my reality seems a little bit more colourful, and I seem a little bit more insane, I suppose.

I think it's a form of mid-life crisis or something; only where most people revert to how they were in their hedonistic twenties, I've reverted to being six.

On Staying the Same

2010-11-05T19:43:00.005Z

I was at a bus stop yesterday, white headlights driving past in one direction, red brakelights in the other. The wind was so strong I had to lean into it just to stop myself being pushed back. And that there, that's my life. All of the people driving past had somewhere to go or something to do. I'm stood still, struggling to keep my head above water, waiting. For what? A lottery win? A new and exciting job to fall in my lap? A cure for my mum's illness? Well, a bus, actually. But you get my point; the world keeps turning, seasons come, seasons go. I stay the same.

It's Bonfire Night, so the sky is full of fireworks; pretty, sparkling, multicoloured fireworks. I'm watching them from my bedroom window, thinking about 5th November last year. The only difference that springs to mind is that I didn't have a blog then. I was probably on Facebook. I was probably here though. Broke, bored and hoping that in a year's time something would have changed for the better. It hasn't, not really.

I'm fed up, in short. Completely and utterly fucked off with everything. I hate talking like this - wallowing in self-pity - because I know that I'm fortunate, all things considered. Things could be worse. But they could be better, too, and I want them to be better. I'm not sure if you feel the same, but I feel like our generation wants everything, and wants everything now. Buy now, pay later, instalments and loans and store cards. Why save up? Why work for it? Why wait? It's incredibly impatient. I was incredibly impatient and, although I've managed to rein in my spending sprees, I still feel that same restlessness when it comes to my situation. I want to change, to progress, to enjoy. I don't want to have to wait.

I want to scream. Seriously, I'm in such a mood - the worst kind of mood. The kind that builds up slowly, over a few days. The kind you try to bury with fake smiles, small talk and early nights. The kind that leaves you wanting to tell colleagues to shut up and get out of your face, to cancel your weekend plans and stay in bed listening to Damien Rice forever.

I'll be ok tomorrow. Who knows, maybe just posting this will cheer me up. It will certainly embarrass me when I read it once I've managed to disperse the angry little rain clouds currently hovering over my head.

Man up, Tom, and put some more upbeat music on.

On The Great Outdoors

2010-10-25T21:32:00.006+01:00

I am, and always will be, a townie. While I appreciate that the countryside can be beautiful, peaceful and calming, it's really not for me; I much prefer the bright lights and loud noises of the city. So when N decided to arrange a camping trip for his birthday, I was decidedly underawed.

It wasn't, forunately, as bad as I thought; I had a fantastic weekend and I think I managed quite well without the internet, TV and...walls. Actually, that's a complete lie, and I respect you too much to lie to you. I'm sorry. The truth: I was completely rubbish and should not be allowed out of the concrete jungle. Bear Grylls I am not. Setting up tents, for a start, is a chore - especially when the ground beneath is so muddy you can hardly stand. That's something I like about houses; they generally come pre-assembled, ready and fit for habitation. Not so the tent, which requires assembly then reveals a sizeable insect community that has somehow survived those long months in the garden shed.

The first night was rainy, cold and dark and I was incredibly, stupidly inebriated. Towards the end of the night, the end of my night anyway, the group realised that I'd been missing for 25 minutes, and a search party was sent forth. N found me in the toilet block, hugging the hand-drier for warmth and escorted me back to the tents. I went to bed - not to sleep, just to lie with eyes wide open wondering what exactly was walking around outside. I wasn't expecting a bear or anything, but when you're out of your comfort zone, even badgers start to seem menacing.

The second night was less rainy, less cold and less dark. This was mostly because we figured out how to turn the electricity on and so the 'get back to nature' element of our camping trip went straight out of the window. Electricity gave us light. It gave us heat. We stole a picnic bench and installed it in our gazebo. We even, in the true hunting and gathering spirit of our country-dwelling ancestors, ordered a Chinese takeaway. In short, we may as well have booked a hotel.

I'm not meant for the great outdoors. I'll never be able to do without walls, a bed, central heating. I'm too attached these creature comforts and little luxuries to find sleeping on the floor enjoyable. Give me supermarkets that don't close, a mind-boggling transport network and brick, glass and steel. I don't care if I can't see the stars or see through the exhaust fumes. Just don't make me sleep outside again; the badgers might get me.

On My Un-Futuristic Life

2010-10-21T21:31:00.006+01:00

I know that, coming from someone who goes on and on about nostalgia, the past and his difficult relationship with technology, this post may come across hypocritical.

The building I work in is a converted Victorian warehouse. I like this very much; I like how it seems to have been designed to confuse you, with floors that are completely bypassed by some of the staircases, basements nobody tells you about and odd little storage rooms that you have to crawl into because the ceilings are so low. Yesterday, when I returned to the building after my daily lunchtime stroll along Regent's Canal, the Star Wars theme was blaring from the post room. It seemed incredibly out of place, and I began to feel nostalgic - only for the future.

Bear with me, I will wrestle some sense out of the last sentence if it's the last thing I do. You see when I was growing up, this wasn't how I expected the future to be. And a lot of my expectations about what the world would be like when I was an adult were shaped by things like Star Wars. No, I didn't think I'd be living in space, but I imagined things would be somewhat more advanced than they are.

I'm not asking for much. I don't need to float around in a galaxy far, far away. I'd settle for a lift that works. I don't even need a spaceship with hyperdrive capabilities that can fly from one end of the universe to the other in seconds. I would like a tube train that can deliver me to work without running out of breath and sitting in a tunnel for 15 minutes while it recharges its batteries*. OK, I wouldn't say no if somebody offered me an omniscient little robot that can play videos, pick locks, electrocute people and repair machinery. But I do have an iPhone and there's probably apps for all these things already.

Perhaps I should be grateful - my boss, for example, is actually quite a nice bloke and not a mask-wearing tyrant who could kill me by waving at me. It's just if you'd asked 6-year old Tom what the world would be like in 2010 the response would probably have involved hoverboots, lasars and teleportation. After a period in which technology seemed to race forward at a rate of knots, spewing out world-changing inventions like the interweb and mobile phones like there was no tomorrow, doesn't it seem a bit quiet?

Perhaps I'm ignoring important developments. I do spend most of my day in a Victorian warehouse after all, the building would probably reject any technological development - which is perhaps why the lift doesn't work. It's like The Haunting. Please feel free to prove me wrong and restore what little faith I once had in technology. In the meantime, I'm off camping for the weekend (in Dorset, not the Dagobah System).

*Admittedly is nothing compared to the poor souls stuck on the Jubilee and Victoria lines this week.

On Faith-a-Faith-a-Faith

2010-10-18T04:27:00.004+01:00

Yes, that was a George Michael reference and yes, this is a post on religion. Well, my experience with religion. I'll do my best not to offend, which certainly isn't my intention, I've just been thinking due to not being able to sleep.

I've mentioned before, in passing, that I'm atheist. While I fully respect others' right to believe in something higher, it's not something I can really convince myself to believe. It hasn't always been this way; I grew up Roman Catholic. I was baptised and confirmed, I went to Catholic primary and secondary schools - I was even an altar boy until someone spilt candle wax in my hair. God, in short, was everywhere when I was growing up.

And then, all of a sudden, he wasn't. I'm not sure what it was, but all of a sudden, I no longer believed what I was being taught, in what I was saying. A lot of it is due to the lifestyle I lead being completely at odds with Catholic doctrine, but it wasn't only that. Whatever belief I had once possessed, vanished. I stopped paying and I stopped going to church. I stopped believing. *

Since then, apart from christenings, weddings and funerals, I've only been to a church once. It was when my mum rang me to tell me she was ill. I'm not sure why, but I decided the best course of action would be to jump on the bus and go to the church. I was probably looking for an answer, an explanation. I don't know really, it's a bit blurry. Anyway, when I arrived 20 minutes later, the church was locked. In my emotional state I decided that, if there was a supreme being watching over us, he evidently didn't have any time for me. [Don't worry; I do know this is stupid. For a start, you could argue that I'd already stopped believing in him so a trip to church was a bit pointless in the first place. Secondly, if God does exist, he's got his hands full and can't really take on management of the logistics and opening hours of his many houses.]

The reason I'm thinking about this now, is that I can't sleep and my mind is wandering. To be more specific, it's wandering to the night before my French GCSE exam. I remember not being able to sleep then, and praying for some shuteye and an easy exam the next day. Even now, when I'm nervous, anxious or frightened, part of me still attempts to contact a higher being to ask for help. It's what I did this morning. I almost prayed that an email I sent on Friday would not have the complicated consequences I've been afraid of all weekend.

Now, that's not the wax-covered altar boy within trying to get out. It's not an indication of suppressed religious belief. I think it's a comfort mechanism. It's one of the things I miss about having a faith; that in times of trouble, [I'm fighting the urge to say 'Mother Mary comes to me'] you have somewhere to turn - even if the problem you're fretting over is completely trivial. Even now, despite my avowed disbelief, I wear a St Christopher when I go on long journeys. Am I hoping that the patron saint of travellers will ward off any danger on my route? Perhaps. More likely though, is that it comforts me. Things like this make me feel better, like touching wood when I tempt fate.

I do hope I haven't offended anyone with my insomnia-fuelled drivel this morning. As I said at the beginning, I fully respect people's right to believe whatever they want, and part of me envies that belief, too. I look at my mum, and everything she's been through, and admire her ability to keep believing. It's just for me, it has never quite fit. That's why when people from the church come to give my mum the Eucharist on a Sunday I always decline when they offer. Maybe it would make me feel better if I accepted, but what's the point of going through the motions when there's no belief attached? What's the point in praying when I don't believe anyone is listening? Surely that's more disrespectful, if anything.

* I am now unable to sleep, and have Journey's Don't Stop Believing stuck in my head. This will not be a good day.

On Globalisation

2010-10-11T21:36:00.006+01:00

That's a sausage on my plate, not a huge turd. Honest.

I return, after what seems like an age, to the blogosphere. I've been away and unable to post; I spent last week in Frankfurt, Germany at the annual book fair. While the lack of Internet access initially traumatised me, I've returned from the fair somewhat inspired, and, unfortunately, with a dose of man-flu. I'm writing from my bed, a cup of tea of my left, hot water bottle to my right and the plate that once held my peanut butter sandwich somewhere on the floor. While I intend to drag this out for maximum sympathy, any magical remedies would be highly appreciated.

Back to the book fair. My days there consisted of the following; waking up late and running down to breakfast. Jumping on the train to the fair. Walking MILES to our stand and setting up our books. At 9, the first customers would arrive, and half-hour long meetings continue until 6. Every half an hour I'd repeat the same things, about the same books, sitting in the same chair. The only thing that changed was the face sitting in front of me.

This sounds, of course, incredibly dull and it can get really difficult. But I was saved from complete mental shutdown by my love of talking to people. Though I have embraced the Internet of late, e-mails really are no substitute for meeting someone face-to-face. Furthermore, the people I talk to come from all over the world. Each brings with them something of the place they come from; not a present for me, unfortunately, but a quirk, a mannerism, a way of speaking or acting that sets them apart from the people who sat in that seat before them.

Some live up to national stereotypes; an Italian arriving late, shouting apologies while kissing both cheeks. The French, with that air of class and aloofness, dressed impeccably and making me feel inferior before I even begin to slaughter their language with my rusty grammar.

Cultural differences are evident even from the titles people like and those that they don't. The Greek Easter is incredibly different to how we celebrate it here, so Easter-themed books don't really lend themselves to translation. There's not much snow in Argentina at Christmas, either. An Estonian customer told me that dinosaurs are hugely popular in the Czech Republic, and that books with trains in don't sell well in Estonia (he believes they may evoke painful memories of WWII and Soviet occupation). He actually went on to explain, on a rather large and unrelated tangent, that a recent survey discovered that Estonians drink more, per person, than every other country in Europe with the exception of the Czech Republic. The government arranged a campaign highlighting this, urging people to think about how much they drink and try to cut down. It had the opposite effect; apparently the populace was rather annoyed about coming second so put more thought into what they weren't drinking.

My mental wandering while I was away reminded me of the two weeks I spent in the mountains in northern Italy in 2005. I walked along a mountain road, from village to village (read: from bar to bar) asking for information about the local area, as part of a project I had to complete. What I heard surprised me; there were differences in dialect between villages, even though they were only a kilometre or two apart from each other. I remember thinking of them as countries on a miniature continent; linked by things they have in common, but never the same.

I hope I haven't caused any offence; I know that not all Italians are unable to arrive on time, and that national stereotypes are too often false, bigoted and used for evil means. I know also that the Estonian's comments are his own, and have no idea about how true they may be. But the experience as a whole left me feeling hopeful. We talk about globalisation, fear the erosion of culture and the spread of the English language across the world. We envisage a time when the world is depressingly uniform, grey and unexciting. But everyone I met had something different about them. Each nationality differed from the others, in one way or another. And then each person is so much more than a citizen of the country in which they live; they have their own quirks and personalities that set them apart. I feel reassured, if anything, that the world is far from being dominated by one single culture, and maintains the differences that make it such an interesting and colourful place to live. And even if the borders disappeared and all the countries of the world were absorbed into a huge and happy federation, the differences between us as people would be enough to ensure that we'd never get bored.

I promise to write something more coherent shortly, when my man-flu *cough cough* is cured. In the meantime, if you're looking for a good read on a Monday or Friday, I recommend the Transatlantic Support Group, which is a collaborative effort with two great bloggers, Allison (who will post on Mondays) and Lauren (who will post on Fridays). I will post on Wednesdays, but given my current inability to think, let alone write, sensibly I recommend you check their posts out first so as not to be put off! Plus I'm a bit scared to be sandwiched between two such interesting and entertaining people. There's a better explanation on the blog, so skip over and have a gander, if you feel so inclined.

On Walking [and almost singing] In The Rain

2010-09-29T21:07:00.004+01:00

The train sat at Barbican, stubbornly refusing to move despite the chorus of sighs, tuts and four-letter words emanating from the rain-soaked commuters crammed within. After some time, the driver's voice crept sheepishly from the PA system,

"Due to signalling problems in the Moorgate area, this train will now terminate at the next station." A ripple of frustration and anger spread like wildfire through the carriage. I tried to immerse myself in it, to force myself to dread the 15 minute walk from Moorgate to Fenchurch Street in the rain. But I couldn't. The fact is, and I've mentioned this before, this my kind of weather.

The half-hearted groan I attempted as I stepped off of the train wouldn't have convinced even the least travel-hardened commuter, but I thought I should at least try to fit in. Inside, I relished the prospect of the soggy stroll ahead. My friends in Italy decided my love of rain was an anglosaxon trait, but I really don't think that this is the case. Any of you who are British or have British friends will have probably been subjected to many a lengthy moan about the weather. It's one the nation's favourite conversation topics, I think. And while I can often be heard whining about how effing hot it is, I think I'm definitely in a minority when it comes to my appreciation of the wet stuff.

Despite being traditionally thought of as gloomy and miserable and grey, rain makes me smile. I love seeing the raindrops leap into the air as they rebound of the pavement, and the way it makes the city shine in reflected light. Everything looks nicer in the rain. It amazes me that the ripples in puddles and splashes on the floor seem to be in time with whatever my iPod has chosen to play me. It's like magic. Then there's the patter of rain on the roof, which is one of my favourite noises, especially in cars when it's coupled with the sound of windscreen wipers. I've even started to enjoy the extra care rain forces you take; a leap over an unexpected puddle, for example, or the precision involved in staying upright as you slide like Bambi on ice over a wet station concourse. And then there's the politics involved in wielding an umbrella.

Take this evening for example; the pavement was narrow. A woman with a golf umbrella was coming towards me. Neither of us knew how to act. A collision seemed inevitable. I made a decision just in time; I'd lift my umbrella up, so her ridiculously oversized one could pass underneath. However, I hadn't considered the fact that the woman was a giant and about twice my height so, even with my arm at full length, my reasonably sized umbrella still connected with her's. At least she laughed, and didn't poke me in the eye with it.

Even this awkwardness wasn't enough to ruin my good mood. I felt like skipping through the puddles and twirling my umbrella. If I had a glass handy, I'd raise it, right now, to a few more joyous months of rain [check back in two months to witness me take this back].

On the Old Days

2010-09-26T10:27:00.005+01:00

My friend recently went to a Blitz Party. 1940s fancy dress was compulsory, the venue was a warehouse decked out like an air raid shelter and a swing band played on stage.

Predominantly, I love it. I think it's a great idea. I'm a massive fan of anything retro, vintage or slightly past its sell-by-date. My dream home, in fact, will need to incorporate the following:

a phone with a dial instead of buttons,
a door-knocker, not a bell.
a hatstand
a globe

[I'd also like a gramophone, but I understand that, sometimes, practicality must be considered.]

However, part of me felt that maybe it could be slightly bad taste. Is it wrong for people who have grown up in times of relative peace and plenty to go out on the lash dressed as 1940s Londoners who faced hunger, loss and even death?

I swiftly concluded that I was being ridiculous. Who would want to go to a party that accurately depicted the 1940s? An evening of rationing, blackouts and the threat of war does not sound like much of a laugh. But what these parties are doing, in a way, is highlighting the things we miss that their generation had in abundance. A sense of community, for example. Glamour. The ability to get by on what little was available rather than needing everything immediately and paying for it with borrowed money. The music; dancing in pairs rather than sweating out in groups to a bass line that makes your brain ache. They may have had less, and faced dangers that we don't, but they lived.

As I thought about this on my what home, I realised that's the way the world works. Each generation carries its good and its bad to the next. The new generation adapts its inheritance - the fashions, the lifestylyes, the opinions - to fit in with their situation. And I suppose it will be no different for us; our hopes and fears will be carried over and kept, changed or discared as the younger generation sees fit. Perhaps in 50 years they'll do the same for us; a Global Recession Party, dress like bankers and G20 protesters. We're all in it together, I suppose - the women who held the fort in WW2, the bankers who sent the world into economic meltdown and the hipsters of the future, whizzing around on their space bikes and jet packs. We're all involved in a massive struggle, centuries of trial and error, to make the world a better place. I'm off to book tickets for the next Blitz Party. It's not bad taste at all; bad taste would be forgetting.

On Dreams

2010-09-20T22:40:00.003+01:00

I worry an incredible amount. Earlier this week I received a work email that sent me into a wild panic and looks set to make my life a misery for at least the next month. As I read it, I could hear the blood pumping through my veins. My colleagues' conversations became background white noise. My stomach churned. And that night I didn't sleep.

In actual fact it's really not that big a deal, but worrying comes naturally to me. It's my talent. My superpower, if you will. It's not just work I worry about - it's family, friends, the future, the past... I'm worrying about you now. Yes, you. Are you bored? Am I coming across as pretentious? Are you even there? Is anybody out there? It's no wonder I'm going grey.

But fear not; for I have discovered an incredible truth. But in order to explain it, I need to tell you about the 'dream' I had the other night, before the aforementioned insomnia began.

In brief, I was at a school fete with my friend [Stacey Slater from BBC's Eastenders] when I realised I had no money. Stacey suggested I borrow some money from the Loan Shark Stall. 'How handy' I thought, as I skipped off in the loan shark's direction. He lent me £14, to pay back at the end of the fete. I stress here that no other terms or conditions were mentioned. He later tracked me down and informed me that I now owed £15.40. 10% interest was to be added to the initial sum every hour it remained unpaid [I'm actually quite impressed that my subconcious can work out percentages when I can rarely do it when I'm awake]. I protested, but the bloke was massive and mean-looking so I went to pay him back and get the hell away. But the stall was abandoned. Stacey told me to leave the money there, so I did, and we left. Before long, however, we were being chased through back alleys and side streets by an angry loan shark demanding more money. He caught up with me, pushed me against a wall and punched me in the chin. Then, I woke up.

Because I'm addicted to the snooze button on my phone, I immediately went back to sleep and had a weird 2 minute mini-dream about my teeth falling out. In my dream, I was completely unfazed by my sudden lack of teeth and went to work anyway.

