(with apologies to Madame Boffin)
Summer is definitely on it's way. When the wind blows it has a distinctively warm edge now, particularly in the evenings as I make my way home.
Pretty soon it will be warm enough for me to bring out my t-shirt collection, which will soon encompass and take over the world, seeing as I went through a phase of buying a t-shirt for every gig I went to. If it gets really hot, I may even wear board shorts -- but that's unlikely. It's hard to imagine that only last week we were having freak blizzards and hail storms -- and may continue to for a few months yet.
As I walked to get my lunch today -- enjoying the few moments of sunshine I get while in work (now I see why you have a convertible, Baron Hashbrown) -- I was remembering the summers of when I was younger. The first days of the year when we would be allowed to play on the school field. Holding buttercups under your friend's chin to see if it glows ("you like butter"), looking for four-leaf clovers (and never ever finding one), freshly cut grass and your dad struggling to push a roller up and down the garden.
Bank holidays where the world smells of barbecues, crunchy sausages and baked potatoes -- and being terrified of wasps (not much changes there). Carnivals and town fetes and entertainment from hospital radio -- way back before it even occurred to you buy beer from the supermarket and take it to the park.
Short-sleeved shirts and tank tops and being made to wear shorts to school (but still having to wear a tie every day), waiting all year for six weeks off school. Sleeping in a tent in the garden (okay, sometimes I still do that), or just setting up a tent in the garden during the day but still sleeping indoors at night.
But now I have to admit that I've grown up. I'm 26, I work in insurance, and my lunch break is over so I have to get back on with filing. I might add to this later if I think of it.
Wednesday, 28 March 2007
Monday, 26 March 2007
The House
There's a house on my street that fascinates me.
I couldn't tell you why it does, where the strange appeal of the place lies. To look at it, it's unremarkable -- a detached, red-brick house like pretty much any of the others. I couldn't tell you anything about the people that live there, just like I couldn't with almost any house on my road.
I know the house has two -- or maybe more -- Siamese cats, and that they are often in the street or standing by the metal gate to the back garden. It's a personality quirk of mine that I remember places with the cats associated with them, but the fact that this house has Siamese cats makes it remarkable. The cats have a certain mystery to them.
As mentioned, I know nothing of the people that live there. If I think about it, I can say that at least two people live there -- adults, in middle age, and they appear reasonably well-off since I think I have seen a Mercedes or some luxury car on their drive. There are also ornaments on some window sills that suggest to me exotic holidays. This makes me think maybe they are a childless couple. Contrastingly though, I also have a feeling that a strange boy that I sometimes see in the street might live there.
I don't really know where he lives, how old he is, or even when I last saw him -- but I remember him as a fair-haired boy that would often be riding a bike in the street. I describe him as strange because I seem to remember he'd talk to strangers, not just me, but other people have commented on it. I could be completely wrong about the boy, I've never seen him entering or leaving the house. Then again, I don't think I've ever seen anyone enter or leave.
I remember one day, maybe 10 years ago now, I saw some graffiti that had been written on the wall of the house, it looked like it had been half washed-off. Now this strikes me as strange, why only half? Who would leave the job half-finished? Would you give up halfway through, go back indoors to have a beer and watch the football? I wouldn't be able to relax doing anything else. I don't know for certain, but I think the writing said "a drunk driver lives here". I remember remarking on seeing it to my brother, and he'd said obliquely that there was "a story behind" the house. Why I never asked him what the story was, I don't know. I wonder if he knew himself.
How long the graffiti stayed visible for, again, I don't remember. Sometimes now I still try and see if I can make the words out -- like the house over the road, where for years, despite numerous coats of paint, you could still make out the black streak where the Dad had been painting the guttering when his ladder started slipping out from under him. That was a strange house, too, for many years. Not any more, though, that family moved. And the family that moved in, in their place, brought cats.
I doubt I will ever know what makes this one house so fascinating. It featured in a dream I had the other night -- probably because I'd noticed it up for sale -- and this has just made me even more fascinated. I might try contacting the estate agent and ask if I can look at the house...
I couldn't tell you why it does, where the strange appeal of the place lies. To look at it, it's unremarkable -- a detached, red-brick house like pretty much any of the others. I couldn't tell you anything about the people that live there, just like I couldn't with almost any house on my road.
I know the house has two -- or maybe more -- Siamese cats, and that they are often in the street or standing by the metal gate to the back garden. It's a personality quirk of mine that I remember places with the cats associated with them, but the fact that this house has Siamese cats makes it remarkable. The cats have a certain mystery to them.
As mentioned, I know nothing of the people that live there. If I think about it, I can say that at least two people live there -- adults, in middle age, and they appear reasonably well-off since I think I have seen a Mercedes or some luxury car on their drive. There are also ornaments on some window sills that suggest to me exotic holidays. This makes me think maybe they are a childless couple. Contrastingly though, I also have a feeling that a strange boy that I sometimes see in the street might live there.
I don't really know where he lives, how old he is, or even when I last saw him -- but I remember him as a fair-haired boy that would often be riding a bike in the street. I describe him as strange because I seem to remember he'd talk to strangers, not just me, but other people have commented on it. I could be completely wrong about the boy, I've never seen him entering or leaving the house. Then again, I don't think I've ever seen anyone enter or leave.
I remember one day, maybe 10 years ago now, I saw some graffiti that had been written on the wall of the house, it looked like it had been half washed-off. Now this strikes me as strange, why only half? Who would leave the job half-finished? Would you give up halfway through, go back indoors to have a beer and watch the football? I wouldn't be able to relax doing anything else. I don't know for certain, but I think the writing said "a drunk driver lives here". I remember remarking on seeing it to my brother, and he'd said obliquely that there was "a story behind" the house. Why I never asked him what the story was, I don't know. I wonder if he knew himself.
How long the graffiti stayed visible for, again, I don't remember. Sometimes now I still try and see if I can make the words out -- like the house over the road, where for years, despite numerous coats of paint, you could still make out the black streak where the Dad had been painting the guttering when his ladder started slipping out from under him. That was a strange house, too, for many years. Not any more, though, that family moved. And the family that moved in, in their place, brought cats.
I doubt I will ever know what makes this one house so fascinating. It featured in a dream I had the other night -- probably because I'd noticed it up for sale -- and this has just made me even more fascinated. I might try contacting the estate agent and ask if I can look at the house...
Friday, 23 March 2007
The needle returns to the start of the song and we all sing along like before
It's been almost a week since my last post -- San left -- and things are exactly as normal. The last time San moved to another country she had dumped me shortly beforehand and it seemed all the more lonely -- going from a relationship, to the other person leaving altogether. I wrote it off as karma, just what I get for breaking Fiona's heart when I went off to study in Utah. That was six years ago. San last left, I don't know, maybe three years ago? And the world is a different place.
I don't miss her like before because we haven't been a couple in a long time. I no longer pine for our relationship, because I know I can read through my archives and see things were rarely roses and rainbows for us. It could be that I only felt compelled to write about things when I was troubled, and it could be we were mostly happy together, but either way -- I don't miss it any more. Though, I admit, it's a little strange knowing that I won't be getting any text messages from her.
I mentioned a few posts ago -- in my post about trying to break into the world of dating boys -- that I had struck up a conversation with a girl instead, and things seemed interesting. The update is, nothing happened. We exchanged a few emails, a few casual compliments, even exchanged numbers in a round-about sort of way -- and then just nothing. One day it had been about a week since I'd heard anything from her, and she sent me a text message to say hi and apologise for it. She never responded to my reply, and even several days later there was no response to a breezy, just saying hey, text message. I contemplated if maybe she was playing hard to get. Perhaps she wanted me to chase her. But screw that, I'm not into games -- not those kind of games, anyway. So it ended there, I never bothered to text her again if she couldn't be bothered to reply -- and likewise email. I feel only vaguely rejected.
Work continues the same as ever, neither getting more interesting nor less bareable. I've attended a couple of job interviews, and been rejected -- pretty much without any reason given -- for at least one, so far.
Aurore Sandeau is helping me to realise my dream of being a bona fide artist, by having the honour of being my very first buyer. Just as soon as I receive it from the printer, a picture of mine taken underneath a jetty, on a canvas measuring 297 x 420 millimetres will become my first-ever commissioned piece of work. It's quite an honour for us both. Anyone else wanting to buy unique works from this up-and-coming British photographer is welcome to contact me in the usual way.
But really, nothing ever happens.
I don't miss her like before because we haven't been a couple in a long time. I no longer pine for our relationship, because I know I can read through my archives and see things were rarely roses and rainbows for us. It could be that I only felt compelled to write about things when I was troubled, and it could be we were mostly happy together, but either way -- I don't miss it any more. Though, I admit, it's a little strange knowing that I won't be getting any text messages from her.
I mentioned a few posts ago -- in my post about trying to break into the world of dating boys -- that I had struck up a conversation with a girl instead, and things seemed interesting. The update is, nothing happened. We exchanged a few emails, a few casual compliments, even exchanged numbers in a round-about sort of way -- and then just nothing. One day it had been about a week since I'd heard anything from her, and she sent me a text message to say hi and apologise for it. She never responded to my reply, and even several days later there was no response to a breezy, just saying hey, text message. I contemplated if maybe she was playing hard to get. Perhaps she wanted me to chase her. But screw that, I'm not into games -- not those kind of games, anyway. So it ended there, I never bothered to text her again if she couldn't be bothered to reply -- and likewise email. I feel only vaguely rejected.
