Even though the thought of you no longer makes my heart do somersaults,
Even though I can finally smell cK Be without feeling like you're in the room with me,
Even though at last I can listen to "Milkshake" without getting a lump in my throat,
Even though I no longer feel guilt when I hook up with someone else,
Even though the idea of you with your new boyfriend doesn't make me feel sick,
Even though I have stopped waking up in the middle of the night feeling crippled with guilt over what I did to you,
Even though we're separated by over 3,000 miles of land and sea,
Even though we broke up almost two years ago,
I still love you.
And I would be with you,
If you asked me to be,
In a heartbeat.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Tom Ford has been annoying me a bit.
For example, there was no real reason for him to appear on the cover of Vanity Fair with Keira Knightley and Scarlett Johansen (although it's claimed that Annie Leibowitz told him to jump in because Rachel McAdams wouldn't get her kit off).
He really didn't need to pose with identical male triplets for W magazine.
It was also really unnecessary for him to tell everyone that the cheese fondue I made the other night was, like, totally bland.
This evening, over dinner, I told my friend my theory, which is that Tom, for all his genius, seems to be displaying all the signs of possessing an over-sexualised God complex. She nodded in agreement and said, "Also I hear that he has his anus bleached."
Once I had pondered upon this new news for a second or two I decided that I didn't actually think that such an action was necessarily a bad thing. I explained to my friend, "Look, put delicately, a gay boy's anus is likely to receive more visitors than your average heterosexual man or woman. So I think that it's kinda nice that someone would want to make sure that their own looks nice and pretty."
My friend took a moment to consider what I had said. "Yes," she nodded, contemplatively. "I suppose you have a point."
And then we continued eating our shared spicy duck with Chinese broccoli.
For example, there was no real reason for him to appear on the cover of Vanity Fair with Keira Knightley and Scarlett Johansen (although it's claimed that Annie Leibowitz told him to jump in because Rachel McAdams wouldn't get her kit off).
He really didn't need to pose with identical male triplets for W magazine.
It was also really unnecessary for him to tell everyone that the cheese fondue I made the other night was, like, totally bland.
This evening, over dinner, I told my friend my theory, which is that Tom, for all his genius, seems to be displaying all the signs of possessing an over-sexualised God complex. She nodded in agreement and said, "Also I hear that he has his anus bleached."
Once I had pondered upon this new news for a second or two I decided that I didn't actually think that such an action was necessarily a bad thing. I explained to my friend, "Look, put delicately, a gay boy's anus is likely to receive more visitors than your average heterosexual man or woman. So I think that it's kinda nice that someone would want to make sure that their own looks nice and pretty."
My friend took a moment to consider what I had said. "Yes," she nodded, contemplatively. "I suppose you have a point."
And then we continued eating our shared spicy duck with Chinese broccoli.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Anyone who keeps a blog will know that to do so requires a certain amount of good housekeeping. By that I mean that you need to post about four or five times a week to keep it relevant and to keep your readers coming back to read more.
Last week I read an article in the Evening Standard which talked about how blogging was a useful tool in treating anxiety and depression: it provides a conduit through which to "unload" or "rant" and encourages the owner, or author, to be organised.
I had never really considered this before and my immediate reaction was to dismiss it as another piece of make-believe about the miracles of the blogisphere. But the more I thought about it the more I began to see that it was actually probably true, or at least it is for me.
When I started my blog, back at the tail end of 2003 I wasn't in a very good place emotionally and you can probably tell that from my writing: not just in the style, but in the content. I was in a really great city, but the wiring was all wrong.
Although I stopped for a few months it wasn't until I returned to England that my blogging really came into it's own. I hope this doesn't sound immodest, but I can see for myself that my writing got better, I learned which parts of my life would be the most interesting to write about, I discovered my humour. And I discovered that when I feel passionately about something I can be very committed.
I think it would be a misnomer to imply that it was entirely my blog which encouraged me to use a formula which enabled me to turn my life around. But there is definitely something in the fact that the two most important years of my life so far ran parallel to my writing a daily journal. I think there is something there that shouldn't be ignored.