When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I was shocked to discover that my chin actually hurt where the loan shark had hit me. This can only mean one thing; that - Stacey, the loan shark and the school fete - is my reality. This - work issues, greying hair and the football team I support beset with injuries - is my dream-world. Yes, this may well be a little bit Inceptionesque, but it's the only logical way to explain it. Upon realising this, I felt strangely liberated; all this work and woe was just a dream. In a few hours I'd 'wake up' and return to the world where I'm a crazy, cool, calm and collected individual who rubs shoulders with celebs and isn't even bothered when his teeth fall out. I am that man.

According to my colleagues, I am not that man at all - I have merely lost the plot. And of course they are right. But I'm in the middle of a period of what-the-fuck-am-I doing-with-my-life angst*, as are the writers of many of the blogs I read and it was nice, for a moment, to think that I wasn't really me and that I wasn't really here. And that whatever happens to me during the day, I can wake up from at night.

* Would that be existential angst? I'm not sure it would be, because I'm not worried by the fact that I exist, but that my existence is so rubbish. I studied French philosophy but have a habit of burying things that make my brain ache as soon as I don't need them any more.

On Leigh-on-Sea

2010-09-13T22:36:00.005+01:00

My favourite Beatles song is probably In My Life. I think it perfectly captures the way it feels to look back and realise that the things around you have changed [forever, not for better], without you even realising it. And yet, at the same time, it reminds you of the importance of the things that have remained, and the things that are important now. It's a song that has struck a chord with me on numerous occasions, not least on Saturday afternoon.

This weekend I went to a town called Leigh-on-Sea for the annual Regatta. Actually, when I say I went to Leigh for the Regatta, what I mean is that I went to Leigh to soak up the atmosphere of the Regatta while soaking up more than my fair share of alcohol. I used to go out in Leigh a lot more often than I do now. When I worked in Southend I'd go at least once a week, always to the same pub. It's a place with character, with a stone floor, nautical decor and a balcony that looks out over the Thames Estuary. Should you ever find youself in the area, you'll find it at the end of the cobbled street of cottages, fish n' chip shops and boozers that make up Old Leigh's high street, just before you get to the beach. Although the frequency of my visits has decreased, I still go there a for a few pints every now then, and usually spend at least part of the night wallowing in nostalgia.

Saturday was no different, only this time the nostalgia hit while I was having a wee, which it hasn't done before [please forgive my crassness]. In brief, for I wouldn't want to go into too much detail here, I used to have a favourite urinal in this pub. It was at the end of the row, in front of a broken window at head height that was most effective at clearing alcohol-fuelled fogginess. On the wooden window-frame, someone had scrawled "TOMMY P IS A SLAG" - there is nothing like an inspirational quote to ponder while...erm...otherwise engaged. The toilets have since been redecorated and, while the glass has been replaced and the woodwork given a new coat of paint, the memory doesn't fade. Tommy P's apparently promiscuous antics are yesterday's news, replaced with new graffitti for a new age [nowadays all the cool kids are writing about how Domenico and Miguel are wankers. Again, an inspiration]. The pub has changed, small changes over time that have slowly transformed the place so that it's no longer quite the same as it was.

I headed back to my table and looked at the people I was sitting with. Familiar faces; some of whom were there the first time I ever came to this pub. There were others who I've only recently met and am yet to get to know properly. And then I thought of the people who used to be there, and have since gone their separate ways. Like the pub, the group has gained, lost and retained. Things have changed, yet remained the same.

At that moment, just as I was ready to succumb to a wave of nostalgia, reach for my iPod and listen to the Beatles, N came back with a Jagerbomb and business returned to normal. It was only when I found a photo on my phone of the abuse directed at poor Domenico that I remembered that this chain of thought had even occurred. But the nostalgia isn't something I should be depressed by. I have had some amazing times with some amazing people in that pub, I had a fantastic time there on Saturday and I hereby swear to carry on doing so in future.

So despite everything that's changed, and as the Beatles say, I know I'll never lose affection for the people and things that went before. And for the people and things that are still around; in my life, I love you all.

On The Day The Tube Stood Still

2010-09-07T22:16:00.007+01:00

Well, God knows it had been a slow start to the week, news-wise. Page 4 of Monday's Metro had a full-page feature on a carrot that looked like Buzz Lightyear. Not so yesterday morning; thanks to the ever-belligerent Bob Crow and his industrial action. London's journalists had plenty to write about - from praising the 'Dunkerque Spirit' shown by disgruntled commuters to scanning Twitter for the most interesting updates; the tube strike dominated the news sites and headlines.

I get the Underground to work, so the fact that all but one of the lines were suspended left me with something of a dilemma. Do I cram myself onto an already over-capacity bus? Or maybe I should pull a sicky, avoid it altogether? Too much effort and too obvious, respectively. Instead, I decided to walk from Fenchurch St to my office, in King's Cross. This would take about an hour, but would guarantee me impressive bragging rights when swapping "how-did-you-get-in" stories with my colleagues. "''You let 3 buses go? WELL, I hiked. For miles. 3.8 of them. Hiked, I say."

The walk itself was great; through the City skyscrapers, on past St Paul's Cathedral, up through Barbican and Farringdon. And because I'd left early, I saw the city waking up; tables being set up outside cafes, streets being swept, traders at Smithfields Meat Market with forklifts full of raw beef. Or chicken. Or whatever it was - I had to step over a puddle of blood which I wasn't prepared for so early in the morning. But all in all I enjoyed it, and so felt rather smug when I passed a tiny picket line outside Kings Cross. "Strike all you want," I thought, "I don't give a shit because that walk was well nice. I could do that all the time." [I swiftly came to my senses and realised that there is no way in hell that I would walk that far everyday, and kept my thoughts to myself].

In fact, my love of The Walk didn't even last a whole day. By the time half-past five rolled around (and it took its sweet time) I really couldn't be arsed. Instead, I decided to join the scrum of people waiting outside King's Cross for access to the one tube line that was operating a good service. 20 minutes later, I was carried along by a stampede of commuters as they rushed to the platform, and three minutes after that, I'd wedged myself onto a train. It was one of those journeys where the handrails might as well not be there - it was so packed that the train could have rolled down a hill and I wouldn't have moved an inch. Returning to the surface at Moorgate was blissful.

Finally I made it home, having experienced two ends of the spectrum; a leisurely morning stroll to work, and a boiling hot, claustrophobic tube ride home. As much as I think some of the headlines were slightly sensationalist and over-the-top, I can't deny that they have a point. Everyone in my office turned up for work and I don't know anybody who couldn't make it in. That's pretty good going if you ask me.

And the fact is the tube workers strike too often for me to feel any sympathy with them. They are paid very well, and to strike because redundancies may be made in a time that's seeing the whole country tighten its belt seems slightly selfish to me. However, they can cause massive disruption and do so at least once a year. I'm pleased this time the papers focussed more on people's determination to get about on foot, on bikes and by boat and bus, regardless than on the picket lines and scenes of chaos. Plus, managed to beat a bus full of people down Gray's Inn Road because of the traffic. Admittedly I was almost running by the end and the bus driver wasn't actually racing me, just me racing him, but I got a sense of achievement from my victory nonetheless.

On Horror

2010-09-05T00:58:00.004+01:00

My choice of film has recently been the subject of criticism. In brief, I've been accused of having an exceedingly narrow mind when it comes to choosing what to watch. Apparently, I will only admit to enjoying films that aren't in the English language [*cough* Bollocks! *cough*] and, according to my brother and N, I need to broaden my cinematic horizons from World Cinema and watch more mainstream films. If you ask me, that's a contradiction in terms and can only make my selection less varied, but I agreed in order to combat this assassination of my character.

The first genre of which I was deemed particularly ignorant was horror, so it was agreed that we would each choose one horror film, and watch them back-to-back. I had one condition: no torture porn. So I sat down yesterday evening with three DVDs (The Omen, Pontypool and Paranormal Activity), too much popcorn and a cushion to hide behind should the demons, zombies and the apostates of Hell get too much for me.

The fact that I haven't watched many horror films in the past is not, contrary to popular belief, because I think them unworthy. The fact is, they too often scare the shit out of me and I'm not very manly in my reactions. Despite being a complete wimp, however, I can't deny that it is fun to do. There's something about the adrenaline rush you get from horror films that isn't equalled by any other genre, and come to think of it, it's a thrill I'd never seek out in real life, either - you won't find me prowling dark alleys or graveyards in the dead of night looking for something to terrify me, thank you very much. It's all a bit odd really. I mean if fear is a natural reaction, designed to make us run as fast we can in the other direction, what are we getting out of putting ourselves through the nail-biting, blood-curdling, sleep-depriving scenes that we watch? Is that not a bit like self-flagellation? Why force yourself to be uncomfortable?

Perhaps it's meant to provide an escape from the monotony of reality - maybe we look to horror films to provide us with a surge of adrenaline that we don't get anywhere else. And, because the action unfolds behind a screen, we get the rush without the danger. I'd go with this - and add to the theory that, as the setting of horror films is usually rural US towns, I feel extra safe. I mean the chances of being allowed onto a plane with a chainsaw are slim, and I don't think demons have passports. I've also heard that horror films are often looked at challenges to overcome - endurance tests. This is, apparently, why horror is particularly popular with teenage boys - sitting through two hours of blood, guts and gore is a way proving their masculinity [perhaps this is where I went wrong - at their age I was probably still watching and re-watching Pretty Woman]. Others watch horror solely for the sense of relief at the end, the calm after the storm has passed.

While I'm not sure of the reason behind the popularity of the horror genre, I will admit to enjoying the films I watched last night. Perhaps the plan is working and soon I'll be horror movie buff, able to sit through all manner of torture scenes without flinching. But that's a long way off. In the meantime, I'm off to watch some more Almodóvar [my director of choice at the moment]. I need to watch something nice, something colourful, something relaxing. I didn't sleep last night you see; it's quite difficult with the light on.

On A Bird's Eye View

2010-08-31T21:18:00.004+01:00

It's two weeks before Christmas, and my dad has just told me what he's bought for my aunt and uncle; a microlight flight.

"Ha." I say, grinning. "Nice one. I would hate that. HATE it." In hindsight, this was a mistake, because it convinced my dad that booking me my very own microlight flight would be a really funny thing to do. I should know better by now; admitting any kind of weakness or vulnerability will never escape unpunished. Come Christmas morning, impressed I was not as I peeled open the envelope to find a voucher 'congratulating' me on my first flight in what I've since heard described as 'a lawnmower engine with wings'. I joked about the need to sort out my Last Will and Testament before going, but in all honesty that was the least of my worries. My biggest fear was actually fainting on the way up and spending the whole flight unconcious, dribbling over the edge. With a father like mine, I would never hear the end of it.

Well, yesterday, I did it. I spent 20 minutes flying over an immense patchwork quilt of fields, gardens, playgrounds, car parks and forests. On one side was the green Essex countryside, stretching towards the horizon, on the other the grey urban sprawl of London. I saw the Thames flowing lazily past busy docks, under bridges and then snaking around Canary Wharf, out of view and on towards Westminster, the sunlight dancing on its surface.

I have been in a plane before, but this was different. For a start it's lower, and smaller. You're exposed to the elements and your view is more or less unimpaired. I realise now that my perception of the geography of the region in which I live was incredibly skewed. I had no idea where we were flying until I could pinpoint landmarks; a windmill, a shopping centre, a pier or a station.

It didn't just sort out my abismal sense of direction, but also gave me a renewed respect for the world around us and how it works. I mean the man-made stuff, the logistics. We're so dependent on things that we don't know exist or take for granted - things like water treatment plants or electricity grids. Huge roads and railway lines carving their way through town and countryside. Tiny little cars whizzing around tiny little roundabouts, giving way at tiny little junctions. So many connections, exchanges, rules, systems. And that's just infrastructure; concrete, tactile and in-your-face. As soon as I started thinking about all the hundreds of houses, all the thousands of people, all the millions of thoughts, actions and conversations, my head was ready to explode.

And this was just a miniscule glimpse of part of the world; a tiny snapshot in an immense collage of millions of others, no one the same as any other. At one point we flew over a huge container ship waiting to be unloaded at the docks - a ship that probably contained goods from all over the world - from faraway lands with their very own roads, landmarks and fathers who think it's amusing to scare the shit out of their first-born sons.

I've always thought an experience like this would make me feel powerful, but it had the opposite effect. Rather than making the most of being on top of the world, I felt lucky to be living in it.

On A Wake-up Call

2010-08-28T18:04:00.006+01:00

I have a feeling I'm going to shoot myself in the foot here. You see, I've never written about what I'm going to write about today for a reason. That reason is that I'm very grateful to the people who read what I write, and I really don't want to depress the fuck out of you, or leave you thinking that I should man up and stop whining about my piddly little problems. But it's been a funny week - three nights out on the town have left me with little capacity for rational or creative thought so I'm left with nothing to work with but what's on my mind right now which isn't, unfortunately, particularly uplifting. Consider also the fact that for the last hour I've been listening to a good-mood-wrecking mixture of Damien Rice, Radiohead and a sprinkling of Slipknot and you'll realise that I am far from being a happy bunny.

On Wednesday, the mighty Fulham FC beat Port Vale 6 goals to 0 to advance into the third round of the Carling Cup. Money woes owing to the aforementioned string of late nights had prevented me from attending, so I spent the night in front of the telly, with my mother, living on the edge. My mum has multiple sclerosis which, as you may know, is pretty rough. Every week a physiotherapist visits to discuss how she's getting on and force her to do exercises. In an effort to tear my eyes from one of the gruesome hospital dramas that make up a large part of mum's staple TV viewing, I asked her how the physio went. She said she'd told the nurse, for the first time, about these shooting pains she gets in her face. They're completely unpredictable and, according to the physio, are on a list of warning signs that can lead to suicide among MS sufferers.

Fear not, there's no danger of that happening and that's not where this post is going, but finding out how bad these pains can be did come as a shock. My mum has had them for years and years and as much as I hate saying this, I'd become almost completely desensitised. I'd grown so used to seeing it happen that I didn't react to it like I once did - in fact, I barely reacted at all. But hearing what the physio said knocked me for six. The fact is, I'm able to detach myself, while my mum is stuck with it and I feel incredibly guilty for letting myself get to the point where I'd just stopped paying attention. So while she has been putting up with something that can be bad enough to push people over the edge, I was, basically, ignoring it. I'm not a complete bastard though, I promise. It just became normal. As normal as hearing someone sneeze, or something like that.

It's a difficult situation; to an extent you have to build up some sort of resistance. If the poor cow burst into tears every time she was affected by one of the many symptoms of the MS, she'd flood the house. And it's the same for me, my dad and my brother; it wouldn't be right for us to cause a massive fuss every time something happened, either. I do feel, however, that I'd taken my eye off the ball of late, I'd got a bit too relaxed. As it turns out, I suppose the lightning bolt from the physio was just what I needed. I should thank her - thank her for scaring the living shit out of me and reminding me of the seriousness of my mum's condition. My mum is strong, and she's brave and there's not much I can do to help her. I can, however, make sure I'm actually paying attention. I can make sure I don't forget how tough things can be for her. And I can make sure she knows that.

I can also turn Radiohead off, as I feel less miserable now. I believe that's called catharsis?

On Science

2010-08-23T23:40:00.004+01:00

DISCLAIMER: Abandon hope all ye who continue, for what follows is sure to be complete gibberish.

I can't sleep. During my week off I would happily have nodded off at ten o'clock every night. Now that I have to start getting up early again, I've been hit with a bout of insomnia. Like Faithless, I can't get no sleep.

So, rather than allow itself to fall into sleep's sweet embrace, my mind has been racing, darting from one bizarre thought to the next. For a while, I tried translating random sentences into French and Italian, then stopped in case the family began to worry about the multilingual [and in all likelihood grammatically incorrect] whisperings emanating from their firstborn's dark bedroom. Instead, I opened the curtains and looked out at the sky. At first I could only see three stars, but, when after staring at one for a while, more emerged from the darkness until there were...more. Loads of the little blighters, all twinkling away, sometimes visible, sometimes not.

At times like this [and by 'this' I mean past my bedtime and incapable of any logical thought] I think we know too much. There was a time when stars were there to be wished upon, to navigate by and to predict the future for us. They were dot-to-dot depictions of famous heroes and monsters. Stories written across the sky. They were 'the heavens'. Nowadays, they're giant balls of gas. Lovely. Where's the romance in that? Where's the mystery? I'm concerned, you see, that science is sucking the fun out of the world around us when to be honest I'd settle for the Lion King Theory on Astronomy [which states, if I remember correctly, that stars are dead lions in the sky]. Even that's better than a gasball, a celestial fart.

And it doesn't stop at the stars, which I seem to be somewhat obsessed with lately. Mankind has always tried to make sense of things that seemed beyond understanding. The Ancient Greeks explained the seasons with a story involving a kidnapping, a mother's heartache and a glimmer of hope at the end. Thunder in Scandinavia was the crash of Thor's hammer, and Northern Ireland's Giant's Causeway was a bridge to Scotland for, well, giants. Now it's an interesting volcanic rock formation. The actual science behind all of these things seems sterile in comparison to colourful, emotive myths and legends. It's a bit like opening a really nicely wrapped present to find something really quite dull inside.

But I suppose that's because I don't have a scientific mind. I really don't. I don't think I'm bright enough and I'm definitely too easily distracted. I'm sure those that are lucky enough to possess an interest in the real world think I'm being ridiculous - which is completely right, I am ridiculous. Science is an amazing thing; it has worked miracles, saved countless lives and even enabled me to bore you all with this post. It just doesn't seem as much fun to my childish, easily-confused little mind. So scientists, you intelligent and rational folk you, please accept my thanks for all your hard graft. I'll continue to enjoy the benefits you bring, but please don't be offended if I still refuse to walk under ladders, occasionally read my horoscope and secretly believe that fairies live at the end of my garden.

On Time Off

2010-08-22T11:48:00.005+01:00

I have been dreading tomorrow all week. Today is my last day of freedom, my last day without work.

I've had a week off. What fun activities have I participated in? Which interesting places have I visited? None. My week was filled with a glorious nothingness; a lazy, slow-moving, so-chilled-I'm-frozen, so-relaxed-I'm-comatose week to break up the monotony of months in employment.

I'll admit that 'nothingness' is a stretch - I did see friends and even, on the odd occasion, leave the house - but you understand the point I'm trying to make, I think. For the past five days I have been so far removed from my usual daily routine that I've lost contact with the outside world. Like Major Tom, I am sitting in a tin can and Ground Control can't reach me. Because I'm drifting. That's how it feels. I haven't had to fight my way through King's Cross in five whole days (nine, if you count the weekends). I haven't woken up to the stomach-churning realisation that I should already be on a train and not in my bed. And, as I haven't passed any of the legions of people giving out free newspapers, I'm even a bit confused as to what's happening in the world. I am cut-off. Completely.

Until tomorrow morning, when the dance begins again. I'm a bit nervous of the state my inbox will be in when I get back to work. I'm also worried about not getting up on time. However, what I'm most concerned about is the fact that my time in exile has left me with a much slower walk. How am I to keep up with the crowds of commuters with this new dawdle I've developed? I suppose I can just pretend to be a tourist until I get back up to speed - that will also give me time to brush up on tutting at people when they stop in front of me. So, here we go, out of bed and back to reality.

Tut.

On Villainy

2010-08-19T09:46:00.005+01:00

The BBC recently produced a modern take on the Sherlock Holmes stories. It's fantastic; almost everyone I know has watched it, and loved it. It's only three episodes long [with more to come next year] and I don't think I'll be spoiling the story for anyone if I tell you that in the last episode Sherlock Holmes' arch-nemesis Moriarty makes his first appearence. True to form, the mad little Scotsman has now become my favourite character. He's absolutely insane. Last week, I was talking about my intense admiration for him to my colleague [informing her that I shall henceforth be known as Tomiarty] when I was struck by the realisation that I never root for the good guys. I almost always prefer the characters I'm supposed to hate. Why do I set myself up for such disappointment? Because let's be honest, the bad guys are never going to win, but despite the tall odds, I've always found myself more attached to them.

For a long time my favourite book was Les Liaisons Dangereuses, whose protagonists the Vicomte de Valmont and the Marquise de Merteuil, two bored, devious French aristocrats, amuse themselves by ruining other people's honour and reputations. They are incredibly nasty and sound like they would be too much fun on a night out. I was in awe of them and their evil games, of their heartlessness and complete lack of consideration of the consequences that befall the people they seduce.

