Are we all narcissists now?

Friday night was a break from the usual fare in London for me. I was invited to a Philosophy meetup by a trusted colleague of mine.

The topic was on the role narcissism has in our lives today, looking in particular at how the modern sense of self is constructed in cyberspace and asking "are we all narcissists now"? Being completely self-absorbed, I was sure this topic was all about me.

I've seen some feedback since from people commenting there was too much psychological theory and wasn't enough philosophy, but I really enjoyed it. I will readily admit I didn't understand all of the psychoanalytic theory about childhood development, but was mainly interested in how narcissism relates to cyberspace.

After the talk, there was a Q&A which quite quickly turned into group discussion -- the discussion was meant to follow afterwards, but I think after a couple of glasses of wine some people couldn't help themselves.

What was interesting to me was that earlier that day I had interviewed for a new job in an online PR and social marketing role -- if only the interview had followed the talk, I could have had some interesting points to raise. In particular, what fascinated me on the night was how people of my parents' generation view the internet and social media.

Of course, there was the usual line "young people spend too much time in front of computers and don't get out enough", and some discussion sparked by a man who said his nieces post endless pictures of themselves on Facebook -- pictures in which they are rarely doing anything at all. Was this young people emulating celebrities who are constantly being "papped"? Was it just them copying their peers?

What made me think was the suggestion that Facebook "friends" are not an indication of real life friends, as one woman described it these people won't come round and make you a cup of tea if you have the flu. To be honest, I don't think anyone I know offline, with the exception of the girl -- would ever make me hot drinks or bring me soup if I was sick. Maybe if I had come out of hospital, or had a serious illness, but other than that I doubt anyone much would notice. However, I think that many people I know online if they knew I wasn't well would at least offer sympathy.

To suggest that online friendships are somehow inferior to people we know physically, in person, in real life, I think is a fallacy. The girl recently spent a week making a quilt for a fellow blogger's new baby. I have personally exchanged greeting cards with many bloggers and sent them postcards when I have been away, yet don't do the same for some real life friends. I think not having met someone doesn't make them in any way less of a friendship. Before the internet, I was nerdy enough to have penpals. Although I have long since lost touch with all of them, I still think at the time it was reasonable to call at least some of them friends.

I don't know the statistic for online friends and how many you can actually actively sustain. Granted, not everyone I know on Facebook I would call a friend -- but they all pass the "pub test": if they asked me, would I be willing to meet them in real life for a friendly drink. At least once. If the answer is no, they don't make the list. So there's an old boss of mine, who gave me work when I really needed it -- and probably still would now. There's guys I snowboarded with in France one year. There are people with whom my only connection is I have read their blog and they have possibly visited mine, out of politeness. But I still think every one of them counts as a real connection.

Blogging is essentially narcissistic. Even if you aren't a personal blogger, you are either presuming that anyone else would want to read what you write, or you are gazing into it -- like narcissus into a pond, perhaps.

I am no better than anyone else, and possibly slightly worse than most. I am incredibly self involved. I have been writing online since I was 18 -- that will be 12 years this summer. And even -- like with this blog -- I get almost no encouragement to keep writing, I still do it. I can't maintain a paper diary on a regular basis, but on the internet I pour my heart out for decades at a time.

Oddly, though, I have such terrible self image issues I can hardly bear to see myself -- literally, see pictures of myself. I almost never post pictures of myself here, not out of privacy concerns but because I hate the sight of myself. I will often "untag" pictures people post of me on Facebook, and some days I can hardly stand to see my own reflection -- which is worse than a photograph, since it looks at me with disgust or contempt.

Despite this, if I can't see myself I am incredibly vain. I text messages to the radio station while I am cooking -- just to have whatever fake name I use mentioned on air. They usually don't read the message out, but it's satisfaction enough to know if it amuses the DJ.

Maybe the internet is worse for giving people unrealistic expectations. It used to be, ordinary people would only ever be spotted in the street to be a model or maybe actor -- or very occasionally heard singing and given a record deal. Now you can get a book deal by Tweeting shit your Dad says (which usually amuses me), or a record deal based on songs recorded in your bedroom and posted on MySpace. You can get a book deal from your blog. So many people are chasing these dreams, and taking it personally when it doesn't happen to them.

Does cyberspace make us all narcissists? I don't think it does. I don't think "young people" who post pictures of themselves are doing it because they love themselves, and I don't necessarily think the more friends (or readers/followers) you have online necessarily equals a higher ego. Just more connections.

If anyone reads this -- I'd love to hear your thoughts, but to give you some idea on what, I guess some questions would be helpful:
1) Are "online" friends lesser than "real life" friends? Why, or why not?
2) Since you're on the internet, are you a narcissist?
3)Does cyberspace make us all narcissists?

2010: a year in review

I just went back into my archives to see what I said last January about the year ahead.  Did I make resolutions, or just plans and aspirations?  Did I achieve anything I set out to?

I wanted 2010 to be a year of continued adventure, having trekked to Machu Picchu and visited Australia in 2009.  A much-anticipated trip to Barcelona was cancelled when an Icelandic volcano filled UK airspacewith ash clouds and made it a no-fly zone for several days.  When life gives you lemons, shut up and eat your damn lemons.  The girl and I were not prepared to just go to work when we had been looking forward to a holiday, so we bundled into my car and set off on an inpromptu road trip to the south coast of the UK and beyond.  We surfed in Devon, we visited friends and their children, we befriended dogs in a remote hotel in Dartmoor and had an adventure just the same.

We provisionally rescheduled our Barcelona trip for the Autumn -- but in the end cancelled it voluntarily in honour of an even bigger adventure because a friend and blogger was getting married in style at a swanky resort in Bali.   Never having been to Indonesia before, the girl and I emptied our savings accounts, pockets, wallets, and hearts and booked an adventure in Bali -- to follow a short break in Western Australia to visit family once again.

In between trips around the UK and trips to the other side of the world, the girl and I undertook our biggest adventure yet -- and moved into a flat in London's Docklands.  

We said we would do it in 2010, and I like to think that we made it look easy -- our first trip to look at flats, we found the one we wanted on the second viewing.  We just decided there and then it would be where we were going to live.  Several months on, we're still very happy with the place and haven't ever regretted that we didn't look around at more properties.

There were things I wanted to achieve in 2010, that I said weren't resolutions because it didn't matter about January 1st.  I wanted to learn to snowboard properly, rock climb without supervision, and get into shape.

So how did I fair?  I completed my rock climbing course...but didn't get around to taking a safety test.  I told myself it was because I didn't have anybody to climb with, and not living in London at the time I wasn't any use to anyone who wanted a climbing buddy.  It wasn't until I went climbing again with my work colleagues, found I was still good at it, still enjoyed it, and I was encouraged by the staff at the climbing centre to take my test so I could climb on my own.

I spent a week doing what I should have done months earlier -- practicing tieing knots, watching tutorial videos and generally preparing.  I took the test and failed.  There was a very crucial part I had forgotten, and having used a different sort of belay device the week before, failed to even spot what was missing.  I have realised since that I now need to take the course again before I am ready to take a test, but my plan is to recruit a colleague to join in with me so I have a ready-made climbing buddy.  It's January already, so I need to pull my finger out on this one or else I'll get left behind.  Again.

