Things I Love Thursday

Once again, it's time for "Things I Love" Thursday -- inspired by Lulu's posts by the same name.  Today's post is a much-needed antidote to my last, about the folk singer Taylor Mitchell.  If you're new here, you can see last week's TILT here.  And for a wholly-different kind of themed Thursday, why not visit Live It, LOVE It and check out TMI Thursday.

This post is harder than the last, since it hasn't been a week filled with things I love -- but that is all the more reason to write it.  To celebrate the little things, and all that.  I'm going to try and make an effort each week not to repeat things from the last time, even if they are still current and relevant, just to try and add some variety.  So, while this week I still love the warm autumn days, and the cats are still adorable, they aren't making the list.

Top of the love pile this week comes swimming.  I've enjoyed swimming for as long as I can remember -- and though I love it significantly less when the local pool is busy and obnoxious people get in my way, I still enjoy going.  I love what good exercise it is, and for a lazy person like me how it's good exercise for what feels like little effort.  I like the zen of it, when the pool is quiet -- the way the smooth, still water parts for me, and then surges softly back when I pass.  I even enjoy the clean smell of chlorine on my skin, which is no doubt an anchor -- the good feeling I get from the endorphins becoming associated with the smell.  But hey, it works for me. 

I also love this week the kindness of random strangers.  Walking home in the dark the other night, my plastic bag split, spilling my worldly belongings onto the street.  Luckily, I was able to retrieve my glasses, my wallet, my keys and my book without any of them being damaged.  Unfortunately, I didn't realise at the time I had lost my spare mobile -- with the special sim card for cheap overseas calls that I use for calling the girl.  It was some time later down the road I noticed the phone was missing, but I couldn't recall if it had ever been in my bag, or if I might have just left it at the college where I'd been on my personal development course.  I considered retracing my steps, but didn't know where I had been when the bag had split or if I would be able to find a black mobile phone in the dark.  Or even if I had lost it.  I resolved to call the college the next day to ask if it was left there.  Expecting not to see the phone again, I ordered a replacement sim card and looked into the possibility of another handset.


I got a call a few hours later from the girl, to say that a man had found the phone in the street and called her, since she was the last dialled number.  He didn't know it was 4am in Western Australia when he called her.
To skip to the end, I spoke to the guy and then drove over to his house and got the phone back.  I had originally expected the odds of seeing it again if I had lost in the street to be fairly low -- but the kindness of a stranger proved me wrong.

The Time Traveller's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger.  Yes, it's a bit of an old book now, and yes almost everyone we know has already read it, but I just started rereading it.  I've recently been reading another book called Between Inner Space and Outer Space which is incredibly interesting, but also at times a little hard going.  After I dreamed one night of Heisenberg's uncertainty principle, I decided that this book wasn't suitable bedtime reading.  Which is where Ms Niffenegger's novel comes in -- I wanted something to read last night, it was there, and it was a better choice than Slinky Malinki which I had just bought for my nephew.  So why is it listed as a thing I love?  I had forgotten how good it is.  Not just the story, but the writing itself.  I went through a phase of reading every book twice -- as soon as I finished it, I would start again, so that I could appreciate the writing and not just the story.  I don't remember why I stopped doing it, but The Time Traveller's Wife is a good candidate for this behaviour.

And, finally, I guess this week I just love the little things.  It's easy for me to get bogged down when things seem to be going badly -- I had to tell our landlord that the girl and I are moving out.  It made me sad to do, and to think of leaving the house.  But I love that I have a loving family that will take us both in.  I love that in a few months we will find a new place of our own to live in London.  I love that I am not sleeping rough on the streets.  I love that I am very fortunate indeed, that while people are dying in daily attacks in Pakistan and Afghanistan, I am safe and cared for, and that my troubles pale in signifcance to what so many people face.

Coyotes kill Canadian folk singer

19-year-old folk singer Taylor Mitchell was killed by coyotes while hiking alone in a national park.

This makes me sad, and I can't really explain why, it's not like I'm a big fan of Canadian folk music -- the late Ms Mitchell now makes the total count of artists I can name up to one.

Maybe it's just sad that a someone who had so much to look forward to should have died so needlessly. Don't get me wrong, it's not like it's any sadder than dying in a car accident, or from illness, or in a bizarre gardening accident, or any number of other ways, but this in particular just seems so pointless.

It could be the freak nature of the attack. At first when I read it I confused coyotes -- which are essentially jackals -- with cougars, which are also known as pumas. I remember hiking in the the Arches national park in Utah's Moab desert, and being warned of the risk of being attacked by cougars -- the risk was high for lone hikers, along with children who wander off or joggers in some areas.

But then when I read the story properly I realised it said coyote and not cougar, an it seemed all the more senseless that an animal that normally preys on hares should have attacked a person. Attacked and killed.

Some people might say she was foolish, I don't know the details but it was possible that it was unsafe and she shouldn't have been hiking alone at that time of day. But that's no comfort to anyone. You can't blame the animals, of course. They're wild animals, acting on instinct and not out of any malicious intent -- they didn't do anything "wrong", only what they know.

For years, I've joked about wild animals eating joggers and how we should introduce large predators into towns to control anti-social behaviour. Suddenly it doesn't seem so funny.

The Inca Trail: Day 5 Pacamayo to Winay Wayna

Our last full day's hiking began shortly after 5.30am, on a cold Andean morning above the Pacamayo river.  Joe had slept the night through, and the cheerful porters were greeting us all with bowls of hot water for washing in, and mugs of Coca tea.

But it was mornings like this that brought home where we were, and why we were doing it.  Sometimes at the end of the day when your knees were screaming and you were hiking the last few miles to camp in rapidly fading light, it was easy to forget.  Then you wake up the next morning with views of cloud-filled valleys, and you wonder why you don't do this kind of thing more often.  Day three of proper hiking along the Inca trail promised lots more ruins, more altitude, and more cloud forest.

About a kilometre along the trail from the campsite, and a climb of about 150m we came to the first set of ruins of the day, the remains of Runkuraqay -- at an altitude of approximately 3750m.

Discovered by the explorer Hiram Bingham, who was searching for Machu Picchu, like much of the Incan architecture the purpose of the tambo aren't entirely clear.  While some historians claim it was a lookout post for the trail, others have said it was a guard house, a grain store or even a llama corral.

From here the hike just kep going up -- and like the previous day, the air was thin, the trail was steep and the going was slow.  While we knew we were going up to 4,000m again, we'd spent the night at altitude and so hadn't nearly as far to go this time -- instead we had almost all of the rest of the day downhill.

And so from the highest point of the day, it was another 400m descent down to the town of Sayaqmarka.  Reached only by a steep, narrow staircase Sayaqmarka can be translated as "inaccesible town".

Having spent the best part of the day so far not actually at the back of the group, I decided to forego a brief side trip up to the ruins of Sayaqmarka and instead press on ahead.  There was still a lot of hiking to be done, and I had some foolish notion that I might possibly be able to get back before nightfall without being eaten by a puma.  Though I expect for many it would be an honour to be eaten by such a revered animal, I figured that could at least wait until after Machu Picchu.

