I was originally planning to write a post today about St George's Day -- or maybe referring back to the post I wrote about my associations with being English. But -- I'm not any more.
A "postcard porn for my wanderlust" post is overdue, since I have been sending and receiving cards through postcrossing and have a couple I want to upload and write about. This is now being given a new edge, however. When I get new postcards and I scan them in to post here and write about, I also post the images along with my brief comments to the appropriate Facebook group. I've never given it too much thought.
Once, someone commented that they thought it was rude of me to say that I thought a postcard I'd got was a bit disappointing. The disapproval is always for the sake of the potential sender seeing it and being upset, though, and I think the odds are stacked against this ever happening -- people often like to be offended on behalf of others. I accepted at the time that not knowing me or what I'm like would make the comment seem a lot worse than it was, and so deleted anything that would cause offence. And I thought no more about it.
I recently made friends with a Norwegian girl on Facebook, after she commented on a postcard I'd received from Finland. We should all know what I'm like about Norwegian girls, although if she had green eyes or not I never got around to asking. I didn't think too much of it, except we shared common interests -- like photography, and postcards, and she was an Aquarius.
Today, another random user commented on a German card I had posted, explaining to me what it said. I replied, thanking them for their help. Then, the Norwegian girl joined in the conversation. She felt it necessary to wade in with the comment that although she didn't want to have a go at me (or words to that effect, I've deleted the offending remark now so I can't check it) she thought that my comments on the cards I receive were often rude, and it would be unkind to the senders of these cards. She also told me that people don't know what to write on postcards and so it was that commenting about the weather wasn't just a British thing. She ended saying it was postcrossing and not penpals.
Well excuse me all to hell.
It was an honest question the times I have remarked on senders talking about the weather -- I haven't travelled a great deal and can't speak any foreign languages fluently (or much at all beyond "two beers, please") so I was unclear whether it was generally accepted that if you have to make small talk with an Englishman you should mention the weather, or if it was instead a universally-accepted subject. Perhaps some of my remarks may have seemed sarcastic -- like in this post where I remark that the Japanese sender tells me it is Autumn in Japan, which funnily enough it is in England, also.
I do say nice things about imagining this life in Japan so different from my own, but perhaps spoil it by saying I expect the sender is wearing one of those weird facemasks they're fond of in Japan when they have colds.
On browsing through the cards, in just this batch alone it doesn't end there. Here I make a risque reference to "the famous German sense of humour" and go on to mention that the people in the picture look like freaks.
There is also this card, where perhaps it's bad form to say that someone's self-described beautiful city doesn't look all that, or to say the postcard's caption gives me more detail about the city than the sender does.
I can see now how where such remarks should perhaps be confined to my blog, where the senders will never see them. They were intended to be humorous -- though I guess nobody but me ever saw them that way, even here. Although nobody else found them funny, what does that matter? I can say whatever the hell I like! If ever a sender did see one and took offence, I would apologise and explain what I meant. But I don't agree with being offended on behalf of someone else.
I hope that at least my handful of readers here know that if I sound mean or unkind you shouldn't take me seriously -- I love getting these cards in the post (otherwise I wouldn't do it), and I don't think I have ever said anything really offensive. If I say "I'm disappointed by this", then what is that other than my own feelings? Who knew there was so much politics involved. In future, all cards received will be posted here with full and unrestrained comments. But in every other public forum, there will be no comment that is anything more than factual.
And certainly no attempts at humour.
Thursday, 24 April 2008
Tuesday, 22 April 2008
He's so deep, like dirty water (updated)
Because Non-Blondie did it first, and because I didn't know any of her answers, I present the geeky music quotes quiz. I think I have a book one knocking around somewhere, consisting of first lines -- I'll save that one for when I'm really bored. I'm not nearly as clever as Non-Blondie, whose own quiz was the soundtrack to her final year at school. I'm just a tremendous music snob loveable geek.
There's still more to be identified, so there's everything to play for -- and I have changed number 8 because I felt it was just too obscure. Unlike number 5 perhaps...
1.She's a real left-winger 'cause she been down south
And held peasants in her arms
She said "I could tell you a story that would make you cry"
-- partially guessed correctly by Raine -- yes, it's the Pixies, no it's not Come On Pilgrim
2.Mary had a little lamb, her face was white as snow
And everywhere that Mary went I was sure to go
Now Mary's got a problem, and Mary's not a stupid girl
Mary's got some deep shit, and Mary does not forget
-- Guessed correctly by Non-Blondie. Perhaps a bit obvious choosing the same artist and album as one of yours, but I hoped the line might be a bit obscure.
3.The war is over
So said the speaker with the flight suit on
Maybe to him I'm just a pawn
So he can advance
-- Guessed correctly by Raine, full marks for identifying "Dirty Harry" by Gorillaz
4.The free market is perfectly natural,
Do you think that I'm some kind of dummy?
It's the ideal way to order the world;
'Fuck the morals, does it make any money?'
-- Guessed correctly by Mez, although technically the title is just "Running The World", by Jarvis Cocker
5. Darling your love is no longer enough
I guess prison has changed me, I need other stuff;
I need gin in a flask, a file and a rasp
A small box of kittens, and a Lone Ranger mask
6.She deals in witchcraft; one kiss and I'm zapped.
Oh how can heaven hold a place for me.
When a girl like you has cast a spell on me?
-- Guess partially correctly by Mez, who knew the title, and so shares the prize with Raine who identified the song as "Female of the Species" by Space
7. Tell me what did you like about me?
And don't say my strength and daring
'cuz now I think I'm at your mercy
and it's my first time for this kind of thing
8.It seems that all of us are just fiends
who have different goals and share different dreams
but you wont find joy in a packet of pay
there’s a void in your life ‘cause you ’re created that way
9.They declared me unfit to live
Said into that great void my soul'd be hurled
They wanted to know why I did what I did
Well sir I guess there's just a meanness in this world
Guessed correctly by Amanda -- anyone who didn't know it should be ashamed! I wrote a whole post about the song, which is obviously "Nebraska" by Bruce Springsteen
10.I'm waxin' down so that I'll go real fast.
I'm waxin' down because it's really a blast.
I'm goin' surfin' cuz I don't like your face.
I'm bailin' out because I hate the race
Of rats that run, round and round, in a maze.
-- A very popular song, Non-Blondie was first past the post to identify "Surf Wax America" by Weezer.
There's still more to be identified, so there's everything to play for -- and I have changed number 8 because I felt it was just too obscure. Unlike number 5 perhaps...
Thursday, 17 April 2008
Tired of doing day jobs with no thanks for what I do
Work is a bit up in the air at the moment, which is never a feeling I enjoy.
More attentive readers might remember that I took this current job on a six-month contract. It bears no resemblance to anything I would like to do with my life, and doesn't seem to involve many things I enjoy. It was just there when I needed a job, and having seen relatives recently I had their pitying looks and the words "You're still looking for something interesting" in my head. So I took a job that wasn't interesting -- but was instead a steady, secure job and quite unlike last year's PR freelancing.
The fact that it was a six month contract was a blessing and a curse -- it meant that I could hold something down for a nice steady length of time instead of a month here and six weeks there. But it worried me slightly that the job might be intolerable and I'd be stuck in it. As it turned out, the job is dull but perfectly tolerable. They're very happy with my work (although I only ever hear this through my temp agency, they never express it personally to me) but there's a cloud on the horizon.
A couple of people in my life suggested to me when I started the job that this six month contract might not really be exactly what it says on the tin -- that a lot of employers state the job is that, so they can kick you out after six months if you're useless and be free of any reprisals. I hoped this would hold true of my job.
Last week I was having a discussion about work with my colleague Matt. Matt is a nice guy, only ever takes anything resembling an interest in me or my life when there's nobody else around. If I should happen to be in the bathroom at the same time as him, he'll strike up a conversation, or if we're the only two members of the purchasing department in that day. He's not unfriendly by any means, but it seems he's not much one for small talk, and I'm not the kind of guy who likes to talk -- or talk about himself. That's what the blog is for. So, Matt and I were talking and he was asking me about the contract and if I had any thoughts about work here or other plans. I said I hoped to convince them to let me stay longer, not because the job is great but because I need it on my CV for the time being. I said it didn't seem to me like at the end of six months I simply wouldn't be needed any more -- it feels like there is a job for me to do, and an arbitrary date on the calendar wouldn't make my work disappear.
That's when he explained that the manual reordering system we are trying to convince our bus depots to use for the ordering of the engineering parts they need is designed to effectively do away with my job. The only parts that would need to be physically phoned through to suppliers would be the urgent orders, and between them the department (which effectively would just be him and Annette) would be able to handle that.
Of course, there's more to my job than just the ordering of the parts -- I have made very certain of that. Any time something needs to be done, I'm happy to take it on. I incorporate more and more things into my daily routines, with an eye to making it difficult to get rid of me. Sometimes it backfires -- I did this on my PR internship, and even had a personal meeting with the MD where I told her that the job I was doing unpaid as an intern needed someone to be doing it permanently. So they created a job, interviewed me for it, then gave it to someone else and put me out on the street.
We had a new member of staff join our department perhaps six weeks ago, and she lasted all of about a month. She claimed she was lied to by her agency who recruited her and lied to in interview about the job -- what was true we don't know, but apparently now she has left there are legal proceedings looming. The company are interviewing all over again for someone else to come in and do that job, but in the meantime are hiring another temp. They keep reassuring me that this person is no threat to me, will only be here for a few weeks, but that they will be taking over a lot of what I do. There was an oblique reference to more or bigger things for me to do when this happens, but it's hard to see what will happen.
My boss asked me, not unlike Matt, about my plans. I spoke of wanting to perhaps stay and he explained that it wasn't just the automatic computerised ordering system, but that they had to justify to the powers that be everyone's place. He told me how he had been asked to send a list of employees working under him (all three of us, then -- perhaps four if you count the guy who works at a different office) and being a temp the powers that be might axe me. He said he hoped to sneak me in under the radar for as long as possible, but there's a possibility that even if I try to make myself indispensable, the people who decide on budgets for staff won't know or care.
I try to remain positive. I think if it does look likely to finish at six months or shortly after, I will look again for permanent work in London -- with a view to moving there. All the cool kids are doing it, and I think it was meeting Fiona a few months back that made me realise it is not impossibly expensive to live in London without an amazing job. If this job does finish I could look at doing something I enjoy or that actually stimulates me... Or I could look for jobs like this one but in London instead...
Like most areas of my life, I swing between thinking that I have failed at everything I have ever tried, and that if anything ever changes it goes from bad to worse and feeling confident and optimistic about what the future holds. I know logically that whether I think I can or think I can't I will be right, but that doesn't help.
More attentive readers might remember that I took this current job on a six-month contract. It bears no resemblance to anything I would like to do with my life, and doesn't seem to involve many things I enjoy. It was just there when I needed a job, and having seen relatives recently I had their pitying looks and the words "You're still looking for something interesting" in my head. So I took a job that wasn't interesting -- but was instead a steady, secure job and quite unlike last year's PR freelancing.
The fact that it was a six month contract was a blessing and a curse -- it meant that I could hold something down for a nice steady length of time instead of a month here and six weeks there. But it worried me slightly that the job might be intolerable and I'd be stuck in it. As it turned out, the job is dull but perfectly tolerable. They're very happy with my work (although I only ever hear this through my temp agency, they never express it personally to me) but there's a cloud on the horizon.
A couple of people in my life suggested to me when I started the job that this six month contract might not really be exactly what it says on the tin -- that a lot of employers state the job is that, so they can kick you out after six months if you're useless and be free of any reprisals. I hoped this would hold true of my job.
Last week I was having a discussion about work with my colleague Matt. Matt is a nice guy, only ever takes anything resembling an interest in me or my life when there's nobody else around. If I should happen to be in the bathroom at the same time as him, he'll strike up a conversation, or if we're the only two members of the purchasing department in that day. He's not unfriendly by any means, but it seems he's not much one for small talk, and I'm not the kind of guy who likes to talk -- or talk about himself. That's what the blog is for. So, Matt and I were talking and he was asking me about the contract and if I had any thoughts about work here or other plans. I said I hoped to convince them to let me stay longer, not because the job is great but because I need it on my CV for the time being. I said it didn't seem to me like at the end of six months I simply wouldn't be needed any more -- it feels like there is a job for me to do, and an arbitrary date on the calendar wouldn't make my work disappear.
That's when he explained that the manual reordering system we are trying to convince our bus depots to use for the ordering of the engineering parts they need is designed to effectively do away with my job. The only parts that would need to be physically phoned through to suppliers would be the urgent orders, and between them the department (which effectively would just be him and Annette) would be able to handle that.
Of course, there's more to my job than just the ordering of the parts -- I have made very certain of that. Any time something needs to be done, I'm happy to take it on. I incorporate more and more things into my daily routines, with an eye to making it difficult to get rid of me. Sometimes it backfires -- I did this on my PR internship, and even had a personal meeting with the MD where I told her that the job I was doing unpaid as an intern needed someone to be doing it permanently. So they created a job, interviewed me for it, then gave it to someone else and put me out on the street.
We had a new member of staff join our department perhaps six weeks ago, and she lasted all of about a month. She claimed she was lied to by her agency who recruited her and lied to in interview about the job -- what was true we don't know, but apparently now she has left there are legal proceedings looming. The company are interviewing all over again for someone else to come in and do that job, but in the meantime are hiring another temp. They keep reassuring me that this person is no threat to me, will only be here for a few weeks, but that they will be taking over a lot of what I do. There was an oblique reference to more or bigger things for me to do when this happens, but it's hard to see what will happen.
My boss asked me, not unlike Matt, about my plans. I spoke of wanting to perhaps stay and he explained that it wasn't just the automatic computerised ordering system, but that they had to justify to the powers that be everyone's place. He told me how he had been asked to send a list of employees working under him (all three of us, then -- perhaps four if you count the guy who works at a different office) and being a temp the powers that be might axe me. He said he hoped to sneak me in under the radar for as long as possible, but there's a possibility that even if I try to make myself indispensable, the people who decide on budgets for staff won't know or care.
I try to remain positive. I think if it does look likely to finish at six months or shortly after, I will look again for permanent work in London -- with a view to moving there. All the cool kids are doing it, and I think it was meeting Fiona a few months back that made me realise it is not impossibly expensive to live in London without an amazing job. If this job does finish I could look at doing something I enjoy or that actually stimulates me... Or I could look for jobs like this one but in London instead...
Like most areas of my life, I swing between thinking that I have failed at everything I have ever tried, and that if anything ever changes it goes from bad to worse and feeling confident and optimistic about what the future holds. I know logically that whether I think I can or think I can't I will be right, but that doesn't help.
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
The universe should be my supermarket -- so why isn't it?
I read a book on Cosmic Ordering last week. The concept of it seems quite simple -- to ask the universe clearly and politely for what you want, give it a time frame for the delivery, and then away it goes. Apparently, you don't even have to necessarily believe the universe will deliver -- the author of the book I read said she placed her first "order" as a sceptic, to settle an argument with a friend who believed it. It also says that being tempted to reconfirm your orders or give them an extra "push" of energy from time to time is counter-productive. I'm not sure if these two ideas contradict one another -- the latter suggests you lack confidence in your order, but what does it matter if you don't even have to believe it?
I started out with a couple of small orders at first. I ordered "some interesting post" to arrive by the end of the week. I thought that was ambiguous enough -- it could be a surprise from a friend or a postcard or a letter or any number of things. I also requested an email from a particular friend within 24 hours.
At first, I thought it hadn't come through -- I went to bed without the email I had ordered. But the next morning, there it was waiting for me -- it had been delivered while I slept, so it still came through within the time period I specified. This left the interesting post. A day or two went past with nothing, but I had said by the end of the week -- and before the week was out, not one but two unexpected postcards from postcrossing arrived (I'll scan them another day for postcard porn).
Now, both of these could be considered a coincidence. I was owed an email by my friend, it wasn't completely out of the blue. I also probably was owed postcards from Postcrossing, too, since one I sent had just arrived -- although I can never work out Postcrossing, sometimes I am about five cards in credit compared to what I have sent, and sometimes it goes the other way. It rarely seems to be exactly equal -- like how with two cards turning up on exactly the same day. The book had an amusing analogy about thinking these things are coincidence -- imagine you order a sweater by mail order. The sweater arrives. You then call the mail order company and tell them that you don't believe the sweater you have received is the one you ordered and is in fact a sweater you already had -- furthermore you also believe that they still owe you the one you ordered. So I could choose to believe I ordered these things and they arrived, or I could believe they would have arrived anyway. One way makes you happy, the other doesn't.
Unfortunately my positive tales of orders received seems to end there. I have tried ordering a parking space I want at work -- but it never comes. I don't understand why. The other day I also wanted a pound coin for the coke machine, since I didn't have one. That didn't come either. I wasn't asking for a large sum of cash to magically appear, it seemed perfectly reasonable to find a pound coin just lying on the floor somewhere, or in a forgotten pocket. Why the hell did these things not work? I didn't put any more or less emphasis on them than my other options -- my consistent lack of the parking space I want doesn't ruin my day. So why one thing and not another?