Christopher in 2006: I have a really, really great job, albeit ones with challenges, I have a wide circle of friends whom I love very, very much, I have created a routine which I follow almost to the minute. I feel like I have come into my own and I quite like saying it.
Of course I am still rubbish with money, but getting better. I still tend to cane it for a few more hours than I should do on a Saturday night, but I'm not a drug addict or an alcoholic. Hey! I even gave up smoking! I don't have a boyfriend, although for the first time ever, the acquisition of one is not the most important thing (and I don't think will be, ever again. Or at least not until I have one.)
I think you'll agree that this is all good stuff. Things are pretty good.
The problem is: it doesn't make for a very interesting blog.
This week I wrote and presented two new business pitches. I lost one and won the other. I had to make a difficult decision relating to the career of someone I work with. I didn't go out once during the week preferring, instead, to work late. I had my hair cut (just a trim). I drove a nice car on a dirt track. I helped my housemate with her college project. I went to the gym five times (today for an hour!) I drank a lot of protein shakes. I knocked back a lot of creatine. I quite like the way my shoulders and arms are shaping up. I had some holes put in a belt.
I actually considered stopping this thing. But to do so seems akin to having something put to sleep.
If I'm honest (and I think most regular bloggers will agree with me) one of the reasons that I have tried to post so frequently is because I don't want people to forget about me. I don't want my site traffic to decrease. It's totally ego, so there you go.
But then I realised that actually site traffic is so unimportant. This is going to sound like the biggest load of mush / cliche / whatever ... but in many ways my blog has been something of a friend. A blank tablet on which I could write whatever. If I didn't have a stat counter and a comments function I wouldn't even know that anyone visited anyway.
I have had a point all through this post, which was to let you know that I might not post quite as frequently as five or more times a week from now on. But I will post. And sometimes it might be five times a week. But probably not. And that's not sad really. It just means that this thing helped me realise what a great life I have and that perhaps I should devote some more time to it (and that for some peculiar reason, you all seem to think that it's one worth reading about!)
Last week I read an article in the Evening Standard which talked about how blogging was a useful tool in treating anxiety and depression: it provides a conduit through which to "unload" or "rant" and encourages the owner, or author, to be organised.
I had never really considered this before and my immediate reaction was to dismiss it as another piece of make-believe about the miracles of the blogisphere. But the more I thought about it the more I began to see that it was actually probably true, or at least it is for me.
When I started my blog, back at the tail end of 2003 I wasn't in a very good place emotionally and you can probably tell that from my writing: not just in the style, but in the content. I was in a really great city, but the wiring was all wrong.
Although I stopped for a few months it wasn't until I returned to England that my blogging really came into it's own. I hope this doesn't sound immodest, but I can see for myself that my writing got better, I learned which parts of my life would be the most interesting to write about, I discovered my humour. And I discovered that when I feel passionately about something I can be very committed.
I think it would be a misnomer to imply that it was entirely my blog which encouraged me to use a formula which enabled me to turn my life around. But there is definitely something in the fact that the two most important years of my life so far ran parallel to my writing a daily journal. I think there is something there that shouldn't be ignored.
Christopher in 2006: I have a really, really great job, albeit ones with challenges, I have a wide circle of friends whom I love very, very much, I have created a routine which I follow almost to the minute. I feel like I have come into my own and I quite like saying it.
Of course I am still rubbish with money, but getting better. I still tend to cane it for a few more hours than I should do on a Saturday night, but I'm not a drug addict or an alcoholic. Hey! I even gave up smoking! I don't have a boyfriend, although for the first time ever, the acquisition of one is not the most important thing (and I don't think will be, ever again. Or at least not until I have one.)
I think you'll agree that this is all good stuff. Things are pretty good.
The problem is: it doesn't make for a very interesting blog.
This week I wrote and presented two new business pitches. I lost one and won the other. I had to make a difficult decision relating to the career of someone I work with. I didn't go out once during the week preferring, instead, to work late. I had my hair cut (just a trim). I drove a nice car on a dirt track. I helped my housemate with her college project. I went to the gym five times (today for an hour!) I drank a lot of protein shakes. I knocked back a lot of creatine. I quite like the way my shoulders and arms are shaping up. I had some holes put in a belt.
