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 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 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 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 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 My Un-Futuristic Life

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

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

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 Horror

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

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 Science

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 Villainy

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 Being Stuck Between Floors

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 Gender Stereotypes

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

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.