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.

Be kind to your knees, you'll miss them when they're gone

In an effort to get some training in for Peru, I joined two fellow trekkers for a walk in the Chilterns, an area of "outstanding natural beauty". It was rated as seven out of 10 in difficulty, about 20km and 5 hours of walking. No problem, I thought.

First the good news: I was not noticeably less fit than either of my counterparts. In parts after steep uphill climbs where I'd be feeling a little warm and out of breath, they seemed to mirror my own reactions -- and most importantly, it didn't take me long to recover. Heart and lungs seem to be in excellent working order.

Continuing the good news theme, my hiking boots are incredibly comfortable and there was not even a hint of a blister or rubbing all day. An excellent buy there, and I think we can safely say they are broken in.

The bad news is I am in incredible pain. Somewhere along the way the steep downhill descents must have proved too much for my knees -- and if you hadn't guessed by the fact I am updating in the middle of the day, I am home from work sick today as I can barely stand up. Completing the walk yesterday was very difficult and painful as my knee became stiffer and more unyielding. The doctor has told me today I have strained the ligaments, and I need to rest it. I can also put an ice pack on it twice a day and take anti-inflammatory drugs three times a day. It's a good job I have a stash of the latter in the cupboard.

My research on the internet tells me this kind of thing is quite common, and unsurprisingly associated with steep downhill descents. I was probably going too quickly. For Peru, if not before, I will need walking poles and a knee support -- and I think a small supply of medication in my luggage.

It's frustrating, I want to be out walking and training in the gym, and right now I can't do either. But I'll crawl the Inca trail on my hands and knees if I have to.

Damn lies and statistics

I'm contemplating having a lurker amnesty one of these days. Or weeks. Where, for a limited time you can declare yourself as a lurker, make yourself known, before scurrying away again to lurk.

I used to think a lurker was a type of dog. I was probably thinking of a lurcher, and there's not many of those hanging around here. However, statcounter does tell me that there are quite a few lurkers, from various, far-flung destinations.

I don't know if you count as a lurker if you are openly a "follower" on blogger, yet don't comment -- like a heap of people are on my Peru blog -- or if you have to be truly anonymous.

Either way, I heart my traffic widget -- it's like footprints in the snow (or maybe ash, depending how you see this blog), telling me who has passed by, where they came from and where they went to. Even if I won't know who they are. Setting up one on my Peru blog was a real surprise, there were visitors coming from all over -- including Brazil, Croatia and others I'd expect, like the USA, Australia and Indonesia. Traffic here is much quieter, and less cosmopolitan.

I'm a complete nerd and more than a bit obsessive sometimes about my visitor stats, which is why I love statcounter. I adore the "recent visitor" map, I've tried setting up guest maps on blogs in the past, but I never got an accurate picture of who was visiting. The map on statcounter literally just pins people down like butterflies, and helpfully groups multiple visits from the same city. I'm such a geek that I smile as I recognise some IP addresses from previous visits, and occasionally can point to what IP address represents what person.

The most interesting part is the "exit links", it might be fairly self-explanatory how one visitor or another ends up here, but it's where they click to next that really interests me. It's a great way to find new reading, either the blog of your visitor or of someone your visitor likes. Sometimes patterns emerge, and...yeah I have way too much time on my hands.

For now, I am going to hold off on the lurker amnesty. I guess some people have good reason to want to just lurk -- maybe they feel you should speak only if you can improve the silence, or just have nothing to add. Perhaps they like to just be an unobserved watcher. Or it could just be laziness, like it often is with me... Either way, sometimes maybe it's best not to know -- after all, who would want to have a delurker week only to find the lurkers were all in your head?

Oh my goodness, oh my soul

Over Christmas, I dreamed I was possessed by an evil demon.

It might sound funny, but it was quite distressing, at the time. The girl is always concerned when I have bad dreams, and I think she thought me a little strange when I asked her to reassure me the next morning that she didn't think I was possessed. The lovely, obliging girl indulged me, but with a bit of a strange look. I guess it's like dreaming you're a penguin, then asking your partner to confirm they don't think you're a penguin. Or something fictional, like a unicorn -- since to me those are about as real as demons.

It would be slightly inaccurate to say I grew up in a Catholic household. I didn't. My parents sent me to a Catholic school, and attended church weekly -- although with decreasing frequency as my brother and I got older. But I don't think they ever believed it themselves, they were just repeating their own upbringings. Just the same, I was quite a literal child and always expected God to speak to me. I expected to physically hear God's voice, out loud, and I remember slight puzzlement that it never came. A lot of the parables I heard at school I took completely literally and on face value, so I think in some ways their messages were slightly lost on me.

I'm sure that my own Dad became entwined with God in my developing mind, as it must do with so many others (except with their own Fathers, it would be creepy if everyone associated mine with God) -- something I strongly disagree with.

As I got older, I stopped expecting to hear the voice of God. But in my teens I became convinced on a number of occasions that God was telling me things. I didn't hear a voice and believe it was God's, but I had thoughts or ideas and I believed them to be divinely inspired. Which is weird, since I had a very on-off relationship with any sort of belief. I would believe that God wanted me to do things like go to war-torn former-Yugoslavia to do aid work (thankfully not missionary work), or sometimes that I should go without food, or that I should hurt myself.

There were other times when ideas would come to me -- such completely abhorrent things -- that would seem so completely outside of my own thought processes, that I wondered if there really could be something outside of myself, giving me these thoughts. I wonder now how quickly a doctor would have put me on anti-psychotic medications if I had thought to tell them. Or anyone.

It worked the other way, too -- I have always felt as if anything creative came from outside of myself, short story writing sometimes felt more like automatic writing, I had no idea what was going to be written until I wrote it. The mind is a curious and mysterious thing.

I was left feeling distinctly uneasy following my dream of demonic possession. I didn't like to see my reflection, the dark circles under my eyes reminded me of my own evil reflection I had seen. At least if you dreamed you were a penguin someone could give you a mirror and a picture of a penguin, and leave you to work it out for yourself from there.

Many people still do believe literally in demonic possession -- feel that things like alcoholism or depression or self harm or drug abuse or murderous rages are all caused by an evil spirit, hitchhiking on our souls. My friend Jon was one of those people, to an extent -- until he abruptly lost his faith last year. His family's bookshelves contained modern day accounts of exorcisms and possessions -- you'll be glad to know I never felt compelled to read any of them. I'd be interested to know what he makes of them all now.

