You know what I hate about going to the doctor's? Lots of things, actually.
The first is that you're usually sick when you go. Unless you're feeling hale and hearty and are just asking to have your passport application signed or something like that, it stands to reason you're probably going to be ill. But conversely, what I really hate about going to the doctor is the way that my symptoms seem to have an annoying habit of going into hiding when I actually get in there.
Lately, I have been coughing something ferocious. A couple of weeks back when I saw my brother and his family, my sister in law was complaining of an ear infection. I seem to have almost no resistance to Portsmouth germs, as when they're sick I usually follow a few days later. And sure enough, I noticed a familiar pain, right on time. I ignored it, like I do most things, and after a while it became a sort of sore throat too, along with the customary blocked nose.
Still, nothing I can't pretend isn't really there. I'm quite skilled at that, pretending. Then came the cough. Which has led to coughing fits in the middle of the night where you wonder if they are going to end before your oesophagus splits, and that taste in your mouth almost as bad as caffeine-free diet coke.
Grudgingly, I accepted that if left alone a chest infection was more likely to develop into something nasty as it was to magically clear up all its own. So I booked an appointment.
I might complain about the NHS, but I am wholly against the idea that the wealthy should get a better standard of health care. I am also glad that I can call in the middle of the day and get an appointment to see a doctor after work the following night -- and have a choice of appointment times. I am also glad that I don't have to pay to see a doctor.
Naturally, I have been finding it hard to sleep and continued coughing all day -- except today I was slightly glad that I wouldn't feel like I was wasting the doctor's time. Walking down the corridor to the doctor's office, I fought the urge to cough (I worried it would seem like I was doing it for attention, or laying it on a bit thick "oh, I'm so ill>"). Once in the office, the need to cough has gone. I explain my symptoms, the doctor listens to my back in various places, listens to my chest, asks me to cough while listening to my chest, and eventually concludes that she might be able to hear something, so I could have a chest infection.
Where the relentless, choking, racking, coughing fits are when you need them, I don't know -- but they certainly weren't in that office, and she probably just thought I was a hypochondriac and gave me a prescription just to get me out of the door.
I expect the doctors earn commission on prescriptions.
Wednesday 30 January 2008
Monday 28 January 2008
Laisse Tomber Les Filles
I know I haven't blogged in ages, even if you count the unhappy post I sent down the memory hole last week it's still been at least a week. Annoyingly, I did actually write an update when I was at work today -- I don't have internet access, so I wrote it in notepad and then emailed it to my Gmail account. This evening tho, it's not there, so maybe I got my email address wrong or maybe it's lost in the ether somewhere.
Either way, the post was about how I got in trouble with the police yesterday when I was out delivering meals. I didn't see a "no entry" sign, and drove into a one-way street. If my post ever turns up, I'll put the full story up here. But despite one of my police sergeant friend's reassurances that if I was going to get into any formal trouble, they would have taken my details or given me a form at the time, I won't relax about it for a while yet. Not least because I was driving my magistrate father's car at the time... Where the hell was my good karma? I'm trying to do some work for charity, and I get in trouble with the law? What the hell? Alternatively, if nothing comes of it that will be my good karma.
In other news...there isn't much else to say. I have a date at the end of the week with someone who answered a personal ad of mine late last year, and in a break with tradition wasn't put off when she saw my picture. She doesn't yet know that I still live at home, though. Anyway, we've been emailing for a while until it's got to a point where I think she had to ask if we were just going to be email buddies or actually meet sometime. Those weren't her exact words. Anyway, it should be fun -- I'm going into it with zero expectations.
To muddy the waters somewhat, I had a conversation with Lyndsay last week that I think was best summed up by her question "Are you asking me if I'm in love with you?". For the record, that wasn't what I was asking -- I was asking if she meant it when she said je t'aime aussi, not how she meant it. As ever, nothing further will happen there, because I seriously doubt we will be in a position to meet each other. Maybe I have missed out on chances before in almost similar situations because I let my concept of distance get in the way. Then again, maybe I didn't. But this time, I think it will be better for us both if I continue to write about her about once every six months, and we both date other people and whatever else. I make it into a far bigger thing than it really is.
To keep the fragmented nature of this post going, I am going to mention a great book I am reading called Toujours Tingo -- a great book to dip into when you have spare moments. I have learned many great phrases, it seems the Japanese have a beautiful poetry to their language; for example the phrase kuchi ga samishii means to eat when you don't need to, for the sake of it, or out of boredom -- but literally it means "my mouth is lonely". Other cultures have words that make you wonder -- do these things happen so often a word is needed? Like, with the Cheyenne word Momá’kó’éné, which means "to have red eyes from crying because one's boyfriend is getting married to someone else". To continue on such a theme, I love the Italian word "Gattara" for a woman, often old and lonely, who devotes herself to stray cats.
In closing this evening, it's been forever since I did a Musical Monday post -- and though today won't really count, I have to share this song. Some of you fine readers might already be familiar with the April March song Chick Habit -- but you might not be aware that she records in French as well as in English, and the song is a translation of a much older song Laisse Tomber Les Filles (click the title to play the song).
See? This post had a theme after all! Girls, and other languages! Am I incredibly sad that I like to play this song back-to-back, like four or five times in a row before I get bored?
Either way, the post was about how I got in trouble with the police yesterday when I was out delivering meals. I didn't see a "no entry" sign, and drove into a one-way street. If my post ever turns up, I'll put the full story up here. But despite one of my police sergeant friend's reassurances that if I was going to get into any formal trouble, they would have taken my details or given me a form at the time, I won't relax about it for a while yet. Not least because I was driving my magistrate father's car at the time... Where the hell was my good karma? I'm trying to do some work for charity, and I get in trouble with the law? What the hell? Alternatively, if nothing comes of it that will be my good karma.
In other news...there isn't much else to say. I have a date at the end of the week with someone who answered a personal ad of mine late last year, and in a break with tradition wasn't put off when she saw my picture. She doesn't yet know that I still live at home, though. Anyway, we've been emailing for a while until it's got to a point where I think she had to ask if we were just going to be email buddies or actually meet sometime. Those weren't her exact words. Anyway, it should be fun -- I'm going into it with zero expectations.
To muddy the waters somewhat, I had a conversation with Lyndsay last week that I think was best summed up by her question "Are you asking me if I'm in love with you?". For the record, that wasn't what I was asking -- I was asking if she meant it when she said je t'aime aussi, not how she meant it. As ever, nothing further will happen there, because I seriously doubt we will be in a position to meet each other. Maybe I have missed out on chances before in almost similar situations because I let my concept of distance get in the way. Then again, maybe I didn't. But this time, I think it will be better for us both if I continue to write about her about once every six months, and we both date other people and whatever else. I make it into a far bigger thing than it really is.
To keep the fragmented nature of this post going, I am going to mention a great book I am reading called Toujours Tingo -- a great book to dip into when you have spare moments. I have learned many great phrases, it seems the Japanese have a beautiful poetry to their language; for example the phrase kuchi ga samishii means to eat when you don't need to, for the sake of it, or out of boredom -- but literally it means "my mouth is lonely". Other cultures have words that make you wonder -- do these things happen so often a word is needed? Like, with the Cheyenne word Momá’kó’éné, which means "to have red eyes from crying because one's boyfriend is getting married to someone else". To continue on such a theme, I love the Italian word "Gattara" for a woman, often old and lonely, who devotes herself to stray cats.
In closing this evening, it's been forever since I did a Musical Monday post -- and though today won't really count, I have to share this song. Some of you fine readers might already be familiar with the April March song Chick Habit -- but you might not be aware that she records in French as well as in English, and the song is a translation of a much older song Laisse Tomber Les Filles (click the title to play the song).
See? This post had a theme after all! Girls, and other languages! Am I incredibly sad that I like to play this song back-to-back, like four or five times in a row before I get bored?
Sunday 27 January 2008
Sunday
So, picture the scene.
It's Sunday. Although you have been at work all week, you still give up your time once a month for some charity work. No big deal, really. Nothing to write home about. But there you are, driving round central London, delivering meals to the sick and needy.
In the passenger seat sits your navigator for the day -- not quite the talkative and interesting hottie you asked the universe for. Granted, you didn't specify what sex this hottie should be, but just the same -- they didn't fit the bill.
Things are more or less going as normal -- while the navigator might struggle a little with telling left from right, he knows the route well and you are making good time. Right about this point you are heading towards Tower Bridge, and in reasonably heavy traffic.
Your navigator suggests you take the next road on the left. it seems simple enough. Mirror, signal, manoeuvre. And suddenly the car behind is going mad, beeping his horn up a storm. This seems fairly normal London traffic behaviour, I assume he's just an arsehole, and turn into the road as planned.
The road is narrower than you might like, with a line of cars parked on one side -- and immediately a taxi is heading towards you down the road, flashing his lights. You assume that he's telling you he has right of way or whatever, that he was there first, but it seems like more than this.
Just as you ask your navigator if you might just have turned the wrong way into a one-way street, you see it, pulling in behind you.
The police van, with half a dozen officers inside.
If the sirens were going, I didn't hear them -- but it was all lit up like a Christmas tree and flashing its headlights.
There's no question about it now. So you pull over, turn off the engine.
One thing they don't teach you when learning to drive is what to do in such a situation. Do you stay in the car? Do you get out? Do you produce your licence immediately, or do you keep your hands visible? Does producing your licence equate to an admission of guilt?
You stay where you are, and decide to leave looking for your licence from your bag in the back seat until at least you are asked for it.
The policeman approaches the car, and since the windows are electric and the ignition is off, you open the door to talk to him instead.
"What are you doing?" he asks
You reply, simply, "I am delivering meals on behalf of a charity".
Technically this is more information than you are normally meant to give when an individual asks you your business -- since the recipients of the meals should be kept absolutely confidential, to avoid prejudice against them from family or neighbours. But I figure the police is an exception, especially when you aren't actually anywhere near a drop. I'm not asked what charity.
"Well, your delivery has just taken you through a no entry sign. Did you not see it?"
"I'm sorry, no, I didn't see the sign at all."
"You really didn't see the sign?"
"Honestly, no -- I'm an idiot, I didn't see it. I'm very sorry."
"Well, we're all idiots sometimes. I suggest you try and reverse back out of here."
"Thank you, I will"
And so with my car half abandoned at an awkward angle in the road, I attempt to start to reverse back. It does occur to me that normally one should not be reversing back onto such a road, but from what I can see, it seems the police van has parked to block that lane of traffic.
I have barely started my awkward manoeuvre before the policeman returns to me.
"On top of points on your licence for going through a no entry sign, if you continue you will also receive points for reversing onto a main road. I suggest you turn the car around."
With help from a second policeman, guiding you back, you manage to get the car turned round, back out on the road and on your way.
Your name and address were never asked for, nor were you asked to produce your licence, so you are a little unsure what happens next.
At a more convenient time later, you text a police sergeant friend to ask their advice. He seems fairly sure you got off lightly with just a telling off, if you weren't given any forms or your details weren't taken. You ask, can't they just get your details from the car's licence plate?
Sure, he says, but then they need to post you a notice of impending prosecution for you to fill out your driver details, and there would be no point in doing that if they had you there at the time.