Speaking of Machu Picchu, I had come this far now and was now reassured in myself that I wouldn't have to abandon the trail with one of the group leaders and instead take the train to the lost city.  In some of my darker moments the day before I had reassured myself that it would still be an adventure, even if that was the worst case scenario.  But it wasn't me being carried up to Dead Woman's Pass in a papoose, or giving the porters a fright by keeling over at the top.  So, surely, if I had come this far then I would just keep going?  The worst of the uphill was behind me, and we were at such a point that returning were as tedious as to go o'er.

As the day wore on, the trail levelled out and widened -- giving us fine views and occasional patches of cloud forest.  The third pass was reached easily after passing through an Inca tunnel in the rock.  I can't be sure exactly when it was in the day, but it must have been about around this time that one of my fellow trekkers had a small mishap with some strong pharmaceutical painkillers.

For reasons of her own, one of the trek doctors had given her two of these tablets, and she'd been instructed to take them something like four hours apart.  I can be fairly clear about these instructions, since I'd been given some myself -- but never felt the need to resort to those on top of what I was already taking.  Many of you can probably guess what happened next -- it got to halfway through the day, and Yvonne realised she had forgotten to take one of the tablets earlier.  Maybe she was feeling particularly sore, and that was what reminded her, but she obviously figured that she would need to "catch up" on what she had missed, and took them both at once.

Yvonne later told us that she didn't realise this was a mistake until some time later.  We were at the top of a particularly steep climb, everyone was getting their breath back, and Yvonne noticed how the colours on all the plants seemed so unusually vivid, and thought to herself that she hadn't known that was a symptom of altitude sickness.  Then she remembered the tablets she had taken, and realised all was not well.  Before long, she was giggling like an addict in the depths of an ether binge, and was unable to walk any distance completely unaided.

Luckily for everyone involved, Yvonne needed nothing more than one of the group leaders to support her as she walked and to keep an eye on her -- no permanent damage was going to have been done, she just needed supervision and assistance.

On route to the last night's camp we passed above the ruins of Phuyupatmarka (meaning Cloud-Level Town), a complex structure of protection walls and paths built on the uppermost side of a high hill.  It's a sad state of affairs when by this point it is almost getting to a point where this elaborate Inca architecture is starting to seem normal.  It never becomes boring or uninteresting, but after a while you start to expect it -- and know you are getting closer to the final day.

Before you can get to the final day, though, if you are like me you will spend most of the last hour of walking actually hiking in complete darkness with only a headtorch for light. While I wasn't alone and the camp wasn't far away, it was still not advisable to be walking the trails in the dark.  For me, it just added to the adventure -- but I still didn't want to get eaten by any wild animals.

The campsite of Winay Wayna was completely different to the previous two nights.  For a start it had toilets and showers -- real toilets and real showers, that weren't in tents.  It also had a dining hall, a kind of off-licence and a small shop that sold the tokens you needed to buy beer.  Most of the others had already been back at the camp for an hour or two already by this point, and had got on the beers without delay. Even Joe, who had made a lazarus-like recovery.

To celebrate the end of the camping, that evening there was a formal meal at real tables and everything -- but for many of us, that was where the celebrations would stay, because the next day was the final hike to the lost city of Machu Picchu.

Changes

As you might have noticed, I've made some changes to the appearance of this blog -- your feedback and opinions are encouraged!

Back to the routine

I didn't mean for it to be a week between updates -- but it's just been one of those weeks where I hold off writing anything until I know where things stand.

We left me at the end of last week feeling optimistic and hopeful about my job prospects -- there had been interviews with two companies and a potential for freelance work.  Friday was as quiet as I expected -- no job offers landed on the doorstep (or in my inbox) and it was too early for any second round interview call backs.  This was fine.  Monday I was starting to get impatient -- sure, nothing could have moved on over the weekend, but by the end of the day I was starting to wonder and doubt.

Tuesday I was beginning to feel downright anxious.  What if neither of the companies wanted me?  I had already lost hope on the possibility of freelance work, since last week it had seemed so urgent but I'd heard nothing since.  I just had to resign myself that worst case scenario would be Christmas casual work with the post office, sorting mail and parcels -- it's not bad work, and there was always overtime on offer when I temped in the past, but this year with temps being recruited to counteract the industrial action, I wasn't so sure it would be the same.

It was difficult to concentrate on my course Tuesday morning, I kept my phone beside me so that I could take any calls when they came in -- I was particularly expecting a call about the comms role that morning, and wanted to know what was happening there before any job offers from the sales position.  It got to about 1pm and I'd heard nothing.  I decided to stay at the college rather than rush home to have lunch, and I was checking my email on my mobile phone -- checking what documents I needed to take for the post office recruitment day on Wednesday.  Except I didn't need to check that email, because the first one I saw had the subject "Emploment Offer".  And it wasn't even spam, offering me employment selling "v1@grA" or whatever.

It was an offer of employment from the sales position.  There would be no working nights and long hours at the post office for me now, the worst that could happen is that I would be gainfully employed as an executive in the city.  Now I just had to get some sort of answer from the comms role.  I called the recruiter -- who typically had no response form them yet -- and let her know I already had a job offer, so that should be passed along to try and speed up the process.

The girl and I remain worried about our finances.  Because she's been on unpaid leave so long, she doesn't know if she has money to pay the rent along with buying a ticket back from Australia and funding her travel to work every day when she comes back.  We're discussing our options on that front -- like if we were to give up our house (and come back to my parents for a room to stay again) would we have to pay cancellation fees on contracts we have in place.

On the other side of the coin, I had a look on the rightmove property website for places to rent in London, and found that when you discount the idea of just being able to walk to work, there are places with only a 30 minute commute that wouldn't cost significantly more than our house in Essex -- and would avoid the crippling travel costs.  Instead of paying out £400 each just in travel every month, we could pay an extra £100 a month each and actually live in London.  It maybe isn't an option right away, but in a few months time after the winter months have come and gone, we might be in a position to live in London.

I got a call yesterday to say it was a no to a second interview for the comms role.  I haven't yet been told why I wasn't up to the task, except that they only called something like two people for second stage and they were "good all-rounders".  I aim to get detailed info on if they liked the event plan I put together, and feedback on the tests they had me do on the day, as well as the interview itself.  But this means that it's sealed, I must take the sales job.  Of course, I could decide not to and that I would rather stay unemployed, living on benefits and looking for work, but my benefits would be stopped if the JobCentre found out I had been offered a job and turned it down.

The only real drawback to the sales role is that the basic wage is low -- obviously common practice in sales, a tactic to motivate you towards meeting your sales targets.  It's so low, in fact, I was earning almost £2k more a year in my last job, where I didn't have to commute into London -- but if I was to meet the targets in this role I would naturally be better off.  It's tough.  I decided to try and barter with them on the salary, tell them if they could make it £18k a year rather than £17k I could accept the job today -- where I had previously told them I would need until Friday to consider all my options.  I got a reply telling me they would have to discuss it with the MD, but if they were to accept a higher basic wage then my equivalent targets would also be higher.