I actually considered stopping this thing. But to do so seems akin to having something put to sleep.
If I'm honest (and I think most regular bloggers will agree with me) one of the reasons that I have tried to post so frequently is because I don't want people to forget about me. I don't want my site traffic to decrease. It's totally ego, so there you go.
But then I realised that actually site traffic is so unimportant. This is going to sound like the biggest load of mush / cliche / whatever ... but in many ways my blog has been something of a friend. A blank tablet on which I could write whatever. If I didn't have a stat counter and a comments function I wouldn't even know that anyone visited anyway.
I have had a point all through this post, which was to let you know that I might not post quite as frequently as five or more times a week from now on. But I will post. And sometimes it might be five times a week. But probably not. And that's not sad really. It just means that this thing helped me realise what a great life I have and that perhaps I should devote some more time to it (and that for some peculiar reason, you all seem to think that it's one worth reading about!)
Sunday, January 29, 2006
There has always been something about The Blue Man Group that I haven't liked but I've never actually been able to put my finger on exactly what it is.
Then last night, when I saw a poster for the current show on the tube, I realised ...
I don't like their shade of blue.
Then last night, when I saw a poster for the current show on the tube, I realised ...
I don't like their shade of blue.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Day Five - Reasons to like Tom Cruise
Ok, perhaps I have been a little bit mean towards Tom Cruise this week.
As Anna Wintour once said, "There is always something to like. Even if the entire collection is horrendously dull, try to find a shoe or even a button and write about that. Quite literally it means that next season you won't be relegated to the third row."
Here are some reasons to like Tom Cruise:
Well, what a rollercoaster week it has been. I do feel like I have purged his insignificance from my system. From this moment on I will never blight this blog with his name again.
Unless I ever let him fuck me, in which case I will divulge all the juicy details, natch.
As Anna Wintour once said, "There is always something to like. Even if the entire collection is horrendously dull, try to find a shoe or even a button and write about that. Quite literally it means that next season you won't be relegated to the third row."
Here are some reasons to like Tom Cruise:
Well, what a rollercoaster week it has been. I do feel like I have purged his insignificance from my system. From this moment on I will never blight this blog with his name again.
Unless I ever let him fuck me, in which case I will divulge all the juicy details, natch.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Day Four - Yet another reason to hate Tom Cruise
Imagine if you will:
Tom Cruise, while Googling the words "Tom Cruise", discovers my blog (because surely I have written the words "Tom Cruise" enough now to ensure that this blog is among the first to appear on Google), sees that I am inciting hatred towards him and immediately picks up his phone, calls his lawyers and instructs them to slap a Cease and Desist order on me.
Now normally the victim of such heavy-handed legal tactics would be scared to death and would immediately throw in the towel. But not me. When his lawyers call me I will absolutely tell them "No! I won't be gagged!" I'll also categorically, eloquently and in no uncertain terms tell them exactly what I think of their client ("And anyway, Tom Cruise is just a big stupid-head!")
Naturally the whole incident will become a MAJOR freedom of speech / human rights debacle and will be covered heavily by the international media with my blog's URL appearing in leading publications and on broadcast outlets the world over, dramatically increasing my traffic.
I will eventually have to go to court and while wearing a Hedi Slimane for Christian Dior suit I will be overcome by the magnitude of the situation and weep openly.
Despite the fact that the public will have rallied behind me, I still end up going to prison for six to eight years for being so unrelenting and fierce in my campaigning against Mr. Cruise. His lawyers are that good!
And when I'm in prison, deprived of the normal day to day things that we all take for granted, like the sound of a bird in a tree or the sensation of sunlight falling on my face, when all I ever smell is disinfectant and the rancid stench of old cabbages, when I am the bitch to some 47 year-old, massive, hairy, convicted drug-dealer called Viking, I will curse Tom Cruise and really, really hate him.
And as they sit there in their billions, diligently writing their letters to Amnesty International, demanding my release, so will the world!