I have asked the universe for the right job. I don't want to leave my current job quite yet, but it would be good if the universe could at least show me where I should go, so I can know what I am aiming towards. The trouble is, I don't know if the random ideas I get should be entertained or if it just seems like the grass is greener. Work is a blog post for another day right now. I've also thought it can't hurt to ask the universe to deliver the right person into my life. Like with the interesting post request, I trust the universe to know what is best for me -- better than I can. But I am also confident there that if this mystical bag of wonderful doesn't materialise out of thin air -- or better yet be a person already actively in my life in whatever way -- it's because I am not ready for it.
I am unsure about the mechanics of this ordering business. As I've said, I spend long afternoons pondering how it works if you can 'order' something without believing in it -- since this can't be the reason for not getting the things I order. I am almost certain that the power of positive thinking doesn't create some kind of magnet, rather you subconsciously create what you require and notice what is already around you. I like being thankful for the things in my life, but sometimes it feels just a little bit too much like I've gone full circle, and am back to praying and believing the things in my life have been given to me by some invisible, mystical force.
I don't accept that the universe doesn't deliver to me the things I secretly don't think I deserve -- while that might apply to work, girls, even success, it doesn't adequately cover why I don't get the trivial, little things either. I need to read more, I need to read around the subject perhaps -- I need to read it as it appears as Neural-Linguistic Programming, as well as in such contexts as Comsic Ordering, The Secret and Conversations With God -- all of which I believe talk about the same sort of intention-manifestation idea. I also clearly need to get right back to basics and return to my reading of the 20 Greatest Philosophy Books (helpfully contained in one, small, easy-to-read book).
In the meantime, I'd like to place a cosmic order for more money -- best of all in the form of a steady flow of people wanting to buy my artwork for a small profit.
Then, later on, monkeys might fly out of my butt.
I started out with a couple of small orders at first. I ordered "some interesting post" to arrive by the end of the week. I thought that was ambiguous enough -- it could be a surprise from a friend or a postcard or a letter or any number of things. I also requested an email from a particular friend within 24 hours.
At first, I thought it hadn't come through -- I went to bed without the email I had ordered. But the next morning, there it was waiting for me -- it had been delivered while I slept, so it still came through within the time period I specified. This left the interesting post. A day or two went past with nothing, but I had said by the end of the week -- and before the week was out, not one but two unexpected postcards from postcrossing arrived (I'll scan them another day for postcard porn).
Now, both of these could be considered a coincidence. I was owed an email by my friend, it wasn't completely out of the blue. I also probably was owed postcards from Postcrossing, too, since one I sent had just arrived -- although I can never work out Postcrossing, sometimes I am about five cards in credit compared to what I have sent, and sometimes it goes the other way. It rarely seems to be exactly equal -- like how with two cards turning up on exactly the same day. The book had an amusing analogy about thinking these things are coincidence -- imagine you order a sweater by mail order. The sweater arrives. You then call the mail order company and tell them that you don't believe the sweater you have received is the one you ordered and is in fact a sweater you already had -- furthermore you also believe that they still owe you the one you ordered. So I could choose to believe I ordered these things and they arrived, or I could believe they would have arrived anyway. One way makes you happy, the other doesn't.
Unfortunately my positive tales of orders received seems to end there. I have tried ordering a parking space I want at work -- but it never comes. I don't understand why. The other day I also wanted a pound coin for the coke machine, since I didn't have one. That didn't come either. I wasn't asking for a large sum of cash to magically appear, it seemed perfectly reasonable to find a pound coin just lying on the floor somewhere, or in a forgotten pocket. Why the hell did these things not work? I didn't put any more or less emphasis on them than my other options -- my consistent lack of the parking space I want doesn't ruin my day. So why one thing and not another?
I have asked the universe for the right job. I don't want to leave my current job quite yet, but it would be good if the universe could at least show me where I should go, so I can know what I am aiming towards. The trouble is, I don't know if the random ideas I get should be entertained or if it just seems like the grass is greener. Work is a blog post for another day right now. I've also thought it can't hurt to ask the universe to deliver the right person into my life. Like with the interesting post request, I trust the universe to know what is best for me -- better than I can. But I am also confident there that if this mystical bag of wonderful doesn't materialise out of thin air -- or better yet be a person already actively in my life in whatever way -- it's because I am not ready for it.
I am unsure about the mechanics of this ordering business. As I've said, I spend long afternoons pondering how it works if you can 'order' something without believing in it -- since this can't be the reason for not getting the things I order. I am almost certain that the power of positive thinking doesn't create some kind of magnet, rather you subconsciously create what you require and notice what is already around you. I like being thankful for the things in my life, but sometimes it feels just a little bit too much like I've gone full circle, and am back to praying and believing the things in my life have been given to me by some invisible, mystical force.
I don't accept that the universe doesn't deliver to me the things I secretly don't think I deserve -- while that might apply to work, girls, even success, it doesn't adequately cover why I don't get the trivial, little things either. I need to read more, I need to read around the subject perhaps -- I need to read it as it appears as Neural-Linguistic Programming, as well as in such contexts as Comsic Ordering, The Secret and Conversations With God -- all of which I believe talk about the same sort of intention-manifestation idea. I also clearly need to get right back to basics and return to my reading of the 20 Greatest Philosophy Books (helpfully contained in one, small, easy-to-read book).
In the meantime, I'd like to place a cosmic order for more money -- best of all in the form of a steady flow of people wanting to buy my artwork for a small profit.
Then, later on, monkeys might fly out of my butt.
Friday, 11 April 2008
Take a different way home
There was a quote I read once from Sid Vicious, who said "You just pick a chord, go 'twang', and you've got music". That's sort of how I approach photography.
Some of what I consider my best pictures have been taken on disposable or cheap cameras. I don't have any expensive kit, I don't monitor light levels or have any sort of training. I think it just has to come from passion. As is probably obvious, I'm generally more a literary than visual person, I'd love to paint, but I just don't seem to 'think' in terms of pictures. Most of my pictures are from wandering about, just to 'dig' stuff, or just snapping things because I like them -- rather than because it's art. It can annoy me that wherever you go there is someone trying to be artistic -- you're trying to walk up the escalator and someone is there, crouched down with their digital SLR, getting a shot at ankle-height... Or maybe I'm just jealous because they thought of it first?
I try to always be open to something that might make a good picture (although I never have my camera) and will pull the car over, or go back to the spot later if necessary, just so I can take pictures. Sometimes it looks rubbish, but I just shrug and that's that.
Last night I drove a different way home -- I just felt like it. I was so bored of the same dual carriageway that I decided I'd get off an exit early and try to find my way home from there. As we all know, I have a terrible, absolutely awful, sense of direction -- but I knew I couldn't go far wrong, and something inside me just said to do it. So I did. I did actually get a bit lost and didn't really find a different way home so much as a very convoluted and circular way back to the same dual carriageway. But then I went a different way again -- where I sort of knew the way but I think I missed my turning, so I just carried on. What made it all worthwhile though was passing one of those old World War 2 lookout posts -- the old concrete things you see in the middle of fields. There's a few near here, and I always want to take a picture of one I see, but can't figure out a way to get near it. This one tonight was right by the side of the road, and even better there was several places opposite where I can park.
I considered getting my camera from home then driving back there -- but I didn't in the end. The camera's memory was mostly full, since I hadn't yet uploaded my pictures from Seville -- my camera has been sat on my desk for weeks -- so it would have involved uploading everything off it (once my computer was finally booted up) then driving back there again, but the light wasn't great. I convinced myself that the pictures probably wouldn't even be worthwhile -- it often frustrates me that what looks good to look at doesn't necessarily translate to a good photograph.
This evening I went my normal way home. It was bright and sunny, and I decided yes, yes, I would get my camera and go back tonight. I would just go and see what happens...
I had a very nasty surprise getting the pictures off my camera. Half of what I remember taking isn't on there. Pictures of the streets, many pictures from the Cathedral, pictures taken on the boat trip -- just plain missing. Even worse, the morning of the parade, Dune had asked me to use my camera's video setting to capture the music of the parade, and we had been lucky enough to catch a mournful saeta. I am sure I remember checking the video after I recorded it -- and yet it seems everything I saved to the internal memory on my camera is absent. I hoped at the time this was just some glitch I could work out later -- but I've looked since and it's just not there. No doubt it is due to some unfathomable stupidity on my part. I could just break something.
Anyway off I went this evening, and snapped my pictures of this old war relic. I haven't reviewed them properly yet, but I expect I will post some of them later. First, they need to be cropped and edited, and before that I am going swimming. It's Friday night, and I'd normally be down the pub, but tonight I just feel like quietly swimming laps for an hour or so, and coming home.
Some of what I consider my best pictures have been taken on disposable or cheap cameras. I don't have any expensive kit, I don't monitor light levels or have any sort of training. I think it just has to come from passion. As is probably obvious, I'm generally more a literary than visual person, I'd love to paint, but I just don't seem to 'think' in terms of pictures. Most of my pictures are from wandering about, just to 'dig' stuff, or just snapping things because I like them -- rather than because it's art. It can annoy me that wherever you go there is someone trying to be artistic -- you're trying to walk up the escalator and someone is there, crouched down with their digital SLR, getting a shot at ankle-height... Or maybe I'm just jealous because they thought of it first?
I try to always be open to something that might make a good picture (although I never have my camera) and will pull the car over, or go back to the spot later if necessary, just so I can take pictures. Sometimes it looks rubbish, but I just shrug and that's that.
Last night I drove a different way home -- I just felt like it. I was so bored of the same dual carriageway that I decided I'd get off an exit early and try to find my way home from there. As we all know, I have a terrible, absolutely awful, sense of direction -- but I knew I couldn't go far wrong, and something inside me just said to do it. So I did. I did actually get a bit lost and didn't really find a different way home so much as a very convoluted and circular way back to the same dual carriageway. But then I went a different way again -- where I sort of knew the way but I think I missed my turning, so I just carried on. What made it all worthwhile though was passing one of those old World War 2 lookout posts -- the old concrete things you see in the middle of fields. There's a few near here, and I always want to take a picture of one I see, but can't figure out a way to get near it. This one tonight was right by the side of the road, and even better there was several places opposite where I can park.
I considered getting my camera from home then driving back there -- but I didn't in the end. The camera's memory was mostly full, since I hadn't yet uploaded my pictures from Seville -- my camera has been sat on my desk for weeks -- so it would have involved uploading everything off it (once my computer was finally booted up) then driving back there again, but the light wasn't great. I convinced myself that the pictures probably wouldn't even be worthwhile -- it often frustrates me that what looks good to look at doesn't necessarily translate to a good photograph.
This evening I went my normal way home. It was bright and sunny, and I decided yes, yes, I would get my camera and go back tonight. I would just go and see what happens...
I had a very nasty surprise getting the pictures off my camera. Half of what I remember taking isn't on there. Pictures of the streets, many pictures from the Cathedral, pictures taken on the boat trip -- just plain missing. Even worse, the morning of the parade, Dune had asked me to use my camera's video setting to capture the music of the parade, and we had been lucky enough to catch a mournful saeta. I am sure I remember checking the video after I recorded it -- and yet it seems everything I saved to the internal memory on my camera is absent. I hoped at the time this was just some glitch I could work out later -- but I've looked since and it's just not there. No doubt it is due to some unfathomable stupidity on my part. I could just break something.
Anyway off I went this evening, and snapped my pictures of this old war relic. I haven't reviewed them properly yet, but I expect I will post some of them later. First, they need to be cropped and edited, and before that I am going swimming. It's Friday night, and I'd normally be down the pub, but tonight I just feel like quietly swimming laps for an hour or so, and coming home.
Tuesday, 8 April 2008
Suddenly I See
When we were in sunny Seville, I told Dune that I had discovered two things about her and that I was going to make sure I blogged about them. The first was that completely unlike me she not only had a good sense of direction, but an almost uncanny internal compass -- without needing to really try, she would often know exactly where we were and how to get where we needed to be. I would say something like "Stop -- weren't we meant to go the other way down the street?" and she'd gently point out that we were going the other way to normal.
The other discovery was that her moral compass might just have got a little bit off course -- and that perhaps it had been exposed to a magnet at some point. We were discussing her proposed laser eye surgery, and how she was going to have x-ray vision as a result of it -- and how she planned to use her power for evil. I was shocked, as you might imagine, and insisted in a similar position I would only use my powers for the good of humanity. Dune said anyone who claimed such a thing was either delusional, a liar, or both -- and that spying on people's underwear was the way forward.
Fast-forward a couple of weeks to this past Saturday -- the big day of Dune's surgery. She had asked me earlier if I wouldn't mind accompanying her, since she would need someone to help her get home; I refused to let her give it another moment's thought, of course I would go. Dune was a little concerned that I'd have to amuse myself for a few hours while she was in there and recovering, but I insisted that wasn't something she should concern herself with. I figured I could go watch a film, or find a bookshop on Charing Cross Road where I could read poetry, or any number of things.
Naturally, Dune was a little apprehensive on the day -- it sounded like a frightening procedure, even if it was to be the very definition of quick and painless. We found the place with the slightest trouble with locations, and on arriving found it wouldn't be the 2 - 3 hours we anticipated, but more like 90 minutes. They also helpfully left it to this point to mention that Dune shouldn't take the Tube after the surgery, because it was "dirty". Okay, fair enough, they might have a point -- but being located in central London might it not have been helpful to mention this sooner?
Don't get me wrong, I like catching the bus. I actually prefer bus journeys in London to tube journeys because there's more to look at, and if the bus breaks down at least you can just get off and walk. But they take forever. The traffic is always terrible, then there's always road works on top of that, and in the end you wonder if it would be quicker to walk. It's not quicker to walk from Tottenham Court Road to Liverpool Street station, if anyone is wondering -- I've not done it, but I did consider it once, and worked out I'd be better of just sleeping under my desk in the office.
If there is one good thing to be said for them waiting until almost the last minute to mention this Tube aversion, it was that at least it would give me something to do while I waited. I considered an internet cafe, but instead sent off a hasty text message to AQA asking for bus details since I figured it would cost just the same, and someone else could do the leg work. Turns out I would have been better off working it out for myself, since although they told me what bus to get from what bus stop, it wasn't quite as detailed as it might have been.
While Dune was going under the knife, I walked to Leicester Square -- about a minute away from where I was working in PR around this time last year -- and grabbed lunch at Hamburger Union. The food is very good quality, but unfortunately I don't think the price tag quite matches the increase in quality. Go into Burger King, you can get your bacon-cheeseburger with chips and a coke for less than a fiver, go to Hamburger Union and they might be made from freerange cows who live happy lives in lush valleys, served on rustic bread with ears, and real chips that look and taste like chips and aren't frozen -- but the price doubles. I should have gone to Subway on Charing Cross Road and just got a steak and cheese with green peppers.
I was just leaving the burger joint when Dune called to say she was finished with the surgery and I was welcome to come back. I made haste to get back, and was led to a quiet, dimly lit room, where people including Dune were sombrely sat in their dark glasses. Nobody seemed very happy, although I wanted to tell the man who seemed to be there with his girlfriend that now was not the best time to complain to her about the cost of their taxi home.
Dune and I set off before too long to find the bus stop, and although Dune could actually see (I was unsure if she would be able to or not, at first), the biting wind and the dust wasn't making it a very pleasant experience for her to be outside, and she let me know that it would be appreciated greatly if we could find this bus stop as soon as humanly possible. At this point -- not being entirely sure where our bus stop was -- I thought again how it might have been better to have worked these things out for myself first of all. Luckily, one bus stop had a map on the wall of the shelter and I was able to establish we wanted to be on Oxford Street.
Back we walked, the way we came, and Dune was particularly unimpressed that we had to walk past the fountains at Centre Point, which were spraying in her face and her eyes because of the wind. Luckily, I escaped a beating when I found our bus stop, and we didn't have to wait too long for our carriage. The bus journey of course took forever -- and I think Dune had her eyes closed when I was pointing out St Paul's Cathedral -- but to its credit, it got us to the very door of Liverpool Street Station. Better yet, our platform was just at the bottom of the escalators, and a train was ready and waiting for us.
Even in her weakened state, Dune was telling me how much clearer her vision now was -- but her leisure activities were greatly restricted. There was to be no television, no reading, and no computers. Luckily, she was allowed to drink wine otherwise we agreed she might as well just end it all... We also later found that Dylan Moran's stand up is perfectly reasonable to listen to as a kind of radio show. I can personally vouch for Eddie Izzard's suitability for this, too. Both benefit from the visuals, but if you've got a heap of imagination they work very well as sound-only. Not only does Dune have imagination, but she also now has X-ray vision, which she plans to use for nefarious purposes. So be warned.
The other discovery was that her moral compass might just have got a little bit off course -- and that perhaps it had been exposed to a magnet at some point. We were discussing her proposed laser eye surgery, and how she was going to have x-ray vision as a result of it -- and how she planned to use her power for evil. I was shocked, as you might imagine, and insisted in a similar position I would only use my powers for the good of humanity. Dune said anyone who claimed such a thing was either delusional, a liar, or both -- and that spying on people's underwear was the way forward.