Work continues the same as ever, neither getting more interesting nor less bareable. I've attended a couple of job interviews, and been rejected -- pretty much without any reason given -- for at least one, so far.
Aurore Sandeau is helping me to realise my dream of being a bona fide artist, by having the honour of being my very first buyer. Just as soon as I receive it from the printer, a picture of mine taken underneath a jetty, on a canvas measuring 297 x 420 millimetres will become my first-ever commissioned piece of work. It's quite an honour for us both. Anyone else wanting to buy unique works from this up-and-coming British photographer is welcome to contact me in the usual way.
But really, nothing ever happens.
Monday, 19 March 2007
Saturday, March 17. 8.15pm
Saturday, March 17. 8.15pm
Maghreb Moroccan Restaurant, Islington
After arriving in Angel earlier, I was so sure I was lost. The bars and restaurants had thinned out, and so convinced I turned back on myself and headed back the way I came. About halfway back down the road, I found I had been right all along.
It was San's last night in town, before exchanging London for the suburbs of Hiroshima. She'd booked a table for 8pm in this Moroccan restaurant, and -- being me -- I was lost. All San had told me was what street it was on, and a couple of bars I knew that it was past. Having walked the length of Upper Street perhaps twice, and starting to panic as I was going to be late, I ended up texting AQA for the house number of the restaurant, after texts to San had proved fruitless. She would tell me "it's near the town hall" which assumed I knew where the town hall was, or could identify which building it was on sight, and would be able to judge how "near" it was.
It was when I got my AQA text reply I discovered I was practically at the door of the restaurant before I had turned around. And although this post starts with the paragraph from my paper journal, written in the restaurant shortly after I got there, I was still the first one to arrive. Altogether, it was a fine send-off for San -- about 17 people turned up (more than she'd even booked for) and everyone had a good time, for me it was both nice and a little strange to see some of her friends I hadn't seen in months or years. Some of her older friends now seem to consider me as more their friend in my own right than just San's old ex boyfriend. Probably because I refuse to go away. I spent most of the night talking and laughing with San's younger sister, whom I consider almost like my own adopted sister these days.
Eventually the evening came to an end, and the waiters brought out a cake that one of San's half-sisters had left. It was then that San started to cry, and she more or less continued to cry on and off until I left her late the next morning. She was crying because she was pleased her friends had come to see her off, but also I think because she was a little scared and it had only just started to sink in she was really going.
We walked home like we've done so many times before -- I didn't want to mention anything about it being a long time before we will again, if we ever do -- fighting against a strong headwind, blowing grit in our eyes. Tired from either a day in work in my case, or a late, drunken night the night before in San's we both went to bed (yes, separately) fairly soon after we got in. San had yet to start packing, with just over 12 hours to go before her taxi would be arriving for her. I questioned whether she should pack first and then sleep, but San opted to sleep first and then pack.
The next morning, when San eventually got up after choosing "snooze" about five times, I couldn't sleep in. It would be the last time I'd see San for a while, and I wasn't going to the airport with her. I had planned to go with her, even at the expense of the last hockey game of the season, but in the end Mother's Day intervened and I was required to spend the majority of the day at home. Realising that I could sleep any time, I got up to watch San pack and re-pack and re-pack again, in between her bouts of tears.
After an hour or so, her uncle turned up with something for San to sign -- I don't recall what, and I decided rather than supervise San's packing, along with her random relative and her Mum, I'd leave her to it for a short while and read my philosophy book. But before long, I couldn't concentrate and actually got dressed instead, to do exactly as I said: supervise San's packing, along with her random relative and her Mum.
Shortly before I left around midday, San had got her suitcase to weigh as close to 20kg as possible. 20 kilos might be plenty if you're going on holiday, but it doesn't leave you a lot of room if you need to pack for a year. I think she settled for 22kg in the end.
I jokingly asked San if she would walk me to the bus stop, since she was still in her PJs. But she walked me out onto the balcony instead, we hugged goodbye -- refusing to look each other in the eye, so I wouldn't see her crying -- and I told her I'd see her soon. As I started off down the road, she called out goodbye to me, in a voice choked with tears.
I got a text message from her this morning as she changed planes in Hong Kong. By now, she will be in Japan. Probably complaining she has nothing to wear...
England is drowning and I live by the river
I got home on Sunday night, after a disappointing hockey game (Chieftains lost 5 - nil) and wondered why there was a torch on my bed. I didn't think too much of it at first, and then I ran into my Dad.
There had been a message earlier the evening, in a phone call from the Environmental Agency. The phone call was a flood warning, the risk had been raised from "flood watch" (flooding of low lying land and roads is expected) to "flood danger" (flooding of homes and businesses is expected) -- there was an imminent danger of a flood.
My dad had got bags of sand out of the garage to block the doors with, and had prepared various items like torches, candles and a camping stove. He said that he'd stay up until midnight (high tide was expected about 11.30) and that he would wake me up if and when the water came. I wondered if I would first hear the flood warning siren -- the eerie rise and fall of an air raid siren.
I woke up work at 6am this morning with a headache. But no flood. The situation has been updated to "all clear", how long for I don't know.
There had been a message earlier the evening, in a phone call from the Environmental Agency. The phone call was a flood warning, the risk had been raised from "flood watch" (flooding of low lying land and roads is expected) to "flood danger" (flooding of homes and businesses is expected) -- there was an imminent danger of a flood.
My dad had got bags of sand out of the garage to block the doors with, and had prepared various items like torches, candles and a camping stove. He said that he'd stay up until midnight (high tide was expected about 11.30) and that he would wake me up if and when the water came. I wondered if I would first hear the flood warning siren -- the eerie rise and fall of an air raid siren.
I woke up work at 6am this morning with a headache. But no flood. The situation has been updated to "all clear", how long for I don't know.
Tuesday, 13 March 2007
Clearness of dealing, made them almost invisible
They say the meaning of life is to "find what you love, and do it".
I guess it is about time that I stopped treading water and worked out what I do love, and then worked out how to do it. A life where you spend 40 hours a week in work, with every hour marked by watching the clock and counting quietly two hours 'til break, three hours to lunch, be at home in four hours -- that's not even a life half-lived.
Years ago, I had an interview for the local paper where I had been doing work experience. In hindsight, one day a week was no kind of experience at all -- I should have been doing at least four days a week if I expected to go anywhere. But anyway, I remember the interview and telling them how I wanted a career, I wanted to do something I was passionate about. They were convinced of my passion for the profession, but I guess ultimately felt that I wasn't good enough for them. That's just how these things go.
I'm not a fool. Not all of the time, at least. I understand the reason they pay you to go to work is that you wouldn't go otherwise, I understand you can't enjoy what you do all of the time. But there needs to be a balance, and I am not prepared to live my life as a slave in a white collar.
But what do I love? In the words of Ron Burgundy "I love poetry, and a glass of scotch...". That's not going to get me very far, I haven't written so much as a line of poetry in years and my epic literary masterpiece about love, loss and zombies is currently only sitting and two pages. I don't think a career is going to come out of that, I can't even win the poetry.com competitions.
I know I have talents, and see no benefit in false modesty -- I have an artistic spark, and I'm not ashamed of it. On the other hand, I recognise that I am not amazing, I am not incredible, I am not better than perhaps a lot of people. However, a lot of people have neither the courage nor the inclination to try and succeed. This narrows the competition.
I don't really know where to begin; whether perhaps I should be looking for photography courses, or looking for assistant positions, or if I should just be trying to flog what I have. After all, I've never tried -- other than to friends who say "Yes, you should try and sell your work", but then won't buy it themselves.
I called in sick at work today, and in between watching a random subtitled Japanese movie, reading a book on philosophy and fielding calls from recruitment consultants, I also plan to devote some time to working out how to do what I love.
I guess it is about time that I stopped treading water and worked out what I do love, and then worked out how to do it. A life where you spend 40 hours a week in work, with every hour marked by watching the clock and counting quietly two hours 'til break, three hours to lunch, be at home in four hours -- that's not even a life half-lived.
Years ago, I had an interview for the local paper where I had been doing work experience. In hindsight, one day a week was no kind of experience at all -- I should have been doing at least four days a week if I expected to go anywhere. But anyway, I remember the interview and telling them how I wanted a career, I wanted to do something I was passionate about. They were convinced of my passion for the profession, but I guess ultimately felt that I wasn't good enough for them. That's just how these things go.
I'm not a fool. Not all of the time, at least. I understand the reason they pay you to go to work is that you wouldn't go otherwise, I understand you can't enjoy what you do all of the time. But there needs to be a balance, and I am not prepared to live my life as a slave in a white collar.
But what do I love? In the words of Ron Burgundy "I love poetry, and a glass of scotch...". That's not going to get me very far, I haven't written so much as a line of poetry in years and my epic literary masterpiece about love, loss and zombies is currently only sitting and two pages. I don't think a career is going to come out of that, I can't even win the poetry.com competitions.