Then I discovered Dracula, and decided I wanted him to be my new best friend. He's brutal, dark and from another time. I read this before vampires became brooding, sensitive and sexy and, while both approaches have their merits, Bram Stoker's vision is infinitely more frightening than that ginger bird in Twilight. I sympathised with him, I did. I understood his yearning for the former glory of his house, and his struggle to find a place in the modern world. The poor bloke - yes he kills people and drinks their blood, but come on, give him a break; he's got a lot on his mind.

Come to think of it, before I even knew these books existed I was devouring the Chronicles of Narnia by CS Lewis. I've lost count of how many times I've read The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. My favourite part was not when Aslan is resurrected [yawn] or when the Pevensies are crowned at Cair Paravel [snore] but when the White Witch calls all the ghosts, witches and monsters to fight for her cause. It read like a list, a list of creatures I'd never even heard of before; I looked up 'incubus' in the dictionary and couldn't sleep for a week afterwards. Her insane jealousy and megalomania makes her, in my opinion, one of the best villains ever written.

I tend to find the good guys quite boring. During the Lord of the Rings trilogy I developed such a hatred of the scences with Frodo and Sam that I think I could have given Sauron a run for his money. However, this isn't always the case. Take Batman for example - he's a crimefighter, a do-gooder but I like him. I like him because he's motivated by revenge and loss. This is good - not for him, but for me. I think perhaps this is what I look for - some sort of imbalance, or motivation other than 'I want everybody to live happily ever after. All you need is love." Yes, I think that's it. Show me a character driven by the greater good or the fate of humankind and I'll tell you to jog on. Show me somebody driven by greed, power, revenge or guilt and I'll be cheering from the sidelines, albeit with the realistic assumption that I'm not on the winning team.

PS Please note that my admiration for the bad guys does not extend to reality. I don't support real evil doers, only made up ones.

On Stars

2010-08-14T21:59:00.010+01:00

When I was young, my nan used to come and visit from her house in Fulham. She would sit in the garden for half an hour each evening, looking up at stars, and tell me how many more there were here than she was used to. I thought this was probably bollocks, until a random road trip with N in Cagliari allowed me to see the night sky as it should be seen. It's incredible, really. Absolutely mental. There are so many more stars up there than I can ever see at home. I can see about two. Well, that's a slight exaggeration - I can always see Orion, and the constellation that looks like a saucepan, but that's about it.

There was a great deal of talk last week about a spetacular meteor shower that was supposed to have been visible all over the UK. As I'm normally unable to appreciate the Great Big Light Show In The Sky, I was really quite up for it. And I wasn't the only one; the Facebook status of one of my brother's friends read:
"Sitting in the garden watching the meteor shower with a glass of baileys."

I'll put my surprise at his choice of tipple to one side for now, and concentrate on the biggest issue I have with this here status. You see, we live under the flight path to London Stansted and I believe my brother's friend was talking rubbish. He was watching aeroplanes, not comets. That's the only explanation I can offer. I looked for the meteors myself and there was nothing there. Nothing at all.

As I drunkenly made my way home on Thursday night, beered up and ready for bed, I stopped and had a look. Nothing. 'Perhaps it's a quiet period,' I thought, 'A dry spell.' I was torn between my desire to get home and the hope of seeing a shooting star. Anyone in possession of common sense would have made a choice; either keep walking or keep staring at the stars. I, on the other hand, decided on a compromise: I strode forward with my head bent right back looking up at the sky. In this way I could ensure that I would reach home at a decent hour without having to miss out. Looking back, it's nothing short of a miracle that I made it home in one piece, as I had no idea what was in front of me; I could only be sure that there was absolutely sod all above me. It's so unreasonable; I risked my life for those bloody comets and they didn't even have the decency to show up. That's it, Night Sky, we're done.

On iDependence

2010-08-05T22:08:00.010+01:00

My ongoing battle with my iPod has been well documented, but I've always been fond of my iPhone, with which I've experienced very few problems. At times I've even been proud of the little fellow; as I was when it transformed a dreadfully ordinary daytime shot of the Thames into the psychadelic masterpiece above. Alas, it would seem that this period of plain sailing has been nothing but a honeymoon period. The calm before the storm. There isn't actually anything wrong with my phone - my worries stem from a concern that it's too advanced. It knows too much.

Yesterday was a prime example. Having reconciled with my great love, Beer, and put our lovers' tiff behind us, I rang N after work to see if he fancied a pint. "Sure," he said, "where?" I was in Farringdon, N works in Old Street - there was about a mile between us. I said I'd come to him, as his office is in close proximity to très-trendy Shoreditch. Alas, I then made a grave error; I muttered the moronic phrase "I'll use my map app to figure out how to get there." BOOM. I had exposed my vulnerability. My iPhone, realising my pathetic dependence on it, swiftly - and smugly - switched itself off. The official reason given was low battery - but I know this to be untrue. The iPhone knew that without its knowledge of life, the universe and everything, I was up shit creek without a paddle.

My desperate attempts to turn it back on failed and I descended into a blind panic. My vision blurred, my head was pounding with the noise of other commuters chattering into their better-behaved mobile phones. Cursing the phone with a string of four letter words that turned the air around me blue, I darted towards a phone box; a red beacon of hope, so often ignored. I threw the door open, grabbed the phone and inserted 50p.

"60p minimum", said the little screen. "YOU BASTARD. YOU BIG RED GREEDY BASTARD." I thought. There, under the gaze of several prostitutes staring down from postcards stuck on the walls, I rifled through my ManBag for change. Success. Another pound. I rang N. Typically, there was no answer. As the money remaining decreased at an incredible speed, I left a rushed message explaining the situation and asked him to be patient - I would get there, I needed the beer - but I might be late as I had no idea where I was.

Leaving the phonebox behind, I began my trek. I happened across a streetmap showing my current location and I did something I haven't done in a long time - I read the map and, not knowing where the next map would be, I commited the street names to memory. It felt strange - I may as well have been using a compass or navigating my course by the stars. But I did it. Despite having to revert to such primitive techniques as using my own initiative, I found my way to Old Street Station where N was waiting with a pint of sweet amber nectar.

So in your face, smug iPhone, in your face. I don't need you. I love you, and enjoy having you - but I don't need you. Now, kindly update me on what's been happening in the world, check my e-mail, warn me of any tube delays and suggest a decent restaurant within 2 miles. Much obliged.

PS I've just responded to about two weeks' worth of comments on previous posts - sincerest apologies, I wasn't ignoring them! PROMISE!

On Beer

2010-08-01T20:53:00.003+01:00

Dearest Beer,

We've known each other for longer than I care to remember. You've stuck by me through thick and thin, through good times and bad - and I'll never forget that. You might not like what I'm about to say, but what sort of friend would I be if I only ever told you things that you want to hear? No, I have to get this off my chest.

I often find myself thinking about the good times we've shared - all the beer gardens, gigs and parties. But lately, Beer, you've changed. It's hard to put my finger on exactly how, but I'm starting to get the impression that you really don't like me. Take last night for example, I thought we were getting on well. I was enjoying myself and thought you were too. So why have you landed me with this god-awful headache? Are you happy that I spent this morning either wrapped around the toilet bowl or hanging my head out of the car window? Was it your intention to render me unable to stand up without feeling an urgent need to vomit? What did I do to you to deserve this? You were never this bad, before. We used to be so happy, but this vengefulness and spite you have exhibited of late is getting too much for me to bear.

I'll be brutally honest, else what's the point in even writing this. I'm thinking of leaving you. There was a time, not so long ago, in which I couldn't have lived without you - but you're not the only one in my life now. I could spend more time with Wine, perhaps. We've met a few occasions and get on well enough - though it is generally quieter, restrained and more sophisticated than when you and I are together. Or Whisky, although I'm not sure I could handle the aggression all the time. Whisky is mad. This is what upsets me most; we're pretty much perfect for each other, you and I. I don't want to abandon you but you're pushing me away and I just don't have the energy to fight back.

Please - I beg you - let me know whether there's any chance we can return to the fun-filled, carefree days of my youth. Perhaps we can still make this work? I'm willing to try, if you are.

With love,

T

PS As I'm already writing to you, I wonder if you could stop doing that thing where you make me forget everything. It's not on. I would have liked a few memories of my cousin's wedding reception to cherish but you wouldn't even give me that, would you? Selfish bastard.

On Language

2010-07-30T20:00:00.000+01:00

Today I received news that the company I work for are considering paying towards a Spanish language course for me. This got me thinking.

Once upon a time, there was a tribe of cavemen, cavewomen and cavebabies who lived in an nice area that would one day be known as England. They communicated using gestures, facial expressions and grunting which suited them just fine. Until one day, from the mist and darkness that surrounded their home, they heard one of their number shout 'ROCK'. He had returned from the hunt not with mammoth for dinner (which his wife had specifically requested) but with his newly-christened pebble and a word. At roughly the same time, not so far away - just a hop, skip and a jump across the Caveman Channel - another brainy caveman (this time a cavehomme) returned with a similar object and shouted 'PIERRE!'

This happened all over the place, with every brainy cavehombre, caveuomo and caveotoko coming up with a different sound to describe the object in his hands. And lo, language was born, and cavemen all over the world began to argue over the correct words for flowers, stars and mammoths. And it didn't stop there. Oh no. Somewhat more than a few years later, though they had left the caves and eaten all the mammoth, the descendants of said cavemen were coming up with new words to describe various new-fangled technologies that enabled them to communicate their thoughts in 140 characters or less, or even be virtual friends with people they hadn't seen since their sixth birthday party.

Now, take a few seconds to re-read the above and ensure that you've really grasped the thoroughly researched, completely accurate history of language that I've just given, and then consider how strange it is. I am completely fascinated by language - how it evolves, travels and mutates. I'm in awe of its ability to overcome every obstacle thrown at it and how quickly new terms and phrases can become commonplace.

But what intrigues me most is the differences between one language and another. I can't even begin to imagine how it came about. I studied French and Italian at university and even though they share a common ancestor in Latin, they're pretty bloody different. Not as different as French is to Hindi, of course, but you know what I mean; as powerful and resilient as a language is, it's also extremely vulnerable to external influence - hence, I imagine, why Latin didn't survive unaltered after the fall of the Roman Empire and why English-speakers still use words that were originally Persian or German. It's organic and always changing, new words invented and others forgotten.

At this point I stopped thinking, as I'd confused myself, and had a nap.

I must add that my appreciation of the organic, changing nature of language does not, extend to 'refudiate' - Shakespeare may have invented words, but the chances are he meant to invent them, you daft mare.

On Background Noise

2010-07-28T20:13:00.005+01:00

Whenever I walk anywhere I'm inclined to take my music with me. This helps avoid boredom and makes time pass quicker. Alas, last night I left my iPod at work and while I realised almost as soon as I left the office, I couldn't be bothered to walk back up five flights of stairs to get it. After a moment of panic, I decided to continue sans Pod. To soldier on. To bravely go where no member of Generation I has been for a long time. To walk - in silence. For the first few minutes I found myself longing for my trusty portable record collection - I missed how the shuffle feature can make me question my own musical taste. I couldn't decide how fast to walk without the tempo of the song 'now playing' dictating my pace [a slow stroll for a ballad, a power walk for anything more upbeat]. My decision to undergo a whole journey without my protective musical bubble was a rather big one. Had I made a mistake? Should I go back?

Then it hit me. I was reacquainted, all of a sudden, with an old friend; Background Noise. I had feared a silent journey; what I got was anything but. I was surrounded by noise; the briefest snippets of other people's conversations, warnings of [the usual] tube delays, car horns, sirens, white noise from other people's headphones [RAGE]. In short, I could actually hear the city around me - nothing out of the ordinary, nothing you wouldn't hear anywhere else, but a world that has become alien to me since the iPod stole my soul - and I enjoyed it. In particular, I enjoyed eavesdropping, despite the fact that the conversations I overheard all revolved around incredibly mundane topics. "I go away for three weeks. Three weeks. And he's hired some fucking clown to be in my team," said one hard-faced old trout. "I just don't get it though, everything was fine last night but today he's acting like such a moron," whined a chavette into her phone. And they weren't all miserable, I promise - I overheard laughing, joking, reminiscing.

It came as a shock after so long lost in my own little world that you can tune into so much if you're nosey enough. I'd obviously never assumed that the world fell silent the moment I put my earphones in and turned up the volume, but I had forgotten what it's like to listen to the world around me. My Pod-less commute reminded me that there's so much happening here, to so many different people in countless different situations, moods and even languages. I couldn't help but feel dwarfed by the immensity of it and confused by the mind-boggling array of options, choices and possibilities.

And so this evening I tried to resist the temptation to immerse myself in music. As a result, I was able to hear the man with the suitcase shout 'WAIT' as he ran for the tube as the doors were closing. Having heard his cry, I could move out of his way in time. While he did manage to get on, there were a few seconds of acute awkwardness as we waited for the doors that had shut on his leg to open again and let the rest of his body, and suitcase, onto the carriage. It was all a bit Sliding Doors now I come to think of it - perhaps ignoring the world around me allows for as many different possibilities as listening to it.

On Not Being the One and Only

2010-07-24T10:35:00.004+01:00

The phones in our office might as well not be there, they so rarely ring. When the phone on my desk does ring, it's usually my dad. If it's not my dad, then it's someone from another department looking for the man in IT who has the same name as me. I get these fairly often, and do my best not to shout at people as I understand it's an easy mistake to make. However, I find it difficult to find the 'you must get this all the time' line as funny as they do, because yes, I do get it all the time - and it's wearing thin.

To be honest, my issue is not really with the people who ring but the Man With My Name. It's not fair. Everywhere I've lived, studied or worked prior to this place, I've always been the one and only - like Chesney Hawkes [I have no idea if this song exported, but it definitely should have]. I'm struggling to come to terms with this...this...imposter, this pretender to MY throne. What's worse is that I am now the useless TR - the one people ring by accident, the one nobody wants. He's won. He's important. And that's. Not. Fair [cue tantrum].

This morning I googled my name [inspired by Rob's post here]. The first hit is a website of a man who plays the bass, teaches maths, hikes, writes and presents on amateur radio. That's quite a busy life and puts my "wake up - work - [get drunk when not broke] - go home - sleep" daily routine to shame. The next is a book on Amazon, written by someone who spent his life in the SAS before succumbing to mental illness and comitting suicide. He is followed by a financial planner, a litigation lawyer, a designer and illustrator and one of the world's greatest mountainboarders - a list of people who have achieved. It would seem that the Club-TR has many talented, accomplished members*. I got up to page 19, where the hits descended into various mispelt sentences that just happen to spell my name, before accepting that I am nowhere to be found.

My name, however, cannot be blamed for this. It's not the problem. As Shakespeare once said 'That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet'. While I, by any other name, would still do as little and drink as much. And that's why I'm lost in Google.

*This sentence sounds rude in my head. I hope it doesn't read that way. I've no idea how talented the members' members may be, and wouldn't like to speculate.

On Die Welle

2010-07-19T21:50:00.005+01:00

I have recently fallen head over heels in love with http://www.lovefilm.co.uk/. It's bloody brilliant. At first I did wonder whether it was really worth the money - I can only have two DVDs at home at any one time and, though I watch them soon after they arrive, I'm piss-poor at remembering to post them back. Then I realised, months into my subscription, that I can actually watch hundreds of films ONLINE. This amazed me and I dived headfirst into an ocean of highbrow foreign film. I've nothing against Hollywood; sometimes it's just what I want to see. At other times, however, the snob in me demands cultural sustenance so that I can sound cultured in front of people who don't know me [people that do know me will not be fooled into believing I am cultured by any amount of obscure cinematic knowledge].

Last night I chose Die Welle (The Wave). [See, that was snobbish in itself; I patronised you by putting the translation in brackets as if to say "LOOK AT ME AND MY GERMAN LANGUAGE SKILLS" when in reality I don't speak any German. None at all. You watch, soon I'll be littering my posts with ever so impressive continental and cultural phrases like zeitgeist, milieu and...and...champignon]. So, I chose this film, and I saw that it was good.

In brief, it's about a teacher attempts to liven up a week long project on the dangers of autocratic government with some unusual teaching methods. Apparently this is something that is taught fairly often in German schools and, rather than force his students to sit through another recap of the Third Reich, he moulds the class into a miniature autocratic society. It soon spirals out of control, with tragic results.

This got me thinking. I am, of course, not going to pursue world domination [so you can calm down, Gnetch] and I'm fully aware that autocratic government is a very bad thing. However, it's summer and it's hot, and the heat shortens my temper. It's as if the sun forces all the people that annoy me onto the streets, ready to inconvenience me as I make my way through an already difficult day - suddenly a society with me at the helm seems a little more tempting. As I was between books today, I dedicated this morning's train journey to the development of my manifesto.

My first act would provide a long overdue upgrade to the London Underground network. Fact: it needs air conditioning. Second fact: it irritates me when I see livestock transported along motorways in lorries with more ventilation than I have during my daily commute.

My second act would remove all this economy malarkey which confuses me so. Currencies, exchange rates, inflation, recession...there's simply no need. We'll trade in pebbles, and all pebbles will be equal, and all will then be well.

My third would ban slow walkers from the streets during rush hour. I don't expect everyone to walk at speed at all times, but people should appreciate that when I need to be somewhere, I don't want to match their dawdling pace. The same goes for suitcases and, I'm afraid to say, pushchairs.

My fourth; a nationwide ban on whistling in the workplace and in public spaces. Whistling irritates me, especially when it is tuneless. I'd rather people sang a song as they walked (quickly) down the road - in fact I would reward them for this.

At this point I realised that my policies had begun to infringe on people's civil liberties. Oddly enough, some people actually like whistling. Plus, I suppose it could be considered unfair to keep the dawdlers, mothers with young children and travellers with suitcases cooped up indoors. Who am I to decide these things? Despite having no actual power at all, the slightest, smallest idea of it went straight to my head. Within hours of watching a film detailing the ever-present dangers of autocracy, I had become a tyrant. Stay away from politics T - it's not for you.

Put. The. Manifesto. Down.

On Being Stuck Between Floors

2010-07-15T23:20:00.007+01:00

Today I am grateful that I don't work here.

I don't normally use the lift at work because it's so often out-of-order, which leads me to believe that it must be a death trap. However, on my way into the office this morning I bumped into a colleague [I shall dub her B] who has been on holiday for a week, so I decided to take the lift with her while I updated her on my exciting life, rather than brave the lonely stair climb alone.

The lift was on the ground floor when we arrived; we jumped straight in and pressed the button for floor 5. The lift began to move, only it moved incredibly slowly. Slowly and smoothly. And silently - that's what first aroused my suspicion that something wasn't quite right. The silence. Normally you can hear worrying creaks and groans as it pulls you upwards - sometimes even the odd bang. B said,
"Are we even moving?" I looked through the gap in the door could see a thin line of light disappearing as we left the 3rd floor below us. Then the light stopped disappearing. The lift had stopped, between floors.

In panic, I pressed all available buttons. I didn't care what floor I was taken to as long as I was delivered in one piece, and sooner rather than later. The lift, however, refused to budge, preferring instead to keep us suspended in mid-air [where no-one could hear us scream].

B, I soon discovered, is awful company in a crisis. While I was on the phone to the security desk, she was lecturing me on taking shallower breaths in order to conserve oxygen, which is apparently a very grave concern among people who get stuck in lifts. At this point, it started to get a bit warm and poor B began to feel light-headed because she wasn't breathing deeply enough.

What seemed like hours later [it was actually at least five FULL minutes, during which B spoke incessantly of plunging to our deaths and the risk of decapitation should we have to climb out] we heard Mr Health & Safety shout, "Is there anyone in the lift?!"

The voice of an angel.

"YES! HELP US! PLEASE!" we replied in chorus.