I watched an exorcism live on TV once. It was broadcast late one night on Channel 4, and had been debated and vilified in the press for weeks. A man suffering from various problems and who had been exorcised before (in part, it seems he had a lot of uninvited guests) was going to be 'cured' right before your eyes. It spent ages building up, then cut to an ad break. Before it restarted after the break, there was a warning that the following could contain distressing scenes, people of sensitive dispositions should turn off, all that kind of thing.

The exorcism itself lasted perhaps 30 seconds, and was less distressing than most kids' tv programmes. In fact, nothing appeared to happen. Words were said, hands laid on, then it was over -- "Do you feel better now?" "Yes thanks, I'll get my coat" was essentially it. Even the presenters were left a bit not knowing what to do next. All that was left was to try and fill the remaining time with debate and scientific analysis -- an EEG analysis of his brain was looked at closely, and a small spike of activity was identified as the exact point that the evil spirit left him.

I think they'd been hoping for screaming and spitting and shouting and...other things beginning with the letter S. The sufferer admitted that, yes, it was quick and uneventful, but that previous exorcisms he'd had were much more exciting...

You'd have thought he could have at least put on a bit of a show.

Brick Lane

Jiminy Cricket and Non-Blondie, two of the absolute coolest (or perhaps the dorkiest, it can be hard to tell sometimes) bloggers and people-in-their-own-right have kind of officially left the country.

Not prepared to see them go without some sort of a send-off, after some discussion and a little confusion over whether they were free, it was decided that on Friday night we would meet for a couple of quiet drinks, and possibly a game or two of darts. We being the The Girl, Dune and myself as well as the JC and NB.

The plan originally was that we were to meet NB at the pub on Brick Lane where she worked, a couple of hours after she was due to finish, since her regular customers were planning on buying her a few glasses of mineral water and the like. Since Dune worked in east London, she was due to meet NB earlier, while The Girl and I were going to catch up on the drinks when we arrived. Jiminy also had his last day in work on Friday, but unfortunately for him, this didn't involve being bought drinks and instead seemed to mean working late.

Everything was going as planned when I got to the pub -- I'd met the girl, we had found the pub and met Dune and NB inside. I left almost right away to go and get some money out, and it was when I returned that the evening started to wonderfully deviate from its intended course. The landlord of the pub had unfortunately needed to leave unexpectedly with the police, and quite sensibly had placed NB in charge -- since the two girls working behind the bar were still quite new, and didn't speak English very well. Staying in the pub a little longer than originally planned was by no means a bad thing, it had a lot of character -- and a lot of characters who didn't mind buying the occasional drink for a pretty girl, like the three bloggers whose company I was enjoying.

Jiminy joined us before too long, with his enigmatic friend Ted -- last seen in our company on the night Boris Johnson banned drinking on the tube -- and together we all found staying later in the pub also had another advantage: it was karaoke night.
Karaoke night was made all the more appealing by a distinct lack of food in the pub, not having eaten since about midday, and several pints of lager.

Karaoke in a pub is very different to a private karaoke room. For a start, it takes you out of your comfort zone -- the support and encouragement of your friends is matched by the possible reactions of a room full of strangers. It also introduces a wider range of styles and music, and most of all it has a DJ. I don't know if it's common in these places, but the DJ on Friday night was the most self-obsessed karaoke host I have ever known. The man was less introduced in people singing than he was showing off his own karaoke skills in between almost every song. What is the point in being a karaoke host if you can't stand to share the limelight with everyone else? At first it was faintly amusing, he wanted to be the centre of attention, that's fine -- but his own performances probably equalled as many as everyone else put together and he was skipping out songs by Dune and The Girl without apology or explanation. You couldn't help but feel maybe he should get a private room, just for him and his ego. Yes, we know you love karaoke and you clearly love to sing karaoke in front of people as often as you can -- but there is a limit.

There was not a limit, however, to the karaoke talent. Dune was first out of the gate with her blazing rendition of Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch Me, The Girl was showing off her own vocal stylings with Don't Speak, and even Ted showed himself to be a karaoke madman with an impassioned (or perhaps drunk) performance of Ace of Spades. Naturally, everyone was in awe of my own musical skills -- treating the clientele first to Teenage Kicks (with the chorus changed back to the original lyrics "I want to hold, want to hold it tight...") and a suitably downplayed Bohemian Like You (the "ooh-ooh-oooooh" being particularly brilliant). My final choice of song was a spur of the moment decision -- I had wanted The Clash, but someone else beat me to it, and I also wanted Folsom Prison Blues (after hearing Dune's Ring of Fire), but it was nowhere to be found, so I had to find a third choice.

Paying no heed to the fact that I was in a pub on Brick Lane, I thought the most appropriate song for the evening would be Pretty Fly For A White Guy, which I opted to try and give a New York-Beastie Boys flavour to, rather than the Offspring's original Californian punk style. Apparently I must have been dramatically popular, as both Ted and a drunk man who smelled bad kept wanting to join in and share the microphone with me.

The evening wore on, and Dune had to make her trek home across London -- having stayed out later than she had originally intended to. Thinking this wasn't such a bad idea, since we had a train to catch, The Girl and I also took our leave of Jiminy, NB and Ted in a slightly drunken search for KFC on route to the station.

Somewhere in the excitement of it all, I left my bag on the table in the pub -- narrowly avoiding a terror scare, I expect, by the fact that my good friends were still at the table. I'm surprised that I managed to keep hold of my camera, wallet, phone and door keys, but I did forget my sunglasses. Not to fear, though, as Jiminy safely reunited my glasses with my bag, and charged the esoteric Ted with looking after my bag until I could retrieve it the next day. Since I had all my valuables, my main concern was that Ted might find my paper journal, perhaps if it fell out of the bag, and all my secrets would be revealed. On sober reflection the next day, I wondered why I ever thought he would give a notebook more than a passing moment's thought.

A great night was had, and although there were no dart games, it seems to me like the evening was a fitting send off for the blogger dork twins. Friends, drinks, karaoke, general madness. It's not a sad farewell though, as they are coming back for a few weeks in August -- presumably for one last look at the Great British Summer.

The life of the great black bird

Readers may remember how after much blood, sweat and tears (only figuratively, I don't really think of myself as that sort of an artist, although maybe I should), The Great Black Bird was completed.

It was a strange feeling to complete the painting I had put so much time and feeling into, I was left wanting more. Not more from the piece itself, after a couple of days and much thought I became more comfortable with it than I had at first -- the curse of being self critical is I feel like nothing I can do will ever be good enough. Apply this to every area of my life. And yet, it's not always being a perfectionist -- I wish I could say I always strive for greatness, instead I am more often than just dissatisfied. Anyway, I was left wanting more -- wanting to carry on painting -- except I was also back to square one. Wanting to paint, but having no inspiration.