I know I have talents, and see no benefit in false modesty -- I have an artistic spark, and I'm not ashamed of it. On the other hand, I recognise that I am not amazing, I am not incredible, I am not better than perhaps a lot of people. However, a lot of people have neither the courage nor the inclination to try and succeed. This narrows the competition.
I don't really know where to begin; whether perhaps I should be looking for photography courses, or looking for assistant positions, or if I should just be trying to flog what I have. After all, I've never tried -- other than to friends who say "Yes, you should try and sell your work", but then won't buy it themselves.
I called in sick at work today, and in between watching a random subtitled Japanese movie, reading a book on philosophy and fielding calls from recruitment consultants, I also plan to devote some time to working out how to do what I love.
Saturday, 10 March 2007
Found:
Amo el trozo de tierra que tú eres,
porque de las praderas planetarias
otra estrella no tengo. Tú repites
la multiplicación del universo.
The inspirational Mez recently posted a note-to-self she found saved on her mobile phone. In a similar circumstance, Dr Kenneth Noisewater found a list of uncertain origins. Joining in with the cool kids, today I found a sheet clumsily torn from a writing pad, when cleaning my room.
The above phrase written on it. Despite not being able to read Spanish, I can pick out enough words to know what this is, and what it refers to.
Also on the page is an Easyjet reference number -- either a flight number or a booking reference.
I love stuff like this, random pieces of paper or notes to self. I never find anything worth sending to Found. I want to see posts from the rest of you about random messages to yourself you find...
Friday, 9 March 2007
I wanna be a homosexual
(my apologies to Madame Boffin, who will already have read most of this story in an email -- you can just skip this post)
Sexuality isn't something I talk about a lot, for the most part my own sexual preferences are usually only referred to in passing. Just as I don't consider myself to be my job, or the clothes I wear, I also am not who I choose to sleep with. The fact that I bat for both teams I find no more relevant than that I like to wear long sleeves under my t-shirts. Naturally, it is part of who I am and has shaped who I am and influenced my growing up, but again I don't give it that much thought. I understand for some people it can be difficult to understand, more so than if you just didn't find one sex or another attractive. I get asked how whoever I am dating is meant to know if I am feeling attracted to women or not on any one particular day -- but I like to think of it more simply as just being attracted to people. I don't get into relationships and some days think "I really don't fancy you today". Most of this is just preamble.
Occasionally I get to thinking that it might be an interesting idea to explore my personality and consider the idea of dating a guy. It's not something I've ever done, have had a few ill-advised trysts, and I've been friends with various guys, but haven't ever really sought to combine the two. I wouldn't want to go to a club or a bar to try and meet guys, any more than I would consider it a reliable way to meet girls. But I'd been thinking that it was possible I could meet guys with similar interests, but with a view to more than just friendship.
Perhaps out of curiosity more than anything, I tried placing an ad to meet guys. Considering previous ads to meet girls of various descriptions are usually treated with the contempt they deserve, I wasn't sure what would come of it -- but I thought I'd run it up the flagpole and see who salutes.
The ad itself was pretty straight to the point, bisexual, not interested in the gay scene, would rather play pool and go to a rock club, wants to meet hotties. Because who doesn't? And a disclaimer that I'd ignore the perverts. The response was quite surprising, it seems that guys are more willing to reply to ads -- I'm sure an ad with the same wording to meet girls would go unnoticed.
A lot of people were telling me they liked what I wrote -- though maybe it was just a line -- but it seemed to appeal. I think, however, that even when you are trying to meet people who don't consider their sexuality to be a defining characteristic if you are having to post a personal ad you automatically place yourself in a box, and anyone replying has to be reading the gay personals to begin with.
Of all the people that replied there were perhaps only two that actually sparked my curiosity. I felt a little bad about it, but I didn't reply to people who I either didn't find attractive or whose grasp of English was tentative -- this applying especially to people who think "txt spk" is appropriate outside of a text message. I did try responding to one or two people I wasn't interested in to begin with, to be polite, but decided it was kind of dumb.
But as I said, I was encouraged by two responses and figured if all I ever got out of it was to be good friends, it would be worthwhile. We exchanged emails for a while and they seemed to be looking for something similar. I'll never know exactly how similar or just how feasible any of this was going to be, since their interest lasted all of a couple of days.
I think I might have put one guy off with an inadvisable rant about why I don't really do the gay scene. He'd mentioned wanting to meet more people and maybe joining some clubs in London, like photography or whatever. I'd said what a good idea I thought it was, and suggested to him he even check out the First Time Club -- with whom I'd gone to the life drawing class back in December. Although I have more or less dropped out now, for various reasons. But I thought it might be good for him to join. He asked, are they gays? Because he didn't really like spending time with people who weren't. His choice of phrase made me laugh, it reminded me more of Little Britain or how older people refer to the gays -- but I think it was more because he is Polish. I told him that to be fair I had never asked anyone there about their sexual preference, it wasn't an issue to be discussed, but I expected there would probably be your normal mix.
I then went on to tell how when I was at university I though it would be good to spend time with the LGB -- but had instead found them more cliquey and exclusive than most straight people I knew. I was told things by gay people that nobody else would have dared -- I was told that I was really straight and trying to be fashionable, or that I was actually just gay and hadn't met the right man yet. I can't imagine getting out of there alive if I had tried telling that to the girl who said it to me -- oh, you just need to meet the right man. I recognise these were just small minded individuals, but just the same I don't identify with the scene or the community. He probably didn't agree. He also didn't seem over-enthusiastic I didn't live in London.
And that's kind of it -- I try to meet cute boys who share an interest in things like art, music and board sports. And for one reason or another, I fail to do so.
Although as an interesting post-script to the story, I replied to a girl's personal ad, and so far the two of us are getting along well.
Oh, and the title comes from the Screeching Weasel song of the same name. I might make them a Musical Monday subject sometime. Speaking of Musical Monday, all previous posts have been edited to try and ensure the relevant songs all work.
Sexuality isn't something I talk about a lot, for the most part my own sexual preferences are usually only referred to in passing. Just as I don't consider myself to be my job, or the clothes I wear, I also am not who I choose to sleep with. The fact that I bat for both teams I find no more relevant than that I like to wear long sleeves under my t-shirts. Naturally, it is part of who I am and has shaped who I am and influenced my growing up, but again I don't give it that much thought. I understand for some people it can be difficult to understand, more so than if you just didn't find one sex or another attractive. I get asked how whoever I am dating is meant to know if I am feeling attracted to women or not on any one particular day -- but I like to think of it more simply as just being attracted to people. I don't get into relationships and some days think "I really don't fancy you today". Most of this is just preamble.
Occasionally I get to thinking that it might be an interesting idea to explore my personality and consider the idea of dating a guy. It's not something I've ever done, have had a few ill-advised trysts, and I've been friends with various guys, but haven't ever really sought to combine the two. I wouldn't want to go to a club or a bar to try and meet guys, any more than I would consider it a reliable way to meet girls. But I'd been thinking that it was possible I could meet guys with similar interests, but with a view to more than just friendship.
Perhaps out of curiosity more than anything, I tried placing an ad to meet guys. Considering previous ads to meet girls of various descriptions are usually treated with the contempt they deserve, I wasn't sure what would come of it -- but I thought I'd run it up the flagpole and see who salutes.
The ad itself was pretty straight to the point, bisexual, not interested in the gay scene, would rather play pool and go to a rock club, wants to meet hotties. Because who doesn't? And a disclaimer that I'd ignore the perverts. The response was quite surprising, it seems that guys are more willing to reply to ads -- I'm sure an ad with the same wording to meet girls would go unnoticed.
A lot of people were telling me they liked what I wrote -- though maybe it was just a line -- but it seemed to appeal. I think, however, that even when you are trying to meet people who don't consider their sexuality to be a defining characteristic if you are having to post a personal ad you automatically place yourself in a box, and anyone replying has to be reading the gay personals to begin with.
Of all the people that replied there were perhaps only two that actually sparked my curiosity. I felt a little bad about it, but I didn't reply to people who I either didn't find attractive or whose grasp of English was tentative -- this applying especially to people who think "txt spk" is appropriate outside of a text message. I did try responding to one or two people I wasn't interested in to begin with, to be polite, but decided it was kind of dumb.
But as I said, I was encouraged by two responses and figured if all I ever got out of it was to be good friends, it would be worthwhile. We exchanged emails for a while and they seemed to be looking for something similar. I'll never know exactly how similar or just how feasible any of this was going to be, since their interest lasted all of a couple of days.
I think I might have put one guy off with an inadvisable rant about why I don't really do the gay scene. He'd mentioned wanting to meet more people and maybe joining some clubs in London, like photography or whatever. I'd said what a good idea I thought it was, and suggested to him he even check out the First Time Club -- with whom I'd gone to the life drawing class back in December. Although I have more or less dropped out now, for various reasons. But I thought it might be good for him to join. He asked, are they gays? Because he didn't really like spending time with people who weren't. His choice of phrase made me laugh, it reminded me more of Little Britain or how older people refer to the gays -- but I think it was more because he is Polish. I told him that to be fair I had never asked anyone there about their sexual preference, it wasn't an issue to be discussed, but I expected there would probably be your normal mix.