As for snowboarding properly...  Unlike many other years, I did go snowboarding.  In December.  I received an activity gift card as a Christmas present from work in 2009, and only in December did I get around to redeeming it against a snowboarding lesson.  Did I learn a whole lot?  Not really.  I could already carve up a storm on my heel-edge of the board, but I made some progress with the toe-edge, which is what has eluded me so far.  But I enjoyed it, and I improved, definitely, and will make a point to go again in the near future.  I think we can tick this one off, if only because I took a class and made some progress.

Did I get into a shape that isn't round?  Not even close.  If anything, I am probably more unfit than I was this time last year -- I failed to join a gym or take any kind of regular exercise.  There is a free gym to use in my apartment building, but it doesn't open early enough for me to go there before work in the mornings, and I've never had the motivation to go when I get home.  There's no excuse, I have easy-access to a swimming pool near my work and a fitness centre right next door -- I have just been lazy, and this Christmas has left me more out of shape than ever before.  Technically, my BMI still scores as healthy -- but I know this is only because it can't calculate what percentage of my weight is fat and not muscle.  I still fully intend to sign up for the Husky Dog Sledding charity expedition when dates are announced for 2012, which I am relying on giving me the motivation to get and stay fit -- but in the meantime, I just have to chalk this one up as a total fail for 2010, and start now to make sure 2011 doesn't go the same way.

On the other hand, in 2010 I did manage to get some surfing lessons in -- so that gives me a bonus point as I am now capable of jumping to my feet on a board.  More lessons will have to follow in 2011.

Goals for this year ahead then? Continue with snowboarding and surfing lessons.  Take rock climbing lessons again, with the aim of recruiting a climbing buddy and taking my safety test.  Following on from my guest post on Andy's blog, I also am committed to learning Spanish this year, and breaking out of my rusty cage to create a new career for myself...

Strike me

Image source: http://76.12.250.57/

In a weird sort of way, I kind of enjoy the Tube strikes in London.

I'm a big fan of changing my routine. Every day, I take the Docklands Light Railway to Bank underground station, and then change to the Northern Line. But every once in a while -- maybe once a week, sometimes not even that -- I will get off the DLR a stop earlier, and instead change trains to go in to Tower Gateway.

Tower Gateway DLR station is separate to Tower Hill Underground station, so there is a short walk involved in the interchange -- but what all this changing of trains business means is that every once in a while I get to walk past the Tower of London. It's humbling to look at this building that has stood for hundreds of years and seen prisoners, kings, queens, plotters, guards and tourists all walk over the same ground.

I read somewhere that only something like 10% of what we see each day is actually being physically "seen", the other 90% our brains just makes up from memory. When you visit somewhere new, there is almost a feeling of exhaustion -- as everything has to be seen afresh and processed.

A change to my journey's routine encourages me to notice and appreciate the things around me.

This morning, with various Tube services suspended and disrupted, I decided not to take a chance on being able to complete my journey in the normal way. Even if the required stations were open, there was a chance of being stuck on an over-crowded platform somewhere, unable to move among a mass of hot and bothered commuters.

Instead, I went overground to Shoreditch. I have nothing but affection for Shoreditch, and it is slightly better first thing in the morning than in the evenings. On a cold November morning, it was still waking up -- it felt like the streets were stretching themselves like a sleepy animal, and that at any moment a door would burst open and a band would stumble out from an all-night recording session, blinking in the light.

I took a turn down a street I'd never been down before, just because it was heading in the right direction and I'd seen other people going the same way. Before too long, I found a brightly painted wall with the word "Scary" and nothing more on it -- professionally, too, not in the style of a grafitti tag. This is something I'd never have found on any normal day.

I could go this way every day, if I was so inclined. But then it would become "normal", and I'd stop really seeing anything.

Invisible

Image source: http://bit.ly/cVKVKt

Sometimes, I feel invisible.

I stand on the tube or the train, and I stand and stare into space, and I hang on to the overhead bar like a Rhesus monkey.  and I'm just like everybody else.

There's always people I notice.  They might be well-dressed, or just have such a presence and sense of personal style that they don't just stand out, they seem to be the only real person there.  I might pass them in the street or see them on the train and they are going about their own business, oblivious to most of the world around them, but they seem to exist more fully than other people.

I'm not alone in how I look or how I feel, and it is the very fact that I feel invisible that shows how unique and unremarkable I am -- I am the same in this feeling as almost everybody else I will meet.

How we dress communicates messages to the people around us.  It tells them how we feel, it tells them what we think of ourselves -- it can even tell people what we think of them, and of their opinions.  You can dress like a hipster or you can dress like a Goth.  You could be immensely well dressed and as confident as Gala Darling.  You could dress like Lady Gaga (if some of you guys are very confident), or you could leave the house dressed in a Star Trek uniform.  Most of us strive for some semblance of an individual style, without wanting to stand out too much and draw too much attention to ourselves. 

Most days I look at myself, and then I look at the people around me, and I wonder how anyone would ever notice or remember me.  It's probably exactly that sort of mindset that ensures that nobody does.

This goes much beyond how I look, It applies to my life.  I think about what I do -- not just work, but all of my interests -- and I think about who I am.  And I feel like an unnoticed face in a crowd, a name on a list that is quickly passed over.  A dust mite of history.

I know, essentially, we all are -- a pauper or a king, we are all part of the same compost heap. 

But I want to live the kind of life that is worth being remembered.  I want to be noticed.  Maybe if I start acting like the kind of person who would be, the rest would follow -- that's what contemporary psychologists and behavioural therapists tell us.

Heading to warmer climes

Fremantle, Western Australia -- 2009.

On Friday, the girl and I will be cutting out of work early and heading for the airport.

While the English summer is drawing to a close and the nights are creeping in, we are taking a last-gasp attempt to drag it out a little more -- escaping to the warmer climes of Western Australia, before heading to a friend's wedding in Bali.

First when we were invited informally to the wedding we commented to each other how nice it would be to go, but that it would just cost far too much.  We didn't think much more about it, other than the occasional wistful sigh.  Then we got the beautiful and elaborate invitation in the post, and we said to each other "Let's just look into it... we'll just have a look and maybe it can be done".

And so it was, after a visit to a travel agent, some head-scratching and some number-crunching, we decided that opportunities like this don't come up very often -- so while we are both employed (which can never be taken for granted these days) and not tied down by kids or mortgages, we'd throw caution to the wind and just go.  Some great friends are going to be there, and we think it will also mean a lot to the bride and groom who took the time to invite us in the first place.

It's only a few days away now -- and final preparations are being made.  Tourist visas sorted, passports dug out, travel items bought, clothes sorted and counted and packed (even though they will end up being re-packed several times).  The girl has recently splashed out on a new DSLR which will be put to good use during the trip, while I'll be trying my best to avoid appearing in her photos.

With Australia heading into Spring as England heads into Autumn, it will be interesting to see the effect it has on people's attitudes -- if people are more cheerful and optimistic in London, or if that just describes Australians generally.

It strikes me that there is room to make this holiday into a kind of journey I can learn from -- what I will learn, I don't yet know, but with plans to hike up a volcano at dawn among the activities planned, there's got to be room for something life-changing out there.

Kid, I wrote back

At the start of each month, I can be found in a bar in Shoreditch.