[Unfortunately this lack of inspiration has also been affecting the blogging lately. If anyone still reads this, I apologise for the silence. The words wouldn't come.]

After the completion of the painting and the preparation of the gallery, came the gallery opening itself. The First Time Club gallery was part of the BA Fine Art graduate show of Goldsmith's University -- Hannah, the hostess of the First Time Club had turned her final year project into the First Time Club gallery. And in my humble opinion, hers was best of all the installations I saw.

I arrived in New Cross early on the Thursday evening of the private gallery viewing. It was due to open at 6pm, and perhaps naively I thought that this meant everyone should be -- and would be there for 6pm. I was earlier still, but had enough time to find the college, and make my way back to the station where I was due to meet my guests.

First to arrive at the station was The Girl, who had spent many days carefully planning her outfit for the evening, but unfortunately due to personal reasons and a bad week, Dune was unable to attend on the night -- though she sent her kind words and good luck wishes to me. Running slightly late on the evening, but helping to make up the Aussie contingent were Non-Blondie and Jiminy Cricket.

In the lead was Non-Blondie, who was less-than-impressed with the university's lack of signage and unhelpful staff -- but I took it as a testament to her dedication that despite my bad directions and the other obstacles she didn't give up -- and didn't tell Jiminy to save himself and get away before he arrived.

Because I hadn't been around for when the other members of the First Time Club had set up their art works in the gallery, I had only heard about their individual own projects and not seen any of them. The Girl wasn't over thrilled when one of the first art works to greet her was a semi-nude collage portrait of San. In my defence, until I saw it I hadn't known myself what my ex-girlfriend had produced for her own art work, since it was a closely guarded secret.

Maybe I'm biased, but I thought the work produced by the First Time Club was much better than many of the fine art students -- one piece was a series of audio interviews with people, asking about their first times. Their first time what, they would all ask, first time anything he'd tell them -- so there was all kinds, from their first time making a cocktail to the first time they slept with a woman to the first time they smoke a cigarette. Another piece was called "Cleaning Up London" and featured the contents of a hoover bag, presided over by Ken Livingstone. You might roll your eyes at what seemed to be modern art wank, but that was exactly what the artist was doing himself -- a sly dig at unmade beds and exploded sheds (although I am actually a big fan of the latter piece).

Strangely, on seeing the other installations and art works for the first time I was glad not to have been an art student. Many times when I was at university people immediately assumed I was on an art course, and in the years since I've wondered if I might not have been better off doing a Bachelor's degree in photography -- but on the night there were some times when the other galleries represented everything that gives "modern" art a bad name. Non-Blondie herself put it quite eloquently at one point with the immortal words: "I hate art".

The Great Black Bird had a spot on the wall where it was reportedly lit by the afternoon sun through the window. Because I'm vain, I often liked to stand near it when the gallery was busy, just to see what the reactions were on the faces of the people. I wouldn't talk to them or tell them it was mine, I just liked to quietly watch people. As with the responses here, the people I knew who talked to me about it were nice and complimentary -- and Hannah asked me if it wasn't better in the end doing it the way I did, than trying to find some way to paste an image onto the canvas. The nights I spent drawing, and sketching, and painting, experimenting with colours and textures and styles until it lead me to my final piece? Yes, it was all worth it.

The night ended in a somewhat surreal way, in a local pub that was having a (far too loud) ska night and served Thai food.

I've been thinking about my next painting recently, even though there will be no gallery to display it and few adoring fans to admire my Neanderthal-like style of drawing. My next piece I intend to call "Maelstrom", and as the name will suggest it will be some kind of representation of a storm at sea -- with much more colour than before. Expect many more late nights and rainy afternoons spent with sketchbooks and an old NASA mug being used as my brush pot.

Suddenly I See

When we were in sunny Seville, I told Dune that I had discovered two things about her and that I was going to make sure I blogged about them. The first was that completely unlike me she not only had a good sense of direction, but an almost uncanny internal compass -- without needing to really try, she would often know exactly where we were and how to get where we needed to be. I would say something like "Stop -- weren't we meant to go the other way down the street?" and she'd gently point out that we were going the other way to normal.

The other discovery was that her moral compass might just have got a little bit off course -- and that perhaps it had been exposed to a magnet at some point. We were discussing her proposed laser eye surgery, and how she was going to have x-ray vision as a result of it -- and how she planned to use her power for evil. I was shocked, as you might imagine, and insisted in a similar position I would only use my powers for the good of humanity. Dune said anyone who claimed such a thing was either delusional, a liar, or both -- and that spying on people's underwear was the way forward.

Fast-forward a couple of weeks to this past Saturday -- the big day of Dune's surgery. She had asked me earlier if I wouldn't mind accompanying her, since she would need someone to help her get home; I refused to let her give it another moment's thought, of course I would go. Dune was a little concerned that I'd have to amuse myself for a few hours while she was in there and recovering, but I insisted that wasn't something she should concern herself with. I figured I could go watch a film, or find a bookshop on Charing Cross Road where I could read poetry, or any number of things.

Naturally, Dune was a little apprehensive on the day -- it sounded like a frightening procedure, even if it was to be the very definition of quick and painless. We found the place with the slightest trouble with locations, and on arriving found it wouldn't be the 2 - 3 hours we anticipated, but more like 90 minutes. They also helpfully left it to this point to mention that Dune shouldn't take the Tube after the surgery, because it was "dirty". Okay, fair enough, they might have a point -- but being located in central London might it not have been helpful to mention this sooner?

Don't get me wrong, I like catching the bus. I actually prefer bus journeys in London to tube journeys because there's more to look at, and if the bus breaks down at least you can just get off and walk. But they take forever. The traffic is always terrible, then there's always road works on top of that, and in the end you wonder if it would be quicker to walk. It's not quicker to walk from Tottenham Court Road to Liverpool Street station, if anyone is wondering -- I've not done it, but I did consider it once, and worked out I'd be better of just sleeping under my desk in the office.

If there is one good thing to be said for them waiting until almost the last minute to mention this Tube aversion, it was that at least it would give me something to do while I waited. I considered an internet cafe, but instead sent off a hasty text message to AQA asking for bus details since I figured it would cost just the same, and someone else could do the leg work. Turns out I would have been better off working it out for myself, since although they told me what bus to get from what bus stop, it wasn't quite as detailed as it might have been.