I then went on to tell how when I was at university I though it would be good to spend time with the LGB -- but had instead found them more cliquey and exclusive than most straight people I knew. I was told things by gay people that nobody else would have dared -- I was told that I was really straight and trying to be fashionable, or that I was actually just gay and hadn't met the right man yet. I can't imagine getting out of there alive if I had tried telling that to the girl who said it to me -- oh, you just need to meet the right man. I recognise these were just small minded individuals, but just the same I don't identify with the scene or the community. He probably didn't agree. He also didn't seem over-enthusiastic I didn't live in London.
And that's kind of it -- I try to meet cute boys who share an interest in things like art, music and board sports. And for one reason or another, I fail to do so.
Although as an interesting post-script to the story, I replied to a girl's personal ad, and so far the two of us are getting along well.
Oh, and the title comes from the Screeching Weasel song of the same name. I might make them a Musical Monday subject sometime. Speaking of Musical Monday, all previous posts have been edited to try and ensure the relevant songs all work.
Monday, 5 March 2007
Musical Monday #16
My Musical Monday drop-down menu wasn't working so well -- so I took it apart and replaced it with a straight-forward link list. At the very least, it should encourage the lazier among you to have a butcher's. But yes, google inspired today's Musical Monday with this quote from the rock Iguana himself. "Nihilism is best done by professionals." -- Iggy Pop
If anyone is wondering, no I didn't already do Iggy -- I made reference to him as the Godfather of Punk, but that was in the post about the Sex Pistols. Do pay attention.
The genius of Iggy Pop -- or perhaps more objectively the appeal -- to me of Iggy Pop is hard to define, as the best artists often are. Iggy Pop's commercial success has been very limited, I love the scene in Trainspotting where Diane calls him "Ziggy Pop". Mark corrects her and she says "Whatever. I mean, the guy's dead anyway." Frankly, I was surprised her character had even heard of Iggy Pop enough to get his name wrong -- a lot of people would have a hard time placing him. That is, until you start to mention songs like The Passenger and Lust for Life.
Iggy Pop's Raw Power is an incredible album. It exists when it was "Iggy and The Stooges", the strange time of his career after he was more than just The Stooges, but before his prolific solo career. Iggy was reportedly never very happy with the mixing of the original version of the album, too melodic for his liking perhaps -- and decades later a remastered version emerged, after a compromise was found between what came first, and Iggy's own idea of editing which involved demanding to know why certain dials weren't in the red. Raw Power describes itself in those two words alone.
Lester Bangs wrote of Iggy Pop with such admiration and passion, when his peers were criticising the basic music of The Stooges. They'd say, but anyone could do that. Lester Bangs comeback always seemed to be but anyone isn't -- he is. If you think anyone can do it -- and they probably can -- have a go yourself, Iggy Pop was the one up there with the courage to do it. That kind of attitude is what carried the Clash, The Ramones, the Sex Pistols into their own careers and to change the face of music.
But behind the energy and the passion, behind the manic dancing and the cutting himself on stage with beer bottles, there is another side to Iggy Pop and to The Stooges, particularly. The nihilism of songs like No Fun and I Wanna Be Your Dog have a lot in common with Lou Reed's music, and in turn with the heroin.
But Iggy Pop isn't dead at all, and I'll leave my own nihilism to the professionals like him.
Sunday, 4 March 2007
On weekends
I arrived in London shortly before 9pm, and it had already been raining for hours. It had been raining -- a steady, grey drizzle -- when I finished work at 6, it was raining when I was sat at the station an hour and a half later waiting for a train. I got to Kings Cross and decided to walk the last part above ground, in the rain, rather than take the Death Star-like tunnels.
It felt strange. Not like returning home, but returning somewhere that had been very familiar for a while. It made me smile, walking in the rain with my umbrella, and listening to the car horns and the sirens and the throngs of people crossing the road. I got to San's apartment building, pressed the buzzer for her flat and waited. It felt like I was waiting forever -- her flat is not that big, and I knew she was in, so I didn't know why it was taking so long to let me in. Eventually she did.
It's been weeks or months, but I wasn't surprised to see that her front door was still the colour of the unpainted grey undercoat, from where the council or housing association or whoever was responsible had begun repainting it and stopped.
San and I were meant to meet up weeks ago, but she cancelled at the time because she was broke and being moody. She now leaves for Japan in exactly two weeks, and I knew this might be the last time I'd see her. We said we'd go to the club night at the Academy as we used to like to do sometimes, and especially as this would be the last time she'd go for a while. In the end, it wasn't even on. I wanted to go to a pirate night at a place called Rock, but San was appalled at the suggestion -- and fortunately for her it wasn't on until next week anyway.
After some discussions about the evening and the weekend itself, San expressed a desire to stay in with takeaway and a movie rather than go out. Considering I'd been in work all day, then gone straight to London pausing only to get changed -- and the train fare had already cost what I'd expect to spend on a night out -- I was happy with this, and had brought a bottle of wine.
The Chinese takeaway was a little disappointing -- I prefer my local one here, despite just being over the road to the flat in Kings Cross, Friday's sweet and sour chicken and noodles was over cooked. Since San shares her flat with her Mum, and her Mum was watching tv, San and I didn't end up watching a movie -- instead we just ate takeaway and listened to the radio in her bedroom. And if anyone is wondering, I was perfectly well behaved -- we both were. It was nice, just sitting in her room, and drinking wine, and not feeling the need for anything else or anything more.
There was a David Cronenberg movie on tv we wanted to watch on Friday night -- but after a bottle of wine between us and a long week, we barely got a few scenes into the film before we were falling asleep.
Saturday we watched movies and hung out, and San said she felt guilty we didn't do anything, but sometimes just hanging out and watching a movie does count as "doing something". It doesn't have to be cultural or exciting, sometimes it can just be good company. Although San claims never to have visited the Natural History museum in London, which both shocks and appals me. I love the place, and still feel the awe I felt as a child when I stand underneath the huge dinosaur skeletons. It's on the list of things to do.
I came home early Saturday evening, and invited all my friends round since my parents were out of town. We drank beer and listened to music, and periodically we would all stand quietly outside in the dark and the cold and stare up at the sky.
In the clear night sky, the moon was being slowly eclipsed by the earth's shadow.
It felt strange. Not like returning home, but returning somewhere that had been very familiar for a while. It made me smile, walking in the rain with my umbrella, and listening to the car horns and the sirens and the throngs of people crossing the road. I got to San's apartment building, pressed the buzzer for her flat and waited. It felt like I was waiting forever -- her flat is not that big, and I knew she was in, so I didn't know why it was taking so long to let me in. Eventually she did.
It's been weeks or months, but I wasn't surprised to see that her front door was still the colour of the unpainted grey undercoat, from where the council or housing association or whoever was responsible had begun repainting it and stopped.
San and I were meant to meet up weeks ago, but she cancelled at the time because she was broke and being moody. She now leaves for Japan in exactly two weeks, and I knew this might be the last time I'd see her. We said we'd go to the club night at the Academy as we used to like to do sometimes, and especially as this would be the last time she'd go for a while. In the end, it wasn't even on. I wanted to go to a pirate night at a place called Rock, but San was appalled at the suggestion -- and fortunately for her it wasn't on until next week anyway.
After some discussions about the evening and the weekend itself, San expressed a desire to stay in with takeaway and a movie rather than go out. Considering I'd been in work all day, then gone straight to London pausing only to get changed -- and the train fare had already cost what I'd expect to spend on a night out -- I was happy with this, and had brought a bottle of wine.
The Chinese takeaway was a little disappointing -- I prefer my local one here, despite just being over the road to the flat in Kings Cross, Friday's sweet and sour chicken and noodles was over cooked. Since San shares her flat with her Mum, and her Mum was watching tv, San and I didn't end up watching a movie -- instead we just ate takeaway and listened to the radio in her bedroom. And if anyone is wondering, I was perfectly well behaved -- we both were. It was nice, just sitting in her room, and drinking wine, and not feeling the need for anything else or anything more.
There was a David Cronenberg movie on tv we wanted to watch on Friday night -- but after a bottle of wine between us and a long week, we barely got a few scenes into the film before we were falling asleep.
Saturday we watched movies and hung out, and San said she felt guilty we didn't do anything, but sometimes just hanging out and watching a movie does count as "doing something". It doesn't have to be cultural or exciting, sometimes it can just be good company. Although San claims never to have visited the Natural History museum in London, which both shocks and appals me. I love the place, and still feel the awe I felt as a child when I stand underneath the huge dinosaur skeletons. It's on the list of things to do.
I came home early Saturday evening, and invited all my friends round since my parents were out of town. We drank beer and listened to music, and periodically we would all stand quietly outside in the dark and the cold and stare up at the sky.
In the clear night sky, the moon was being slowly eclipsed by the earth's shadow.
I touch the fire and it freezes me
I've been told in the past my eyes are my best feature. They're very expressive. I've said before my eyes are like a kind of mood ring, the colour changing with my emotion. Checking my reflection, they're a steel grey/blue -- and on very rare occasions they look green. I think the grey is important, it gives an edge, it says "thank you for not sharing".
