How Quickly Daft Jumping Zebras Vex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Word verification

After two days of thinking Google/Blogger hated me, I've found Blogger lists as a "known issue" word verification is failing to load for some users. Some users in this case includes me -- so, dear readers, if you feel you have been neglected from my always-insightful, never-bettered comments recently, blame the blogger bug.

In turn, I have turned off the verification here in case it was stopping anyone from sharing their thoughts with me, and the rest of the class.

End of public service message.


This is a picture of two kittens in a barrel, look at them in there, having a whale of a time. You see the one on the left? He's called Phillip. Now when you look into Phillip's eyes your anger will receed like an ocean...

Valentine

I wanted on Valentine's Day to link to a superb John Hegley poem about Saint Valentine, and the first Valentine's Day missive.

Unfortunately, the rotten shower of bastards that are Fileden have suspended my account for breach of their terms of service. Since I have been using the site to host various MP3 files to be used in Musical Monday posts, among other things, I expect it is that whole sharing copyrighted materials thing that's got their goat up. But it means I am now without a file hosting service and all the Musical Monday posts that had their own music no longer do.

In theory, I could type it up and post it -- but John Hegley is so much better if you can hear him. I think all poetry is better read aloud to yourself or heard read by the poet, than it is read silently on the page. John Hegley makes his pieces into performances, some become songs and others become songs with ukele in them, while others still become songs with ukele and audience participation -- especially from audience memebers wearing glasses. Anyway, MediaFire seem to offer file hosting for what I want so give this link a go.

Instead what I am going to have to do is copy out for your delectation the recipe from my tapas cookery book that I prepared for the girl. I may also include the recipe for the non-tapas dessert I made, and an explanation as to what went wrong with it. But not yet.

The girl and I agreed to keep spending to a minimum for Valentine's gifts, so I figured the best place to get her something special without spending a fortune was Etsy. That's where I found the sterling silver stud earrings pictured above. I would like to link to the seller's page so everyone (if anyone reads here) can see what amazing items they have, but I'd prefer the girl not to see it. I also decided to forego the usual tacky hallmark cards, and have one custom made from someone I admire -- again on Etsy.

I had to make her stay in the living room with the door shut, talking to the cat, while I unloaded things from the car -- because I didn't want her seeing the card, nor the dozen red roses, before I'd had a chance to prepare things. The card and earrings I hid in her bedside drawer for the morning. And if you're beginning to think it all sounds a bit one-sided, I was very pleased the girl remembered that I wanted a new notebook to take to Peru with me -- and so had bought me one as a gift. What's more she even made me breakfast in bed on the Saturday morning. Ain't she sweet? Before you get too put off by the public display of affection, I shall move swiftly on to Saturday night's dinner recipe.

Pollo a la Plancha
Grilled chicken thighs marinated with harissa, garlic and lemon

Serves 4 8 chicken thighs (skin on), boned
2 tablespoons harissa paste
2 garlic cloves, finely sliced
juice of ¹/₂ lemon
olive oil
Maldon sea salt and cracked black pepper, to taste
4 lemon wedges, to serve

Stretch out a piece of clingfilm on a large chopping board, open out 2 of the boned thighs and place them on top. Cover with another piece of clingfilm and bash each one with a meat mallet (or rolling pin) until it's roughly a third bigger than it was originally. Repeat with the remaining thighs and transfer to a large mixing bowl.
Add the harissa paste, sliced garlic, lemon juice, 12 dashes of olive oil, 2 generous pinches of salt and 1 of pepper. Mix everything together to ensure the chicken pieces are well coated. Cover the bowl with cling film and leave to marinate in the fridge for 12 hours.
When you are ready to cook, preheat your oven to 150^oC/300^oF/gas mark 2. Place your griddle plate, ridged-side up, on a high heat. When it starts to smoke, put 4 chicken thighs on top, skin-side down. Chargrill for 4 minutes each side -- thigh meat tends to be slightly pinker than breast meat, but don't let this put you off because it's incredibly succulent. If you find its too pink, cook for an extra minute, but take care not to burn it. When you are satisfied the chicken is cooked, transfer it to an ovenproof dish, cover with foil, and place in the oven to keep warm while you cook the remaining pieces. Serve with lemon wedges on the side.

My own cooking of this differed slightly. I forgot to include and garlic, and had missed originally the part about marinating it for 12 hours. I also used skinless breasts rather than thighs. I don't think it suffered for not marinating, nor for missing the garlic, but expect both would add to the overall flavour. I'd never tried harissa before, which I understand is a North African chilli paste and available in most supermarkets, if you have the patience to look for it. It has a familiar flavour perhaps not too unlike piri piri -- but the lemon and the salt in this recipe give the whole thing a very unique taste. I recommend to anyone buying this book, my copy is from the library and will be returned with some slight food splatterings -- which I think is a compliment to a good cookery book.

Now the dessert was strawberry mousse. Or supposed to be.

I think where I went wrong was with the gelatin. The only gelatin I could buy was in sheets, the recipe here calls for a tablespoon. Trying to break a sheet into pieces small enough to fill a tablespoon wasn't easy, and I guess I just didn't manage enough -- half a sheet seemed like it would be plenty, but the next morning it was still like a strawberry smoothie with a lot of sugar in. It made for an interesting breakfast for me at any rate...

25 things

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

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

Jupiter in space agencies' sights

I've been teh suck and not updated nearly enough recently.