Fast-forward a couple of weeks to this past Saturday -- the big day of Dune's surgery. She had asked me earlier if I wouldn't mind accompanying her, since she would need someone to help her get home; I refused to let her give it another moment's thought, of course I would go. Dune was a little concerned that I'd have to amuse myself for a few hours while she was in there and recovering, but I insisted that wasn't something she should concern herself with. I figured I could go watch a film, or find a bookshop on Charing Cross Road where I could read poetry, or any number of things.
Naturally, Dune was a little apprehensive on the day -- it sounded like a frightening procedure, even if it was to be the very definition of quick and painless. We found the place with the slightest trouble with locations, and on arriving found it wouldn't be the 2 - 3 hours we anticipated, but more like 90 minutes. They also helpfully left it to this point to mention that Dune shouldn't take the Tube after the surgery, because it was "dirty". Okay, fair enough, they might have a point -- but being located in central London might it not have been helpful to mention this sooner?
Don't get me wrong, I like catching the bus. I actually prefer bus journeys in London to tube journeys because there's more to look at, and if the bus breaks down at least you can just get off and walk. But they take forever. The traffic is always terrible, then there's always road works on top of that, and in the end you wonder if it would be quicker to walk. It's not quicker to walk from Tottenham Court Road to Liverpool Street station, if anyone is wondering -- I've not done it, but I did consider it once, and worked out I'd be better of just sleeping under my desk in the office.
If there is one good thing to be said for them waiting until almost the last minute to mention this Tube aversion, it was that at least it would give me something to do while I waited. I considered an internet cafe, but instead sent off a hasty text message to AQA asking for bus details since I figured it would cost just the same, and someone else could do the leg work. Turns out I would have been better off working it out for myself, since although they told me what bus to get from what bus stop, it wasn't quite as detailed as it might have been.
While Dune was going under the knife, I walked to Leicester Square -- about a minute away from where I was working in PR around this time last year -- and grabbed lunch at Hamburger Union. The food is very good quality, but unfortunately I don't think the price tag quite matches the increase in quality. Go into Burger King, you can get your bacon-cheeseburger with chips and a coke for less than a fiver, go to Hamburger Union and they might be made from freerange cows who live happy lives in lush valleys, served on rustic bread with ears, and real chips that look and taste like chips and aren't frozen -- but the price doubles. I should have gone to Subway on Charing Cross Road and just got a steak and cheese with green peppers.
I was just leaving the burger joint when Dune called to say she was finished with the surgery and I was welcome to come back. I made haste to get back, and was led to a quiet, dimly lit room, where people including Dune were sombrely sat in their dark glasses. Nobody seemed very happy, although I wanted to tell the man who seemed to be there with his girlfriend that now was not the best time to complain to her about the cost of their taxi home.
Dune and I set off before too long to find the bus stop, and although Dune could actually see (I was unsure if she would be able to or not, at first), the biting wind and the dust wasn't making it a very pleasant experience for her to be outside, and she let me know that it would be appreciated greatly if we could find this bus stop as soon as humanly possible. At this point -- not being entirely sure where our bus stop was -- I thought again how it might have been better to have worked these things out for myself first of all. Luckily, one bus stop had a map on the wall of the shelter and I was able to establish we wanted to be on Oxford Street.
Back we walked, the way we came, and Dune was particularly unimpressed that we had to walk past the fountains at Centre Point, which were spraying in her face and her eyes because of the wind. Luckily, I escaped a beating when I found our bus stop, and we didn't have to wait too long for our carriage. The bus journey of course took forever -- and I think Dune had her eyes closed when I was pointing out St Paul's Cathedral -- but to its credit, it got us to the very door of Liverpool Street Station. Better yet, our platform was just at the bottom of the escalators, and a train was ready and waiting for us.
Even in her weakened state, Dune was telling me how much clearer her vision now was -- but her leisure activities were greatly restricted. There was to be no television, no reading, and no computers. Luckily, she was allowed to drink wine otherwise we agreed she might as well just end it all... We also later found that Dylan Moran's stand up is perfectly reasonable to listen to as a kind of radio show. I can personally vouch for Eddie Izzard's suitability for this, too. Both benefit from the visuals, but if you've got a heap of imagination they work very well as sound-only. Not only does Dune have imagination, but she also now has X-ray vision, which she plans to use for nefarious purposes. So be warned.
Monday, 7 April 2008
Pension Book
Over dinner with my parents this evening, I asked my Dad if he would be so kind the next time he talks to my uncle (or one of my many uncles) to ask him for contact details for my cousins. Whenever we see each other we're all like "We must meet up and go for drinks!" but we forget the important part of actually exchanging details.
I explained that I already have another two of my cousins contact details after I found them on Facebook, but the cousins I am pestering my Dad for are all a few years older than me, and I don't think they really "do" social networking.
Life then took a turn for the very surreal when my Dad announced he was on Facebook. I tried very hard to snort lager out through my nose at this point. Really? I asked him. Yes, he said, I signed up once when I was looking for old school friends, but I didn't find anyone.
At this point I really couldn't stop laughing, it was the most absurd thing I have ever heard -- but I quickly realised he was talking about friends reunited, which we all know includes everyone you went to school with trying to pretend they are earning 100k a year and living in Beverley Hills. I think the last time I updated it I claimed I had moved to a Buddhist monastery.
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My Dad sadly has no idea what Facebook is -- I say sadly because I would love to see what groups he would join. Perhaps "retired accountants kick arse" or "I like to talk when you are trying to watch a film", or just "I spend so much time on my own I have long conversations with the cat, including pauses for the cat to respond in".
Update: I underestimated Dad and clearly shouldn't be so quick to make assumptions about him! He really is on Facebook -- and really did join to find old school friends -- but it seems he hasn't done anything on it since the day he joined.
I explained that I already have another two of my cousins contact details after I found them on Facebook, but the cousins I am pestering my Dad for are all a few years older than me, and I don't think they really "do" social networking.
Life then took a turn for the very surreal when my Dad announced he was on Facebook. I tried very hard to snort lager out through my nose at this point. Really? I asked him. Yes, he said, I signed up once when I was looking for old school friends, but I didn't find anyone.
At this point I really couldn't stop laughing, it was the most absurd thing I have ever heard -- but I quickly realised he was talking about friends reunited, which we all know includes everyone you went to school with trying to pretend they are earning 100k a year and living in Beverley Hills. I think the last time I updated it I claimed I had moved to a Buddhist monastery.
.jpg)
My Dad sadly has no idea what Facebook is -- I say sadly because I would love to see what groups he would join. Perhaps "retired accountants kick arse" or "I like to talk when you are trying to watch a film", or just "I spend so much time on my own I have long conversations with the cat, including pauses for the cat to respond in".Update: I underestimated Dad and clearly shouldn't be so quick to make assumptions about him! He really is on Facebook -- and really did join to find old school friends -- but it seems he hasn't done anything on it since the day he joined.
Saturday, 5 April 2008
At the recruitment office
As mentioned before, I took last Monday off work sick so that I may have my first formal interview about joining the RAF as an officer.
I had various doubts and concerns, but I felt it was something I *needed* to do. Maybe I felt I had to prove something, maybe I wanted to give two fingers to all the people who said they didn't think I would be able to do it. Maybe I was just looking for a radical change in my life.
For better or worse, on Monday I put on my best black suit, a crisp white shirt and went along to the recruitment office to see what I could do. I was asked to take a sear when I arrived by someone from the army, and so I dutifully complied. Taking orders already, I though, by the end of the day I'll be marching, shouting and using terms like "collateral damage".
The recruitment office is a great place for people watching, when you're tucked away in a corner with nothing better to do -- nothing better to do aside from occasionally looking at your notes and trying to remember the names of different aircraft and where they are based. There was a promotional video showing -- as there is in these places, practically on a loop -- and I could see the backs of the heads of three people. It annoyed me I couldn't see any more of them as I was dying to know how they were reacting to the video which was all jump cuts and flashing images and made life in the army look very exciting. When the video finished the three people stood up. Two of them I was surprised to see, since they were middle-aged and didn't seem the "type" to be considering such a career. The man made some comment to the woman he was with about wishing he was 20 years younger. Then it dawned on me. These middle aged people were a couple, accompanying their young teenaged son. The boy didn't say anything I could hear, but from what I could gather it seemed to be along the lines of "that looks good, I have no further questions". I hoped his parents would take him home and make sure he fully understood everything and that the promotional video was about as objective as a party political broadcast in China. The kid looked dumber than a bag of hammers. Not that there's anything wrong with that, a vocational career could well be the best thing to happen to him -- and to learn a trade in the armed forces better still.
I was kept waiting for almost an hour altogether, although I was greeted properly before this and told the wait was because they hadn't been told of another interviewee coming earlier. I thought this was pretty shoddy organisational skills for the armed forces, they should have synchronised watches or whatever it is they do to prevent these sorts of things.
When eventually I was lead to an interview room I was presented with my previously completed application form and informed that they needed more information or corrections in some places. There were several questions where it would say "if applicable" and ask you in such a circumstance to answer a question, like about how long you had been married or if you were currently sectioned on a mental health order. Since it wasn't applicable, I had skipped these questions -- but the answer they didn't tell you about beforehand was that in these circumstances everything had to be answered "n/a", so they didn't think you'd just missed the question. It's good to know that HR departments are the same for whatever job you want to do. I was also called upon to provide more details of extra-curricular activity for when I was at school 10 years ago, and provide dates for how long I have enjoyed reading as a pasttime. Since I was able to read, I would imagine, and before that I liked to be read to. I still do, actually, and sometimes if I'm alone and really enjoying the way something is written, I read it out loud, to increase my enjoyment.
Finally, after waiting to be seen then providing extensive details, we got to move on to the interview itself. A lot of it was like the application form, with an unhealthy interest in what I did at school and what I liked to do in my spare time when I was 16. I had to explain that while now I list things like surfing, snowboarding and rock climbing among my interests, at school the list wouldn't have stretched much beyond reading. Certain things I felt counted against me -- a lack of involvement in youth organisations, a desire during my time in education to avoid positions of responsibility, and that damn Duke of Edinburgh's award that I never finished. That last one was a pretty stupid move on my part -- I got the bronze award, I got the silver award. I started the gold award, almost froze to death on Dartmoor, spent a week hiking and camping in the Black Mountains in Wales, and even spent a week renovating a canal in the midlands -- which involved an unfortunate accident between a brick and my hand. But I never completed the other parts of the award because I went to university and was more interested in drinking and girls. I should have completed the bloody thing, but I didn't.
I was asked some questions I wasn't expecting. Like how her majesty's armed forces have a fairly relaxed position about drug and substance abuse, so long as it isn't a current problem for you. And did I have any such problems? I assured them no, and was asked if I had ever had any contact with drugs. Sure, some contact with them, I said, but I'd personally never indulged myself. They then asked me what I thought about such things generally. Totally not a question I was expecting, and I expect my libertarian soul shone through at this point when I effectively said it was none of my damn business what someone else chooses to do in the privacy of their own home.
I was also asked some probing questions about Iraq and Afghanistan. I was asked to explain the reasons for the invasion of Iraq -- try talking about weapons of mass destruction without being sarcastic, it's not easy. I think I did a reasonable job of it, explaining how we had every reason to believe there were WMD, and Iraq was being uncooperative, so there was little choice left. Why did I think we were still there, they asked me, since no WMD had been found? I explained that Iraq was a very volatile situation and to leave it now would risk it descending further into violence and civil war and most likely falling into the control of war lords. I said I believed in such a situation it could end up becoming an Islamic theocracy, and could potentially destabilise the whole gulf region. I was asked similarly about Afghanistan -- we invaded, the Taliban was removed from power, why are we still there? I don't personally think we should be there, but I also don't think it is the solider's job to question this, just as it isn't the policeman's job to question the legitimacy of the law. He might personally think that cannabis should be legalised, but he can't let that affect his application of the law. Of course, I didn't say any of that.
I was quizzed about my understanding of the job, and of the officer selection process, and about various aircraft -- and that was it. I'd been there about 3 hours by this point, and they invited me to stay around a while longer while they gave me feedback and told me what their personal recommendation would be regarding my progression. I thought it over, and told them thanks but no, ta -- I was racking up a tidy sum in parking charges (since I foolishly had parked in the "short stay", not expecting to be more than 2 hours), and they were going to put it in the post to me anyway.
I didn't have to wait long. By the middle of the week I had a formal letter following my formal interview, telling me quite formally than I wasn't going to be progressing any further with my application this time -- but that in a year's time I would be welcome to reapply, if I so desired.
This rejection can join the ranks of the rejections I received for all the bar manager jobs I applied for (including the graduate training schemes), every journalist job I ever applied or was interviewed for, and of course every last permanent PR job I went for -- not to mention any freelance job I actually interviewed for.
I can justify it all quite well. My heart wasn't really in it, as we saw before, and so when I should have been cramming about attack aircraft I was blogging instead, and I had so many questions. I don't think anyone other than my Dad and my therapist ever really thought joining the armed forces was a great idea for me -- many lovely people were supportive of it, if it was something I wanted, and many agreed that the discipline and security would do me good. I expect the competition for places for a nice, tidy admin job in the air force would have been stiff -- competition for officers places even more so.
I'm not broken hearted about it, but I do feel a bit like the people who said I couldn't do it were right.
I had various doubts and concerns, but I felt it was something I *needed* to do. Maybe I felt I had to prove something, maybe I wanted to give two fingers to all the people who said they didn't think I would be able to do it. Maybe I was just looking for a radical change in my life.
For better or worse, on Monday I put on my best black suit, a crisp white shirt and went along to the recruitment office to see what I could do. I was asked to take a sear when I arrived by someone from the army, and so I dutifully complied. Taking orders already, I though, by the end of the day I'll be marching, shouting and using terms like "collateral damage".
The recruitment office is a great place for people watching, when you're tucked away in a corner with nothing better to do -- nothing better to do aside from occasionally looking at your notes and trying to remember the names of different aircraft and where they are based. There was a promotional video showing -- as there is in these places, practically on a loop -- and I could see the backs of the heads of three people. It annoyed me I couldn't see any more of them as I was dying to know how they were reacting to the video which was all jump cuts and flashing images and made life in the army look very exciting. When the video finished the three people stood up. Two of them I was surprised to see, since they were middle-aged and didn't seem the "type" to be considering such a career. The man made some comment to the woman he was with about wishing he was 20 years younger. Then it dawned on me. These middle aged people were a couple, accompanying their young teenaged son. The boy didn't say anything I could hear, but from what I could gather it seemed to be along the lines of "that looks good, I have no further questions". I hoped his parents would take him home and make sure he fully understood everything and that the promotional video was about as objective as a party political broadcast in China. The kid looked dumber than a bag of hammers. Not that there's anything wrong with that, a vocational career could well be the best thing to happen to him -- and to learn a trade in the armed forces better still.
I was kept waiting for almost an hour altogether, although I was greeted properly before this and told the wait was because they hadn't been told of another interviewee coming earlier. I thought this was pretty shoddy organisational skills for the armed forces, they should have synchronised watches or whatever it is they do to prevent these sorts of things.
When eventually I was lead to an interview room I was presented with my previously completed application form and informed that they needed more information or corrections in some places. There were several questions where it would say "if applicable" and ask you in such a circumstance to answer a question, like about how long you had been married or if you were currently sectioned on a mental health order. Since it wasn't applicable, I had skipped these questions -- but the answer they didn't tell you about beforehand was that in these circumstances everything had to be answered "n/a", so they didn't think you'd just missed the question. It's good to know that HR departments are the same for whatever job you want to do. I was also called upon to provide more details of extra-curricular activity for when I was at school 10 years ago, and provide dates for how long I have enjoyed reading as a pasttime. Since I was able to read, I would imagine, and before that I liked to be read to. I still do, actually, and sometimes if I'm alone and really enjoying the way something is written, I read it out loud, to increase my enjoyment.
Finally, after waiting to be seen then providing extensive details, we got to move on to the interview itself. A lot of it was like the application form, with an unhealthy interest in what I did at school and what I liked to do in my spare time when I was 16. I had to explain that while now I list things like surfing, snowboarding and rock climbing among my interests, at school the list wouldn't have stretched much beyond reading. Certain things I felt counted against me -- a lack of involvement in youth organisations, a desire during my time in education to avoid positions of responsibility, and that damn Duke of Edinburgh's award that I never finished. That last one was a pretty stupid move on my part -- I got the bronze award, I got the silver award. I started the gold award, almost froze to death on Dartmoor, spent a week hiking and camping in the Black Mountains in Wales, and even spent a week renovating a canal in the midlands -- which involved an unfortunate accident between a brick and my hand. But I never completed the other parts of the award because I went to university and was more interested in drinking and girls. I should have completed the bloody thing, but I didn't.