While Dune was going under the knife, I walked to Leicester Square -- about a minute away from where I was working in PR around this time last year -- and grabbed lunch at Hamburger Union. The food is very good quality, but unfortunately I don't think the price tag quite matches the increase in quality. Go into Burger King, you can get your bacon-cheeseburger with chips and a coke for less than a fiver, go to Hamburger Union and they might be made from freerange cows who live happy lives in lush valleys, served on rustic bread with ears, and real chips that look and taste like chips and aren't frozen -- but the price doubles. I should have gone to Subway on Charing Cross Road and just got a steak and cheese with green peppers.

I was just leaving the burger joint when Dune called to say she was finished with the surgery and I was welcome to come back. I made haste to get back, and was led to a quiet, dimly lit room, where people including Dune were sombrely sat in their dark glasses. Nobody seemed very happy, although I wanted to tell the man who seemed to be there with his girlfriend that now was not the best time to complain to her about the cost of their taxi home.

Dune and I set off before too long to find the bus stop, and although Dune could actually see (I was unsure if she would be able to or not, at first), the biting wind and the dust wasn't making it a very pleasant experience for her to be outside, and she let me know that it would be appreciated greatly if we could find this bus stop as soon as humanly possible. At this point -- not being entirely sure where our bus stop was -- I thought again how it might have been better to have worked these things out for myself first of all. Luckily, one bus stop had a map on the wall of the shelter and I was able to establish we wanted to be on Oxford Street.

Back we walked, the way we came, and Dune was particularly unimpressed that we had to walk past the fountains at Centre Point, which were spraying in her face and her eyes because of the wind. Luckily, I escaped a beating when I found our bus stop, and we didn't have to wait too long for our carriage. The bus journey of course took forever -- and I think Dune had her eyes closed when I was pointing out St Paul's Cathedral -- but to its credit, it got us to the very door of Liverpool Street Station. Better yet, our platform was just at the bottom of the escalators, and a train was ready and waiting for us.

Even in her weakened state, Dune was telling me how much clearer her vision now was -- but her leisure activities were greatly restricted. There was to be no television, no reading, and no computers. Luckily, she was allowed to drink wine otherwise we agreed she might as well just end it all... We also later found that Dylan Moran's stand up is perfectly reasonable to listen to as a kind of radio show. I can personally vouch for Eddie Izzard's suitability for this, too. Both benefit from the visuals, but if you've got a heap of imagination they work very well as sound-only. Not only does Dune have imagination, but she also now has X-ray vision, which she plans to use for nefarious purposes. So be warned.

Sevilla (part two)

extracts taken from my moleskine journal, a work entitled "stay out of circulation 'til the dogs get tired"

Friday, March 21
Good Friday, Seville's Semana Santa
Woke this morning to the sounds of drums and trumpets and very Spanish music. Still so tired from last night, I wondered if this was normal behaviour for Spain. I eventually got up around 11ish and took a shower -- I came back to the room to find a parade was filling the streets below; this more than made up for being stranded in the city last night, watching the parade circling endlessly.

--

A day started with tapas and "un grande cerveza" can't be all bad. We found a bar tender who spoke perfect English and who was amused by the few snatched Spanish phrases I knew. I take great pleasure in saying "muchas gracias señor" and "buenas dias". We wandered the city streets, drinking in the smell of orange blossoms, finding hidden patios and fountains.

And so our first day in Seville was started abruptly with a parade -- and I'm glad it was, standing in the mid-morning sun on the balcony and watching the crowds of people in the street. When eventually it was all quiet again, Dune headed out to see the sights in daylight and started with a short trip on a boat down the Guadalquivir river.

We sat in the sun near the city's Alcázar, listening to a man playing simple Spanish guitar, and made plans to return on Saturday to see the cathedral and the Alcázar.

Sevilla (part one)

extracts taken from my moleskine journal, a work entitled "stay out of circulation 'til the dogs get tired"

Thursday, March 20
Triana Backpacker´s Hostel, Seville
Already I am excited to be here -- just so thrilled to be in a different country. Outside in the street, I can hear groups of people all talking and laughing in a language I don´t know -- it feels refreshing to be in a place so unlike home.

The flight over passed almost without noticing. We left the howling wind and rain of England behind, and less than three hours later we touhced down in Spain. I must have slept for some or all of the flight, I remember nothing more than about 30 minutes of it. Who needs to teleport when you have travel narcolepsy? Our bags came quickly.

On the drive to the hostel, the taxi driver spoke very little and listened to electronica -- while we gazed out at the architecture and palm trees, interspersed with familiar billboards. In between pointing out elaborate feats of architecture, or someone dressed in the traditional Nazareno costume, Dune and I would nudge each other to point out Vodafone or Starbucks.

Even though it was already late when we arrived, we were hungry and eager to see some of the parades of the Santa Semana -- which apparently didn't even begin until 12.30 that night. Fearless explorers as we were, Dune and I struck out into the city to first find tapas. Food quickly was a priority so we weren't in the mood for taking our time -- that's why when we stopped at a bar and Dune thought it looked a bit dingy, I suggested we went inside and had a look anyway.

As it turned out, the bar was less dingy than it was local. We stood at the bar itself, ordered a couple of drinks in broken Spanish, and with great difficulty that involved a few English words, a few Spanish, much pointing and much repeating of "no intiendo" we agreed with the bar tender for some tapas. As we stood at the bar talking and laughing and feeling alive in this foreign country, we helped ourselves to bread from a basket on the bar. After munching our way through several breadsticks, the bar tender noticed, and with a deliberate gesture produced for us our own basket. It was only then we realised the bread we had been eating belonged to the man stood next to us, who luckily had his back turned and hadn't noticed the bread thieves that we were.

Dune's meal was a traditional dish of what seemed to be potato and peppers, with a fried egg on top. Mine took a little longer to produce, but appeared to be a grilled chicken breast seasoned with balsamic vinegar and potatas fritas. Once we finished we thanked the bar tender very warmly -- "Mi Español es un poco" Dune told him, "Inglés? Nada." said the bar tender. And so we headed out into the night -- trying to remember from the cab ride the way to the city.

After an indeterminate length of time, wandering down dark and empty streets we felt we had definitely gone wrong somewhere -- and Dune being the hands-on person she is (rather than the "if I keep walking maybe I will magically find my way" person I am), stopped a Spanish couple to ask them for directions. Their English was almost non-existent, but they wanted to help so they eagerly called out to a young woman named Sarah to come back. Sarah turned out to be an east Texas journalism major, spending a semester studying in Seville -- she was lovely and obliging, and didn't just point the way, but took us with her into the city. Once we had parted company with the lovely Sarah, I told Dune I betted she was a blogger. Dune disagreed, she didn't seem the type -- but I insist then (as I do now) a journalism major studying in a European city so far from home could hardly fail to want to write and be recognised. I said I would google her and see what I could find, but I have so far come up short. I think this is inconclusive -- I don't think googling key points about my life would find my blog, either.

