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 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 Christmas Past, Present and Yet To Come

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On 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 The Great Outdoors

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



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



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


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



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

On Leigh-on-Sea

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

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

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

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

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

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

On 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 Flying The Nest

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

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

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

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

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

On a Good Deed and a Half Century

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Made Up Money

Not empty for long...?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LET THE FUN BEGIN!

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

On Centaurs Only Being Able To Use Wheelchair Accessible Stations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TbR

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

On Spring

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

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

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

On The Week That Just Was

An Evening At The Scala

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hope everyone has a great weekend!

tbr

On Happiness

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



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



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



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



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



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



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


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


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


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


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


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



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

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

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

On Time Slipping Through My Fingers

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

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



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



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



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



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

On Peaks & Troughs

The view from my seat at Fulham FC's Craven Cottage as Man Utd begin the long journey back up north with their tails between their legs - 3-0 to FFC! Who saw that coming? I certainly didn't. Don't worry, I'm not going to rant about Fulham's mesmering football skills or how Roy Hodgson's black & white army eased to victory over last season's league champions, but it does deserve a mention.

Not least because yesterday morning we had some bad news. Although I had convinced myself that the recession was over and that everything was on its way back to normal (ostrich-head-sand?) it is still claiming its victims. My dad lost his job, which is never good news, but hearing the news while surrounded by piles of Christmas presents was surreal. Still, it's not all bad - my mum is quite ill so it may be that this is a good thing. It will be nice to know there's always someone with her, keeping an eye out. It will be tough, of course, but we're all being very stiff upper lip about it - no wailing, weeping or gnashings of teeth in here, just some crossed fingers and furrowed brows.

That's why yesterday's STUNNING victory was extra special - it's not often Fulham can be relied upon to offer a completely relaxed experience to their spectators, but yesterday it ran like a dream! It was just what the doctor ordered in a way - a distraction, an entertainment. I followed the game with a copious amount of alcohol at a friend's flat. I would fascinate you with amusing anecdotes, extracts from our witty conversations or moments of note, but so much was consumed that I don't remember a thing. All I have to show for it is a killer hangover, about 40 photos of myself taken in front of the bathroom mirror and a missing watch. I fear my watch may have fallen off on the journey home - a victim of my graceless clamber over the fence separating the lanes of the A127.

And that just about brings me up-to-date. Best get to bed as it's my last day at work tomorrow (until 2010!), so I want to avoid my usual 8 o'clock sprint to the station and get in early...HA.

Take it easy,

tbr