I can report that my recent foray into not taking medication has ended. That is, after relying instead on vigorous exercise and strength of character, I have given and gone back. I was beginning to feel decidedly shit and unable to cope at times, so I decided enough was enough. Since I have restarted I still have my moments: short spells of despair, almost sickening bouts of worry and anxiety, but overall I am much better off. We have to admit that there is "something wrong" with me, and really there's no getting around it. It's a little depressing in itself to have to admit it. It might well be a brain 'chemical' thing -- some people are diabetic, or anaemic, and reliant on certain supplements of whatever kind. Perhaps I have a defective brain in a similar sort of way. For the record, I have begun to wonder when I am not taking my medication if previous medical professional diagnoses of bipolar disorder might not have been too wide of the mark. But either way, it doesn't matter.

Also in the news here this week is that despite every intention of leaving my body to medical science -- albeit while I am still very much alive and kicking -- has also met with failure. I was invited to attend a screening for a trial that would have paid me about two grand for my time, trialling a drug for Alzheimer's and ADD. But the time they wanted was about two weeks, and there was no way I could take it off work. This week I discovered that I have no holiday left whatsoever to take this tax year, and only have 13 days available to me to take between April and October. This means most likely that the time I spend in Peru I am going to have to take as unpaid leave -- I can consider that my own charitable contribution.

The obvious drawback of not being able to take part in a clinical drug trial is it is going to be a lot harder to earn money quickly. Possibly less unpleasant, maybe even safer, but more difficult.

I'm still resentful of my car needing £700+ worth of repairs at Christmas. It's no use crying over spilled milk, but I would never have chosen to spend that money frivolously -- not that keeping my car on the road is frivolous. But sometimes I think "I could have bought a great big television with that money, but I wouldn't have" or I think how I could fly to Barcelona and back like 6 times for that amount. Sometimes I go into a record shop just to browse, and I will pause over a CD -- I don't buy myself things often, I'll think. But then the idea of spending the money for no reason makes me feel ill, and I put it back. Like I say -- crying over it (like I did at the time, to my shame) doesn't change a thing, and the girl and I need a car for a whole host of reasons, so it was important. But that doesn't stop me resenting it. Stupid to resent an inanimate object, I know.

Speaking of work and earning money... Dedicated readers who have read my old posts, or longer term followers who have been with me for longer, may remember a post last October when I gleefully announced having got a job. I opened the champagne for dinner with the girl -- a special bottle I had been saving for when I got what I considered a "proper" job, a job that I wanted and wasn't just a stopgap, and that I felt was advancing my career. It was a year's contract, but a bloody good opportunity just the same. We remember? Good.

On Tuesday a notice went out on email to all office staff that there would be a briefing from the MD at 1430 in the conference room. Nobody was sure what it was about, but we were under no illusions: it wasn't going to be good news. I did speculate that perhaps with all the budget cuts and general "credit crunch" doom and gloom they would be announcing that in order to try and cheer up staff and raise morale they would be buying us an office kitten. Shockingly, this was not what the announcement was. In the minutes before the meeting, word got out that there was to be a merger. Nobody was quite sure whether to believe it, or what the details were. I then got blind-copied into an emailed press release from my head of PR. The release was going out to all trade press, announcing the merging of my company and a neighbouring region's.

There was lots of words like cost savings and efficiencies and stream linings, but the important thing to those of us in the office -- and presumably the other region's offices -- is that there are going to be job losses. We expect a lot of the job losses will be higher up -- there will be duplication of various positions, but nobody feels they are safe. We don't know when cuts will be, and we don't even know where this new amalgamated company will be based.

I feel particularly unsettled as my position was only "interim" to begin with. I've had the uncertainty that if the girl whose job I am doing wants to come back after maternity leave, then I would have to find my own way. Now it's impossible to know what will happen to me or to my job, cue random bouts of despair and almost sickening spells of anxiety and worry. I felt very fortunate to get this job, I felt so many times I had been passed over or fallen at the last hurdle when applying for jobs I could do so well -- this to me represented so much. Now I'm afraid it's all going to disappear again.

Up until now, I hadn't been directly or personally too affected by the now-official recession. Fuel costs have fallen by 25%; this meant I had more spare money. VAT was cut: again, more money for me. I was still getting paid the same. But of course it couldn't last forever. I was never unaffected, for months my older brother has been on the brink of bankruptcy -- to the point where my parents have given him all of their savings and more to keep him afloat. Finally he has had to give up ownership of his business, but luckily has escaped bankruptcy. So I was never completely unaffected -- just the same, when it's suddenly your own company, and you and your own colleagues looking at possible redundancy, you feel the impact.

I don't know why I thought I would get away unscathed. I've friends who have been made redundant two or three times in recent years, my own Mum has been made redundant at least twice -- although she usually manages to come back brighter. Which isn't bad for someone with a history of depression themselves.

Anyway. Without ending the post with thoughts of doom, gloom or the like I am pleased to report that having the girl's love and support makes a world of difference, and the next post should really be about valentine's day...

P.S. You haven't missed anything, this post doesn't have anything to do with Jupiter. I was just stuck for a title so I used a news headline.

Musical Monday #32

In 1994, I was 13 years old. What was on my mind at age 16, what was important in my life, what made me happy and what worried me -- all of this is largely forgotten to me now. I guess music was important to me, and girls. So what else is new.

In April of 1994, on the day Kurt Cobain died, I was walking to school with a friend, just like any other day. He told me Cobain was dead, and I didn't know who it was. I'm not cool enough to say that I was a huge fan and had a candle-lit vigil for him. My friend told me Cobain was "the guitarist" for a band called Nirvana. This meant nothing more to me than it had done a few moments before. Had I heard of them? Probably, yes. Had I heard anything by them? Unlikely.

I was 16 when I did.