Tom Cruise, while Googling the words "Tom Cruise", discovers my blog (because surely I have written the words "Tom Cruise" enough now to ensure that this blog is among the first to appear on Google), sees that I am inciting hatred towards him and immediately picks up his phone, calls his lawyers and instructs them to slap a Cease and Desist order on me.
Now normally the victim of such heavy-handed legal tactics would be scared to death and would immediately throw in the towel. But not me. When his lawyers call me I will absolutely tell them "No! I won't be gagged!" I'll also categorically, eloquently and in no uncertain terms tell them exactly what I think of their client ("And anyway, Tom Cruise is just a big stupid-head!")
Naturally the whole incident will become a MAJOR freedom of speech / human rights debacle and will be covered heavily by the international media with my blog's URL appearing in leading publications and on broadcast outlets the world over, dramatically increasing my traffic.
I will eventually have to go to court and while wearing a Hedi Slimane for Christian Dior suit I will be overcome by the magnitude of the situation and weep openly.
Despite the fact that the public will have rallied behind me, I still end up going to prison for six to eight years for being so unrelenting and fierce in my campaigning against Mr. Cruise. His lawyers are that good!
And when I'm in prison, deprived of the normal day to day things that we all take for granted, like the sound of a bird in a tree or the sensation of sunlight falling on my face, when all I ever smell is disinfectant and the rancid stench of old cabbages, when I am the bitch to some 47 year-old, massive, hairy, convicted drug-dealer called Viking, I will curse Tom Cruise and really, really hate him.
And as they sit there in their billions, diligently writing their letters to Amnesty International, demanding my release, so will the world!
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Day Three - One reason to hate Tom Cruise
If I were ever presented with the opportunity I would let him fuck me. And for that (making me drop my pants and my integrity) I hate him.
And so must you.
And so must you.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Day Two - Three reasons to hate Tom Cruise
- The Last Samurai
- Vanilla Sky
- The Firm
Monday, January 23, 2006
Day One - 10 reasons to hate Tom Cruise
- Modest
- Self-effacing
- Altruistic
- Humble
- Self-aware
- Witty
- Conscientious
- Open-minded
- Tolerant
- Tall*
* Shortness is only unattractive if you are a mega-star with an "alleged" 50ft personality
Two things made me cry today.
The first was this, which is not entirely surprising.
The second was this.
This bit especially:
"In the last day or so lovers will have been taken, jobs will have been won and lost, novels begun, tears shed at funerals, new life conceived and, when asked can you remember when that happened, we can answer: I remember it well, because it was that day. The day a whale sailed through the middle of London; and the people of the city, rather than trying to hack it to death, came in their thousands and lifted it and tried their hardest to sail it back."
The first was this, which is not entirely surprising.
The second was this.
This bit especially:
"In the last day or so lovers will have been taken, jobs will have been won and lost, novels begun, tears shed at funerals, new life conceived and, when asked can you remember when that happened, we can answer: I remember it well, because it was that day. The day a whale sailed through the middle of London; and the people of the city, rather than trying to hack it to death, came in their thousands and lifted it and tried their hardest to sail it back."
Friday, January 20, 2006
Clearly I still have a lot of latent anger towards Tom Cruise. I think that I need some sort of conduit through which to vent. Therefore I declare that next week will be "Anti-Tom Cruise Week."
At least it will be here at Everything is Not Real.
Have a great weekend people. Unless you're Tom Cruise, in which case, you and I, outside, right now!
At least it will be here at Everything is Not Real.
Have a great weekend people. Unless you're Tom Cruise, in which case, you and I, outside, right now!
Tom Cruise is once again flexing his considerably sizeable litigious muscles.
I have an idea! How about, from this point on, we boycott his movies?
I have an idea! How about, from this point on, we boycott his movies?
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
In a clear indication that my current employer won't be sacking me on January 31st, which is when I complete my three-month probationary period, I received a brand spanking new Apple Power Book G4. It's silver and when I look at it's surface, if I squint hard enough, I can kinda make myself out (and no, I do not see David Cameron staring back at me - see footnote.)
