That old factory sense

Following a conversation over lunch with her colleagues, the girl asked me the other night what my favourite smells were.

I consider scent to be one of the most under-rated senses -- you might consider not being able to live without hearing, or a life lived without sight, but rarely is a thought given to our sense of smell.  Which is funny, because it reportedly has the strongest link to memory recall.

I remember the time I spent in New York -- ten years ago this year, as it happens -- and how I later came to think of Manhatten as a city of smells.  I had a theory that you could navigate the city blind, going only by the unique smells individual blocks or streets had.  One street always had a guy selling roasted chestnuts, another place smelled like blocked drains, somewhere else might have smelled like fresh bread, yet another of steam from the subway.  I wonder now what I might remember from those days and nights, if I was just given the smells -- if the jazz club in an underground disused meat locker might have had a particular smell of sweat and candles, or what the sheets in the hostel smelled like.

I struggle to name five of my favourite smells, without resorting to cliche -- like the smell of fresh baked bread, or newly-mown grass.  But even those have strong memories attached to them, of walking past the supermarket every morning on the way to school, and on cold, frosty mornings feeling warmed by the smell of bread as it came out the vents of the shop's bakery.  Or summer Saturday afternoons when the grass had been cut...

It's strange in a way how we can't smell ourselves.  I know that I must have a distinct smell, the combination of my deodorant and aftershave mixed with whatever makes me smell like myself, but I wouldn't recognise it.  I'm always slightly surprised when someobody notices my aftershave, comments on it, or even can name it.

I came across a smell earlier I had forgotten about, and forgotten the memories of.  As I poured what was left of a forgotten glass of beer down the sink, it foamed up around the plughole, and I smiled as I remembered weekends when my Dad would pull the sofa in front of the tv to watch West Ham play football -- and the big glass mugs of beer he would have.  Sometimes as a kid he would let me take a sip, or I would just smell it and get the foam on my nose.  In years to come, what smells will remind me of here, and now?

And as ever, I turn it over to whoever may be reading -- what are your favourite smells?  And what stories do they tell?  Do you ever smell something and recall something you didn't even realise you had forgotten?  Tell me everything.

Bollocks to the Middle

There's an advert currently showing on TV here, I know it's for a reduced calorie spread made from vegetable oil -- as most are -- but what brand it is for, I can't remember.  I'm not its target market, so the advertisers could care less if I remember the specifics. 

They would probably be pleased that I am going to devote a blog post to it, however.

The ad says how wonderful "the middle" is, in that their product isn't "full fat butter" or "skinny marg".  I only know that these spreads aren't margerine from once working on an account doing PR for one such brand -- and having to explain to journalists that it was a misconception.

But it's got me thinking; is the middle really all that great?

We are taught as children it is.  The story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, other than being about trespassing or squatting, is about finding that elusive middle area, where things are "just right" -- not too hot or too cold and all the rest.  And sure, moderation is a wonderful thing -- but only in moderation.

You know what the middle says to me?  Middle of the road.  Bland.  Boring.  Inoffensive.  I say here's to the extremes.

Here's to Iggy Pop's album Raw Power -- apparently originally produced by the rock iguana himself.  The story goes that he would be pointing out dials to the sound engineers and demanding to know why this one or that one wasn't in the red.  The album is Iggy Pop at his best, in my opinion -- full throttle, no-holds-barred, and filled with a kind of apocalyptic passion.  It's not the Iggy Pop of today who advertises car insurance.

Here's to not taking things easy sometimes.  Here's to burning the candle at both ends of the day, every once in a while.  Here's to going out late when you have work early the next morning, or planning on one quiet drink and stumbling home in the early hours.  Here's to going to see the Sex Pistols, getting completely trashed, completely missing the support band, part of the start of the Sex Pistols, standing so far back that it could have been anyone on that stage, and being generally so completely out of it that you can barely remember the show at all.

Here's to reading a book cover to cover in one sitting.

Here's to procrastination and leaving things until the last minute.

Here's to the days where it isn't just right out -- but instead cold, incredibly cold, run from the bus stop cold, or the other end of the spectrum -- the days where washing hung outside is dry practically before you get back indoors.  And how on both days you don't want to leave the house.

It isn't always about excess, either.  It can be here to going out on the town on a Friday night and not drinking at all -- not drinking in moderation, but nothing at all.

Here's to being early for work. Hell, here's to being early for anything.

Here's just approaching life as all-or-nothing, sometimes.

Working late and walking late

Tonight I had to work late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The future is quite different to the present. One thing we have in common with the present is we still call it the present, even though it's the future.

I mentioned in the last post how I was rereading The Time Traveller's Wife, and as usual it's got me thinking about our past and future selves.  I've thought, and probably written about, a lot the idea of what we might say to our past selves, given a chance.  My main advice for my self would usually boil down to don't worry so much, and let things go.  Which is sound advice at any time.

But recently I got to thinking -- what if we were to meet our future selves on a regular basis?  I'm less interested in any tips for the future or any particular words of wisdom on how to deal with our present, but more in the personal relationship between our selves.

My main thought is really: would we like ourselves?  It is widely accepted that the traits we admire in others are the things we like about ourselves, and conversely the things that we dislike and the things that annoy us in other people are those that we dislike about ourselves.  With this in mind, would we by default like these future selves because they have all of the qualities we like?

Even if we can't be objective about our own personality and achievements, would meeting ourself as another person be far enough removed for us to like "them", or would we see all of our flaws?  What would it be like if there was mutual animosity with ourselves whenever we met?

What would you say?  "You need to be nicer to me?" 

Maybe such a meeting would be all we need to get a sense of perspective.  If we had no trouble being objective about this future self that we meet, being able to see that they try their hardest and have good intentions even if things don't always work out would we then be able to put into practice when thinking about ourselves?