I don't know at this point in time how achievable the sales targets are -- sure, they tell me they are achievable, but of course they would say that.  Is it worth the gamble to have a higher basic wage and risk not being able to hit the targets that make the job workable?  I don't know if I have that much faith in my sales abilities.  After some thought and a discussion with the girl, I've decided to stick with the original offer -- the basic salary is hardly liveable, but that just means I'll have to work harder.  Or find a second job.

So, the good news is I got a job.  Not the well-paid job in communications I really wanted, but a job all the same -- I'm getting off the couch, getting off benefits, and back into the daily 9 - 6 work routine.

"Things I Love" Thursday

A concept I have taken from Lulu, whom I believe also took inspiration from someone else, this is the first post of hopefully many on "Things I Love" Thursday.  Following on from such theme days as "Musical Monday", "Serial Killer Sunday" and "News-Day Tuesday", this is just a snapshot of the things that are making me happy this week, or just today.  I think everyone will be in agreement this is far more palatable than the idea of me indulging in "Half-Nekkid Thursday", as seen elsewhere in the Blogosphere.

Without any further ado, things I love today:

Sunny Autumn days. Just when you think winter has made a premature entrance, when the days have turned cold and it is pouring with rain, Autumn taps you on the shoulder and lets you know it's not done yet.  Today it is warm and sunny, the sun is singing, the birds are shining, and you can throw open the windows to let the air in.  OK, so you're never going to mistake it for a summer day -- but the Autumn sunlight has an elegant charm all of its own.  And the cats like it, too.

Which brings me onto my next point:

Cats!  I know some people have a real grudge against the feline members of society -- and let me remind you that a hatred of cats is latent misogyny -- but I think responsible owners make respectable cats, and none moreso than the kitten tearaways that have come to live with my parents in recent months.  These two show you what there is to enjoy in life -- and approach almost everything with complete abandonment, which often leads to them rolling about on the floor trying to bite each other.  Except no matter how fiercely they seem to be fighting, neither of them minds, and you'll often find them curled up asleep together.  They really need a whole post of their own.

You know what else I love?

Not having to go to the job centre!  I can now give that hateful place the two-finger salute.  No more filling in a record of what I have been doing to look for work, and no more relying on the pittance of job seeker's allowance.  I now rejoin the ranks of the gainfully employed.

The internet.  I know, I should really send a "thank you" card to Tim Berners-Lee for such a wonderful thing it is.  Without the internet, instant messenger conversations would be quite one-sided, web cam shows somewhat dull, and web browsers not an awful lot of use.  Blogging would also be a lot more like Doogie Howser MD, writing a diary on his computer.  But really, what I love most about the internet this week is people.  Last week, I was invited out for China Blue's birthday celebrations, and by the mixture of the people who came along and showed their love I was reminded what a fantastic tool for meeting people the internet really is.  They say that the invention of the bicycle was a big thing for genetics, since it allowed people easier travel to nearby towns and from there access to more people from outside their own gene pool.  The internet is second only to teleportation and inter-stellar space travel, I think, with its contribution here -- people now communicate with each other in real time from all over the world, and with it make friends, fall in love and perpetuate the whole human comedy.

Weekends at the seaside.  It's not the same without the girl, but I still love the sea, I love going to the seaside on a Friday, and I love going to the seaside even more when we're seeing family.  It's my brother's birthday this weekend, so I get to see my brother, and my sister in law, and my four year old nephew and in between I get to throw stones into the sea and look for shells. 

And that about wraps her all up for today -- I want to keep this as just thoughts today, and not an exhaustive list of all the things in the world ever that I love, and certainly couldn't begin to express myself if I was to start including individuals on the list.

But we'll be back next week with more...

Maybe everything that dies some day comes back

Another day, another job interview.

Yesterday's was much more of a proper interview, except if I want to be a grinch about it I feel a bit like my recruiter hadn't given me quite accurate information. And the info from the company was slightly misleading, too. But that's ok.

I can't go into much detail about the company, since this is a public blog and though I doubt they would be bored enough to google key words about their business, they still might possibly find it. But enough to say it is a communications role with a charity that is involved with disabled people.

For the interview I was asked to consider an event that I would need to plan, and what needed to be taken into account. They kept it deliberately vague. One morning last week I was considering it, and how I had no inspiration for it, when I had a great idea. It sucks to be you reading this right now, because I won't talk about the idea. I thought it was a great idea and I put a lot of thought and effort into my plan, but I don't want to write about it in case someone says "I don't think that was the wisest choice". What would it matter? I just don't want to think about it now. So, I wrote about what the event would entail, and my reasoning for this particular event, and all the various things that would need to be taken into consideration, and just to top it all off I gave a week-by-week breakdown of when each stage of the planning would need to be completed.

The information I had said that I would not be asked to present this plan, only to submit it for their consideration after my interview. This was not true, as after our mutual interview questions, they did ask me to talk about it, which I hadn't been planning to do. Hopefully, I was passionate and enthusiastic enough about it all.

The interview itself went well, they were nice and friendly, and seemed pleased with all of my answers and liked my experience.

Next came the test. I was expecting more than one test -- the recruiter had suggested there would be a computer test and a personality test -- but I hadn't fretted it, there's nothing you can do to prepare when you don't know what kind of computer test it will be. It turned out there was no personality test, and the computer test was the last thing I expected -- a written test. First I had to edit a feature article written for one of their magazines -- cutting it almost in half to a maximum of 350 words, then I had to write a press release. I was disappointed there was very sparse info on which to base my release, but I put my heart into it all the same. The editing was tricky -- that was something I'd never done before, editing someone else's work -- but it got done. Now I wait. They are interviewing someone else tomorrow, I'm told, and have no feedback yet but are reportedly pleased that I liked them.

Now, today's interview was the third and final part of the recruitment process for the marketing and sales role that doesn't include much marketing. I had to prepare a sales pitch for a specific two-day training course -- since that's what they do. Again, I can't talk much about the company, but it's IT-related and out of my area of experience. But prior knowledge of this kind of thing was far less important than hard work and enthusiasm, so last night was spent drafting out my pitch. Which I did have to present in this interview -- and was pretty much all there was to the interview. They seemed to like it, referring to it as "excellent", and that I had covered off the key points.

I think they're keen, they told me they were feeling positively about me, and asked me if I was offered the job whether I would consider it. I replied that I too felt positively and would definitely consider it. They mentioned they had other interviewees to see, so I made sure to mention I have other interviews to go to.

Right now, I feel like the communications role would suit me better -- but who knows, maybe my future is in sales. And I got a call this evening about a communications role in the NHS based very close to home, so I'm waiting to hear if I have a meeting on that one.

I look forward to a time in the near future when I have a job and I can then widen my area of interest into the rest of the world and write about more exciting things. Like the new shirt I bought, with its silver buttons and little silver tags sewn on, and how they glints and sparkles in the Autumn sun as I walk down the street. Or how apaprently the Bruce Springsteen song doesn't say "They blew up the chicken mine in Philly last night" -- I just thought a chicken mine would be where chicken salt came from...

