On Cogs & Ratchets

In my third year at secondary school, we were tasked with a term-long project that involved making a mechanism out of wood and plastic. Something ingenious that would move when you turned a dial, pulled a lever, or something. In a vain attempt to inspire us to produce something wonderful, we were taken on a field trip to the Cabaret Mechanical Theatre in Covent Garden, a place full of magical wooden gadgets that came to life through intricate systems of cogs, gears and ratchets. My attempt, of course, fell far short of the works of art we'd been taken to see, and to be honest the entire project, trip included, has nestled, undisturbed, in a remote corner of my brain for the last fifteen years.

Until this evening. I was walking through Liverpool Street station at six o'clock. Liverpool Street is a complete nightmare at rush hour. It's actually a beautiful building, but the angry hoards of commuters make it hard to stop and look around. Traversing it without incurring somebody's wrath or losing your scarf takes far too much concentration to allow any time for appreciation of Victorian facades, cast-iron pillars or the number of places you could run away to if you only had the guts. INTERESTING FACT: it was built on the site once occupied by Bethlem Psychiatric Hospital, popularly known as Bedlam, which is quite an apt description of the chaos that descends, like clockwork, between 5 and 7 on weekday evenings.

So, I'm walking through Liverpool Street, fighting my way up a staircase which everybody else IN THE WORLD has decided to descend. My third year project bounced to the forefront of my mind; I was a spanner in the works, a cog with a broken tooth, an obstacle in the way of an elaborate piece of choreography.

Bear with me, for I am about to embark on a wild flight of fancy that is unlikely to make any sense.

This new way of looking at things has inspired me. If I could do my DT project again it would be so much more impressive. An army of puppets on conveyor belts, swerving round corners, up escalators, down stairs. It would have lights flashing from red to green, and tiny cars slowing down and speeding up. Little wooden people being shoved on to little wooden trains, and shoved back out five minutes down the line, to rejoin the intricate ballet that is London's rush hour, where somehow nobody ever touches anyone else and everyone gets to where they are going. The clicking of the gears could be replaced by a soundtrack of tutting, newspapers rustling and horns hooting. It would take place amid matchbox houses, shoebox skyscrapers and a tin foil river that reflects the twinkly lights I'd use for stars. Oh, I'd get top marks for that. I'd be the apple of my DT teacher's eye, rather than the oddball afraid to use the big scary sandpaper machine.

And come to think of it, my commute actually could run on cogs and ratchets. That's how little thought I put into it. I am like a little wooden puppet, pushed and pulled from point A to point B, at set times of the day like I'm part of a giant cuckoo clock. Not that I mind. Now that I'm imagining everyone else as part of the same huge mechanism, I'm quite looking forward to tomorrow.

On the Steps of St Paul's

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.