My friend John and I had formed a band. Just the two of us. We could barely play, but we wanted a drummer. We recruited this obnoxious half-wit called Tim, who had a lot of power and strength but no natural flair or subtlety. What he did bring to the band was Nirvana. He liked them, we didn't know them. Over the summer, he lent John a couple of VHS recordings from MTV, of Nirvana Unplugged and Nirvana, Live and Loud. John also copied a Nirvana album from a cousin he had. A casette copy of a copy of a copy.

I take some music snobbery pride in knowing this album and the first material I ever heard by Nirvana was their debut album, Bleach. It sounded dark and dirty, grunge was the made-up genre used to describe their style, and the word seemed fitting. Detuned guitars and a sound like aural sludge. It was unlike anything I'd ever heard. Gone were the guitar solos of Aerosmith and Guns N' Roses, the theatrics and the pomposity.

We listened to it all, I'd watch Unplugged over breakfast, with my cornflakes.

Bleach was fucked up, Nevermind the difficult second album that the original fans felt was a sell-out, In Utero was my favourite at the time -- with better production than the debut, and less radio-friendly than the follow-up.

At that age, Cobain's untimely death at 27 seemed a world away. I could objectively acknowledge that he had "died young", but at the same time 27 was adult, grown up. He had a wife, and a child, and I won't give any oxygen to the claims of conspiracy and murder, because I don't much care.

Today I turned 28, having outlived Cobain, along with Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Brian Jones -- not mention various others. He doesn't seem so fully grown to me any more.

I have more or less grown out of listening to Nirvana, in time. The rage and angst of their music got a little old, although I still like to dig out their albums from time to time, and still roll my eyes at commercial stations playing the listener-friendly In Bloom, or Smells Like Teen Spirit, the latter being every bit the Pixies rip off that Nirvana said it was.

Heart Shaped Box

Damn lies and statistics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Action is his reward

I stopped taking my tablets. There usually comes a time about once a year that I decide to go it alone -- that whether or not I feel I need some sort of supplement or whatever, I usually come to some sort of a decision to break free.

This time I've been lucky. The tablets weren't a prescription medication so much as a herbal alternative, and the withdrawal has been much easier and less severe than previous times. I don't know how long these things take to completely leave your bloodstream, but in the past if I've forgotten them for a few days I'd notice a difference, so by now I should be clean.

The reasoning why I've stopped is a little harder to explain.

Since I started this job back in October, I've been on emergency tax, and so been paying out far too much to the Inland Revenue. As a result of this and things like Christmas I've had less money than I'd have liked. I've got a large-ish credit card debt to pay, since in December I had to pay for almost £700 worth of repairs to my car to get it roadworthy, and I'm saving money to get me to Australia this year. When I got paid this month, I must have already been £400 overdrawn on my account, so once I'd paid money for bills, rent, food into my joint account with the girl, I didn't have a whole let left. At first I thought what I did have would be plenty -- then I realised it still had to cover all my own personal expenses for things like mobile phone bills, car insurance, dental insurance...

Not wanting to be in debt again when I get paid next month, I've started to look into my options for earning some spare cash -- just to take care of the little extras. One quick way to earn a lump sum of money seems to be clinical drug trials. Does anybody remember the incident a couple of years back then the volunteers in a drug trial all suffered horrendous consequences and terrible pain? As a result of the media coverage from this nasty accident, volunteers for trials have actually increased -- because people have found out how much you can earn by doing them. I spoke to someone last week about a trial that would have paid about £1,500 for only three nights. This is above average, but just the same -- being a human guinea pig could clear my credit card debt, buy my ticket to Australia, and still leave me with some left over for my monthly expenses.

Unfortunately, I was discouraged from taking the day off to go for the screening, because I'd mentioned on the phone I was taking these tablets, and then admitted to a history of depression. They thought such details would probably preclude me from the trial. So I'm now talking to other companies doing similar trials, and lying through my teeth about my history -- and have stopped the tablets. To be fair, I was worried how exactly I was going to manage to take them every day when I was thousands of feet up a mountain in the Andes, this coming June, and I'm interested to see if my new exercise regime will take their place well enough.

As for the exercise, I've become one of those crazy people who go the gym before work. It's weird, one day I was laughing about the very idea of getting out of bed earlier for the gym, then I ended up with a personal training session booked for a morning, and I was hooked. It's so much quieter, and the endorphins really set me up for the rest of the day. I'm now going about three times a week in the mornings, going to group classes in the evenings on at least two of those days, and fitting in more visits in between.

It's amazing what some kind of goal like the Inca Trail does for my motivation -- just wanting to be fitter, happier, look better in t-shirt only gets me so far, but knowing that every little bit of fitness will help me to enjoy Peru even more really spurs me on. I'm lifting weights, going to 'balance' classes for my core, my balance and my coordination, going to cardio 'body combat' classes again for balance and core, along with that important cardio health, and making random visits to the gym to tackle their punchbag when I have really shitty days. I've even started having dreams where I retreat to the quiet gym and a punchbag when things get to me.

For those that don't know about or don't read my Peru blog (which has been recently updated, following a despicable lapse), my fundraising to date has reached £2,100 -- and with more money promised to me that I haven't collected on yet, and another money-making event planned for before I leave, things are looking good. I see no reason to rest though, and want to raise every last bit I can. I'm currently hitting up local purveyors of hiking equipment to see if they can offer me any support, and wondering if I should cast my net wider still.

Oh my goodness, oh my soul

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want to live my life not survive my existence

So here we are, 2009.

It's time to take stock of where I am and where I'm going, but hopefully not so much of the looking back over where I have been.