It seems counter-intuitive to imagine that we could ever be hostile to a visiting future self.  If they turned up on our doorstep at 3am, naked and shivering with cold, and needing to be let in could we turn them away, knowing that it will literally be us that need that help in the future?  It might seem to detached from us, too hard to accept that it really would be us.  It's unlike if a future self met our present in need, since then they would remember their own kindness -- it is almost like you have to pay it forward, you do the right thing so that it comes back to you when you need it.

There's no real conclusion to be made -- but I'm interested to hear others thoughts on the idea, if it even makes any sense.  Do you like who you are?  Do you think if you met yourself you would like them, or would you seem them embodying all your insecurities?

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.

Croc-wrestling wife-lob dancefloor kingpin's plea

I stumbled onto a story today. I wish I could say I literally stumbled upon, because I think SU is one of the coolest things since English muffins, but instead it was on my Google homepage.

Since my work got all nasty and/or clever and restricted access to a heap of sites, I can no longer access my Gmail in work. It used to be all I had to do was sign into my Google account, go into settings and then click on my email settings. There it would be, my email, looking all pretty and shiny and full of spam emails and very little else. I got so bored the other day I considered setting up a hotmail account just to reply to a spam email about helping them recover the fortune of the deceased president of Papua New Guinea, but I lost interest. I have a very short attention span, I remember one time -- oh look, wrestling...

Anyway, either because I got tech support to upgrade my machine to XP or because I updated Internet Explorer to the latest version (our company webpages don't work in Firefox, so I end up using IE for almost everything) I can't access Gmail at all now. BUT! I can log in to my Google account, which means I can see the snapshot of my inbox and know there is nothing to read in it. I can also see google reader and read the posts in it, so long as I don't try to visit Blogger or Wordpress. I have actually suggested that across the company marketers such as myself should have access to these sites, as well as access to online streaming radio, for media monitoring purposes. I don't think they bought it.

All of this is a very long-winded way of saying Google showed me this story: 'Let me use poo-flinging Roman siege engine against burglars'.

The story is about a man in Nottinghamshire who has been told by police he's not allowed to use his full-size medieval catipult to fire chicken shit at would-be burglars. And as a result of not using it, he got burgled.

The story has so many levels and angles, it's fantastic. On one hand, it's the heart-warming story of a man who has done many, many crazy things -- from firing his wife out of canons and over rivers, to accosting crocodiles who refuse to wrestle on cue. On another it's the classic British right-wing tabloid story of political correctness gone mad -- the man is under attack from criminals, but society is on the side of the crooks. The Daily Mail would have a field day with the story, or at least it would if it could somehow also blame the gays, single mothers and immigrants. If the man was being robbed by single, lesbian immigrants so much the better.

I also like the story because it raises interesting points about defending your property. It is within the law to use "reasonable force" to defend your property if you are, say, being burgled -- but the law also says this has to be proportionate. If you are being attacked by lunatic ninjas (real ones, not injured kangaroos) with samurai swords, does that mean you are legally within your right to grab your own Hattori Hanzo sword and take them on? If you were to hit an intruder with a frying pan, would you have to prove in court that you believed they might also have a large, blunt instrument? And of course, the timeless argument of what about guns.

The UK gun lobby claim that Government hysteria after tragedies such as Dunblane have meant that responsible gun owners are gun owners no more, but that illegal guns are now more plentiful on the UK streets than ever before. The criminal underworld is flooded with cheap weapons (funny, I wrote cheap women at first) from former Soviet countries and apparently it doesn't take much to find one of your own. If you were so inclined.

You could argue that it is entirely likely a burglar or robber on your property in the dead of night could have a gun -- so should you have a gun yourself? I remember back when I lived in Salt Lake City hearing about the town of Virgin, Utah, where it was illegal not to own a gun, with which to defend your property.

So what exactly is proportionate, then? One could argue this man wasn't hurling rocks or dead cows at people, only piles of crap -- but given his background, neither would be surprising. Perhaps it is more the booby-trapping of your poperty that is frowned upon -- would it be different if old Grumpy Joe had to run to his catapult in his dressing gown and manually load it?

What does this all mean? Is your home your castle, and do you have the right to defend it? Or is that what the police are for, tackling criminals and illegal activity, while you have the protection of locks and contents insurance? And aside from any of that, would you ever let someone fire you out of a canon?

Luckily, Jay...

I stole this idea from Non-Blondie, who has more recently started blogging again, and whose wit is equalled only by her charm. Seriously, go visit her blog. I'll wait here.

It's simple enough, put luckily, and your name into google and then list the results. It helps if you are easily amused, or bored. Or both.

Luckily Jay took our advice early on in the planning stages, which left him free to make the best position choices of his tailpipes.
luckily Jay and Bern had a bit of respite from me.
Luckily, Jay’s wife Pat brought out the Brandy and a fine selection of miniatures they’d collected
Luckily, Jay is not only a successful comedian, television personality and accomplished car collector - he's also one heckuva nice guy
Luckily, Jay has had the foresight to recognize this.
Luckily, Jay took over as the national coach just then and I could systematically plan my comeback.
Luckily Jay didn't have a class that afternoon so I called him and told him what happened.
Luckily, Jay's lyrics lend more griminess to a track that has echoes of futurism and will be on the upcoming Notorious soundtrack
Luckily, Jay's problems with the electric got fixed MUCH faster than at the Lounge Ax show
Luckily, Jay, Barry and Mike were equally as dance-worthy

How Quickly Daft Jumping Zebras Vex

The BBC had an interesting article in its magazine section recently on what it referred to as "The Slow Death of Handwriting".

Reportedly, hand writing is become less and less common and some would say decreasingly important -- to the point where experts speculate our great-great-grandchildren will be unable to read something that was hand written.

Anyone who sees hand written letters or forms on a regular basis will think "so what?" to this concept -- since most handwriting is already largely illegible to anyone, except the writer themselves.