What coincidentally is my favourite bar in London -- and possibly in the whole world -- also hosts a monthly open mike night of spoken word.  And I live for this kind of thing.

Back in my Derby days as a student, I joined a poetry group and we'd meet once a week in a pub to share our poetry and give feedback and drink a lot.  Then once a month we'd all perform at an open mike night, called Raised Voices.

Raised Voices was held in the back room of a pub, which was freezing cold with no power other than a generator.  It seemed to fit the mood.  The students made only a small percentage of the people there, and I got a taste for spoken word -- despite needing a drink or two to have the courage to perform.

Raised Voices lost its edge for me when it moved out of the pub's back room and into a plush, carpeted conference space.  The florescent lighting had to be on, because it was either on or off -- no dimmed -- and the bar tender always had a slightly sarcastic smirk on his face.  The whole thing just felt wrong.

Then I moved to Salt Lake City, Utah, and met up with an old poetry friend who had been there for a year already, where he introduced me again to something new.  To two new things, really -- performing sober, and to performing in coffee shops.  It was often disconcerting being an Englishman abroad, when it wasn't just a short holiday but where people would stare at you in class, or be shocked to hear your accent when you stood up to perform in Cup o' Joes.

I think after I left Utah and until moved to London I had only performed twice -- once in Derby, when Raised Voices again had a new home (but none of the old faces, all my old poetry friends had scattered), and once when I was doing my Journalism post-grad in Leicester.  An amusing sidenote to that is that when I was interviewed for the journalism course, I spoke with great passion about how I loved to just write.  I was asked if I wasn't just a frustrated novelist -- I told them no.  I was a frustrated poet.  Why they still took me on is beyind me, I guess it was despite this they knew I could write, and saw potential.

So years and years later, we're living in London and I'm not giving much thought to poetry, let alone spoken word.  I have a dedicated bookshelf for poetry -- mainly consisting of Carol Ann Duffy, Simon Armitage, Pablo Neruda, John Hegley and Beat writers, along with a huge anthology that I dip into from time to time.  It's years later, I don't think of poetry until we're in my favourite bar for my birthday celebration and I see a poster for Kid, I Wrote Back -- a new spoken word and poetry night, being held there.

It's hosted and organised by the extremely talented Chimène Suleyman and Dylan Sage who are well known in similar circles in the city.   Kid is worth checking out for their performances alone -- but there are so many great and varied poets and writers appearing there each month, I feel almost proud to be able to appear alongside them.  My own work varies so much in quality and theme, I don't feel I hold a candle to a lot of people there, but it's so great just to perform -- and gives me a reason to wirte each month.

Shed your skin and let's get started

Here we are, it's early on a Sunday afternoon and the day has a slightly unreal feel to it.  A lot of my life often has a slightly unreal feel to it, stemming from how often I fall asleep when travelling -- that time just after waking up always feels slightly drained of colour, and still a little like a dream.  This way, most of the motorway service stations and petrol stations in the world feel like a dream -- unless I've been the one driving.  Train station almost certainly feel this way.  I don't quite know why this morning does, but I drank so much yesterday I might not be completely straight yet.

Because it was my birthday earlier in the week, I arranged to meet friends in London for a few civilised drinks yesterday, among the Shoreditch elite.  The bar I'd chosen, since I have come to consider it as my spiritual home, was promising to get busy -- since Saturday was a big day for sport, marking the start of the 6 Nations rugby tournament (with England playing Wales, and Ireland playing Italy), as well as a few premier league football games, but when the girl and I arrived shortly after 2 it was still just getting going. 

We were joined before too long by the girl's friend Sara, who is very lovely and someone I consider a friend in her own right these days rather than just one of the girl's mates.  We toasted my birthday and settled ourselves in on some big sofas, content to spend the rest of the day in good company.  And the company kept getting better, when guest of honour Conor, of radiogael.blogspot.com joined us.  I'm a big believer in making internet friends into real life friends -- as evidenced by the fact I will have been dating a fellow blogger for two years this year, and have met many other amazing and brilliant bloggers over recent years. 

I'm pleased to report that Conor is every bit as smart, funny and interesting in real life as he is on his highly-readable blog, and as is often the way it didn't feel like the first time we'd met.

As the day wore on and the bar filled up, Sara had to leave to prepare her flat for a party she was throwing that evening, but in her place we were shortly joined by the charismatic China Blue who was having a bad enough day, even before the general disarray of the London Underground.  I'd like to think that her day was improved by joining us, since I know that ours certainly was that much brighter for it.

As the rugby games finished and the afternoon turned into evening, we headed out into the night in search of food -- and luckily for us found it, with little fuss or hassle, in a much smarter city-types bar close to the station.  Sara had invited us to her house party that night, so we'd collectively agreed that a break from the drinks and some food would be in order before we were to set off to join the great and good of Notting Hill.

China Blue joined us for dinner, but decided she'd prefer to head home than to party into the night in Notting Hill -- so the three of us (the girl, Conor and myself) caught the tube out into the Notting Hill night, to what seemed like a very trendy party thrown by Sara and her flatmate. 

These parties always amuse me, since Sara is Australian (which might go without saying, since she's one of the girl's oldest friends) and her flatmate is South African.  The latter I hadn't even known until that day, when the more-perceptive Conor had noticed it immediately upon talking to her.  The part that amuses me is that other than the standard "how do you know the host" ice-breaker questions, people would always ask me where I was from -- and when I replied that I was English, they'd be surprised and tell me I was the first Englishman they had met that night.  Often the only one at the party.  People would presume I was Australian, like the girl and Sara, or South African like so many of the guests, or last night it was thought I might be Irish, like our good friend Conor.   My English accent was foreign and difficult to understand in the noisy party atmosphere.

I feel decidedly less travelled at these parties, but it was a lot of fun -- even if we didn't stay too late.  The three of us were worse for wear after the afternoon, but still a lot better than some of the party's guests, and together we caught a bus to guide us home -- sitting on the top deck, right at the front, we could spy on all the people out in the city...

And so here we are, the girl and I having a lazy Sunday at home with a couple of cats who are craving attention after being left alone all day yesterday.  I feel very lucky today, and the working week feels thankfully a long way off.

Another year older, and deeper in debt

This will be the last year I can count myself among the twenty-something bloggers -- so perhaps I should start looking for a 30-something community instead.  I turned 29 this week and once again have to stop and take stock of my life.

I can't remember how I celebrated my 19th birthday now, except that I was in my first year at university, in Derby.  Did I invite friends to come and see me, and were they too busy?  Did I visit my parents back home?  It's all a mystery to me now.  I guess it wasn't that spectacular.

29 was much better.  In a less than surprising turn of events, I invited friends from home to join me for a meal out locally -- with the idea that I could have a separate celebration in London for people I knew there, making it easy for everyone.  Friends at home didn't have to go to London, and people in London didn't have to trek out to the suburbs.  Except it didn't quite work out that way, and in the end all my friends at home except one -- and, of course, the girl -- couldn't or wouldn't come, so I ended up cancelling my meal out and instead ordering Chinese takeaway and watching a dvd.  I would pretty much live on Chinese takeout if I could get away with it.

On my birthday itself, the girl gave me what could be possibly one of the best gifts ever -- a week-long holiday in Barcelona, later this year when it's warmer.  And she didn't just give me a print-out of the booking confirmation page, she made a kind of flip-book to read that gave me little bits of info on each page to keep me guessing until the end.  We then headed into London to do what we had planned for last year, until the snow ruined everything -- which was visit the London Planetarium.