Just the same, you remain concerned. The policeman had said something about points on your licence -- maybe he was too busy to mess around with giving you forms or taking your details?
And worse yet, the car you were driving is registered to your Dad. Your Dad, who carries the letters "JP" after his name, to denote his status as a justice of the peace -- or magistrate.
It's Sunday. Although you have been at work all week, you still give up your time once a month for some charity work. No big deal, really. Nothing to write home about. But there you are, driving round central London, delivering meals to the sick and needy.
In the passenger seat sits your navigator for the day -- not quite the talkative and interesting hottie you asked the universe for. Granted, you didn't specify what sex this hottie should be, but just the same -- they didn't fit the bill.
Things are more or less going as normal -- while the navigator might struggle a little with telling left from right, he knows the route well and you are making good time. Right about this point you are heading towards Tower Bridge, and in reasonably heavy traffic.
Your navigator suggests you take the next road on the left. it seems simple enough. Mirror, signal, manoeuvre. And suddenly the car behind is going mad, beeping his horn up a storm. This seems fairly normal London traffic behaviour, I assume he's just an arsehole, and turn into the road as planned.
The road is narrower than you might like, with a line of cars parked on one side -- and immediately a taxi is heading towards you down the road, flashing his lights. You assume that he's telling you he has right of way or whatever, that he was there first, but it seems like more than this.
Just as you ask your navigator if you might just have turned the wrong way into a one-way street, you see it, pulling in behind you.
The police van, with half a dozen officers inside.
If the sirens were going, I didn't hear them -- but it was all lit up like a Christmas tree and flashing its headlights.
There's no question about it now. So you pull over, turn off the engine.
One thing they don't teach you when learning to drive is what to do in such a situation. Do you stay in the car? Do you get out? Do you produce your licence immediately, or do you keep your hands visible? Does producing your licence equate to an admission of guilt?
You stay where you are, and decide to leave looking for your licence from your bag in the back seat until at least you are asked for it.
The policeman approaches the car, and since the windows are electric and the ignition is off, you open the door to talk to him instead.
"What are you doing?" he asks
You reply, simply, "I am delivering meals on behalf of a charity".
Technically this is more information than you are normally meant to give when an individual asks you your business -- since the recipients of the meals should be kept absolutely confidential, to avoid prejudice against them from family or neighbours. But I figure the police is an exception, especially when you aren't actually anywhere near a drop. I'm not asked what charity.
"Well, your delivery has just taken you through a no entry sign. Did you not see it?"
"I'm sorry, no, I didn't see the sign at all."
"You really didn't see the sign?"
"Honestly, no -- I'm an idiot, I didn't see it. I'm very sorry."
"Well, we're all idiots sometimes. I suggest you try and reverse back out of here."
"Thank you, I will"
And so with my car half abandoned at an awkward angle in the road, I attempt to start to reverse back. It does occur to me that normally one should not be reversing back onto such a road, but from what I can see, it seems the police van has parked to block that lane of traffic.
I have barely started my awkward manoeuvre before the policeman returns to me.
"On top of points on your licence for going through a no entry sign, if you continue you will also receive points for reversing onto a main road. I suggest you turn the car around."
With help from a second policeman, guiding you back, you manage to get the car turned round, back out on the road and on your way.
Your name and address were never asked for, nor were you asked to produce your licence, so you are a little unsure what happens next.
At a more convenient time later, you text a police sergeant friend to ask their advice. He seems fairly sure you got off lightly with just a telling off, if you weren't given any forms or your details weren't taken. You ask, can't they just get your details from the car's licence plate?
Sure, he says, but then they need to post you a notice of impending prosecution for you to fill out your driver details, and there would be no point in doing that if they had you there at the time.
Just the same, you remain concerned. The policeman had said something about points on your licence -- maybe he was too busy to mess around with giving you forms or taking your details?
And worse yet, the car you were driving is registered to your Dad. Your Dad, who carries the letters "JP" after his name, to denote his status as a justice of the peace -- or magistrate.
Monday 21 January 2008
All day, staring at the ceiling
I keep starting to write this, then deleting it.
I don't know what's wrong with me, but I feel really unhappy this evening and I don't know where it's come from. Work is fine, it's not difficult or over-busy and I seem to be learning things quickly enough. It will be better once I start being paid and have enough to start saving again, but whatever, I can't say it's a lack of money making me unhappy tonight.
Kelly referred to me as happy in the reference she gave for me, I feel like a phony. I'm not the person I want to be, and I am a far cry from the person I want to be for other people.
Maybe it's much too hasty to stop therapy? I feel so stupid writing this. I don't know what's wrong with me.
This is not who I want to be.
I don't know what's wrong with me, but I feel really unhappy this evening and I don't know where it's come from. Work is fine, it's not difficult or over-busy and I seem to be learning things quickly enough. It will be better once I start being paid and have enough to start saving again, but whatever, I can't say it's a lack of money making me unhappy tonight.
Kelly referred to me as happy in the reference she gave for me, I feel like a phony. I'm not the person I want to be, and I am a far cry from the person I want to be for other people.
Maybe it's much too hasty to stop therapy? I feel so stupid writing this. I don't know what's wrong with me.
This is not who I want to be.
Sunday 20 January 2008
I can hear them whisper and it makes me think there must be something wrong with me
I'm sitting here trying to think of something to write. You know that feeling when you want to write, want to update, but can think of nothing to say?
I have sort of unofficially dismissed my therapist. I turned up for our first session after Christmas and New Year the other week, and he wasn't home. He hadn't called me or anything, nor left any message to say what was happening -- his son just answered the door, and told me nicely that he was out for the evening, and he'd get him to call me. He never did call me. I thought, maybe he's lost my phone number -- which is almost as bad -- so I didn't turn up the next week. Technically not having seen him the week before, I could say we didn't have an appointment, but I thought he would call me to find out what was going on. He still didn't call. So I figure, screw it. Like so many times before, I'll go it alone for a while. I still do feel like I need therapy (I'm sure he would agree) and there's issues I still need to work on, but I'll go back to the old fashioned method of work hard, go to the gym, try to get out more... I'm not sure about the deeper issues.
My two and a half days in work last week passed entirely without drama. I smile a little to myself about it, because I think they were so desperate for someone to come in and do the job, and for someone to actually stay, that they might just need me more than I need them right now. I get the distinct feeling that they don't want to overwhelm me with everything right away, but I am quietly whispering to myself that I am confident, happy and capable -- and it sort of works. I don't think my job is ever going to involve anything too mentally taxing, and I don't think that it is ever going to reach the despairing levels of working in a call centre. Seriously, I should have been like Amy Winehouse with that shit and said no, no, no -- this would have been a much better job back then, if I was insistent on something office based, or else the bookshop was a much happier place.
Speaking of the bookshop, I gave Kelly as a reference to my recruiter last week -- it was a bit cheeky of the recruiter, as she was meant to have got references from me before she sent me for a job. Anyway, Kelly gave a glowing reference for me -- she apparently told them what a lovely young man I am, who is happy, reliable and how I was an assest to the bookshop over Christmas. Bless her, I can hardly recognise myself from that.
She's right though, most of the time I was pretty happy in that job -- and I'm glad her lasting impression of me is as a happy person. I don't think anyone realised what that job meant for me, it wasn't just minimum wage selling books, it showed me I was employable and likeable. Another staff member told me one day how she remembered when I came in for my interview, because when I left Kelly and Bev were both saying how much they liked me and wanted me to work for them. It's a shame it couldn't last, but it does look like things might be heading in the right direction with work in general.
In terms of all of that sort of thing, it's odd. I'm perhaps not as excited as I should be about the whole thing -- my celebratory bottle of champagne I got as a leaving gift after my PR contract last April still remains unopened. I've said I'm saving it to celebrate getting a proper job, and I thought that the medical college job I interviewed for before would have counted. I was actually quietly concerned if I was up to the task for that job, and I guess we'll never have to find out now.
A couple of weeks back I saw a bunch of my family, and of course had to field the question "what are you doing now?" all day. When I was asked by one aunt what I wanted to do, and struggled a bit with the question, she said almost pityingly "You're still looking for 'something interesting'". In the book What Should I Do With My Life? the author talks to various people from different walks of life who were looking for some sort of meaning in their lives -- and rejecting the assumption that it is trivial or even ungrateful to want to feel some sort of passion about their work.
It seems a more common idea that we shouldn't. My Dad always tells me that you're not supposed to enjoy work, otherwise they wouldn't pay you to turn up. Likewise, in one of her songs Ani DiFranco says "Maybe you don't like your job, maybe you didn't get enough sleep? Nobody likes their job, nobody gets enough sleep." And my favourite quote of all from Drew Carey: "Oh, you hate your job? Why didn't you say so? There's a support group for that. It's called EVERYBODY, and they meet at the bar." We seem bombarded with messages that work is something you have to put up with, we do it to have the money to afford to do things we do enjoy. It seems a shame that there isn't more of an emphasis on enjoying what we do.
Don't get me wrong, I don't even dislike my job, and I really hope things stay that way. But I also can't help but wonder if I sold out, if training as a journalist and working without pay for newspapers and in PR was all just a waste of my time. In many ways, I'd like to think not -- they've given me various transferable skills for work and for life, but part of me does still feels a little let down. If I was to meet the 18 year old me, how would I explain that working in the media never happened? Sorry kid, it was just a bit too competitive, and you were just a tiny bit too shy, or maybe a bit too unsure of yourself. But I hope in a not too distant future I will feel I can tell him it all worked out for the best -- but just look at how things worked out!
I have sort of unofficially dismissed my therapist. I turned up for our first session after Christmas and New Year the other week, and he wasn't home. He hadn't called me or anything, nor left any message to say what was happening -- his son just answered the door, and told me nicely that he was out for the evening, and he'd get him to call me. He never did call me. I thought, maybe he's lost my phone number -- which is almost as bad -- so I didn't turn up the next week. Technically not having seen him the week before, I could say we didn't have an appointment, but I thought he would call me to find out what was going on. He still didn't call. So I figure, screw it. Like so many times before, I'll go it alone for a while. I still do feel like I need therapy (I'm sure he would agree) and there's issues I still need to work on, but I'll go back to the old fashioned method of work hard, go to the gym, try to get out more... I'm not sure about the deeper issues.
My two and a half days in work last week passed entirely without drama. I smile a little to myself about it, because I think they were so desperate for someone to come in and do the job, and for someone to actually stay, that they might just need me more than I need them right now. I get the distinct feeling that they don't want to overwhelm me with everything right away, but I am quietly whispering to myself that I am confident, happy and capable -- and it sort of works. I don't think my job is ever going to involve anything too mentally taxing, and I don't think that it is ever going to reach the despairing levels of working in a call centre. Seriously, I should have been like Amy Winehouse with that shit and said no, no, no -- this would have been a much better job back then, if I was insistent on something office based, or else the bookshop was a much happier place.
Speaking of the bookshop, I gave Kelly as a reference to my recruiter last week -- it was a bit cheeky of the recruiter, as she was meant to have got references from me before she sent me for a job. Anyway, Kelly gave a glowing reference for me -- she apparently told them what a lovely young man I am, who is happy, reliable and how I was an assest to the bookshop over Christmas. Bless her, I can hardly recognise myself from that.
