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 Background Noise

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

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

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

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

On Realising That All Is Not Doom & Gloom

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

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

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

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

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

On Family

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Moaning (or England's National Passtime)

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

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

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

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

On Books

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Truth & Illusion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Flying The Nest

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 What Went Before

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

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

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

On 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 3, Being the Magic Number

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

"Me in 3s."

Three names I go by:

1. Tom, being my name and all.

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

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

Three jobs I've had:

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

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

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

Three places I have lived:

1. Upminster - the end of the District Line

2. Cagliari - the capital of Sardinia

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

Three fave drinks:

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

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

3. Sparkling water - the perfect hangover cure.

Three TV shows I watch:

1. Shameless.

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

3. True Blood

Three places I've been:

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

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

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

Three places I would like to visit:

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

2. Tokyo

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

Three favorite retro TV shows:

1. Only Fools & Horses

2. Cheers

3. Fawlty Towers

Three favorite dishes:

1. Salmon & Asparagus

2. Mussels Marinara

3. Profiteroles.

Three things I'm looking forward to:

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

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

3. Seeing the Northern Lights!

Three people I'm tagging:

1. Alexandra @ Friends & Crocodiles

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

3. Kisekae @ Diary Of a Doll

On Eyjafjallajokull

Image taken 17th April 2010 at Putney Bridge

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

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

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

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

On 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 The Menu

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

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

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

"Can I have the pasta marinara..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

On 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