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 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 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 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 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 Dreams

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On The Day The Tube Stood Still

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Time Off

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

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

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

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

Tut.

On Language

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On 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 The English Language, Going Forward

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Various Methods of Procrastination

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On The Saga Continuing (And TbR Foreseeing His Doom)

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

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

a) Cut down on caffeine

b) Don't get stressed at work

c) Reduce my alcohol intake.

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

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

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

Have a great weekend everyone!

TbR

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

On The Return of a Wanderer

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

Who is this madman?

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

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

Hardback or paperback?

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

Waterstones, Borders or Amazon?

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

Bookmark or dog-ear?

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

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

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

Keep, throw away, or sell?

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

Short story or novel?

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

Buy or borrow?

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

Tidy ending or cliffhanger?

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

Morning reading, afternoon reading, or nighttime reading?

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

Favourite series?

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

Favourite children’s book?

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

Favourite YA book?

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

Favourite book no one has heard of?

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

Favourite books read last year?

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

Favourite book to re-read?

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

Do you ever smell books?

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

What are you reading right now?

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

What are you reading next?

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

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

Ciao,

tbr

On A Series of (Un)Events

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

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


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


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


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


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


tbr

On Professionalism vs. Office Banter

[This is a derelict building I walk past every day on my way to work. I really like it, and think the graffitti adds to it rather than detracts from it. I would like to make this my house.]

Today at work I achieved a goal. I entered into office banter with people from five different countries. I found a kindred spirit in Norway, Portugal, Holland, Spain and...Basingstoke. I say banter - but this is a broad term. Basically, so many of the emails I send and receive sound like they have been written by machines so every now and then I like to throw a little nicety in to see if I am actually emailing a robot, or whether there's a real live person at the other end. As such, my special definition of banter is basically anything that deviates from the standard, boring, no frills emails we churn out to eachother.

Now, I was really quite chuffed with this influx of people nibbling at my conversational bait - some of my colleagues, however, weren't. I do understand the need for professionalism, honestly I do. I would never dream of subjecting colleagues to the four-letter rants my friends are familiar with (although I have been tempted). I wouldn't drink at work (unless everyone else was). In fact, I'm a pretty professional person. But at the same time I can't talk to people day in day out without trying to get to know them. I think it makes for a better working relationship if anything, and said so when I was told that I should be more interested in my job rather than what S in Holland did last night and who she was rooting for in the Winter Olympics. Oops. Perhaps they are right - my job isn't a social networking opportunity. However I still don't see why the odd banterful email should be frowned upon, especially when my Sent Items folder is full to bursting with boring, robot-speak emails.

So sod them I say. I will continue to ask what people do at the weekend, or how they celebrated Chinese New Year. I won't give up trying to find out what exactly R in Norway does with the wild boar on his farm. I will relish every weather update I get from Lisbon, and join in with Spain's post-siesta jests. I will do my job, but I don't see why I should be miserable while doing it. I'm taking the banter, and spreading it worldwide.

On the Love of my Life

First off, the title is meant to be ironic. I don't love my work computer, but, given the amount of time we spend together it's not surprising that we've come to an understanding with eachother.

Yes, when I was first introduced to PC, I wasn't impressed. I mean look at it. It's ancient, probably powered by a hamster on a wheel somewhere inside it. Things got steadily worse - I can only imagine that it missed my predecessor and didn't appreciate my typing style...Yesterday I was told I might be getting a new one, and instead of jumping for joy, I was rather upset. You see we now understand eachother. When I come in in the morning, the PC takes a good 10 minutes to power up and outlook to open - this is perfect as it takes me a good 10 minutes to make a strong cup of coffee, chat bollocks with the people who sit around me and text everyone I need to text. By the time I'm finished all of that, PC is ready. I go to lunch at half 12 almost religiously and most days I refuse to eat at my desk. PC likes this - in fact if I'm running late for my usual lunchtime appointment, or I've gone mental and brought food into the office, PC throws a strop - programmes stop working, connections time out, blue screens of death appear. Then, by quarter past one, PC's over that and we've moved on. I've come to the conclusion, therefore, that I'm telepathically linked to this machine. When I'm angry, it gets angry and flashes angry little orange lights. When I'm feeling efficient, it does its best to keep up. When I don't want to be there, it doesn't want me to be there and makes it clear. We have an understanding. More of an understanding than I have with most of my colleagues.

What am I going to do when it's replace by a shiny new one? A shiny, arrogant, too efficient one? Bad times.

RIP PC