People have been asking me recently how I am, how I feel. The truth is, I don't really feel anything: I touch the fire and it freezes me. This is a long way from the intense, broiling depression that consumes you, it's not even a quiet desperation or even exactly unhappy. It's just not really anything. I haven't talked about my feelings because I don't know what to say, I don't talk much because I have nothing to offer anyone except my own confusion.
In January, I rejoined the gym. I was frustrated at becoming increasingly unfit, and having lost all the gains I made when I was visiting a few times a week. Less than two months later, and I can both see and feel the difference. Slightly leaner, slightly firmer, and not feeling nearly quite as podgy. You decide to get into shape, so you visit the gym three times a week, and you're pushing yourself constantly. It becomes its own reward. So why can't other areas of our lives be like this?
I make grand decisions; be more confident, be more positive. But I need some kind of emotional or mental workout, or just have no idea how I am supposed to get the rest of my life in some kind of order. I say I will focus on one thing at a time, maybe work out what I am meant to be doing with my career, or work out how I am going to move out of here, then once one thing is on track, start another plate spinning; maybe start looking for another girl.
I suppose the trouble is not knowing what you want. I want to be creative, I want to be an artist, I want the respect of the people who have passed through my life. When people ask me what I'm doing, or when they hear about me, I want them to be pleased -- he knew what he wanted, and he went out and got it.
It's strange, I still think back to teachers I had when I was 18 and I think "I want them to be proud of me" or the university lecturer who helped me on my dissertation, or even the parents of ex-girlfriends. I want them to say "I always knew he'd be someone". These people probably don't even remember me, but I still want their approval. I just don't know how.
I know ultimately it's up to me -- just like nobody else can make me get into shape, or get into shape for me, but at least it's fairly clear how to go about it. But instead of feeling depressed, instead of wanting to cry or scream or anything else, I just don't feel anything.
People have been asking me recently how I am, how I feel. The truth is, I don't really feel anything: I touch the fire and it freezes me. This is a long way from the intense, broiling depression that consumes you, it's not even a quiet desperation or even exactly unhappy. It's just not really anything. I haven't talked about my feelings because I don't know what to say, I don't talk much because I have nothing to offer anyone except my own confusion.
In January, I rejoined the gym. I was frustrated at becoming increasingly unfit, and having lost all the gains I made when I was visiting a few times a week. Less than two months later, and I can both see and feel the difference. Slightly leaner, slightly firmer, and not feeling nearly quite as podgy. You decide to get into shape, so you visit the gym three times a week, and you're pushing yourself constantly. It becomes its own reward. So why can't other areas of our lives be like this?
I make grand decisions; be more confident, be more positive. But I need some kind of emotional or mental workout, or just have no idea how I am supposed to get the rest of my life in some kind of order. I say I will focus on one thing at a time, maybe work out what I am meant to be doing with my career, or work out how I am going to move out of here, then once one thing is on track, start another plate spinning; maybe start looking for another girl.
I suppose the trouble is not knowing what you want. I want to be creative, I want to be an artist, I want the respect of the people who have passed through my life. When people ask me what I'm doing, or when they hear about me, I want them to be pleased -- he knew what he wanted, and he went out and got it.
It's strange, I still think back to teachers I had when I was 18 and I think "I want them to be proud of me" or the university lecturer who helped me on my dissertation, or even the parents of ex-girlfriends. I want them to say "I always knew he'd be someone". These people probably don't even remember me, but I still want their approval. I just don't know how.
I know ultimately it's up to me -- just like nobody else can make me get into shape, or get into shape for me, but at least it's fairly clear how to go about it. But instead of feeling depressed, instead of wanting to cry or scream or anything else, I just don't feel anything.
Monday, 26 February 2007
Musical Monday (#15)
I don't remember how I first heard this song -- if I read the lyrics first or read some reference to it. I don't recall what I was feeling when I first played it or even and where it was. It feels like one of those songs I've just always known.I think growing up my parents were Springsteen fans, but all I ever remember hearing them play was "Born in the USA". Maybe that's why I was never particularly taken with his work, but I've developed a latter appreciation for some of his work. It's funny how sometimes as we get older we grow to like the songs we heard when we were kids, I've also a great fondness for Paul Simon's Graceland album. But I can't imagine my parents ever listening to Nebraska -- either the album, or this song.
The song tells a nasty, brutal and short story -- about a killing spree. If it's a true story, I've never looked into, but from the details I don't think it would qualify for a "serial killer sunday" post.
It's a sad song, with an almost Dylan-esque sound to it -- including mournful harmonica and off-key vocals. The remarkable thing, to me, about the song is it seems more sad from the perspective of the killer than of the victims.
The narrator and killer seems unrepentant ("I cant say that Im sorry for the things that we done") and offers no explanations ("They wanted to know why I did what I did/ Well sir I guess there's just a meanness in this world"), but there's a certain resignation that seems so sad.
The song ends with the narrator declared "unfit to live" and "into that great void my soul'd/Be hurled" the waste of his own life seems as regrettable as the "ten innocent people" that he and his girl kill, for no reason.
It's interesting the song offers no perspective from the girl, why does she go with him, across the badlands of Wyoming? Does she find it fun, like he does? We're never told, just that his final wish is to have his "pretty baby" on his lap.
The song is haunting -- and maybe not exactly going to be anyone's most played or favourite song -- but it would be a shame if the songs we liked were never troublesome, uncomfortable or confronting.
28/02 Update: I realise the flash player isn't working. Please stay tuned for more posts about songs you can't hear, or until I fix this one.
04/03 Update: After about a week with no success, it suddenly occurs to me I can just link to where the file is uploaded and play it from there instead.
Saturday, 24 February 2007
I still believe that I can be happy
I didn't get the job. again. This continues my unbroken track-record of never having got any job I have been interviewed for. I don't know with this one how many interviews there would have been, if there were two and I failed to make it to the second round, or if it would have been just the one but I fell at the first fence.
They told me -- via the recruitment consultant I don't expect to ever hear from ever again -- they were very impressed with all the research I had done into their company, and that most people don't normally do that much. I had a bad experience once with a newspaper when I didn't realise I was required to know anything, didn't even realise the "informal chat" they'd invited me to was an interview. Ever since then, I always make sure when they ask me what I know I can say "Founded in 1837...". But anyway, they liked that I did my research. There was no comment on my suitability for online entertainment PR, whether they liked that I can talk about the pros and cons of legal music downloads, renting DVDs online, nor what they thought about my question on if they had considered setting up a "virtual" agency in second life, to support their clients in the virtual world.
What they did say was they felt I didn't have enough experience with entertainment PR, and that they felt I might be too nervous with some of their bigger entertainment clients. I wonder if the whole "meet the director" thing after my interview was a test to see how I react to someone "important", having been so amazingly cool in the interview. If I was noticeably nervous, maybe I couldn't hack meeting a client -- but it's not the same thing. If I'd known they would come out with that, I'd have brought up how I once interviewed the rock band Terrorvision for my student magazine.
It frustrates me, being told I don't have enough of the right experience. I wasn't entirely clear what level the position was going to be I was being put forward for -- whether it was Account Executive or Junior Account Exec, or if they even really bothered that much with job titles. I didn't want to make out my previous work to be more important than it was, but I thought I did a good job of showing I had paid my dues as an intern/assistant, and was capable and confident in a real position. But maybe not. When it comes to the "right" experience, what can you do?
After over six months unpaid work in PR for the experience, I ended up being over-qualified for a job I prompted them to create, and a job I had already been doing. But now if I apply for a sector I'm more interested in, and I don't have enough of the right experience. It's enough to make me quit the call centre and go back to being an intern, but there's only so much work experience you can do.
I have sitting on my desk a letter from the writer's bureau college of journalism, offering me reduced course fees, but hurry the offer must end soon. I'm tempted since they offer a full money-back guarantee if you don't earn back your course fees through selling your own work. I'm rarely as content as when I'm left alone to write -- being a newshound didn't work for me, I never got the shorthand, didn't pass the important exams in public affairs, and really just hated walking the streets in the cold and the rain, looking for a story. I can think of few times in my life I have been as unhappy as when I was "training" to be a journalist in Leicester. Except maybe that whole period when my grandmother died and Fiona didn't want me back and my flatmates were arguing and I had a dissertation to write and I was self harming.
So where do we go from here? I'm not sure. I've learned by now that when it seems like all doors have closed to you that often you can find yourself somewhere you never dreamed of being.
I passed a manager at work today, as I was crossing the office carrying armfuls of folders, and we said a polite "alright?". She then commented that she didn't really know me, that I'm so quiet and all we ever say is hello or goodbye and she doesn't know who I really am, behind it all. I think I just shrugged in reply. What's to say, really?
...summer will come again, I can be happy.
They told me -- via the recruitment consultant I don't expect to ever hear from ever again -- they were very impressed with all the research I had done into their company, and that most people don't normally do that much. I had a bad experience once with a newspaper when I didn't realise I was required to know anything, didn't even realise the "informal chat" they'd invited me to was an interview. Ever since then, I always make sure when they ask me what I know I can say "Founded in 1837...". But anyway, they liked that I did my research. There was no comment on my suitability for online entertainment PR, whether they liked that I can talk about the pros and cons of legal music downloads, renting DVDs online, nor what they thought about my question on if they had considered setting up a "virtual" agency in second life, to support their clients in the virtual world.