Summer (and Spring & Autumn) reading

If there was one thing being out of work has given me more time for, it is reading. And for that I am grateful. In the last few months I have read a varied selection of books, such as:

Dead Until Dark and Living Dead in Dallas by Charlmaine Harris
Jamie -- I'm sorry I recommended these books to you, they weren't nearly as good reading as I thought they were originally. Rating: 2/5

Echo Park by Michael Connelly
A reasonably clever crime thriller -- the protagonist whose name I can't recall clearly wasn't very memorable, although the plot had some clever twists. Rating: 3/5

Exit Music and Black and Blue by Ian Rankin
If you are going to start reading Inspector Rebus novels, it's probably not best to start with the last one. Rebus himself is not very likeable, but this is a good thing as it shows you are an engaging with the character, and I found the descriptions of life in Scotland's cities as interesting as the plots. Rating: 4/5

Cold Deck, Hot Lead and The Commanche Kid J.T. Edson
Shamefully, I'd never read a single cowboy novel before these -- but I really enjoyed them. They were fun and lively and easy-to-read, but not so easy you got bored quickly. Their charm was that they didn't try to be anything they weren't. If you ever see any of J.T. Edson's books, they're worth picking up for taking on an aeroplane and then leaving behind when you're done. Rating: 3.5/5

Dexter in the Dark and Dearly Devoted Dexter by Jeff Lindsay
Foolishly, I thought that the books followed closely the same plotline as the Dexter tv series -- while the first might have done, these certainly do not. It's not a bad thing, it just caught me off-guard that there are several major differences in the ongoing plots. As for the plots themselves, they cleverly juggle Dexter's own personal struggles with the serial killer storylines, but reading two was enough for me. Rating: 3.5/5

Mister Roberts by Alexei Sayle
I've read all of Alexei Sayle's books -- which isn't all that many, but still more than one or two -- and I liked this departure from his normal plotlines. He remains as fondly acerbic about British people, in this case British ex-pats living in Spain, as he is in all of his previous stories, and he manages to be serious and funny and strange all at once. One of my favourite writers, satirists and social commentators today. But I still preferred some of his other books. Rating: 4.5/5

Caves of Steel by Isaac Asimov
Another author I hadn't previously read anything by that I was compelled to put right -- and though I haven't yet finished this book (the first of his robot novels) right now it reminds me of a cross between 1984 and Blade Runner.

After I finish this Asimov novel, and maybe another, I plan to expand my reading into the works of Deepak Chopra and something in the way of Quantum Physics, if there is anything vaguely accessible.

When your only tool is a hammer, all your problems start to look like nails

...Or so I'm told. But what does that mean, exactly? Right now, it feels a lot like my job hunt.

I had the opportunity to meet a renowned Marketing writer/blogger last week, grabbing the chance to meet him while he was in London for a couple of days. Unfortunately, however much I think he and his blog are awesome, I can't link to it in this post as if he followed the traffic back here I don't think he'd dig my tales of girls and boys and marsupials, nor the old Serial Killer Sunday posts.

Anyway, I'd filled him in on where I am professionally -- some good experience but now "between jobs" and asked for his advice on how better to market myself, and get that awesome job with it. As part of my ongoing personal development, I have also set some objectives for myself -- working towards them involves in part asking people I admire how they got to be where they are.

It seems that there are two ways I can approach looking for work. The marketer summarised my position quite well, when you're out of work for a while you start casting your net wider and applying for jobs you could do, and maybe even do well, but aren't necessarily what you really want. There is nothing wrong with this, of course. The other approach is to hold out for what you really want, and accept no compromise. He suggested volunteering to work without pay for somewhere awesome, so long as I would be doing real work and not stuffing envelopes.

He has also stressed that I should be writing -- by way of submitting guest posts to relevant blogs, or writing a blog of my own. I tried setting up a new blog the other day just for writings on the PR/marketing industry, but I fell at the first hurdle -- I couldn't come up with a good name for it that wasn't already taken.

This week I have two interviews coming up: a second interview for a job as a sales and marketing exec, that seems to have little marketing to it that isn't actually sales, and a communications role that would be a significant promotion from where I was before. I was informally interviewed on the phone the other day for another sales position -- although it was described as management trainee or something, I think that was just clever marketing on the part of the job ad. It seemed to go well, I was told some of my answers were good, and that I'd here more if I was to be invited for the two-day selection process this week. I didn't hear anything more.

The trouble is, sometimes it seems like applying for jobs that aren't what I really want but I could probably do is treating all problems as nails. Do I actually want to work in sales? Would I be any good at it? And come to that, when did what I do for a living become so damned all-important anyway? It does not define me as a person, and should not be what my life is about. But it's easy to say that when you actually have a job -- getting one first is key, the rest comes afterwards.

A couple of my friends have turned to teaching. One of them has had several other careers to date, including being a police officer, a lorry driver, a petrol station attendant and a media sales executive. Will teaching finally be what they are looking for? The other friend has been treading water for the last few years, not really knowing what they wanted. I can more readily see them staying in teaching. They have suggested it to me as a career path, too, but I'd only take them seriously if they had already been doing it for several years -- but like social work which has also been suggested, I really don't see it being for me.

Finally, a friend posted this video on my Facebook the other day. It made me laugh, but I'm not sure what they were trying to tell me...

Courier for the day

With no sponsorship licence in sight for her this week, the girl's company suggested she become self employed and work for them freelance from Australia. It wasn't a great solution, but the girl needed the income, and so I got in touch with some people from her office about taking them her work laptop. The idea was that they could then get it sent to Australia by courier.

And so it was on a grey and rainy London afternoon I set off in my best suit, with my portfolio and the girl's laptop, to an appointment I had in the city.

I was already tight for time, the meeting had been set up at the last minute and I'd had time only to get home and change my clothes in a Superman-style whirlwind to catch a train. A train that as I waited at the station was getting further delayed every few minutes. Periodically, freight trains would come storming straight through the station, but my train was delayed without explanation -- and I had to get to the gleaming towers of Docklands.

While I was waiting I got a text from the girl asking me very nicely to call her. I didn't have our spare mobile with the cheap overseas calls, but something about the message told me it was important. The girl got to the point quickly -- it might not be necessary for me to take the laptop to her work after all, since their licence had finally arrived.

This means that after advertising her job for a couple of weeks, the girl will be able to apply for her visa and get all her biometric data recorded, as well as a GPS tracking chip embedded under her skin, as I am sure is now standard procedure in a surveillance society such as ours.

Thanks to the joys of internet access on my phone I was able to buy a little time before my appointment so I didn't turn up breathless and rushed, so that went well. I wasn't expected at the girl's offices any particular time, and I think I shared the lift with her Swiss colleague. I was curious to meet some of the people I had heard so much about, and the few I had emailed, but I got no further than the receptionist. I handed over the laptop, and was off again.

Soon now, the girl will be returning, and I am already mentally making plans for fun tings to do -- I won't talk about any of my ideas here and now, but if there was one thing my visit Down Under showed me it is that surely nowhere in England is beyond reasonable driving distance.

Macaroni art

I will return to my regularly-scheduled "Inca Trail" scribblings after this brief segue.

Things have been tough for the girl and I in recent months.

Losing my job to redundancy in July was unfortunate, but I immediately started claiming "job seeker's allowance" to try and keep the wolves from the door when it came to rent and bills. The fight to get housing benefit out of the local council has sometimes felt like an uphill struggle, however -- particularly when we were told the girl earned too much for us to claim benefits.