"Stand away from the doors", he said, "I'm going to have to RELEASE THE HYDRAULICS to get you down." We gazed at each other in disbelief, clutching the wooden railing at the side until our knuckles were white. Release the hydraulics? You mean release the mechanism that is holding us in place? ARE YOU SANE? And then the lift began to bounce. I jest not - they had to bounce us down, a metre at a time. They'd release the hydraulics, the lift would drop, stop, bounce like it was suspended on a rubber band, and then repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I'd reached a state of such instense panic by this point that my memory fades. Two floors later [read: many, many bounces] and the doors were finally forced open.

We were free. The cool air washed over me, relief was all I could feel. The stairs had never looked so inviting - each step was like reacquainting myself with an old, trustworthy, sensible and safe friend. I was saved. I am never setting foot inside that baked-bean tin on a string ever again.

On Realising That All Is Not Doom & Gloom

2010-07-11T10:12:00.005+01:00

It seems that my posts have been a little pessismistic and bitter of late. I can't hide the fact that I am naturally inclined towards melancholy, bitterness and the foulest of bad moods, but at the same time I don't want you to think that I'm always such a miserable bastard.

On Friday I went to the Barbican Centre to see Catalyst Theatre's Nevermore: The Imaginary Life and Mysterious Death of Edgar Allan Poe. As you can imagine, it's not the most joyful of stories - the man led a grim, miserable life. It was however, an absolutely fantastic production. Combine the funky steampunk costumes, gothic make-up and frequent nods to Poe's poetry and stories with my leaning towards the gloomier side of life, and it's clear this was always going to be something I'd love.

Despite the gothic feast that was Nevermore, Friday wasn't all doom and gloom. Before getting to the Barbican, N and myself stopped off in Postman's Park, a five minute walk away from St Paul's Cathedral. I'd never been before, although those of you who have seen the film Closer may recognise it. It was a graveyard until the late 1800s, when it was converted to a public park [you can still see some of the old gravestones stacked up around the edge]. It's a beautiful space surrounded on all sides by high buildings - an oasis in the middle of the City.

In 1900 it became home to George Frederic Watts' Memorial To Heroic Self Sacrifice. Watts had long campaigned for a monument to the heroic deeds of ordinary people - in a city where you can barely turn a corner without coming face-to-face with a commemoration of military victory or a statue of a dead monarch, this was an unusual request. However, with considerable determination, he got his way - one wall of the park is taken up by a memorial to ordinary people who gave their lives in order to save another's - and it's beautiful. Each person has a ceramic plaque with their name, age, the date they died and the manner in which it happened. It's quite an emotional read that includes a servant saving her master's children from a burning building, an actress using her own dress to put out the flames engulfing her co-star's clothes and a little boy saving his brother from being run over

Admittedly this may sound quite depressing, but it had the opposite effect on me. In this day and age it's all too easy to look after number one, to keep your head down, eyes forward and never spare a thought for anyone else. Sometimes, it's nice to be reminded that there is more to life than that - that there are people out there who will risk everything for someone else. I walked away from Postman's Park with a refreshed view of the society I live in, a new respect for humanity and, unusually, a smile on my face.

On Gender Stereotypes

2010-07-10T22:31:00.007+01:00

The Analyst has challenged me to reveal ten ways in which my behaviour defies the socially accepted stereotype of how a man should act. This, I think, will be easy.

1 - I know almost all of the words to Pretty Woman (the whole film, not just the song). I blame my mother for this - she'd put the video on to keep me and my brother quiet - we were both easily subdued by anything on the TV, and this way she got to drool over Richard Gere. My favourite lines include "Cinder-fucking-rella" and "Big mistake, huge." This also applied to Sister Act and Grease.

2 - I love shoes. I get sad when I can't afford them, and overjoyed when somebody buys me a pair. The pointier the better. I also appreciate brogues. I don't limit my appreciation to smart shoes; I am equally comfortable in any one of my six pairs of ripped Converses.

3 - N once had to turn off the TV during Schindler's list. My sobbing had reached worrying heights, and I'd only tuned in halfway through. It's that bit with the actors and the people they portrayed at the end, laying stones on Schindler's grave. I'm welling up as I type.

4 - I once came [very] close to tears and threw a huge strop because I couldn't find one of my socks. I was in a tent at Download Festival. Surrounded as I was by metalheads and hardcore rockers, I can safely say this was one of my least manly moments.

5 - If I see the words 'action-packed' and, to a lesser extent, 'thriller' in a film's write-up I probably won't watch it. I'll get my Pretty Woman DVD instead.

6 - I nag, almost constantly. I'm neither laidback nor easygoing. I'm neurotic, paranoid and will nag and mother people to make myself feel better. "Stop acting like a child...Don't stand so close to the edge of the platform...Don't run in the snow...Do you have to have your I-Pod on so loud?" Sometimes I wonder how I have any friends left...

7 - I had a troll collection when I was younger *hides face in shame*.

8 - I've touched on this before, but my favourite shop is Accessorize, being full of sparkly, shiny, jangly things. I can spend ages in there, despite the spelling.

9 - Once upon a time, the telly was broken. N's mum taught me how to knit. I wasn't very good, but with some help I did manage to produce a rather funky i-Phone holder that lasted for around three weeks before starting to unravel. Good times.

10 - I can't cook food on a barbeque. The realm of manly outdoor cooking is completely alien to me with its fire, fuel and slabs of meat. I mean I struggle enough with an oven, I need to learn to walk before I can run.

So there you have it. A poor excuse for a man. Masculinity is shaking its head in shame.

[As I've mentioned before, my tag goes out to any one who wants it! If you like it (this one's a good one, I think) take it, I insist.]

On 2020

2010-07-06T22:16:00.004+01:00

Lauren from Trash Rock Tour thinks I'm going places. Her faith in me has warmed my stone cold heart and, in return, I'm to write a post on where I think I'll be in ten years' time. This is a tough one. Not least because [yes, here I go again] I'm not convinced I'll make it past 2012 thanks to the bloody Mayan calendar. However, for the sake of this post I'll put my fears aside and imagine where I'll be in ten years.

~~~Start Dream Sequence~~~

I'll be 35. Given my complete lack of drive and intense fear of the unknown, I'll probably be in the same job I'm in now. Except I'll know EVERYTHING there is to know about the production and international sale of children's board books, and so perhaps be headhunted. Should that happen, I'd like a bit more money please. And a private office with a view of the Thames. And a gold-plated business card carrier so I can wow people while networking. So that's the plan, and with all the pounds and pennies from the new job struggling to find room in my cramped bank account, I'll splash out on a vintage car, bespoke designer suits, a Victorian townhouse and a husky. My life will be all kinds of wonderful.

~~~End Dream Sequence~~~

Alas; I find it difficult to be optimistic. I should also stress that I'm not completely vain and materialistic. The above is more a wishlist than an expectation. Part of me thinks it's dangerous to expect too much, because so much that can happen to alter events is out of my control. However, neither do I think that it's unwise to think about your ideal life, no matter how far out of reach it might seem. Otherwise, I'd have nothing to strive for and would plummet, head first, into despair. Suffice it to say that I'll be happy if I'm still around and still surrounded by the people closest to me. That way, even if 2020 finds me living in a hovel, at least I'll be able to take some comfort in the fact that the most important thing is taken care of, and that there will be someone around to bring me painkillers and hangover cures after messy nights out. No, I have no plans to grow old gracefully.

On History Repeating Itself

2010-07-04T18:47:00.006+01:00

On Friday, N accompanied me to the Tate Britain, although the Philistine would only agree to go if I promised to buy him a burger. The gallery is currently hosting an exhibition called Rude Britannia that spans 500 years' worth of British caricature, satire and comic art. I'd decided, being all cultured and stuff, that I wanted to see it. The weird and wonderful collection gives an insight into the development of caricature and comic art in Britain and includes some iconic pieces, from Hogarth's Gin Lane to the Margaret Thatcher puppet from Spitting Image. Plenty to get your teeth into, then [and I don't mean N's burger].

But what set me thinking, what I remember most, wasn't one of the bigger pieces. It's not one of the works plastered over the promotional literature and websites. It's not even sold as a postcard in the giftshop. It was a cartoon from the 18th June 1842 edition of 19th century periodical The Penny Satirist, if the notes hurriedly typed into my phone are correct. The cartoon showed John Bull (Britain) beset by vultures. Around one of his ankles was a chain, restricting his movement and keeping him tied down, representing something that's become an all-too-familiar a term of late: NATIONAL DEBT.

I know I'm prone to looking backwards rather than forwards. I admit that I harp on about the past and ancestry and our bleak future too often, but I can't help it.

The cartoon is nearly 200 years old, yet it depicts the UK in what seems like the same financial situation as it is now - up to its neck in debt. Times have changed, and I live in a very different country to the Britain of the 1800s [thank fuck], but some things remain constant. What does this mean? Does history repeat itself? Let's hope not. Are the politicians of today too ignorant of past political errors to avoid them recurring? Like they care, as long as they have their second homes [Bitter much TbR?]. Is resistance to debt futile? Of course, debt can eat your soul.

What this also highlights is my complete lack of understanding when faced with anything even remotely linked to economics. Anyone with a half decent understanding of how the markets work could probably tell me - in very simple terms of course, 'cos I'm not too bright - that these things do work in cycles, peaks of plenty followed by troughs of debt and misery, much like where we are at the moment.

I don't know the answer, but I would like to say thank you to the good people of the Tate Britain for making me feel far less concerned about owing money on my credit card. I'm a child of my society, of my time. Of course I'm in debt, History made me do it.

"And if History jumped off a bridge, would you follow?"

Shut up.

Bloggerstock: The Story Of What Is On Your Desk

2010-06-30T17:35:00.010+01:00

A couple of months ago, a few 20-something bloggers came up with the inspired idea for Bloggerstock; a blog swap that's been extending the number of blogs involved month by month. Blogger A sends their post to Blogger B, who posts it on their site, and in turn sends their post to Blogger C. A, B and C then become the best of friends. Today, I've flown the nest and have sent my post to Pepper [here] who has been kind enough to put me up [I hope - I'm posting early from work because I'm off out on the razz!]. And kindly manning the TBR fort here is Kelly from Not the Only Stargazer. Without further ado, over to Kelly [round of applause]:

Bloggerstock: The Story of What is on Your Desk

Heyyyy! I’m Kel from Not The Only Dreamer and this is my first Bloggerstock experience. I’m really super excited to be posting from across the Atlantic for TBR today!!!!! Bloggerstock is a blog swap project where each blogger posts on the name that comes after them on a pre-determined list, forming a biiiig ring. It’s fun! You should try it! Visit the Bloggerstock site to see what it’s all about, and to join the ring!

Anyway, the topic this week is about what’s on our desks. My desk? Well my ‘desk’ per say is quite a relative term. I’m a mobile hairstylist, so I go to my clients’ homes to do their hair. I pretty much set up shop in each and every home I visit, and it’s a blast!! I bring my color bowls, foils for highlighting, combs and clips, and most importantly, I bring my shears.

When I’m not out making a ‘desk’ somewhere else, I have an entirely different desk at home in my garage. I’m an artist, and I specialize in painting, so my ‘desk’ in the garage is COVERED in paint. I’ll spare ya’ll with a visual of the madness in its entirety, but here is a small preview.

As you can kinda see in the lower right corner, I have an adorable green plaid plastic table cloth over the table, so that I don’t get paint all over it. It’s not exactly adorable, it was just the crappiest thing I could find in the back of my linen closet. Because I paint in my garage, and the summer heat is simply unbearable right now, I have a big osculating fan set up on the workbench right in front of me. I have a big lamp that used to be nice and pretty and fancy, but is now covered in splattered paint on my table. I have a small tv that has a built in VCR (SCOREEEE!!!) also on the workbench in front of my table, so that I can watch tv (or old vcr movies that I steal from my dad’s house haha). I very rarely ever watch something that I need to pay attention to while I’m painting, so I often put the nature channel on. I think I just like the noise more than anything. I have an old hair blow dryer that I keep out there, and I use that when I’m getting impatient with how slow the paint dries (which is pretty much all the time) so that I can start on the next layer of my painting. I have boxes and boxes of paint all around my ‘area’. I have an old Folger’s Coffee container where I put my water to rinse my brushes between colors. I have a painter’s box where I store all of my brushes. I have another box full of all different things that I might glue to my canvases, including faux plants, marbles, seashells, crushed seashells, and most recently, I added some old postcards that I found in an antique shop.

Here’s my latest piece that I created on my ‘desk’, I used one of those post cards for the picture, along with course pumice gel (when it dries, it’s like cement), acrylic paint, and glue on a canvas.

As you might be able to tell, my ‘desk’ at home is an absolute disaster area, but I love it and wouldn’t have it any other way J.

Visit my blog here: http://nottheonlystargazer.blogspot.com/ to see what Allison had to say about her desk, and to see more entries by me. Thank you to TBR for letting me post here!

That's no problem, Kelly. No problem at all. The artwork deserves an extra round of applause, I think - how funky is that? *claps enthusiastically*

On The End Of Days

2010-06-27T13:49:00.006+01:00

Spiders I can just about handle, snakes don’t scare me and I’m not afraid of the dark - but one thing that always causes me to lose sleep is the end of the world. N has given up trying to talk sense into me - it’s no use. While I understand that if the world is to end there’s very little I can do about it, I would at least change the way I live my life. Take 2012 for example - if the pesky Mayans are correct, we have less than two years left. If I knew this to be true, there's no way in hell that I’d be pissing about trying to pay off debt and working long hours to keep my job safe. Nay, nay and nay again. I would have hundreds of credit cards and I’d be enjoying the jet-setting, globe-trotting playboy lifestyle for which I was born.

But there’s the problem, there’s absolutely no way I can ascertain whether it’s true because, basically, people can’t predict the future. Can they? This should be enough to put my mind at ease but it doesn’t - and this isn’t the first time I’ve felt like this. This isn’t the first time that some ancient trouble-maker has disrupted my sleeping pattern. Far from it, in fact.

I can’t remember the year in which this occurred, but I was at primary school. Normally, the playground at lunchtime was a picture of gender segregation - the boys playing football and the girls skipping around the edge. However, this day was different. The gossip in the queue for the water fountain did not revolve around which two 9 year-olds had decided to get married or whether Mrs Appleton was in a good mood. The shouting, laughing and crying had given way to a feverish whispering. A huddle of children, girls and boys [all in their hideous maroon uniforms] gathered in the middle of the playground.

You see, somebody had heard their parents talking. The world was, so they said, going to end before the year was out. Suddenly football, kiss-chase and skipping were of secondary importance - before any of that could resume, we wanted to know how the End of Days would occur. Many a theory was ventured; alien invasion, asteroid collision, flood. One girl, from a devoutly religious family, offered the warm and fluffy opinion that God would make everybody on earth look in the same direction, and send a wave to hit them in the back of the head, so that we wouldn't see anything coming. Others drew their inspiration from less than divine sources, and feared invasion by killer tomatoes or biker mice from Mars. Anyway, the year passed and, perhaps to the disappointment of some, the world survived and secondary school began.

As if teenage angst doesn’t make life difficult enough, my secondary school years were overshadowed by predictions of the world ending in 1999. Good old Nostradamus and the Millennium Bug had consigned the planet to the Universal Recycle Bin in the sky. Of course, it fizzled out in an extraordinarily anti-climactic fashion - the planes still flew, the computers still worked, the new millenium still dawned and Nostradamus experts continued to predict apocalypse every year thereafter.

I should, by now, be sufficiently experienced in Armageddon-scares to be unaffected by the Mayan prophecy, all the more because I’ve heard that this interpretation of what’s written is questionable and discounted by many experts, but I can’t help but worry. I would feel hugely hard done by should it come true. I was going to have a country-themed fancy dress party to mark the start of the London 2012 Olympics, and it’s not really fair that I should die without ever achieving the global fame I deserve, but the ball is not in my court. I shall just have to wait and [after a nervous breakdown in December 2012] see.

On Family

2010-06-17T19:49:00.009+01:00

Before I get started, I want to check something. I had far too much time on my hands last night, and decided to rename some old posts. It wasn't necessary and I probably should have just let sleeping dogs lie, but I went steaming in anyway. I really hope that changing the posts didn't fire them all back into your feeds or reading lists - I did ask Google if it would first, but I didn't completely trust its answer [this once - normally Google's word is law] and have been fretting about it all day. I promise I won't do it again. Anyway...

I was reminded today of the phrase 'the whole is greater than the sum of its parts'. Oddly, my mental wandering was triggered by ripping the back of my jeans under my [brilliant] shoes. Of all the genetic traits I inherited from my father, you see, the one that's most often referred to is my short legs. It's something for which I'm most angry with him. It's almost impossible to find trousers that fit properly - and too often my [amazing] shoes are overshadowed by ruined jeans.

When I eventually arrived home, leaving shreds of denim in my wake, I found two of my mum's friends in the living room. This wasn't a problem in itself, they were invited and didn't break in, but it meant I had to prepare my stock response for what has now become a generic, predictable greeting:

"Oooh, don't you look like your mum."

Yes, yes I do. It's true, but that doesn't make it any less boring to hear. Please, ask me about my job, the weather, tell me you like my shoes - try and mix it up a bit for crying out loud. However, I can't deny the fact that they are 100% correct, I am definitely my mother's son.

My mum's father is Irish, and I've only met the Irish side of the family once - when I was a wee lad of seventeen. When I first met them, it was like falling into a room full of different versions of me; some male, some female, some old and some young. I've inherited from her (and them, I suppose) freckles, dark hair and pale skin. Further evidence of my mother's Irish genes is found in the 'McGinley flick' (pictured above) - an eyebrow flick that is impossible to correct or hide. The female clan-members pluck their eyebrows but I've decided to wear it with pride, despite the fact that it does make my eyebrow look rather unruly. Add to this the fact that it's only on one bloody eyebrow and it makes my whole face look asymmetrical.

Anyway, onwards to the point; these (non-)events have given me an odd feeling. These are two examples of things I've inherited from my parents - things that they, in all probability, inherited from one of their parents. I feel like the sum of many parts - as if different aspects of different people, passed down through generation after generation, can still be found in me. It's a comforting thought, I think. You could completely lose touch with your family but you'd never be able to cast them aside as they are, to an extent, part of you. What's gone before informs the present. Relatives and ancestors you will never have the chance to meet have given something to what you have become; a patchwork quilt of hundreds of annoying traits, physical features, likes and dislikes.

I know a lot of it depends on upbringing; that genealogy cannot account for everything about me - and I don't mean to imply that the person you become is dictated by your family or ancestry - you can of course change the person you are. But I do like the feeling that I'm linked to all those people who form part of my family tree; that I share something with them. Perhaps there was once a Victorian chimney sweep who was pleased to have short legs as they made him less likely to get stuck, or a suffragette too busy campaigning for the female vote to pluck her eyebrow flick. And then, hundreds of years later, some poor bastard combines the two and is left with ripped jeans and a wonky face.

On Sticking My Oar In [Part II]

2010-06-16T21:54:00.003+01:00

Just when I thought my blog-well was dry and could think of nothing to write about, Gingerella saved the day with a meme. Gingerella I am indebted to you!

What is your most embarrassing moment of all time?

There are plenty to choose from, but this one stands out from the crowd:

I was at university, and so drunk I fell over on the dance floor [if only the embarrassment stopped here]. Seeing me sprawled on the floor in a puddle of drink, a bouncer came down to escort me out; I was, to be fair, far too inebriated to be anywhere apart from my bed. He asked me to follow him, which I did, and everything seemed fine, until he turned round and said,

"You don't have to hold my hand."

OH. MY. WORD. I didn't even realise, but as we walked through the crowd, I'd grabbed his hand. I must have been afraid of losing him in the throng. If only. On the upside, however, he did change his mind about sending me home - he must have decided I was far too soft to pose a real danger to anyone.

If you could eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?

Wasabi peas. Again and again. Although I'd need a drink to wash them down, they're fiery little bastards for someone with as low a tolerance for hot foods as I. I shouldn't love them this much, but I do.

How old were you when you had your first kiss?

Hmmm...I don't know. I was such a slut. That's a joke, I wasn't. It just doesn't stand out as a memorable moment. This milestone, this rite of passage, probably passed me by due to the intense concentration required to avoid carving the other person's lips up with my brace. Bad times.

What is your browser home page?

