The Inca Trail: Day 4 Wayllabamba -- Pacamayo

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Inca Trail: Day 3 KM 82 - Wayllabamba

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Inca Trail: Day 2 -- Sacsayhuamán

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Inca Trail: Day 1 -- Cusco

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

Day 1 -- Cusco

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peru

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

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

This is it.

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

If it were any colder I could disengage

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

extract from 'Survivor', by Chuck Palahniuk

The cat is gone. I miss him.

One foot in front of the other is an acceptable plan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Capturing a moment

I'm a fraud, and a liar, and a phoney.

In my sidebar "about me", it claims I'm an artist. I've decided recently that I should face that this really isn't true. When is the last time I actually created anything? It's been almost a year since I painted anything -- my one and only picture, and I've been feeling disillusioned with photography.

I describe myself as a photographer, and I even tried to sell my pictures on canvas, but that idea never really got off the ground -- simply because my work was no more remarkable or special or interesting than anyone else's -- and it was less so than a lot of others.

I have mixed feelings about digital photography. I like the ability to instantly see the image, and it's hardly like I'm some kind of analogue purist, since I don't even know how to change a film, but it sometimes feels like with digital cameras everyone fancies themselves as an artist. I feel frustrated that everywhere we can go has already been seen, and now extensively photographed and uploaded to Flickr within hours.

What I used to feel distinguished my work was what I did with pictures -- I like to climb into places or seek out unusual angles, and then digitally manipulate images. Now everything just looks so immediately and unmistakeably Photoshop.

The tag line here attempts to pin down why I blog -- to avoid being that tree falling in a forest -- but sometimes it feels like reality is only what we can record. If you go to a concert, people are clambering over each other to get video and pictures, I know I've been so absorbed sometimes trying to get just the right looking picture that I've realised I was missing the whole reason I was there -- for the music. If a singer comes off the stage to meet the crowd, they must find it difficult to see the people for the forest of cameraphones. Is something only real if you can record it?

I was struck after the G20 protests when you saw photos or images of scenes like the alleged police brutality or the rioters storming the RBS building that in the background there are great swathes of people with their cameras.

Maybe I'm just jealous, and feel like I'm not good enough. I feel like I've stagnated and I can't reasonably call myself an artist any more, even though many would argue I had no right to call myself one to begin with.

I want to upgrade digital cameras, I want to learn to process and develop films and I want to feel like I'm creating again. I hate feeling average and I don't know how to find my way back.

The cat came back, he just couldn't stay away

Every time I want to write an update about the cat, the situation changes. I don't even want to necessarily update, but it's a rainy Bank Holiday Monday and I like to think several readers would want to know how he's doing.

At the end of my last post, the vet had called and the news wasn't good. The blood test results were clean, which suggested there was a more sinister problem -- but when I called my neighbour to give her a version of the news, she said the cat was doing a whole heap better and I thought maybe after all it was just his arthritis.

Unfortunately, that was wishful thinking. The cat went off his food again quickly, so I made another appointment a few days later and told my boss I'd be late into work.

This visit was much sadder for me. It sounds pathetic, but I chokingly told the receptionist his name when we arrived, then sat quietly sobbing in the waiting room, while the other pet owners awkwardly shuffled their feet, looked at each other, and talked very quietly, trying to pretend I wasn't there.

I continued to cry like a little girl with a skinned knee when the vet called us in, and I tried to tell her how just maybe the problem was with the cat's teeth. She took him away and weighed him, and confirmed on her return he was still losing weight -- and I think perhaps to humour me, agreed to book the cat in for a dental. The danger was, she told me, that he was an old cat and there is always a risk with general anaesthetic. I hesitated, but she laid it out plainly -- we could risk the operation, or the cat could starve to death. Hardly a choice.

The vet did have an idea for the meantime, and she fetched some special prescription cat food. The food was high calorie, high protein and especially palatable. She opened the tin for him, and let him lick some food from her fingers -- he seemed keen, so she gave me three tins on top of the opened one.

The cat was only required to eat one tin of food a day, and all seemed fine for a couple of days. I agreed with the vet to postpone the dental until we'd fattened up the cat a bit more, and we we went away for the weekend. A phone call to my neighbour on Sunday confirmed he was still behaving and eating reasonably well.

The girl and I decided to come to my parents house to keep an eye on the cat until they got back from holiday later in the week, and it was only a day or two before he was back to refusing food again.

I called the vet again on Thursday when my parents returned (shocked to see such an old and thin looking cat in the place of the one they'd left, two weeks before) and even though they were clearly busy, when the receptionist talked to the vet, they were able to fit in the cat the next day for his dental.