She's right though, most of the time I was pretty happy in that job -- and I'm glad her lasting impression of me is as a happy person. I don't think anyone realised what that job meant for me, it wasn't just minimum wage selling books, it showed me I was employable and likeable. Another staff member told me one day how she remembered when I came in for my interview, because when I left Kelly and Bev were both saying how much they liked me and wanted me to work for them. It's a shame it couldn't last, but it does look like things might be heading in the right direction with work in general.
In terms of all of that sort of thing, it's odd. I'm perhaps not as excited as I should be about the whole thing -- my celebratory bottle of champagne I got as a leaving gift after my PR contract last April still remains unopened. I've said I'm saving it to celebrate getting a proper job, and I thought that the medical college job I interviewed for before would have counted. I was actually quietly concerned if I was up to the task for that job, and I guess we'll never have to find out now.
A couple of weeks back I saw a bunch of my family, and of course had to field the question "what are you doing now?" all day. When I was asked by one aunt what I wanted to do, and struggled a bit with the question, she said almost pityingly "You're still looking for 'something interesting'". In the book What Should I Do With My Life? the author talks to various people from different walks of life who were looking for some sort of meaning in their lives -- and rejecting the assumption that it is trivial or even ungrateful to want to feel some sort of passion about their work.
It seems a more common idea that we shouldn't. My Dad always tells me that you're not supposed to enjoy work, otherwise they wouldn't pay you to turn up. Likewise, in one of her songs Ani DiFranco says "Maybe you don't like your job, maybe you didn't get enough sleep? Nobody likes their job, nobody gets enough sleep." And my favourite quote of all from Drew Carey: "Oh, you hate your job? Why didn't you say so? There's a support group for that. It's called EVERYBODY, and they meet at the bar." We seem bombarded with messages that work is something you have to put up with, we do it to have the money to afford to do things we do enjoy. It seems a shame that there isn't more of an emphasis on enjoying what we do.
Don't get me wrong, I don't even dislike my job, and I really hope things stay that way. But I also can't help but wonder if I sold out, if training as a journalist and working without pay for newspapers and in PR was all just a waste of my time. In many ways, I'd like to think not -- they've given me various transferable skills for work and for life, but part of me does still feels a little let down. If I was to meet the 18 year old me, how would I explain that working in the media never happened? Sorry kid, it was just a bit too competitive, and you were just a tiny bit too shy, or maybe a bit too unsure of yourself. But I hope in a not too distant future I will feel I can tell him it all worked out for the best -- but just look at how things worked out!
Wednesday 16 January 2008
On the job
Tuesday I had to attend a presentation at the Armed Forces recruitment office. It was the usual stuff about life in the air force, why it was so wonderful, and how very, very hard both the selection and training would be. To be completely honest, I am not entirely sure if I am cut out for it -- I am certainly not fit enough right now, but I came away thinking all I can do is try -- and try I would.
Since work didn't seem to be flooding my way, I also arranged to meet with a temp consultant whom I have registered with and met a few times in the past, but always found work for myself before she was required to. I figured I liked her and while I was in town anyway it was worth paying her visit, since in an email she'd said they would probably be able to find me some temp work while they looked for something more permanent. It sounded good.
So I stopped by her office and we chatted a bit and she tried to think if there was any roles in particular she could put me forward for -- she mentioned a couple that would be coming up in the future, and then said there was one she could probably get me an interview for the following morning. Why not, I thought, so I told her to go right ahead. The job was to work as a purchasing assistant for a travel company (they run buses and trains and stuff in various countries around the world), and that she'd placed a couple of temps there, one to replace the other, but neither had stuck with it -- so they needed someone quickly. I was told they wanted someone who wasn't timid and could do with enquiries and whatever else and not fall apart if someone was a bit brash. I explained with my career history I thought I could handle it, so the recruiter said she'd set up an interview. Before I had even got home I had confirmation of the interview, true to her word, the very next morning at 10.30.
As ever, I arrived in my finest black suit and expected the usual run-of-the-mill questions -- the "tell me about a time when", or "talk to me about this", or just "tell me about yourself". Instead the interviewer read my CV -- being the first time he had seen it -- comment in parts, talked a little about the job, and asked me if I thought I could do it. He explained it wasn't a hard job, but sometimes it could be quite pressured, and he didn't think the previous temps had given it long enough. He also said if I wanted to walk away, that was the chance, because it would ruin them if I decided to quit later when they had gone through the rigmorale of training me and setting me up on all the systems. Unafraid of a challenge, I stood my ground. So he showed me through to the office -- I thought just to show me where I would be working and whatever else. Instead, he showed me to my desk -- I was hired, and was to start work immediately.
None of this "thank you very much for coming, we'll be in touch", I had been given the job just like that.
The job itself is hardly what anyone would growing up dreaming about doing -- but it's earning a living, like. It's a six month contract, and for Essex the wages are good -- in fact, I worked out that my first proper PR job in London last year was paying me £80 a day. That involved catching the train at 8am every morning, getting off the train at 7.30 every evening, and paying £100 a week in travel alone. Now I will still be leaving for work about 8, but will be home before 6, and my travel expenses are about the cost of a tank of petrol a week. There's not a huge difference in it -- it beats minimum wage in a book shop on 30 hours a week, or the 19.5 hours they offered me.
Sure, I would probably much prefer the book shop, but I guess we have to balance one thing against the other -- and if this really is to be the year I move out, then it has to start with a job. It might not be a glamorous, exciting or fun job. I might not get to drink champagne at events with Natalie Imbruglia and Liam Gallagher, or finish early on a Friday to join my colleagues in the free staff bar. Will I even like the job a week, two weeks -- two months from now? I don't know. But I have to stick with this one.
As I've also been reminded, it's a very big company -- so if I put the work in now there might later be opportunities for me in other roles, or possibly other countries.
Since work didn't seem to be flooding my way, I also arranged to meet with a temp consultant whom I have registered with and met a few times in the past, but always found work for myself before she was required to. I figured I liked her and while I was in town anyway it was worth paying her visit, since in an email she'd said they would probably be able to find me some temp work while they looked for something more permanent. It sounded good.
So I stopped by her office and we chatted a bit and she tried to think if there was any roles in particular she could put me forward for -- she mentioned a couple that would be coming up in the future, and then said there was one she could probably get me an interview for the following morning. Why not, I thought, so I told her to go right ahead. The job was to work as a purchasing assistant for a travel company (they run buses and trains and stuff in various countries around the world), and that she'd placed a couple of temps there, one to replace the other, but neither had stuck with it -- so they needed someone quickly. I was told they wanted someone who wasn't timid and could do with enquiries and whatever else and not fall apart if someone was a bit brash. I explained with my career history I thought I could handle it, so the recruiter said she'd set up an interview. Before I had even got home I had confirmation of the interview, true to her word, the very next morning at 10.30.
As ever, I arrived in my finest black suit and expected the usual run-of-the-mill questions -- the "tell me about a time when", or "talk to me about this", or just "tell me about yourself". Instead the interviewer read my CV -- being the first time he had seen it -- comment in parts, talked a little about the job, and asked me if I thought I could do it. He explained it wasn't a hard job, but sometimes it could be quite pressured, and he didn't think the previous temps had given it long enough. He also said if I wanted to walk away, that was the chance, because it would ruin them if I decided to quit later when they had gone through the rigmorale of training me and setting me up on all the systems. Unafraid of a challenge, I stood my ground. So he showed me through to the office -- I thought just to show me where I would be working and whatever else. Instead, he showed me to my desk -- I was hired, and was to start work immediately.
None of this "thank you very much for coming, we'll be in touch", I had been given the job just like that.
The job itself is hardly what anyone would growing up dreaming about doing -- but it's earning a living, like. It's a six month contract, and for Essex the wages are good -- in fact, I worked out that my first proper PR job in London last year was paying me £80 a day. That involved catching the train at 8am every morning, getting off the train at 7.30 every evening, and paying £100 a week in travel alone. Now I will still be leaving for work about 8, but will be home before 6, and my travel expenses are about the cost of a tank of petrol a week. There's not a huge difference in it -- it beats minimum wage in a book shop on 30 hours a week, or the 19.5 hours they offered me.
Sure, I would probably much prefer the book shop, but I guess we have to balance one thing against the other -- and if this really is to be the year I move out, then it has to start with a job. It might not be a glamorous, exciting or fun job. I might not get to drink champagne at events with Natalie Imbruglia and Liam Gallagher, or finish early on a Friday to join my colleagues in the free staff bar. Will I even like the job a week, two weeks -- two months from now? I don't know. But I have to stick with this one.
As I've also been reminded, it's a very big company -- so if I put the work in now there might later be opportunities for me in other roles, or possibly other countries.
Monday 14 January 2008
Howling at the moon
Another work post. If you're bored of these, why not try visiting Treespotter instead -- his posts are much more interesting to read, I think.
Anyway, it's been a week since the interview. I called the recruiter on Friday and the verdict was "no word yet", but that he thought they had only interviewed the last person the day before. He said he'd try chasing them, but if I didn't hear back on Friday then he would let me know Monday. Monday rolls around, it's past noon so I call him. Get his voicemail, being all upbeat and peppy I leave a message saying hey, I'm checking what the word is from our friends at the RCoA, and I look forward to hearing from him, hopefully with good news. I then headed out in the car.
I noticed when I arrived at the shops that I had voicemail -- he must have called back when I was driving and I'd had the music up too loud. The message just said again, no word, but that they had liked me so he'd continue chasing. I wandered round the shops a while, found nothing, drove home -- still no further updates -- and went to the gym. An epic session, plus sauna and steam later, I return to my locker and find I had messages. This time the message says he is calling me with "feedback". Not "You got the job" but "I have feedback". I'm not being a pessimist, if it was good news he would have mentioned it. I called back, he was in a meeting, I left a message.
Last Friday the book shop called me, and offered me a permanent job. Far from the full time job I wanted, they offered me 19.5 hours a week, over Friday, Saturday and Sunday. 20 hours a week is ridiculous, I'd definitely need a second job for that -- and then I probably wouldn't get any time off at all, since I'd already be working the weekends. I told them thanks, but no ta -- I need more. They sounded disappointed, but what the fuck? 30 hours Monday to Friday would have been fine, I could have got something extra in the evenings -- but less than 20 was no good at all.
Because I still clearly have too much endorphins from the gym, I sent my favourite recruiter an update email to say "Hi! Hope you're well!! I want a new job!!", sent a local recruiter a message to ask if she was free tomorrow for a meeting -- since she's said she could probably find me temp work while she looks for something permanent -- and a very similar upbeat update email to my old PR contact, just without asking him for work.
From here? Who knows.
In other news, I got home this evening and there was nobody home. My Dad's car was on the drive (and he never walks anywhere) but he was nowhere to be seen. I figured he'd come home when he got hungry, and set about feeding the cat. My Dad then emerged from the garden, and asked me if I wanted to look at the moon with his telescope. No, I told him, I just got in from the gym and I'm tired.
Then I thought twice. Actually, yes, I did want to look at the moon. It's less than half-full tonight, but through the telescope you could clearly see all the various craters and seas on the surface of the moon.
Have I ever mentioned that originally, years ago, I made enquiries with the air force about joining as a pilot because I figured that would be the only way I could ever get to be an astronaut? Seems my dreams have got a bit smaller, now I'm applying to do admin.