The city was almost electric with anticipation for the night's festivities -- and in key spots vast rows of wooden seating was set out for spectators. Unfortunately, these vast rows of wooden seating were also reserved for ticket holders -- not only did we not have a ticket, we had no idea where one might get such an elusive prize.

Our cunning plan of just standing in a spot with a good view seemed to be working well for the first couple of hours -- but the time of the parade got closer and more people shared our idea, and eventually the local policia moved us all on. Anywhere good to see from was either seated, cordoned off with barriers, or already staked out -- but we were not to be put off. We had not travelled this far and waited this long to be so easily put off. Didn't they know who we were?!

We did eventually find a spot suitable to view the parades from -- and we weren't disappointed. Solemn, ghostly figures in pointed hoods and costumes slowly marched along the streets, silently carrying their candles. They would be followed by others in a different colour costumes, carrying crosses and flags, and still more figures with candles. Eventually you would see a glow coming from round the corner, and without fanfare an elaborate float would appear, carried invisibly from underneath, depicting Jesus, crucified on a cross, or the virgin Mary.

What we didn't realise at first -- and not for several hours -- was that these Nazarenos and Penitentes actually seemed to be circiling the city. A couple of times the floats just looked very familiar, until Dune hit upon the idea that the reason why didn't seem to be able to escape them, despite our best efforts to at this point, no matter where we went was that they had no end. It was just going to go on and on and on... After much effort we finally found our way past the processions, out of the city and across the Triana bridge back to our own bohemian corner of Seville, falling into bed about 4am. Even now, I think I am going to wake up from nightmares of these figures carrying candles in never-ending processions I am unable to escape.

It was truly amazing, and I don't fully appreciate how different these European cultures are until an opportunity to really experience them. But this was only the first night, so there is more to come from "stay out of circulation 'til the dogs get tired".

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.

Every drop of flame

On Monday night, I drove Dune to her cousin's flat in South London -- where she will be staying for a week or so, she says to give my parents a rest, and to give us all a chance to miss her. It's funny how quickly you get used to having someone around, my parents agree that the house seems quiet now, and my Mum in particular loved having a girl about the place.

I've been driving a lot the last couple of days -- having spent Sunday delivering meals to the sick and needy, which meant navigating the mean streets of East London on my own as they were a person short so I didn't have a navigator. The driving and navigating wasn't so bad -- in fact, I've sometimes thought on occasion a satnav would be more reliable, as there have been so many navigators who struggled with left and right, stuttered when giving directions, or just had to be given a little help map reading. All lovely people, don't get me wrong, just not your first choice of navigator. Unfortunately, what a satnav can't do is entertain you, help you bag up the meals, or drop the meals off at the door while you turn the car round. Instead I had to find somewhere to park (rather than just beaching the car like a whale, as I normally do), hide the valuables, then bag up the meals and deliver them and all the rest. It was hard work. I got an email today asking if I could drive again this Sunday because they were a driver short. It is going to have to be at least a month before I'd want to do it again.

You might think after Sunday's driving I wouldn't have wanted to drive to or around London again -- but there was no way on earth I was prepared to see Dune struggle with trains and tubes with her bags. It wasn't easy for the two of us to transport them from the airport to my car when she arrived, and that was with a baggage trolley -- I would have sooner carried the bags on my back like a donkey than I would have made her take the train. I like to look after my friends, and I can know they have arrived safely if I take them myself.

Driving at night when the rounds are quiet and the air is cold, you can turn the stereo up and it almost feels like you're in a movie. When Dune and I were driving home from the airport when I first picked her up we commented on something like it -- a particular song came on and we remarked it felt like the introspective, soul-searching part of the film where the protagonist struggles with a decision they must make. The people you pass in the streets seem like extras, all playing their parts to the best of their ability -- but when you stop at traffic lights, you still lean over and lock the doors.

To be completely honest, I'm in a bit of a strange emotional state at the moment. It would be too hasty to say I am regressing to where I was when I started therapy, but I have to remind myself that I didn't stop therapy because I didn't need it, I stopped because I couldn't rely on my therapist. I dreamed last night I turned up at his house just like I had always done (since that was his office) and although he seemed surprised to see me, he wasn't that surprised, or mad that I had stopped. Just the same, I am noticing myself being quiet and withdrawn when I don't want to be and am sometimes troubled with recurring thoughts.

In other news, I have my first formal interview with the RAF booked in. I was avoiding their calls for ages -- since I had to fill in yet another application form and was having doubts if I was doing the right thing -- but I reminded myself this is something I have to do, or else always be wondering.

Westminster Chimes

Now I'm reluctantly back at work, it's as good a time as any to look back over the last week of being a tourist and driving Dune crazy.

In my last post, I touched on how I had shown my charming antipodean guest the delights that my small home counties commuter town had to offer -- then on Wednesday we headed into directly into the city of London itself.

We had discussed various tourist ideas, including visiting Buckingham Palace -- but unfortunately it seems that tours of the state rooms are limited to the summer, and that in the winter the world-famous changing of the guards happens only every other day, and even then the guards might not be wearing the traditional red uniform. So that was scratched off the list. Instead, we settled on the idea of seeing Westminster first in the morning -- including the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben and Westminster Abbey. Then, after meeting my Mum for lunch, I promised Dune I would show her Old Spitalfields Market before her meeting with a recruitment consultant in the area. After this we said if there was time we would go to Tower Hill and see the Tower of London.

It was probably early on Wednesday that Dune first started to realise how completely incompetent with directions I am, and how vaguely I knew where a lot of things were in London. I had to look up that Westminster Abbey was best reached from Westminster tube station, but had a very sketchy idea at best as to how to find it. We found our way to the Westminster tube station without too much trouble, followed the exits for Big Ben and Parliament, and emerged from the Underground alongside the spectacular Houses of Parliament. I might not have much time for the people inside the building, but the architecture itself is amazing -- and you don't quite appreciate the sheer size of it until you see it in person.

"Where's Big Ben?" Dune asked me. "Umm, pass? It's around here somewhere...". We were standing directly underneath it which was why I couldn't see it -- and it was only when walking along Westminster bridge did we realise this. My camera's USB cable is currently MIA, so I have no pictures to offer -- which is all the more reason to visit Dune's blog.