My new PowerBook is Bluetooth enabled. And so is my mobile phone. So for the first time ever I was properly able to view and disseminate the pictures I had taken ever since I bought the phone back in July last year. Cue an afternoon of much techno-fun and no work. Whoo!
I found an old picture of Drew which I took on the escalators of Tottenham Court Road tube station, en route to Fiction for his birthday. I decided to email it to him.
"I just learned how to get pictures off my phone! You're so 'moody'! And Katy [our friend] doesn't even look like Katy!"
He responded:
"Um, I think that's because that's Amy [Drew's flatmate]..."
Oh. So that would, er, be why then.
Footnote: I have reached a ceasefire with Lizzie. From now on I will be known as "The Man Who Looks Like David Cameron's More Attractive Younger Brother, TM"
My new PowerBook is Bluetooth enabled. And so is my mobile phone. So for the first time ever I was properly able to view and disseminate the pictures I had taken ever since I bought the phone back in July last year. Cue an afternoon of much techno-fun and no work. Whoo!
I found an old picture of Drew which I took on the escalators of Tottenham Court Road tube station, en route to Fiction for his birthday. I decided to email it to him.
"I just learned how to get pictures off my phone! You're so 'moody'! And Katy [our friend] doesn't even look like Katy!"
He responded:
"Um, I think that's because that's Amy [Drew's flatmate]..."
Oh. So that would, er, be why then.
Footnote: I have reached a ceasefire with Lizzie. From now on I will be known as "The Man Who Looks Like David Cameron's More Attractive Younger Brother, TM"
A couple of weeks ago I was rudely interrupted from watching culturally important television by a picture message from my friend Lizzie. She was at a party where David Cameron was in attendance. The text which accompanied the visual read:
"I'm sorry, but you do."
Can I put this to bed (to coin a phrase) once and for all?
David Cameron (courtesy of Lizzie):
Me:
Now trust me when I say that Lizzie will be dealt with appropriately but in the meantime, before shehas that little accident is given a thorough ticking-off, would anyone else like to agree with her?
"I'm sorry, but you do."
Can I put this to bed (to coin a phrase) once and for all?
David Cameron (courtesy of Lizzie):
Me:
Now trust me when I say that Lizzie will be dealt with appropriately but in the meantime, before she
Friday, January 13, 2006
Last night, while aboard a commuter-packed Northern Line train travelling slowly and tediously toward Clapham South, I felt something brush up against my crotch. I ignored it to start with, assuming that it was someone's bag or something. Besides, who am I to pass up the opportunity of receiving an accidental crotch rubbing?
But then it happened again. I looked down the pole that some large breasted woman in a really horrible green Principles (probably) suit was pressing me up against. First I saw my hand holding onto the pole and then, underneath, another hand also gripping the pole, but with the index finger outstretched and gently, yet purposefully, brushing ... erm ... little Christopher, through my jeans. I looked up to discover that my assailant was a ratty-looking, late thirty-something male with an unattractive nose piercing, purposely and intently staring in the opposite direction.
I was literally shocked into silence. There was absolutely no-way that he didn't know what he was doing, so I moved my mid-section away as far as I could until we reached the next station at which point I used the opportunity to move away from the perv and stand at the other end of the carriage.
When I surfaced from the Underground at Clapham South I immediately texted my nearest and dearest to tell them that I had just been sexually abused.
Helen was the first to text back. "Violated or aroused? I take it he wasn't cute."
And therein lies the sad truth. I don't know if this is a gay "thing", a human "thing" or a Christopher "thing", but the fact remains that had he looked like this then it is not out of the question that I may have encouraged the behaviour and even, perhaps, returned the favour. But the fact that he didn't means that I felt shocked, appalled and violated.
But then I thought, am I allowed to have it both ways?
But then it happened again. I looked down the pole that some large breasted woman in a really horrible green Principles (probably) suit was pressing me up against. First I saw my hand holding onto the pole and then, underneath, another hand also gripping the pole, but with the index finger outstretched and gently, yet purposefully, brushing ... erm ... little Christopher, through my jeans. I looked up to discover that my assailant was a ratty-looking, late thirty-something male with an unattractive nose piercing, purposely and intently staring in the opposite direction.