Anyway, it's been a week since the interview. I called the recruiter on Friday and the verdict was "no word yet", but that he thought they had only interviewed the last person the day before. He said he'd try chasing them, but if I didn't hear back on Friday then he would let me know Monday. Monday rolls around, it's past noon so I call him. Get his voicemail, being all upbeat and peppy I leave a message saying hey, I'm checking what the word is from our friends at the RCoA, and I look forward to hearing from him, hopefully with good news. I then headed out in the car.
I noticed when I arrived at the shops that I had voicemail -- he must have called back when I was driving and I'd had the music up too loud. The message just said again, no word, but that they had liked me so he'd continue chasing. I wandered round the shops a while, found nothing, drove home -- still no further updates -- and went to the gym. An epic session, plus sauna and steam later, I return to my locker and find I had messages. This time the message says he is calling me with "feedback". Not "You got the job" but "I have feedback". I'm not being a pessimist, if it was good news he would have mentioned it. I called back, he was in a meeting, I left a message.
Last Friday the book shop called me, and offered me a permanent job. Far from the full time job I wanted, they offered me 19.5 hours a week, over Friday, Saturday and Sunday. 20 hours a week is ridiculous, I'd definitely need a second job for that -- and then I probably wouldn't get any time off at all, since I'd already be working the weekends. I told them thanks, but no ta -- I need more. They sounded disappointed, but what the fuck? 30 hours Monday to Friday would have been fine, I could have got something extra in the evenings -- but less than 20 was no good at all.
Because I still clearly have too much endorphins from the gym, I sent my favourite recruiter an update email to say "Hi! Hope you're well!! I want a new job!!", sent a local recruiter a message to ask if she was free tomorrow for a meeting -- since she's said she could probably find me temp work while she looks for something permanent -- and a very similar upbeat update email to my old PR contact, just without asking him for work.
From here? Who knows.
In other news, I got home this evening and there was nobody home. My Dad's car was on the drive (and he never walks anywhere) but he was nowhere to be seen. I figured he'd come home when he got hungry, and set about feeding the cat. My Dad then emerged from the garden, and asked me if I wanted to look at the moon with his telescope. No, I told him, I just got in from the gym and I'm tired.
Then I thought twice. Actually, yes, I did want to look at the moon. It's less than half-full tonight, but through the telescope you could clearly see all the various craters and seas on the surface of the moon.
Have I ever mentioned that originally, years ago, I made enquiries with the air force about joining as a pilot because I figured that would be the only way I could ever get to be an astronaut? Seems my dreams have got a bit smaller, now I'm applying to do admin.
Sunday 13 January 2008
Eight for '08
Since all the popular kids are doing it, and because I have so little else to write about right now -- the Eight Things About Me:
Eight things I am passionate about
* Music. I think I would go insane without music -- finding new artists, "discovering" for myself old artists, making compilation CDs, live music, recorded music. But only good music ;)
* Reading. It appals me that so many people don't read a book from one year to the next, and many more have never read a book. But not just books -- I love reading blogs, letters, emails, newspapers, news websites....
* Poetry. This is separate to reading because for me it involves hearing it too -- when I'm alone, I like to read poetry out loud to myself, it can alter how you perceive the poem. Poetry is almost like music to me, and I treat certain poets like rock stars. I haven't written poetry in some time now, but I value it as a form of self expression.
* Art. Both my own photography, and the work of others. I don't much distinguish between modern art and classical art -- I rate Banksy and Damien Hirst as artists as highly as Van Gogh. Art that challenges, art that provokes a reaction, art that inspires thought -- as well as art that just makes me happy. I like to wander the quiet halls of art galleries, stopping at pictures and just making a quiet decision if I like it, and what I feel.
*Travel. Something I don't do nearly enough of -- but there's so many places I want to see.
* People. While I often asset that people suck and I'm both shy and somewhat reclusive, I am also conversely passionate about people. I am passionate about friends, people whose lives intersect with mine in whatever contexts -- I am sometimes even passionate about wanting to help people, in small ways.
* I guess following on from "people" is animals. Not passionate like those people who have rooms full of cats and various animals running loose in the house, but I am passionate about my cat in particular and other animals in general.
* Space, in a very odd way. I am ignorant of a lot of the science about it, but I love looking at the moon and the stars, and enjoy reading about it on Astronomy Picture of the Day, even if I don't always understand it all. I was fascinated to read in the news yesterday about the cloud of hydrogen gas that is set to collide with the Milky Way, which would set off a new burst of star formation in our galaxy.
Eight things I want to do before I die
* Travel (more of) the world.
* BASE Jumping.
* Live abroad in a non-English speaking country (no, the USA doesn't count).
* Paint.
* Sell my art.
* Learn to surf properly.
* Trek the Inca Trail
* Celebrate Christmas in the Southern Hemisphere
Eight things I say often
* What's up?
* You suck.
* de nada (and other random phrases in Spanish)
* Aww, man (like Swiper in Dora the Explorer)
* "You like that, do you boy?" (said in a Cockney voice) or "This is an outrage!" (both of which are Mighty Boosh references)
* Shitbag.
* Yoink!
* Do you remember....
Eight books I’ve read recently
* Saturday, by Ian McEwan (reminded me a lot of Enduring Love, but not as good)
* Northern Lights, by Philip Pullman (I wanted to re-familiarise myself with the story before watching The Golden Compass)
* Into the Wild, by Jon Krakauer
* What Should I Do with My Life?, by Po Bronson
* Kafka On The Shore, by Haruki Murakami
* What's It All About? Philosophy and the Meaning of Life, by Julian Baggini
* Conversations with God, by Neale Donald Walsh
* You Are Being Lied To: The Disinformation Guide to Media Distortion, Historical Whitewashes and Cultural Myths (various authors)
Eight songs I could listen to over and over (and frequently do)
* Hotel Yorba, by the White Stripes
* You Had Time, by Ani DiFranco
* I'm Not OK, I Promise by My Chemical Romance
* Like A Lion, by Suicide Bid
* Girl Anachronism, by Dresden Dolls
* Isabella County, 1992, by Great Lakes Myth Society
* A New England, by Billy Bragg
* Mono, by Courtney Love
But if I was making a triple cd (8×3) I’d also include
* Tangled Up in Blue, by Bob Dylan
* Superman's Dead, by Our Lady Peace
* I'm Shipping Up To Boston, by Dropkick Murphys
* Gold Lion, by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
* Tea Dance, by Terrorvision
* Pull Shapes, by The Pipettes
* Cherub Rock, by Smashing Pumpkins
* Nailed to the Body of Lincoln, by The Original Brothers and Sisters of Love
* Fake Tales of San Francisco, by Arctic Monkeys
* This Is Your Life, by the Dust Brothers
* DUI, by Har Mar Superstar
* She Runs Away, by Duncan Sheik
* Take Her Out, by The Pigeon Detectives
* Portions for Foxes, by Rilo Kiley
* Mailbu, by Hole
* Big Empty, by Stone Temple Pilots
Eight movies I have seen eight times
* Pulp Fiction
* The Big Lebowski
* Jaws
* The Crow
* Lost Highway
* el Mariarchi
* Shaun of the Dead
* Fight Club
I was supposed to tag eight people -- but I don't think quite that many people read or lurk here these days, so instead I'll leave it open for anyone who hasn't already joined in.
Eight things I am passionate about
* Music. I think I would go insane without music -- finding new artists, "discovering" for myself old artists, making compilation CDs, live music, recorded music. But only good music ;)
* Reading. It appals me that so many people don't read a book from one year to the next, and many more have never read a book. But not just books -- I love reading blogs, letters, emails, newspapers, news websites....
* Poetry. This is separate to reading because for me it involves hearing it too -- when I'm alone, I like to read poetry out loud to myself, it can alter how you perceive the poem. Poetry is almost like music to me, and I treat certain poets like rock stars. I haven't written poetry in some time now, but I value it as a form of self expression.
* Art. Both my own photography, and the work of others. I don't much distinguish between modern art and classical art -- I rate Banksy and Damien Hirst as artists as highly as Van Gogh. Art that challenges, art that provokes a reaction, art that inspires thought -- as well as art that just makes me happy. I like to wander the quiet halls of art galleries, stopping at pictures and just making a quiet decision if I like it, and what I feel.
*Travel. Something I don't do nearly enough of -- but there's so many places I want to see.
* People. While I often asset that people suck and I'm both shy and somewhat reclusive, I am also conversely passionate about people. I am passionate about friends, people whose lives intersect with mine in whatever contexts -- I am sometimes even passionate about wanting to help people, in small ways.
* I guess following on from "people" is animals. Not passionate like those people who have rooms full of cats and various animals running loose in the house, but I am passionate about my cat in particular and other animals in general.
* Space, in a very odd way. I am ignorant of a lot of the science about it, but I love looking at the moon and the stars, and enjoy reading about it on Astronomy Picture of the Day, even if I don't always understand it all. I was fascinated to read in the news yesterday about the cloud of hydrogen gas that is set to collide with the Milky Way, which would set off a new burst of star formation in our galaxy.
Eight things I want to do before I die
* Travel (more of) the world.
* BASE Jumping.
* Live abroad in a non-English speaking country (no, the USA doesn't count).
* Paint.
* Sell my art.
* Learn to surf properly.
* Trek the Inca Trail
* Celebrate Christmas in the Southern Hemisphere
Eight things I say often
* What's up?
* You suck.
* de nada (and other random phrases in Spanish)
* Aww, man (like Swiper in Dora the Explorer)
* "You like that, do you boy?" (said in a Cockney voice) or "This is an outrage!" (both of which are Mighty Boosh references)
* Shitbag.
* Yoink!
* Do you remember....
Eight books I’ve read recently
* Saturday, by Ian McEwan (reminded me a lot of Enduring Love, but not as good)
* Northern Lights, by Philip Pullman (I wanted to re-familiarise myself with the story before watching The Golden Compass)
* Into the Wild, by Jon Krakauer
* What Should I Do with My Life?, by Po Bronson
* Kafka On The Shore, by Haruki Murakami
* What's It All About? Philosophy and the Meaning of Life, by Julian Baggini
* Conversations with God, by Neale Donald Walsh
* You Are Being Lied To: The Disinformation Guide to Media Distortion, Historical Whitewashes and Cultural Myths (various authors)
Eight songs I could listen to over and over (and frequently do)
* Hotel Yorba, by the White Stripes
* You Had Time, by Ani DiFranco
* I'm Not OK, I Promise by My Chemical Romance
* Like A Lion, by Suicide Bid
* Girl Anachronism, by Dresden Dolls
* Isabella County, 1992, by Great Lakes Myth Society
* A New England, by Billy Bragg
* Mono, by Courtney Love
But if I was making a triple cd (8×3) I’d also include
* Tangled Up in Blue, by Bob Dylan
* Superman's Dead, by Our Lady Peace
* I'm Shipping Up To Boston, by Dropkick Murphys
* Gold Lion, by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
* Tea Dance, by Terrorvision
* Pull Shapes, by The Pipettes
* Cherub Rock, by Smashing Pumpkins
* Nailed to the Body of Lincoln, by The Original Brothers and Sisters of Love
* Fake Tales of San Francisco, by Arctic Monkeys
* This Is Your Life, by the Dust Brothers
* DUI, by Har Mar Superstar
* She Runs Away, by Duncan Sheik
* Take Her Out, by The Pigeon Detectives
* Portions for Foxes, by Rilo Kiley
* Mailbu, by Hole
* Big Empty, by Stone Temple Pilots
Eight movies I have seen eight times
* Pulp Fiction
* The Big Lebowski
* Jaws
* The Crow
* Lost Highway
* el Mariarchi
* Shaun of the Dead
* Fight Club
I was supposed to tag eight people -- but I don't think quite that many people read or lurk here these days, so instead I'll leave it open for anyone who hasn't already joined in.