At home, just Google. At work, I have iGoogle, with a translator (which is woefully inaccurate at times), a currency converter and a Spanish Word of the Day. Today's word was 'tranquillo', which means calm. I now know the words for calm, monkey, beer, fuck and toilet. This could make for an interesting sentence...

What colour do you never wear?

Beige. I'm open to most other colours though, and wear black and white too much.

Nature lover or city slicker?

This is hard to say, but I'd probably choose a city over the countryside. I like to be in the middle of things. I love busy places like stations and airports and tourist traps. You don't get that in the countryside. You're all alone, and if I'm alone I think, and if I think I'm in trouble.

If you were granted three wishes, what would they be?

In attempt to keep this post light-hearted, I'm going to put three superficial wishes. There are things that are more important to me, but I'll save those babies for a time I'm really miserable and wish to drag you all in to share my woe. Suffice it to say, for the moment, that the following would bring a smile to my face and a tear of joy to my eye:

1. England to win the World Cup [we'll need some magic for this to happen].

2. A lottery win would do nicely, as always. LOTTERY GODS SMILE UPON ME. MAKE ME HAPPY. Money shouldn't make people happy or sad, but it can completely alter my mood. I don't think I need it to be happy, but it does remove a lot of obstacles.

3. The world can't end in 2012. Simple. It must not; I have plans and an apocalypse will inconvenience me terribly.

Do you have any scars? How did you get them?

None of any interest. I think I have one under my eyebrow from headbutting a flower pot when I was little, but my eyebrow hides it.

Have you ever seen a ghost?

Not seen one but...[click for an account of my only paranormal encounter] - sorry for lazy linkage, but it's quite a long-winded story, and it's past my bed time!

What is your dream job?

When I was young, I wanted to be a button designer. I used to raid my mum's sewing box for interesting buttons. I still feel that there is a niche market for bespoke buttons and have not given up on my dream of one day breaking into this most sought-after industry.

I'm supposed to pass this meme on, but I know some people don't like them, so I'd like to set this meme free, like a bird from a cage. If you want to, take the bird in, feed it, give it a place to roost for the night, then send it on its way. If not...erm...shoot it, cook it and eat it?

On Moaning (or England's National Passtime)

2010-06-13T19:25:00.010+01:00

For the last couple of weeks, World Cup-related advertising has assaulted me at every turn. England legends of the past stare meaningfully down from billboards and St George's flag flutters from every other car or house. TV guides are chock full of fixtures and when there are no games to fill the schedules they whack in a 'Top 50 Goals' or 'Most Shocking Football Moments' montage to ensure that the stay-at-home fan can remain wedged into his armchair and needn't seek entertainment elsewhere. N and my brother have even started collecting football stickers and have built up an impressive network of other collectors to swap with [all of whom are old enough to know better].

The World Cup is a unique event in a country so used to pessimism. It's unusual for the English to really get behind something and I'm relishing the surge of hope - all the more because we know exactly how hopeless our chances are but dive into a ridiculous patriotic hysteria nonetheless.

Whenever I see a TV interview with a South African [or whenever I manage to turn a work e-mail to S.A. into an opportunity for World Cup banter] I'm left with the impression that they are deeply proud of their country for hosting the tournament. A client from Johannesburg told me she couldn't sleep all weekend for the noise of the vuvuzelas, and liked it, as it added to the atmosphere. That must be some atmosphere. I know that there has been some criticism around the fact that such phenomenal sums of money could be better spent elsewhere - the Rainbow Nation is not without its problems - but then which country is? In my humble opinion, they've put on a great show so far and deserve to be proud of it [Although admittedly I am easy to please; opening ceremonies make me want to cry]. Of course, I actually know nothing and the South African papers and populace may have shat all over the World Cup preparations and hate it with a passion - but from an outsider's perspective, it looks good and I'm jealous.

Which brings me, finally, to my point. London is due to host the 2012 Olympics and I wish that we could be as proud as the South Africans seem to be. Alas no; it's highly unlikely that the English will ever manage to discard the national passtime that is moaning. The papers will rip it to shreds - some have already started. And just this evening I had the misfortune of overhearing a group of commuters on the train talk about how they're planning to book holidays to avoid the 'inconvenience'. The inconvenience caused by hosting what is possibly the world's most prestigious sporting event. I've don't think I've ever met anyone who hates the Olympics - it's like an all-you-can-eat buffet of a tournament, with something for everyone. I'd really like it if, just once, we could actually hope for something to be good, for it to go well, to work. If we could take the mentality we develop around the World Cup of hoping for the best, despite fearing failure, we could enjoy being the centre of something amazing. It seems a shame that while the eyes of the world are on London, Londoners will be running the other way. If I'm still here, which I fully intend to be, I think I might invest in a vuvuzela. Scrap that, I might buy one tomorrow and liven up the train to work.

On The English Language, Going Forward

2010-06-10T21:51:00.006+01:00

DISCLAIMER: This post touches on the importance of good spelling and grammar. That's not to say that this post includes good spelling or grammar, just that it mentions it in passing.

When I joined Twitter, I thought it would be rude not to follow Stephen Fry; the man is a legend after all. Yesterday he pointed me (and the rest of his army of followers) to this interesting article in The Times. It would seem that an institution may be set up with a view to protecting the English language from the corruption of the dreaded Text Speak. Mr Fry is dead against this. Now, I'm a stickler for good grammar and correct spelling but I'm not sure what side I'm really on. I think all children should be taught, as far as possible, to write correctly. They should be taught why punctuation is important and what it all means. They should be told what the rules that govern how things should be written are, so they at least have some knowledge of them before hitting their teens and substituting every second letter for a number.

At the same time, I accept that languages evolve, as necessary, when new circumstances arise and that to even try and impede this process would be pointless. When faced with a nemesis as powerful as Text Speak, resistance is indeed futile; it's easy, it's quick and it could even save you money. People are going to use it, whether an academy recommends it or not. It might not be elegant or graceful, but it's evidence of the adaptability of language and, as such, should be tolerated.

One thing I cannot tolerate - however - one thing that irritates me so much I shake with rage - is Management Speak. It makes my blood boil.

The main reason for my boiling blood is that on Tuesday, I had a work-related disagreement over email with a colleague. I put a fair amount of effort into making sure that my point was communicated clearly, concisely and correctly. What I received, in return, was complete and utter drivel - whole paragraphs written in Prickish. There was plenty of talk about how I had been 'given ownership' of a task; a task that hadn't, unfortunately, been completed by the 'drop-dead date' of 'end of play Friday'. Oh, how the rage consumed me. Rage. I would have so much more respect for a manager who spoke to me in English - or French, Norwegian or Cantonese for that matter. As long as they used real, constructed language instead of this ridiculous and unnecessary jargon.

Despite my best efforts to put an end to it, Management Speak continues to make worrying advances into our society. Last weekend, I happened to tune into the Junior Apprentice. It's basically a group of 16-17 year olds competing in various business-related tasks, in the hope of winning £25,000 which will then be used to fund the development of their career. What upset me about this programme - and I don't think 'upset' is too strong a word to use - is that these 16 year olds weren't getting drunk, getting off with each other or having a laugh. The girls argued about sales pitches. The boys fought over margins. When I was their age, pitches were for playing football (or rather where other people played football while I was sneaking out of the school gates) and a margin was a line down the side of a page. Watching a group of teenagers boss each other around, wearing suits and talking perfect Management Speak reminded me of the scene in Animal Farm when the pigs left the farmhouse walking on two legs and wearing the farmer's clothes. It just wasn't right.

I'm sorry for this rant - I don't mean to sound like a miserable old bastard - I just wanted to bluesky my thoughts on the situation and ensure that we're well placed to handle it going forward.

Just Finished - Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

2010-06-07T22:01:00.003+01:00

Finishing this *ahem* Man Booker Prize Winner has made me happy. Firstly, it was a bloody good book, which dragged me in from the word go. Secondly, it is HUGE. I was given the hardback edition for Christmas and it weighs a tonne. The Man Bag has struggled and my thigh is bruised where its vicious corner bounces against my leg. Being bigger than your average book, it's taken me around a month to finish, but it was worth it - worth the time, the effort and the physical pain .

It follows the life of Thomas Cromwell, who was an adviser to Henry VIII. The Tudors are a dynasty I studied at school, and I've always found their reign an interesting period. It was a time of massive political upheaval and in England, among other places, of previously unimaginable religious change too. With the basic knowledge I have, I had heard of quite a few of the characters before, but I've been used to seeing them depicted very differently. For example, I went to a Roman Catholic secondary school where there were four form groups in each year, each named after an English Martyr. Thomas More and John Fisher were among these- chosen for their extraordinary virtue and unwavering faith, and also crop up in Wolf Hall. In the book you're shown events from a dramatically different angle; More especially becomes a particularly unlikable character, while Cromwell and Cardinal Wolsey are painted in an entirely different, favourable light - which, I believe, is the opposite to what they normally receive.

While the history of the time is well-known, the viewpoint from which it's witnessed here is completely different to anything I've read before, and had me hooked from the beginning. Mantel takes a story that has been told a hundred times before, but makes you appreciate the characters as people, with clear personalities, rather than cardboard cut-out historical figures. She takes the history, dusts it down and delivers it in a way that entertains throughout. Possibly my favourite this year...

On Being a Pauper Among Princes

2010-06-04T20:17:00.004+01:00

Sometimes I feel like there's no light at the end of the tunnel. I lose the ability to imagine a time when I will be financially comfortable and not have to live from payday to payday.

As you know, I think London is an amazing place and, I imagine, an a-m-a-a-a-z-i-n-g place for those with enough money to really go to town. However, when you're down on your luck it's possible to feel completely invisible. Friday was one of those days. I walked from work to the station, passing swanky restaurants and chic bars full to bursting with the suited and booted and, despite being too hungover to really want to partake in any drinking, my green eyed monster couldn't be tamed. I got stuck walking behind a woman in designer heels, her fingers dripping in diamonds and clutching bags full of newly purchased haute couture. I can normally appreciate sophistication, but on Friday it felt like a slap in the face. I got off the Tube, and walked through the City to catch my train; through a Tetris like landscape of skyscrapers and high-rise office blocks. To think of the amount of money that flies through these companies doesn't help - as staggering as the figure may be, my pockets remain empty. Carving a living among these cliffs of glass, steel and concrete can seem impossible.

But, at the same time, it's not all bad. I would do well to remember that broke for me isn't actually broke at all - I still have a roof over my head, a job and great friends who will kindly provide me with drink and good conversation (you know who you are); I should try to keep an objective head on my shoulders. And despite London offering plenty for a high price, you don't have to be rich to enjoy it. There's loads to do that isn't too expensive, and my time in the posh restaurants will come - because something else London offers in abundance is opportunity. I'm quite happy to put up with my meagre pay for a while yet, until I win the lottery (which I have scheduled for late 2011).

Going off on a complete tangent, I leave you with a line from this article in the Guardian, which I came across earlier today and really liked:

We love as hard in Harrow as Hollywood, but nobody's interested in our tender limericks, written on an iPhone on a night bus home, or our verging-on-misogynist pet names.

Someone loved us once too: one day we'll prove it with our archived texts.

On Books

2010-06-01T20:29:00.005+01:00

"Don't worry dear friends, you're safe here."

As you may have guessed from my tedious book-related posts, I'm quite the bibliophile, as, I believe, are most bloggers. I wonder though, whether most bloggers are as technophobic as I am? I am never the first to embrace new gadgets or the latest technology - I generally come limping along a couple of years after the rest. It's not that I'm resistant to change, or progress. I don't consider myself stuck in the past. I'm just very good at making do with what I know.

One technological advancement that fills me with a crippling fear is the e-reader. My feelings towards this piece of apparatus have reached dangerous levels. If I see one on my journey to work I get angry. Angry. I am that ridiculous. I'll be honest, I hate them. I will now rush to point out that I do understand the wisdom behind them and don't judge the owner of the device - I acknowledge, wholeheartedly, that this is my issue. It's not you, Mr E. Reader - it's me. For someone who travels a lot I imagine they are a godsend. All those words on such a handy device, who wouldn't love it? Me. That's who. I can't bring myself to turn my back on the old, trusted way of reading. I know books aren't perfect - as an industry publishing is probably up there with the least environmentally friendly. And some books are the most inconvenient things in the world - the one I'm reading now is a hefty hardback that, no matter how I position it in the Man Bag, manages to dig a corner into my thigh. But I love them despite these faults. I love the covers, the crack of a spine, the way they gather dust on the shelf. I LOVE THEM.

This rant came about thanks to Sky 1's adaptation of Terry Pratchett's 'Going Postal'. I've never read any of the Discworld books, despite seeing them in every bookshop I've ever been in. This one revolves around the quaint, old-fashioned post office struggling to survive against a newer, faster technology called the Clacks. The parallels with the real postal service and the advent of the internet and e-mail are clear, and they left me with a really depressing thought. I imagined a little postman, in the 80s, sorting out his letters for delivery - love letters, job offers, chain letters - letters from pen-pals who have never met, from distant relatives and angry constituents. Madonna's getting into her groove on the radio and he's thinking about rumours of a new technology that would remove almost all need for his services. He underestimates it - it doesn't see how it can challenge the status quo. How wrong. How wrong Mr Postman! Flash forward twenty years and he's delivering junk mail and credit card bills.

I know this is silly; it didn't happen quite like that and there is and always will be a need for the postal service. But will books die out? Am I being ignorant in refusing to embrace the e-reader? Will I find myself, in a few years' time, with no books to buy?

I stress that if any of you have e-readers, I'd never judge you for it. If anything, I'm a little jealous. Jealous that you've been able to let go when I'm destined to stand out like...like a man listening to a cassette, on a walkman in a room full of people with I-Pods.

On Truth & Illusion

2010-05-26T23:22:00.009+01:00

Truth or Illusion, George. You don't know the difference.

*Note to reader: Bear with me; I have a feeling that this post is going to spiral into complete nonsense very quickly.*

Earlier this evening I watched Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? I'd never seen it before and I was blown away. It's a fantastic film. Emotionally, I am knackered. My mind feels like it's been put through its paces, and I'm ready for bed. Hopefully the constant effort spent trying to figure out what was true and what wasn't won't have scrambled my brain too much.

In case you haven't seen it, one of the main themes is the struggle between truth and illusion. This is something I quite often find myself pondering, usually when I should be doing something more productive, like work. Obviously I'm not quite as attached to a life of illusion as George and Martha, but it is something I think about every now and then - I think the battle between reality and illusion is something that affects most of us fairly regularly.

For example; I didn't realise I had an accent until I went to university and made some very chavvy [and completely accurate I'll have you know] remarks about a film we were studying. My comment was greeted with giggles from the other, posher students, and so began the burial of my Essex accent. However, no matter how hard I try, it's still there. Give me a drink and I'll revert to my natural speaking pattern in no time, leaving a trail of dropped t's and h's in my wake. The older I get, the less I care. I'm more likely to speak naturally now than a couple of years ago, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't occasionally attempt to brush my commoner's accent under the carpet. It seems sensible to fool people I don't know into thinking I speak properly naturally, rather than risk being instantly written off as a chav, so I maintain the illusion that I speak the Queen's English despite the Essex peasant within screaming to be heard.

To borrow a theory from Proust [and Shrek], everybody has a selection of selves that they project to different people or groups. I, among other things, am a son, boyfriend, brother, friend, colleague and client. I behave completely differently in each situation, often without thinking. Does this mean that none of the people I speak to really know me? Can anyone ever get to know someone else completely? If so, can I only be my real self when I'm on my own?

See, I warned you that there was nonsense on the way. I owe this instense brainscramble to having spent the whole day in bed with a hangover, leaving me huge amounts of time to fill with thought. I went to a party last night dressed as a viking - I think I should stick to looting and pillaging and leave these philosophical musings to someone else.

On Flying The Nest

2010-05-24T22:52:00.005+01:00

Right folks, I've been considering whether or not to write about this for a while, but I figure I may as well. It's going to sound like a moan, but it isn't - I'm well aware people have bigger problems on their plates and don't mean to sound like a drama queen!

Let me bring you up to date. I'm 25, and I still live at home. This isn't so unusual in itself, except that I have lived away from home (quite far away from home, really) before and so I know what I'm missing. But here the plot thickens. I've never considered moving out since I've been home, because my family all work together to pay the mortgage and the bills. One weak link, and it wouldn't have worked. Before Christmas, my dad lost his job, so things got even more difficult. He's decided to sell the house, which is a decision I completely agree with. With the money he gets from this he'll be able to clear some debt and buy a smaller place outright. Also, my mum is ill and really struggles with stairs, so a two-storey house with one bathroom upstairs isn't ideal. They've found a ground-floor flat that will be perfect for both of them. It's an opportunity they really shouldn't miss.

The only thing is, it only has 2 bedrooms - and I'm far too old to be sharing with my brother who, incidentally, would throttle me within a week. He's a neat freak and I'm...well...not. What's more, my dad won't need my money to make ends meet, I have been rendered somewhat obsolete. I'm free to fly the nest - without feeling guilty. And I'm bloody excited about it. I know it will probably cripple me financially, but at the moment I don't care. I'm just looking forward to moving on - to moving out. I love my family and I love living with them. But I need to stand on my own two feet now. I'm not Peter Pan, however much I'd like to be, and really must continue this growing up malarkey before I'm completely grey.

I just keep having random thoughts about what's going to happen to the black bags stuffed full of memories in the loft. Or the tools and garden furniture cluttering up the shed. Or my dad's books, which line almost every wall in the house. There won't be room for these things. It's amazing how many memories flood back. Stupid ones like being told to finish my dinner in the garden because I couldn't stop giggling at the dinner table. Or staying up late to finish GCSE coursework, and my mum coming down at 3 in the morning to check I was ok. Or trying to push my dog (the late, great Dave) off the sofa so that I could sit down. I could go on forever. I think it was easier living away before because I knew this place would be here when I was ready to come back. It won't be soon, and that will be a really, really odd feeling.

Still, one should always look on the bright side, which is what I'll be doing. My mum will be safer, my dad financially sorted and I, finally, will be a law unto myself, returned to the wild, just like that Killer Whale from Free Willy.

On Sticking My Oar In

2010-05-22T12:19:00.006+01:00

Mishieru @ Upside Down gave me a Super Comments Award! I'm not sure that she realises what she's done, encouraging my habit of being a nosey bastard and preaching my opinions all over everyone's blogs - now I can only get worse. If my comments clog up your posts - you know who to blame! [I am of course only joking - thanks Mishieru!] So, onto the meme...

1. Why do you blog?

It started as a way to document the bizarre thoughts that pass through my head that I don't share with people in 'real life'. It's also something I can look back on, to remind me what I've done, what I've achieved (if anything) and how I've felt. Oh, and I love talking about myself. It's all me, me, me. Now it's turned into something else, the content is the same but the way I feel about it is different. And of course I've discovered loads of other blogs that I look forward to reading, which spurs me on further.

2. What are your best memories?

God knows. I don't want people to think I've had a miserable life. I haven't. I just find it hard to pinpoint any one moment. I also tend to wriggle out of anything that feels even vaguely momentous. I didn't attend my graduation from university, for example. Nor did I throw a party before leaving for or returning from Italy (where I spent ten months). I tend to skulk through life. Like a spy.

3. If you had to change your real name, what would you change it to?

Erm...during a recent night-out, we were all assigned random names (long story, much of which is now hazy). Mine was Henry Fawkes, which I quite like.

4. Name 5 things you can't live without?

My I-Phone; I resisted it for so long. Now I couldn't function without it. Coffee - black with no sugar. I don't care if it's instant, freshly ground or what - as long as it's got caffeine in it. My Oyster Card - God forbid I ever have to buy a paper ticket. I think I'd go mad with worry that I might crease it, or have bought the wrong one. A Book - whichever one I happen to be reading. The commute is dull without one. My Man Bag - to hold all of the above, except the coffee, which would be messy.

5. What are the four best books you've ever read?

The Master & Margarita - Mikhail Bulgakov
Dracula - Bram Stoker
Crime & Punishment - Fyodor Dostoevsky
One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

6. Tell me something unique and interesting about yourself.

My middle name is Paul, after Pauline, my nan who died before I was born. Her mother was landlady in the East End, and my nan was named after a brewery (Paulin & Co I believe). Therefore, I believe my near constant urge to 'nip to the pub' or 'go for a swift half' is fully justified. It's in my blood, obviously.