Westminster Abbey was found, after a fashion and it would have been spotted sooner, I am sure, if we had seen it from the front to begin with. Although I've visited it before I can't say when that was -- it certainly wasn't remotely recently. This is my excuse for why I didn't know how to get there, whenever it was I last visited I wouldn't have had to know or pay much attention -- it also seems that I didn't pay much attention the inside of it before either, as I was humbled by the final resting places of so many monarchs and historical figures. If we hadn't been on a time constraint and the place hadn't been so busy, I might have really taken the time to linger among the poets. Places like that always make me want to reach out and touch the walls and the tombs -- to see if I can feel any sort of psychic connection to earlier times.

I think I might have managed to not look like a complete idiot when I successfully navigated us from Liverpool Street Station to Old Spitalfields Market. This makes a lot more sense -- it's somewhere that I go semi-regularly (or daily when I worked by there) and visited much more recently. Unfortunately, the renovations that were going on in the place last time I visited -- back in December with China Blue -- were still going on, so there was nothing much to see, aside from a few market stalls outside. Dune was lucky enough to find a bag she liked on one of these stalls, so it wasn't a completely wasted trip.

Dune's appointment with her recruitment consultant was slightly disappointing for her -- but I guess these people come in all shapes, sizes and competencies and despite being pleasant her recruiter did seem to have some odd ideas about finding work and a decent wage.

The Tower of London we decided could wait for another day -- it's not going anywhere -- and it was still very cold out, but we did manage to find Dune a cute-looking winter coat from M&S which is going some way to protecting her from these harsh climates.

And there I guess I can leave it for now -- this post will get far too long if I start writing about Camden and watching the Gutter Twins, or about Friday's trip to the British Museum. At least it's something to keep you coming back for.

Arrivals

The first thing I did Monday morning was log on to the Heathrow airport website, and check the "live arrivals" for Dune's flight -- it was showing as "expected 18.30" rather than the 17.30 it was scheduled for, but if anything this would probably benefit us with the traffic trying to get home.

My day was largely lazy and uneventful -- despite having all this week off work, I hadn't been able to sleep late, but still I failed to make it to the gym, either in the morning or in the afternoon. Bad Jay. More important to my day was making CDs to play in the car -- both on the way to the airport and on the way home. The drive there took more or less an hour, just as the satnav had predicted. I'd given myself plenty of time so even if I was sometimes driving slightly under the speed limit in places, I still didn't really add any time to the journey. I found my way to the short stay car parking for the terminal, wound my way up through the levels til I found somewhere relatively empty, and headed into the airport building.

I'd left plenty of time for the journey in case of delays, and likewise had allowed plenty of time at the airport before Dune was to land. I much prefer to be early and have time to read my book, to wander about, people-watch and dig stuff -- as opposed to getting places "just in time". There was no way I was going to play this one so close to the line.

Arrivals at the airport is a happy place, I like it. Unlike departures there isn't a whole lot to do -- although I was impressed there was a choice of a couple of restaurants -- but there is a lot of good feeling.

I sat for a while and read The Game by Neil Strauss -- which is a book that is going to need posts all of its own, but needless to say it really skews your perceptions of the world. I get very absorbed in books, and find immediately after reading something my world can be very coloured -- for example, if I read The Curious Incident of the Dog In The Nighttime I would have to remind myself afterwards that I can eat foods if they are touching each other, that it is not me that has Asperger's at all.

I stopped reading my book and wandered off to get a drink and something to eat -- I found a coffee shop, ordered what I wanted, and spotted some comfy-looking bench seats along the back wall of the shop. I slid into my seat, and the cute girl with her Mum at the next time looked up, made eye contact and said hi. I smiled to myself, my head still full of Neil Strauss' tales of pick up artists and their routines -- but I instead returned to reading, rather than use some opening question to start conversation.

I read for a while longer, until I found myself unable to concentrate on the book and instead opt to write in my paper journal. A couple of pages in that, and I decided although I was still early, it would be a good time to get my spot on the railing that runs alongside the arrivals.

Getting a good spot on this railing is a lot like trying to find a good spot to see from at a gig. Most people cram along the right-hand side, maybe because they are right-handed and automatically favour that side, or maybe because you have to walk a long way round to get to the opposite side. But because of this, there are several good spots to stand on the left where you can stick your elbows out to give yourself more room. It's important that you are against the rail itself in this case, otherwise your target -- the arrivee, as it were -- might not spot you. And that's a right kerfuffle. But sometimes you have the people for whom just standing there isn't good enough -- they have to stand on the rail, so that you can't see past them, or they have to lean right over and so block the view of everyone alongside them.

I get my spot and I know that I am early, but am content just to watch the people as they come through the doors and look for their friends and loved ones. The best ones would be where (typically) a man would come along smartly dressed and looking quite tired -- and then there would be a yell of "Daddy!" and a small child would run towards them, only to be picked up and hugged. Or there would be a professional looking couple who would be greeted by perhaps two small children who would be barraging them with stories about the toys they are carrying or everything else. You needed a heart of stone not to be touched by these moments. There would be other people you couldn't help but make up stories about -- young people with backpacks you imagined were returning home, or else perhaps seeing England for the first time on the European leg of their round-the-world trip. I saw one old man in robes with a long white beard. I thought he was so cool I wanted to take him home (no, not instead of you, Dune) -- how good would it be to take him to the pub, take him to gigs in Camden, bring home to dinner with my parents...

I kept an eye on the time, to be aware of when I should start properly watching for Dune's arrival. She was now due at 18.30, but I reckoned that it would be silly to expect her before 19.00 at the earliest -- the plane might land at 18.30, but there still needed to take into account deboarding, collecting baggage on the wheel of fortune, clearing customs -- perhaps even being quizzed by security, as I once had returning home from snowboarding in France. I knew 19.00 was the earliest I would possibly see her, but just the same as the time ticked on, I started to wonder -- had she even made her connection in Kuala Lumpur? Were her bags lost? Were customs being difficult? Or could we just have missed each other as she walked along the arrivals walkway?

As each new wave of people passed through the doors and alongside the barrier I'd try to work out if they looked like they have travelled from Kuala Lumpur -- but how can you tell? What exactly does someone who has caught a plane from Malaysia look like? I figured that if it got past 19.30 then I would consider maybe asking airport information to page Dune -- which would have been the first time in history I have ever asked airport security to make a genuine announcement. But as if on cue, Dune walked out at almost exactly 19.30 -- pushing a baggage trolley loaded with bags but looking glad to finally be at Heathrow.

We negotiated a trolley with wonky wheels back to my car -- which seemed a lot easier to find when the car park was empty -- and then began a drive home in thick fog, stopping only for fast food dinner at motorway services about an hour from home.