It's with great reluctance that I write this post. For some time now, I have avoided writing about my aunt's illness -- and her all-too-swift end. I alluded only briefly to her funeral on Friday, and I still don't think I will write anything about it. The Duffy poem will suffice in its place, I like the imagery and the phrases she uses. But just the same, I realise now that avoiding writing about these things is essentially the same as refusing to talk about them. And that's not going to do at all.
I told some of my closest friends only very brief details, in passing, of my aunt's illness. I knew that without intending any disrespect or without any malice on their parts, the details would quickly be forgotten -- and that was my intention. Only small bits of information so that I didn't have to emotionally involve myself with the subject, and so that with the bustle of our everyday lives people would forget and so nobody would ask me about it. And if nobody asked me, I wouldn't have to think about it.
It started really one idle Thursday, I think in November. The phone rang one night, and it was late enough at night so that it couldn't be good news. Nobody came to find me directly after the phone call, so although it played on my mind I knew it wasn't catastrophic news. It was when I went to say goodnight to my Dad a short while later he quietly told me that my uncle had called to say my aunt's cancer had come back. It had come back, and this time my aunt said she didn't want any treatment -- no chemotherapy, no radiotherapy, instead she just wanted her peace and dignity.
I wondered at the time and in the days since the meaning of it had "come back". I didn't recall ever being told of a cancer the first time around -- if I think hard and concentrate I can just about remember a feeling sometimes of there being a subject I hadn't been included in. How much of this is a genuine memory and how much is imagined, I don't know. I have found out since the first time was eight years ago, which would have made me 19 at the time -- perhaps about the time I was living in Utah.
My aunt's decline was rapid. She was quickly admitted to hospital, and I spoke to my uncle one night when he called to leave a message for my dad about visiting times. I told him I would like to visit, too, but he politely told me not right now. I don't remember how long she was in the hospital for, life went on the same as ever for me -- the usual routine of getting up, going to work, coming home, waking up in the morning and wondering what the fuck I'm doing with my life. All my usual concerns of work and girls and life and whatever filling my head.
One evening my Dad told me that the hospital had let my aunt go home. Like an idiot, I thought this was good news. I was pleased. I knew that there'd been tests and biopsies and foolishly I hoped that there'd been some mistake -- that everything was going to be fine and my aunt had been sent home healthy and happy. Clearly not. My Dad explained that it was a matter of that there was nothing that could be done, and she'd been sent home to be more comfortable. It was then that I really knew this would be it. That it had to be it.
I didn't get to visit my aunt at home either, I can only assume that she didn't want many visitors since she'd been so against them at he hospital. My parents visited her shortly before Christmas, and were heartbroken. A stairlift was installed at her house that day so that she might make it downstairs on Christmas Day -- but apparently my aunt had expressed her doubts. Nobody knew if she meant she wouldn't be able to make it downstairs, or if she...wouldn't be around.
December 29 I spent the day in London, and all day I thought something was wrong with my parents. I had spoken to them on the phone, they'd been in Portsmouth, but the text messages asking what time I'd be home and if I needed feeding seemed...short. I can't describe it. Text messages are always short, and I am always reading emotion into emails and text messages where there is none. But just the same, I wondered if I was in some kind of trouble for being out.
I got home late, about 11pm and my Dad was sat watching TV with the cat -- a fairly normal scene. I knew immediately something was wrong. I think I asked my Dad if he was ok, perhaps he said yes, perhaps he just said he was tired. But I persisted and he told me my aunt had died that day.
Between that day and almost the day of the funeral I'd been a little disturbed by what I felt was largely a lack of emotion in me. I didn't really feel much of anything about the whole thing, which in the end I decided was because it didn't seem real -- I hadn't visited, I hadn't seen my aunt towards the end, and only when I really told myself she was gone did I feel any sadness. One night last week I can recall waking up in the night in tears, my face hot and the tears streaming down my face, like I'd woken up from a nightmare. It seems like a dream now, so I must have fallen asleep again shortly afterwards and felt completely normal the next day -- but I knew it hadn't been a nightmare that had upset me in the night.
And I guess that's all I have to say. My aunt and uncle -- both in their 70s -- had known each other since they were 14. I can't even comprehend losing someone that was such a large part of your life like that, and I think my uncle is still struggling to comprehend it himself. I don't want to write about the funeral itself. I have nothing to say there, and will probably say nothing more about any of it here. It's going in that locked box in my head, I guess until I am ready to deal with it properly.
I hid comments on the on the poem, because I didn't want to talk about the poem -- I neither wanted to talk about poetry itself, nor really the reasons behind why I had posted it. And I won't be allowing comments here, either. I do appreciate the support given by the people here that care, just as I care in turn about the "real-life" people, but I don't want to have to face the expressions of sympathy or the hugs or to have to think about it.
I told some of my closest friends only very brief details, in passing, of my aunt's illness. I knew that without intending any disrespect or without any malice on their parts, the details would quickly be forgotten -- and that was my intention. Only small bits of information so that I didn't have to emotionally involve myself with the subject, and so that with the bustle of our everyday lives people would forget and so nobody would ask me about it. And if nobody asked me, I wouldn't have to think about it.
It started really one idle Thursday, I think in November. The phone rang one night, and it was late enough at night so that it couldn't be good news. Nobody came to find me directly after the phone call, so although it played on my mind I knew it wasn't catastrophic news. It was when I went to say goodnight to my Dad a short while later he quietly told me that my uncle had called to say my aunt's cancer had come back. It had come back, and this time my aunt said she didn't want any treatment -- no chemotherapy, no radiotherapy, instead she just wanted her peace and dignity.
I wondered at the time and in the days since the meaning of it had "come back". I didn't recall ever being told of a cancer the first time around -- if I think hard and concentrate I can just about remember a feeling sometimes of there being a subject I hadn't been included in. How much of this is a genuine memory and how much is imagined, I don't know. I have found out since the first time was eight years ago, which would have made me 19 at the time -- perhaps about the time I was living in Utah.
My aunt's decline was rapid. She was quickly admitted to hospital, and I spoke to my uncle one night when he called to leave a message for my dad about visiting times. I told him I would like to visit, too, but he politely told me not right now. I don't remember how long she was in the hospital for, life went on the same as ever for me -- the usual routine of getting up, going to work, coming home, waking up in the morning and wondering what the fuck I'm doing with my life. All my usual concerns of work and girls and life and whatever filling my head.
One evening my Dad told me that the hospital had let my aunt go home. Like an idiot, I thought this was good news. I was pleased. I knew that there'd been tests and biopsies and foolishly I hoped that there'd been some mistake -- that everything was going to be fine and my aunt had been sent home healthy and happy. Clearly not. My Dad explained that it was a matter of that there was nothing that could be done, and she'd been sent home to be more comfortable. It was then that I really knew this would be it. That it had to be it.
I didn't get to visit my aunt at home either, I can only assume that she didn't want many visitors since she'd been so against them at he hospital. My parents visited her shortly before Christmas, and were heartbroken. A stairlift was installed at her house that day so that she might make it downstairs on Christmas Day -- but apparently my aunt had expressed her doubts. Nobody knew if she meant she wouldn't be able to make it downstairs, or if she...wouldn't be around.
December 29 I spent the day in London, and all day I thought something was wrong with my parents. I had spoken to them on the phone, they'd been in Portsmouth, but the text messages asking what time I'd be home and if I needed feeding seemed...short. I can't describe it. Text messages are always short, and I am always reading emotion into emails and text messages where there is none. But just the same, I wondered if I was in some kind of trouble for being out.
I got home late, about 11pm and my Dad was sat watching TV with the cat -- a fairly normal scene. I knew immediately something was wrong. I think I asked my Dad if he was ok, perhaps he said yes, perhaps he just said he was tired. But I persisted and he told me my aunt had died that day.
Between that day and almost the day of the funeral I'd been a little disturbed by what I felt was largely a lack of emotion in me. I didn't really feel much of anything about the whole thing, which in the end I decided was because it didn't seem real -- I hadn't visited, I hadn't seen my aunt towards the end, and only when I really told myself she was gone did I feel any sadness. One night last week I can recall waking up in the night in tears, my face hot and the tears streaming down my face, like I'd woken up from a nightmare. It seems like a dream now, so I must have fallen asleep again shortly afterwards and felt completely normal the next day -- but I knew it hadn't been a nightmare that had upset me in the night.
And I guess that's all I have to say. My aunt and uncle -- both in their 70s -- had known each other since they were 14. I can't even comprehend losing someone that was such a large part of your life like that, and I think my uncle is still struggling to comprehend it himself. I don't want to write about the funeral itself. I have nothing to say there, and will probably say nothing more about any of it here. It's going in that locked box in my head, I guess until I am ready to deal with it properly.
I hid comments on the on the poem, because I didn't want to talk about the poem -- I neither wanted to talk about poetry itself, nor really the reasons behind why I had posted it. And I won't be allowing comments here, either. I do appreciate the support given by the people here that care, just as I care in turn about the "real-life" people, but I don't want to have to face the expressions of sympathy or the hugs or to have to think about it.
Friday 11 January 2008
Funeral, by Carol Ann Duffy
Funeral
Say milky cocoa we'd say,
you had the accent for it,
drunk, you sometimes would. Milky
cocoa. Preston. We'd all
laugh. Milky cocoa. Drunk,
drunk. You laughed, saying it.
From all over the city
mourners swarmed, a demo against
death, into the cemetery.
You asked for nothing.
Three gravediggers, two minutes
of silence in the wind. Black
cars took us back. Serious
drinking. Awkward ghosts
getting the ale in. All afternoon
we said your name, repeated
the prayers of anecdotes,
bereaved and drunk
enough to think you might arrive,
say milky cocoa...Milky
cocoa, until we knew you'd gone.
by Carol Ann Duffy
Thursday 10 January 2008
I worry about what the future holds
It's hard to say what exactly I feel this week.
Monday I felt good. I was feeling optimistic and positive about the job interview, and I think the extra sleep from not having to get up for work made me happy. The interview itself...wasn't like I expected. To begin with: the writing test. Every writing test I have ever done followed a similar format of "here is your information, read it and then follow the instructions to write something". This test started with "Here's a pen and paper. Write something. Anything. Your time starts now". The HR chick then returned a few minutes later and decided that it really was unfair to ask me to handwrite something, so they would provide me with a computer. Still no guidelines as to what to write though. I have written professionally in a range of styles to a variety of audiences -- I have written news and features for local newspapers, I've written about sportswear for teen markets, pizzas and Italian food and even eye-health. For my own personal amusement, I've written poetry and fiction and there's this here blog thing -- but I don't really know what's going on there.