I was asked some questions I wasn't expecting. Like how her majesty's armed forces have a fairly relaxed position about drug and substance abuse, so long as it isn't a current problem for you. And did I have any such problems? I assured them no, and was asked if I had ever had any contact with drugs. Sure, some contact with them, I said, but I'd personally never indulged myself. They then asked me what I thought about such things generally. Totally not a question I was expecting, and I expect my libertarian soul shone through at this point when I effectively said it was none of my damn business what someone else chooses to do in the privacy of their own home.
I was also asked some probing questions about Iraq and Afghanistan. I was asked to explain the reasons for the invasion of Iraq -- try talking about weapons of mass destruction without being sarcastic, it's not easy. I think I did a reasonable job of it, explaining how we had every reason to believe there were WMD, and Iraq was being uncooperative, so there was little choice left. Why did I think we were still there, they asked me, since no WMD had been found? I explained that Iraq was a very volatile situation and to leave it now would risk it descending further into violence and civil war and most likely falling into the control of war lords. I said I believed in such a situation it could end up becoming an Islamic theocracy, and could potentially destabilise the whole gulf region. I was asked similarly about Afghanistan -- we invaded, the Taliban was removed from power, why are we still there? I don't personally think we should be there, but I also don't think it is the solider's job to question this, just as it isn't the policeman's job to question the legitimacy of the law. He might personally think that cannabis should be legalised, but he can't let that affect his application of the law. Of course, I didn't say any of that.
I was quizzed about my understanding of the job, and of the officer selection process, and about various aircraft -- and that was it. I'd been there about 3 hours by this point, and they invited me to stay around a while longer while they gave me feedback and told me what their personal recommendation would be regarding my progression. I thought it over, and told them thanks but no, ta -- I was racking up a tidy sum in parking charges (since I foolishly had parked in the "short stay", not expecting to be more than 2 hours), and they were going to put it in the post to me anyway.
I didn't have to wait long. By the middle of the week I had a formal letter following my formal interview, telling me quite formally than I wasn't going to be progressing any further with my application this time -- but that in a year's time I would be welcome to reapply, if I so desired.
This rejection can join the ranks of the rejections I received for all the bar manager jobs I applied for (including the graduate training schemes), every journalist job I ever applied or was interviewed for, and of course every last permanent PR job I went for -- not to mention any freelance job I actually interviewed for.
I can justify it all quite well. My heart wasn't really in it, as we saw before, and so when I should have been cramming about attack aircraft I was blogging instead, and I had so many questions. I don't think anyone other than my Dad and my therapist ever really thought joining the armed forces was a great idea for me -- many lovely people were supportive of it, if it was something I wanted, and many agreed that the discipline and security would do me good. I expect the competition for places for a nice, tidy admin job in the air force would have been stiff -- competition for officers places even more so.
I'm not broken hearted about it, but I do feel a bit like the people who said I couldn't do it were right.
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
The Movie Meme
By now, you should know the drill from where you've seen it everywhere else -- be the first to guess the films and get a prize. And no cheating, God's watching. 04/04/08 -- because I'm generous, I'll now give clues for those remaining
1 -This is not 'nam this is bowling, there are rules.
The Big Lebowski correctly guessed by Mez!
2-Greed is for amateurs. Disorder, chaos, anarchy: now that's fun.
(2nd quote) -They're all dead, they just don't know it yet.
The Crow, correctly guessed by Jamie!
3-How is it that you recall the most trivial events?
- I'll never forget it. How many times do you get to see Smokey fuck the Bandit?
(2nd quote) -- Didn't I look just like Burt Reynolds?
- Except for the moustache.
Mallrats, correctly guessed by Mez!
4-When you go on like this, you know what you sound like?
- I sound like a sensible fucking man, is what I sound like.
(2nd quote) -Would you give a guy a foot massage?
Pulp Fiction, correctly guessed by Jamie!
5-I see the strongest and smartest men who've ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need.
(2nd quote) -I haven't been fucked like that since grade school.
Fight Club, correctly guessed by Jamie!
6-I always thought it'd be better to be a fake somebody than a real nobody
The Talented Mr Ripley, correctly guessed by Aurore!
7-Smile you son of a BITCH
(2nd quote) -Farewell and adieu to you, fair Spanish ladies. Farewell and adieu, you ladies of Spain. For we've received orders for to sail back to Boston. And so nevermore shall we see you again.
Jaws, correctly guessed by Jamie!
8 -I don't like your manners.
- And I'm not crazy about yours. I didn't ask to see you. I don't mind if you don't like my manners, I don't like them myself. They are pretty bad. I grieve over them on long winter evenings.
(2nd quote) -My, my, my! Such a lot of guns around town and so few brains! You know, you're the second guy I've met today that seems to think a gat in the hand means the world by the tail.
9-CAN WE PLEASE... JUST CALM... THE FUCK... DOWN!
Shaun of the Dead, correctly guessed by Mez!
10 -How can you be a drug addict in the new millennium? Drugs are so retro.
- Before I became a drug addict, I had so many problems. Now I just have one - Drugs! It's given my life real focus.
(2nd quote) -Power to the people who punish bad cinema!
11-Have you ever transcended space and time?
- Yes. No. Uh, time, not space... No, I don't know what you're talking about.
I Heart Huckabees, correctly guessed by Jac!
12-What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?
High Fidelity, correctly guessed by Jac!
13-I'm not gonna drain you completely. You're gonna turn for me. You'll be my slave. You'll live for me. You'll eat bugs because I order it. Why? Because I don't think you're worthy of human blood. You'll feed on the blood of stray dogs. You'll be my foot stool. And at my command, you'll lick the dog shit from my boot heel. Since you'll be my dog, your new name will be "Spot".
From Dusk Till Dawn, correctly guessed by Dune!
14-Can you keep a secret? I'm trying to organize a prison break. I'm looking for, like, an accomplice. We have to first get out of this bar, then the hotel, then the city, and then the country. Are you in or you out?
Lost in Translation, correctly guessed by Jac!
15 -Marriage is an important part of getting ahead: lets people know you're not a homo; married guy seems more stable; people see the ring, they think at least somebody can stand the son of a bitch; ladies see the ring, they know immediately you must have some cash or your cock must work.
(2nd quote) -Blow me, all right? But not literally, though. Unfortunately, there's no promotion involved for you
16 -So I'm rappelling down Mount Vesuvius when suddenly I slip, and I start to fall. Just falling, ahh ahh, I'll never forget the terror. When suddenly I realize "Holy shit, haven't you been smoking Peyote for six straight days, and couldn't some of this maybe be in your head?"
Zoolander, correctly guessed by Mez!
17-I hope it feels so good to be right. There's nothing more exhilarating than pointing out the shortcomings of others, is there?
Clerks, correctly guessed by Mez!
18 -Amid the chaos of that day, when all I could hear was the thunder of gunshots, and all I could smell was the violence in the air, I look back and am amazed that my thoughts were so clear and true, that three words went through my mind endlessly, repeating themselves like a broken record: you're so cool, you're so cool, you're so cool.
(2nd quote) -I haven't killed anybody since 1984.
19-No, you *couldn't* just call them the Naughty Twins. They're the Assfuck Twins. Why would you call them The Naughty Twins when they get fucked in the ass all the time?
-Well, that's pretty naughty.
(2nd quote) -How would Christ benefit from me putting my tongue in someone's mouth?
Orgazmo, correctly guessed by Jamie!
20-We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, laughers, screamers... Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get into locked a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, correctly guessed by Mez!
Update: the results
#8: The Big Sleep -- a classic film noir starring Humphrey Bogart, and a loose basis for The Big Lebowski. #10: Cecil B. Demented -- how anyone could have overlooked this film is beyond me. #15: The Departed -- a gangster film on par with Goodfellas and Donnie Brasco, you should all be ashamed for not recognising the quotes (although granted it's not the most quote-worthy of films). #18: True Romance -- set partly in Detroit, so Jamie really should have known it -- also a classic Tarantino-penned movie, with award-worthy performances.
The commenter with the first to get the most right was Mez, who got a grand total of six correct answers. I know many of you could possibly have rivalled or beaten this, if you had only come here sooner -- so let that be a lesson to you all.
1 -
The Big Lebowski correctly guessed by Mez!
2
(2nd quote) -They're all dead, they just don't know it yet.
The Crow, correctly guessed by Jamie!
3
- I'll never forget it. How many times do you get to see Smokey fuck the Bandit?
(2nd quote) -- Didn't I look just like Burt Reynolds?
- Except for the moustache.
Mallrats, correctly guessed by Mez!
4
- I sound like a sensible fucking man, is what I sound like.
(2nd quote) -Would you give a guy a foot massage?
Pulp Fiction, correctly guessed by Jamie!
5
(2nd quote) -I haven't been fucked like that since grade school.
Fight Club, correctly guessed by Jamie!
6
The Talented Mr Ripley, correctly guessed by Aurore!
7
(2nd quote) -Farewell and adieu to you, fair Spanish ladies. Farewell and adieu, you ladies of Spain. For we've received orders for to sail back to Boston. And so nevermore shall we see you again.
Jaws, correctly guessed by Jamie!
8 -I don't like your manners.
- And I'm not crazy about yours. I didn't ask to see you. I don't mind if you don't like my manners, I don't like them myself. They are pretty bad. I grieve over them on long winter evenings.
(2nd quote) -My, my, my! Such a lot of guns around town and so few brains! You know, you're the second guy I've met today that seems to think a gat in the hand means the world by the tail.
9
Shaun of the Dead, correctly guessed by Mez!
10 -How can you be a drug addict in the new millennium? Drugs are so retro.
- Before I became a drug addict, I had so many problems. Now I just have one - Drugs! It's given my life real focus.
(2nd quote) -Power to the people who punish bad cinema!
11
- Yes. No. Uh, time, not space... No, I don't know what you're talking about.
I Heart Huckabees, correctly guessed by Jac!
12
High Fidelity, correctly guessed by Jac!
13
From Dusk Till Dawn, correctly guessed by Dune!
14
Lost in Translation, correctly guessed by Jac!
15 -Marriage is an important part of getting ahead: lets people know you're not a homo; married guy seems more stable; people see the ring, they think at least somebody can stand the son of a bitch; ladies see the ring, they know immediately you must have some cash or your cock must work.
(2nd quote) -Blow me, all right? But not literally, though. Unfortunately, there's no promotion involved for you
16
Zoolander, correctly guessed by Mez!
17
Clerks, correctly guessed by Mez!
18 -Amid the chaos of that day, when all I could hear was the thunder of gunshots, and all I could smell was the violence in the air, I look back and am amazed that my thoughts were so clear and true, that three words went through my mind endlessly, repeating themselves like a broken record: you're so cool, you're so cool, you're so cool.
(2nd quote) -I haven't killed anybody since 1984.
19
-Well, that's pretty naughty.
(2nd quote) -How would Christ benefit from me putting my tongue in someone's mouth?
Orgazmo, correctly guessed by Jamie!
20
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, correctly guessed by Mez!
Update: the results
#8: The Big Sleep -- a classic film noir starring Humphrey Bogart, and a loose basis for The Big Lebowski. #10: Cecil B. Demented -- how anyone could have overlooked this film is beyond me. #15: The Departed -- a gangster film on par with Goodfellas and Donnie Brasco, you should all be ashamed for not recognising the quotes (although granted it's not the most quote-worthy of films). #18: True Romance -- set partly in Detroit, so Jamie really should have known it -- also a classic Tarantino-penned movie, with award-worthy performances.
The commenter with the first to get the most right was Mez, who got a grand total of six correct answers. I know many of you could possibly have rivalled or beaten this, if you had only come here sooner -- so let that be a lesson to you all.
Sunday, 30 March 2008
Sevilla (part two)
extracts taken from my moleskine journal, a work entitled "stay out of circulation 'til the dogs get tired"
And so our first day in Seville was started abruptly with a parade -- and I'm glad it was, standing in the mid-morning sun on the balcony and watching the crowds of people in the street. When eventually it was all quiet again, Dune headed out to see the sights in daylight and started with a short trip on a boat down the Guadalquivir river.
We sat in the sun near the city's Alcázar, listening to a man playing simple Spanish guitar, and made plans to return on Saturday to see the cathedral and the Alcázar.
Friday, March 21
Good Friday, Seville's Semana Santa
Woke this morning to the sounds of drums and trumpets and very Spanish music. Still so tired from last night, I wondered if this was normal behaviour for Spain. I eventually got up around 11ish and took a shower -- I came back to the room to find a parade was filling the streets below; this more than made up for being stranded in the city last night, watching the parade circling endlessly.
--
A day started with tapas and "un grande cerveza" can't be all bad. We found a bar tender who spoke perfect English and who was amused by the few snatched Spanish phrases I knew. I take great pleasure in saying "muchas gracias señor" and "buenas dias". We wandered the city streets, drinking in the smell of orange blossoms, finding hidden patios and fountains.
And so our first day in Seville was started abruptly with a parade -- and I'm glad it was, standing in the mid-morning sun on the balcony and watching the crowds of people in the street. When eventually it was all quiet again, Dune headed out to see the sights in daylight and started with a short trip on a boat down the Guadalquivir river.
We sat in the sun near the city's Alcázar, listening to a man playing simple Spanish guitar, and made plans to return on Saturday to see the cathedral and the Alcázar.
Saturday, 29 March 2008
Shavian wonderings and the air force
"Your pious mob fills up ballot papers and imagines it is governing its masters; but the ballot paper that really governs is the paper that has a bullet wrapped up in it.... when you vote you only change the names of the cabinet. When you shoot, you pull down governments, inaugurate new epochs, abolish old orders and set up new." George Bernard Shaw Major Barbara
I have my first "formal" interview for the Air Force on Monday, and I'm now wondering if the whole thing is a stupid idea. I remain sure that the discipline and structure would probably do a lot for me, and for how I view myself. I also think the role I would be carrying out as an officer would stimulate and challenge me, and that I could do the job very well.
So why the doubts?
I know people around me think it's an extraordinarily bad idea, or that I am just not suited to it at all. I get told that I'm a dreamer or that I'm too gentle (which feels a lot like being told I am effeminate) and that I couldn't handle it. It's no secret between me and my friends that I don't know if I could kill someone -- and surely that's quite important if you're looking to join the armed forces. There has also been doubts cast on if I would be able to handle emotionally people close to me dying.
I do have issues with being able to separate myself. It's funny, in a way -- sometimes I can be so detached from things, and sometimes I really don't feel like I attach to other people very well at all. But in other ways I can't put that distance there when I need to. As a journalist, I hated sitting in court hearings -- assaults, murders, abuse cases, I couldn't leave it at the door.
I should be preparing for this interview, and yet I feel incredibly uneasy when I am researching various air craft and read about their weapons capabilities. Maverick infrared missiles, cluster munitions, general purpose free-fall bombs... Does war determine who is right, or only who is left? There is certainly no room for doubt or intellectual debate within the armed forces.
I list among my reasons for wanting to join wanting to grow up and get out of the stupid, childish minsdet that the universe should revolve around me -- my whole life has been me!me!me!me!me!. I want to be part of something bigger than myself, I want to give myself to a simple cause. But ironically, isn't this reason still a very egocentric position? It's still all about poor, tortured Jay, trying to find out who is and where he should be.
I know I have to try or I will spend my whole life wondering, and the more people cast their doubts the more stubborn I am in wanting to prove them wrong. But I am still unsure if I am doing the right thing.
UPDATE: None of it really matters now -- I got my rejection letter today. But I am welcome to reapply in twelve months.
Friday, 21 March 2008
Sevilla (part one)
extracts taken from my moleskine journal, a work entitled "stay out of circulation 'til the dogs get tired"
Even though it was already late when we arrived, we were hungry and eager to see some of the parades of the Santa Semana -- which apparently didn't even begin until 12.30 that night. Fearless explorers as we were, Dune and I struck out into the city to first find tapas. Food quickly was a priority so we weren't in the mood for taking our time -- that's why when we stopped at a bar and Dune thought it looked a bit dingy, I suggested we went inside and had a look anyway.
As it turned out, the bar was less dingy than it was local. We stood at the bar itself, ordered a couple of drinks in broken Spanish, and with great difficulty that involved a few English words, a few Spanish, much pointing and much repeating of "no intiendo" we agreed with the bar tender for some tapas. As we stood at the bar talking and laughing and feeling alive in this foreign country, we helped ourselves to bread from a basket on the bar. After munching our way through several breadsticks, the bar tender noticed, and with a deliberate gesture produced for us our own basket. It was only then we realised the bread we had been eating belonged to the man stood next to us, who luckily had his back turned and hadn't noticed the bread thieves that we were.
Dune's meal was a traditional dish of what seemed to be potato and peppers, with a fried egg on top. Mine took a little longer to produce, but appeared to be a grilled chicken breast seasoned with balsamic vinegar and potatas fritas. Once we finished we thanked the bar tender very warmly -- "Mi Español es un poco" Dune told him, "Inglés? Nada." said the bar tender. And so we headed out into the night -- trying to remember from the cab ride the way to the city.