What they did say was they felt I didn't have enough experience with entertainment PR, and that they felt I might be too nervous with some of their bigger entertainment clients. I wonder if the whole "meet the director" thing after my interview was a test to see how I react to someone "important", having been so amazingly cool in the interview. If I was noticeably nervous, maybe I couldn't hack meeting a client -- but it's not the same thing. If I'd known they would come out with that, I'd have brought up how I once interviewed the rock band Terrorvision for my student magazine.
It frustrates me, being told I don't have enough of the right experience. I wasn't entirely clear what level the position was going to be I was being put forward for -- whether it was Account Executive or Junior Account Exec, or if they even really bothered that much with job titles. I didn't want to make out my previous work to be more important than it was, but I thought I did a good job of showing I had paid my dues as an intern/assistant, and was capable and confident in a real position. But maybe not. When it comes to the "right" experience, what can you do?
After over six months unpaid work in PR for the experience, I ended up being over-qualified for a job I prompted them to create, and a job I had already been doing. But now if I apply for a sector I'm more interested in, and I don't have enough of the right experience. It's enough to make me quit the call centre and go back to being an intern, but there's only so much work experience you can do.
I have sitting on my desk a letter from the writer's bureau college of journalism, offering me reduced course fees, but hurry the offer must end soon. I'm tempted since they offer a full money-back guarantee if you don't earn back your course fees through selling your own work. I'm rarely as content as when I'm left alone to write -- being a newshound didn't work for me, I never got the shorthand, didn't pass the important exams in public affairs, and really just hated walking the streets in the cold and the rain, looking for a story. I can think of few times in my life I have been as unhappy as when I was "training" to be a journalist in Leicester. Except maybe that whole period when my grandmother died and Fiona didn't want me back and my flatmates were arguing and I had a dissertation to write and I was self harming.
So where do we go from here? I'm not sure. I've learned by now that when it seems like all doors have closed to you that often you can find yourself somewhere you never dreamed of being.
I passed a manager at work today, as I was crossing the office carrying armfuls of folders, and we said a polite "alright?". She then commented that she didn't really know me, that I'm so quiet and all we ever say is hello or goodbye and she doesn't know who I really am, behind it all. I think I just shrugged in reply. What's to say, really?
...summer will come again, I can be happy.
Friday, 23 February 2007
Which Super Villain are you?
Your results:
You are Venom
Click here to take the Supervillain Personality Quiz
You are Venom
| Strength, disguise and adrenaline are your greatest weapons. |
Click here to take the Supervillain Personality Quiz
Wednesday, 21 February 2007
A strange 48 hours
Tuesday starts off the same as pretty much every other day -- get up, go to work, do the usual pointless slog they call my job -- but then I finished at 2pm. I finished work half a day early, drove home, changed my clothes and then drove to Portsmouth with my Dad.
By the time I would normally have been getting home from work I was instead in Portsmouth, and making my Dad sit through the new surfing DVD I'd bought while we waited for a call from my brother to say if he could join us for dinner. After waiting an hour and not hearing anything, we headed out -- not directly for food, but first to the bar where I had left my coat a couple of weeks back.
The bar was deserted -- as you'd probably expect before 8pm on a Tuesday night -- but I explained to the bar tender my position. He said he'd go look for it. He had a strong Northern Irish accent and I felt sure he was the same person I'd spoken to on the phone about it originally, when I'd called on the Monday morning, and who had told me they had it.
After an inordinate stretch of time, the guy returned and told me, sorry, they didn't have any coats matching my description. I was quite firm, and explained someone had told me it was there, and it had my name on a label attached to it. He offered to let me take a look with him.
It was so strange, being led upstairs to the deserted club. Through heavy, locked security doors and through a comedy club that looked more like a ghost town, he took me to the room with the lost property. Probably expecting me to concede it wasn't there, I almost immediately went to my coat where it was hanging -- and mentioned there would be my grey gloves in the pockets. And so they were. Along with my name on a label. The bar tender apologised for not seeing it earlier, he said he didn't check that one because there'd been a handbag on the same coathanger (the bag, I'd like stated for the record was not mine).
Some people might have been annoyed -- that having lost the coat once they might have ended up losing it again, all because someone didn't look for it properly, but I was just glad to have it back. I was sure to be appropriately thankful, since I had what counted. And yes, I have learned my lesson -- if you're going to leave your coat unattended, use the damn cloakroom.
Dinner was uneventful, unremarkable, usual pub far from the place almost next door to the apartment buildings, then we went back to the flat so I could spend the rest of the evening studying.
Because the whole reason we were in Portsmouth, was for my job interview with an online PR agency. I've recently put a second copy of my CV online, with the alternate Portsmouth address instead of my "home" address, to widen my possibilities for work.
I was I was neat, clean, shaved and sober -- and I didn't care who knew it. And the interview itself seemed to go well -- It's never easy to tell with these things -- but I'd done my homework about the company, which showed, I asked questions about their training and recently won clients, and I think I answered their questions reasonably confidently. On the way out, the lady who had been interviewing me got me to wait in reception while she saw if the agency director was free to say hi to me. He was, but our meeting was brief -- I was just polite, thanked him for seeing me, though was perhaps slightly nervous. He asked me if I had any other interviews today, but I told him, no it was just the one. In hindsight, maybe I should have lied, and made myself seem in-demand.
Now it all depends now if I am the right fit for the role, I know there will be a lot of competition for the position, so I have to wait and see.
Strangely enough, the recruitment consultant who got me the interview worked almost right next door (I think she said they were renting from the agency), so we met for a quick discussion about how it had gone. Because she said she worked in a basement, we ended up going back inside the agency -- I asked the receptionist if she wanted me to sign back in. I hoped we wouldn't run into anyone I'd just met -- although I expect they wouldn't be altogether surprised, I felt like we were sneaking in. The consultant seemed nice -- not nice in that fair weather friend way most of them are, but genuine -- and we chatted about my impressions and how I thought it went.
Then it was time to leave again, to hit the road and get back to Essex.
And that's more or less where it ends -- I come home, go to the gym, and go back to work again tomorrow morning.
By the time I would normally have been getting home from work I was instead in Portsmouth, and making my Dad sit through the new surfing DVD I'd bought while we waited for a call from my brother to say if he could join us for dinner. After waiting an hour and not hearing anything, we headed out -- not directly for food, but first to the bar where I had left my coat a couple of weeks back.
The bar was deserted -- as you'd probably expect before 8pm on a Tuesday night -- but I explained to the bar tender my position. He said he'd go look for it. He had a strong Northern Irish accent and I felt sure he was the same person I'd spoken to on the phone about it originally, when I'd called on the Monday morning, and who had told me they had it.
After an inordinate stretch of time, the guy returned and told me, sorry, they didn't have any coats matching my description. I was quite firm, and explained someone had told me it was there, and it had my name on a label attached to it. He offered to let me take a look with him.
It was so strange, being led upstairs to the deserted club. Through heavy, locked security doors and through a comedy club that looked more like a ghost town, he took me to the room with the lost property. Probably expecting me to concede it wasn't there, I almost immediately went to my coat where it was hanging -- and mentioned there would be my grey gloves in the pockets. And so they were. Along with my name on a label. The bar tender apologised for not seeing it earlier, he said he didn't check that one because there'd been a handbag on the same coathanger (the bag, I'd like stated for the record was not mine).
Some people might have been annoyed -- that having lost the coat once they might have ended up losing it again, all because someone didn't look for it properly, but I was just glad to have it back. I was sure to be appropriately thankful, since I had what counted. And yes, I have learned my lesson -- if you're going to leave your coat unattended, use the damn cloakroom.
Dinner was uneventful, unremarkable, usual pub far from the place almost next door to the apartment buildings, then we went back to the flat so I could spend the rest of the evening studying.
Because the whole reason we were in Portsmouth, was for my job interview with an online PR agency. I've recently put a second copy of my CV online, with the alternate Portsmouth address instead of my "home" address, to widen my possibilities for work.
I was I was neat, clean, shaved and sober -- and I didn't care who knew it. And the interview itself seemed to go well -- It's never easy to tell with these things -- but I'd done my homework about the company, which showed, I asked questions about their training and recently won clients, and I think I answered their questions reasonably confidently. On the way out, the lady who had been interviewing me got me to wait in reception while she saw if the agency director was free to say hi to me. He was, but our meeting was brief -- I was just polite, thanked him for seeing me, though was perhaps slightly nervous. He asked me if I had any other interviews today, but I told him, no it was just the one. In hindsight, maybe I should have lied, and made myself seem in-demand.
Now it all depends now if I am the right fit for the role, I know there will be a lot of competition for the position, so I have to wait and see.
Strangely enough, the recruitment consultant who got me the interview worked almost right next door (I think she said they were renting from the agency), so we met for a quick discussion about how it had gone. Because she said she worked in a basement, we ended up going back inside the agency -- I asked the receptionist if she wanted me to sign back in. I hoped we wouldn't run into anyone I'd just met -- although I expect they wouldn't be altogether surprised, I felt like we were sneaking in. The consultant seemed nice -- not nice in that fair weather friend way most of them are, but genuine -- and we chatted about my impressions and how I thought it went.