My point is, I expect some kind of guidance or material when asked to "write something". What am I supposed to write? Hello my name is Jay I am 26-and-three-quarters I like cats and listening to music and my favourite phrase in Spanish is 'mi casa es su casa'". I don't know. Instead, I wrote again about the "winter vomiting bug" because it was the only vaguely serious thing I could think of. My main aim was just to try and make it concise, readable and grammatically correct.
Then came the interview. A three-person panel interview, supervised by the chick from HR who would also chip in with her own questions from time to time. It has to be three people, since I'd technically be doing two different part-time jobs and working for two bosses -- they needed a third person because one is retiring and the other is taking his place.
There were the usual questions about prioritising work and whatever else, but I think the strangest question came from the old guy when he asked me "Do you believe in IT?". It felt like I was being asked if I believed in global warming, or in life on other planets. I was tempted to say, no, I don't think IT exists -- I believe it's just a conspiracy to sell more computers... Apparently it wasn't a philosophical question, but it was hard to see exactly what he meant. I just talked about the need for backups, hard copies and sometimes the need for an old fashioned pen and paper.
I'm worried that I won't get the job. I'm worried that last year's freelance adventures have soured me so much to potential employers that it's going to be difficult to get anything. The bookshop was great at the time, it showed me I could be well liked in an interview and get a job. But like everything else, it doesn't go permanent and I seem again like I can't hold a job.
I went into the bookshop the other day -- since I wanted to return my old locker key, and my bold red t-shirt that said to ask me for gift ideas. It felt strange. It felt like all the times when I used to go in as a customer and see the same members of staff, and there was again that staff/customer distance, but at the same time I knew these people. I showed Jon the "recommendations" I had written for books by Michael Winner and Kerry Katona. But it felt a little sad, to tell the truth.
I guess it's easy to feel disheartened at this time of year, it's grey, cold and wet outside. Tonight my brother is coming home because tomorrow we're attending my aunt's funeral, who died of cancer just before New Year. I mention it not because I want wishes of sympathy, but because it seems almost fitting.
In other news, I had my eyes tested today. Not because I felt I needed them tested (even though it had been three years since my last test) but because for my RAF application I needed an official form completed by my optician. I figure for the £30 they charge for a 20 minute eye test, the least they could do was fill out my form as well. Apparently they would normally charge £20 for the privilege, so maybe it was a wise move to try and combine the two. The official verdict is my eyesight has apparently improved slightly (ha! and they said I'd go blind if I didn't stop it) though if that's actually the case or if I was over-prescribed last time, I do not know. Other than that, though, I am -- amazingly -- so entirely normal it barely needs comment.
Monday I have to go along to Armed Forces recruitment office to attend a two-hour presentation -- note to self, dose up on caffeine first.
Monday I felt good. I was feeling optimistic and positive about the job interview, and I think the extra sleep from not having to get up for work made me happy. The interview itself...wasn't like I expected. To begin with: the writing test. Every writing test I have ever done followed a similar format of "here is your information, read it and then follow the instructions to write something". This test started with "Here's a pen and paper. Write something. Anything. Your time starts now". The HR chick then returned a few minutes later and decided that it really was unfair to ask me to handwrite something, so they would provide me with a computer. Still no guidelines as to what to write though. I have written professionally in a range of styles to a variety of audiences -- I have written news and features for local newspapers, I've written about sportswear for teen markets, pizzas and Italian food and even eye-health. For my own personal amusement, I've written poetry and fiction and there's this here blog thing -- but I don't really know what's going on there.
My point is, I expect some kind of guidance or material when asked to "write something". What am I supposed to write? Hello my name is Jay I am 26-and-three-quarters I like cats and listening to music and my favourite phrase in Spanish is 'mi casa es su casa'". I don't know. Instead, I wrote again about the "winter vomiting bug" because it was the only vaguely serious thing I could think of. My main aim was just to try and make it concise, readable and grammatically correct.
Then came the interview. A three-person panel interview, supervised by the chick from HR who would also chip in with her own questions from time to time. It has to be three people, since I'd technically be doing two different part-time jobs and working for two bosses -- they needed a third person because one is retiring and the other is taking his place.
There were the usual questions about prioritising work and whatever else, but I think the strangest question came from the old guy when he asked me "Do you believe in IT?". It felt like I was being asked if I believed in global warming, or in life on other planets. I was tempted to say, no, I don't think IT exists -- I believe it's just a conspiracy to sell more computers... Apparently it wasn't a philosophical question, but it was hard to see exactly what he meant. I just talked about the need for backups, hard copies and sometimes the need for an old fashioned pen and paper.
I'm worried that I won't get the job. I'm worried that last year's freelance adventures have soured me so much to potential employers that it's going to be difficult to get anything. The bookshop was great at the time, it showed me I could be well liked in an interview and get a job. But like everything else, it doesn't go permanent and I seem again like I can't hold a job.
I went into the bookshop the other day -- since I wanted to return my old locker key, and my bold red t-shirt that said to ask me for gift ideas. It felt strange. It felt like all the times when I used to go in as a customer and see the same members of staff, and there was again that staff/customer distance, but at the same time I knew these people. I showed Jon the "recommendations" I had written for books by Michael Winner and Kerry Katona. But it felt a little sad, to tell the truth.
I guess it's easy to feel disheartened at this time of year, it's grey, cold and wet outside. Tonight my brother is coming home because tomorrow we're attending my aunt's funeral, who died of cancer just before New Year. I mention it not because I want wishes of sympathy, but because it seems almost fitting.
In other news, I had my eyes tested today. Not because I felt I needed them tested (even though it had been three years since my last test) but because for my RAF application I needed an official form completed by my optician. I figure for the £30 they charge for a 20 minute eye test, the least they could do was fill out my form as well. Apparently they would normally charge £20 for the privilege, so maybe it was a wise move to try and combine the two. The official verdict is my eyesight has apparently improved slightly (ha! and they said I'd go blind if I didn't stop it) though if that's actually the case or if I was over-prescribed last time, I do not know. Other than that, though, I am -- amazingly -- so entirely normal it barely needs comment.
Monday I have to go along to Armed Forces recruitment office to attend a two-hour presentation -- note to self, dose up on caffeine first.
Monday 7 January 2008
(Inter)National DeLurking Week!
I knew there was something special about today when I woke up. At first, I thought it was the day the ice age ended -- then I remembered. It is DeLurking Week! Although I can't find any specific references to it this year, I recall it being the second week in January.
So all this week, lurkers are invited to come out from behind the curtain. According to Statcounter there probably aren't any actual lurkers (so I've been slack updating lately, at least you got two posts yesterday) -- but regular readers can steal the image (since I pinched it myself) and we can have a great big lurker teaparty. Don't be shy, hug a lurker.
And I've probably mentioned this before, but I used to think a lurker was a breed of dog. Was probably confusing it with a lurcher.
Sunday 6 January 2008
You work in a shirt with your name-tag on it
Friday was my last day in the book shop. After I finished work on New Year's Day, I was just about to get my coat out of my locker in the break room when I met the manager in the corridor. She said she was glad she'd caught me, because she wanted to talk to me. "I don't know what your plans are" she said "But if there was a full-time job available, would you be interested?".
I enthusiastically told her I would be -- sure the pay is bad and the hours aren't great, but I do enjoy the work, and I think enjoying what you do is very important. It turns out there wasn't a job she was offering me exactly, more that the current assistant manager is leaving and this could mean change for everyone. When I started the job, Jodie the assistant manager was moving back to Melbourne, and Kelly (lead book seller) was going for her job. In what seems like a collossally bad idea, the powers-that-be decided not to give Kelly the job, but instead someone from another store.
Now the usurper has decided she doesn't want the job any more (perhaps due to conflicts with the manager) and is going back to her old store and her old job. This time, if they give it to Kelly it means various others will be promoted up the ranks -- and there might then be a job created for me. I know from conversations about our plans now that the other Christmas temps weren't approached like I was, although they would all want the job if they were.
But it doesn't end there for me. Thursday evening after work I had a voicemail from a recruitment consultant, telling me vague details of a position she thought I might be interested in. I tried to return her call, but couldn't get through -- but emailed her when I got home to say yes, I would be interested, particularly because the job was stressing that the ideal candidate should have strong writing skills.
Friday morning at five minutes to 9 I was barely out of the shower and I got a phone call saying they would like me to submit a piece of writing for inclusion with my CV for the consideration of the employer. Since the job was for a medical college, they wanted me to write a few paragraphs about a medical issue that is in the news. Nothing much, they said, just a few paragraphs. Except I was due to leave for work any minute. So I did what anyone would do, threw some clothes on and got writing.
What I wrote on the "winter vomiting bug" that is closing hospital wards across the UK and over-running doctor surgeries was pretty nondescript. But in a brief moment of insight, I also included a much longer piece I wrote on the subject of Astigamtism when I was freelancing with the healthcare PR agency in Chelsea last summer. That job stands out for me now as quite significant, as I really hated being there. I was being paid something like £100 a day, and I was miserable -- contrast this with earning minimum wage in a bookshop and being happy. But it now seems like that job might have been good for something after all -- because the employer loved what I wrote on Astigmatism, and asked for a telephone interview that same day.
Turns out the job is "immediate start", which works out well for me since I told them I could start next week if they so desired. I had to hide in the toilets at work to take a call from the recruitment consultant in order to set up the telephone interview for my 20-minute lunch break that day. I didn't get the chance to eat much lunch, but the interview went well enough for them to want to see me this Monday.
I have good feelings about this. It seems like some kind of fate that the day I finish one job another should appear, paying much more and seeming well within the grasp of my abilities -- three days admin to two days report writing. Except today I need to try and practice my writing, since they'll be testing me on it tomorrow.
Of course, I can't get my hopes up -- even if I got it the job could suck, the people might be horrible, I might just not be any good at it. That's assuming I get the job, at all, but I have to remember to treat the interview as a two-way process -- for me to be sure that I want to work there as much as convincing them I'm the best thing since bread came sliced.
I enthusiastically told her I would be -- sure the pay is bad and the hours aren't great, but I do enjoy the work, and I think enjoying what you do is very important. It turns out there wasn't a job she was offering me exactly, more that the current assistant manager is leaving and this could mean change for everyone. When I started the job, Jodie the assistant manager was moving back to Melbourne, and Kelly (lead book seller) was going for her job. In what seems like a collossally bad idea, the powers-that-be decided not to give Kelly the job, but instead someone from another store.
Now the usurper has decided she doesn't want the job any more (perhaps due to conflicts with the manager) and is going back to her old store and her old job. This time, if they give it to Kelly it means various others will be promoted up the ranks -- and there might then be a job created for me. I know from conversations about our plans now that the other Christmas temps weren't approached like I was, although they would all want the job if they were.
But it doesn't end there for me. Thursday evening after work I had a voicemail from a recruitment consultant, telling me vague details of a position she thought I might be interested in. I tried to return her call, but couldn't get through -- but emailed her when I got home to say yes, I would be interested, particularly because the job was stressing that the ideal candidate should have strong writing skills.