The need for pen and paper is becoming less as time marches on and technology progresses -- and for a large part, I welcome it. I have always been s l o w at writing, and tend to get cramps in my hand if I write for any length of time. On top of this, my handwriting is a mangled, half-printed script. It is by no means beautiful or elegant.

I think my terrible attempt at handwriting was probably part of what hindered me in trying to learn shorthand -- that and chronic laziness, along with inconvenient hospital appointments that used to clash with my Tuesday morning class. But yes, with shorthand it is very important to be joining up your letters, to be able to write clearly, and to be able to write quickly. Since I don't really do any of those three, the odds weren't in my favour to begin with. Just the same, even now I do sometimes my lack of Teeline and the pages of dictation that look like Arabic.

In my job it's not uncommon for me to receive hand-written letters, or hand-written nomination forms for the employee of the month award, from customers. Putting aside the terrible grammar and spelling you so often see, the handwriting itself is a major factor in trying to decipher what is scrawled on the page. I wouldn't call it an ancient art form.

It's said you can tell someone's character from their handwriting. Maybe so, but I've never seen it put to the test nor learned the trick of it myself. I like to hand write letters and sometimes think maybe I should study calligraphy, just to get a vaguely decent looking hand -- but there is so little call for it, and so little point.

Just the same, I'd like to imitate the BBC's request and invite anyone and everyone reading this -- it's hard to tell if anyone does -- to send me scans or photographs of their own handwriting. I will upload my own tomorrow when I find my own example. Simply copy out the phrase "How Quickly Daft Jumping Zebras Vex" and send it to me on email, the address should be in my profile. I will feature any and every example I get sent -- and it will look a bit sad if there is only my own to see.

Update: The aptly-named Delightful Jen is first off the mark with this sample of her writing

Update 2:
Tom, a lurking non-blogger, has also contributed a sample of his own writing, which reportedly was once likened to an explosion in a sperm bank. I happen to quite like it.

Update 3: Jamie has contributed her own writing sample, too and tells me: "My penmanship made my teachers cringe. I wrote 'like a boy', so they thought I might be developmentally challanged, but I was either on par or ridiculously ahead of my peers in everything they tested me in. After years of making me practice penmanship over summer vacation, they finally gave up."

It seems there are people visiting here after all -- and I know there must be some more of you, so come on -- put your hands where i can see them.

25 things

I was tagged to do this so many times on Facebook, I thought it might provide interesting reading for anyone who might happen by this corner of the internet today.

1. I talk to myself. Out loud. Sometimes people in the supermarket give me strange looks -- I don't know if it's because I'm muttering to myself, or if they think I am talking to the food.
2. I like plants. And planting things. I don't have the patience or attention span to have a well-tended garden, but I like growing random plants -- like the half a dozen chilli plants I left growing in my parents conservatory. Or the sunflowers I grow every year. I hope my garden here gets enough sun for sunflowers.
3. I like to pretend there is an international cat network, where cats talk to each other and report to each other their sightings of people. If I see a cat when I am on holiday, I imagine it is checking up on me and reporting back that I have been sighted, and that I am OK.
4. I like to cook. Though as with many things -- favourite songs, bands, items of clothing -- I have favourite recipes and styles of food I like to cook.
5. I am scared of failure, in almost every area of my life. Scared that I will fail in my professional life, in my personal relationships -- scared that I will fail in Peru. It is probably just a deep seated lack of confidence.
6. I believe I have abandonment issues, from being seriously ill in hospital as a child.
7. Recently, I've lost my passion for my photography. My trouble is, it all feels like it's been done before or I've seen it before. There's nothing remarkable that I haven't seen on a hundred flickr pages. Though I will take pictures in Peru almost compulsively, I doubt any of it will have that unique edge I crave.
8. Number 7 sort of relates to how I feel with a lot of my life.
9. Sometimes I spend absurd lengths of time wondering how my younger self would see me as I am now, and what they would think.
10. There is almost no vegetable I would prefer to eat raw than cooked. Peppers are maybe an exception.
11. I don't believe that extra-terrestrial life forms are visiting the earth. I think if they were smart/advanced enough to be able to visit the earth, they would be smart enough not to.
12. I like the sound of foreign languages, regadless of if I can or can't understand them. Often moreso if I can't. An inane conversation about Big Brother if it was spoken in French and I couldn't understand it, would still sound beautiful. I really like learning and speaking other languages, though I lack the motivation to ever learn them fully. Sometimes I have a mental lapse in a restaurant and forget in what language I should be thanking the server.
13. On equal opportunities forms, or the like, I like to describe myself as "French Irish" -- though it's not untrue, it's quite far removed now.
14. Sometimes I believe that I am special or gifted in some amazing and awesome way, like in the Heroes or X-Men sense, and that any day my special powers will manifest. No sign of them yet.
15. I used to have a large, ugly birthmark on my left side. Except it turned out it wasn't a birthmark at all, it had a texture and in spots where I had knocked it or caught it, it had turned black. It was removed in surgery perhaps 18 years ago. I still have to keep a close watch on other moles I have for anything unusual. I have a sensitivity to the sun that would technically be described as an allergy.
16. I can't name just one physical feature about myself I dislike.
17. I can remember whole poems, entire songs, or the order of songs on mix tapes made for me 10 years ago or more, but sometimes I forget to make any lunch before I go to work.
18. I think the universe is meaningless and random and that coincidences are not meaningful.
19. I get inexplicably excited about stupid things, or the strangest things. Even work at times. It's usually related to writing.
20. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, worried about something trivial, and have to work on going back to sleep.
21. There was a time, probably for a period of about a few days, I was scared of Spontaneous Human Combustion. I was a strange child.
22. I think Alexei Sayle's books of short stories are perhaps the best 'guides' to English life I can think of, without them ever meaning to be. Inspired by an Alexei Sayle short story, I want to write to eminent poets and invite myself over for tea, and wonder what cakes they might offer.
23. I'm a bit of a sad fan boy about poets, and was once star-struck meeting Simon Armitage and Carol Ann Duffy. I was afraid Duffy would hate me for being a man, on the contrary she was incredibly nice. Simon Armitage was shy and probably didn't know what to do with an over-excited fan boy who thought he was a rock star. John Hegley scares me a little.
24. Sometimes I see people with dalmations, and I worry that if I ever one as a pet, I wouldn't be able to keep it as clean as they do, and then people would see it and think badly of me for not keeping my dog white enough. I have no great desire for one as a pet, and since you ask I would prefer a huskie.
25. I would like to be able to whistle so that I could whistle inappropriate songs or tunes at opportune moments for my own amusement, and perhaps to provide strangers with something noteworthy in their day -- like when you walk into a shop on a cold and wet day and hear 'Summer Holiday' playing, or hear a random but memorable snatch of someone's conversation as you pass them in the street.