Except there is no London Planetarium any more, and hasn't been for years, it seems.  Now the only one is at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, which was lucky because Greenwich is one of my favourite places to be, and so as well as Planetarium show we got to look round the museum of the Royal Observatory and learn all sorts of cool things about space.  I'm a big nerd about space, and for way longer than was really appropriate still had glow in the dark stars on my walls and ceiling.

This weekend is drinks in London with friends old and new, in my favourite bar in the world -- Kick, in Shoreditch.

How to whip up a frothy frog nest

Another week.  I apologise unreservedly for the lack of updates here recently and the lack of comments on sll my favourite must-reads -- I don't often get the chance to read or post from work, and by the end of the day I rarely want to spend more time at the computer.  Rest assured, I am still around and grabbing my reading while i can.

So, what's new?  Work continues to suck and blow in equal measure.  I am hitting somewhere around 50% of my sales targets currently, and while I have days of lucidity where it will occur to me that if I work really, really hard then there is almost no limit to my earning potential, I quickly get disillusioned and would rather do something I enjoy for a decent wage.  But hey, at least I have a job -- that's a step in the right direction.  I recently interviewed elsewhere for a marketing role, and though I got on famously with the interviewer who was very senior in the company, their client didn't want to meet me and that was the end of it.  I am choosing to think this was maybe a blessing in disguise, since the location was horrible.

Speaking of locations, the girl and I have been looking online for places to live in London.  Reluctantly, we are having to admit that Greenwich in all its bohemian and center-of-the-earth wonder isn't going to happen, and that we can get more bang for our buck elsewhere.  Somewhere with easy access to rock climbing as well as central London and road links to where my parents live are all top of the list -- and with reasonable property prices, it is Canary Wharf that is looking the most attractive.

I feel bad, though.  I'm not particularly great at my job, and so my earnings are still quite low, and in turn this is causing us problems in finding somewhere in London -- the girl doesn't make bad money, but my half isn't quite measuring up; so sometimes I feel like I'm holding us both back.  All isn't lost though.  It's a quiet period in business almost everywhere so I can reasonably expect things to pick up there, and to get better at my job -- I can only get better at my job, right?  Not least because we are being sent on a sales training course.

Sometimes in ym work I feel like I have a toolbox, filled with various useful things, and yet all I am using out of it most of the time is one screwdriver.

In other news, my beginner's climbing course is complete, so once I have taken an official safety test I will be free to climb without an instructor.  I joined a rock climbing group on Meetup.com, but it seems their preferred venues at the moment are London's biggest and most popular indoor climbing centres.  I might just try and find people to climb with at the wall where I've been going -- it's quieter, though obviously much smaller, but also open to the air.  In time, once I've got the practice and gradually bought some equipment, I'll start finding outdoor excursions -- but one step at a time.

Maybe that idea isn't so unlike work?

And on an entirely unrelated option, I was thinking to myself early Facebook needs a "hell no" option as a response.  "Do you want to be friends with this person?" Let's see, you never liked them when you were at school together and that was something like 15 years ago -- this isn't just a "yes" or "no" decision, it's a "hell no".  Do you want to join the group for a Big Brother Reunion in Australia?  Hell, no.  So let me ask you -- what options would you like to see?  Or maybe you would like to make the real world more like social networking, making it easier to hide or ignore people who annoy you, or just maybe you would like to live in the Ukraine with an adopted penguin, as I have been wondering this week?  I encourage everyone to read Death and the Penguin by Andrey Kurkov, one of the most darkly brilliant books I have read in a while.

Bring me your nihilists, your anarchists and defeatists

Every morning on the Tube I see TFL's posters with inspirational quotes.  I have to give them points for effort -- I like the lengths they go to with culture on the tube, from displaying poetry in ad spaces, to these quotation posters that are extracts from a booklet of quotes for Piccadilly line staff share with passengers.

According to TFL's own press release the booklet "aims to generate a more positive atmosphere during peak times." It apparently also "encourages the many voices of the Tube’s staff to re-enter the environment of the network, bringing some of the personalities which have made it famous to the forefront once more. Coming from a wide range of philosophical, political and historical sources, the quotes provoke thought on life in the city, especially as heard on the London Underground."

My trouble with them though is that they are so safe, and uninteresting.  Gandhi.  Nelson Mandela.  Great men, but who can really argue with them?  Although I did actually meet a man recently who thought Gandhi was bad, but that's not really the point.

I appreciate that the quotes are meant to be uplifting, inspiring even, and optimistic -- but wouldn't it be more interesting if they could prompt some discussion?  Maybe they want to stay away from provoking debate when people are tired and packed into crowded trains that are frequently dirty and often subject to delays and mechanical failures.  Would you really want an argument breaking out in a stifling hot tube carriage when there is nowhere to escape?

At the bottom of the posters is a web site address where you can submit quotes.  I amuse myself thinking of inappropriate submissions of quotes from people like the radical Edward Abbey who offered thoughts that should be embroidered on cushions, like “Anarchism is founded on the observation that since few men are wise enough to rule themselves, even fewer are wise enough to rule others.” 

And who can forget the timeless wisdom of the great Hunter S. Thompson, the pioneer of "freak power"?  It is next to impossible to choose just one quote from the man who felt the same way about disco as he did about herpes, but my favourite is "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro".

The author Chuck Palahniuk is one of my favourites, and he denies that he is a nihilist -- instead saying he is a romantic.  Either way, as a former journalist and compulsive blogger, I find this thought fitting: "The best way to waste your life, ... is by taking notes. The easiest way to avoid living is to just watch. Look for the details. Report. Don't participate.”

Also making my fantasy list of submissions would be:
"If I were a medical man, I should prescribe a holiday to any patient who considered his work important" Bertrand Russell
"Work is the refuge of people who have nothing better to do" Oscar Wilde

Wouldn't these give you something more to think about on your way to work each day?  So, share with me your quotes.  Not your uplifting and inspiring mantras -- but the unconventional, nihilistic and anarchic that wryly amuse you.

Things I Love Thursday

I've been bad at this recently, but we are back once more with "Things I Love Thursday" shamelessly ripped off from Lulu, who in turn lovingly borrowed it from Gala Darling.

The most obvious and most important thing I love this week: the girl is coming home.  After 4 months in exile and without pay, my favourite West Australian fisherman's daughter is coming back to England.  It's hard to believe after it took so long for her company's licence to sponsor her -- but her visa was approved within 24 hours of receipt of her passport, and a week on from there her flight back is booked.  We already have dinner plans for the day she comes home.  There's lots of songs like "Leaving on a Jet Plane" but are there an equally moving songs about people coming back?

What I also love this week is my hat.  It is big and furry and I feel happy when I wear it because I look so damn cool.  I bought it for myself two years ago as a Christmas present to myself.  It may not be a Mau Mau hat, and I could ideally do with having a larger head (since the hat only comes in one size) because it has a tendency to slip over my eyes when I'm walking, and I have no peripheral vision.

But none of these things matter because it is the absolute coolest hat in the world!  It keeps me so incredibly warm, and it is perfect for when you want to sleep on the train to work -- it gives my head padding against the train window, muffles the sound and I can pull it over my eyes.  What's not to like?  Also, it reminds me of this advert with Rich Hall.