7. What do you love about yourself?

I don't know that there's much to love. *violin music*

8. What is the best movie ever made?

Good one. I think I'll say Roma Città Aperta, directed by Rossellini for its no holds barred, raw account of the Nazi occupation of Rome. I think Hollywood could learn a lot from neorealism - you don't need big names, special effects and pyrotechnices if the stories you're depicting are worth telling.

9. If you had a 'freaky Friday' experience, who would you change places with, and why?

Tim Burton. I would love to think how he thinks.

10. What's the best part about being a woman?

Erm...well...of course I don't know, but the thing I'm most jealous about is women get to shop in Accessorize. I'm like a raven in that if it's shiny or metallic I'm drawn to it like a moth to flame. I'd quite happily spend hours in there.

I hope my answers haven't bored you too much, and thanks once again to Mishieru for the award! I'd like to pass it on to all of serial commenters who haven't already received - you know who you are!

On a Good Deed and a Half Century

2010-05-19T20:50:00.006+01:00

Firstly, it would appear that Monday's post was my 50th so I'd like to take this opportunity to say thanks to everyone who has stopped by, followed my blog or commented on my posts. THANKS! A lot of my posts are complete drivel, so I do appreciate the effort you've put it in to sitting through them. Fifty(one) blog posts...not bad for a technophobe! :)

And on to the good deed mentioned in the title, which will surely be a disappointment. It's only worth mentioning because it's so rare that I actually go out of my way to perform one. I'm not a horrible person, but I usually worry that my interference isn't necessary won't be appreciated, and while I'm dithering about that somebody else usually steps up and steals the glory.

So - picture the scene, if you will. TbR is on the tube reading Wolf Hall. It's boiling hot. The man sitting next to me is an American fellow (which I cunningly deduce from his accent - I'm that clever. He's also wearing shorts, which most natives haven't dusted off yet). He chats merrily away to his friends about how funny it is that we have a politician with the surname Balls. Erm...Bush, anyone? Together they'd make quite the rude-sounded team.

The tube empties at Tower Hill. I'm behind him and his friends all the way up the stairs and out into Trinity Square. All three of them break into a run, frolicking about in the sun like carefree children at a panic. As the man skips along his travel card falls out of his pocket. He doesn't notice. But TbR, of the eagle eye, does notice. TbR doesn't miss a thing.

My first effort at attracting their attention is a rather pathetic "Excuse me!" It doesn't work. The happy Americans continue their fun game. Now I'm standing in the street, the man's travel card in my hand thinking, "What do I do now?! I knew I shouldn't have picked it up. If I can't give it back, is it theft? Am I committing a crime? Oh God..."

The next thing I know, I'm running. They're too far ahead, I'll never catch up. I shout. This time though, I inadvertently slip into my natural accent and end up sounding like a chimney sweep in Mary Poppins [have you ever noticed how ridiculous your own accent sounds when you talk to someone with a different one?]. The polite 'excuse me' is gone, replaced with a still polite but not quite so posh "SCUSE ME MATE...YOU'VE DROPPED YER OYSTER!" One of the girls in his group hears my cry, and turns round. Bless you, I think, bless you for sparing me from a life behind bars.

And, what's more, she looks and sounds genuinely grateful when I explain why I'm chasing her down the road. I'm not sure how I would have reacted if I'd been in her position; turning to see a madman wailing like a banshee with an oystercard in one hand and a bulky hardback in the other. The man to whom the card belonged was still galloping around somewhere in the distance, but I'm confident that the two were travelling in the same group, so I consider my good deed done.

What this essay amounts to then, is this; today someone dropped his travel card. I picked it up and returned it to him. See, I told you it would be disappointing.

On What Went Before

2010-05-17T21:22:00.004+01:00

I pass through Fenchurch Street Station every day. In the book I'm reading, set in the 1500s, Fenchurch Street is mentioned as a hub for tradesmen and merchants, as it is today for bankers and city slickers. This parallel, between London past and London present, has made my commute ten times more interesting, in the same way as the novel London Belongs to Me did a couple of months ago.

It's reminded me of the history that is hidden beneath the surface, overshadowed by skyscrapers and ignored by commuters. If the thought of the thousands of people that live and work in London today is a daunting one, then the thought of all the people who have lived and worked here in years gone by is even more impressive. The place is in a constant state of flux; the skyline and the road maps are more or less always changing. Downmarket areas transform themselves from places to avoid to the places to be - from urban decay to city chic. The history of the place is almost impossible to comprehend as old gives way to new, but it's impossible to escape, too. There's a plaque outside the Gherkin (pictured) in memory of the Roman girl whose remains were discovered when digging the foundations. Part of a wall built by Roman soldiers nearly 2000 years ago still stands outside Tower Hill station, and gives its name to one of the busiest streets in the City. Blue plaques mark houses that were once home to people of note; their stories have been preserved along with the buildings they lived in - but what about the millions of others whose stories, and homes, are long forgotten, buried under what came after?

I imagine the same can be said of anywhere that's home to so many; it's nice though, every now and then, to be reminded that you live somewhere special - especially when it's so easy to take it for granted and concentrate its faults.

On Being a Football Fan

2010-05-15T09:46:00.006+01:00

In the early hours of Tuesday morning, I set off on an epic car journey from London to Hamburg to watch Fulham Football Club play Atletico Madrid in the Europa Cup Final. For those of you that don't know, we lost in the dying minutes of extra time after putting up quite a fight. Since the defeat, I've had a lump in my throat. I can't read the papers, I haven't watched the highlights and I try not to talk about it.

That must sound absolutely ridiculous to those of you that don't follow the Beautiful Game. I feel I should try to explain myself. Firstly, Fulham played their first Europa League game almost a year ago. Since then, it's been a rollercoaster ride of crushing defeats followed by miracle victories with which Roy's Boys fought their way into the final. It's not rare for people to cry at a 90 minute film, with characters who aren't real to whom you've only just been introduced - so I feel justified in having such an emotional reaction to a football match, given that I've followed the players through thick and thin for a ruddy long time.

Secondly, I think there's an almost tribal element to it. It's an amazing feeling watching your team score. When Fulham equalised on Wednesday night I was jumping about like a mad chimp at the zoo. There is an actual sense of belonging that you get by supporting a team, wearing their colours and singing the songs that football's detractors sometimes mock.

I know that many people hate football, and of course everyone is free to hold their own opinions, but to anyone who hasn't experienced a game before, I really recommend it. N grew up in South Africa where football isn't particularly popular and when I first met him he hated it. After a bit of nagging he agreed to come to a game and a year and a bit later he's a diehard Fulham fan. Partly because of his ability to absorb useless information like a sponge, he now knows more about the League than I ever have. And while I was doing my mental-monkey dance, he was busting some similar moves to my right, only in a slightly more macho way.

There's a lot about the game that you'll never know unless you give it a chance. Of course, I can't deny that there are still problems associated with it, but times have changed since the heyday of English football hooliganism, and you'll find most fans share your exasperation with the phenomenal sums of money that regularly change hands between clubs. When next season starts, if you ever find yourself at a loose end on a weekend, put your feelings about hooliganism and adulterous players aside and go to a game. Any game - it might be completely different to what you'd expect. It has just given me one of the best few days of my life.