I start this new year living with an amazing and wonderful girl, in our very own (rented) house -- the first time I have lived away from home since I was a student. I've curbed my impulses to try and turn the house into a mini art gallery of my photography, with the philosophy that less is more and all that -- plus nobody wants to see you endlessly stroking your ego, in the living room.

The house has its good points and bad points, but most important is that it is our space, where we can shut the door and escape the world.

In 2008 I had a bunch of goals -- rather than resolutions, it's what all the cool kids are doing these days. I aimed to get a new job, to move out of home, to travel to Spain and learn to speak Spanish, and I think to learn to snowboard properly. I own my own board, and I can't even turn properly -- so I can carve up a storm downhill and look damn cool with it, but I am in trouble with corners, with bends. That one never happened. I tried to sell the board, and failed -- this happens every year.

I started the new year working in a book shop, and enjoying it -- I loved recommending books and authors to people, enjoyed literally running off up the stairs to find something, and lived for the occasions when someone would ask me for the poetry section. But the money was bad, there weren't enough hours, and it being only a seasonal job I hadn't learned how the novelty would wear off. Furthermore, there was nowhere to "go" with it.

When they called me one day and offered me a permanent job -- incidentally, the day of my aunt's funeral -- I turned them down. Mostly because the hours were bad. But part of me must have hoped for more. So I got that "new job" in fairly rapid order -- I went to see a recruiter, told her to find me a job, any job, went to an interview the following morning and started work right away. I was taken on for a 6 month contract, and was still working there 10 months later. I went four countless interviews for something better, and in the end didn't go any further than the other side of the office -- swapping a dull job in Purchasing for a more creative and interesting one in Marketing & PR.

I think we can safely say I beat that goal into submission.

I tried to learn Spanish, but motivation was lacking and I ended up with a Latin American Spanish course. I write this one off as a half, since I am able to order food and drink in Spanish, say "I speak/understand Spanish" very well, or a little, and the usual greetings and farewells. Needless to say I also went to Spain. The girl and I are regular customers here of the local tapas restaurant, and I long to take her to Spain.

And as mentioned at the start, I did move out of home. It took a new job, a tax rebate and a wonderful girl to help me do it -- but we did it together.

Where do we go from here? 2009 is a year of adventure. Anyone that's been here before or spoken to me for more than a couple of minutes should remember I am going to be hiking the Inca trail in Peru in June, raising money for Macmillan Cancer Support. A couple of years back, I talked to a friend about doing it and doing it for charity -- but they said why bother, just raise the money and go on your own steam. I am glad that I decided to do it for charity after all -- but that's probably because I'm an attention-seeker. I am being healthily sponsored by my company, and have in turn been generating the publicity for them. But the Inca Trail isn't a goal -- it's happening, even if I have to be carried on the back of a llama, stinking of piss. That's either the llama, or me.

But what is a goal is to get fit for it. Properly fit. The fitter I can be for it, the more fun it will be -- completing it just isn't enough for me. If I can look great in a t-shirt while I do it, even better. I've rejoined the gym, and as of time of writing I am still in pain from my personal training session yesterday. My next is Friday morning, and I fear I am going to become one of those crazy people who hits the gym before going to work in the morning.

Speaking the language would be helpful, so I may also have to get that Latin American Spanish course again -- although apparently if you speak Castilian Spanish they understand it just fine, but think you sound all posh like a news-reader.

There is also adventures to be had in Australia, since the girl returns home to apply for a new visa this year -- and I will be joining her out there for fun times, before the two of us return, shivering, to England. Again, something I already plan to do can hardly be a goal, can it? But saving the £700+ for the airfare should be. I also plan to try and wheedle my way into an upgrade, but we shall see how that works out.

I've only been in this job since October, so it's too soon to be considering getting another -- although I am only contracted until October of this year, so I might not have a choice in it.

A year without any incidences of self harm would be good, as I can't remember a year since I was in my mid-teens or younger that there hasn't been an incident or two, though in more recent years it has got a lot better -- to be able to start 2010 saying I didn't deliberately, physically hurt myself the previous year would be good, although a little sad. Perhaps a goal should be to treat myself better? No doubt having rigorous exercise regimes and goals like Peru will certainly help, not to mention the love and support of the people around me.

And in closing, ladies and jellyspoons, my goal in 09 is to be more creative. Last year saw me take up painting -- if only for the one picture. But to conceive of and create a dramatic picture on a canvas, and then to have it exhibited as part of an art show, was a real achievement -- but my creativity is seriously lacking this year. I haven't done open mike poetry in years, let alone written anything new, and that epic zombie apocalypse masterpiece isn't going to write itself. But generally, I need to be more... Actually, no -- that's it, I just need to be more.
I want to live my life, not survive my existence.

The flag, continued

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mix up with Mr Flag

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

....

....

But instead I received this one.


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

I've had a rough night and I hate the fucking Eagles

With somewhere like rome, it's hard to know where to begin -- so I will try and relate it in some kind of chronlogical order.

Our holiday began when we arrive at the airport, an hour before check-in was supposed to open. The holiday gods smiled benevolently on us, and we were able to check in right away and ditch our bags. My rucksack with all its loose straps and buckles had to go to oversized baggage, but we were unfazed. Security was no problem, even with my steel toe-capped boots, I just x-rayed them with everything else, and we were on our way.

By this time, we were starting to get hungry, so we found a restaurant and decided to treat it as our own private depature lounge -- taking up residence there, and staying for hours, making everything drag out as long as possible. While seated, the girl noticed it begin to snow outside -- but I managed to convince her that her suggestion of it might be dust and not snow was a good one, so as not to see her upset at missing it.