I was literally shocked into silence. There was absolutely no-way that he didn't know what he was doing, so I moved my mid-section away as far as I could until we reached the next station at which point I used the opportunity to move away from the perv and stand at the other end of the carriage.
When I surfaced from the Underground at Clapham South I immediately texted my nearest and dearest to tell them that I had just been sexually abused.
Helen was the first to text back. "Violated or aroused? I take it he wasn't cute."
And therein lies the sad truth. I don't know if this is a gay "thing", a human "thing" or a Christopher "thing", but the fact remains that had he looked like this then it is not out of the question that I may have encouraged the behaviour and even, perhaps, returned the favour. But the fact that he didn't means that I felt shocked, appalled and violated.
But then I thought, am I allowed to have it both ways?
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
I am still suffering from The Worst Jet-lag Ever Ever Ever (TM). Or, at least, I think I am. I conferenced the proven medical journal, Wikipedia, and it would seem that I am, indeed, suffering from the following symptoms:
Fatigue
Disorientation and / or grogginess
Nausea and / or upset stomach
Insomnia and / or highly irregular sleep patterns
Dehydration and loss of appetite
Irritability
Irrationality
Apparently I have to allow one day to recover for every time-zone I flew through, which is eight. Therefore I should be normal Christopher by Thursday.
Until then ...
Fatigue
Disorientation and / or grogginess
Nausea and / or upset stomach
Insomnia and / or highly irregular sleep patterns
Dehydration and loss of appetite
Irritability
Irrationality
Apparently I have to allow one day to recover for every time-zone I flew through, which is eight. Therefore I should be normal Christopher by Thursday.
Until then ...
Monday, January 09, 2006
Even though the occasion (that being Helen's imminent departure) was serious ...
... there was, yet, laughter ...
... tears ...
... drunkenness ...
... dancing ...
... amusing chalkboard alterations ...
(well, it seemed it amusing at the time, anyway)
... and, of course, the lady herself ...
(Doesn't she look ever-so-slightly like Sigourney Weaver, circa 1978?)
So, until she leaves these shores on Saturday next, here's to the lovely Hels and all those who sail in her. Bon voyage, etc.
... there was, yet, laughter ...
... tears ...
... drunkenness ...
... dancing ...
... amusing chalkboard alterations ...
(well, it seemed it amusing at the time, anyway)
... and, of course, the lady herself ...
(Doesn't she look ever-so-slightly like Sigourney Weaver, circa 1978?)
So, until she leaves these shores on Saturday next, here's to the lovely Hels and all those who sail in her. Bon voyage, etc.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
(I don't even want to think about the grammatical correctness of this post and neither should you)
I could say, fairly, that (thus far) today has been the worst day of the year for me. But instead I choose to learn a lesson from it and see the whole debacle, in retrospect, as a huge fucking learning curve.
Having had no sleep whatsoever I went to work where I spent almost an hour-and-a-half doing things like looking for carrier bags and getting salary advances and then forgetting what I was doing mid-task. For obvious reasons it is never good to forget to arrange a salary advance. Or not find a carrier bag.
When I (and my team) realised that I was as much use at work as a one-legged dog trying to bury a poo on a frozen pond the decision was made that it was for the best that I go home sooner-than-immediately as I was clearly suffering from the worst jet-lag EVER EVER EVER.
But, on the way home, because next weekend Helen, my best friend (the same one who hates the Eiffel Tower), is leaving the country to live in South Africa, where she will help people not to get HIV and AIDS, is having a party this weekend in Birmingham to celebrate (kind of) her departure, on the way home I picked up the VERY expensive car (which I do the PR for) from the garage, so that I could drive it up to said city, tomorrow morning.
[sharp intake of breath]
My housemate was in when I got home. This was fortuitous, as my arrival was supervened by an emotional breakdown of monolithic proportions. Over a cup of tea I managed to pour my heart and my tear ducts out big time. Oh, yeah! Apparently the "insignificant minutiae of the only slightly less-than-great things about my life" did not, collectively, feel quite so insignificant after all.