On Made Up Money

2010-05-08T09:02:00.007+01:00

Not empty for long...?

~~~DON'T WORRY - this isn't another post moaning about how broke I am~~~

Economics, along with politics, is something I've never understood, nor really tried to. I had a conversation with my dad at the beginning of the economic crisis about how I didn't understand exchange rates because they are basically human inventions, so how can we all be at their mercy? Trying to explain my point I waffled through a long monologue that went something like this;

"I just don't get it. Exhcange rates...currencies...money...they're human inventions so how do they have this power over us? If you really think about money and stuff, it doesn't really exist".
"Not in your bank account it doesn't," he replied. Good one, father. Obviously I have since looked into the above and now understand things a little better (well, I could hardly understand them less) and you know what, things are looking up...

In recent weeks I've received a number of e-mails from wealthy people from all over the world, desperately trying to find a willing recipient for the millions of extra dollars, pounds or Nigerian naira they have in their accounts.

One god-fearing lady from UAE e-mailed me to say that her beloved husband had recently died and left her a rather princely sum of money. She wanted me to have all of it (I assume she kept a little back to live on - but I won't hold that against her, her husband has just died after all). She wanted me to have this money so much, because she knew that I'd use it in a respectful way and not for anything that would make God frown upon me. Her children couldn't be trusted you see, they had lost their way. She was obviously barking up the wrong tree, in the wrong forest, on the wrong fucking continent. I am going on such a massive bender with her husband's inheritance that it will probably make the news in Dubai and break her heart.

A bank in Nigeria e-mails me quite often too. I say often - it's not really that frequent, but they e-mail me far more often than all the other banks dotted around the world with which I have absolutely no dealings. They seem to have a lot of surplus USD that they need looking after. Why I'm the obvious candidate I don't know - maybe the holy woman from Dubai told them that I can be trusted? Still, send it over. I'll look after it for you. I'm nice like that.

And just this morning a nice man from a famous charity e-mailed me to let me know I've been granted $850,000. For no reason, just because they can I guess. Perhaps they collected more money than they knew what to do with DURING THE RECESSION and thought they'd reward me for the 20p I once dropped in a collection box. Here's me thinking that all the proceeds from the charity shops and collections go to people in real need around the globe. No - it goes to people like me, in the form of grants, which I'll add to my funds received from the religious widow and the Nigerian bank and start my immense pub crawl, to which everyone is invited. It looks like I've just won a German lottery too - would you believe I don't even remember entering it! So the drinks are on me - I'm minted!

And when we've all got killer hangovers, there's a Canadian pharmacy that keeps offering great prices so we'll stock up on aspirin.

LET THE FUN BEGIN!

On the other hand, things like this are actually quite scary. Being moderately technologically savvy, I know that these emails are rubbish and wouldn't think twice about sending any details or even replying (although I did once, in a drunken state, tell one to eff off and never email me again. I'd had a bad day). There are people out there though, I imagine, who will believe them. I don't think I'm going to let my mum on the internet any more, she's always looking for a get-rich-quick scheme.

Just Finished: Mao's Last Dancer by Li Cunxin

2010-05-04T05:59:00.006+01:00

This is not a book I ever would have chosen myself, but, in an effort to broaden my literary horizons I've joined N's book club. The reason I would never have chosen it is that it's an autobiography - whenever I hear that a 25-year old footballer or Z-list Big Brother survivor is penning a written account of their life thus far I get angry. I understand that not all autobiographies are written by brainless, gold-digging halfwits though, and that many have a true story to tell.

That's the case with Mao's Last Dancer - Li Cunxin is not a writer, so the writing style can be a bit difficult at times, but for me this made it that bit more real - it reads like he's telling the story himself, there's little embellishment or polish, it's raw. And it's really interesting - Li Cunxin grew up under Chairman Mao's regime, and was chosen by Madame Mao to leave his poor commune near Qingdao to study dance in Beijing. The effect of Mao's politics on China is well documented through Li's descriptions of his life in the dance academy and at home in the commune, particularly the indoctrination of the populace and the fear of being seen to disagree, or question, any of Mao's teachings.

I'm still not a fan of the autobiography as a genre - one thing that got on my nerves was Li's sentimentality, but then again how difficult must it be to remain objective when you're writing about your own life and the people you love.

Li Cunxin did lead an incredible life - from intense poverty in communist China to affluence in the West - and his story gives a fascinating glimpse into both the hardship of living under Mao's regime and the heartache of being separated from everything you've ever known. I suppose I should give his autobiography a little more credit - if it had been labelled as a novel I probably would have moaned about how grossly unbelievable the plot was - it's definitely a story worth telling.

That said, I'm ready for a bit of fiction now so have chosen a big fat novel to sink my teeth into.

Next up - Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

On Various Methods of Procrastination

2010-05-01T21:55:00.028+01:00

Despite having tamed my rogue I-Pod, the War with Technology continues. My work computer is still valiantly trying to stay awake, alive and kicking, though more often than not fails miserably and gives itself up to the Blue Screen of Death. Because of the long periods of enforced inactivity thrust upon me by this antique piece of office equipment, I've turned from Facebook, YouTube and...erm...work to new methods of passing the eight hours a day I spend at my desk:

I make Morph, my little desk buddy, lift cars. He's very strong is Morph, and quite enjoys the physical exertion. He's also very fond of the scarf I found for him (modelled in this picture).

I nibble at the delights delivered in my weekly Graze box (the Wasabi peas are bloody lovely).

I make origami animals. Please be introduced to the Happy Whale Family and Samsung the Panda.

I design complex costumes for the fancy dress party I'm attending next week. This is a frog costume - it's still in the planning stages but I'm hoping to get it through production this week!

And I leave notes next to home-made, people-shaped snacks.

Add a dash of office banter, one lyric quiz, an extended lunch break and a generous helping of day-dreaming, and you too can have a fun-full Friday that will pass in the blink of an eye.

DISCLAIMER: Should any of my colleagues stumble across this blog, please note that the italicised phrases are intended ironically and should not be taken seriously. That said, if you do fancy getting me a brand spanking new machine and, by doing so, increase my output tenfold, please do so.

On 3, Being the Magic Number

2010-04-25T22:20:00.005+01:00

Firstly, thank you Gnetch for giving me the opportunity to talk about myself, something I enjoy rather a lot - and as you tagged me I don't have to worry about sounding self-obsessed. Good work!

"Me in 3s."

Three names I go by:

1. Tom, being my name and all.

2. Thumbo, after my thumb swelled up to twice its normal size on a road trip in Italy.

3. Thomas, used exclusively by my mother when she's ashamed of me, or by colleagues trying to annoy me. Don't call me it. Ever. I don't like it.

Three jobs I've had:

1. International Sales Assistant @ a children's book publisher - my present job.

2. Conversation Assistant in an English language school in Italy - talking crap and getting paid, good times.

3. Service Improvement Officer @ council housing office - it sounds so much more important than it was. It involved taking complaints and filling in surveys. Sound fun? Didn't think so.

Three places I have lived:

1. Upminster - the end of the District Line

2. Cagliari - the capital of Sardinia

3. Royal Leamington Spa - the year that passed in a drunken haze

Three fave drinks:

1. A nice cold pint of Stella Artois. I know, I should be ashamed. But deep down I'm not.

2. Black coffee. I can't function without it.

3. Sparkling water - the perfect hangover cure.

Three TV shows I watch:

1. Shameless.

2. Waterloo Road. I love it. I bloody love it.

3. True Blood

Three places I've been:

1. Athens, Greece - a birthday present from N (seeing the Acropolis has always been on my to-do list.)

2. Rome, Italy - we missed the last train and slept on benches near St Peter's Square.

3. Paris, France - I went with work last October. Felt very important getting the Eurostar from St Pancras, thank God it didn't break down that time, I don't think I would have handled the situation very well. (How Old World am I? I have to broaden my horizons methinks)

Three places I would like to visit:

1. Norway - to see the Northern Lights (Also on my to-do list - Alexandra if you have any tips you have to let me know!)

2. Tokyo

3. Cape Town, to see where N grew up.

Three favorite retro TV shows:

1. Only Fools & Horses

2. Cheers

3. Fawlty Towers

Three favorite dishes:

1. Salmon & Asparagus

2. Mussels Marinara

3. Profiteroles.

Three things I'm looking forward to:

1. January 2013, when I will finally be able to relax safe in the knowledge that the world did not end in 2012.

2. Payday...this month has dragged itself out long enough.

3. Seeing the Northern Lights!

Three people I'm tagging:

1. Alexandra @ Friends & Crocodiles

2. Patti @ For When My Head Gets Full (maybe one for a Friday fill-in?!)

3. Kisekae @ Diary Of a Doll

On Political Apathy

2010-04-25T21:48:00.007+01:00

A Political Pile-up

Firstly, I promise I will never write about politics ever again - it's not something I fully understand but humour me, just this once...

I'm going to admit something. Something I'm ashamed of. I've never voted, despite being eligible for nearly ten years. Elections - general, local and European - have passed by without me batting an eyelid.

I think this is partly because I've never taken the time to read about politics, or to really think about it for that matter, and assumed that no vote is better than a misinformed one. Had I familiarised myself with the parties and their arguments, I may have been able to motivate myself to vote. In truth, I suppose it was laziness.

My laziness was caused, in part, by a belief that one single vote can't really make a difference. When the press and media are throwing their weight behind the various candidates, flinging sleaze and scandal at one another like a giant political food fight, who's going to hear me over that? That's who the political parties want on side - I'm just a drop in the ocean compared to that.

I have also read (another) very interesting article today which mentions a group of politically engaged women, actively and successfully campaigning against the slave trade in the 1830s, who had little interest in acquiring the vote for themselves. "They took it for granted that politics was a game played by prosperous men for their own interests". I cannot stress how relevant I think this is today. I think this is the principal cause of my political apathy. I've considered politicians a class unto themselves - they've recently demonstrated how ridiculously out of touch they are with the rest of the population, and how fantastically good they are looking after themselves. In my opinion, it's not surprising that so many people feel completely detached from politics, as insular and behind-closed-doors as the British system is. It's like walking past a party you're not invited to - you can see people having fun, but you can't join in.

However, this isn't a rant about the system - this time round I actually feel slightly optimistic. I do plan to vote this year, and I do sense things changing. Perhaps I'm being naive. Perhaps this is what most people feel when they turn 18 and vote for the first time, but for the first time in my life I find myself interested in politics. It's taken a recession, the expenses scandal and a cloud of volcanic ash but the political animal inside me has finally woken up. I don't believe I'll make a difference, but I'm going to give it a shot - at least then I'll have a right to moan, even if it doesn't go my way.

Just Finished: The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters

2010-04-22T22:13:00.005+01:00

Last night I awoke from a dream about being stuck in a lift convinced that there was something spooky in my room. There wasn't, I don't think, but I was stuck half way between being asleep and being awake. This happens to me quite often - earlier in the week I convinced myself that the moon was moving to a different point in the sky each time I shut my eyes. I realise now that I didn't just shut my eyes, I fell asleep for ages then woke up again and so the moon had actually moved. Yes, I had had a drink. But alcohol was not what made me think my room was haunted - that was Sarah Waters' fault.

The Little Stranger is set after World War 2, in Warwickshire (which is where I went to university, incidentally). It follows a doctor who, over the course of the book, becomes close to the upper class family who live in a big, old house. Yes - I see what you're thinking - a big, old house, a ghost...it's been done. But this is a very clever book. Firstly because it moves incredibly slowly without being boring. It's a long old read before even a whisper of paranormal activity. What's even better is the books commentary of social change in the postwar years - the rise of the middle class, the decline of the aristocracy, even woman's rights. It was evidently a tumultuous time, and Waters captures in a really vivid, detailed way.

And it is spooky. Very spooky. It's like the only sort of horror film I'll watch: one where you don't see what's scaring you or what people are running from - the monster is in your imagination and you can only see its traces. Take Signs for example - brilliant film, until you see the shit alien costume and find out it's scared of water. Describing just enough, but leaving the rest to the imagination is the best way, in my humble opinion, of really scaring the b'jesus out of someone. And that's what this book does. Anything that wriggles its way into your subconcious so that you wake up thinking there's a dead Edwardian child in your room must be pretty effective.

Next up: Mao's Last Dancer by Li Cunxin...not something I'd normally choose (it's an autobiography for a start, which I've never been into) but I've joined N's book club...my first one. Eeek.

PS Well done FFC for holding out against the mighty Hamburg...COYW!

On Eyjafjallajokull

2010-04-18T19:07:00.010+01:00

Image taken 17th April 2010 at Putney Bridge

And so it continues. The invisible cloud of ash from Icelandic volcano Eyjafjallajokull is still hovering menancingly over the British Isles and most of northern Europe. Along with the upcoming general election, this is what more or less dominates UK news at the moment.

A colleague received an email from a supplier in the far east on Friday, urging her to 'pay extra attention when driving through the ash.' Of course we explained that it wasn't quite Dante's Peak in King's Cross, but I can see why she'd think it was, the amount we've gone on about it [myself included]. Perhaps this is due to our lack of volcanoes and fault lines, coupled with the obvious fact that there's only so often that drizzle can be newsworthy, that we've seized this opportunity to be dramatic. The vast majority of Eyjafjallajokull's column inches are dedicated to the thousands of stranded travellers dotted across the globe - something that for them is obviously incredibly inconvenient, and in some cases maybe even financially crippling - but the Ash Cloud of Doom has not stopped there.

Hundreds of people in Iceland were evacuated from their homes. Airlines may be forced to make people redundant should they be grounded much longer. The lack of air travel has meant flower exporters in Kenya are losing obscene amounts of money. This is what really got me. This is what I would never have considered; the fact that a volcano way up in northern Europe can effect the business dealings of someone in Kenya is...well...it's a bit mental.

It's crazy how the world exists day-to-day on such tight deadlines - how a few days without aeroplanes can have such a huge ripple effect. Another example: According to this ever so interesting article, in 1783 another Icelandic volcano erupted. The clouds of ash and dust were so thick that crops failed throughout northern Europe. This poor harvest was one of the catalysts of the French revolution! Crazy shit. That volcano changed the world. All of this is so weird if you think about it. All of it. The whole business has made the world seem so much smaller to me. I know that if I wanted to go on holiday tomorrow it would take me a bloody long time, but it's the exposure of the delicate supply chains and the speed at which things unravel as soon as one link is broken that makes everything seem less far away. It's like dominoes on a global scale. I'm probably making no sense; if anything I should feel more isolated, but I don't think I've ever felt more connected to the rest of the world.

On The Saga Continuing (And TbR Foreseeing His Doom)

2010-04-15T20:56:00.007+01:00

No really, I actually am going to keep talking about this. At the risk of making myself sound totally insane, my battle with the Why-Won't-You-Die-Pod is far from over. After my drastic actions last weekend, we had one day of good music together. One fine day. The next day my head phones broke (He did it! The Pod! It was him!). The day after that I developed an eye twitch like the one I referred to, in jest, in my previous post! I think that settles it - there are no other explanations - my I-Pod is possessed by something far more powerful than I. I admit defeat.

FYI the eye twitch has since subsided. I get it sometimes when I'm really tired...does anyone else or is it just me? I tried to find a quick fix online but my search was in vain, all I found was a website telling me to do the following:

a) Cut down on caffeine

b) Don't get stressed at work

c) Reduce my alcohol intake.

Now, these are silly things to say and I'll tell you why. If I were to follow option a), b) would become considerably more difficult and c) would probably be impossible as I'd drink (c) to cope with the stress (b). I can't really turn b) off, but I know that coffee and alcohol are important in keeping my work life as stress-free as possible. I could, and probably should, do c), but I'll wait until next Tuesday, because I have planned a night out at which I simply must drink. Oh, and Thursday. I'll start Friday.

From the initial disappointment surrounding my lost battle with the Pod, I move on to another: the Icelandic volcano. I completely understand why the airports have closed and I for one wouldn't want to risk flying; my sole disappointment is that I didn't read the newspaper article in full, and so spent most of Tuesday hoping to see a giant cloud of ash in the distance, looming over the tower blocks, perhaps even floating past my 5th floor window. I now realise that it's far too high for my twitchy eye to see, but it would have been something to tell the grandchildren had it happened my way.

And finally, the prediction of my doom. I had a dream. A dream of what I believe to have been the End of the World. It started in my living room. I looked out of the window and saw five shooting stars. I said, "Oooh! Look at those shooting stars!" Then they crashed to earth (for anyone with any knowledge of the county of Essex, I'd say they landed somewhere around West Horndon). Panic ensued. I woke the house and noticed a horse in the garden (completely random and unrelated, but I have to stick to the vision as it happened lest a detail I miss is important). The back garden was all of a sudden consumed by flame and thick black smoke. We rushed downstairs, jumped in the car and made our way straight for the mushroom cloud (of ash!) at the point of impact. WE WERE GOING TO SEE THE METEORITES THAT SET OUR HOUSE ON FIRE. And we were all quite excited. It felt like a holiday ("We'll go to the zoo, and the beach. And we mustn't forget the epicentre of the apocalypse!"). This is where my vision ends. I wonder if it should be analysed? What does it mean? Why am I dreaming of such terrifying situations? Why did the good clan TbR head into the eye of the storm? Are we hurtling towards disaster? And where did that effing horse come from?! So many questions, so little sense.

Have a great weekend everyone!

TbR

[Please note that I am not, in fact, completely mad and don't really believe that my IPod is out to get me, nor that I have any measure of prophetic ability. I promise I'm not a complete loon.]

On TbR & The Why-Won't-You-Die-Pod

2010-04-11T22:24:00.007+01:00

Ladies and gentlemen, please be introduced to my arch-nemesis; the Why-Won't-You-Die-Pod. We've been locked in a battle for supremacy for a while, and only now can I see the light at the end of the tunnel.

I fell in love with the little red I-Pod Nano at first sight. I took it home and introduced it to a range of music so eclectic it blew the little Pod's mind. Perhaps I should have been more careful, adding a few songs at a time rather than drowning it in tunage for (alas!) less than a month later it was in a bad way. I took it to the Apple Store where a kindly young fellow (who N fancied, incidentally) took the little Pod 'into the back' to fix it. Now, I'm not sure what happened 'in the back' but something definitely went awry for the I-Pod I received was not the same one I gave in! It did have the same scratches from my keys, my grubby fingerprints on the screen and that same piece of receipt wedged into the headphone socket. It was physically the same machine - but something had changed.

I've since come to the conclusion that while 'in the back', the little Pod was possessed by some kind of evil Pod spirit, which altered its personality in such a way that we no longer saw eye to eye. It would turn itself off in my pocket, purposely choose songs I didn't really like OVER and OVER, and run away and hide when I turned my back. All of a sudden my least favourite songs appeared in three or four different guises in My Music folder, with just one letter, number or space different between them. I couldn't escape them. They played ALL THE TIME. My thumb ached with the skipping of tracks. Why-Won't-You-Die-Pod nearly had me defeated.

But no! I'm too clever for it! I have spent the WHOLE WEEKEND sorting out My Music folder.

There has been a veritable cull of songs - I've been really quite ruthless. I've arranged them into alphabetical order (by artist) and ensured that all duplicates are deleted. The folder is perfection - a monument to my tidying skills. I've also uninstalled and reinstalled I-Tunes. And, finally, I RESTORED THE EVIL POD TO FACTORY SETTINGS. Mwah ha ha! I'm hoping this will cure its evil ways and return it to the perfect Pod I had before - before the strops, and the unscheduled song changes and the running away. Back to the good old days...

However...I am now worried for my sanity. Perhaps it has beaten me after all...I mean I've just lost a whole weekend...do I really feel proud of that? Perhaps this was what it wanted all along...yes...to make me scared...to make me compromise my good nature by taking such reckless action...why...why you little...

Have a good week everyone!

*mad eye twitch*

On Centaurs Only Being Able To Use Wheelchair Accessible Stations

2010-04-09T19:48:00.008+01:00

Oh hello sweet, sweet bed! How my heart has yearned for your warm embrace today! I have been suffering you see. Suffering with a hangover. Despite being snowed under at work, I couldn't really do anything this morning except feel sorry for myself (which I do very well). Last night, you see, saw a reunion of sorts.

There were once three friends who started a quiz team in a pub that was due to close down. Every Monday night they would meet, chat, drink and ponder over ridiculously difficult trivia questions. This continued for months; the team grew week after week, new teams formed as offshoots, it was a golden age of hushed conferring, booze-fuelled banter and Tuesday morning headaches. Then tragedy struck (I used the term tragedy in the loosest possible sense). Two of the three decided to return to the world of higher education, leaving poor TbR at home alone! Without them, his quiz attendance fizzled out - the weekly quiz was cancelled and he returned no more to pub in question (though it is still open, a year on, with more customers than ever apparently - I'm taking credit for that).

But they're home for Easter so a few of us headed to the pub for a catch-up drink last night. I arrived late, fashionably, having nipped out for a couple after work, and the banter commenced. Now, I don't want you to think that I don't have any other friends, I do. Honest. But this is a group where conversation wanders into uniquely unpredictable places. Take this excerpt, from last night's meeting, for instance:

D: "Can you imagine having hands where your feet are? Do you think that would work?"
T: "Like a chimp? They have elongated toes."
S: "I don't think it would work - would you be able to stand up straight?"
D: "I don't think so. I'd probably prefer hooves anyway, like Mr Tumnus."
TBR: "Mr Tumnus was a faun though. I'd prefer horse's hooves to goat's hooves."
D: "True. But again, I'm not sure you'd be able to stand up straight."
T: "What about a centaur then? Have all four legs. You'd be really fast then."
D: "True."
TBR: "It would be a logistical nightmare though. I mean if centaurs did exist, their ability to travel would be quite limited - they couldn't get the tube, for example."
S: "No - especially in rush hour."
TBR: "Not just that - what about stairs? I think you'd just have to say 'Sorry, centaurs, but you can only use wheelchair accessible stations."
T: "They'd be alright on the Jubilee Line - 18 of 28 stations are wheelchair accessible.*"

And this is what I miss - the ability to get lost in a conversation about absolute crap and forget how it started. I shall have to make the most of their return - nights out with the Former Quiz Team of Dreams are guaranteed to be good ones.

In other news, I saw the parrots again this evening. Down my road this time. Exciting stuff.

Happy Friday to you all and enjoy the weekend, I'm off to bed!

TbR

*I have checked this and it's incorrect. Poor effort.

On Spring

2010-04-04T12:03:00.008+01:00

And so, winter draws to a close. Despite being an avowed winterphile, I am quite pleased - if only because these new blue skies are a bit different to the grey ones I've got used to.

I have also noticed people looking just a bit happier. Is it just because we've had 2 days off work? I'd say no. In fact, I can sense a definite shift in the public mood. Yesterday was sunny, but it was also freezing; nevertheless I saw a couple of beer gardens full to bursting. At Craven Cottage (Fulham vs Wigan - we won 2-1!) the weather varied wildly between April showers and April sunshine and the usual suspects who have season tickets near mine seemed somewhat less arsey than usual. And I don't think it was because we were playing particularly well. N, however, pointed out that even though we won, he didn't feel particularly happy. This leads me to believe that spring may not make people happy. Perhaps, instead, daffodils release a kind of emotional sedative that just keeps people in a fair-to-middling mood.

Whatever the reason, it's affecting me too; on my way home on Thursday someone wheeled a suitcase over my foot at Kings Cross. He apologised, and rather than respond with a grunt or a glare I said 'don't worry!' with a silly grin on my face. What now? That's not like me. Or is it just unlike WINTER ME? I find myself looking at grass verges and thinking how nice it will be to sit on the grass in the sun. Again, unlike me - I normally run for the shadows. I'm not sure what to make of all this gaiety. I think I may wear a face mask tomorrow - if I manage to maintain a bad mood, there may be some truth in my daffodil theory. If I still feel happy, I'll have no choice to conclude that my initial suspicion was correct, that spring makes people happy, despite the weather still being pretty rubbish.

Just Finished: The Amnesia Clinic by James Scudamore

2010-04-01T23:12:00.004+01:00

Set in Ecuador in the 1990s, The Amnesia Clinic follows two fifteen year old boys who couldn't be more different. Anti, the narrator, is a British expat - pale, unattractive and prone to asthma attacks. Fabian is the good-looking, athletic and popular Ecuadorian who takes Anti under his wing. One thing they do share, and what forms the basis of their friendship, is a talent for storytelling; both the boys, Fabian's uncle and a host of other characters are seen using imagination to embellish the reality of what's happened to them. In Fabian's case, it's the death of his mother and father. As his mother's body was never found, Fabian concocts a series of barely plausible possibilities explaining how she survived and where she is now - something that Anti later encourages by suggesting she's a patient in an invented Amnesia Clinic on the coast. This leads to a trip across Ecuador to a fishing village that's not on the map; a trip that ends with a bang.

The storytelling theme is recurrent throughout; many characters have opportunities to go off on their own tangent and it's largely up to you decide whether the narrator is reliable, or whether it's complete bollocks. I think everyone's felt, at one point or another, disappointed with the reality in which they find themselves, and longed for something more interesting to be injected into their daily lives. The Amnesia Clinic follows Anti and Fabian at a time in life when the imagination begins to fail - when what is becomes more important than what could be. It's a coming of age story about leaving childhod fancies behind, and learning to accept life how it is - no matter how grim it seems.

The final twist is the icing on the cake - I wish I could go into it more but I don't want to ruin it for anyone. Suffice it to say that it realigns your perspective on the events and characters you've been reading about, just when you think you know what happened.

I've never been to Ecuador, nor South America for that matter, so I'm not sure how good Scudamore's descriptions are - but in my mind it certainly evoked the colour, passion and confusion that I imagine to exist there. This is a good read - it took a while to get into, and I wasn't always sure what to believe but I think it's very cleverly written. Scudamore's characters manipulate your opinion of them with their stories and keep you guessing until the end. This means you can't really trust any of them, and instead wonder what the reality is, beneath the stories and lies.

Next up: The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters

On Paloma Faith

2010-03-31T21:39:00.008+01:00

Paloma Faith @ the Shepherd's Bush Empire

Last night I went to see Paloma Faith. She was bloody brilliant, and I heartily recommend her gigs - she's quite the entertainer on top of having an amazing voice. Even N enjoyed himself, despite having spent most of yesterday trying to wriggle out of it. Although, he did buy me the tickets, so I'll let him off of his lame attempts to make me go on my own.