The girl and I separately spent the whole day wondering and worrying about the cat. I counted down the hours until 4.30 when I could call my Dad and find out what the outcome was. The good news came that the cat had behaved well, and was awake following the procedure. The bad news he told me was that they found nothing wrong with the cat's teeth, instead they were in remarkably good condition.

I was practically crushed. If the blood tests revealed nothing and a dental exam revealed nothing, then it must really be something like a tumour. What I hadn't been told on the phone -- annoyingly -- was the vet had decided the cat's gums were inflamed, especially on one side were he was particularly shy and they had given him antibiotics. That night the cat polished off a whole tin of his special prescription food. Unrealistically, I got my hopes up.

Saturday and Sunday followed with the cat showing no interest in any food, and my hopes faded that he was still full from eating a whole tin on Friday night. On Sunday my parents began force-feeding the cat his antibiotic tablets he was refusing to take voluntarily, and now it's Monday and he seems like perhaps, just maybe, he might be a little brighter and a little more inclined to eat.

Tomorrow once again he returns to the vet, where they will ask for a long-lasting antibiotic injection for the cat in place of the tablets, and a steroid shot to boost his appetite.

It's an update, it's where we are up to, but I don't know where we go from here. It's been so up and down emotionally last week and this weekend that I can't even speculate. We just have to remember he's the best cat in the world, the cat who once ate an entire wood pigeon (leaving only one foot) and we aren't letting him go anywhere yet.

What are you, some sort of catist?

I can't remember the last time -- if ever -- I spent any real time in a vet's surgery.

It sounds strange, considering we always had pets growing up, but I guess it was always my parents responisbility to take the cat to the vet and to bear the cost of it. Maybe I subconsiously developed a fear of it, since that's the place where animals can go and not return -- you don't hear of people going to the doctor and not returning.

These days, the cat lives with my parents. I uphold he is still my cat, and when I can offer him somewhere to live that is equal to what they have (a big garden, backing onto woods and fields and a farm), then I intend to take him to live with me. I sometimes threaten to do it anyway now, simply because I miss having a cat.

My parents went on holiday last week, and as usual left instructions with my neighbour for feeding him. I thought everything was normal. When the girl and I turned up at the weekend to visit the cat, my neighbour came out to see us to tell me that the cat still wasn't eating, that he also seemed arthritic, and did I want her to take him to the vet. I told her I was sure he'd be fine, but I'd keep an eye on him and take him myself if necessary.

I told the girl I was willing to bet the neighbour hadn't been giving the cat his arthritis medicine, since when he doesn't take it he goes off his food and is noticeably arthritic. Sure enough, she hadn't. But it seems the issue is perhaps more serious. Mum's written instructions for the neighbour next door included my mobile number for if she was worried about the cat, and his vet's details. Clearly, he wasn't well before they went on holiday. I also got text messages on Sunday asking if I had seen the cat, and how he was. I reported that he wasn't eating, that he hadn't been taking his medicine, but that he seemed happy enough. I was told not to worry about his medicine if he seemed happy.

Just the same, I gave him more medicine on Sunday, and called the vet on Monday morning to make an appointment. I got one for that evening.

It was easy to catch the cat and put him in his carrying basket (which looks almost like a picnic hamper, it's a big wicker thing) and on my way out my neighbour again appeared, asking questions how he was and asking me to let her know. She was waiting for me when I returned from the vet over an hour later.

The vet's surgery is a sad place if you ask me, sadder than a doctor's waiting room. Somehow, the thought of all these animals sad and unwell was more upsetting to me than the doctor's has ever been, and even though he's deaf, I'd whisper words of comfort to the cat whenever he started to yowl. It was interesting to hear how different cats had different voices. Because I was sat next to the animal scales in the waiting room, I put the cat on them (carrier and all). It came to about 5kg. It struck me then how small is. One of the first things the vet did was take him away to be weighed -- when she came back she told me he had lost more weight. "More weight" because Dad took the cat to the vet perhaps a month or more ago because I was concerned he was getting too skinny, when we used to tease him for being a fat cat and having to squeeze through the cat flap. At the time, the vet said he seemed OK and to just try to encourage him to eat more.

This hasn't happened, and the vet was concerned about his weight lose -- she said he was now losing muscle, with no fat left. Something clearly isn't right. She felt him carefully and thoroughly and announced she couldn't feel anything abnormal, like tumours, but also said that some don't form in such a way that you are able to feel them. And she wished that a test existed to determine whether one is present in a form you can't tell, even if you can't know where it is.