I also love London this week.  It may not be the prettiest city in the world, and it might not have quite the charm of European cities like Paris, or Rome, or Barcelona, or Prague, or the original colonial style of some buildings in Australian cities I have seen -- but it has a charm and history that many modern cities lack, almost by definition.  As I mentioned in my last post, London has grown organically from various smaller towns and almost anywhere you go in the city you can turn a corner away from Starbucks and McDonald's and still find old cobbled streets and disused gas street lamps.   London has a personality and a history that is undeniable, and unrivalled.

I guess following on from my love of London is my love of Europe.  There are still vast areas of Europe I haven't seen, but I love living in Europe this week -- I love that I can call people in France, Germany, Belgium, Spain, Scandinavia and with the exception of the last one I can usually at least say "good morning" and with French and Spanish "Do you speak English?".  I speak to these people and see bookings for them travelling across Europe to come to London, and they think nothing of it.  Then I'll speak to someone in the north of England and they will balk at the idea of coming down to London for the day.  There is so much anti-Europe sentiment in England, but I embrace it -- how can you not, when you can drive in to a foreign country in less time that it takes to drive to places in Britain?

Finally what I love this week is being one of life's winners!  A competition I entered randomly one day, as I do so often, actually came through for me -- I got an unexpected email telling me that I had won a place, plus one, on the guest list to see Har Mar Superstar at the start of December.  Of course, I am taking the girl as my plus one since I know she likes his music, too, and it can be another celebration of her coming home.

And I guess that wraps her up this week -- not a vast list of things, but I think the first is quite important.  Followed, albeit at a distance, by a good looking hat.

Working late and walking late

Tonight I had to work late.

Almost every night of the week -- or, at least, the working week -- my company hosts events, which in turn means someone has to stay late to show the delegates where they are going as they arrive.  Tonight was my turn, but instead of showing them where they were going I was sending them away with a map to find the place where the event was being held.

This is the least interesting part of the post, I'm starting with this so that it will get better as you go along and you are rewarded for being dedicated readers.

I finished work.  Wrapped up in a coat and scarf, and set off down the street to the Tube station.  Except halfway to the Tube I decided I didn't want to get on it right away.  It wasn't that I didn't want to go home, it was just that there was no hurry.  The house is empty and nobody would know or care if I got home at 8, or 9, or even tomorrow morning, ten minutes before having to leave the house again for work.  I figured instead of taking the Tube three stops, I would walk.  It isn't far, it was mild for November, and it shouldn't be all that complicated...

You know at this point that if it wasn't difficult this would be a very short post.  I thought I was so clever.  I knew that if I walked one way I would be heading towards King's Cross which was the opposite way to where I wanted to be going, and if I went yet another way I would be heading more in the direction of Chancery Lane.  Again, not where I wanted to be.  Short of going back on myself, there was only one direction left that I could go.

Except it doesn't ever work like that, especially not in such an organic city as London.  London isn't so much a city as it is lots of small towns that have, over time, merged together -- so there's lots of different identities all melting together, and there are very rarely any roads that go in straight lines.  There's no grid patterns to be found here.  And there is rarely any sort of a sign that will tell you where you are -- or where you are going.

I enjoyed the walk, hell I need the exercise right now, and I had no particular place to be.  I liked crossing the streets where by now every third car was a cab, walking past the pubs full of city workers having a quick drink after work which must surely have turned into at least two or three by this time, the pizza restaurants where couples sat in the windows having early dinners, and other restaurants where the owners were standing outside to try and encourage people to come in.  I like those kinds of restaurants, it really makes you feel wanted when someone is that eager for your company.  Or your money.

After about half an hour of thinking I knew where I was going, in a roundabout sort of way, and not minding that it was taken much longer than it would have done if I had just got on the Tube, I recognised where I was.  I had unconsciously managed to walk 30 minutes just to end up 5 minutes away from where I started, outside the building we are meant to be moving to next week. 

I set off again, thinking this time I was definitely going the right way.  I turned down one side road, and I almost stopped at the bottom.  I could hear shouts, and possibly the sound of people running, and I wondered if this was something I wanted to walk out into.  As I came out of the street so cautiously, I saw a football pitch across the street.  It wasn't someone being chased by a mob at all, or groups of football hooligans meeting in the street -- just a friendly game of 5-a-side.

I looked for distinctive landmarks -- thinking I would surely be able to make out one office building or another near where I wanted to be, but any tall buildings with lights that I headed towards turned out to be ugly concrete tower blocks built in the 1960s.  After much too long I decided that my walking wasn't actually getting me anywhere, I was starting to get cold and hungry -- and even if I had been on the train that very minute, it would be at least an hour before I got home.

I headed directly to the first Tube stop I came to, and found I had only walked one stop further from where I worked.

It was in the right direction, though, so I consider it a success.

One foot in front of the other is an acceptable plan

I guess there's no other way to put it, other than "work continues to suck". I am today exactly one week away from my second consultation, where I will find out if I am "matched" to a position, "pooled" with a number of other candidates for one particular job, or simply made redundant. In my first consultation, I told them I considered myself at the level of "PR and Marketing manager" rather than Markting assistant. I also told them I wouldn't be willing to take a pay cut -- even though what I earn is good money outside of London, I don't see why I should consent to have them cut it, I should be looking to do better, not worse. I also told them that relocating wouldn't be an option if it made life more difficult or expensive for the girl getting to work in London every day. But that if they wanted me to relocate to London that would be ideal.

We have mixed feelings about living where we do. On one hand, it would be nice if the girl didn't have an hour's journey to work every day on packed commuter trains and tubes. It would be good if we could live in London and do all the wonderful things there are in this most amazing of cities, or could get home at night after doing these things. I know the girl didn't move clear across the world to live in the home counties. On the other hand, where we live is nice. It's pretty quiet, we have a big green in front of the house, trees in blossom and cats lying on sunny window ledges. Some people in London can pay more for a room or a small flat what we pay for a two bedroomed house, and the girl knows for her half of the rent in London she would probably see a room in a shared house.

I think if we really had the choice, there's other cities where we would rather live than London -- we'd live somewhere by the sea, like Bristol or Portsmouth or Southampton or Brighton. Or most of Australia. Sometimes it feels like some part of me is calling out to live by the water.

In other news, all else failed. The cat is dying. It wasn't his arthritis. It wasn't his teeth and it wasn't his gums. He wasn't depressed or upset that my parents had been away. He is just dying. A couple of weeks ago he had his dental appointment, and I was told his gums were inflamed. My parents fought with him to get his little cat antibiotics down him. He was also given shots of steroids.

When I met Mum for lunch last week she told me he was doing much better, but it seems her reports of his eating and getting out more were apparently exaggerated to make me happy. Hope has faded, and he has gone rapidly downhill.

When I last saw him he was all but refusing all food. He struggles to stand on his own or to walk, and spends most of the day and night just lying on his side. If you talk to him he's happy enough and purrs, but the vet says she thinks he has leukemia and there is nothing that can be done, other than more shots of steroids and vitamins. This is about where I started with his first visit, so I can't say I haven't been prepared. I asked Dad how much longer the vet gives the cat, because I don't want to come back from Peru to find the cat gone. He doesn't expect the cat to last until I leave, and I leave in just over a week from now.