After an indeterminate length of time, wandering down dark and empty streets we felt we had definitely gone wrong somewhere -- and Dune being the hands-on person she is (rather than the "if I keep walking maybe I will magically find my way" person I am), stopped a Spanish couple to ask them for directions. Their English was almost non-existent, but they wanted to help so they eagerly called out to a young woman named Sarah to come back. Sarah turned out to be an east Texas journalism major, spending a semester studying in Seville -- she was lovely and obliging, and didn't just point the way, but took us with her into the city. Once we had parted company with the lovely Sarah, I told Dune I betted she was a blogger. Dune disagreed, she didn't seem the type -- but I insist then (as I do now) a journalism major studying in a European city so far from home could hardly fail to want to write and be recognised. I said I would google her and see what I could find, but I have so far come up short. I think this is inconclusive -- I don't think googling key points about my life would find my blog, either.
The city was almost electric with anticipation for the night's festivities -- and in key spots vast rows of wooden seating was set out for spectators. Unfortunately, these vast rows of wooden seating were also reserved for ticket holders -- not only did we not have a ticket, we had no idea where one might get such an elusive prize.
Our cunning plan of just standing in a spot with a good view seemed to be working well for the first couple of hours -- but the time of the parade got closer and more people shared our idea, and eventually the local policia moved us all on. Anywhere good to see from was either seated, cordoned off with barriers, or already staked out -- but we were not to be put off. We had not travelled this far and waited this long to be so easily put off. Didn't they know who we were?!
We did eventually find a spot suitable to view the parades from -- and we weren't disappointed. Solemn, ghostly figures in pointed hoods and costumes slowly marched along the streets, silently carrying their candles. They would be followed by others in a different colour costumes, carrying crosses and flags, and still more figures with candles. Eventually you would see a glow coming from round the corner, and without fanfare an elaborate float would appear, carried invisibly from underneath, depicting Jesus, crucified on a cross, or the virgin Mary.
What we didn't realise at first -- and not for several hours -- was that these Nazarenos and Penitentes actually seemed to be circiling the city. A couple of times the floats just looked very familiar, until Dune hit upon the idea that the reason why didn't seem to be able to escape them, despite our best efforts to at this point, no matter where we went was that they had no end. It was just going to go on and on and on... After much effort we finally found our way past the processions, out of the city and across the Triana bridge back to our own bohemian corner of Seville, falling into bed about 4am. Even now, I think I am going to wake up from nightmares of these figures carrying candles in never-ending processions I am unable to escape.
It was truly amazing, and I don't fully appreciate how different these European cultures are until an opportunity to really experience them. But this was only the first night, so there is more to come from "stay out of circulation 'til the dogs get tired".
Thursday, March 20
Triana Backpacker´s Hostel, Seville
Already I am excited to be here -- just so thrilled to be in a different country. Outside in the street, I can hear groups of people all talking and laughing in a language I don´t know -- it feels refreshing to be in a place so unlike home.
The flight over passed almost without noticing. We left the howling wind and rain of England behind, and less than three hours later we touhced down in Spain. I must have slept for some or all of the flight, I remember nothing more than about 30 minutes of it. Who needs to teleport when you have travel narcolepsy? Our bags came quickly.
On the drive to the hostel, the taxi driver spoke very little and listened to electronica -- while we gazed out at the architecture and palm trees, interspersed with familiar billboards. In between pointing out elaborate feats of architecture, or someone dressed in the traditional Nazareno costume, Dune and I would nudge each other to point out Vodafone or Starbucks.
Even though it was already late when we arrived, we were hungry and eager to see some of the parades of the Santa Semana -- which apparently didn't even begin until 12.30 that night. Fearless explorers as we were, Dune and I struck out into the city to first find tapas. Food quickly was a priority so we weren't in the mood for taking our time -- that's why when we stopped at a bar and Dune thought it looked a bit dingy, I suggested we went inside and had a look anyway.
As it turned out, the bar was less dingy than it was local. We stood at the bar itself, ordered a couple of drinks in broken Spanish, and with great difficulty that involved a few English words, a few Spanish, much pointing and much repeating of "no intiendo" we agreed with the bar tender for some tapas. As we stood at the bar talking and laughing and feeling alive in this foreign country, we helped ourselves to bread from a basket on the bar. After munching our way through several breadsticks, the bar tender noticed, and with a deliberate gesture produced for us our own basket. It was only then we realised the bread we had been eating belonged to the man stood next to us, who luckily had his back turned and hadn't noticed the bread thieves that we were.
Dune's meal was a traditional dish of what seemed to be potato and peppers, with a fried egg on top. Mine took a little longer to produce, but appeared to be a grilled chicken breast seasoned with balsamic vinegar and potatas fritas. Once we finished we thanked the bar tender very warmly -- "Mi Español es un poco" Dune told him, "Inglés? Nada." said the bar tender. And so we headed out into the night -- trying to remember from the cab ride the way to the city.
After an indeterminate length of time, wandering down dark and empty streets we felt we had definitely gone wrong somewhere -- and Dune being the hands-on person she is (rather than the "if I keep walking maybe I will magically find my way" person I am), stopped a Spanish couple to ask them for directions. Their English was almost non-existent, but they wanted to help so they eagerly called out to a young woman named Sarah to come back. Sarah turned out to be an east Texas journalism major, spending a semester studying in Seville -- she was lovely and obliging, and didn't just point the way, but took us with her into the city. Once we had parted company with the lovely Sarah, I told Dune I betted she was a blogger. Dune disagreed, she didn't seem the type -- but I insist then (as I do now) a journalism major studying in a European city so far from home could hardly fail to want to write and be recognised. I said I would google her and see what I could find, but I have so far come up short. I think this is inconclusive -- I don't think googling key points about my life would find my blog, either.
The city was almost electric with anticipation for the night's festivities -- and in key spots vast rows of wooden seating was set out for spectators. Unfortunately, these vast rows of wooden seating were also reserved for ticket holders -- not only did we not have a ticket, we had no idea where one might get such an elusive prize.
Our cunning plan of just standing in a spot with a good view seemed to be working well for the first couple of hours -- but the time of the parade got closer and more people shared our idea, and eventually the local policia moved us all on. Anywhere good to see from was either seated, cordoned off with barriers, or already staked out -- but we were not to be put off. We had not travelled this far and waited this long to be so easily put off. Didn't they know who we were?!
We did eventually find a spot suitable to view the parades from -- and we weren't disappointed. Solemn, ghostly figures in pointed hoods and costumes slowly marched along the streets, silently carrying their candles. They would be followed by others in a different colour costumes, carrying crosses and flags, and still more figures with candles. Eventually you would see a glow coming from round the corner, and without fanfare an elaborate float would appear, carried invisibly from underneath, depicting Jesus, crucified on a cross, or the virgin Mary.
What we didn't realise at first -- and not for several hours -- was that these Nazarenos and Penitentes actually seemed to be circiling the city. A couple of times the floats just looked very familiar, until Dune hit upon the idea that the reason why didn't seem to be able to escape them, despite our best efforts to at this point, no matter where we went was that they had no end. It was just going to go on and on and on... After much effort we finally found our way past the processions, out of the city and across the Triana bridge back to our own bohemian corner of Seville, falling into bed about 4am. Even now, I think I am going to wake up from nightmares of these figures carrying candles in never-ending processions I am unable to escape.
It was truly amazing, and I don't fully appreciate how different these European cultures are until an opportunity to really experience them. But this was only the first night, so there is more to come from "stay out of circulation 'til the dogs get tired".
Tuesday, 18 March 2008
In a heap round their breakfasts in yesterday's clothes
This has to be the worst-timed post ever. I spend all day bored out of my mind, but it's only when I want to have been asleep half an hour ago that I actually get around to writing an update. I might not have internet access or the time to blog at work, but I'm in one of those annoying places where sitting in front of a computer when I get home from work isn't so appealing.
It's no surprise that I miss working in the bookshop. In fairness, I don't think I did the job for anywhere near long enough to appreciate how mind numbing it would get -- I wasn't full time, and didn't stay more than a couple of months, I think 40 hours a week and working weekends (as would inevitably have happened) would have done much to take the shine off it. But right now, I can dream and reminisce about recommending books to customers and talking to cute girls who wanted to know what books of Robert Frost's poetry we had. I don't miss dusting the shelves, or being restricted to only one 20 minute break a day.
I've been avoiding updating lately because my frame of mind or emotional well being took a distinct turn for the worst. I made reference a few weeks back to a shaky state of affairs and despite some occasional patches of sullen sun, things deteriorated. I don't much like talking about how I'm feeling, and so was shutting people out emotionally and writing about it felt just a tiny bit too much like talking about it. Much better to remain quiet with my thoughts of self harm. My powers of hypocrisy know no bounds, it would seem.
It took Dune to make me realise what a complete arse I was being. She gave me a good talking to and told me in no uncertain terms to sort myself out, which got me to pull myself together a bit. It's not like someone has waved a magic wand and made everything all better, but it's got me to stop being so self pitying and actually try and feel a bit more alive. I know perfectly well that the power to be happy is well within my grasp, and that I expend huge emotional effort on feeling shit, and so for the time being I am trying to make an effort to the contrary. It has also been brought to my attention that if I want to move out, I need to make it happen -- rather than sitting around and waiting for my friends to want to move out with me, and if I actually took the time to work out a budget it's more than feasible.
In other news, Dune and I go to Seville on Thursday evening for the long Easter weekend -- to check out the 'Santa Semana', or Holy Week, festival. If I didn't know better, I'd wonder if she was trying to save my soul, since this is the same girl who invited me to go on a pilgrimage last year. Really, I think it's the appeal of Spain and the history and the idea of doing something different. This also means that I am taking half day at work on Thursday, and am making up for it (or making it up in my wages) by starting an hour earlier every day.
The whole issue of work is a particularly sore spot for me right now. Today I was training my newest colleague -- who started just over a week ago and is already looking to leave as soon as she possibly can -- and I noticed on her desk a copy of What Colour Is Your Parachute?, a multi-bestselling guide to job hunting and career changes. I flicked through it a bit, and on noticing some parts on finding out what jobs suit your personality, my colleague mentioned to me the idea that what job one might do could, possibly, not be the best fit. I laughed and said I had little illusions that what I do is something I am well suited to -- it requires no creativity and offers no intellectual stimulation at all, and one of the few things that keeps from insanity is the opportunity to talk to various suppliers on the phone. However, I recognise that 99% of the population of the planet feel the same way about what they do. "Oh, you hate your job? Why didn't you say so? There's a support group for that. It's called EVERYBODY, and they meet at the bar."
I struggle between feeling like I have sold out, that I have given up, that I am one of the people who would have liked to be a writer or an artist or whatever -- but gave up on it, rather than one of the people didn't stop believing and made it happen. If nothing else, at least I have the temperament of the artist.
Adventures continue in London with Dune. We met up with Jiminy and Non-Blondie again, and took again in the sights and smells of East London -- wandering down Brick Lane, before ending up again in the local pub we like, and playing darts. The darts game was made more exciting when Non-Blondie's celebration dance looked like it might send her through the trapdoor into the cellar, but although I would have liked to have won, I don't think that would have been the way to achieve it. And perhaps it was made abundantly clear to all involved that I am not kidding about my coordination or spatial awareness, but I think they were fortunate that nobody accidentally got a dart in the side of the head.
Last weekend, Jon and I returned to Camden with Dune -- and made it further than the pub this time, exploring Camden Lock market, having lunch in a Mexican place in Covent Garden and ending the evening in a pub in Charing Cross. There also as a result of that evening needs to be a whole post now devoted to film and cinema, as it has become a subject so weighty it needs its own space to breathe.
All in all, I've pulled my head out my arse a bit, work sucks, bites and blows -- and never in any good ways, but I have started looking for a new place to live. I stress only started at this point. Oh and I can now speak very rudimentary Spanish -- albeit Latin American Spanish (since it was the only short course the library had left), and with a charming Essex accent.
I am thinking of changing the name of my blog to "Hey man, now you're really living" after the Eels song that makes me happy...
It's no surprise that I miss working in the bookshop. In fairness, I don't think I did the job for anywhere near long enough to appreciate how mind numbing it would get -- I wasn't full time, and didn't stay more than a couple of months, I think 40 hours a week and working weekends (as would inevitably have happened) would have done much to take the shine off it. But right now, I can dream and reminisce about recommending books to customers and talking to cute girls who wanted to know what books of Robert Frost's poetry we had. I don't miss dusting the shelves, or being restricted to only one 20 minute break a day.
I've been avoiding updating lately because my frame of mind or emotional well being took a distinct turn for the worst. I made reference a few weeks back to a shaky state of affairs and despite some occasional patches of sullen sun, things deteriorated. I don't much like talking about how I'm feeling, and so was shutting people out emotionally and writing about it felt just a tiny bit too much like talking about it. Much better to remain quiet with my thoughts of self harm. My powers of hypocrisy know no bounds, it would seem.
It took Dune to make me realise what a complete arse I was being. She gave me a good talking to and told me in no uncertain terms to sort myself out, which got me to pull myself together a bit. It's not like someone has waved a magic wand and made everything all better, but it's got me to stop being so self pitying and actually try and feel a bit more alive. I know perfectly well that the power to be happy is well within my grasp, and that I expend huge emotional effort on feeling shit, and so for the time being I am trying to make an effort to the contrary. It has also been brought to my attention that if I want to move out, I need to make it happen -- rather than sitting around and waiting for my friends to want to move out with me, and if I actually took the time to work out a budget it's more than feasible.
In other news, Dune and I go to Seville on Thursday evening for the long Easter weekend -- to check out the 'Santa Semana', or Holy Week, festival. If I didn't know better, I'd wonder if she was trying to save my soul, since this is the same girl who invited me to go on a pilgrimage last year. Really, I think it's the appeal of Spain and the history and the idea of doing something different. This also means that I am taking half day at work on Thursday, and am making up for it (or making it up in my wages) by starting an hour earlier every day.
The whole issue of work is a particularly sore spot for me right now. Today I was training my newest colleague -- who started just over a week ago and is already looking to leave as soon as she possibly can -- and I noticed on her desk a copy of What Colour Is Your Parachute?, a multi-bestselling guide to job hunting and career changes. I flicked through it a bit, and on noticing some parts on finding out what jobs suit your personality, my colleague mentioned to me the idea that what job one might do could, possibly, not be the best fit. I laughed and said I had little illusions that what I do is something I am well suited to -- it requires no creativity and offers no intellectual stimulation at all, and one of the few things that keeps from insanity is the opportunity to talk to various suppliers on the phone. However, I recognise that 99% of the population of the planet feel the same way about what they do. "Oh, you hate your job? Why didn't you say so? There's a support group for that. It's called EVERYBODY, and they meet at the bar."
I struggle between feeling like I have sold out, that I have given up, that I am one of the people who would have liked to be a writer or an artist or whatever -- but gave up on it, rather than one of the people didn't stop believing and made it happen. If nothing else, at least I have the temperament of the artist.
Adventures continue in London with Dune. We met up with Jiminy and Non-Blondie again, and took again in the sights and smells of East London -- wandering down Brick Lane, before ending up again in the local pub we like, and playing darts. The darts game was made more exciting when Non-Blondie's celebration dance looked like it might send her through the trapdoor into the cellar, but although I would have liked to have won, I don't think that would have been the way to achieve it. And perhaps it was made abundantly clear to all involved that I am not kidding about my coordination or spatial awareness, but I think they were fortunate that nobody accidentally got a dart in the side of the head.
Last weekend, Jon and I returned to Camden with Dune -- and made it further than the pub this time, exploring Camden Lock market, having lunch in a Mexican place in Covent Garden and ending the evening in a pub in Charing Cross. There also as a result of that evening needs to be a whole post now devoted to film and cinema, as it has become a subject so weighty it needs its own space to breathe.
All in all, I've pulled my head out my arse a bit, work sucks, bites and blows -- and never in any good ways, but I have started looking for a new place to live. I stress only started at this point. Oh and I can now speak very rudimentary Spanish -- albeit Latin American Spanish (since it was the only short course the library had left), and with a charming Essex accent.
I am thinking of changing the name of my blog to "Hey man, now you're really living" after the Eels song that makes me happy...
Monday, 10 March 2008
Catching up in east London
I am very much behind the times here. For a start, I'm getting increasingly behind with episodes of Lost because I don't have Sky TV and have to watch it online -- but probably because everyone else in the world is doing the same thing, the videos spend weeks on end buffering.
Another example of how behind I am is that now both Dune and Non-Blondie have blogged about us all meeting up, and I haven't mentioned it before now. Last post I was still writing about Dune's first week in England, and that was nearly a month ago now.
Because I am all about meeting the bloggers, I thought it would be fun if Dune and I met up with Jiminy Cricket and Non-Blondie. Together the three of them could reminisce about life down under and lots of fun things like that. I won't be friends with anyone online that I wouldn't be prepared to see in real life, and wherever possible I try to meet online friends, along with making them CDs and posting them stuff. All y'all who are afraid I might stalk you are missing out. This does go the other way too, sometimes I go through my Facebook friends list and reconsider if some of these people I actually want to be friends with -- even if I know them in real life.