She took the cat away for a long time for blood tests. She apologised on returning that she'd taken so long because she couldn't find a vein, but that the cat had been very good and very patient. I hugged him gently and stroked his back as he stood on the examination table, and the vet explained she'd taken enough blood to send for external tests if the initial ones didn't yield any results. It could be a thyroid problem, she said, in which case she'd be looking for raised levels in the liver. But she said if the tests didn't show anything she wouldn't advise at his age what sounded like exploratory surgery.

The cat is nearly 20 years old, I remember I was still in primary school and he was a "birthday present" -- and came to live with us on May Day, the first May bank holiday. Making it perhaps almost exactly 19 years ago. I have to face that he is an old cat now, that he has had a long and happy life, and that he can not be expected to last forever. My parents frequently say what a healthy cat he has been, how he has cost us the least of any animal "to run". Frequently he'd come back from check ups at the vet, and we'd say how he was the healthiest cat in the whole world.

I have to face this might not be true any more.

I've spent all day waiting for the vet to call and tell me about the blood test results. I gave up waiting about 4pm and called the surgery. I was told they did have the results, but just like with going to see the doctor, they wouldn't tell me what they were. Instead I have to wait until after 6.30 for the vet to finish examinations, at which time she will call me.

She might call and say good news, the cat just needs some antibiotics, bring him in and I'll give him a shot. Then he'll live for another 10 years, still as happy as ever. Or she might say it's his thyroid, here's a special diet. Or she might not know, and I'll mention how maybe it's his mouth, I could be looking too much into things too much but he seemed to be having trouble when he was eating. Or maybe he'll just need to be taking his arthritis medicine regularly, and I'll give the neighbour instructions... Or she might say "I'm sorry."

I had a physiotherapist appointment this morning before work, and since I had an errand to run out of the office first thing, decided I'd go to it from my parents house -- that way I could bug the cat for a while, wake him up, see how he was feeling, try and get him to eat something. The neighbour told me yesterday he'd just been spending all day sleeping. Although he was sleeping today, I woke him up and bugged him and carried him around and said nice things to him, so by the time I had to leave again I got the impression he didn't want me to go any more. But obviously work has to come first. So I just told him what a good cat he is, how we all love him and he's my best friend, and how the girl and I will visit him again on Thursday night.

Now I just have to wait for the vet to call. And try and stop myself imagining every possible scenario for what she might say.

In case this is all too depressing, I leave you with this: catface. I probably should have tried to pay the vet bill with half a moth as well...

Update: The vet called about 8.30, and said all tests came back normal -- which in this instance wasn't good news, she said, as it made it more likely the cat had a tumour. She said we could do more tests, there are always more tests that can be done, but she wasn't sure it would be in the cat's best interests. Instead the cat could be treated symptomatically, giving him steroids and vitamins. I called my neighbour, eventually, to tell her an amended version of the results, but was surprised when she told me how much better the cat was doing today -- that he'd been eating more, and more sociable.

It could still be his arthritis. This doesn't to my mind explain his worrying weight loss -- he has been losing weight for some time, and while recently he wasn't eating I don't know if it was long enough to be what is responsible. For now I guess we have to monitor his weight a little more closely and make sure he always gets his medicine.....and take it from there.

Croc-wrestling wife-lob dancefloor kingpin's plea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be kind to your knees, you'll miss them when they're gone

In an effort to get some training in for Peru, I joined two fellow trekkers for a walk in the Chilterns, an area of "outstanding natural beauty". It was rated as seven out of 10 in difficulty, about 20km and 5 hours of walking. No problem, I thought.

First the good news: I was not noticeably less fit than either of my counterparts. In parts after steep uphill climbs where I'd be feeling a little warm and out of breath, they seemed to mirror my own reactions -- and most importantly, it didn't take me long to recover. Heart and lungs seem to be in excellent working order.

Continuing the good news theme, my hiking boots are incredibly comfortable and there was not even a hint of a blister or rubbing all day. An excellent buy there, and I think we can safely say they are broken in.

The bad news is I am in incredible pain. Somewhere along the way the steep downhill descents must have proved too much for my knees -- and if you hadn't guessed by the fact I am updating in the middle of the day, I am home from work sick today as I can barely stand up. Completing the walk yesterday was very difficult and painful as my knee became stiffer and more unyielding. The doctor has told me today I have strained the ligaments, and I need to rest it. I can also put an ice pack on it twice a day and take anti-inflammatory drugs three times a day. It's a good job I have a stash of the latter in the cupboard.