For those of you that don't know, Paloma Faith is a British singer. She's been compared to Amy Winehouse, only with less drugs and more likely to perform without being sick down her top. That's not the only difference; her songs are a lot more layered and theatrical, and she has an eccentric style and visual presence that mark her out from the crowd. Some of her songs, particularly the ones she's released as singles, are a bit too pop for my liking, but the mellower, darker ones I think are fantastic. Her covers of songs by Etta James and Billie Holiday last night were unbelievably good... What I also like is that she has such a laugh doing what she does; she looks like she's having a great time, which is important. Watching someone who's really talented but miserable as sin can be quite a chore in my humble opinion, so watching someone who can sing while having a giggle was much fun. She doesn't take herself too seriously, which is quite refreshing to see. Her music shall be gracing the Pod for a while methinks.

The only problem was caused by my laziness. I decided not to put my bag in the cloak room. Once a gig is finished, I have an almost irresistible urge to flee the building as soon as possible. I hate queues for cloakrooms, not least because just by being in said queue you are accepting that the fun has been had, and now it's time for bed. So I kept my things with me, and N capitalised on this by shoving his massive coat in my man bag. [Haha, that sounds a bit like innuendo; it's not. Grow up T.] This meant I couldn't really relax; I spent a lot of time wedging my bag in between my feet, or resting it on my shoes, or moving it to the side, all while holding onto the strap so no-one could steal it. I'm not sure how, but I seem to have pulled a muscle while doing this. I think I must have kept my right leg tensed for the duration of the gig, because this morning I noticed I'd developed a limp and can no longer walk down stairs. Up is fine, but not down (I believe cows also have this problem? Perhaps I'm becoming a cow - watch this space).

Anyway, happy April everyone - I hope we all have a great month, and I'll write again soon unless my fingers turn to hooves.

tbr

On The Return of a Wanderer

2010-03-28T09:23:00.009+01:00

Every year, for one week in March, the heartbreakingly pretty city of Bologna hosts the International Children's Book Fair. As fun as it was, I must say I think that the cuthroat world of children's publishing would drain the energy out of anyone; enormous children's book characters roam the aisles, spies from other publishers steal samples and ideas, books leap from shelves into people's handbags - one has to be constantly on one's guard to fend off these villains. I think I met the task head on, and had a bloody good time, despite being manhandled by a man dressed as a giant ginger baby:

Who is this madman?

One of the reasons I like my job is that it gives me an opportunity to talk to people from all over the world. Furthermore, I now know that my banter is appreciated by my foreign friends and have been invited to Finland. Get on.

The food was of course amazing, as was the city, but i shan't bore you with any more photographs. Instead, in honour of the Book Fair and because I'm feeling lazy, I'm going to complete the book-themed questions below instead:

Hardback or paperback?

Paperback, probably. I have nothing against hardbacks, but I like the noise when a paperback's spine breaks, which you don't really get with hardbacks.

Waterstones, Borders or Amazon?

Borders has folded in the UK, and Amazon scares me with its uncanny ability to make me spend more money than I can spare (although I do use it for the wishlist) so I'm going to say Waterstones. Although my favourite is Foyles in St Pancras station, because it's posh and often full of fashionable Parisians.

Bookmark or dog-ear?

Dog-ear, I have no time for all this bookmarking stuff, and as you'll gather I quite like the look of a bashed up book.

A-Z by author, or A-Z by title, or random?

No order whatsoever, although I do like to keep books with the same colour spines separate.

Keep, throw away, or sell?

Keep it. Keep it forever and never let it get away.

Short story or novel?

Novel - I don't mind the odd short story but prefer something I can sink my teeth into, like a dog with a big fat steak.

Buy or borrow?

I like to underline bits in books that I like (see: Lines I Like) so never really borrow books either...

Tidy ending or cliffhanger?

It depends - I think a cliffhanger is sometimes better than trying to tie off hundreds of loose ends in a few paragraphs right at the end, which can sound a bit rushed.

Morning reading, afternoon reading, or nighttime reading?

I only really read when I'm commuting, so in the mornings and early evenings. If I'm really into a book, I'll read at night as well.

Favourite series?

His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman. Couldn't put them down.

Favourite children’s book?

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by CS Lewis.

Favourite YA book?

Erm...Twilight, ashamed as I am to admit it.

Favourite book no one has heard of?

Ariosto's Orlando Furioso - it is actually quite famous but I think most people who have heard of it have studied it. It's fantastic, a medieval romp with dragons and wizards and damsels in distress (and damsels in armour killing dragons - I'm no chauvinist!).

Favourite books read last year?

Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie blew my tiny little mind.

Favourite book to re-read?

I don't often re-read books. I know it's a waste, but I never enjoy a books as much as I did the first time.

Do you ever smell books?

Yes, always. When I was at university, I studied Magic in the Middle Ages - the books from the occult section in the library smelt like no others I've ever smelt. Because they were old and never opened, not because they were enchanted or anything...

What are you reading right now?

Amnesia Clinic by James Scudamore, I'm just getting into it.

What are you reading next?

I'm unsure, I have many titles to choose from and what I choose will depend on my mood the day I finish this one.

That's me over and out. I do hope you can forgive my laziness, and that everyone had a ruddy good weekend.

Ciao,

tbr

On The Week That Just Was

2010-03-18T22:05:00.011Z

An Evening At The Scala

I'm so pleased it's the weekend - it's been a week with more ups and downs than the Big One at Blackpool.

After my Night of Shame last Saturday, I couldn't shake the hangover until Monday evening. Oh, how I struggled at the office. I drank so much water in an attempt to end the misery than I spent most of my working day in the toilet.

Tuesday was marginally better; I went for a few drinks after work (I know - I never learn!) which were rather funny. We've started recording the funny things we say in a quote book, which makes great reading, but is not for the faint hearted.

Wednesday, however, was very good. I met N after work and we went to see Tom McRae at the Scala. I don't know his music at all - it was N's birthday present - but it was bloody brilliant. I think also, because he's not as well-known as he could be, he's developed a scarily devoted fan base. I'm not joking - it's like they all know each other - they know when to sing along and when not to, they have little jokes with him and all sorts. The only downer was that we went for an all-you-can-eat buffet meal at Kitchin beforehand, which limited movement later. Luckily, we found a perfect spot right at the front of the top balcony - meaning we could see everything. I felt like Prince William, looking down on the paupers squashed in below. I really like the Scala for that reason; it's full of corridors and stairs and balconies, it's quite easy to get lost in. One of my favourite gig venues I think. Especially the mosaic floors in the stairwells.

Thursday was a lowpoint - despite not drinking on Wednesday, I felt bloody awful all morning. I was struggling so much I went home from work, and missed the Fulham vs Juventus game that everyone's talking about. My dad says it was the "best atmosphere he's ever seen at Craven Cottage". N was 'so happy he felt dizzy'. I was at home alone. HOW IS THIS FAIR? I am so full of regret. And woe, I am also full of WOE. Still, well done Fulham for reaching the quarter finals. C'mon you whites!

I ended up taking Friday off too (although this was less because of my cold and more because of the intense depression missing Thursday's game put me in).

So it's been a week of highs and lows. I'm in Italy next week, with work, so I'm off to buy some new stuff to wear now.

I hope everyone has a great weekend!

tbr

Just Finished: Everything Is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer

2010-03-16T23:31:00.006Z

This book is so good, I decided I had to take a picture once I'd finished it, to commemorate the moment. I jest not - this is one of the best books I have ever read and thoroughly deserves the high praise splashed all over the inside covers. This is why it's taken me so long to write this, I can't do it justice. But I've given up. I won't do it justice, but I have to write something. I have to recommend it!

Everything is Illuminated follows a Ukranian student called Alex. An American Jew named Jonathan is visiting the Ukraine to find the woman who saved his grandfather's life during the Nazi occupation. To help him find her, he's procured the services of Heritage Tours, Alex's fathers company; Alex will be his translator, and Alex's grandfather, their driver.

The story is split into three alternating arcs. One part is written by Jonathan; a novel he's working on describing the trials and tribulations in the lives of his Ukranian ancestors. He paints a colourful picture of life in the town of Trachimbrod from its foundation in the 1700s, right up to the Holocaust. These chapters are full of odd twists, turns and bizarre happenings and read a bit like Garcia Marquez; it's impossible to predict what's coming next. Foer has an amazing imagination, I wish I could think like that.

Whenever he finishes a chapter, Jonathan sends it to Alex, who responds with his thoughts or comments on it. These chapters are written in Alex's own special English - which he admits is less than 'premium' but his use of a thesaurus is second to none. As such, he will find things 'rigid' rather than difficult, and will 'repose' rather than sleep. His grandfather's guide dog is referred to as his 'seeing-eye bitch'. When I first started reading this, I didn't get it, but it doesn't take long to figure it out, and the humour Foer gets out of this really makes the book something special; I laughed on the Tube, a real hearty laugh I tell you - not just a mere snigger.

My tolerance of Alex's written English wasn't the only thing that changed; I initially hated Alex, finding him arrogant and boastful and uninteresting. However, with each chapter I read he became more and more impressive, and by the end I loved him. Loved.

After he comments on Jonathan's work, he'll then describe the events of their quest together; their search for Augustine, who saved his grandfather from the Nazi forces who occupied the Ukraine. As it's written by Alex, you sometimes have to read sentences twice to figure out what he's getting at; but again, this is one of the things that makes this book so good.

I don't want to say much about the story as I don't want to spoil it, but it's fantastic. It's funny, moving and at times completely off the wall - five stars from me :) My best book this year...

Next up: Amnesia Clinic by James Scudamore

On Not Having a Clue

2010-03-14T16:12:00.005Z

"I'll have another mojito please Bovary"

"Coming right up Chatterley."

I woke up this morning covered in mud. My head was throbbing and I appear to have bruised my rib. A morning of toilet hugging began.

I'm no stranger to hangovers, but this one's a bit of a brute. What makes it worse is that I remember very little. Most of the night is a complete blank. In the few episodes I do recall I'm sitting on the sofa, making pleasant small talk with one of N's friends. However, it's unlikely that I continued in this vein for the rest of the night - in fact I know I didn't. I know this because I woke up to three texts telling me how 'awesome', 'on form' and 'sweaty' I was. These aren't adjectives you'd use to describe my usual, softly-spoken, 'I'm going to chat in the kitchen' party persona, so I imagine I was making a massive arse out of myself. N explained why I was covered in mud - in the 20 second walk from a cab to his front door I managed to fall in a ditch. This could also explain the rib. The Jack Daniels is accountable for the headache and toilet-hugging.

It's a horribly uncomfortable feeling this - I have absolutely no idea what I was doing and I know that in a few hours the photos will start appearing on Facebook. I'll have to wait until then to find out what level of foolishness my behaviour reached, and swiftly detag.

Just Finished: The Masque of the Red Death (and Other Stories) by Edgar Allan Poe

2010-03-12T20:02:00.003Z

I should admit that 'just finished' is a bit of a lie, I finished it about a week ago and am already halfway through my bloody brilliant new book.

I can't remember for the life of me where I heard about the Masque of the Red Death. I do know it was referred to in a book, a reference that flew unimpeded straight over my head. To ensure I grasped the full meaning of the sentence, I looked it up and thought "Hang on one minute - that's sounds a bit interesting!" and so added it to my list of books for 2010. Being a man of a short attention span, I didn't really read into it too much and as such I was unaware that this is a book of short stories. This is a good thing; had I known, I probably wouldn't have picked it up. I've never really been a big reader of short stories, and the words "And Other Stories/Tales etc" normally cause me to put the book back on the shelf and walk on by. I like to get into a story you see, to get to know people. However, as I said, it was a good thing I didn't know, because it meant I gave the book a chance.

And it was worth it, I'm pleased. Poe is obviously a rather large deal in American literature, and it's not hard to see why - the stories were wickedly gothic, twisted and dark, which is just how I like it. They do seem to follow a quite rigid, almost predictable formula*, but I suppose the man knew his art and his audience and, well, if it ain't broke - don't fix it.

*

Beginning - "you won't believe me/I'm mad"
Middle - "Something funny's going on here old chum...events have taken a rather odd turn!"
End - someone dies.

They don't all follow this pattern, and I like I said I do understand that this has a purpose; each piece is finely tuned to shock or to spook, but after a few stories it had almost the opposite effect - I started to feel like I knew what was coming. I think I read, however, that at least some of them were originally published in magazines and I reckon that if you were reading them monthly or quarterly this wouldn't be a problem - it's because I was reading each one immediately after finishing another that I became acclimatised to Poe's writing style.

I won't bore you with all of the stories, but here's my top three:

The Mask of the Red Death - while a plague ravages his country, a nobleman locks himelf and his friends in his castle for a giant rave up. However, bricks and mortar can't stop the Red Death, and events take a worrying turn. There's also a very odd clock.
The Pit & The Pendulum - a prisoner is tormented by the clerics of the Inquisition who use a series of imaginative methods of torture in attempts to kill him. One of the stories that breaks free from the formula above, but is spooky nonetheless.
The Cask of Amontillado - lulls you into such a false sense of security you forget the beginning, and are shocked by the ending.

Overall I'd say this was a rather enjoyable read. I like most things gothic, Poe is obviously a master craftsman and I got to experience a form of prose I wouldn't normally consider. However, I'm heading back to not-so-short stories for a while now, I need something juicy to get my teeth into.

Now reading: Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer

On Happiness

2010-03-11T22:32:00.007Z

...and most of all, I'd like to thank Kisekae @ Diary of a Doll - not just for passing on the love, but also for introducing me to the mad world of chatroulette, which has provided much merriment since I first discovered it through her blog.

And, following her lead, I'm going to list 10 things that make me happy;

1. GIVING PEOPLE NICKNAMES. If I meet someone and we become friends it's rare that I'll call them by their first names. Most of the people close to me have extra special names, just for them. These nicknames might not make the people they're intended for that happy, but it's all in the good name of Banter, and thus excusable.

2. VIOLINS. It doesn't matter what genre - play me a song with a violin solo in it and the chances are I'll play it on the Pod for weeks. I'm not sure where this started - I've never played a violin, it just strikes a chord (good one...) with me that other instruments don't. Patrick Wolf's Damaris, for example, is currently my most played song, followed closely by the Langley Sisters' Sing for My Supper.

3. WAKING UP EARLY, really early, and realising I can go back to sleep for ages before I have to drag myself up. Alas, this happens rarely these days - it's a wonder I ever make it into work on time (despite having my alarm go off every ten minutes from six until half seven...)

God this is hard. I'm struggling at four - does that make me a miserable person?

4. GOOD BOOKS. The books that make you look forward to the long commute, or the ones you can't put down when you get home, and especially the ones that colour the way you look at the world after finishing them.

5. DECEMBER. It's my birthday, and everyone is full to the brim with festive cheer. It gets dark early, which I like, and everything is sparkly. This is a good month.

6. STRONG COFFEE. Without it I'd barely be able to function, and it tastes so nice...

7. STRANGERS FINDING THE SAME THING FUNNY. Recently I was on a train, a late train back from the City. The man sitting opposite me was dead to the world, snoring like nothing I've ever heard before. Out. Of. This. World. At first it really grated on me, I considered moving seats. But then I caught the eye of the person sitting next to him. She was trying to stifle a laugh. Seeing that put my irritation into perspective, and by the next station I was caught in a giggle loop.

8. POINTY SHOES. I love them. My brother bought me a shiny black pair for Christmas, and although they literally cut my ankles to pieces I don't care. They look to chuffing cool for that to matter.

9. BUSY PLACES FULL OF PEOPLE. In particular, I love stations. Big stations, like Kings Cross and Paddington. Not because I'm a trainspotter, honest, but because of all the different people going their different ways, journeys starting, ending or just continuing. I could sit in a station for ages and people watch.

10. SHARING A HANGOVER. There's a unique bond created by two or more people suffering at the same time after a night of excess. At university we'd gather round the tiny TV and watch T4 over a massive fry-up and tea by the gallon, piecing the night together with photos and text messages to supplement the little we could actually remember. It's even funnier if there's a journey involved.

So, they are my ten happy thoughts for today. I hope they're not too bizarre. I'd now like to pass this little ray of happiness onto the following:

London Girl @ London Town & Me - on a quest to make London smile, one hug-needing stranger at a time (although she's literally just posted a 'things that make me happy' post. Spoil sport).
Patti @ For When My Head Gets Full. - who has a lot to be happy about now she's off for like, ages...?

On The Menu

2010-03-08T21:54:00.007Z

"You simply must try the dickled octopus - it's to die for."

I found myself in an unusually charitable mood this evening, so when N picked me up from the station after work, I suggested we go out for a bite to eat. He chose an Italian down the road. We went in, were shown to our table and ordered our drinks. All was going swimmingly - I even bumped into a friend in there, which made me feel like I was in Cheers.

The waitress, a friendly Italian woman, left it just the right amount of time before asking whether we were ready to order our food. The starters were ordered without a hitch. For my mains, I chose an unadventurous Spaghetti Carbonara - I was in the mood for something simple. N, however, wasn't;

"Can I have the pasta marinara..."

'Good choice,' I thought - but alas, there was more.

"...but I'd like a carbonara sauce instead of the tomato sauce please."

The waitress was speechless - and it wasn't her level of English, which was impeccable - nothing could have prepared her for this. I sat there in silence, aghast. It got worse. She had to check with the chef. Check. With the chef. I implored N to chose one, or the other, and not to insist on this mash-up, but he was adamant. She was gone for what seemed like ages - a time probably spent forcing the chef to cast aside his culinary pretentions and cook whatever pig's swill this mad customer wanted. She came back to tell us that the chef could prepare the meal but...wait for it...he wanted us to know he would not be held responsible for how it might taste. Too right - if my career was built on cooking good meals for customers, I'd have N banned from my restaurant and distance myself as much as humanly possible from his insane gastronomic inventions. The meal arrived and N ate it. He made it out it was delicious, but I'm not sure I believe him.

The situation exposed a difference between us - I am of the opinion that menus are not lists to mix and match with. Of course if you have an allergy or other dietary requirement, or would like a meal without mushrooms, for example, go for it. But I draw the line at pick n' mix pasta. If someone has gone to the trouble of creating a menu of fine food - with ingredients carefully selected and included in the right proportions, who are we to waltz in and crap all over it? Would it not be more...proper to choose one of the options offered? (Proper - another word I love. Proper). Surely that's part of the experience of eating out?

N, however, is of an entirely different viewpoint, i.e. you're paying for the meal, so you should be able to have exactly what you want. While I do see some reasoning behind this, I refuse to change my allegiance. I will forever belong to the 'You-get-what-you're-given Camp'.

I'd be interested to know whether I'm alone in this. Am I being a food snob? Should I try to ditch this reliance on the menu and create-my-own?

On Time Slipping Through My Fingers

2010-03-07T20:38:00.003Z

Since around Chinese New Year, it's felt like my life has been hurtling along at the speed of light.

I've not been exceptionally busy, so I don't really know where this has come from. Perhaps it's a symptom of growing up. Quite a lot of the blogs I read have touched on nostalgia of late, and it's got me thinking. Have I left my best years behind? Am I passed my peak?

I remember hearing my dad complain that there didn't seem to be as much time between Christmasses and birthdays as there used to be, and dreading the day it happened to me. Well, I think it's here. I think I'm now officially grown up and my hopes of being a real life Peter Pan are crushed. Weeks and months are flying by, bringing with them new worries linked to all the responsibilities of my adult life, more grey hairs and the awful realisation that I'll never, just never, be able to pull off an Emo haircut.

However, I refuse to let the rest of my time, no matter how fast it's moving, be spent looking back. I did have immense amounts of fun at uni, and when I lived in Italy, and at school even - but did I have more fun then than I do now? I'm not convinced that I did - in fact, my nostalgic daydreams are often tinged with a kind of guilt or regret at opportunities missed or difficult situations.

True, I don't have a collection of traffic cones in my living room anymore, and my time spent frolicking under the Meditteranean sun is well and truly over - but at the same time I don't have to lie to people about who I am now, I do tend to remember nights out and don't need a cigarette to wake me up in the morning. My early twenties were brilliant, but I'm not sad to see them go. They both taught me and amused me, and thanks to those hectic, fast-living years I'm going into my late twenties a more sane, sorted and stable person than I've ever been before.

So here's to growing old disgracefully - without an emo haircut.

Just Finished: London Belongs To Me by Norman Collins

2010-02-28T21:19:00.010Z

When I was a wee lad, sitting in the back of the car on drives through London, I'd gaze out of the window at the massive houses and think that the people that lived in them would have had to be really rich. How else could you live in a house with three floors and a basement? What I didn't realise, is that they weren't built for one family, and that each floor would more often than not have its own separate tenants. It's a house like this that forms the backdrop to most of Norman Collins' London Belongs To Me; a book that revolves around the trials and tribulations of the residents of Number 10 Dulcimer Street, Kennington.

I decided I was going to read this book after reading the Book of Dave in December/January. Because I'm waddling around London like, every day, I think it's sometimes easy to forget what an interesting place it actually is. It's easy to take it for granted. I find when I'm reading books set in London, I get a bit of a spark back, I appreciate it again. That's why I chose this one to read; it's described on the back cover as "the Capital's great vernacular novel", and I can't think of a better description. The word 'romp' is also used in this description, and 'romp' is a word that I love. Romp. Just rolls of the tongue...

Anyway, it's Christmas Eve 1939 when we're introduced to the loveable Josser family and their neighbours. The threat of war rumbles threateningly in the background, but the novel concentrates on the domestic, everyday battles fought by a group of very ordinary people. Along with the Jossers, there's the landlady (the respectable and stern Mrs Vizzard), doting Mrs Boon and her ambitious son Percy, the hypochondriac Mr Puddy, washed-up actress Connie and false-medium Mr Squales. Their stories interwine in soap opera fashion, the narrative leaping from one to the other, delving into one account before breaking off and reacquainting you with another.

I read afterwards that Collins was something of a big deal at the BBC when it first started, and for a time was in charge of the more popular, lighthearted programmes on BBC radio. You can see this in his writing - it's written so that you never have enough time to get bored. But this doesn't mean you don't get to know the people you're reading about - the book has over 700 pages so you still spend plenty of time with each character, just in lots of small doses.

As I mentioned, the stories don't unfold in high society - it's a warts and all account of a few months in the lives of a few Londoners as they struggle to against their worlds turning upside down. The protagonists are all ordinary, working class folk trying to make ends meet. There's no heroics - just the grim determination of a group of Londoners in the build-up to and disruption of war. For a lot of the book, particularly at the beginning, not very much happens at all, but you're swept along nonetheless. It was also comforting, in a weird sort of way, that in the past things weren't quite as different (nor as good) as the Daily Mail might like to make out. Women were already becoming more independent, the elderly feared the young, fraudulent insurance claims were made, students didn't study and everyone enjoyed a drink. It was set in a time that was at once reassuringly familiar and refreshingly different. In his introduction, Collins writes, "Real Londoners - some in love, some in debt, some committing murders, some adultery, some trying to get on in the world, some looking forward to a pension, some getting drunk, some losing their jobs, some dying, and some holding up the new baby." And lately there's been at least one reading his book on the Metropolitan Line, bloody loving every page.

It's so easy to read, I couldn't put it down. I laughed out loud at times, and sometimes it's incredibly touching and poignant yet never too heavy. I honestly can't recommend it enough. It made me proud of where I live, where I work - it made me see London in a new light - a huge expanse of city providing the backdrop to millions of separate stories every day. It captures the excitement and the tedium, the hustle and the bustle of life in the city - or, as Collins puts it "all the sheen and slime, the murk and magic."

Next Up: The Masque of the Red Death by Edgar Allan Poe.

On A Series of (Un)Events

2010-02-24T20:22:00.008Z

It's been such a weird week. Not in a bad, or particularly interesting way - it just hasn't felt normal. Perhaps I have a psychic gift and there's some trouble brewing. Let's hope not. I don't think I have a family history of superhuman skills, but after this I think it could be a distinct possibility.

It all started on Monday morning when I saw four parrots in the tree by my bus stop (picture above - they're there, honest, you just can't see them). They weren't the big red macaws with killer beaks though, I think they were parakeets. Still, it's unusual to one used to sparrows and the greasiest of all birds, the starling. [I think starlings look like they've been drenched in petrol - you know when petrol on the road reflects different colours in the light?] Anyway...I looked up these parrots and apparently they're quite common. So common in fact, that they might be culled! Culled! Poor blighters.

On Monday afternoon I had a meeting with a lady who works for a wildlife charity. She said, interestingly, that the charity is often criticised for devoting itself to animals in areas of the world where whole families go without food. Her response to this, which is also interesting, was that they often help animals indirectly, through improving the living standards of the people around them. For example, to help combat the abuse of horses and donkeys in east Africa, the charity has built a school, a medical centre and working facilities for the villages around the sanctuary, all in the hope of improving the lives of the animals they care for. Very admirable stuff I must say. I came away however, feeling slightly shallow and a bit jealous of her job. She must go home feeling like she's actually helping, making a difference. I won't moan though, my job might not be the most life-changing role a person could play, but it suits me just fine. It was a mere blip, a moment of 'maybe I should do something really meaningful' before I lapsed back into reality.

Yesterday also passed in a blur - not a drunken haze but a cloudy, flouncy blur of nothingness. Thanks to my manager, a founding member of the Fellowship of the Moan, I had Dean Martin's "How Do You Like Your Eggs In the Morning" stuck in my head all day long. And this wasn't all that was troubling me. Earlier in the month, in a fit of I'm-so-busy-woe-is-me that I swiftly recovered from, I told everyone I couldn't go to my boss' birthday do. I can go now, but it's all booked. So now I just look all miserable and antisocial. Alas, it's another lesson I must learn - I have made my bed, and now I must lie in it. At home yesterday night, I found myself sucked into a BBC documentary following all sorts of people as they plough their way through London traffic - this ranged from ambulance crews to a stripper who had to perform in a limo. The most infuriating was an estate agent who claimed all the driving was making him ill so he had to keep going home early. I've always thought that if my job was making me ill (and I doubt it actually was), I'd do something else.

And that brings me to today. Another odd little day. My commute was spent in a paranoid panic. I never get like that but there were police EVERYWHERE this morning. So many I thought I was either being followed or something big was on the way. So I spent the majority of my journey looking over my shoulder and turning my IPod on and off. This was nothing to do with the police - this is because every now and then my IPod decides to go on standby every five minutes or so. This happens maybe once a month. The battery was charged, the keys were locked, so why does it keep turning off? Can anyone help me with this, please? It's infuriating. How am I supposed to time my walk to the music if it keeps going quiet?

I appreciate this post has probably been as dull as dishwater, but thanks for giving me the opportunity to vent my confusion, paranoia and frustration. Tis much appreciated.

tbr