The girl and I visited my parents for tea, mainly so they could see her cute new haircut but also so we could see them and see the cat. It's so sad to see him this close to the end, it's almost painful.

Next week could turn out to be a double-shot of fun if I lose my job and lose my cat. But I leave for Peru next Friday, and as with all things I have to be brave. If my knees are hurting so bad I can barely walk, I just have to keep going -- one foot in front of the other is an acceptable plan, and that can apply to many things. I just have to put my head down and keep going, sometimes, even if it is hard.

I've got a girl who makes me feel sea-sick

Yass, yass, I know. I suck. I promise more updates then don't deliver. Must try harder.

Anyway, I was thinking the other day. A year ago, I was 26, unemployed (or barely employed in the book store), single, and living at home with my parents.
I was seeing a therapist almost every week, who felt that I needed therapy so desperately that he was willing to see me pro-bono, rather than see me stop our sessions.

It's now a year later. I am 27, gainfully employed in a well paid corporate PR & marketing role, am with a beautiful girl and we are about to move in to a rented place of our own. I haven't had therapy since December, although it's open to debate if I need it.

I have raised several thousand pounds so far for Macmillan Cancer Support, to undertake the trip of a lifetime next year, hiking the Inca trail in Peru.

I was trying to work out one idle day a few weeks ago if I had cosmic ordered the girl into my life, back when that was the kind of thing I was into. I can't remember what I specified for my 'order', nor the timeframe, so I can't be sure -- but either way, I feel very fortunate.

I also considered if I had 'ordered' this good job -- but I think not. I remember the order for that was for a job to come up in June or July time and involve travelling to or living in another country. Just the same, I am pretty pleased with the job I have got. It's got prospects, lots of writing and creativity, and I'm the other side of the office to the colleague who used to annoy me.
Though I can still hear her, so it's not all good.

The girl and I have been talking for a while about finding a place together, but it has always been dependant on my work. I needed a new job before I could really afford to go anywhere, and we needed to know where the job would be before we started looking for places to rent.

I think we were both a little disappointed that we weren't going to get to move into London when I took this job, but Chelmsford has better transport links than where we are now, and much lower rent than London. After completing my tax return showed me that not only did I not owe the tax department any of my savings, but they actually owed me money, we felt there was no need to hesitate any longer in looking at places to live -- so we set to work, looking at them online.

A week ago I saw a couple I liked online and left messages for letting agents to take a look at them. A week later, I have viewed four properties (the girl didn't see the first one, but didn't need to, we didn't want somewhere completely unfurnished) -- and have dismissed two out of hand. Out of the two remaining there was a difference of £100 a month, and have decided to go ahead with the more expensive of the two -- just because it's bigger, closer to town and a nicer area. We've paid our administration fee and completed the reference forms -- now we wait to see if everything goes according to plan.

If everything goes well, we could start moving as soon as next weekend.

Tired of doing day jobs with no thanks for what I do

Work is a bit up in the air at the moment, which is never a feeling I enjoy.

More attentive readers might remember that I took this current job on a six-month contract. It bears no resemblance to anything I would like to do with my life, and doesn't seem to involve many things I enjoy. It was just there when I needed a job, and having seen relatives recently I had their pitying looks and the words "You're still looking for something interesting" in my head. So I took a job that wasn't interesting -- but was instead a steady, secure job and quite unlike last year's PR freelancing.

The fact that it was a six month contract was a blessing and a curse -- it meant that I could hold something down for a nice steady length of time instead of a month here and six weeks there. But it worried me slightly that the job might be intolerable and I'd be stuck in it. As it turned out, the job is dull but perfectly tolerable. They're very happy with my work (although I only ever hear this through my temp agency, they never express it personally to me) but there's a cloud on the horizon.

A couple of people in my life suggested to me when I started the job that this six month contract might not really be exactly what it says on the tin -- that a lot of employers state the job is that, so they can kick you out after six months if you're useless and be free of any reprisals. I hoped this would hold true of my job.

Last week I was having a discussion about work with my colleague Matt. Matt is a nice guy, only ever takes anything resembling an interest in me or my life when there's nobody else around. If I should happen to be in the bathroom at the same time as him, he'll strike up a conversation, or if we're the only two members of the purchasing department in that day. He's not unfriendly by any means, but it seems he's not much one for small talk, and I'm not the kind of guy who likes to talk -- or talk about himself. That's what the blog is for. So, Matt and I were talking and he was asking me about the contract and if I had any thoughts about work here or other plans. I said I hoped to convince them to let me stay longer, not because the job is great but because I need it on my CV for the time being. I said it didn't seem to me like at the end of six months I simply wouldn't be needed any more -- it feels like there is a job for me to do, and an arbitrary date on the calendar wouldn't make my work disappear.

That's when he explained that the manual reordering system we are trying to convince our bus depots to use for the ordering of the engineering parts they need is designed to effectively do away with my job. The only parts that would need to be physically phoned through to suppliers would be the urgent orders, and between them the department (which effectively would just be him and Annette) would be able to handle that.

Of course, there's more to my job than just the ordering of the parts -- I have made very certain of that. Any time something needs to be done, I'm happy to take it on. I incorporate more and more things into my daily routines, with an eye to making it difficult to get rid of me. Sometimes it backfires -- I did this on my PR internship, and even had a personal meeting with the MD where I told her that the job I was doing unpaid as an intern needed someone to be doing it permanently. So they created a job, interviewed me for it, then gave it to someone else and put me out on the street.

We had a new member of staff join our department perhaps six weeks ago, and she lasted all of about a month. She claimed she was lied to by her agency who recruited her and lied to in interview about the job -- what was true we don't know, but apparently now she has left there are legal proceedings looming. The company are interviewing all over again for someone else to come in and do that job, but in the meantime are hiring another temp. They keep reassuring me that this person is no threat to me, will only be here for a few weeks, but that they will be taking over a lot of what I do. There was an oblique reference to more or bigger things for me to do when this happens, but it's hard to see what will happen.

My boss asked me, not unlike Matt, about my plans. I spoke of wanting to perhaps stay and he explained that it wasn't just the automatic computerised ordering system, but that they had to justify to the powers that be everyone's place. He told me how he had been asked to send a list of employees working under him (all three of us, then -- perhaps four if you count the guy who works at a different office) and being a temp the powers that be might axe me. He said he hoped to sneak me in under the radar for as long as possible, but there's a possibility that even if I try to make myself indispensable, the people who decide on budgets for staff won't know or care.

I try to remain positive. I think if it does look likely to finish at six months or shortly after, I will look again for permanent work in London -- with a view to moving there. All the cool kids are doing it, and I think it was meeting Fiona a few months back that made me realise it is not impossibly expensive to live in London without an amazing job. If this job does finish I could look at doing something I enjoy or that actually stimulates me... Or I could look for jobs like this one but in London instead...

Like most areas of my life, I swing between thinking that I have failed at everything I have ever tried, and that if anything ever changes it goes from bad to worse and feeling confident and optimistic about what the future holds. I know logically that whether I think I can or think I can't I will be right, but that doesn't help.