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?

The flag, continued

I got fed up with waiting for Mr Flag to reply to my email today, so in the end I just called them. The conversation went something like:

Me: Hi, can I speak to customer services, please?
Assistant: Sure, how can I help?
Me: I ordered an Australian flag at the weekend, but when it arrived yesterday it was a World War II German flag. With a Swastika on.
Me: I still have my confirmation email that says I ordered the Australian one...
Assistant: Oh, can I have your order number?
Me: Sure, it's #########
Assistant: Mr *****
Me: Yep, that's me.
Assistant: (apparently trying not to laugh) I'm sorry about this, I will send you out your order again, and will include a return envelope for you to send the other one back.
Me: Thanks, you're very helpful.
Assistant: (still faintly amused but hopes she's hiding it well) I... don't know how this happened.
Me: Ahh well, these things happen, huh?

I know perfectly well this wasn't an accident -- since it's barely possible with the way the site is set up to order such a different flag as this. Had it been any other flag in the whole world I would have thought it was just a mix up, but clearly this was someone being a little shit.

I did consider trying to make a fuss, claim all sorts of offence had been caused, arguments started, tears shed, long family histories dishonoured, but it wasn't worth it. The girl and I are both vaguely amused about it, while thinking they could have tried to be a little more contrite about it.

All things taken into account, their service has been really very good -- the first flag was sent and arrived very quickly, and there was never a moment's hesitation about replacing the flag and sending me a return envelope. It's unfortunate that someone in their team has a funny sort of sense of humour -- or was trying to make trouble -- but if this replacement comes by Monday morning, I'll forgive and forget.

Though I still think I should have tried to claim because of all the distress they should send me the £90 version of the flag, rather than the £5 I bought.

Mix up with Mr Flag

I am not entirely sure how it has happened, but I ordered as a gift for the girl this from Mr Flag.

....

....

But instead I received this one.


I will not be happy if I have to pay to return it and pay for the correct item to be sent to me.

Plants

With a lack of anything to do on a Bank Holiday Monday when it was pouring torrentially with rain, I went to the garden centre.

I didn't really know what I wanted. I wanted something leafy and green for my room, to try and circulate the air a bit or some such thing. My snake plant, Frank, lives mostly in the conservatory these days as I think he likes the light down there.

I never did find what I was looking for, since I didn't know what it was. Instead, I bought a sunflower-growing-pot. It's a bright yellow plant pot, and comes complete with some dried compost and a small packet of seeds. I grew several big sunflowers with this same kit last year, so I bought another one.

I also bought a packet of sunflower seeds to give to my colleague Matt. I was talking to him last week about growing sunflowers and he said his wife likes sunflowers. I thought he might like to involve his little boy with growing them, too. It seemed right to buy something small for him, since when Annette took a week off work a couple of weeks back as she had just got two new kittens, I bought her some cat treats for them.

I eventually left the garden centre, with a grow your own chilli plant. The chilli plant was reduced to half price. The girl on the checkout didn't seem to notice this, so I was sure to point out on the receipt when I paid full price. A debate followed where we discussed whether the sticker said "3.99" or "6.99". It looked nothing like a 6.

I live a life of high excitement.

Freak on a train

I was talking to a crazy man on the train the other day.

You know how it is; you get on the train and look around for a place to sit. But all the seats are taken and you really don't want to stand. Then you notice one man sitting on his own and several empty seats all around him. And you just know there must be a good reason why nobody wants to sit near this guy, but you aren't going far so figure you can take your chances.
And it all makes good blog fodder.

I sit down and this wild-eyed, toothless madman looks at me. I pretend to be fascinated with something outside the window. Then a girl listening to her iPod sits down next to crazy man. She is listening to her music loudly, so that all you can hear is the tinny, hissing beat. Crazy man says something to me. I don't know what it is, but I figure it's something about personal stereos not being very personal. I make a noise of agreement. "What?" he says "Hm, nothing" I mumble and continue to look out the window. But I've spoken to him now.

He keeps looking at me, and looking at this girl, then he leans towards me
"Is she with you?" he asks
I laugh "No" I tell him. This doesn't seem clear enough to him.
"Is she your girlfriend?"
"No. I only saw her for the first time when she sat down."
"Nice, though, isn't she?"
"Yes, she's very pretty"
"Why don't you ask her out?"
"I don't think my girlfriend would like that very much"
"Fair enough, I'm just trying to help you out, mate"

I thanked him for the thought, but assured him it wasn't necessary. Then crazy man starts complaining how nobody talks on trains any more. It did seem a little strange when he mentioned it, the carriage was full of people, but also completely silent. Except for him. He was telling me how in his day people would all talk to each other on the train. I was tempted to tell him that people are likely to think you're a crazy freak if you talk to them, but figured it best not to call him names, in case he stabbed me for it.

He moves on to the subject of work. I'm dressed in my finest black suit since I'd just been to an interview and he asks me what I do. I think we can see where this is leading. I was tempted to tell him I was an astronaut. But instead I tell him I'm an artist, I was carrying my bird canvas with me, after all. He says "Really?" and makes a drinking gesture with a questioning look. I laugh and tell him, yes, I'm a piss artist. He points out that I said it and not him, so I can't get mad.
"But really," he wants to know, "what sort of thing do you do?"