Much later on in the day (by which point I was feeling only slightly better) Vix asked me if I could help her take her bags out to her car as she was leaving to spend the weekend with her boyfriend, Ben, in Tunbridge Wells.
As I walked across the road towards her car I called out to her, "Let me just check that the [insert name of $100,000 car here] is ok," before looking around the corner to discover an empty car space.
Cut to right now with lots of swearing, panicked running, much relief that the $100,000 car had simply been impounded for being parked in the wrong zone (whole other contentious subject, at least from my point of view) coupled with the payment of a two hundred pound release fee and a housemate with a lonely boyfriend in a Streatham bowling alley ... [another sharp intake of breath] ... in-between.
In summation, today I was reminded of a very simple principle, which is that life is all about perspective.
This morning I had none.
This evening I have much.
Because when all is said and done jet-lag and an impounded car which technically doesn't belong to you is far better than a pointless, worthless life and a stolen car which technically doesn't belong to you.
Having had no sleep whatsoever I went to work where I spent almost an hour-and-a-half doing things like looking for carrier bags and getting salary advances and then forgetting what I was doing mid-task. For obvious reasons it is never good to forget to arrange a salary advance. Or not find a carrier bag.
When I (and my team) realised that I was as much use at work as a one-legged dog trying to bury a poo on a frozen pond the decision was made that it was for the best that I go home sooner-than-immediately as I was clearly suffering from the worst jet-lag EVER EVER EVER.
But, on the way home, because next weekend Helen, my best friend (the same one who hates the Eiffel Tower), is leaving the country to live in South Africa, where she will help people not to get HIV and AIDS, is having a party this weekend in Birmingham to celebrate (kind of) her departure, on the way home I picked up the VERY expensive car (which I do the PR for) from the garage, so that I could drive it up to said city, tomorrow morning.
[sharp intake of breath]
My housemate was in when I got home. This was fortuitous, as my arrival was supervened by an emotional breakdown of monolithic proportions. Over a cup of tea I managed to pour my heart and my tear ducts out big time. Oh, yeah! Apparently the "insignificant minutiae of the only slightly less-than-great things about my life" did not, collectively, feel quite so insignificant after all.
Much later on in the day (by which point I was feeling only slightly better) Vix asked me if I could help her take her bags out to her car as she was leaving to spend the weekend with her boyfriend, Ben, in Tunbridge Wells.
As I walked across the road towards her car I called out to her, "Let me just check that the [insert name of $100,000 car here] is ok," before looking around the corner to discover an empty car space.
Cut to right now with lots of swearing, panicked running, much relief that the $100,000 car had simply been impounded for being parked in the wrong zone (whole other contentious subject, at least from my point of view) coupled with the payment of a two hundred pound release fee and a housemate with a lonely boyfriend in a Streatham bowling alley ... [another sharp intake of breath] ... in-between.
In summation, today I was reminded of a very simple principle, which is that life is all about perspective.
This morning I had none.
This evening I have much.
Because when all is said and done jet-lag and an impounded car which technically doesn't belong to you is far better than a pointless, worthless life and a stolen car which technically doesn't belong to you.
Friday, January 06, 2006
I clearly have much to update you on, post my recent jaunt to Thailand, but I have been slightly run off my feet since I returned the day before yesterday and have not had time to even call my parents to wish them a Happy New Year.
Actually, that's not entirely true. I prioritised other things higher than calling my parents to wish them a Happy New Year. Other things, like going out with the sole purpose of buying a birthday card for an ex-work colleague whose birthday isn't for another two weeks.
Anyway. There was a point to this specific post, which is that is (as I type) 4.57am and I have not slept a wink. I have insomnia. Although I fear it might just be that my body clock is in another time-zone.
Either way, I had forgotten how wretchedly awful it is to be lying awake, staring at a darkened ceiling, hearing the wind whistling outside my window, catastrophising endlessly about the smallest, most insignificant minutiae of the only slightly less-than-great things about my life.