In a heap round their breakfasts in yesterday's clothes

This has to be the worst-timed post ever. I spend all day bored out of my mind, but it's only when I want to have been asleep half an hour ago that I actually get around to writing an update. I might not have internet access or the time to blog at work, but I'm in one of those annoying places where sitting in front of a computer when I get home from work isn't so appealing.

It's no surprise that I miss working in the bookshop. In fairness, I don't think I did the job for anywhere near long enough to appreciate how mind numbing it would get -- I wasn't full time, and didn't stay more than a couple of months, I think 40 hours a week and working weekends (as would inevitably have happened) would have done much to take the shine off it. But right now, I can dream and reminisce about recommending books to customers and talking to cute girls who wanted to know what books of Robert Frost's poetry we had. I don't miss dusting the shelves, or being restricted to only one 20 minute break a day.

I've been avoiding updating lately because my frame of mind or emotional well being took a distinct turn for the worst. I made reference a few weeks back to a shaky state of affairs and despite some occasional patches of sullen sun, things deteriorated. I don't much like talking about how I'm feeling, and so was shutting people out emotionally and writing about it felt just a tiny bit too much like talking about it. Much better to remain quiet with my thoughts of self harm. My powers of hypocrisy know no bounds, it would seem.

It took Dune to make me realise what a complete arse I was being. She gave me a good talking to and told me in no uncertain terms to sort myself out, which got me to pull myself together a bit. It's not like someone has waved a magic wand and made everything all better, but it's got me to stop being so self pitying and actually try and feel a bit more alive. I know perfectly well that the power to be happy is well within my grasp, and that I expend huge emotional effort on feeling shit, and so for the time being I am trying to make an effort to the contrary. It has also been brought to my attention that if I want to move out, I need to make it happen -- rather than sitting around and waiting for my friends to want to move out with me, and if I actually took the time to work out a budget it's more than feasible.

In other news, Dune and I go to Seville on Thursday evening for the long Easter weekend -- to check out the 'Santa Semana', or Holy Week, festival. If I didn't know better, I'd wonder if she was trying to save my soul, since this is the same girl who invited me to go on a pilgrimage last year. Really, I think it's the appeal of Spain and the history and the idea of doing something different. This also means that I am taking half day at work on Thursday, and am making up for it (or making it up in my wages) by starting an hour earlier every day.

The whole issue of work is a particularly sore spot for me right now. Today I was training my newest colleague -- who started just over a week ago and is already looking to leave as soon as she possibly can -- and I noticed on her desk a copy of What Colour Is Your Parachute?, a multi-bestselling guide to job hunting and career changes. I flicked through it a bit, and on noticing some parts on finding out what jobs suit your personality, my colleague mentioned to me the idea that what job one might do could, possibly, not be the best fit. I laughed and said I had little illusions that what I do is something I am well suited to -- it requires no creativity and offers no intellectual stimulation at all, and one of the few things that keeps from insanity is the opportunity to talk to various suppliers on the phone. However, I recognise that 99% of the population of the planet feel the same way about what they do. "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."

I struggle between feeling like I have sold out, that I have given up, that I am one of the people who would have liked to be a writer or an artist or whatever -- but gave up on it, rather than one of the people didn't stop believing and made it happen. If nothing else, at least I have the temperament of the artist.

Adventures continue in London with Dune. We met up with Jiminy and Non-Blondie again, and took again in the sights and smells of East London -- wandering down Brick Lane, before ending up again in the local pub we like, and playing darts. The darts game was made more exciting when Non-Blondie's celebration dance looked like it might send her through the trapdoor into the cellar, but although I would have liked to have won, I don't think that would have been the way to achieve it. And perhaps it was made abundantly clear to all involved that I am not kidding about my coordination or spatial awareness, but I think they were fortunate that nobody accidentally got a dart in the side of the head.

Last weekend, Jon and I returned to Camden with Dune -- and made it further than the pub this time, exploring Camden Lock market, having lunch in a Mexican place in Covent Garden and ending the evening in a pub in Charing Cross. There also as a result of that evening needs to be a whole post now devoted to film and cinema, as it has become a subject so weighty it needs its own space to breathe.

All in all, I've pulled my head out my arse a bit, work sucks, bites and blows -- and never in any good ways, but I have started looking for a new place to live. I stress only started at this point. Oh and I can now speak very rudimentary Spanish -- albeit Latin American Spanish (since it was the only short course the library had left), and with a charming Essex accent.

I am thinking of changing the name of my blog to "Hey man, now you're really living" after the Eels song that makes me happy...

Catching up in east London

I am very much behind the times here. For a start, I'm getting increasingly behind with episodes of Lost because I don't have Sky TV and have to watch it online -- but probably because everyone else in the world is doing the same thing, the videos spend weeks on end buffering.

Another example of how behind I am is that now both Dune and Non-Blondie have blogged about us all meeting up, and I haven't mentioned it before now. Last post I was still writing about Dune's first week in England, and that was nearly a month ago now.

Because I am all about meeting the bloggers, I thought it would be fun if Dune and I met up with Jiminy Cricket and Non-Blondie. Together the three of them could reminisce about life down under and lots of fun things like that. I won't be friends with anyone online that I wouldn't be prepared to see in real life, and wherever possible I try to meet online friends, along with making them CDs and posting them stuff. All y'all who are afraid I might stalk you are missing out. This does go the other way too, sometimes I go through my Facebook friends list and reconsider if some of these people I actually want to be friends with -- even if I know them in real life.

Luckily for me, Dune thought it was a great idea to meet JC and Non-Blondie -- but Jiminy being the funny bastard he is worried me when he replied to my email. I'd contacted him suggesting a possible meet, and when I got his reply my google mail alert popped up with an extract from the email. It started "Oh wow, this is awkward...Umm... We'd like to meet up but..." and I thought it was going to be a polite decline, something like they weren't really comfortable meeting people off the internet. But no, he was just being mean and so I called him a bastard, and a meet up was arranged.

I chose my favourite bar in Shoreditch, and although I found our way there without a moment's confusion or hesitation as to direction (it more or less involves just walking in a straight line) Dune did become acquainted with my phrase "it's just up here". It seems my idea of "just up here" and the rest of the world's don't quite tally up, and I suspect Dune began to wonder if I really knew where we were going. The funny part was shortly before we got to the bar, Dune asked me if Jiminy and I had exchanged pictures, so that we'd recognise each other. Nope, hadn't occurred to me... I figured from their blog avatars and the fact they'd be together would be obvious enough, that coupled with them looking for other random bloggers they might recognise.

Not only did we get to the bar without a hitch, but there was only the briefest of seconds before someone saw us. I have to remember that although this bar is my favourite in the world ever, it's actually only good value during happy hour (which lasts for two hours, and is every day). It also has a lot more atmosphere at those times. Just the same, despite the bar staff not knowing what Dune's requested drink was and taking the longest time ever to make her a mojito, I felt justified in choosing the bar. Especially because they also do great food.

China Blue: you will be reassured to hear that where I sat this time had no candle on the table, and so this time there was no heart-stopping moment where I almost set the bar alight. Hopefully, you will also be glad to know that I don't appear to be barred following that incident, so we can look forward to going back. And leaving open flames alone.

One drawback the bar did have was a lack of desserts, and so as a merry band of bloggers, the four of us set off into Shoreditch in search of chocolate desserts. I'm not much of a fan of desserts, and so was spectacularly unhelpful in knowing where to go -- but after checking menus of several different establishments, we settled on a patisserie just by Spitalfields market.