Luckily for me, Dune thought it was a great idea to meet JC and Non-Blondie -- but Jiminy being the funny bastard he is worried me when he replied to my email. I'd contacted him suggesting a possible meet, and when I got his reply my google mail alert popped up with an extract from the email. It started "Oh wow, this is awkward...Umm... We'd like to meet up but..." and I thought it was going to be a polite decline, something like they weren't really comfortable meeting people off the internet. But no, he was just being mean and so I called him a bastard, and a meet up was arranged.
I chose my favourite bar in Shoreditch, and although I found our way there without a moment's confusion or hesitation as to direction (it more or less involves just walking in a straight line) Dune did become acquainted with my phrase "it's just up here". It seems my idea of "just up here" and the rest of the world's don't quite tally up, and I suspect Dune began to wonder if I really knew where we were going. The funny part was shortly before we got to the bar, Dune asked me if Jiminy and I had exchanged pictures, so that we'd recognise each other. Nope, hadn't occurred to me... I figured from their blog avatars and the fact they'd be together would be obvious enough, that coupled with them looking for other random bloggers they might recognise.
Not only did we get to the bar without a hitch, but there was only the briefest of seconds before someone saw us. I have to remember that although this bar is my favourite in the world ever, it's actually only good value during happy hour (which lasts for two hours, and is every day). It also has a lot more atmosphere at those times. Just the same, despite the bar staff not knowing what Dune's requested drink was and taking the longest time ever to make her a mojito, I felt justified in choosing the bar. Especially because they also do great food.
China Blue: you will be reassured to hear that where I sat this time had no candle on the table, and so this time there was no heart-stopping moment where I almost set the bar alight. Hopefully, you will also be glad to know that I don't appear to be barred following that incident, so we can look forward to going back. And leaving open flames alone.
One drawback the bar did have was a lack of desserts, and so as a merry band of bloggers, the four of us set off into Shoreditch in search of chocolate desserts. I'm not much of a fan of desserts, and so was spectacularly unhelpful in knowing where to go -- but after checking menus of several different establishments, we settled on a patisserie just by Spitalfields market.
I'd like to briefly interrupt this account of food and drink in east London by saying how incredibly awesome Jiminy Cricket and Non Blondie are. Seriously, these two are way up there with the very coolest bloggers I have ever met -- and exactly the kind of brilliance I was talking about lacking in my uninspiring date last month. I think there must be a certain kind of person drawn to blogging, because I can't think of a blogger I have met who wasn't great. Reassuringly, Dune didn't take an instant dislike to me on first meeting me and I feel like we really have been friends for years -- and helping fly the flag for damn cool Aussie bloggers are Jiminy and Non-Blondie.
Perhaps the highlight of the day (other than the chocolate desserts) was finding a local pub in Shoreditch. It wasn't a trendy bar or a hip pub, it was just your typical local pub -- where before you walk in you don't know if it's going to be full of wankers who want to stab you up, or if it will surprise you and be cool. Thankfully it was the latter -- although they didn't mind Non-Blondie throwing her drink everywhere, they seemed bemused by the concept of serving food. Despite having a blackboard listing the day's special.
Eventually, though, we did have to move on -- the lack of food was a problem, even though they were apparently happy enough for us to bring food in there. I suspect it was one of those kind of pubs where you could take your dog inside, too, and nobody would mind.
I remember once when I was a bar tender being left as the manager in charge one summer afternoon. I was unhappy when one customer brought their dog with them to the bar, but just as I was about to ask them to take the dog outside, someone else came in with their dog, too. And to really make things interesting, the two dogs started fighting. Better fighting than anything else, I guess. So yeah, I am generally against the idea of dogs in pubs.
The search for food culminated in a visit to Pitcher&Piano which has none of the atmosphere or edge of Shoreditch or the charm of a slightly grotty local pub, but what it does have is large plates of nachos. Again, this post is going to go on far too long if I don't end it there -- so Dune and I bade farewell to Jiminy and Non-Blondie, and caught the train home. The train journey home was a delightful time spent with drunk, racist and loud-mouthed football fans -- which I guess restored balance to a day spent with amazingly brilliant people.
Another example of how behind I am is that now both Dune and Non-Blondie have blogged about us all meeting up, and I haven't mentioned it before now. Last post I was still writing about Dune's first week in England, and that was nearly a month ago now.
Because I am all about meeting the bloggers, I thought it would be fun if Dune and I met up with Jiminy Cricket and Non-Blondie. Together the three of them could reminisce about life down under and lots of fun things like that. I won't be friends with anyone online that I wouldn't be prepared to see in real life, and wherever possible I try to meet online friends, along with making them CDs and posting them stuff. All y'all who are afraid I might stalk you are missing out. This does go the other way too, sometimes I go through my Facebook friends list and reconsider if some of these people I actually want to be friends with -- even if I know them in real life.
Luckily for me, Dune thought it was a great idea to meet JC and Non-Blondie -- but Jiminy being the funny bastard he is worried me when he replied to my email. I'd contacted him suggesting a possible meet, and when I got his reply my google mail alert popped up with an extract from the email. It started "Oh wow, this is awkward...Umm... We'd like to meet up but..." and I thought it was going to be a polite decline, something like they weren't really comfortable meeting people off the internet. But no, he was just being mean and so I called him a bastard, and a meet up was arranged.
I chose my favourite bar in Shoreditch, and although I found our way there without a moment's confusion or hesitation as to direction (it more or less involves just walking in a straight line) Dune did become acquainted with my phrase "it's just up here". It seems my idea of "just up here" and the rest of the world's don't quite tally up, and I suspect Dune began to wonder if I really knew where we were going. The funny part was shortly before we got to the bar, Dune asked me if Jiminy and I had exchanged pictures, so that we'd recognise each other. Nope, hadn't occurred to me... I figured from their blog avatars and the fact they'd be together would be obvious enough, that coupled with them looking for other random bloggers they might recognise.
Not only did we get to the bar without a hitch, but there was only the briefest of seconds before someone saw us. I have to remember that although this bar is my favourite in the world ever, it's actually only good value during happy hour (which lasts for two hours, and is every day). It also has a lot more atmosphere at those times. Just the same, despite the bar staff not knowing what Dune's requested drink was and taking the longest time ever to make her a mojito, I felt justified in choosing the bar. Especially because they also do great food.
China Blue: you will be reassured to hear that where I sat this time had no candle on the table, and so this time there was no heart-stopping moment where I almost set the bar alight. Hopefully, you will also be glad to know that I don't appear to be barred following that incident, so we can look forward to going back. And leaving open flames alone.
One drawback the bar did have was a lack of desserts, and so as a merry band of bloggers, the four of us set off into Shoreditch in search of chocolate desserts. I'm not much of a fan of desserts, and so was spectacularly unhelpful in knowing where to go -- but after checking menus of several different establishments, we settled on a patisserie just by Spitalfields market.
I'd like to briefly interrupt this account of food and drink in east London by saying how incredibly awesome Jiminy Cricket and Non Blondie are. Seriously, these two are way up there with the very coolest bloggers I have ever met -- and exactly the kind of brilliance I was talking about lacking in my uninspiring date last month. I think there must be a certain kind of person drawn to blogging, because I can't think of a blogger I have met who wasn't great. Reassuringly, Dune didn't take an instant dislike to me on first meeting me and I feel like we really have been friends for years -- and helping fly the flag for damn cool Aussie bloggers are Jiminy and Non-Blondie.
Perhaps the highlight of the day (other than the chocolate desserts) was finding a local pub in Shoreditch. It wasn't a trendy bar or a hip pub, it was just your typical local pub -- where before you walk in you don't know if it's going to be full of wankers who want to stab you up, or if it will surprise you and be cool. Thankfully it was the latter -- although they didn't mind Non-Blondie throwing her drink everywhere, they seemed bemused by the concept of serving food. Despite having a blackboard listing the day's special.
Eventually, though, we did have to move on -- the lack of food was a problem, even though they were apparently happy enough for us to bring food in there. I suspect it was one of those kind of pubs where you could take your dog inside, too, and nobody would mind.
I remember once when I was a bar tender being left as the manager in charge one summer afternoon. I was unhappy when one customer brought their dog with them to the bar, but just as I was about to ask them to take the dog outside, someone else came in with their dog, too. And to really make things interesting, the two dogs started fighting. Better fighting than anything else, I guess. So yeah, I am generally against the idea of dogs in pubs.
The search for food culminated in a visit to Pitcher&Piano which has none of the atmosphere or edge of Shoreditch or the charm of a slightly grotty local pub, but what it does have is large plates of nachos. Again, this post is going to go on far too long if I don't end it there -- so Dune and I bade farewell to Jiminy and Non-Blondie, and caught the train home. The train journey home was a delightful time spent with drunk, racist and loud-mouthed football fans -- which I guess restored balance to a day spent with amazingly brilliant people.
Friday, 7 March 2008
Further Adventures in London With Dune
After the unscheduled breaks in programming here at Arm The Homeless, I would like to now return to Further Adventures in London With Dune, otherwise known as FALD. I should really rethink that title to make an amusing acronym.
My previous accounts have had myself and Dune taking in the famous sights of my home town, and the slightly less famous sights of Westminster (once I worked out how to find them). The next day was about as different again, when we headed into London with Jon to see the Gutter Twins play Koko, in Camden.
If anyone is scratching their heads and wondering who the Gutter Twins are, I can try and briefly summarise. Greg Dulli, former frontman of Afghan Whigs, collaborated with various musicians with his more recent band Twilight Singers. One such musician is the gravel-voiced Mark Lanegan, famous for fronting Screaming Trees and collaborating with Queens of the Stone Age. In between touring again with Afghan Whigs and Twilight Singers, Greg Dulli is collaborating again with Mark Lanegan on a side project -- this is the Gutter Twins.
Whenever we can, if we're going to a gig in London we like to spend the whole day up there and so that was what Jon and I did with Dune. The idea to begin with had been to check out what the state of Camden Lock Market was after the recent fire, perhaps indulge in one of Dune's self-guided walks, but first of all to visit a pub I have newly adopted as my favourite in Camden. Outside it was cold and it was raining -- inside it was warm and there was alcohol. So we didn't actually leave the pub until it was time to go to the gig.
Before they met, Jon had been slightly concerned about meeting Dune. He knew that I had nothing but good things to say about her, but was naturally concerned that there might be awkward silences or that if I left them alone together they would have nothing to say. Quite the opposite was true, Jon and Dune got along like a house on fire -- since they're both interesting, intelligent and fun people this wasn't really a surprise, but I know Jon was relieved. I didn't need to be relieved, as I'd never been concerned -- I knew they were both easy to get along with, and I obviously have great taste in friends.
The gig itself was good, but to my mind not great -- what was missing for me was knowing their songs, and a crowd that also already knew and loved their work. There wasn't quite the same chemistry.
On Friday, Dune and I splashed out again on travelcards (I might live close to London, but the travel into the city isn't cheap) with a view to spending the day at the British Museum, but first meeting Dune's cousin for lunch. One would think that after our experiences with my sense of direction earlier in the week, I might have planned ahead a little better for Friday. That is, I'd been to the British Museum before, and knew that it was sign posted from Holborn tube, but it didn't actually occur to me to check these things.
I have very little defence, other than that I presumed it would be obvious and it doesn't matter so much when you're doing these things and getting lost on your own.
We found our way to Holborn without incident, and sure enough there were sign posts outside the station, pointing the way. Unfortunately, nothing is idiot-proof to a sufficiently-talented idiot, and when the signs stopped on route, I was no clearer as to where the museum was. I took a wild guess that going up "Museum Street" would be a good start, and although Dune was dubious, we tried it. It worked well for a short while, but soon we came to another street and still no museum. It was fortunate for me that Dune is very patient, and felt it was charming that it wouldn't occur to me to look up where to go ahead of time.
I asked directions from a passing stranger. He looked worried and told me in a heavy accent he couldn't speak English. I tried another, and got the same result. Who would have thought that when stopping people in the street in central London you could get a 100% success rate in finding people that didn't speak English?
Granted, I use that line on charity muggers. When asked "Can you spare a few moments for --?" I reply in clear and perfect English, "I'm very sorry, I don't speak English". If they persist, I smile apologetically and say "No, I'm sorry, I really can't understand you". It confuses them long enough for you to get away.
Back on the street in Holborn, I walked into a bag shop and asked the sales staff. They looked at me like I was something they had just trodden in, but if nothing else my PR and journalist experience has taught me how to fake confidence with strangers who don't like you -- if only for a very short period. It turns out the British Museum was right up the road opposite us. Which was still Museum Street.
So we found the Museum. And a short while later, Dune's delightful cousin Sally met us -- and you can tell these girls are related because they're both incredibly gorgeous and very smart. After an excited greeting between the girls, and a slightly shy one on my part, the three of us set off looking for a pub for lunch. We walked aimlessly for a short time, before Sally admitted she didn't actually know where we were going -- so we collectively started actually looking for a pub. And quickly found one. Lunch was good -- standard pub fare, but nourishing, and very generously paid for by Sally. It was also sadly quite short.
Dune and I found our way back to the British Museum and spent the rest of the day there quite happily. I think I am in no way exaggerating or biased when I say that the British Museum has to be one of the finest museums in the world, although not without controversy. We checked out the ancient Greeks and the ancient Egyptians, gatecrashed a guided tour -- the tour guide was really good and we were thoroughly enjoying it when he took a moment out to tell us that it was a paid for tour. Dune felt it was directed mostly at her, but I think I escaped notice only because I was stood next to a member of the tour group who actually looked like he was homeless and had aimlessly wandered into the museum in search of a cup of tea.
And so an afternoon was spent -- a word of advice to anyone wishing to see the British Museum. As with any great museums and galleries, one day is not enough. Or rather, one day is just right if you divide it over two -- do a morning one day and then the afternoon the next, and if you can plan what you want to see. Dune and I will undoubtedly be going back on a rainy day before too long, it's that level of greatness.
My previous accounts have had myself and Dune taking in the famous sights of my home town, and the slightly less famous sights of Westminster (once I worked out how to find them). The next day was about as different again, when we headed into London with Jon to see the Gutter Twins play Koko, in Camden.
If anyone is scratching their heads and wondering who the Gutter Twins are, I can try and briefly summarise. Greg Dulli, former frontman of Afghan Whigs, collaborated with various musicians with his more recent band Twilight Singers. One such musician is the gravel-voiced Mark Lanegan, famous for fronting Screaming Trees and collaborating with Queens of the Stone Age. In between touring again with Afghan Whigs and Twilight Singers, Greg Dulli is collaborating again with Mark Lanegan on a side project -- this is the Gutter Twins.
Whenever we can, if we're going to a gig in London we like to spend the whole day up there and so that was what Jon and I did with Dune. The idea to begin with had been to check out what the state of Camden Lock Market was after the recent fire, perhaps indulge in one of Dune's self-guided walks, but first of all to visit a pub I have newly adopted as my favourite in Camden. Outside it was cold and it was raining -- inside it was warm and there was alcohol. So we didn't actually leave the pub until it was time to go to the gig.
Before they met, Jon had been slightly concerned about meeting Dune. He knew that I had nothing but good things to say about her, but was naturally concerned that there might be awkward silences or that if I left them alone together they would have nothing to say. Quite the opposite was true, Jon and Dune got along like a house on fire -- since they're both interesting, intelligent and fun people this wasn't really a surprise, but I know Jon was relieved. I didn't need to be relieved, as I'd never been concerned -- I knew they were both easy to get along with, and I obviously have great taste in friends.
The gig itself was good, but to my mind not great -- what was missing for me was knowing their songs, and a crowd that also already knew and loved their work. There wasn't quite the same chemistry.
On Friday, Dune and I splashed out again on travelcards (I might live close to London, but the travel into the city isn't cheap) with a view to spending the day at the British Museum, but first meeting Dune's cousin for lunch. One would think that after our experiences with my sense of direction earlier in the week, I might have planned ahead a little better for Friday. That is, I'd been to the British Museum before, and knew that it was sign posted from Holborn tube, but it didn't actually occur to me to check these things.
I have very little defence, other than that I presumed it would be obvious and it doesn't matter so much when you're doing these things and getting lost on your own.
We found our way to Holborn without incident, and sure enough there were sign posts outside the station, pointing the way. Unfortunately, nothing is idiot-proof to a sufficiently-talented idiot, and when the signs stopped on route, I was no clearer as to where the museum was. I took a wild guess that going up "Museum Street" would be a good start, and although Dune was dubious, we tried it. It worked well for a short while, but soon we came to another street and still no museum. It was fortunate for me that Dune is very patient, and felt it was charming that it wouldn't occur to me to look up where to go ahead of time.
I asked directions from a passing stranger. He looked worried and told me in a heavy accent he couldn't speak English. I tried another, and got the same result. Who would have thought that when stopping people in the street in central London you could get a 100% success rate in finding people that didn't speak English?
Granted, I use that line on charity muggers. When asked "Can you spare a few moments for --?" I reply in clear and perfect English, "I'm very sorry, I don't speak English". If they persist, I smile apologetically and say "No, I'm sorry, I really can't understand you". It confuses them long enough for you to get away.