If you ever seen Spaced you will remember the artist character, Brian, who whenever he was asked that question would reply with "Anger...Pain...Fear...Aggression...". It took a world of restraint not to take the piss and repeat this to crazy man. Instead I talked a bit about photography and a move towards painting. He asked me if there was a lot of money in it. None at all, I told him. I don't make any money out of art. He told me I should be a plumber, like him. How he was earning 35k a year, and when he completes his next course he will be on more like 50k.

You'd think with that sort of money he'd get some false teeth or something, since he had only one or two mangled, discoloured lumps for his gnashers.

Luckily about this point it was my stop, so I was able to bid farewell to the freak and his misguided matchmaking and try to navigate my way from Deptford to Goldsmith's College...

Olfactory

I think the sense of smell is the most underrated, out of all the senses. Many people will talk with horror about what life would be like if they couldn't hear, people will imagine a nightmarish existence without being able to see, a life without being able to taste would be a life barely lived at all -- but smell is something we don't always rate that highly.

I have a pretty lousy sense of smell. My hearing isn't great for that matter, and while we're on the subject my eyesight leaves something to be desired... but I sometimes wonder if I might be suffering some kind of permanent allergy, affecting my sense of smell. Mostly because other people tend to notice smells before I do.

I worry on occasion that I might wear too much aftershave. Going out on a Friday night, I might be crammed in the backseat of a car -- and someone, usually Austin or his fiancée -- will remark that I smell good, or perhaps I'll be buying some chewing gum in a shop on a Sunday morning, and the girl on the checkout will ask me if I'm wearing Issey Miyake. I usually get embarrassed at that point, both from the attention and the idea that I must be wearing too much if someone else can not only pick up on a scent but be able to identify it. I'll generally still be unable to smell it much at all.

Despite not having the most wondrous of abilities in that department, I make strong associations with smells. When I was in New York city, I decided it was a city of smells and that one would be able to navigate the city without the need for sight, relying on scent alone. There was the corner that always smelled of drains, or the man selling chestnuts, or any number of other olfactory landmarks. After a while it became a kind of shorthand; go down the street, past this electronics store, then turn left on the corner when you can smell drains.

One of my favourite smells is Sunday night hockey. You walk in through the doors, and are immediately assaulted with a variety of smells -- the slightly sweaty, musty smell of the skates (and probably the players), the various canteen food stuffs, the chemical smell of the ice, and general people smells. I feel happy almost immediately when I smell it all, as it reminds me of good times. Lots of lousy games with Chelmsford being unable to play as a team, but generally good times.

Another smell I love is swimming pools. I love to swim. I find it tremendously relaxing, while at the same time requiring enough exertion to tire me out and release those feel-good endorphins. I love the smell of the chlorine on my skin, that no matter how much you scrub in the shower at the pool afterwards you never quite get rid of. There was a time when I was living in Derby where I was swimming every day -- I'd get up, not bother to shower, just throw on some jeans and a baggy hoody, then head to the pool for an hour of laps. I've taken now to enjoying swimming on my own on a Friday night more than going to the pub with my friends. I went to the pool tonight, and I felt my heart speed up a little with excitement when I smelled the warm air and the chlorine of the pool.

Unfortunately, they're a bunch of bastards and I found out that my timetable was out of date -- Thursday nights is now "staff training", so I didn't get my fix.

Smells can be bittersweet, too -- there's been so many times when I've shared a bed with a girl for a few days, but after she'd gone had to wash my sheets immediately, as I couldn't stand to have the smell but not the person.

But there are a hundred smells I love, and I don't even include fresh cut grass or baking bread. I love the smell of Mexican food (conversely, I strongly dislike the smell of Indian food, even if there are probably a lot of dishes I expect I might like), I love the smell of surf wax -- how it lingers on your hands, from spending so long rubbing slow circles of wax on a board. I love the salty smell of 'the sea', which you get here with the wind in the right direction and the tide is out on the river, or sometimes when it rains and the stones on my drive smell like a pebble beach somewhere. And though it might sound a little unhygenic, I like the smell of my clothes when they have lost the immediate "just washed" smell from the machine.
Not unclean, but not not sterile either.

The great black bird

As a child, I was troubled with a recurring nightmare. I would be on my own, in our back garden, happily playing. And I would be carried off by a black bird.

I have no idea where the idea came from, but I can remember no other dream I have ever had that recurred like this one. I wish I could be more dramatic about it, and could describe the feel of the warm sun on my skin, or a feeling of simple, innocent happiness, before being snatched by the claws of this shrieking bird. But it wouldn't be true, for myself -- in my mind's eye the image is so clear, of playing quietly and of the bird carrying me away, but I can't flesh it out with horror story detail.

Some older readers -- or kind visitors who have been curious enough to read through my archives -- may remember a post about the First Time Club. A group of people I discovered entirely at random one day, who meet in London about once a month and as a collective do things for the first time. Activities they have joined in have included Morris Dancing, poetry readings and going to the dog racing. Where I got involved was with an art class. I said sign me up, and the next thing I knew I was posing for a life drawing class with a bunch of strangers.

There's been other opportunities to meet them that have passed by for one reason or another -- but usually a combination of having to work and not having the money to travel into London on top of whatever else we would do. I might have gone to the Christmas ball at torture garden, if it hadn't been for the cost of the ticket, hiring a costume, drinks, a travelcard, cab fare home... I say to myself there's always next time.

This time I could hardly turn down. The first time is taking part in a gallery show, Hannah who organises these things has for her own personal reasons arranged for us volunteers to display our artistic skills. At first, I said no sweat, I can get a photo on canvas printed to order, and at the end of the show take it home and put it on my wall.