We boarded at a reasonable time, the flight took off without delay, and almost before you know it, the plane was landing again.

The other end was again without drama, through customs we went -- the girl having a much shorter queue for a change, coming from outside the EU -- and our bags turned up almost right away. We had booked a transfer from the airport to the B&B where we were staying, and had to watch out for a man holding a sign with my name on it. Except he was nowhere to be seen.

He eventually arrived about 8pm -- half an hour after we landed -- and I can't decide if he was just lazy, relaxed and roman about time, if he had expected us to be late and got caught out, or if he was deliberately late on purpose so that we would have to pay 50 euro instead of 40. Either way, he was friendly and helpful and we were on our way though the dark, Italian night.

As is so often the case with these drivers, his taste in music was pretty dodgy at times -- and we were reminded of The Big Lebowski when the driver started playing the Eagles. I wanted to ask him to change the channel, tell him I'd had a rough night and I hated the fucking Eagles. He probably wondered what we were laughing about in the back seat.

Traffic in Rome is probably just as you've heard -- road markings are less of an instruction and more of a gesture, but we arrived in one piece at the B&B and were shown to our room. All rooms were themed, and ours seemed to have a very far east feel to it -- especially with the Hindu wall hanging. I celebrated being in a new place by almost immediately breaking something -- I was a little over-zealous, picking up my rucksack from the floor, and attempting to swing it onto one shoulder, hit the full-length mirror hanging on the wall.

I didn't just crack it, though, I knocked the mirror crashing to the floor where it shattered into a thousand pieces of barious sizes. Luckily our transfer hadn't left yet -- we got the impression perhaps his other half owned the place, since he gave us a business card and said we could call any time -- and he was totally unfazed by it. He saw the funny side as he swept up the shards of glass, reassuing us not to worry and even saying it was "good". We never established if he literally meant it was a good thing I had broken the mirror, of if he just meant "it's all good" as in "don't worry, it's fine". To this day, I have never been asked to pay anything for it -- so consider myself very lucky indeed.

So, yadda yadda, accommodation was clean and comfortable, with breakfast included and in a not-too-dodgy part of town. An area that seemed to consist of Chinese clothes shops, that is clothes shops run by -- at a guess -- Chinese immigrants, which had barely any stock, and never any customers. The girl insists they were merely fronts for dodgy dealings. We had heard not to stay near the station from various sources, and when you got near the station you saw a world of difference to where we were staying. We were still a good 15 minute walk from the Colliseum, but it was worth it, plus there was a supermarket up the road we frequented with broken Italian phrases.

Next post: day one; the rain, the Roman forum
(sorry about infrequent updates, I can only udpate here if I visit my parents)

I've got a girl who makes me feel sea-sick

Yass, yass, I know. I suck. I promise more updates then don't deliver. Must try harder.

Anyway, I was thinking the other day. A year ago, I was 26, unemployed (or barely employed in the book store), single, and living at home with my parents.
I was seeing a therapist almost every week, who felt that I needed therapy so desperately that he was willing to see me pro-bono, rather than see me stop our sessions.

It's now a year later. I am 27, gainfully employed in a well paid corporate PR & marketing role, am with a beautiful girl and we are about to move in to a rented place of our own. I haven't had therapy since December, although it's open to debate if I need it.

I have raised several thousand pounds so far for Macmillan Cancer Support, to undertake the trip of a lifetime next year, hiking the Inca trail in Peru.

I was trying to work out one idle day a few weeks ago if I had cosmic ordered the girl into my life, back when that was the kind of thing I was into. I can't remember what I specified for my 'order', nor the timeframe, so I can't be sure -- but either way, I feel very fortunate.

I also considered if I had 'ordered' this good job -- but I think not. I remember the order for that was for a job to come up in June or July time and involve travelling to or living in another country. Just the same, I am pretty pleased with the job I have got. It's got prospects, lots of writing and creativity, and I'm the other side of the office to the colleague who used to annoy me.
Though I can still hear her, so it's not all good.

The girl and I have been talking for a while about finding a place together, but it has always been dependant on my work. I needed a new job before I could really afford to go anywhere, and we needed to know where the job would be before we started looking for places to rent.

I think we were both a little disappointed that we weren't going to get to move into London when I took this job, but Chelmsford has better transport links than where we are now, and much lower rent than London. After completing my tax return showed me that not only did I not owe the tax department any of my savings, but they actually owed me money, we felt there was no need to hesitate any longer in looking at places to live -- so we set to work, looking at them online.

A week ago I saw a couple I liked online and left messages for letting agents to take a look at them. A week later, I have viewed four properties (the girl didn't see the first one, but didn't need to, we didn't want somewhere completely unfurnished) -- and have dismissed two out of hand. Out of the two remaining there was a difference of £100 a month, and have decided to go ahead with the more expensive of the two -- just because it's bigger, closer to town and a nicer area. We've paid our administration fee and completed the reference forms -- now we wait to see if everything goes according to plan.

If everything goes well, we could start moving as soon as next weekend.

Swallow my pride, oh yeah

I don't start my new job until October 13, but I have already started writing press releases. Granted, these are press releases about the company's generous sponsorship towards my Peru trek -- so I have a vested interest -- but it's publicity all the same. It's lucky for them, really, they gave me the marketing job, otherwise I would still want to be writing my own press releases and confusing the hell out of everyone.