Back on the street in Holborn, I walked into a bag shop and asked the sales staff. They looked at me like I was something they had just trodden in, but if nothing else my PR and journalist experience has taught me how to fake confidence with strangers who don't like you -- if only for a very short period. It turns out the British Museum was right up the road opposite us. Which was still Museum Street.
So we found the Museum. And a short while later, Dune's delightful cousin Sally met us -- and you can tell these girls are related because they're both incredibly gorgeous and very smart. After an excited greeting between the girls, and a slightly shy one on my part, the three of us set off looking for a pub for lunch. We walked aimlessly for a short time, before Sally admitted she didn't actually know where we were going -- so we collectively started actually looking for a pub. And quickly found one. Lunch was good -- standard pub fare, but nourishing, and very generously paid for by Sally. It was also sadly quite short.
Dune and I found our way back to the British Museum and spent the rest of the day there quite happily. I think I am in no way exaggerating or biased when I say that the British Museum has to be one of the finest museums in the world, although not without controversy. We checked out the ancient Greeks and the ancient Egyptians, gatecrashed a guided tour -- the tour guide was really good and we were thoroughly enjoying it when he took a moment out to tell us that it was a paid for tour. Dune felt it was directed mostly at her, but I think I escaped notice only because I was stood next to a member of the tour group who actually looked like he was homeless and had aimlessly wandered into the museum in search of a cup of tea.
And so an afternoon was spent -- a word of advice to anyone wishing to see the British Museum. As with any great museums and galleries, one day is not enough. Or rather, one day is just right if you divide it over two -- do a morning one day and then the afternoon the next, and if you can plan what you want to see. Dune and I will undoubtedly be going back on a rainy day before too long, it's that level of greatness.
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
Every drop of flame
On Monday night, I drove Dune to her cousin's flat in South London -- where she will be staying for a week or so, she says to give my parents a rest, and to give us all a chance to miss her. It's funny how quickly you get used to having someone around, my parents agree that the house seems quiet now, and my Mum in particular loved having a girl about the place.
I've been driving a lot the last couple of days -- having spent Sunday delivering meals to the sick and needy, which meant navigating the mean streets of East London on my own as they were a person short so I didn't have a navigator. The driving and navigating wasn't so bad -- in fact, I've sometimes thought on occasion a satnav would be more reliable, as there have been so many navigators who struggled with left and right, stuttered when giving directions, or just had to be given a little help map reading. All lovely people, don't get me wrong, just not your first choice of navigator. Unfortunately, what a satnav can't do is entertain you, help you bag up the meals, or drop the meals off at the door while you turn the car round. Instead I had to find somewhere to park (rather than just beaching the car like a whale, as I normally do), hide the valuables, then bag up the meals and deliver them and all the rest. It was hard work. I got an email today asking if I could drive again this Sunday because they were a driver short. It is going to have to be at least a month before I'd want to do it again.
You might think after Sunday's driving I wouldn't have wanted to drive to or around London again -- but there was no way on earth I was prepared to see Dune struggle with trains and tubes with her bags. It wasn't easy for the two of us to transport them from the airport to my car when she arrived, and that was with a baggage trolley -- I would have sooner carried the bags on my back like a donkey than I would have made her take the train. I like to look after my friends, and I can know they have arrived safely if I take them myself.
Driving at night when the rounds are quiet and the air is cold, you can turn the stereo up and it almost feels like you're in a movie. When Dune and I were driving home from the airport when I first picked her up we commented on something like it -- a particular song came on and we remarked it felt like the introspective, soul-searching part of the film where the protagonist struggles with a decision they must make. The people you pass in the streets seem like extras, all playing their parts to the best of their ability -- but when you stop at traffic lights, you still lean over and lock the doors.
To be completely honest, I'm in a bit of a strange emotional state at the moment. It would be too hasty to say I am regressing to where I was when I started therapy, but I have to remind myself that I didn't stop therapy because I didn't need it, I stopped because I couldn't rely on my therapist. I dreamed last night I turned up at his house just like I had always done (since that was his office) and although he seemed surprised to see me, he wasn't that surprised, or mad that I had stopped. Just the same, I am noticing myself being quiet and withdrawn when I don't want to be and am sometimes troubled with recurring thoughts.
In other news, I have my first formal interview with the RAF booked in. I was avoiding their calls for ages -- since I had to fill in yet another application form and was having doubts if I was doing the right thing -- but I reminded myself this is something I have to do, or else always be wondering.
I've been driving a lot the last couple of days -- having spent Sunday delivering meals to the sick and needy, which meant navigating the mean streets of East London on my own as they were a person short so I didn't have a navigator. The driving and navigating wasn't so bad -- in fact, I've sometimes thought on occasion a satnav would be more reliable, as there have been so many navigators who struggled with left and right, stuttered when giving directions, or just had to be given a little help map reading. All lovely people, don't get me wrong, just not your first choice of navigator. Unfortunately, what a satnav can't do is entertain you, help you bag up the meals, or drop the meals off at the door while you turn the car round. Instead I had to find somewhere to park (rather than just beaching the car like a whale, as I normally do), hide the valuables, then bag up the meals and deliver them and all the rest. It was hard work. I got an email today asking if I could drive again this Sunday because they were a driver short. It is going to have to be at least a month before I'd want to do it again.
You might think after Sunday's driving I wouldn't have wanted to drive to or around London again -- but there was no way on earth I was prepared to see Dune struggle with trains and tubes with her bags. It wasn't easy for the two of us to transport them from the airport to my car when she arrived, and that was with a baggage trolley -- I would have sooner carried the bags on my back like a donkey than I would have made her take the train. I like to look after my friends, and I can know they have arrived safely if I take them myself.
Driving at night when the rounds are quiet and the air is cold, you can turn the stereo up and it almost feels like you're in a movie. When Dune and I were driving home from the airport when I first picked her up we commented on something like it -- a particular song came on and we remarked it felt like the introspective, soul-searching part of the film where the protagonist struggles with a decision they must make. The people you pass in the streets seem like extras, all playing their parts to the best of their ability -- but when you stop at traffic lights, you still lean over and lock the doors.
To be completely honest, I'm in a bit of a strange emotional state at the moment. It would be too hasty to say I am regressing to where I was when I started therapy, but I have to remind myself that I didn't stop therapy because I didn't need it, I stopped because I couldn't rely on my therapist. I dreamed last night I turned up at his house just like I had always done (since that was his office) and although he seemed surprised to see me, he wasn't that surprised, or mad that I had stopped. Just the same, I am noticing myself being quiet and withdrawn when I don't want to be and am sometimes troubled with recurring thoughts.
In other news, I have my first formal interview with the RAF booked in. I was avoiding their calls for ages -- since I had to fill in yet another application form and was having doubts if I was doing the right thing -- but I reminded myself this is something I have to do, or else always be wondering.
Wednesday, 27 February 2008
The girls I've kissed are grateful
The oldest text message I have saved on my phone is from my old university friend, Owen. I can't remember the last time I saw him, but since I haven't been back to Derby since the one time I interviewed him for a feature I was writing on Urban Exploration, it's probably close to five years.
On a random January evening in 2007 I received a message from Owen that read:
Owen was a nice guy, but he had some odd ideas sometimes. He was a Goth, which in some ways could explain a lot, but the easiest way to describe the difference between us in our friendship is by relating the difference between my idea of going out for a drink, and his. I asked him one night if he wanted to go for a drink, he did, and we arranged to meet outside the student's union around 9pm. My idea of going out for a drink that evening consisted of going to the union, having a few pints of snakebite, playing pool, and stumbling home shortly before 12.
Owen's idea of going out for a drink was he had the keys to abandoned church, two bottles of cheap, fizzy white wine, and some hardcore pornography he had found in the grounds of the church earlier that day. And so instead of a few pints and home, we explored the abandoned building by the light of his pen torch, then looked at the porn he found, before drinking the wine in total darkness, because Owen was concerned about conserving his battery life.
That was Owen. He was a Jewish, vegetarian Goth who would sometimes eat meat when he was drunk and his girlfriend wasn't around, and liked to tell tall stories. He'd read a few novels by Chuck Palahniuk that I recommended, most notably 'Survivor' (which I still think is one of the best) and so I was curious. Who wouldn't be?
I think immediately following the message I looked in my local library for the book, and found out it was a true story about the world of pick-up artists -- there was also a long wait for the book, and I didn't think it would really be my sort of thing. Although I rarely thought any more about it, I kept the message. Until one day I was in a cheap bookshop and saw a copy on sale for £1. The book was on a top shelf among books for adults on relationships and sex, and came with a parental advisory sticker.
I realised soon into reading the book why it reminded Owen of Palahniuk, as the story progresses the style does have distinct similarities -- in a way, it reminded me a bit of Fight Club in places, where the story moved away from the fighting and onto Tyler Durden's army of "Project Mayhem". What amused me to begin with in The Game was when I noticed the main character was described as a "shy, awkward writer". At least, that's how it starts. Neil Strauss went from this socially inept introvert to what the "pick up" community describes as a "master pick up artist" or MPUA.
If you're interested in reading the book, you might want to stop with this post here, as I will discuss the ending -- at least, in a roundabout sort of way.
What intrigues me now is wondering how different some of my past encounters could have been, had I read this book before. Perhaps not serious relationships -- as I think many of the pick up 'techniques' would have only a relatively short appeal -- but if you do look at dating as a game, being played with certain sets of rules, the I could certainly have played it differently and with very different results. Rather than just being played. I think back to short-lived encounters and false starts with people like Claire and Ultra the electro girl, in hindsight they were both very obviously playing a particular sort of game.
Ultra thought she was pretty smart, but it was fairly obvious to me that probably what she was used to, or at least what she wanted, was someone to take her out on dates to expensive restaurants. Claire too, bringing her mate along when we went out for a drink, inviting me to a party then changing her mind. I wonder how different things might have gone with Claire if I'd realised what was being played was a game -- and known different skills to utilise.
Neil Strauss goes from "Neil Strauss: writer" but tragically single to "Style [as he is re-christened]: voted #1 pick up artist in the world", but unlike many others in the story, he keeps his soul. He looks into the void, and sees it is empty, he sees people becoming 'robots' with meaningless lives -- and fortunately, unlike others in his story, he doesn't turn to religion. He is the detached narrator while Tyler Durden is building an army -- literally, too, since one of his proteges calls himself Tyler Durden. What eventually saves Neil and brings him back to reality is a woman.
I do wonder if the 'rules' of The Game could have been used on people on the past for my own benefit -- but it's not what I'm looking for. At the end of Fight Club the narrator realises he has to step out from Tyler Durden's shadow and Marla Singer realises her true feelings are for him, and not for Tyler. Similarly, The Game ends with Neil Strauss realising he will lose the only woman he cares about if he persists in playing this stupid game and doesn't distinguish himself from Style. Lisa likes him for who he really is.
The important thing in both stories is that neither man could have got the girl at the end without the journey. The narrator in Fight Club learns from Tyler Durden, Neil Strauss in a similar way learns the self confidence that allows him to talk to a woman like Lisa to begin with -- and not be scared off when she sometimes seems bitchy. Lisa falls for Neil and not Style, but without being Style and learning from it Neil would never have been able to start let alone continue a relationship with Lisa.
The lessons I take away from both novels are complicated. They don't say "be yourself" or even the subtly different "be true to yourself" -- because in both cases who they are at the end is not the same as the start; it would be a pointless story if they were. Ulysses does not end his Odyssey the same man as he began it, even if the 'core' is essentially the same, although the comparison ends pretty quickly there. Do these people remain true to themselves? Maybe they don't lose their souls, but either way they build and improve on themselves.
It's just a matter of trying to draw out what's important in my own life. I know I have issues I need to build on, and it can be almost frightening to me sometimes how quickly and steeply my mood can decline with almost no warning. I know that I can appear needy, clingy and ineffective at times, but I also know that I have discovered new levels of confidence in me along the way and I am not the same person I once was.
In the words of Eddie and the Hotrods, "I am sure I must be someone, now I'm gonna find out who".
On a random January evening in 2007 I received a message from Owen that read:
"I am halfway through 'The Game' by Neil Strauss. Feels a bit like Palahniuk. In my head he's played by you. That's a compliment."I wasn't sure what to make of this, since I'd never heard of either Neil Strauss or The Game -- but if he said it was a compliment I resolved to take it as such. But I also resolved to find out what this book was about, and what it was about the book's character that had him imagine me in their place.
Owen was a nice guy, but he had some odd ideas sometimes. He was a Goth, which in some ways could explain a lot, but the easiest way to describe the difference between us in our friendship is by relating the difference between my idea of going out for a drink, and his. I asked him one night if he wanted to go for a drink, he did, and we arranged to meet outside the student's union around 9pm. My idea of going out for a drink that evening consisted of going to the union, having a few pints of snakebite, playing pool, and stumbling home shortly before 12.
Owen's idea of going out for a drink was he had the keys to abandoned church, two bottles of cheap, fizzy white wine, and some hardcore pornography he had found in the grounds of the church earlier that day. And so instead of a few pints and home, we explored the abandoned building by the light of his pen torch, then looked at the porn he found, before drinking the wine in total darkness, because Owen was concerned about conserving his battery life.
That was Owen. He was a Jewish, vegetarian Goth who would sometimes eat meat when he was drunk and his girlfriend wasn't around, and liked to tell tall stories. He'd read a few novels by Chuck Palahniuk that I recommended, most notably 'Survivor' (which I still think is one of the best) and so I was curious. Who wouldn't be?
I think immediately following the message I looked in my local library for the book, and found out it was a true story about the world of pick-up artists -- there was also a long wait for the book, and I didn't think it would really be my sort of thing. Although I rarely thought any more about it, I kept the message. Until one day I was in a cheap bookshop and saw a copy on sale for £1. The book was on a top shelf among books for adults on relationships and sex, and came with a parental advisory sticker.
I realised soon into reading the book why it reminded Owen of Palahniuk, as the story progresses the style does have distinct similarities -- in a way, it reminded me a bit of Fight Club in places, where the story moved away from the fighting and onto Tyler Durden's army of "Project Mayhem". What amused me to begin with in The Game was when I noticed the main character was described as a "shy, awkward writer". At least, that's how it starts. Neil Strauss went from this socially inept introvert to what the "pick up" community describes as a "master pick up artist" or MPUA.
If you're interested in reading the book, you might want to stop with this post here, as I will discuss the ending -- at least, in a roundabout sort of way.
What intrigues me now is wondering how different some of my past encounters could have been, had I read this book before. Perhaps not serious relationships -- as I think many of the pick up 'techniques' would have only a relatively short appeal -- but if you do look at dating as a game, being played with certain sets of rules, the I could certainly have played it differently and with very different results. Rather than just being played. I think back to short-lived encounters and false starts with people like Claire and Ultra the electro girl, in hindsight they were both very obviously playing a particular sort of game.
Ultra thought she was pretty smart, but it was fairly obvious to me that probably what she was used to, or at least what she wanted, was someone to take her out on dates to expensive restaurants. Claire too, bringing her mate along when we went out for a drink, inviting me to a party then changing her mind. I wonder how different things might have gone with Claire if I'd realised what was being played was a game -- and known different skills to utilise.
Neil Strauss goes from "Neil Strauss: writer" but tragically single to "Style [as he is re-christened]: voted #1 pick up artist in the world", but unlike many others in the story, he keeps his soul. He looks into the void, and sees it is empty, he sees people becoming 'robots' with meaningless lives -- and fortunately, unlike others in his story, he doesn't turn to religion. He is the detached narrator while Tyler Durden is building an army -- literally, too, since one of his proteges calls himself Tyler Durden. What eventually saves Neil and brings him back to reality is a woman.
I do wonder if the 'rules' of The Game could have been used on people on the past for my own benefit -- but it's not what I'm looking for. At the end of Fight Club the narrator realises he has to step out from Tyler Durden's shadow and Marla Singer realises her true feelings are for him, and not for Tyler. Similarly, The Game ends with Neil Strauss realising he will lose the only woman he cares about if he persists in playing this stupid game and doesn't distinguish himself from Style. Lisa likes him for who he really is.
The important thing in both stories is that neither man could have got the girl at the end without the journey. The narrator in Fight Club learns from Tyler Durden, Neil Strauss in a similar way learns the self confidence that allows him to talk to a woman like Lisa to begin with -- and not be scared off when she sometimes seems bitchy. Lisa falls for Neil and not Style, but without being Style and learning from it Neil would never have been able to start let alone continue a relationship with Lisa.
The lessons I take away from both novels are complicated. They don't say "be yourself" or even the subtly different "be true to yourself" -- because in both cases who they are at the end is not the same as the start; it would be a pointless story if they were. Ulysses does not end his Odyssey the same man as he began it, even if the 'core' is essentially the same, although the comparison ends pretty quickly there. Do these people remain true to themselves? Maybe they don't lose their souls, but either way they build and improve on themselves.