Reassuringly, from my side at least, we seem to get on very well -- as if there has been no transition from being online mates to real life friends. Today Dune saw the delights my town had to offer (like Asda), and she's quite worn out from all the excitement. Tomorrow we're heading into London to be tourists :)

Boys Don't Cry

We'd known for months Calvin was leaving. I mean, it had been on the cards for years that he was going to move back to Canada, but back then it had been more...well, hypothetical. There was no actual date in mind, and more recently Calvin had speculated at some date in the next few years. Plenty of time away.

Then circumstances changed, Calvin got made redundant -- for, what, the second time in like 3 years or something? -- and everything got moved ahead of schedule. In just a few months it went from being a date in some unknown future, to a concrete reality. But I have an knack of being unable to really grasp major things until they are actually happening -- they don't seem real. I'd like to say that's why I never really studied as much as I should have in the past, because I couldn't quite make the link in my head from that to my future. When I was going to Utah, I only started to pack the night before I left.

Months became weeks, and soon the weeks were dwindling away. A group of us went out last weekend as a farewell dinner for Calvin, something I had originally been organising as a belated birthday meal for me -- which funnily enough had been originally planned for Jongleurs in Camden town, which is only "funnily enough" if you know that last Saturday night Camden market burned down. The meal itself was good, despite some dramas that I don't want to relive by documenting here, but even though that was a farewell it still didn't seem altogether real. I gave Calvin a photo album/scrap book we had bought him, so that he could put in pictures of his old friends and whatever else he desired. And still, I thought someone might still turn the lights up and everyone would say "Surprise! It's all a big joke, he's not going anywhere!" -- although how that would have worked for anyone I don't know. Besides, the time had come and Calvin wanted to go. Real hockey, cute Canadian girls and proper weather all awaited him.

Last night was his last night in town. Much like any other Friday night we all went to the pub, but where I'd objected to going on nights like Christmas eve, last night it felt right. Going anywhere else just wouldn't have been the same -- it was like a ritual. So we went to the pub and drank and talked and laughed like any other night -- while I also tried to get my friends to sign a card I had bought for Calvin. It wasn't easy -- I'd already got several people to sign it during the week, but a few still remained on the night. I didn't manage the subtle part very well, but I think Calvin appreciated the gesture all the same.

At the end of the night, Calvin drove us home and I was the last one left, sitting in the back on my own, when we got to my house. It wasn't goodnight so much as goodbye, and I just didn't know what to say to really sum it up properly. We chatted for a few minutes, until I said that I had to go inside or else I was going to end up crying. We said so long, see you later, and I went upstairs. As I sat trying to compose in an SMS the words that eluded me in his card and in person, my phone buzzed with a message from Calvin. He called me a bastard for making him cry, said he'd just about been keeping it together until then. Good to know I wasn't being over sentimental. I reminded him of the good times we'd had celebrating Canada Day (even with this year's terror scares), the jazz club in Soho and countless nights playing pool -- even playing pool on Christmas Eve one year -- and that I'd see him when he's back in July.

It's not going to be the same, but here's raising a glass to new horizons and new adventures.

Letter boxes

In some kind of attempt to tidy my room today, I sat on my bedroom floor with a shoebox filled with old letters. The box has become over-full and wasn't really doing a very good job of containing these various missives. Since I've recently bought some new shoes, I decided that all my postcards will get a box of their own and I would have a quick sift through the letters I have -- just to see if there are any that don't need to be kept.

It's a very strange feeling revisiting the past by way of old letters. It's like a form of archaeology, digging through the layers and discovering details about how a life was lead.

There were all the letters I received from Kath over the years -- from the very first pages she wrote to me when I advertised for a penpal, letters written on coloured paper and in colourful envelopes. Song lyrics written on the back of envelopes or heading the tops of pages. I didn't read the letters again, although sometimes I would have to unfold pages to see who the letter was from. There was pictures from festivals, pictures of nights in pubs. I found a small pack of black and white photographs, dating back to the time I stayed with her for a weekend when I was 17. Old pictures of Manchester, pictures of people sat on the grass in the sun. I've considered throwing away all of these letters from Kath before -- we've previously fallen out and even though our differences were resolved we've grown apart. I could find her online on things like Facebook and MySpace, but we aren't friends. Just the same, I keep the letters. I found a small piece of paper, folded like a card. What year it was I don't know, but it was a makeshift valentie's card from Kath "just in case" I didn't get one.

I found a couple of cards from a girl named Jo I knew at school when I was 18. There was a card she gave me when I left for uni, and I could remember feeling sad reading it at the time -- that she was clearly sad I was going away and she would miss me, and for a second no time had passed and I was still there. I found another card and a short letter she had sent me at university. I guess we eventually dropped out of contact, I've no idea where she is any more.

Going up through the layers to the years I was at university there were various letters from Fi, filled with romantic sentiments and longing. I was struck now by how young she was then. I was young myself, only 18 and in my first year at university -- envelopes addressed to my rooms in halls in Derby. There's been times since when I've been in Derby and I have stood in the street outside my old halls of residence and looked up at what had been my bedroom. I can only spot my room from the first year, but if I stood in the street at the back of the building I could also see the kitchen we shared. I could remember how together we covered almost an entire wall of the kitchen with postcards, the same walls now blank. I had letters from Fi talking about plans for New Year's Eve in 1999, and postcards sent when she was on holiday in France. Even later, there were letters sent to me in Utah. Much fewer letters than the early ones.
I know in the end I broke her heart, but at least we're still friends.

I found a single page of a letter from my Mum when I was in Utah. I couldn't find any more than the end of the letter, where she was asking me what I did with my time in the evenings and at weekends and if I saw any of the boys I had travelled out with.

It's a very strange feeling to find old birthday cards or cards of congratulations on passing my exams and going to university from now-deceased relatives or family friends. Even this year I got a birthday card that my aunt had apparently bought for me before she died, she knew she wouldn't still be here but she had selected cards to be sent just the same.

Here and there were scruffy letters from Jon sent to me at university, just short notes in his illegible writing that he'd include with compilation tapes he sent me.

After the letters in Utah there comes new contacts. Smart envelopes containing cards and written in San's neat script, correspondence between us at our universities and our homes. The smell of the paper reminding me of the musty passageway at my house in Derby, between the front door of the house and a door to the street. The way the door clattered when you slammed it shut, the smell of Rie's cigarettes.

There was a card I didn't recognise, sent to a university halls address. I had to look at the return address on the envelope to see it was from a girl named Amelia that Rie was friends with in Utah, we'd met twice or something and Rie had told her I had a crush on her. We had a very brief correspondence for a short while when I'd come back, but as these things went the gaps got longer and longer until one of us didn't reply. But this card was sent later. This was from the summer of my final year, after all of Matt and Rie's fighting and I'd had a bit of a breakdown and stayed in Derby for the summer to write my dissertation. We'd all moved out of the house, and I'd taken a room in halls for the summer. This card I don't remember ever seeing before was from Amelia, telling me to hang in there, not to give up on myself. I was touched by the sentiment, that although we barely knew each other she was clearly a little worried about me. If it wasn't for the fact the envelope was open, I'd wonder if I had ever read the card before.