Except that was kind of cheating. In discussion with Hannah about it, she said that didn't really count -- it wasn't really doing something for the first time if I already produced these pictures. She went on to tell me about the other artists taking part, how one man is a life model who draws figuratively, but he is making a sculpture out of sweet tins. It got me thinking, don't I always say I want to paint?

Except I kind of stalled there. Any time Hannah wanted to meet was always inconvenient (yet another reason for me to move to London) and I was just drawing a blank with ideas. I don't get "visual" ideas. I don't wake up one day with a great idea for a photograph (or drawing, painting, whatever) -- unlike how I might get a sudden sentence or turn of phrase strike me that I want to write down. I can't draw so it isn't like I sketch idly in my free time. For weeks I had nothing. I tried asking the universe for inspiration, but much like asking it to deliver me a quid for the coke machine and the parking space at work I wanted, still nothing was coming.

Eventually I managed to arrange a meeting with Hannah, and in a dramatic break with tradition it seemed the universe delivered. I remembered having recently told Dune about this childhood nightmare, and it suddenly seemed like this would be the perfect picture -- something deeply personal and meaningful to me. A dramatic and dark picture of this black bird from my childhood dreams, and drawing on my background as a writer, the bird would be partially obscuring a block of text, explaining about the dream.

Hannah was politely supportive of the idea -- I couldn't tell you if she thought it was any good or not, as I don't think she would have told me if she didn't like it. And that doesn't matter anyway, it's not for her or for anyone else. By way of encouragement, she suggested looking into folklore associations with black birds -- although sticking mainly to English culture, so as not to get too wanky about it (I might be paraphrasing there).

In my research, I've found the usual stories of a crow circling house being an omen of death, and of the legends surrounding the ravens of the Tower of London. What I didn't expect to find was a reference to traditional folklore from Yorkshire, where apparently children are told if they don't behave, they will be taken away by a great, black bird. The idea is obviously very Christian in nature, with the bird being the devil taking away sinners -- and of course, this would tie in with my own Catholic childhood. I'm wondering now what relative would have told me about this great, black bird -- because I am sure I didn't come to the idea entirely on my own.

The art itself is making slow progress. I forced myself to sit down the other day and look up bird images -- since I would need some kind of template to work with, being unable to draw. After what felt like hours -- the more specific I tried to be with my search terms, the less relevant they became -- I found the image I wanted, and with some work put together a kind of mock up in word of what I wanted. I have the text more or less how I want it, and the bird over the top -- although in this version the bird doesn't obscure the text.

What I need now is a canvas block, or several. I need to feel the canvas to know what size it should be; I am thinking something large like an A2 size at the moment. I also need to work out how I am going to paint or print this text onto the canvas, and most troubling of all how I am going to get the bird image onto the page. Suggestions are welcome, particularly suggestions as to what kind of paint would be good to use, where I can buy canvas blocks and how I might be able to get what is essentially a digital image painted onto my canvas...

Spamusement

Do you ever look at your spam emails? I think there's something very weird going on in there.

Generally speaking, as a rule, it's a good idea not to open any spam emails. Often they can contain scripts to alert the sender they have been opened, and that your account is active: giving them the big green GO sign to send more. Not to mention they could contain potentially various other nastiness, and the fact that you probably don't want to enlarge your penis or buy dodgy Viagra.

There was a time when I noticed text hidden in spam emails. If you opened the emails in a normal web-browser, all appeared normal -- but if you tried to view them in something that didn't support html, you saw something completely different. It seems that in an effort to subvert spam filters, these emails would contain large blocks of text -- extracts from Moby Dick, random, rambling sentences repeating themselves like a surrealist poem. I think somewhere in the dungeons of my blog here I've talked about it before, and posted extracts. Go take a look now, I'll wait for you here.

Back? Good. These days I don't open the emails -- and largely give no more thought to it than telling Gmail to delete all messages, without more than a cursory glance to check that a long-lost love has contacted me and been mistaken for a spammer. The other day, though, I was bored waiting for a train, and took the time to read down the list of senders and subjects.

What I am wondering is if these emails are targeted directly at me, if they have somehow found their way to me though other sites I have frequented, or if they are just following traditional themes of humanity. What I am wondering is if spam is controlled by the eddying currents of the universe?

I'm particularly interested that today when I look at my spam folder there is an email entitled "top notch gift ideas here". How did they know it's my Mum's birthday coming up and I was stuck for gift ideas? For that matter, my Dad and brother are reportedly also not exactly brimming with ideas. Perhaps it's just a safe bet, a bit like with horoscopes -- if you mention that you are trying to think of gift ideas, even if you weren't before you start wondering if you should be. Even if there's not a birthday, perhaps Mother's Day is coming up (if you're a silly country who has it on a different date to England), or it could be Father's Day, or a birthday, or a maybe a friend needs cheering up, or you are reminded that you haven't bought a gift for your partner in a while and it would be a nice surprise. Can anyone here say that there is nothing in their foreseeable future that might require a gift?

As for sex and dating, that's probably a given. You might be in a happy relationship, spending many nights (or days) putting into practice the yoga positions you have learned -- but there's nothing like sowing a little doubt in minds of men. "This will allow you have more happy nights with your girls!" reads one email subject, while others use the only phrase men fear more than "long term commitment" -- erectile dysfunction. It could be that you are in the absolute prime of your health, you get plenty of sleep, don't eat too much red meat or saturated fat, you exercise regularly (be it bedroom gymnastics, police dog training or just something more mundane) and you are happy, content and relaxed. Why would you ever need to worry about erectile dysfunction? But the doubt is there now. You might. You're not getting any younger... And of course, a worry itself can be a cause just as much as anything else. Even if you had never thought about it before, you might do now that it's been brought up.