Friday morning at five minutes to 9 I was barely out of the shower and I got a phone call saying they would like me to submit a piece of writing for inclusion with my CV for the consideration of the employer. Since the job was for a medical college, they wanted me to write a few paragraphs about a medical issue that is in the news. Nothing much, they said, just a few paragraphs. Except I was due to leave for work any minute. So I did what anyone would do, threw some clothes on and got writing.
What I wrote on the "winter vomiting bug" that is closing hospital wards across the UK and over-running doctor surgeries was pretty nondescript. But in a brief moment of insight, I also included a much longer piece I wrote on the subject of Astigamtism when I was freelancing with the healthcare PR agency in Chelsea last summer. That job stands out for me now as quite significant, as I really hated being there. I was being paid something like £100 a day, and I was miserable -- contrast this with earning minimum wage in a bookshop and being happy. But it now seems like that job might have been good for something after all -- because the employer loved what I wrote on Astigmatism, and asked for a telephone interview that same day.
Turns out the job is "immediate start", which works out well for me since I told them I could start next week if they so desired. I had to hide in the toilets at work to take a call from the recruitment consultant in order to set up the telephone interview for my 20-minute lunch break that day. I didn't get the chance to eat much lunch, but the interview went well enough for them to want to see me this Monday.
I have good feelings about this. It seems like some kind of fate that the day I finish one job another should appear, paying much more and seeming well within the grasp of my abilities -- three days admin to two days report writing. Except today I need to try and practice my writing, since they'll be testing me on it tomorrow.
Of course, I can't get my hopes up -- even if I got it the job could suck, the people might be horrible, I might just not be any good at it. That's assuming I get the job, at all, but I have to remember to treat the interview as a two-way process -- for me to be sure that I want to work there as much as convincing them I'm the best thing since bread came sliced.
Drifting apart like a plate tectonic
After a two-week visit of her home city, San has now returned to Japan. I saw her leave for the airport at 11am Saturday morning, she arrived in Tokyo at 7am local time but at time of going to press she was still travelling back to Tsuyama.
Just before New Year, we met up for the day -- we went to a pub in Camden and complained about what had changed, including the pub where we saw in the New Year 2001 which is now a Masala Zone restaurant. I was surprised at how busy Camden Lock was, and frustrated by the sheer number of tourists taking photos of crap. It's always been a popular place, and spots like the bridge over the canal are ideal for taking pictures, but it seemed every other person was stopping in the middle of the pavement to take a picture of a shop front with their mobile phones.
To borrow a phrase of San's, the day was surreal, but nice. It was weird to just hang out after not seeing someone for 8 months, but having kept in semi-regular contact via email and phone calls. It's amusing how San lapses into Japanese phrases occasionally.
Friday I knew would be my last chance to see her again for however-long, so we agreed that I'd come up after work and San's friend Krystina was arranging for a small get-together of her friends, in Islington. Somewhere between the two of us communications broke down, and San didn't realise I was coming into London directly from work (directly apart from a quick stop home to pack a bag, ditch my car keys and pick up my Oyster card). This small confusion meant that I was going to have a couple of hours to kill in the city on my own -- I reassured San this wouldn't be a problem, I wanted to buy some cards (including a goodbye card for work) and some postcards, and after grabbing something to eat, I'd just sit and read my book in a pub in King's Cross.
True to my word, I killed time with little effort at all and smiled to myself as I walked into my favourite pub in King's Cross in my big furry hat. There's lots of things I like about gay pubs, but I think the biggest attraction is that you know that there's not going to be some pissed-up (or pilled-up) chav who wants to start a fight with you. I also know that I can walk into the pub wearing a great big furry hat, and nobody will think I'm at all strange -- even if I continue to wear it while I sit at a table and read my book.
Before I'd finished my drink (but after I'd finished my book, I should have remembered to take two) San texted me to say rather than meeting at her flat, could I go directly to Islington. A quick change of clothes in a cramped stall in the pub's toilets, I caught the bus to Angel and set off along Upper Street, hoping to find where I was going wihtout too much trouble. The last time I had to meet San and her friends in some random place on Upper Street I must have walked for miles up and down the road before I eventually found it. This time was much less eventful, I found the noodle bar relatively quickly -- and immediately cursed having already eaten.
I wasn't waiting very long for San to arrive -- perhaps 20 minutes or so -- but she's come a long way from the days when I'd tell her to meet me at "12ish" knowing that she would be there shortly after 1. We only realised when we walked in that several of her friends were already inside and waiting for us. It's always nice to see San's friends, although, yes -- that word again -- surreal. They're all really nice and make me feel like I am one of their friends, even when they haven't seen me in a couple of years or longer. Sometimes it's slightly disturbing to see how we're all growing up -- no longer students, people are getting married, having kids, moving countries, settling down into jobs and laughing about how things don't turn out like you would have expected.
When we returned to her flat, San showed me a DVD her Japanese teacher had made her -- it was a recording from the TV of some comedy programme where they also happen to visit schools around the country. This particular episode visited one of the schools San divides her time between. Apparently the feeling of what the hell? I had constantly watching this recording of Japanese TV is what San says her life feels like every day. This half-bemused half-amused feeling that you're sure it would be very funny if you just knew what was going on.
Then it was Saturday morning, with San hitting snooze or re-setting her alarm ten times over before finally getting up to finish packing her bags. Later we hugged goodbye as she loaded her bags into the boot of her Dad's car, and I shouldered my own bag and walked up the road to the bus stop like I'd done so many times before.
Just before New Year, we met up for the day -- we went to a pub in Camden and complained about what had changed, including the pub where we saw in the New Year 2001 which is now a Masala Zone restaurant. I was surprised at how busy Camden Lock was, and frustrated by the sheer number of tourists taking photos of crap. It's always been a popular place, and spots like the bridge over the canal are ideal for taking pictures, but it seemed every other person was stopping in the middle of the pavement to take a picture of a shop front with their mobile phones.
To borrow a phrase of San's, the day was surreal, but nice. It was weird to just hang out after not seeing someone for 8 months, but having kept in semi-regular contact via email and phone calls. It's amusing how San lapses into Japanese phrases occasionally.
Friday I knew would be my last chance to see her again for however-long, so we agreed that I'd come up after work and San's friend Krystina was arranging for a small get-together of her friends, in Islington. Somewhere between the two of us communications broke down, and San didn't realise I was coming into London directly from work (directly apart from a quick stop home to pack a bag, ditch my car keys and pick up my Oyster card). This small confusion meant that I was going to have a couple of hours to kill in the city on my own -- I reassured San this wouldn't be a problem, I wanted to buy some cards (including a goodbye card for work) and some postcards, and after grabbing something to eat, I'd just sit and read my book in a pub in King's Cross.
True to my word, I killed time with little effort at all and smiled to myself as I walked into my favourite pub in King's Cross in my big furry hat. There's lots of things I like about gay pubs, but I think the biggest attraction is that you know that there's not going to be some pissed-up (or pilled-up) chav who wants to start a fight with you. I also know that I can walk into the pub wearing a great big furry hat, and nobody will think I'm at all strange -- even if I continue to wear it while I sit at a table and read my book.
Before I'd finished my drink (but after I'd finished my book, I should have remembered to take two) San texted me to say rather than meeting at her flat, could I go directly to Islington. A quick change of clothes in a cramped stall in the pub's toilets, I caught the bus to Angel and set off along Upper Street, hoping to find where I was going wihtout too much trouble. The last time I had to meet San and her friends in some random place on Upper Street I must have walked for miles up and down the road before I eventually found it. This time was much less eventful, I found the noodle bar relatively quickly -- and immediately cursed having already eaten.
I wasn't waiting very long for San to arrive -- perhaps 20 minutes or so -- but she's come a long way from the days when I'd tell her to meet me at "12ish" knowing that she would be there shortly after 1. We only realised when we walked in that several of her friends were already inside and waiting for us. It's always nice to see San's friends, although, yes -- that word again -- surreal. They're all really nice and make me feel like I am one of their friends, even when they haven't seen me in a couple of years or longer. Sometimes it's slightly disturbing to see how we're all growing up -- no longer students, people are getting married, having kids, moving countries, settling down into jobs and laughing about how things don't turn out like you would have expected.
When we returned to her flat, San showed me a DVD her Japanese teacher had made her -- it was a recording from the TV of some comedy programme where they also happen to visit schools around the country. This particular episode visited one of the schools San divides her time between. Apparently the feeling of what the hell? I had constantly watching this recording of Japanese TV is what San says her life feels like every day. This half-bemused half-amused feeling that you're sure it would be very funny if you just knew what was going on.
Then it was Saturday morning, with San hitting snooze or re-setting her alarm ten times over before finally getting up to finish packing her bags. Later we hugged goodbye as she loaded her bags into the boot of her Dad's car, and I shouldered my own bag and walked up the road to the bus stop like I'd done so many times before.
Wednesday 2 January 2008
2007 roundup
Yes, it's that time of year again where I take my lead from my fellow bloggers and post a looking backwards/looking forwards New Year post. And it looks a bit like this.
Work
I started 2007 working in a call centre. I was handling insurance claims for a mobile phone provider, and while I enjoyed it if I felt like I was helping people, for the most part it was pretty soul-destroying. I hated being yelled at by customers, I hated not being able to just get a cup of water if I wanted one, and I saw nowhere for me to go in the job. It seemed if I stayed there, the best I could do was eventually be a manager -- and they didn't seem much happier.
In April, I quit the job without giving notice. One Friday afternoon I finished early because I had been working early shifts all week, and I got a phone call from a recruitment consultant. Would I be interested in a freelance-to-permanent job with this one major PR agency in London? I jumped at the chance, and they took me on without an interview. The job never went permanent, they said because my role was combined with a more senior role which they recruited for instead -- but I wouldn't have got it anyway, becuase I wasn't "right" for the accounts, which included beauty products.
I spent much of the rest of this year in freelance PR contracts -- being paid well, but never knowing when the next job would come along, and never making the move to a permanent role. I interviewed for more agencies than I could possibly count -- I even met the same agency in Southampton twice. Most notably, I took myself on a road trip to Brighton for one job, and came close to actually succeeding. The interview was the best I've ever had, and the interviewer -- who also owned the company -- told me how much he liked me, how much he thought we had in common and that I was his favourite for the job. But he was troubled that I didn't live in Brighton, as ideally he'd like someone who knew the area. Needless to say, I didn't get it.
By October, I was fed up with being rejected for every job I went for -- including freelance contracts -- and instead applied for a Christmas temp job in a local bookshop. After a very casual and surreal interview, I was offered the job and grabbed it with both hands. I am due to finish this week, and am a little sad about it as I enjoy the work. Although there isn't really anywhere for my "career" to go, and I didn't spend 4 years and however-many thousand on university education to work in retail, I would probably stay if I was offered a job. I could do with staying in one job now for a decent length of time, and I would rather be happy and paid less than miserable and paid more. We shall see what happens.
In November I decided to stop thinking about it and just do it, and filled out a formal application to join the RAF -- in an officer/administrative position. Who knows what will happen with it.
In December I sent Christmas cards deliberately late when the cards were reduced in price after Christmas to a number of old PR contacts, including my business card, as has now become habit. There's been no response yet, but I was bargaining on nobody being back at work until late this week or early next week. I don't expect anything much, but it was worth a try.