It's been a little frustrating, since the releases were mostly written over a week ago. The MD asked me to run them by the marketing manager for the company before anything got sent out, so I copied them both in -- along with my soon-to-be-boss, with a note to the MD to say that his quotes could be changed at his discretion. A couple of days later, the marketing manager called me -- we chatted about the releases and he suggested a couple of small style changes (the company should be referred to as a singular and not a plural, that kind of thing) but generally had no changes to make to the content. On Monday the MD stopped by my desk to give me his feedback, which again was just changing one or two words, and that was it.

Then he mentioned that the marketing manager was unexpectedly taking some time off for undisclosed personal reasons, and in the meantime to run all this sort of thing past someone else again. Fine, not a problem, I dutifully make the MD's changes and send them out again -- this time to the head of PR and marketing for the company.

At first I get a short email asking me to re-send the releases on the company template for press releases. This is the first I have heard of any such templates, in fact I am fairly sure I was told before that releases were just sent in the text of an email. I replied, explaining my position -- not yet in the new job, but already doing the work, but don't have access to things like templates. They were sent on to me without complaint, but the head of PR also took a look over the releases.

Either she is more fussy, or just paid more attention, since she almost completely rewrote the opening two paragraphs.

I wasn't overly taken with all the changes -- from training as a journalist I insist that the intro (the first paragraph) should be very short, like 10 words short and while giving a very brief snapshot of the story, as light on detail as it can be. I am in absolutely no position to argue or to complain. I was grateful to her for making it seem more exciting in a way, and have quietly tried to compromise on the opening paragraphs by cutting a few words and details out. Having resubmitted the releases to her today, changed and on the template, all she did was change the size of the title. So I guess I got there eventually.

Now, finally, I think they are good to go. The MD has approved his quotes, the head of marketing and PR has changed the title and sexed the opening paragraphs up a bit, so with the final nod I will distribute the two versions -- trade press and local media -- via email and a few clicks of the mouse. I'm torn whether to send them right away, or to wait until next week if I am going to be out of the office from Thursday to Monday, using up accrued holiday.

This is the sort of exciting life I lead.

Otherwise, things are pretty quiet -- the Peru sponsorship hasn't made any great leaps forward, but I am planning a fundraising quiz night locally, which should hopefully bring in a few quid towards the final total.

Important work news

OK. I promised the update about work. We saw how I interviewed for a bunch of positions, and naturally I was getting to the point where I was going to have to have a re-think. I was vaguely planning a mass mailing campaign, contacting all the PR agencies I had interviewed with in the past and liked, and also starting to target publishers as well as more specialised magazines.

It didn't come to that. My last hope was a job where I was already working -- not to do the crappy "purchasing" job I have been in since January, but a sideways move into a more marketing focused position. One random day, wheels were set into motion when a girl who was working in the marketing department told me and my colleagues she was pregnant. I remember the day very well, since I didn't know what to say to her -- instead I just told her "well done" which clearly isn't the right sentiment. "Congratulations" was what I meant, but one doesn't exactly mean the other. I also remember texting some friends about it, and mentioning to them how my first thought was "maybe I can have your job?".

Weeks turned into months, I kept half an eye on the company intranet for job postings, but kept looking for jobs in London. Then one day as expected the marketing job appeared, naturally I applied for it -- and mostly forgot about it from there. It seemed like forever before my application was acknowledged, and then only to say they would contact me about an interview soon. The girl said at the time the email was a good sign, they wanted to keep me keen while they were still sorting things out. Though I resorted to contacting HR a while later after no further indication of interviews had been had, the interview did indeed come.

I didn't tell my bosses the day I had the interview. I figured unless I needed time off, I didn't tell them about other interviews, and it just wasn't their business. The interview itself was pretty informal, but went on for over an hour -- I left feeling exhausted, but hopeful. I felt very well qualified for the position, and was encouraged by a lack of other candidates -- in fact, part way through the interview I had to try and stop myself from smiling too much, when I got the feeling that the job was mine.

I've learned not to trust that feeling, since I've had it in interviews at least twice before. A week passed after the interview and I began to lose hope, I told a friend on Thursday morning that I wasn't feeling optimistic, sure that I would have heard sooner if there was good news. That same afternoon I did get the news. The contact from HR stopped by my desk and asked if he could "borrow" me, which meant only one thing. I was taken to a conference room, where between them the HR guy and the marketing guy told me they were giving me the job.

It's a year's contract, starting in October -- it seems that despite them needing someone right away, and despite me not even being on a contract any more and only needing to give my temp agency a week's notice, somehow the "powers that be" wrangled that I should start the second week in October, so they can find someone to replace me. My job is by no means difficult, but it is going to take considerably longer than a couple of weeks to train someone how to do the various aspects of it.

Pretty much, it's all good news. The wages aren't spectacular, but very good for the location and the level of the job, the job is much more suited to what I enjoy and what I am good at, and with a little bit of work, the girl and I can now move into a rented place of our own.

It's not ideal for the girl, who still has to commute to London, but being the lovely, supportive girl she is she sees all the improvements it brings -- like better transport links, cheaper rent than London, a reasonable commuting time and a place where we can be together. Plus, in a year's time when the contract is either up for renewal or expiring, maybe then we can make it into London.

We celebrated the job on Friday night with steak and chicken fajitas and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne, that I was given when I left my first freelance job and had been saving for when I got a real job. Part of me thinks I am well overdue this -- I still think I should have been given the job after my PR internship, and still wish I had got the job in Brighton. But I was asked in my interview about mistakes I might have made in the past, and feeling philosophical I said sometimes with a bit of distance you can see how making a mistake lead to something important -- maybe you learn something, or maybe you find something out, or maybe it just leads you somewhere better. That's how I like to think of the jobs that never were -- not mistakes, but leading me somewhere...important.