Then it was time to leave again, to hit the road and get back to Essex.
And that's more or less where it ends -- I come home, go to the gym, and go back to work again tomorrow morning.
Monday, 19 February 2007
Twisting my mellon, man
I tell you something that's really twisting my melon today -- I thought I'd be all clever and switch to the Haloscan comments, just like his eminence the Baron Hashbrown suggested. Granted it looks cool, but the comments have a life on their own outside of the blog itself. Diary-x went boom last year and my diary disappeared -- but I still have all the comments that were left, saved on Haloscan. Except they are now disembodied comments. And Haloscan has booted all the existing comments off my blog, so it looks like nobody loves me. Don't fret though -- any comment that has ever been left here automatically gets emailed to me, so I have them all tucked away.
So -- Sunday Night Hockey. Chieftains lose! Again! I'm starting to understand why the Chieftains are middle of the league, they're just not very good! Sunday night's game was against the Swindon Wildcats. Do you suppose you get many wild cats in Wiltshire? Apparently, yes -- one of the things I do love about England is there are supposedly any number of panther-like big cats, just randomly roaming the country side.
Anyway, I was pleased to see the Chieftains playing better last night -- the passes were connecting, the team seemed to working together as they should. But they weren't getting the goals. First blood as usual went to the visitors, but I wasn't shaken -- this is all familiar now, and I was sure the Chieftains could come back.
And they really tried, mounting a sustained attack on the goals and eventually equalising the score in the second period. Everything rode on the third period -- and we gleefully swore at the Swindon supporters after a lucky goal was disqualified because they had too many men on the ice. It was short-lived when they made up for it with another goal.
And that pretty much sealed it for the Chieftains. They tried, they struggled, they raged (although not like last week's rage) and they still lost.
Update: after some guidance from the genius Baron Hashbrown and trawling of t'internet, I have found a way for Haloscan and Blogger to coexist. Granted, at this point it's currently showing both links, but I'm not sure there's a way around that for old posts.
Happy Mondays - Step On.mp3
So -- Sunday Night Hockey. Chieftains lose! Again! I'm starting to understand why the Chieftains are middle of the league, they're just not very good! Sunday night's game was against the Swindon Wildcats. Do you suppose you get many wild cats in Wiltshire? Apparently, yes -- one of the things I do love about England is there are supposedly any number of panther-like big cats, just randomly roaming the country side.
Anyway, I was pleased to see the Chieftains playing better last night -- the passes were connecting, the team seemed to working together as they should. But they weren't getting the goals. First blood as usual went to the visitors, but I wasn't shaken -- this is all familiar now, and I was sure the Chieftains could come back.
And they really tried, mounting a sustained attack on the goals and eventually equalising the score in the second period. Everything rode on the third period -- and we gleefully swore at the Swindon supporters after a lucky goal was disqualified because they had too many men on the ice. It was short-lived when they made up for it with another goal.
And that pretty much sealed it for the Chieftains. They tried, they struggled, they raged (although not like last week's rage) and they still lost.
Update: after some guidance from the genius Baron Hashbrown and trawling of t'internet, I have found a way for Haloscan and Blogger to coexist. Granted, at this point it's currently showing both links, but I'm not sure there's a way around that for old posts.
Happy Mondays - Step On.mp3
Wednesday, 14 February 2007
Valentines referrals
As is often the case, I've been analysing by visitor stats -- and I'm faintly amused at what I see as 'seasonal' posts. It's Valentine's -- for better or worse -- and I've seen an exponential increase in the number of people finding my blog after they googled a certain heartbreaking turn of phrase from Damien Rice: It's the wrong kind of place to be thinking of you". I can empathise with the lonely, the dumped, the heartbroken -- those trying not to think of that one person.
Hot on its heels is the popularity of self-loathing, in the form of a line from a Vines song: "She never loved me, why should anyone" is always good for a few hits (heartbreak never goes out of fashion), but it has seen a recent surge of interest.
Hits for people searching for Greg Lake songs about snow, Christmas, peace and earth have unsurprisingly dwindled -- that they are there at all might have something to do with the recent snow across Britain.
The search term I like most, that I think should be more common, is the succinctly put "like cock hate men". I'm sure there are many girls out there who can identify with the feeling expressed by this searcher from Tampa, Florida -- at least occasionally.
I think the most romantic search phrase of all time to lead to my diary is this one from Connecticut, USA: "lose virginity with someone you have no affinity". Because it rhymes, I'm inclined to think it might be a song lyric -- or maybe it's from an amateur love poem, for this special day.
It's good to know that googling the phrase "destined to die alone in a room heavy with the tang of cat wee" leads to my blog. It could be a glimpse of my future, but it is actually from a half-forgotten post a year ago.
But perhaps the key to my own heart lies somewhere in the phrase "snowboard sonnets". Yes, any ladies out there whose interests include board sports and poetry -- or even better, sonnets about board sports -- please form an orderly queue.
Hot on its heels is the popularity of self-loathing, in the form of a line from a Vines song: "She never loved me, why should anyone" is always good for a few hits (heartbreak never goes out of fashion), but it has seen a recent surge of interest.
Hits for people searching for Greg Lake songs about snow, Christmas, peace and earth have unsurprisingly dwindled -- that they are there at all might have something to do with the recent snow across Britain.
The search term I like most, that I think should be more common, is the succinctly put "like cock hate men". I'm sure there are many girls out there who can identify with the feeling expressed by this searcher from Tampa, Florida -- at least occasionally.
I think the most romantic search phrase of all time to lead to my diary is this one from Connecticut, USA: "lose virginity with someone you have no affinity". Because it rhymes, I'm inclined to think it might be a song lyric -- or maybe it's from an amateur love poem, for this special day.
It's good to know that googling the phrase "destined to die alone in a room heavy with the tang of cat wee" leads to my blog. It could be a glimpse of my future, but it is actually from a half-forgotten post a year ago.
But perhaps the key to my own heart lies somewhere in the phrase "snowboard sonnets". Yes, any ladies out there whose interests include board sports and poetry -- or even better, sonnets about board sports -- please form an orderly queue.
Monday, 12 February 2007
Saturday Night Hockey
The truth is, we were probably out-ranked from the start. The Sheffield Scimitars were a formidable opponent, and even my attempts at optimism or blind faith in the Chieftains seemed to fall flat with friends before the game. I kept saying I had faith the Chieftains could win it, we'd give our predictions for the final score -- and I did think the Chieftains could pull it off.
The first period was close, and toughly fought -- until first blood when to the Scimitars with minutes left on the clock. As I've said before, though -- put the Chieftains in a corner, and often they come out fighting. Often literally. The second period saw the goal lead for the Yorkshire men increase further, but not without some great effort and defence from the Chieftains -- but the truth was, they just weren't good enough.
Last week was some of the best Premier League hockey I have seen -- they were on form, and their victory was hard-won and well deserved. Saturday's game was frustrating, the passes weren't caught, the puck frequently lost. They just were not up to form, despite starting their comeback with a powerful goal instead of rising to the challenge from the team second in the league, the Chieftains seemed to struggle.
The third period really turned the heat up on the rink -- the Chieftains weren't going down without a fight, and in the space of mere minutes, Sheffield's lead had been closed to a draw. Even a draw against Sheffield would have been a result to be proud of -- if not necessarily earned -- and the tension was getting unbearable. As the final period started dwindling, we thought Chelmsford had done it -- a shot at goal and for a second it looked like it went it. Instead it was as close as it might have been possible to get, and that was all the Scimitars needed.
We barely had time to curse them for being Northern bastards before the score went from 3 - 3, to 4 - 3 and finally 5 - 3. The Chieftains took the final buzzer as a good time to pick a fight, eventually the players were dragged off each other. Not ones to let it end there, although Sheffield took their win, the teams took the fight off the ice -- expressing the frustration of the home fans to have come so close to beating a team with an 8-game winning streak.
It's a small consolation, however, to see that the Milton Keynes Lightning lost 6 - 0 to the Peterborough Phantoms this weekend. You're not singing any more...
The first period was close, and toughly fought -- until first blood when to the Scimitars with minutes left on the clock. As I've said before, though -- put the Chieftains in a corner, and often they come out fighting. Often literally. The second period saw the goal lead for the Yorkshire men increase further, but not without some great effort and defence from the Chieftains -- but the truth was, they just weren't good enough.
Last week was some of the best Premier League hockey I have seen -- they were on form, and their victory was hard-won and well deserved. Saturday's game was frustrating, the passes weren't caught, the puck frequently lost. They just were not up to form, despite starting their comeback with a powerful goal instead of rising to the challenge from the team second in the league, the Chieftains seemed to struggle.
The third period really turned the heat up on the rink -- the Chieftains weren't going down without a fight, and in the space of mere minutes, Sheffield's lead had been closed to a draw. Even a draw against Sheffield would have been a result to be proud of -- if not necessarily earned -- and the tension was getting unbearable. As the final period started dwindling, we thought Chelmsford had done it -- a shot at goal and for a second it looked like it went it. Instead it was as close as it might have been possible to get, and that was all the Scimitars needed.