The girl had to return home to Western Australia several days earlier than she had planned, missing out on a trip to Paris with her Mum, when her grandfather died. Even at that time, we hoped that her work visa would come through in no time, and it would only be a short time before the girl would return to merry old England.

We hoped the setbacks would only be very temporary, but it's October and I haven't yet found gainful employment, and the girl's company still don't have their licence to sponsor her, so she is in unpaid limbo on the other side of the world.

Next month we don't know if we will be able to pay the rent. I have already borrowed sums of money from my parents to help make ends meet in previous months, but we are now getting the housing benefits we were previously denied so I hope to be able to hold the fort a little while longer.

On the positive side, the logic would follow that every day that passes without the girl hearing news on her company's licence we must also be one day closer to her joyful return. I also have some promising leads on jobs that I am interviewing for.

I don't spend a lot of time in the house I share with the girl now that she's not here. It makes sense to visit my parents more and take advantage of their hospitality to keep the running costs of our house down, but most of all it doesn't much feel like "our" house when I'm there alone.

I won't lie, emotionally I've had a bad time since I lost my job. Never having been the most stable of people in the past, losing the security and income of a job I (mostly) enjoyed set me adrift a little.

In a dramatic break with tradition, however, things have taken a turn for the better there -- and it might even seem in years to come that being made redundant was a good thing to happen. For a start, if you're out of work you can access government-funded training. And I'm not talking about basic maths or literacy, but more or less anything you want.

Granted, I am still trying to get someone to commit to the details, but in theory at least there are options open to me if I want to learn things like digital marketing, graphic design, web design because it will make me more employable -- those three could all help me make a move into roles like web content editor.

Not directly related to work, but sort of related to government funding, I have been in therapy, which was probably overdue. I think because of the recession, money has been freed up for what is being called "talk therapy", a combination of counselling and cognitive behavioural therapy. While it hasn't exactly set my world ablaze, it has helped me to recognise and address some errors in my thinking. Which neatly leads me onto the next point.

Personal Development. A local college is currently a 10 week personal development course for people a bit like me -- it's not solely for those out of work, but being held twice a week on weekdays probably means it's not very accessible for anyone in fulltime employment. The course is led by a certified Psychotherapist who also makes a decent living in areas like Hypnotherapy, as well as coaching and training.

It's all making for a good combination -- the course provides me with something to do other than look for work, I can tell employers about it when I go for interviews, and it is giving me useful tools for managing my own thoughts and behaviour. Mixing that with my cognitive behavioural therapy I have recently learned to treat myself better and be more objective, feel more positive, and have identified some goals and objectives. I won't go into details of the techniques I have learned today, but it's enough that it is doing me some good.

I visited the girl for a few weeks in August and September, which should have been longer if only we'd known there was not going to be work waiting for me on my return, and no firm return date for the girl in sight. But that's how these things go. I will be blogging about those adventures -- under the title of "Tales of Girls, Boys and Marsupials" (something I have considered renaming my blog on occasion) -- when I have exhausted my "I trekked Peru, yo" posts.

We aren't too clear where we go from here right now, except that today is one day closer to the girl's return and another day closer to finding a new, incredibly awesome job for me. And people will probably be getting macaroni pictures as Christmas presents this year.

The Inca Trail: Day 4 Wayllabamba -- Pacamayo

After a restless night disturbed by tentmate Joe's frequent and noisy vomiting, we started the second proper day of walking with the knowledge that this would be perhaps the hardest thing many of us had ever done -- and possibly the hardest thing we would ever do.

We had camped overnight at an altitude of 2700m at a place called Wayllabamba, which in the Peruvian Quechan language means "grassy plain". Both of these are quite safe, reassuring facts that you take comfort in on the trail. The altitude is low (although that is still double the height of Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in the British Isles), and the name tells you how it's nice and flat. This contrasted with the focal point of the day: Dead Woman's Pass, standing at an altitude of 4200m, over three times the height of Ben Nevis and nearly four times the height of Snowdon^*.

It wasn't long before the ascending trail took us up through what is referred to as "cloud forest", where the forests are persistently misty -- this made it cooler for the uphill hike, but the altitude was still tough. Joe hadn't recovered from the night before, and was struggling to continue going since he couldn't even keep water down. We were lucky that it stayed dry for us, since this part of the trail had a reputation for being hard going when it got muddy as well as steep.

I remember one stop we made for a rest and water, which really symbolised the contrast of the traditional Peruvian society and the "modern world". We stopped to regroup and rest, and a few feet away, under a tree sat two Peruvian women in traditional dress, with their donkey. And a table selling bottle water, Coke, chocolate, Powerade and various other delicacies. Every now and then the donkey would wander closer to one of the women, and she'd hit it with a stick. I got the impression the woman was telling the donkey to go away, but maybe it was the other way round -- the donkey enjoyed it, and every now and then just had an urge to be hit with a stick again, whereupon the old lady would oblige.



Lunch a couple of hours later was a beautiful lush valley, with views of snow-capped peaks and the heights of Dead Woman's Pass lying ahead of us. Joe was in a bad way. He was dehydrated and weak, from being unable to keep anything down but still being determined to keep going. I think the trail and the long months of preparation did that to you: giving up was not an option. If I thought I had things bad with dodgy knees and a bad foot, Joe had to be put on an intravenous drip in a tent.

When I arrived at the lunch stop true to form our team of trusty porters had already erected the three group dining tents for us, as well as the cooking tents and done all the cooking -- and there was still a few minutes to go before meal time. Most others had been there a while longer than me, but I was perpetually slow. It's now such a bad way to take the trail, you get the opportunity to take in all the sights around you -- which never have the chance to become familiar or run of the mill.

I encouraged a fellow trekker to venture in to one of the surrounding fields where llamas (or maybe alpacas, I can't tell the difference) were peacefully grazing. I had been tasked by Ali to hug a llama for her, and I was determines to meet my obligations, and have a photo taken to prove it. Unfortunately, the llamas had other ideas about this. They might be big. And smelly. But they are also still timid of people, and weren't keen on the idea of being hugged by someone who hadn't showered in a couple of days. I settled for a photo near a llama instead, though I won't post it since it's not a very flattering picture -- and I don't look a whole heap better.

Lunch was packed with carbs -- the now-usual selection of dishes ranging between soup, chicken, white rice and traditional Peruvian dishes. It was delicious, and best of all plentiful -- and we needed it, since Dead Woman's Pass still lay several hours ahead and several thousand meters above us.


After lunch the trail got steeper and relentless, there was often barely enough room for two people to walk side by side, when there would come up the mountain a shout of "Porters!". Everyone would move to one side to let these Peruvian supermen past -- with port-a-loos and stoves on their backs and nothing more than sandals on their feet.

The altitude made the trek hard going. We'd be able to walk no more than a few minutes before having to stop to catch our breath -- the thing about altitude was that the air literally did feel thinner, you could take long, deep breaths but the air just didn't go so far. Your heart would pound, your head would thump, and you just had to stop and let everything settle -- no amount of eagerness or speed would get you up the mountain any faster.