If you aren't in a relationship (in whatever context you deem necessary) then there's plenty for you, ranging from <3 <3 <3 <3 Get A Date! <3 <3 and Meet Your Soulmate!, for those who might be actively looking but not finding, to the more insidious "You REALLY need to find someone special. Seriously." which I think almost shames you into admitting you aren't happy. It's like if someone said "You REALLY need to brush your teeth. Seriously" even if you had never given it any thought before, you will now be asking yourself what's wrong with your gnashers.

Other than that, of course there are dozens of emails offering money; "Get rich quick!" screams one email, while another I don't understand instructs me to "Turn GOLD into CASH". Surely if I had gold bars lying about, cluttering up the place, I wouldn't be too concerned about turning them into cash? And I don't think the chunky gold-plated jewellery from Argos that chavs so adore is what they're talking about.

But again, the job emails are like dating and sex -- they make you stop. They tell you that nurses are in demand, ask if you've thought of becoming a cop? Maybe these don't appeal to you, so there's lots of "work from home!" suggestions, along with more off the wall ideas that might appeal to people who read spam emails -- things like "massage therapist" or a career in culinary arts. Doesn't that sound more interesting than what you are doing? There's jobs for people who like to wear uniforms, jobs for people who don't like to leave the house and even jobs for people who like getting their hands dirty.

If the universe was really trying to tell me something, I'd expect less emails like "Lose weight without trying" (which sounds like having dysentery if you ask me) and in their place emails that would say "Sell your art without having to be any good!" or "Become a musical genius overnight!". Emails that simply say ____________cars_________ in the subject don't do a lot for me. Although, now you mention it, I would like a new car, with power steering, and air conditioning, and a CD player that doesn't skip.....Maybe I had better read that email.

The Movie Meme

By now, you should know the drill from where you've seen it everywhere else -- be the first to guess the films and get a prize. And no cheating, God's watching. 04/04/08 -- because I'm generous, I'll now give clues for those remaining

1 -This is not 'nam this is bowling, there are rules.
The Big Lebowski correctly guessed by Mez!

2 -Greed is for amateurs. Disorder, chaos, anarchy: now that's fun.
(2nd quote) -They're all dead, they just don't know it yet.
The Crow, correctly guessed by Jamie!

3 -How is it that you recall the most trivial events?
- I'll never forget it. How many times do you get to see Smokey fuck the Bandit?
(2nd quote) -- Didn't I look just like Burt Reynolds?
- Except for the moustache.
Mallrats, correctly guessed by Mez!

4 -When you go on like this, you know what you sound like?
- I sound like a sensible fucking man, is what I sound like.
(2nd quote) -Would you give a guy a foot massage?
Pulp Fiction, correctly guessed by Jamie!

5 -I see the strongest and smartest men who've ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need.
(2nd quote) -I haven't been fucked like that since grade school.
Fight Club, correctly guessed by Jamie!

6 -I always thought it'd be better to be a fake somebody than a real nobody
The Talented Mr Ripley, correctly guessed by Aurore!

7 -Smile you son of a BITCH
(2nd quote) -Farewell and adieu to you, fair Spanish ladies. Farewell and adieu, you ladies of Spain. For we've received orders for to sail back to Boston. And so nevermore shall we see you again.
Jaws, correctly guessed by Jamie!

8 -I don't like your manners.
- And I'm not crazy about yours. I didn't ask to see you. I don't mind if you don't like my manners, I don't like them myself. They are pretty bad. I grieve over them on long winter evenings.
(2nd quote) -My, my, my! Such a lot of guns around town and so few brains! You know, you're the second guy I've met today that seems to think a gat in the hand means the world by the tail.

9 -CAN WE PLEASE... JUST CALM... THE FUCK... DOWN!
Shaun of the Dead, correctly guessed by Mez!

10 -How can you be a drug addict in the new millennium? Drugs are so retro.
- Before I became a drug addict, I had so many problems. Now I just have one - Drugs! It's given my life real focus.
(2nd quote) -Power to the people who punish bad cinema!

11 -Have you ever transcended space and time?
- Yes. No. Uh, time, not space... No, I don't know what you're talking about.
I Heart Huckabees, correctly guessed by Jac!

12 -What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?
High Fidelity, correctly guessed by Jac!

13 -I'm not gonna drain you completely. You're gonna turn for me. You'll be my slave. You'll live for me. You'll eat bugs because I order it. Why? Because I don't think you're worthy of human blood. You'll feed on the blood of stray dogs. You'll be my foot stool. And at my command, you'll lick the dog shit from my boot heel. Since you'll be my dog, your new name will be "Spot".
From Dusk Till Dawn, correctly guessed by Dune!

14 -Can you keep a secret? I'm trying to organize a prison break. I'm looking for, like, an accomplice. We have to first get out of this bar, then the hotel, then the city, and then the country. Are you in or you out?
Lost in Translation, correctly guessed by Jac!

15 -Marriage is an important part of getting ahead: lets people know you're not a homo; married guy seems more stable; people see the ring, they think at least somebody can stand the son of a bitch; ladies see the ring, they know immediately you must have some cash or your cock must work.
(2nd quote) -Blow me, all right? But not literally, though. Unfortunately, there's no promotion involved for you

16 -So I'm rappelling down Mount Vesuvius when suddenly I slip, and I start to fall. Just falling, ahh ahh, I'll never forget the terror. When suddenly I realize "Holy shit, haven't you been smoking Peyote for six straight days, and couldn't some of this maybe be in your head?"
Zoolander, correctly guessed by Mez!

17 -I hope it feels so good to be right. There's nothing more exhilarating than pointing out the shortcomings of others, is there?
Clerks, correctly guessed by Mez!

18 -Amid the chaos of that day, when all I could hear was the thunder of gunshots, and all I could smell was the violence in the air, I look back and am amazed that my thoughts were so clear and true, that three words went through my mind endlessly, repeating themselves like a broken record: you're so cool, you're so cool, you're so cool.
(2nd quote) -I haven't killed anybody since 1984.