Later there was a postcard from Rie of a Van Gogh print -- commenting on the back that it was a safer card this time -- since she once sent to my home a postcard of a half-naked fireman, and pretended it was from a gay lover. My parents had freaked, and I still don't think they really believe me that there really wasn't any gay lover.

That still takes us back almost 5 years now. More recently there are packages sent from Australia, large padded envelopes and neatly written letters tucked inside, sent from cities and streets I've never known. There's Christmas cards and birthday cards, postcards from all over the world -- the postcards now living in a narrow converse shoebox, cards sent by San when she was studying in the USA, Postcrossing missives from around the world, cards sent by various friends who know how I love the pictures and the dreams they offer.

Only a very small pile of letters and cards didn't make the grade. Almost everything went back into the box, still pushing at the lid. All the letters and memories to be kept for other days, and joined by more.

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.

The post-Christmas-post

When I arrived in Portsmouth last weekend, I was stunned. I opened my bedroom door and there were presents all over my bed, and piled in a box by the bed! I spotted my name on a gift tag, and recognised the hand writing. It didn't occur to me right away that there was no reason for such a big pile of presents all for me... and doesn't some of the wrapping paper look familiar? I'm sorry to say my heart sank as I realised quickly that not only were all the presents not for me, but in fact none of them were. I had seen my name on a gift tag because it was one I had written my bloody self, that was also why I recognised the wrapping paper. The pile of gifts were for my brother and his family.

Christmas Day itself brought a modest selection for me -- which is what I wanted. Oddly, I seem to prefer the buying and giving of gifts to the requesting, so when every year I am asked what I want, I rarely know. This might be the same reason why every year we really struggle to get anything out of my Dad as to what he wants -- but I am learning to pick up on things he wants without him realising. Anyway, this year -- like last year, and the year before that -- I asked for my car insurance paid. I could actually afford to pay it myself, since it comes down in price each year at the moment with no claims and a small car, but it's less monthly expense for me.

I actually cheated a little with opening my gifts. Dune had sent me pressies and I decided rather than put them under the tree, I would instead squirrel them away in my bedroom to open on my own when I got home from the pub on Christmas Eve -- since it would then technically be Christmas Day. Accompanying a parcel from Amazon, Dune had taken brief leave of her senses and also posted me a large box -- all the way from Australia. I had noticed some odd items described on the customs label when I got the box, but had quickly decided not to read it so as not to spoil the surprise. What I did saw seemed so obscure that I thought it was probably a ploy to throw me off. Personally, I like to write the customs labels in French -- since nothing specifies what language they have to be in, and I resent having to describe the contents. Sometimes I feel particularly silly and will write on them something like "une petit lapin" or "un bateau". I should stop giving "Angleterre" as my address to people, since I am told it is causing confusion in post offices around the world.

Anyway, under strict instructions I opened the amazon box first -- and was thrilled to find myself now the proud owner of a Zombie Surival Guide. But what on earth was in the box? I tore into the paper to find a modest box labelled "Jay's Zombie Survival Kit" -- and it does exactly what it says on the tin. The kit contains more or less everything you would need to survive -- from matches and a candle, to bandages, antiseptic cream, a torch and... chocolate biscuits. I have long wondered what a tim-tam was, and now I finally know. They look like a penguin. Their inclusion in the kit shows Dune's wilderness survival skills -- obviously the chocolate would inspire the release of feel-good endorphins into your blood stream. The book survival guide is so detailed and thorough it is frightening -- but Dune and I both belong to a Facebook group that says it all: The hardest part of the zombie apocalypse will be pretending I'm not excited. Incidentally, if anyone has ever wondered what Dune would look like as a zombie hunter, click here.

Christmas Day itself was fairly traditional -- a glass of buck's fizz before breakfast, then the opening of presents when we were all showered and dressed. I have learned from experience now not to buy DVDs for my Dad, even if they are films he says he wants -- he never remembers to watch them. I am sure he hasn't unwrapped the plastic from the ones I got him last year. This year, I bought him only one present: a set of wireless stereo headphones. He'd forgotten about it, but he'd expressed an interest in a pair a couple of months back. My Mum had considered getting him golf lessons, since he'd mentioned having lessons again. Like with most things, he never got around to actually committing to doing it -- so Mum went with my suggestion, and bought him a telescope. I have little doubt that my fascination for space comes from my Dad, and I remember at a young age sitting in the cold of the back garden with him, and looking at Mars through a telescope. He's often longed for that old child's telescope since then, so now he has something so much better. And if he doesn't want to use it, you can bet your ass that I am going to camp out in a tent in my back garden and sit out there half the night.

My brother and his family bought me vouchers for River Island, which I had asked for. I was explaining to a girl at work though, I won't use them for a while -- I want to start going to the gym again first and get back into some kind of shape (other than a round shape), so I can fully appreciate the nice clothes I will buy.

I also made good use of Etsy this year for buying handmade. Among other things, I bought my brother a keyring made by REform (which was originally going to be a birthday present for him a couple of months back), bought my sister in law some Christmas Caress bath soaps made by Beadartandbubbles and Dune received a journal handmade by Bombus -- covered with a map of Australia, to remind her of home and record her musings as she travels next year.

Most of the day was largely uneventful -- my parents went to visit some friends of theirs for a couple of hours before lunch, so I stayed home with the cat and read my book. The cat incidentally received from me a new food bowl -- although plain in appearance was quite deep, which is what counts for him. It means he can fit a lot of food in it (important to a cat) and also means he won't splash milk or cream all over the floor when he gets a bowlful as a treat.

As ever, the day itself was too short -- and I think suggestions I have seen of extending it wouldn't be all bad. I know many people (unlike me) didn't have to work Christmas Eve or Boxing Day and so had more than one day off work, but what I think is that the whole celebration should be extended. Not with more gifts, but with the gift giving being dragged out over three days, and more of a sense of a special occasion on the other two days. It seems otherwise that there is a tremendous build up, all for one day, which is over very quickly -- seems to me all the preparation and excitement would be better served by a 3-day festival of sorts.

And yes, Boxing Day I was back at work -- and let me tell you, I have never seen such an assortment of freaks than I did that day. It seems like a gate was left open somewhere and every weirdo in the world made their way into my shop...