I'm trading in my steel-toecapped boots that are required footwear in the bus depot itself which is part of the office where I work, in favour of a smart pair of Tom Wolfe shoes. I work in marketing & PR again now, and I intend to look the part.

Making a promise

Ack! It's been over a month since my last post. I'm a bad, bad blogger -- but as of today, I promise to do better. If the girl can commit to posting every other day (or every few days) then so can I, dammit. Even if I don't have internet access in work, it just means I'll have to draft posts out in notepad.

I don't know where I left off with my last post or with regular scheduled programming, but I will try and pick things up and move on as best as I can.

I've been going to Reading Festival nearly every year since I was about 17, so for the last 10 years. I don't go religiously, there have been years I've missed -- like the summer I returned from Utah, and the year when I had to finish my dissertation. I think The Pixies headlined that year, so I remain unconvinced I made the wise decision. Anyway. I didn't go this year. I went in 2005, 2006, 2007 (I don't know about '04) but this year, the lineup just wasn't doing a lot for me. There were a few bands I'd watch, but nobody that made me go weak at the knees for. So I resolved to sell my ticket. I thought at the time the money I made from the ticket I put towards a holiday, maybe a week's surfing down in Newquay or the like. Then somewhere along the line, I changed my mind.

Instead, I decided I was going to go to Peru. Not this summer, of course, but next year -- and I would scale the Peruvian peaks in aid of a cancer charity. My first idea was to do it for cancer research, but they didn't seem to have a trip organised specifically -- however, Macmillan Cancer Support did. It wasn't like Macmillan were my second choice, part of the motivation behind the trip is in memory of my aunt who died of cancer late last year -- and the Macmillan nurses were like saints to her. It seemed fitting. So instead of a new television or something shiny, or a week surfing and drinking, I paid £300 registration to trek the Inca Trail next March.

I have already made my "old" blog my dedicated Peru scribblings, it's as much a writing exercise as anything else -- the tone of the writing is intended to be less casual than this one, and more informative. We shall see how it works out. It's also to keep me motivated, and for anyone who wants to follow my progress. The progress itself I would describe right now as "steady". Fundraising is underway, although it seems to be languishing somewhat at under £300 -- when I have to raise £3,300 minimum. I feel a little bit lazy as I haven't really done anything in the way of fundraising so far, other than set up a JustGiving page online. I've emailed all my address book (which got a total of one response, from someone asking how they knew me, as they couldn't remember), I've set up a Facebook group and I've had a few donations. The only reason I'm not freaking out is I know that I have technically already raised at least half of my target, even if the money hasn't been officially donated yet. I asked the MD at work for money, he agreed, and in one fell swoop almost half the target has been promised to me. I feel a tiny bit guilty that I'm selling out or cheating, but if Macmillan get the money, does it matter where it came from? It all feels a bit like Major Barbara, the play by George Bernard Shaw where about weapons manufacturer who donates money to the Salvation Army, of which his daughter is the Major of the title.

I don't want to talk too much about the Peru stuff since that's what the Peru blog is for, but here at least I can write about all the non-official stuff. I got a reassessment at the gym, and have had a training program designed for me specifically for the Inca Trail. As the girl rightly pointed out to me early on, the fitter I can be when I do it, the more I will enjoy it -- and it is very important to me that I should enjoy it. My bodyfat has reassuringly decreased slightly since the last time it was measured, which is mostly due to drinking less alcohol during the week, trying to drink "zero" soft drinks if I have to at all, and eating less chocolate and sugary snacks. But now I am all motivated and stuff by this tangible goal -- not just "I want a flatter stomach" or "I want to look good in a t-shirt" or even the usual things of having more muscle, less fat and lower blood pressure. Now I can focus all on Peru. So I have a cardio-intensive program with lots of stepping and walking and climbing and that's good. It feels like progress.

I've been going for interviews for jobs, like, a lot. To the point where I had almost one every week. Some were good, some where horrible. Most were good but just didn't lead anywhere. I got my hopes up for an IT/marketing job in Shoreditch, but it didn't happen, then I had some interviews for a financial services PR job way the hell out in Richmond -- and that seemed promising, too. I got on well with the MD who interviewed me, started reading the Financial Times and money magazines, and thought it could go my way. Unfortunately, it didn't -- another candidate had more direct experience, so I was out of luck. My year of freelancing and no proper job also didn't help me, and I think not working in PR since was hardly a bonus for me. On the plus side, though, I did get some very useful feedback and a lot of reassurance about the strength of my writing skills -- as well as the suggestion that I should focus far more on these. I've registered on Elance, not expecting to make any sort of real money out of it, but hoping to have more commissioned work to include in my portfolio.

The most important progress was made in being offered a job. The rest of that, I guess, deserves its own post...

Anyway, I promise to try and update at least a couple of times a week now. I need to rediscover my blogging mojo, and it seems a shame to waste my writing on work emails.

Been so long since I been around

While visiting friends in the Midlands, I was struck with the idea of visiting Derby -- taking the girl to see where I had once lived and gone to university.
I don't remember now how long it's been since I last visited that old city, but seeing it again was a strange mix of the new and the familiar.

We headed directly into the centre of the city -- early on a busy Sunday afternoon -- where the plan was to ditch the car and then set out on foot to find some old pubs I used to visit and a place for lunch.

Parking the car was made slightly more complicated than it needed to be by the advent of a big new shopping centre, the first thing that was different. I had the feeling it had always been there in some form or another, but had just been expanded/extended/built upon, but either way it really threw out my already hazy sense of direction -- never having driven in Derby before. By chance we found our way into the shopping centre's car park, beached the car, and found our way out into the city itself.