We barely had time to curse them for being Northern bastards before the score went from 3 - 3, to 4 - 3 and finally 5 - 3. The Chieftains took the final buzzer as a good time to pick a fight, eventually the players were dragged off each other. Not ones to let it end there, although Sheffield took their win, the teams took the fight off the ice -- expressing the frustration of the home fans to have come so close to beating a team with an 8-game winning streak.
It's a small consolation, however, to see that the Milton Keynes Lightning lost 6 - 0 to the Peterborough Phantoms this weekend. You're not singing any more...
Sunday, 11 February 2007
All about my pets
I met her 9 years ago, this summer. I've written about it so many times. She was the cute girl, sitting on her own. I didn't think she'd want to talk to me, but started a conversation anyway. We got on instantly, spent the rest of the day together, and I was already falling for her by the end of the night. We dated, then I broke her heart when I went to university in Utah and didn't really give much thought to what we should do about our relationship. She started seeing someone else and that was the end of us.
I came back and we met up and I felt everything that I had felt before. I told her in a grand sweeping romantic gesture, and she got mad. Eventually she told me much later that she felt the same. She was angry at me for leaving and screwing everything up and never making clear what I wanted -- for buggering off on an adventure and leaving her to fill for herself the hole in her life I'd left. Eventually we got over it, even though she still loved me. but she started seeing someone else.
Periodically over the years we've met again. Sometimes a couple of years pass with only phone calls or emails in between our meetings. We met one day in Leicester, had a few drinks, and I knew I loved her. But I kept my mouth shut. Later she got in trouble when someone told her boyfriend they'd seen us together.
We met before this time around Halowe'en in 2006, a random pub in Holborn. And yes, the same old feelings. And yes, I stayed quiet.
This time we'd been texting a lot and talking about meeting up, and yeah I knew her and her boyfriend were "complicated" at the moment and that he'd moved out, although it was temporary. I suggested cooking dinner, she invited me over to her flat to cook for her. Later she invited me instead to a beer festival with her and her friends, but said I could still cook for her. I suggested Chinese takeway instead to celebrate the New Year. The beer festival fell through, but I was still to meet her. Meeting her one evening and drinking meant I had several options; being on the last train home at 10-something, paying out for a taxi, or staying the night. I asked her if it would be weird if I stayed the night. She said she didn't know if it would be, but I was welcome to.
So on Friday I finished work, drove home, got changed...then drove to South London, where she now lives. I packed an overnight bag and stuck it in the boot, but decided to play by ear if I would stay the night. I hadn't decided. I hadn't even decided when I arrived there, and we sat on the couch together with a couple of beers.
And guess what? Yes the feelings were still there. There was still that click, that spark, that light in her eyes. But this was also the flat she shares with her boyfriend, and his life was all around -- the guitar, the records, the pictures. It turns out he's moved back in, although he was out of town for the weekend. I don't know if she told him I was coming over and maybe staying the night. Doesn't seem a very sensible thing to say if they are having issues, but it never works trying to keep it secret -- makes it seem worse.
So the feelings were still there, but obviously I would never act on them, nor admit them to her. I shrug and tell myself it's not a true test, it's nothing like actually being with her, to spend a few hours with her socially. She clearly loves her boyfriend -- and even more clearly the more she drank. I kept my head and drove home, getting in just after 2am.
I like driving at night when it's cold and quiet out. When the roads are almost empty, and you can just listen to the CD in your car and pretend you're in a film.
Where do we go from here? She and I stay friends. We'll be friends if/when this relationship doesn't work out, and maybe the one after that too. Maybe I will introduce her to the next girl I'm in a relationship with, obviously not mentioning any of the above. But I doubt very much I'll ever tell her I love her again, even if sometimes I feel it.
I came back and we met up and I felt everything that I had felt before. I told her in a grand sweeping romantic gesture, and she got mad. Eventually she told me much later that she felt the same. She was angry at me for leaving and screwing everything up and never making clear what I wanted -- for buggering off on an adventure and leaving her to fill for herself the hole in her life I'd left. Eventually we got over it, even though she still loved me. but she started seeing someone else.
Periodically over the years we've met again. Sometimes a couple of years pass with only phone calls or emails in between our meetings. We met one day in Leicester, had a few drinks, and I knew I loved her. But I kept my mouth shut. Later she got in trouble when someone told her boyfriend they'd seen us together.
We met before this time around Halowe'en in 2006, a random pub in Holborn. And yes, the same old feelings. And yes, I stayed quiet.
This time we'd been texting a lot and talking about meeting up, and yeah I knew her and her boyfriend were "complicated" at the moment and that he'd moved out, although it was temporary. I suggested cooking dinner, she invited me over to her flat to cook for her. Later she invited me instead to a beer festival with her and her friends, but said I could still cook for her. I suggested Chinese takeway instead to celebrate the New Year. The beer festival fell through, but I was still to meet her. Meeting her one evening and drinking meant I had several options; being on the last train home at 10-something, paying out for a taxi, or staying the night. I asked her if it would be weird if I stayed the night. She said she didn't know if it would be, but I was welcome to.
So on Friday I finished work, drove home, got changed...then drove to South London, where she now lives. I packed an overnight bag and stuck it in the boot, but decided to play by ear if I would stay the night. I hadn't decided. I hadn't even decided when I arrived there, and we sat on the couch together with a couple of beers.
And guess what? Yes the feelings were still there. There was still that click, that spark, that light in her eyes. But this was also the flat she shares with her boyfriend, and his life was all around -- the guitar, the records, the pictures. It turns out he's moved back in, although he was out of town for the weekend. I don't know if she told him I was coming over and maybe staying the night. Doesn't seem a very sensible thing to say if they are having issues, but it never works trying to keep it secret -- makes it seem worse.
So the feelings were still there, but obviously I would never act on them, nor admit them to her. I shrug and tell myself it's not a true test, it's nothing like actually being with her, to spend a few hours with her socially. She clearly loves her boyfriend -- and even more clearly the more she drank. I kept my head and drove home, getting in just after 2am.
I like driving at night when it's cold and quiet out. When the roads are almost empty, and you can just listen to the CD in your car and pretend you're in a film.
Where do we go from here? She and I stay friends. We'll be friends if/when this relationship doesn't work out, and maybe the one after that too. Maybe I will introduce her to the next girl I'm in a relationship with, obviously not mentioning any of the above. But I doubt very much I'll ever tell her I love her again, even if sometimes I feel it.
Saturday, 10 February 2007
Tickling the ivories
#"Well, you tried it just the once, found it alright for kicks
But now you found out that it's a habit that sticks
And you're an orgasm addict"#
Orgasm Addict, The Buzzcocks
A while back, I did a Musical Monday post about the song Teenage Kicks by the Undertones -- and commented how it was originally about masturbating, with the lyrics reportedly running "I wanna hold, wanna hold it tight, get teenage kicks right through the night" before they toned it down with "wanna hold her tight". Since then, I've noticed recurring visitors from google, searching to see if it's true, and instead finding my own corner of t'internet.
I was curious to see what other pages on "Google zoeken" a search for teenage kicks about masturbating brings up, and where I am on this list. What I am most interested in today is link #1, the Wikipedia "List of songs about masturbation".
Plenty of songs on the list are self-explanatory, and don't require much thought -- like the above "Orgasm Addict". Others are a little more obscure, like the Vapors "Turning Japanese". But there are many songs on this list that surprise me.
Maybe I'm naïve and have led a sheltered life, and possibly I'm not very good at picking up on the thinly-veiled subtexts of a song. I'm also known for sometimes missing blindingly obvious references in a song, take for example Aerosmith's "Dude Looks Like A Lady". I used to think it was a fantastic song, a work of rock genius, but never really quite grasped the song seems to be about a transsexual -- lines like "never judge a book by its cover" and "she whipped out her gun, tried to blow me away" that completely eluded me in my teens, now would seem cringe-worthy, if it wasn't the mighty 'Smit. Consider also, if you will, Meat Loaf's epic-length "Paradise by Dashboard Light". For years, the significance of the baseball game on the radio in the middle of the song eluded me. In my defence, the sport isn't widely played in England, and adolescents here aren't (or, at least, weren't) readily familiar with the "bases" -- and I'm still not really sure (or particularly bothered) what they are.
"Love is Better Than a Warm Trombone" by Gomez appears, and confuses me. I've loved Gomez for years, and have a particular affection for this song, but it still escapes me how the song could be about conducting one's self in a solo symphony.
"With his hands in his pocket he lowered his eyesIt hardly sounds like the most decadent expression of self-love to me.
he said 'miss, I guess I ought to apologise, I've been fallin', I'm falling down"
Also appearing on the list is "Dare" by Gorillaz. Never having given it much thought before, after reading the lyrics I can concede that perhaps this one might be. Interesting trivia surrounding the song; it was reportedly entitled "It's There" originally, but the wonderful Shaun Ryder just didn't seem quite able to get it right -- so they just changed the name of the song. With this in mind, the repeated "it's coming up" and "it's dare [there]" does seem suggestive, but is it about grooming the wookie? I'm not convinced.
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