19 -No, you *couldn't* just call them the Naughty Twins. They're the Assfuck Twins. Why would you call them The Naughty Twins when they get fucked in the ass all the time?
-Well, that's pretty naughty.
(2nd quote) -How would Christ benefit from me putting my tongue in someone's mouth?
Orgazmo, correctly guessed by Jamie!

20 -We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, laughers, screamers... Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get into locked a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, correctly guessed by Mez!

Update: the results
#8: The Big Sleep -- a classic film noir starring Humphrey Bogart, and a loose basis for The Big Lebowski. #10: Cecil B. Demented -- how anyone could have overlooked this film is beyond me. #15: The Departed -- a gangster film on par with Goodfellas and Donnie Brasco, you should all be ashamed for not recognising the quotes (although granted it's not the most quote-worthy of films). #18: True Romance -- set partly in Detroit, so Jamie really should have known it -- also a classic Tarantino-penned movie, with award-worthy performances.

The commenter with the first to get the most right was Mez, who got a grand total of six correct answers. I know many of you could possibly have rivalled or beaten this, if you had only come here sooner -- so let that be a lesson to you all.

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 :)

Eight for '08

Since all the popular kids are doing it, and because I have so little else to write about right now -- the Eight Things About Me:

Eight things I am passionate about

* Music. I think I would go insane without music -- finding new artists, "discovering" for myself old artists, making compilation CDs, live music, recorded music. But only good music ;)

* Reading. It appals me that so many people don't read a book from one year to the next, and many more have never read a book. But not just books -- I love reading blogs, letters, emails, newspapers, news websites....

* Poetry. This is separate to reading because for me it involves hearing it too -- when I'm alone, I like to read poetry out loud to myself, it can alter how you perceive the poem. Poetry is almost like music to me, and I treat certain poets like rock stars. I haven't written poetry in some time now, but I value it as a form of self expression.

* Art. Both my own photography, and the work of others. I don't much distinguish between modern art and classical art -- I rate Banksy and Damien Hirst as artists as highly as Van Gogh. Art that challenges, art that provokes a reaction, art that inspires thought -- as well as art that just makes me happy. I like to wander the quiet halls of art galleries, stopping at pictures and just making a quiet decision if I like it, and what I feel.

*Travel. Something I don't do nearly enough of -- but there's so many places I want to see.

* People. While I often asset that people suck and I'm both shy and somewhat reclusive, I am also conversely passionate about people. I am passionate about friends, people whose lives intersect with mine in whatever contexts -- I am sometimes even passionate about wanting to help people, in small ways.

* I guess following on from "people" is animals. Not passionate like those people who have rooms full of cats and various animals running loose in the house, but I am passionate about my cat in particular and other animals in general.

* Space, in a very odd way. I am ignorant of a lot of the science about it, but I love looking at the moon and the stars, and enjoy reading about it on Astronomy Picture of the Day, even if I don't always understand it all. I was fascinated to read in the news yesterday about the cloud of hydrogen gas that is set to collide with the Milky Way, which would set off a new burst of star formation in our galaxy.


Eight things I want to do before I die

* Travel (more of) the world.
* BASE Jumping.
* Live abroad in a non-English speaking country (no, the USA doesn't count).
* Paint.
* Sell my art.
* Learn to surf properly.
* Trek the Inca Trail
* Celebrate Christmas in the Southern Hemisphere

Eight things I say often

* What's up?
* You suck.
* de nada (and other random phrases in Spanish)
* Aww, man (like Swiper in Dora the Explorer)
* "You like that, do you boy?" (said in a Cockney voice) or "This is an outrage!" (both of which are Mighty Boosh references)
* Shitbag.
* Yoink!
* Do you remember....

Eight books I’ve read recently

* Saturday, by Ian McEwan (reminded me a lot of Enduring Love, but not as good)
* Northern Lights, by Philip Pullman (I wanted to re-familiarise myself with the story before watching The Golden Compass)
* Into the Wild, by Jon Krakauer
* What Should I Do with My Life?, by Po Bronson
* Kafka On The Shore, by Haruki Murakami
* What's It All About? Philosophy and the Meaning of Life, by Julian Baggini
* Conversations with God, by Neale Donald Walsh
* You Are Being Lied To: The Disinformation Guide to Media Distortion, Historical Whitewashes and Cultural Myths (various authors)

Eight songs I could listen to over and over (and frequently do)

* Hotel Yorba, by the White Stripes
* You Had Time, by Ani DiFranco
* I'm Not OK, I Promise by My Chemical Romance
* Like A Lion, by Suicide Bid
* Girl Anachronism, by Dresden Dolls
* Isabella County, 1992, by Great Lakes Myth Society
* A New England, by Billy Bragg
* Mono, by Courtney Love

But if I was making a triple cd (8×3) I’d also include

* Tangled Up in Blue, by Bob Dylan
* Superman's Dead, by Our Lady Peace
* I'm Shipping Up To Boston, by Dropkick Murphys
* Gold Lion, by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
* Tea Dance, by Terrorvision
* Pull Shapes, by The Pipettes
* Cherub Rock, by Smashing Pumpkins
* Nailed to the Body of Lincoln, by The Original Brothers and Sisters of Love
* Fake Tales of San Francisco, by Arctic Monkeys
* This Is Your Life, by the Dust Brothers
* DUI, by Har Mar Superstar
* She Runs Away, by Duncan Sheik
* Take Her Out, by The Pigeon Detectives
* Portions for Foxes, by Rilo Kiley
* Mailbu, by Hole
* Big Empty, by Stone Temple Pilots


Eight movies I have seen eight times

* Pulp Fiction
* The Big Lebowski
* Jaws
* The Crow
* Lost Highway
* el Mariarchi
* Shaun of the Dead
* Fight Club

I was supposed to tag eight people -- but I don't think quite that many people read or lurk here these days, so instead I'll leave it open for anyone who hasn't already joined in.