With the altitude came the cloud, and once we reached Dead Woman's Pass (so-called because it is said to resemble a dead woman lying on her back, with the view of two mountainous peaks resembling breasts) it got cold very quickly. We all assembled together to appreciate what would be the highest -- although not necessarily the hardest -- point of our trip. The views were limited by the cloud around and below us, and strangely reminded me of Dartmoor -- probably because of the cloud/fog, rock and desolate landscape. On many of the surrounding hills were small piles of stones, not unlike the cairns found in the British Isles -- they were apparently expressions of wishes by Quechan travellers, who would return and add another stone to the top of the pile when their wish came true.

Getting to the top of Dead Woman's Pass was only half the battle -- there was still a 500m descent to camp to go. While the ascent was hard-going because of the altitude and steep climb, descending is often just as hard, and the relentless steps are torture on your knees -- and like with the ascent, you can't speed up, even if you want to, and know you are against the clock to get into camp before dark.

The second night camping was in the Pacamayo (or "sunrise") valley, where instead the sun was quickly setting. My tentmate Joe (who had been carried at one point on the steepest part of the trail uphill) was already in the tent and his sleeping bag and fell sound asleep almost as soon as I got back. My knees were so painful and stiff I could barely bend them at all without crying out -- which made it incredibly difficult to crouch down and sort out my bedding in the tent without waking sleeping Joe.

After a hard day, many of us were a lot more tired than the night before -- there was no time for stargazing in the clear mountain night this evening, instead we went to sleep right after dinner.

The next day was promised by some to be the hardest, with another very early start.




^*Readers outside of the UK: please feel free to chip in with how this compares with mountains you are more familiar with -- I appreciate the UK isn't known for its mountainous terrain

The neuro-virus, and why you shouldn't stroke other people's cats

We take a short break today from the regular scheduled programming -- that is, the forever-delayed posts about the Inca trail -- to instead write about being unemployed. Because hopefully by the time I have written about the remaining three walking days of the trek, I will have a job again and have no witty observations to make on this sort of thing.

Last week, I was sat in the benefits office. Waiting my turn. Smiling to myself every time someone sat down without taking a ticket first. They'd be told they needed to take a ticket, from the machine. But the machine appeared to have no tickets. There would be a moment when you'd see people hover on the edge of getting angry and mouthing off to the claims assistants, or getting more confused. You could almost see them physically teeter on the thin line between them, at which point one of the assistants would instruct them to open the top of the ticket-dispensing machine and find where the roll had curled up inside. Some needed further guidance as to where the end of the roll was. I suspect these people also have a note attached to their clothes for the morning which says "Remember: trousers first, then shoes".

Waiting patiently, if not quietly, one young lady was talking to her friend about the sickness epidemics at her child's school. She told her friend quite earnestly how one child at the school was sick with "the neuro-virus". Why nobody had told this particular young lady just to refer to it as the "vomiting bug" like most mainstream media does, I don't know -- because confusing the norovirus with something that sounds like a brain disease is going to surely cause more harm than good.

They went on to discuss "the swine flu", and how "they say the swine flu might be like the plague, and kill loads of people". It wasn't clear in what sense it would be like the plague, whether it was in total number of deaths or fatalities as a percentage of the population. Nor did she elaborate who "they" were in this case, though I suspect it was either The Sun or The Daily Mail. What she was saying wasn't exactly wrong, there has been media speculation about how many deaths from the virus could be expected this winter, and of course there are conspiracies about eugenics (like those espoused by the rather wonderful David Icke). Just the same, these young ladies didn't seem especially concerned about the possibility of the plague.

Today, the freak brigade were out in force in the post office. I wasn't paying attention at first when I heard raised voices, but after a little while with the counter clerk was explaining to me how long I could expect a first class letter to take if I posted it today (off topic; this is an interesting development in customer service -- I am sure it is only in the last couple of weeks they have started mentioning this and checking you are OK with it) I started listening to what was going on in the line behind me.

From what I could gather, an older gentlemen was having a heated discussion with a much younger man about the younger man's child stroking his cat. What made the argument stranger was that the older gent insisted on calling the younger man "youngster", which coupled with a unique-sounding voice, made you wonder at first if it was someone pretending to be much older and stuffier than they really were. Either way, the young man was getting more enraged and kept telling the older gent to "f***ing turn around and mind your own business". And as I say, there was some argument about stroking his cat -- the young man apparently being angry the older gent hadn't let his child stroke the older gentleman's cat, and the older gent clarifying something along the lines of anybody was welcome to stroke his cat who asked. Perhaps the strife was over not asking permission first -- is it bad manners to touch someone else's cat without seeking permission first? -- or perhaps the child had gone into the man's garden to stroke the cat. I couldn't tell how this related to the older gent being told to mind his own business, perhaps there was a second, more private argument going on at the same time?

A concerned counter clerk shouted over to ask them if everything was OK, they seemed to dismiss her at first, but then the older gent -- whom I then got to see was dressed like a rambler and was carrying a hiking pole, much like the ones I used in Peru (and which don't actually do the same job as a walking stick) -- approached the counter clerk and told her he wanted to make an official complaint. I'm not sure complaining about another member of the public is really very effective. But despite her asking helpfully if everything was OK, she admitted to not having any kind of authority to be able to do something to help, such as calling security or taking the details of the complaint. Instead, he was instructed to go to the Bureau de Change desk for that. Which makes complete sense.

I'm going to be extra careful about stroking other people's cats now, it's clearly a minefield.

In other news, I have a job interview this week. A job doing communications within the public sector, and for which the recruitment process has been ponderously slow -- I was first contacted about it weeks ago, while I still had a job. I have mixed feelings about the job, part of it seems much too junior for me in terms of admin duties and placing stationery orders, but it would be in London and on more money than I was on before, and a job is a job right now.

While I'm out of work, I am trying to see what training I can get on to. I have expressed an interest to the powers-that-be in learning web design, graphic design, digital marketing and while we're learning stuff, I'd like to speak Spanish. It's not often you have the opportunity for free training, and I could potentially come out of this better qualified. On top of all of that, I am also looking at volunteering opportunities -- some local charities need PR, I need something to do. And finally I am looking at giving some time to volunteer at the hospital, being nice to people who need visitors and that kind of thing. It's a role I could potentially keep on even if I get a job quickly. I think I need to do more and be less self-involved.

The Inca Trail: Day 3 KM 82 - Wayllabamba

I suck at updating the "travel blog" section here, I apologise profusely to anyone left reading! However, in a gesture of goodwill I have found my paper journal and gone back to the earlier posts and added in the scribbles.

Day three started early, with an alarm call at 4.30am. My phone shows a text sent at 5.37 to the girl, just before we were leaving the hotel. I'd already been up for an hour, and it was another hour before sunrise.

This was to be day one of the proper trail: no more hotel beds, no gentle walks across countryside, instead we were going to be camping in the mountains with no mobile reception for three days. The next time anyone heard from me would be after Machu Picchu, whether I made it on foot or not. We piled into two coaches for the 3-hour drive to the start of the trail, known as "KM 82".