It's just a matter of trying to draw out what's important in my own life. I know I have issues I need to build on, and it can be almost frightening to me sometimes how quickly and steeply my mood can decline with almost no warning. I know that I can appear needy, clingy and ineffective at times, but I also know that I have discovered new levels of confidence in me along the way and I am not the same person I once was.
In the words of Eddie and the Hotrods, "I am sure I must be someone, now I'm gonna find out who".
Monday, 25 February 2008
Westminster Chimes
Now I'm reluctantly back at work, it's as good a time as any to look back over the last week of being a tourist and driving Dune crazy.
In my last post, I touched on how I had shown my charming antipodean guest the delights that my small home counties commuter town had to offer -- then on Wednesday we headed into directly into the city of London itself.
We had discussed various tourist ideas, including visiting Buckingham Palace -- but unfortunately it seems that tours of the state rooms are limited to the summer, and that in the winter the world-famous changing of the guards happens only every other day, and even then the guards might not be wearing the traditional red uniform. So that was scratched off the list. Instead, we settled on the idea of seeing Westminster first in the morning -- including the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben and Westminster Abbey. Then, after meeting my Mum for lunch, I promised Dune I would show her Old Spitalfields Market before her meeting with a recruitment consultant in the area. After this we said if there was time we would go to Tower Hill and see the Tower of London.
It was probably early on Wednesday that Dune first started to realise how completely incompetent with directions I am, and how vaguely I knew where a lot of things were in London. I had to look up that Westminster Abbey was best reached from Westminster tube station, but had a very sketchy idea at best as to how to find it. We found our way to the Westminster tube station without too much trouble, followed the exits for Big Ben and Parliament, and emerged from the Underground alongside the spectacular Houses of Parliament. I might not have much time for the people inside the building, but the architecture itself is amazing -- and you don't quite appreciate the sheer size of it until you see it in person.
"Where's Big Ben?" Dune asked me. "Umm, pass? It's around here somewhere...". We were standing directly underneath it which was why I couldn't see it -- and it was only when walking along Westminster bridge did we realise this. My camera's USB cable is currently MIA, so I have no pictures to offer -- which is all the more reason to visit Dune's blog.
Westminster Abbey was found, after a fashion and it would have been spotted sooner, I am sure, if we had seen it from the front to begin with. Although I've visited it before I can't say when that was -- it certainly wasn't remotely recently. This is my excuse for why I didn't know how to get there, whenever it was I last visited I wouldn't have had to know or pay much attention -- it also seems that I didn't pay much attention the inside of it before either, as I was humbled by the final resting places of so many monarchs and historical figures. If we hadn't been on a time constraint and the place hadn't been so busy, I might have really taken the time to linger among the poets. Places like that always make me want to reach out and touch the walls and the tombs -- to see if I can feel any sort of psychic connection to earlier times.
I think I might have managed to not look like a complete idiot when I successfully navigated us from Liverpool Street Station to Old Spitalfields Market. This makes a lot more sense -- it's somewhere that I go semi-regularly (or daily when I worked by there) and visited much more recently. Unfortunately, the renovations that were going on in the place last time I visited -- back in December with China Blue -- were still going on, so there was nothing much to see, aside from a few market stalls outside. Dune was lucky enough to find a bag she liked on one of these stalls, so it wasn't a completely wasted trip.
Dune's appointment with her recruitment consultant was slightly disappointing for her -- but I guess these people come in all shapes, sizes and competencies and despite being pleasant her recruiter did seem to have some odd ideas about finding work and a decent wage.
The Tower of London we decided could wait for another day -- it's not going anywhere -- and it was still very cold out, but we did manage to find Dune a cute-looking winter coat from M&S which is going some way to protecting her from these harsh climates.
And there I guess I can leave it for now -- this post will get far too long if I start writing about Camden and watching the Gutter Twins, or about Friday's trip to the British Museum. At least it's something to keep you coming back for.
In my last post, I touched on how I had shown my charming antipodean guest the delights that my small home counties commuter town had to offer -- then on Wednesday we headed into directly into the city of London itself.
We had discussed various tourist ideas, including visiting Buckingham Palace -- but unfortunately it seems that tours of the state rooms are limited to the summer, and that in the winter the world-famous changing of the guards happens only every other day, and even then the guards might not be wearing the traditional red uniform. So that was scratched off the list. Instead, we settled on the idea of seeing Westminster first in the morning -- including the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben and Westminster Abbey. Then, after meeting my Mum for lunch, I promised Dune I would show her Old Spitalfields Market before her meeting with a recruitment consultant in the area. After this we said if there was time we would go to Tower Hill and see the Tower of London.
It was probably early on Wednesday that Dune first started to realise how completely incompetent with directions I am, and how vaguely I knew where a lot of things were in London. I had to look up that Westminster Abbey was best reached from Westminster tube station, but had a very sketchy idea at best as to how to find it. We found our way to the Westminster tube station without too much trouble, followed the exits for Big Ben and Parliament, and emerged from the Underground alongside the spectacular Houses of Parliament. I might not have much time for the people inside the building, but the architecture itself is amazing -- and you don't quite appreciate the sheer size of it until you see it in person.
"Where's Big Ben?" Dune asked me. "Umm, pass? It's around here somewhere...". We were standing directly underneath it which was why I couldn't see it -- and it was only when walking along Westminster bridge did we realise this. My camera's USB cable is currently MIA, so I have no pictures to offer -- which is all the more reason to visit Dune's blog.
Westminster Abbey was found, after a fashion and it would have been spotted sooner, I am sure, if we had seen it from the front to begin with. Although I've visited it before I can't say when that was -- it certainly wasn't remotely recently. This is my excuse for why I didn't know how to get there, whenever it was I last visited I wouldn't have had to know or pay much attention -- it also seems that I didn't pay much attention the inside of it before either, as I was humbled by the final resting places of so many monarchs and historical figures. If we hadn't been on a time constraint and the place hadn't been so busy, I might have really taken the time to linger among the poets. Places like that always make me want to reach out and touch the walls and the tombs -- to see if I can feel any sort of psychic connection to earlier times.
I think I might have managed to not look like a complete idiot when I successfully navigated us from Liverpool Street Station to Old Spitalfields Market. This makes a lot more sense -- it's somewhere that I go semi-regularly (or daily when I worked by there) and visited much more recently. Unfortunately, the renovations that were going on in the place last time I visited -- back in December with China Blue -- were still going on, so there was nothing much to see, aside from a few market stalls outside. Dune was lucky enough to find a bag she liked on one of these stalls, so it wasn't a completely wasted trip.
Dune's appointment with her recruitment consultant was slightly disappointing for her -- but I guess these people come in all shapes, sizes and competencies and despite being pleasant her recruiter did seem to have some odd ideas about finding work and a decent wage.
The Tower of London we decided could wait for another day -- it's not going anywhere -- and it was still very cold out, but we did manage to find Dune a cute-looking winter coat from M&S which is going some way to protecting her from these harsh climates.
And there I guess I can leave it for now -- this post will get far too long if I start writing about Camden and watching the Gutter Twins, or about Friday's trip to the British Museum. At least it's something to keep you coming back for.
Tuesday, 19 February 2008
Arrivals
The first thing I did Monday morning was log on to the Heathrow airport website, and check the "live arrivals" for Dune's flight -- it was showing as "expected 18.30" rather than the 17.30 it was scheduled for, but if anything this would probably benefit us with the traffic trying to get home.
My day was largely lazy and uneventful -- despite having all this week off work, I hadn't been able to sleep late, but still I failed to make it to the gym, either in the morning or in the afternoon. Bad Jay. More important to my day was making CDs to play in the car -- both on the way to the airport and on the way home. The drive there took more or less an hour, just as the satnav had predicted. I'd given myself plenty of time so even if I was sometimes driving slightly under the speed limit in places, I still didn't really add any time to the journey. I found my way to the short stay car parking for the terminal, wound my way up through the levels til I found somewhere relatively empty, and headed into the airport building.
I'd left plenty of time for the journey in case of delays, and likewise had allowed plenty of time at the airport before Dune was to land. I much prefer to be early and have time to read my book, to wander about, people-watch and dig stuff -- as opposed to getting places "just in time". There was no way I was going to play this one so close to the line.
Arrivals at the airport is a happy place, I like it. Unlike departures there isn't a whole lot to do -- although I was impressed there was a choice of a couple of restaurants -- but there is a lot of good feeling.
I sat for a while and read The Game by Neil Strauss -- which is a book that is going to need posts all of its own, but needless to say it really skews your perceptions of the world. I get very absorbed in books, and find immediately after reading something my world can be very coloured -- for example, if I read The Curious Incident of the Dog In The Nighttime I would have to remind myself afterwards that I can eat foods if they are touching each other, that it is not me that has Asperger's at all.
I stopped reading my book and wandered off to get a drink and something to eat -- I found a coffee shop, ordered what I wanted, and spotted some comfy-looking bench seats along the back wall of the shop. I slid into my seat, and the cute girl with her Mum at the next time looked up, made eye contact and said hi. I smiled to myself, my head still full of Neil Strauss' tales of pick up artists and their routines -- but I instead returned to reading, rather than use some opening question to start conversation.
I read for a while longer, until I found myself unable to concentrate on the book and instead opt to write in my paper journal. A couple of pages in that, and I decided although I was still early, it would be a good time to get my spot on the railing that runs alongside the arrivals.
Getting a good spot on this railing is a lot like trying to find a good spot to see from at a gig. Most people cram along the right-hand side, maybe because they are right-handed and automatically favour that side, or maybe because you have to walk a long way round to get to the opposite side. But because of this, there are several good spots to stand on the left where you can stick your elbows out to give yourself more room. It's important that you are against the rail itself in this case, otherwise your target -- the arrivee, as it were -- might not spot you. And that's a right kerfuffle. But sometimes you have the people for whom just standing there isn't good enough -- they have to stand on the rail, so that you can't see past them, or they have to lean right over and so block the view of everyone alongside them.
I get my spot and I know that I am early, but am content just to watch the people as they come through the doors and look for their friends and loved ones. The best ones would be where (typically) a man would come along smartly dressed and looking quite tired -- and then there would be a yell of "Daddy!" and a small child would run towards them, only to be picked up and hugged. Or there would be a professional looking couple who would be greeted by perhaps two small children who would be barraging them with stories about the toys they are carrying or everything else. You needed a heart of stone not to be touched by these moments. There would be other people you couldn't help but make up stories about -- young people with backpacks you imagined were returning home, or else perhaps seeing England for the first time on the European leg of their round-the-world trip. I saw one old man in robes with a long white beard. I thought he was so cool I wanted to take him home (no, not instead of you, Dune) -- how good would it be to take him to the pub, take him to gigs in Camden, bring home to dinner with my parents...
I kept an eye on the time, to be aware of when I should start properly watching for Dune's arrival. She was now due at 18.30, but I reckoned that it would be silly to expect her before 19.00 at the earliest -- the plane might land at 18.30, but there still needed to take into account deboarding, collecting baggage on the wheel of fortune, clearing customs -- perhaps even being quizzed by security, as I once had returning home from snowboarding in France. I knew 19.00 was the earliest I would possibly see her, but just the same as the time ticked on, I started to wonder -- had she even made her connection in Kuala Lumpur? Were her bags lost? Were customs being difficult? Or could we just have missed each other as she walked along the arrivals walkway?
As each new wave of people passed through the doors and alongside the barrier I'd try to work out if they looked like they have travelled from Kuala Lumpur -- but how can you tell? What exactly does someone who has caught a plane from Malaysia look like? I figured that if it got past 19.30 then I would consider maybe asking airport information to page Dune -- which would have been the first time in history I have ever asked airport security to make a genuine announcement. But as if on cue, Dune walked out at almost exactly 19.30 -- pushing a baggage trolley loaded with bags but looking glad to finally be at Heathrow.
We negotiated a trolley with wonky wheels back to my car -- which seemed a lot easier to find when the car park was empty -- and then began a drive home in thick fog, stopping only for fast food dinner at motorway services about an hour from home.
Reassuringly, from my side at least, we seem to get on very well -- as if there has been no transition from being online mates to real life friends. Today Dune saw the delights my town had to offer (like Asda), and she's quite worn out from all the excitement. Tomorrow we're heading into London to be tourists :)
My day was largely lazy and uneventful -- despite having all this week off work, I hadn't been able to sleep late, but still I failed to make it to the gym, either in the morning or in the afternoon. Bad Jay. More important to my day was making CDs to play in the car -- both on the way to the airport and on the way home. The drive there took more or less an hour, just as the satnav had predicted. I'd given myself plenty of time so even if I was sometimes driving slightly under the speed limit in places, I still didn't really add any time to the journey. I found my way to the short stay car parking for the terminal, wound my way up through the levels til I found somewhere relatively empty, and headed into the airport building.
I'd left plenty of time for the journey in case of delays, and likewise had allowed plenty of time at the airport before Dune was to land. I much prefer to be early and have time to read my book, to wander about, people-watch and dig stuff -- as opposed to getting places "just in time". There was no way I was going to play this one so close to the line.
Arrivals at the airport is a happy place, I like it. Unlike departures there isn't a whole lot to do -- although I was impressed there was a choice of a couple of restaurants -- but there is a lot of good feeling.
I sat for a while and read The Game by Neil Strauss -- which is a book that is going to need posts all of its own, but needless to say it really skews your perceptions of the world. I get very absorbed in books, and find immediately after reading something my world can be very coloured -- for example, if I read The Curious Incident of the Dog In The Nighttime I would have to remind myself afterwards that I can eat foods if they are touching each other, that it is not me that has Asperger's at all.
I stopped reading my book and wandered off to get a drink and something to eat -- I found a coffee shop, ordered what I wanted, and spotted some comfy-looking bench seats along the back wall of the shop. I slid into my seat, and the cute girl with her Mum at the next time looked up, made eye contact and said hi. I smiled to myself, my head still full of Neil Strauss' tales of pick up artists and their routines -- but I instead returned to reading, rather than use some opening question to start conversation.
I read for a while longer, until I found myself unable to concentrate on the book and instead opt to write in my paper journal. A couple of pages in that, and I decided although I was still early, it would be a good time to get my spot on the railing that runs alongside the arrivals.
Getting a good spot on this railing is a lot like trying to find a good spot to see from at a gig. Most people cram along the right-hand side, maybe because they are right-handed and automatically favour that side, or maybe because you have to walk a long way round to get to the opposite side. But because of this, there are several good spots to stand on the left where you can stick your elbows out to give yourself more room. It's important that you are against the rail itself in this case, otherwise your target -- the arrivee, as it were -- might not spot you. And that's a right kerfuffle. But sometimes you have the people for whom just standing there isn't good enough -- they have to stand on the rail, so that you can't see past them, or they have to lean right over and so block the view of everyone alongside them.
I get my spot and I know that I am early, but am content just to watch the people as they come through the doors and look for their friends and loved ones. The best ones would be where (typically) a man would come along smartly dressed and looking quite tired -- and then there would be a yell of "Daddy!" and a small child would run towards them, only to be picked up and hugged. Or there would be a professional looking couple who would be greeted by perhaps two small children who would be barraging them with stories about the toys they are carrying or everything else. You needed a heart of stone not to be touched by these moments. There would be other people you couldn't help but make up stories about -- young people with backpacks you imagined were returning home, or else perhaps seeing England for the first time on the European leg of their round-the-world trip. I saw one old man in robes with a long white beard. I thought he was so cool I wanted to take him home (no, not instead of you, Dune) -- how good would it be to take him to the pub, take him to gigs in Camden, bring home to dinner with my parents...
I kept an eye on the time, to be aware of when I should start properly watching for Dune's arrival. She was now due at 18.30, but I reckoned that it would be silly to expect her before 19.00 at the earliest -- the plane might land at 18.30, but there still needed to take into account deboarding, collecting baggage on the wheel of fortune, clearing customs -- perhaps even being quizzed by security, as I once had returning home from snowboarding in France. I knew 19.00 was the earliest I would possibly see her, but just the same as the time ticked on, I started to wonder -- had she even made her connection in Kuala Lumpur? Were her bags lost? Were customs being difficult? Or could we just have missed each other as she walked along the arrivals walkway?
As each new wave of people passed through the doors and alongside the barrier I'd try to work out if they looked like they have travelled from Kuala Lumpur -- but how can you tell? What exactly does someone who has caught a plane from Malaysia look like? I figured that if it got past 19.30 then I would consider maybe asking airport information to page Dune -- which would have been the first time in history I have ever asked airport security to make a genuine announcement. But as if on cue, Dune walked out at almost exactly 19.30 -- pushing a baggage trolley loaded with bags but looking glad to finally be at Heathrow.
We negotiated a trolley with wonky wheels back to my car -- which seemed a lot easier to find when the car park was empty -- and then began a drive home in thick fog, stopping only for fast food dinner at motorway services about an hour from home.
Reassuringly, from my side at least, we seem to get on very well -- as if there has been no transition from being online mates to real life friends. Today Dune saw the delights my town had to offer (like Asda), and she's quite worn out from all the excitement. Tomorrow we're heading into London to be tourists :)
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