Music
Music remains such a big part of my life that it has to get its own heading. This last year, like most years, I struggle to remember all the bands I have seen. Off the top of my head I can count Nine Inch Nails (twice), Smashing Pumpkins (the first time was amazing, the second was so bad I felt almost personally betrayed), Chris Cornell, Pearl Jam, Ben Folds, Foo Fighters, Aerosmith, Suicide Bid, the Sex Pistols, Sonic Boom Six, The Filaments (in what Pete insists will be their last-ever show), Silversun Pickups and so many more at Reading Festival. I am still wearing my Reading Festival wristband, even though the festival was in August. I work with a girl who is still wearing her wristband from 2006.
2008 is already shaping up to be a good year for music, with tickets already bought for the Gutter Twins, Foo Fighters and Reading Festival -- although Jon has suggested we maybe try and see fewer bands this year (exceptions being the likes of Led Zeppelin and Chris Cornell). How long it will last is doubtful.
Girls
I guess maybe it should be "relationships" as I briefly tried to meet guys through online dating as well -- but finally understood, at least partially, what it is like to be a girl. If you want no-strings sex with strangers, then the world is your oyster -- but you'll be lucky if all you do is catch something nasty. If you actually want to try and meet someone worthwhile, or if worthwhile is too strong a word, then at least someone you could imagine being with, then your options suddenly diminish very rapidly. In the end, the farthest I got was a brief correspondence with a guy, before it fizzled out.
And I haven't fared too much better with girls. I've posted ads, and replied to ads, and again had brief correspondences going. I have come to understand that I shouldn't send a picture of myself too soon as they don't do me any favours, but instead try and build an interest with my winning personality. I know that the best way for me to meet people is more likely going to be offline than through any sort of personals ad, and I thought I had found what I was looking for when I met a cute girl at a punk gig. She was on her own, I was on my own, we had a few beers and really enjoyed each other's company. But either I tried my luck too soon or just wasn't what she wanted, things fell apart with Claire. Just the same, it has shown me to at least try and talk to people and make conversation, even if I feel shy.
Blogging
This would perhaps be better titled bloggers, since the writing itself ain't much to write home about. After first meeting in 2006, China Blue has now become a bona fide real life friend this year -- I've cooked for her, she's met my friends and my cat, and we almost set fire to a bar in Shoreditch last month.
I also met the lovely Elizabeth last June, and although we only spent a few hours together, I am hoping to see more of her when she returns this year.
2008 promises to be an even better year for meeting Bloggers, since Dune is coming to England in six weeks and will be staying with me for a time -- and hot on her heels to these shores will be DownHomeGirl at the start of the summer. I hope to meet WDKY at some point this year, since it seems absurd to me to live so close and read one another's blog, but not meet, and various other bloggers visiting or moving to London I also hope to meet.
Travel
Ha, that's almost a joke this year. A trip to Barcelona fell through near the start of the year, but I hoped with my well paid freelance PR contracts to be able to see some of Europe -- with Paris, Prague, Rome and Venice joining Barcelona on my list. I didn't even leave the country. The closest I got was when I drove to Bristol for a job interview -- and briefly considered driving the extra miles to Cardiff, since I've never been there. There was no surfing in Portugal last year, no snowboarding in the French Alps, not even a week's surfing in Cornwall. I already have plans in place to visit Spain this year, but I think there's also going to need to be a week or so doing something adrenaline-fuelled.
Anyway, despite the lack of overseas travel this year, I have spent many weekends by the sea in Portsmouth -- including a very enjoyable birthday there, and still consider it a very plausible place to live when I am looking for work. As mentioned, I also successfully navigated trips to Bristol and Brighton, the latter without even the aid of sat nav. Like Portsmouth, I was very taken with both cities and the more I see of the country the less I understand the desire for everyone to move to London. Sure, I love London, and would like to live there too -- but I also love Manchester, and Portsmouth, and Brighton -- there's so many great places to be.
As well as some overseas travel (not least to Paris, it's so damn close, I can't believe I've never been), I shall also endeavour to see more of England this year. When it's always there, always available, and not going anywhere, you don't necessarily feel any pull to see these things -- I am going to put that right this year.
Home life
I still live at home. This has to change. Although it seems the British are in some ways abnormal among Europeans for their desire to leave home as soon as possible, it doesn't offer me much comfort. More and more people I know are moving into houses with their friends, almost like students, as house prices in Britain become increasingly ludicrous -- but the comforting thing is these people don't have amazing jobs, so with some kind of reasonably paid, full time job and a few like minded friends, 2008 could be the year I finally move out for good. And will probably take the cat with me...
Work
I started 2007 working in a call centre. I was handling insurance claims for a mobile phone provider, and while I enjoyed it if I felt like I was helping people, for the most part it was pretty soul-destroying. I hated being yelled at by customers, I hated not being able to just get a cup of water if I wanted one, and I saw nowhere for me to go in the job. It seemed if I stayed there, the best I could do was eventually be a manager -- and they didn't seem much happier.
In April, I quit the job without giving notice. One Friday afternoon I finished early because I had been working early shifts all week, and I got a phone call from a recruitment consultant. Would I be interested in a freelance-to-permanent job with this one major PR agency in London? I jumped at the chance, and they took me on without an interview. The job never went permanent, they said because my role was combined with a more senior role which they recruited for instead -- but I wouldn't have got it anyway, becuase I wasn't "right" for the accounts, which included beauty products.
I spent much of the rest of this year in freelance PR contracts -- being paid well, but never knowing when the next job would come along, and never making the move to a permanent role. I interviewed for more agencies than I could possibly count -- I even met the same agency in Southampton twice. Most notably, I took myself on a road trip to Brighton for one job, and came close to actually succeeding. The interview was the best I've ever had, and the interviewer -- who also owned the company -- told me how much he liked me, how much he thought we had in common and that I was his favourite for the job. But he was troubled that I didn't live in Brighton, as ideally he'd like someone who knew the area. Needless to say, I didn't get it.
By October, I was fed up with being rejected for every job I went for -- including freelance contracts -- and instead applied for a Christmas temp job in a local bookshop. After a very casual and surreal interview, I was offered the job and grabbed it with both hands. I am due to finish this week, and am a little sad about it as I enjoy the work. Although there isn't really anywhere for my "career" to go, and I didn't spend 4 years and however-many thousand on university education to work in retail, I would probably stay if I was offered a job. I could do with staying in one job now for a decent length of time, and I would rather be happy and paid less than miserable and paid more. We shall see what happens.
In November I decided to stop thinking about it and just do it, and filled out a formal application to join the RAF -- in an officer/administrative position. Who knows what will happen with it.
In December I sent Christmas cards deliberately late when the cards were reduced in price after Christmas to a number of old PR contacts, including my business card, as has now become habit. There's been no response yet, but I was bargaining on nobody being back at work until late this week or early next week. I don't expect anything much, but it was worth a try.
Music
Music remains such a big part of my life that it has to get its own heading. This last year, like most years, I struggle to remember all the bands I have seen. Off the top of my head I can count Nine Inch Nails (twice), Smashing Pumpkins (the first time was amazing, the second was so bad I felt almost personally betrayed), Chris Cornell, Pearl Jam, Ben Folds, Foo Fighters, Aerosmith, Suicide Bid, the Sex Pistols, Sonic Boom Six, The Filaments (in what Pete insists will be their last-ever show), Silversun Pickups and so many more at Reading Festival. I am still wearing my Reading Festival wristband, even though the festival was in August. I work with a girl who is still wearing her wristband from 2006.
2008 is already shaping up to be a good year for music, with tickets already bought for the Gutter Twins, Foo Fighters and Reading Festival -- although Jon has suggested we maybe try and see fewer bands this year (exceptions being the likes of Led Zeppelin and Chris Cornell). How long it will last is doubtful.
Girls
I guess maybe it should be "relationships" as I briefly tried to meet guys through online dating as well -- but finally understood, at least partially, what it is like to be a girl. If you want no-strings sex with strangers, then the world is your oyster -- but you'll be lucky if all you do is catch something nasty. If you actually want to try and meet someone worthwhile, or if worthwhile is too strong a word, then at least someone you could imagine being with, then your options suddenly diminish very rapidly. In the end, the farthest I got was a brief correspondence with a guy, before it fizzled out.
And I haven't fared too much better with girls. I've posted ads, and replied to ads, and again had brief correspondences going. I have come to understand that I shouldn't send a picture of myself too soon as they don't do me any favours, but instead try and build an interest with my winning personality. I know that the best way for me to meet people is more likely going to be offline than through any sort of personals ad, and I thought I had found what I was looking for when I met a cute girl at a punk gig. She was on her own, I was on my own, we had a few beers and really enjoyed each other's company. But either I tried my luck too soon or just wasn't what she wanted, things fell apart with Claire. Just the same, it has shown me to at least try and talk to people and make conversation, even if I feel shy.
Blogging
This would perhaps be better titled bloggers, since the writing itself ain't much to write home about. After first meeting in 2006, China Blue has now become a bona fide real life friend this year -- I've cooked for her, she's met my friends and my cat, and we almost set fire to a bar in Shoreditch last month.
I also met the lovely Elizabeth last June, and although we only spent a few hours together, I am hoping to see more of her when she returns this year.
2008 promises to be an even better year for meeting Bloggers, since Dune is coming to England in six weeks and will be staying with me for a time -- and hot on her heels to these shores will be DownHomeGirl at the start of the summer. I hope to meet WDKY at some point this year, since it seems absurd to me to live so close and read one another's blog, but not meet, and various other bloggers visiting or moving to London I also hope to meet.
Travel
Ha, that's almost a joke this year. A trip to Barcelona fell through near the start of the year, but I hoped with my well paid freelance PR contracts to be able to see some of Europe -- with Paris, Prague, Rome and Venice joining Barcelona on my list. I didn't even leave the country. The closest I got was when I drove to Bristol for a job interview -- and briefly considered driving the extra miles to Cardiff, since I've never been there. There was no surfing in Portugal last year, no snowboarding in the French Alps, not even a week's surfing in Cornwall. I already have plans in place to visit Spain this year, but I think there's also going to need to be a week or so doing something adrenaline-fuelled.
Anyway, despite the lack of overseas travel this year, I have spent many weekends by the sea in Portsmouth -- including a very enjoyable birthday there, and still consider it a very plausible place to live when I am looking for work. As mentioned, I also successfully navigated trips to Bristol and Brighton, the latter without even the aid of sat nav. Like Portsmouth, I was very taken with both cities and the more I see of the country the less I understand the desire for everyone to move to London. Sure, I love London, and would like to live there too -- but I also love Manchester, and Portsmouth, and Brighton -- there's so many great places to be.
As well as some overseas travel (not least to Paris, it's so damn close, I can't believe I've never been), I shall also endeavour to see more of England this year. When it's always there, always available, and not going anywhere, you don't necessarily feel any pull to see these things -- I am going to put that right this year.
Home life
I still live at home. This has to change. Although it seems the British are in some ways abnormal among Europeans for their desire to leave home as soon as possible, it doesn't offer me much comfort. More and more people I know are moving into houses with their friends, almost like students, as house prices in Britain become increasingly ludicrous -- but the comforting thing is these people don't have amazing jobs, so with some kind of reasonably paid, full time job and a few like minded friends, 2008 could be the year I finally move out for good. And will probably take the cat with me...
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