I slept a lot of the journey, and woke up shortly before we stopped in a town called Ollantaytambo. The town itself was still waking up, but the people eager to sell to the tourists were already up and waiting -- people selling scarves and hats and walking poles and any number of things. The walking poles were beautifully carved and painted, I started to wish I hadn't brought my hiking poles from home with me -- but I'd needed my poles for all the walks back in England, and they were adjustable to different heights, making them suitable for both uphill and downhill, which you couldn't get with the wooden ones.

We spread out through the town square, some people were buying agua de florida -- a kind of cologne that you splash on your hands, clap together and then inhale deeply, which was meant to help with altitude sickness. I was more interested in finding a scarf, less for the cold nights and more for protecting my neck from the sun, it was something I'd forgotten to take along. I walked from one traditional shop to the other, giving a bueans dias to the shop keepers and just smiling politely if they tried to make any further conversation. In each shop there would be shelves from floor to ceiling with ponchos and sweaters, blankets and scarves. I found a scarf I liked and bargained, although only briefly, with the shopkeeper for a good price.

It was still early and so still cold in the town. I was wearing my beanie hat for warmth, and my wide-brimmed hat on top of it as much for convenience as anything else. Occasionally, someone would stop me and try to sell me a hat. I knew they couldn't speak English, but just the same my response was always the same: I'm already wearing two hats, do I look like I need a third? I think they understood the gist of it, even if not the exact words.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a parade appeared. There was men banging drums and playing trumpets, and most disturbing lots of men in scary-looking masks that resembled devils. They marched through the town holding their banner and banging their drum and then they were gone again. We never did find out what it had all been about -- none of the locals seemed to pay any attention to it -- but apparently the masks date back to the time of the conquistadors. We were told that the conquistadors had forbidden any traditional celebrations, and so people wore these masks to hide their identities.

Soon, we all piled back into our coaches for the rest of the journey to the check point at the start of the trail.

The Peruvian authorities are very cautious now about protecting the Inca trail, so numbers of people walking it are very tightly controlled and all groups have to be authorised. It wasn't enough to just be a registered group saying how many people you were taking on the trail -- everyone was listed by name, and had to provide their passports at the check point so they could cross-reference the names on the list with the names and pictures. You did get a stamp in the passport for it, though.

The train to Machu Picchu runs alongside KM 82, and everyone turned their noses up at the idea of being "a tourist" and just riding the train to the lost city -- where is the challenge in that, where is the adventure if you haven't hiked for days to reach the goal? Just the same, I think all of us felt just a little, tiny bit jealous. Nobody there would have chosen the train, even if given the option at the last minute -- it was about the trail for us, not just the destination -- but seeing it there made you stop and think about what lay ahead.

This first day of walking was still, by the trail's standards, gentle. We crossed the Urubamba river and followed alongside it for several hours, until lunch. The rest of the day was a steady climb, looking down on terraced hillsides and the ruins of Patallacta.

I spent most of the day at the back of the group, as you might expect from my injury so was one of the last to arrive at the camp. At camp in Wayllabamba, the porters had put up all the tents for the group -- neatly separated into the three sub groups, named Condor, Puma and Pachamama. Not only this, but they were already busy preparing the evening feast, and had set up the three communal tents with hot drinks and bowls of popcorn.

As was to become the standard, the evening meal was a carb-loaded three courses, starting with bowls of soup, before offering plates of white rice and chicken and potatoes alongside more traditional dishes and vegetarian options. After the early start and first day of walking, we all went to our tents fairly soon after dinner -- besides as soon as the sun went down at 6pm it became very cold in the mountains, and I was glad for my poncho. The group leaders laughed at it, but I was warm and that was what mattered. It also made a very good improvised pillow for sleeping in the tent.

The sleeping tents we all shared with a tent mate, who had been previously assigned as our hotel room mates, too. I got a young guy called Joe who was a musician. He was nice enough, but strangely reminded me a lot of someone I had gone to school with -- except almost ten years younger than we are now. It wasn't long that we were in the tent that Joe mentioned not feeling great. I told him he'd probably feel better after a trip to the toilet -- that I'd felt a bit off colour myself for a little while earlier, and it would be OK.

And so it was that our first night camping in the mountains of Peru was punctuated by Joe frequently getting up to loudly vomit outside our tent. If he wasn't actually being sick he would be asking me what I thought he should do, should he see the doctor again or just leave it. After my initial mis-diagnosis, I generally told him that he should let them know. He'd see them, get a shot or some tablets or whatever, then go back to bed, only for the whole thing to repeat again. It went on all night, and I genuinely felt more sorry for him than I did feel any annoyance at not getting sleep. We'd been advised before we went to bed that if you needed to get up in the night to unzip the tent and leave it open until you returned: that way the whole camp wouldn't be kept awake by the zip-zip, zip-zip of you opening it, and closing it and the zip-zip, zip-zip when you returned again. Nobody needed to worry about that when there was a guy being very loudly sick in the camp.

The Inca Trail: Day 2 -- Sacsayhuamán

"Sunday, May 31
6.30am: Sunrise over the mountains, and I'd forgotten what an amazing sight that is. Today is an acclimatisation walk, we're being taken up to about 3500m and then walking back.

I admit here to being concerned about my foot, the doctor back thinks it could be weeks before it is better. I don't even want to think about the possibility of not being able to walk."

Our first real day in Peru started just before sunrise. It was already light outside, but when the sun reached over the mountains I remembered why I love this kind of country so much. We don't have mountains in England, not a single one, so the best you can hope for is either hills or when the sun comes up over the buildings, which doesn't have the same sort of feel to it.

Cusco was starting to wake up, like a big cat stretching and yawning. The hotel provided us with breakfast, which incorporated fruit juices, fresh fruit, yoghurt, scrambled eggs, and various bread products. A feature of the trip as a whole was large meals -- loading up on the carbs and the calories, since you'd be needing all that you could get.

We were bussed up into the foothills of the mountains to start our first day's walking -- it wasn't part of the trail itself, just an opportunity to get used to being at altitude and warm up a little for the walking we had ahead over the coming days. We started at a ruin called Tambo Machay -- whose original purpose remains unknown, although it has been speculated it served as a place to guard the approaches to Cusco. Because of the Incas lack of a written language, many things about them are open to speculation -- including their architecture. Just the same, the structures with its canals and aqueducts remained impressive.

From Tambo Machay we set off walking across country, and other than the altitude it was no more strenuous than many walks in England. It was particularly surreal to be walking through plains and fields and seeing football pitches off to the side, before remembering how popular the sport is in South America.

While the walking wasn't hard, my foot was still painful. It had been several days since I'd hurt it, and although I was better able to put my weight on it and was taking a lot of pain killers it was still slow and difficult going at times, and put undue strain on my opposite knee. Just the same, although it bothered me, it still wasn't anything that was likely to stop me altogether.

At times, we passed through towns in the mountains -- basic stone houses where people lived their simple and quiet lives. Until the native children would see you, then suddenly there would be a dozen, barely-dressed children surrounding you, holding out their hands for money. We were told not to give them anything -- the Peruvians are proud people, and don't want their children growing up to be dependant on begging and handouts. We were especially told not to give them sweets, since they had no system of dental care.