My research on the internet tells me this kind of thing is quite common, and unsurprisingly associated with steep downhill descents. I was probably going too quickly. For Peru, if not before, I will need walking poles and a knee support -- and I think a small supply of medication in my luggage.

It's frustrating, I want to be out walking and training in the gym, and right now I can't do either. But I'll crawl the Inca trail on my hands and knees if I have to.

Luckily, Jay...

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

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

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

Carol Brown just took a bus out of town -- but I'm hoping that you'll stick around

Since we heard about the imminent merger, things haven't been the same in work. It's the constant topic of conversation -- who will keep their jobs, where will the new company be based, how rubbish the company is that is being merged with ours, how the new MD isn't like the old one, and on and on and on.

I go from hopeless despair to reassuring myself that a decision such as this would have enormous marketing and PR applications, which the one employee in the other company would surely be unable to handle on their own -- meaning there would surely be a need for me, and my mad media skillz.

But the truth is you really can't tell. At first I was wondering if it was my punishment for leaving the purchasing department -- since purchasing was responsible for three counties instead of just ours it wasn't going to be affected. Then this week they were all told of the cost cutting measures and streamlining initiatives for efficiency that would be affecting them. More departments being merged into larger bodies, meaning job losses for them, too. My own risk of redundancy is a scary one, since I wouldn't get a redundancy payout -- having only started the job six months ago, they need only give me a month's notice.

The latter revelation has the girl really worried. I think it's shown how unstable everything is for me -- which makes our whole home situation very precarious. Her thinking goes along the lines of if I lose my job, we won't be able to pay the rent, and if we can't pay the rent then we'll have to end our tenancy agreement in May when it's up for renewal. From there, with no place to call our own anymore, the girl would have to find a share house in London and I'd end up back with my parents again. So, back to square one -- or really, worse than square one.

The girl's worries aren't helped by a heap of other things playing on her mind -- long work hours, being tired of commuting from Essex to London, and missing Australia. Living together has been a new experience for us both, and you can't help but wonder if she might sometimes imagine the grass to be greener on the other side of the fence -- having nobody to answer to, and not having your own living situation risked by someone else. The girl sometimes seems disillusioned with life in England, and I occasionally worry that it's partly because of me -- living in Essex means she misses out on the London life and seeing her London friends. She is working on it though -- trying to get out more, make plans to see friends more and socialise more with work colleagues when she gets the chance. She is also making interesting plans for when I'm gallavanting up Andean mountains.

Last Autumn, the economic downturn didn't much concern me. For the first time in my life I felt I had got a "real" job on a contract, the girl and I got ourselves a house to rent, and if anything VAT cuts and falling fuel prices were welcome. It didn't take the universe long to rob me of my smugness. Christmas was almost cancelled when it looked like my brother was going to have to declare bankruptcy and fold his business, threatening to leave him and his family homeless. Everyone was feeling the pinch, and were putting off paying their bills until the New Year -- but this meant he wasn't getting what he was owed, and relied on. Luckily, a client who owed him a large sum of money did pay up in time. But it showed me how close to home these things can get.

It's only a few months on, and though he didn't have to go bankrupt, my brother had to sell his business to his wife's uncle -- which saved any job losses for him and his own employees. My sister in law is now being made redundant, putting them again on the edge.

The recession is biting in other areas, too. While the girl is assured she is safe in her job, that her company won't be making any redundancies at her level at least, the British government have decided to tighten up on immigration. Gone is the option of a Skilled Migrant visa for the girl, since they now require a Master's Degree, and there is rumours on the wind that sponsored work visas are being refused, also. We're hoping that the girl's position there is a more secure one -- she will have been working for the company for a year already, and they have a team of lawyers for this kind of thing, so it isn't like she is coming fresh to these shores and hoping for a sponsored work visa.

The worst case scenario for the latter is the girl returns to Perth, and I apply for a working holiday visa down under. We'd be eligible to apply for spousal visas if we lived together for another year, then we wouldn't need to worry about governments tearing us apart.

We hope for now I don't get made redundant, or get offered a job elsewhere in the country -- the purchasing team were offered alternate positions in Glasgow and Oldham, if they were also willing to take a paycut of a third with the positions. And if I can manage to not only keep my job, but keep it where we are living, then we just have to cross our fingers that the men in Whitehall (or whoever decides these things) don't clamp down too much on work visas for cute Aussie girls.

And just to lighten the tone, today's title comes from this song:

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.