A little disorientated in the city, I lead the girl through the pedestrainised areas, pointing out places I remembered ("Down there is an Irish bar Tom and I used to drink in, when our favourite bar caught fire and was closed for ages!") and using the city's cathedral as a landmark, I lead the way towards a pub called the Bless. I only sort of knew the way -- I took us down the road I thought it was on, and it wasn't there.

Unsure how to find it, we kept walking while I searched Google on my mobile phone. The first result gave me the road name of the pub, and by luck alone we spotted the right road when we got to the bottom of the street.

The Bless is completely inseperable from my experiences of Derby. I first went there with my poetry friends in my first year, later becoming a regular customer of their pub quiz.

I remember sitting in the beer garden at night, I remember going there with Matt and Rie -- and Rie always wandering off to talk to strangers, bringing them back to the table and getting Matt to confirm to them that yes she really was married to him, she just didn't wear her ring.

I could point to the table where Matt and I were sitting so many nights, talking and drinking. Nights when we stayed out late and I drank only coke, or the night when like so many others we sat drinking -- but I was unaware that I should have been home to say goodbye to my grandmother.

Much of the high street looked deserted, the new shopping centre either providing shiny new homes for the places, or just putting them out of business
We walked down the cobbled side street where I showed the girl the old indie club where I spent so many schoolnights drinking double-vodkas, the piercing and tattoo shop where I had both my left ear and right eyebrow pierced, on seperate occasions.

Friargate I think is my favourite street in Derby -- an old winding, treelined street, with its big stone railway bridge (now disused) and the old Friary -- which like so many other buildings in these places has been converted into a pub.
When it was ever a friary I couldn't tell you, although it is reportedly haunted -- but with Derby being the most haunted city in Britain, most places are likely to be. It's a typical student pub -- it doesn't have a whole lot of character of its own, although I recounted the days when my flatmate Chris and I would go there on a Sunday lunchtime for their special offer on a 4-pint jug of beer and two roast dinners.

After the girl and I ate, we made our way back to the shopping centre to pick up the car so that I could make some more stops on my city nostalgia tour -- places where I once lived.

First stop, my first year halls of residence. In themselves, nothing much to look at -- but I was fortunate that from the road you could see what was once my bedroom window, and driving round the back of the building, could point to what was once my kitchen. I expect now, almost 10 years on from when I moved in there, that its been repainted so many times you can't see where I spent so many hours sticking glow in the dark stars to the ceiling and walls of my bedroom.

We barely slowed down, let alone stopped the car, before we moved on to the next place on the tour -- the house where I lived in my third and final year, with Matt, Rie and a cat named Dubya. The street was lined with terraced houses, a narrow road parked up with cars so again we hardly even slowed down -- and I didn't recognise the front door of the house as being where I lived. Either they've changed the door, or I got the house number wrong. But the chip shop at the top of the road was still there.

Sometimes I still long for Derby, for the houses and the rain (always the rain, it comes off the hills, see) and the memories -- but I guess everyone yearns for the place where they spent their student years.

Musical Monday #31

I'm not sure if this really is #31, if it is then this idea has been neglected for far too long -- and it's about time I brought it back.

The Waifs were originally formed in the early 90s by a couple of folk-loving sisters who made simple, straight forward music -- but it was several years later that they formed a band with a third member.

Obviously, it was The Girl who introduced me to the Waifs (both being from Albany), she was just playing music one night and I immediately took a liking to the band's sound and the stories involved in the songs.

I can't offer anything like a biography of the band without simply copying it from their official site or the wiki article, and I'm only familiar with two of their albums. I'm not even a huge fan, sometimes their music can feel a little too "country" for my liking, or just too much like Norah Jones' particular brand of inoffensive, coffee-table music. But I can write a little about my favourite songs, and my appreciation for their folk/blues roots, too.

Many of the songs have more than a twinge of sadness to them, probably their biggest song is London, Still -- which I expect is a kind of theme song to large communities of people in Earl's Court, Hammersmith and Shepherd's Bush. A kind of commentary of an Australian in London missing their family and their "sleepy Sunday town", when played live it's been known to bring a tear to the eye.

Perhaps the most obvious autobiographical of their songs is Fisherman's Daughter -- about being a "regular West Australian fisherman’s daughter...a middle class folk singing guitar playin’ girl" -- the song's feeling itself reflects the simplicity of the singers; in a slow, blues style.

A less direct autobiographical theme comes in the song Bridal Train, a song about war brides who in the second world war married sailors in the US Navy and whose passage from Australia to the USA was arranged by the USA so they could be with their husbands. It's more than just history, though, since it directly tells the story of the girls' grandmother who with many others took the "bridal train" from Perth to Sydney.

One of my favourite songs is Lighthouse, but I can only make guesses towards its subject. It's quite an upbeat and um-tempo I like to think that it's a song about depression, that the "cold headland" it refers to is an emotional rather than literal one. I'm not sure who or what the "lighthouse" is (I prefer not to consider the perhaps obvious religious interpretation), instead concentrating on the idea that we have to find our own ways back to shore.

Some of their more recent work on the album my blog now shares a name seems less directly biographical and sometimes more bluesy than folk -- Sun Dirt Water can be watched and appreciated for itself in the previous post without my comments, and maybe it's best if I let the rest of their music speak for itself after this.
Strings of Steel
Lighthouse
Pony

A prelude to Musical Monday

The Waifs' SunDirtWater, the inspirational title track for this new...phase of my blog, and one of my new favourite bands.