I'd like to briefly interrupt this account of food and drink in east London by saying how incredibly awesome Jiminy Cricket and Non Blondie are. Seriously, these two are way up there with the very coolest bloggers I have ever met -- and exactly the kind of brilliance I was talking about lacking in my uninspiring date last month. I think there must be a certain kind of person drawn to blogging, because I can't think of a blogger I have met who wasn't great. Reassuringly, Dune didn't take an instant dislike to me on first meeting me and I feel like we really have been friends for years -- and helping fly the flag for damn cool Aussie bloggers are Jiminy and Non-Blondie.

Perhaps the highlight of the day (other than the chocolate desserts) was finding a local pub in Shoreditch. It wasn't a trendy bar or a hip pub, it was just your typical local pub -- where before you walk in you don't know if it's going to be full of wankers who want to stab you up, or if it will surprise you and be cool. Thankfully it was the latter -- although they didn't mind Non-Blondie throwing her drink everywhere, they seemed bemused by the concept of serving food. Despite having a blackboard listing the day's special.

Eventually, though, we did have to move on -- the lack of food was a problem, even though they were apparently happy enough for us to bring food in there. I suspect it was one of those kind of pubs where you could take your dog inside, too, and nobody would mind.

I remember once when I was a bar tender being left as the manager in charge one summer afternoon. I was unhappy when one customer brought their dog with them to the bar, but just as I was about to ask them to take the dog outside, someone else came in with their dog, too. And to really make things interesting, the two dogs started fighting. Better fighting than anything else, I guess. So yeah, I am generally against the idea of dogs in pubs.

The search for food culminated in a visit to Pitcher&Piano which has none of the atmosphere or edge of Shoreditch or the charm of a slightly grotty local pub, but what it does have is large plates of nachos. Again, this post is going to go on far too long if I don't end it there -- so Dune and I bade farewell to Jiminy and Non-Blondie, and caught the train home. The train journey home was a delightful time spent with drunk, racist and loud-mouthed football fans -- which I guess restored balance to a day spent with amazingly brilliant people.

Further Adventures in London With Dune

After the unscheduled breaks in programming here at Arm The Homeless, I would like to now return to Further Adventures in London With Dune, otherwise known as FALD. I should really rethink that title to make an amusing acronym.

My previous accounts have had myself and Dune taking in the famous sights of my home town, and the slightly less famous sights of Westminster (once I worked out how to find them). The next day was about as different again, when we headed into London with Jon to see the Gutter Twins play Koko, in Camden.

If anyone is scratching their heads and wondering who the Gutter Twins are, I can try and briefly summarise. Greg Dulli, former frontman of Afghan Whigs, collaborated with various musicians with his more recent band Twilight Singers. One such musician is the gravel-voiced Mark Lanegan, famous for fronting Screaming Trees and collaborating with Queens of the Stone Age. In between touring again with Afghan Whigs and Twilight Singers, Greg Dulli is collaborating again with Mark Lanegan on a side project -- this is the Gutter Twins.

Whenever we can, if we're going to a gig in London we like to spend the whole day up there and so that was what Jon and I did with Dune. The idea to begin with had been to check out what the state of Camden Lock Market was after the recent fire, perhaps indulge in one of Dune's self-guided walks, but first of all to visit a pub I have newly adopted as my favourite in Camden. Outside it was cold and it was raining -- inside it was warm and there was alcohol. So we didn't actually leave the pub until it was time to go to the gig.

Before they met, Jon had been slightly concerned about meeting Dune. He knew that I had nothing but good things to say about her, but was naturally concerned that there might be awkward silences or that if I left them alone together they would have nothing to say. Quite the opposite was true, Jon and Dune got along like a house on fire -- since they're both interesting, intelligent and fun people this wasn't really a surprise, but I know Jon was relieved. I didn't need to be relieved, as I'd never been concerned -- I knew they were both easy to get along with, and I obviously have great taste in friends.

The gig itself was good, but to my mind not great -- what was missing for me was knowing their songs, and a crowd that also already knew and loved their work. There wasn't quite the same chemistry.

On Friday, Dune and I splashed out again on travelcards (I might live close to London, but the travel into the city isn't cheap) with a view to spending the day at the British Museum, but first meeting Dune's cousin for lunch. One would think that after our experiences with my sense of direction earlier in the week, I might have planned ahead a little better for Friday. That is, I'd been to the British Museum before, and knew that it was sign posted from Holborn tube, but it didn't actually occur to me to check these things.

I have very little defence, other than that I presumed it would be obvious and it doesn't matter so much when you're doing these things and getting lost on your own.

We found our way to Holborn without incident, and sure enough there were sign posts outside the station, pointing the way. Unfortunately, nothing is idiot-proof to a sufficiently-talented idiot, and when the signs stopped on route, I was no clearer as to where the museum was. I took a wild guess that going up "Museum Street" would be a good start, and although Dune was dubious, we tried it. It worked well for a short while, but soon we came to another street and still no museum. It was fortunate for me that Dune is very patient, and felt it was charming that it wouldn't occur to me to look up where to go ahead of time.

I asked directions from a passing stranger. He looked worried and told me in a heavy accent he couldn't speak English. I tried another, and got the same result. Who would have thought that when stopping people in the street in central London you could get a 100% success rate in finding people that didn't speak English?

Granted, I use that line on charity muggers. When asked "Can you spare a few moments for --?" I reply in clear and perfect English, "I'm very sorry, I don't speak English". If they persist, I smile apologetically and say "No, I'm sorry, I really can't understand you". It confuses them long enough for you to get away.

Back on the street in Holborn, I walked into a bag shop and asked the sales staff. They looked at me like I was something they had just trodden in, but if nothing else my PR and journalist experience has taught me how to fake confidence with strangers who don't like you -- if only for a very short period. It turns out the British Museum was right up the road opposite us. Which was still Museum Street.

So we found the Museum. And a short while later, Dune's delightful cousin Sally met us -- and you can tell these girls are related because they're both incredibly gorgeous and very smart. After an excited greeting between the girls, and a slightly shy one on my part, the three of us set off looking for a pub for lunch. We walked aimlessly for a short time, before Sally admitted she didn't actually know where we were going -- so we collectively started actually looking for a pub. And quickly found one. Lunch was good -- standard pub fare, but nourishing, and very generously paid for by Sally. It was also sadly quite short.

Dune and I found our way back to the British Museum and spent the rest of the day there quite happily. I think I am in no way exaggerating or biased when I say that the British Museum has to be one of the finest museums in the world, although not without controversy. We checked out the ancient Greeks and the ancient Egyptians, gatecrashed a guided tour -- the tour guide was really good and we were thoroughly enjoying it when he took a moment out to tell us that it was a paid for tour. Dune felt it was directed mostly at her, but I think I escaped notice only because I was stood next to a member of the tour group who actually looked like he was homeless and had aimlessly wandered into the museum in search of a cup of tea.

And so an afternoon was spent -- a word of advice to anyone wishing to see the British Museum. As with any great museums and galleries, one day is not enough. Or rather, one day is just right if you divide it over two -- do a morning one day and then the afternoon the next, and if you can plan what you want to see. Dune and I will undoubtedly be going back on a rainy day before too long, it's that level of greatness.