I think our Macmillan guide Sarah described the children best as incredibly sweet, but so dirty. They were clever though, so often they would appear with a cute baby animal -- usually a lamb -- and try to entice you to take pictures, which they would then want money for. Fortunately, none of our group was taken in by this.

The next ruin we came to was Sacsayhuamán, referred to by the Peruvian guides as "sexy woman". The site appeared to be a kind of fortress, and with the city of Cusco forms the head and body of a Puma. What is truly impressive about Sacsayhuamán was the sheer scale of it -- from pictures, it looks like any other pile of stones that was once a fort. But some of the stones weigh as much as 200 tonnes, more than twice as tall as me, and are larger than I can comprehend. As with places like Stonehenge and the Pyramids of Egypt, it's amazing and much debated how these huge blocks of stone with rounded corners and interlocking edges were carved, transported across great distances and assembled. The fortress was also assembled with all the walls leaning at a slight angle to help protect it against earthquake. Clever chaps, those Incas -- although much of their cleverness lay in borrowing ideas from older cultures.

From Sacsayhuamán, it seemed like the rest of the day was one long descent into Cusco -- albeit on well maintained stone steps, and while I wasn't exhausted by the day, the altitude left me feeling worn out and I was walking very badly by the time we eventually made it to the city's outskirts.

As mentioned, this wasn't even part of the trek itself -- just a gentle warm up and a day trip to some historic sites, we wouldn't ever have it this easy again.

Back at the hotel the order of the day was just dinner and bed, since Monday promised a very early start, and the beginning of the hiking itself.

"6.35pm: After a gentle day's walking to get used to the altitude, my knee hurts and, of course, my foot hurts. The doctors are openly concerned about it, I see them exchange looks, but everyone is very friendly and nice and supportive. I just keep saying I will do whatever it takes to make it through.

Sacsayhuamán was amazing. The huge stone blocks were so perfectly carved, the hills and mountains all looked more like a picture than actually real.

What lies ahead is honestly scaring me. I think everyone feels the same way."

The Inca Trail: Day 1 -- Cusco

After much delay (it's been two weeks now since Machu Picchu), I begin a series of posts about the Inca Trail. As always, my travel writings go under the working title of "Stay out of circulation til the dogs get tired".

Day 1 -- Cusco

"Saturday, May 30
After almost 24 hours since I got to Heathrow, I am in Cusco. I feel fuzzy with the altitude, but mostly ok -- and though my foot does worry me, I have to now try not to get too worried. It is bright, warm and sunny, and the air is filled with traffic noise and car horns.

Peru is a dusty brown colour, with dark green trees. The earth-toned buildings look like they are part of the landscape, almost as if they just grew here, instead of being made.

[later]The city doesn't seem to ever slow down. It's now 6pm, and dark, but the city still rumbles on.

We arrived in Lima in that dazed, half-awake, half-asleep state that comes with long-haul flying. I spend most of my time travelling in this kind of waking-sleep state, due to my ability to fall asleep in almost any moving vehicle. Aeroplanes used to be a kind of exception to this -- mostly because you don't really notice you are moving -- but I happily slept almost the whole journey from London to New York, and then New York to Lima.

What had been billed as a long stop-over in New York instead became a rush across the airport -- we'd been late taking off from Heathrow, and by the time we got to New York they were holding our plane for us.

Stepping off the plane in Lima, we were met by what appeared to be a doctor and a nurse wearing surgical masks, giving out information on swine flu. Despite the virus starting in Central America, many South American countries are still largely unaffected -- Peru for example has only a handful of cases, compared to those in the United Kingdom. I imagine swine flu would be a lot more dangerous in a third world country like Peru, so their precautions weren't overzealous -- but it was a disturbing sight to be met with.

Unfortunately, out of the 50 or so of us travelling together for Macmillan, only about 10 bags made the journey from New York. Because of how delayed we had been, there hadn't been time to load many bags -- and a lot of people had only the clothes they were standing in. On the other hand, I always pack under the assumption that my bag is likely to be lost somewhere and include a change of clothes in my hand luggage.

The less said about Lima, the better. We didn't see anything of the city, but from all the accounts I've heard that's for the best. After filling out forms about our lost bags, we hopped on a short flight to Cusco, where I promptly went back to sleep and woke up only as we were landing.

Cusco -- the cultural capital of Peru, and the former capital of the Inca empire -- was vibrant, full of colours and people and noise and life. We were staying in the Savoy hotel, which our guides had gone to some pains to point out was not to the same standard as the Savoy in London. Part of the hotel was closed due to building work, and apparently it was something of a lottery if the showers worked. My shower worked -- sort of -- but the room was clean and the beds were large and comfortable. That was good enough for me.

After dropping our bags and a meal at the hotel, our hardy band of adventurers set out into the city. Along the roads were markets where local people sold their wares to tourists -- ponchos, blankets, carvings. Each stall holder would call out "Hola, amigo" and try to entice you over. I deliberated for a long time before buying a poncho myself, but I figured it would come in useful at nights on the Inca trail. Half the fun in buying anything was bartering with the seller for a good price. Everything was a good price to begin with, the Peruvian Sol was about three to the Dollar, and with almost two Dollars to the Pound, nothing was too expensive. Just the same, I'd ask how much it was, mentally convert it, and then try and get them to knock about another ten off the price.

In Cusco it seemed there was always some kind of a parade going on, without explanation and without anyone paying too much attention. Maybe it was a special weekend.

In the evening, the Discover Adventure guides took us to a local restaurant for a chance to sample some Peruvian cuisine. Even though the restaurant was run by a Scotsman called Dougie. I turned away the chance to eat guinea pig when it was presented to us, since the creature still had paws. Had it been served as just sliced meat, I might have been willing to perhaps consider giving it a try -- but when it still looked like someone's pet, I wasn't keen. In fact, I don't think I tried anything Peruvian that night since the buffet also included a couple of chinese style dishes. I just wasn't in that kind of place where I wanted to be eating something unknown, when we'd be spending the next few nights camping, without proper toilets or showers. What did catch my interest was when I discovered the owner of the bar also ran an adventure sports company, and he offered me the chance to go mountain biking on the last day in Cusco.

I turned down the chance to go drinking after the meal -- although I wasn't feeling too bad for the altitude, it was a fairly early start the next day to go on an "acclimatisation walk" in the foothills, and I wanted a clear head for it.

Peru

I leave for Peru today. After a week where as expected I did lose the cat without really getting to say goodbye properly) and get made redundant, I then fell down the stairs and injured myself. I'm lucky not to have broken or fractured anything, I am still walking with a noticeable limp.

If you'd like to follow my progress, you can with the day by day itinerary, but naturally there'll be no blog, email, Facebook or Twitter for about 10 days. I'll make up for it with pictures and journal extracts when I return.

This is it.

After months of planning and fundraising and training, today I set off to hike the Inca Trail.

If it were any colder I could disengage

"This is fish number six hundred and forty-one in a lifetime of goldfish. My parents bought me the first one to teach me about loving and caring for another living breathing creature of God. Six hundred and forty fish later, the only thing I know is everything you love will die."

extract from 'Survivor', by Chuck Palahniuk

The cat is gone. I miss him.

One foot in front of the other is an acceptable plan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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