Not being able to sleep SUCKS!
(Note to you boys: I did try "that", just in case you were wondering. About an hour ago, actually. It didn't work.)
Actually, that's not entirely true. I prioritised other things higher than calling my parents to wish them a Happy New Year. Other things, like going out with the sole purpose of buying a birthday card for an ex-work colleague whose birthday isn't for another two weeks.
Anyway. There was a point to this specific post, which is that is (as I type) 4.57am and I have not slept a wink. I have insomnia. Although I fear it might just be that my body clock is in another time-zone.
Either way, I had forgotten how wretchedly awful it is to be lying awake, staring at a darkened ceiling, hearing the wind whistling outside my window, catastrophising endlessly about the smallest, most insignificant minutiae of the only slightly less-than-great things about my life.
Not being able to sleep SUCKS!
(Note to you boys: I did try "that", just in case you were wondering. About an hour ago, actually. It didn't work.)
Sunday, January 01, 2006
First thing first - HAPPY NEW YEAR! Sore head?
Now, moving on let me warn you that this might all seem a bit boring to begin with but please bear with me.
I understand statistics. For example, the statistic "90% of women have faked an orgasm" would have been gleaned from a survey, but all surveys are caveated by the admission that there is a margin of error. I'll admit to actually quite liking statistical factoids. They allow me to think of things in numbers. This is also fortunate considering my career. Although I don't really want to think too long about the amount of throwaway coverage I have gained for clients on the back of some stupid survey.
That said, I hate probability. Whereas statistics are gathered from actual polling or research evidence, probability is always just a hunch. And probability is often used as a smoke and mirror device for arguments that need slightly more substance in order to make them slightly more credible. It seems to me that politicians use statistical evidence far less than they should do.
Because here's the thing: when you get down to business there is only one mathematical probability and that's 50/50. Either something will happen or it won't. When you flip a coin the odds of it coming down heads or tails are 50/50. It will either be heads or it won't. When you roll a six sided dice the chances that you will get a three are 50/50. You either will get a three or you won't.
What got me thinking about this was my lottery numbers. I use the same numbers every time I enter the lottery, which until a month ago, when I subscribed online, was not all that frequent. Prior to subscribing my dilemma had been what if I don't participate one week and my numbers come up?
But then I started to think back to ten years ago or whenever it was that the UK lottery was first commissioned. Prior to that there was no lottery, so no probability. After all - the future has no memory of the past and every second is a new opportunity. At the first lottery draw, back in 1994, every possible number equation had an equal chance of being the right combination of numbers to be the jackpot.
Now, I feel almost embarrassed to admit this, because it is so improbable, but because I've just spouted on about how I don't believe in probability I'll just come out with it ...
I have won the lottery every Saturday for the last three Saturdays. Granted, I only won ten pounds each time, but still. I'm a bit freaked out and it leads me to believe only one thing.
There is a glitch in the Matrix.
Now, moving on let me warn you that this might all seem a bit boring to begin with but please bear with me.
I understand statistics. For example, the statistic "90% of women have faked an orgasm" would have been gleaned from a survey, but all surveys are caveated by the admission that there is a margin of error. I'll admit to actually quite liking statistical factoids. They allow me to think of things in numbers. This is also fortunate considering my career. Although I don't really want to think too long about the amount of throwaway coverage I have gained for clients on the back of some stupid survey.
That said, I hate probability. Whereas statistics are gathered from actual polling or research evidence, probability is always just a hunch. And probability is often used as a smoke and mirror device for arguments that need slightly more substance in order to make them slightly more credible. It seems to me that politicians use statistical evidence far less than they should do.
Because here's the thing: when you get down to business there is only one mathematical probability and that's 50/50. Either something will happen or it won't. When you flip a coin the odds of it coming down heads or tails are 50/50. It will either be heads or it won't. When you roll a six sided dice the chances that you will get a three are 50/50. You either will get a three or you won't.
What got me thinking about this was my lottery numbers. I use the same numbers every time I enter the lottery, which until a month ago, when I subscribed online, was not all that frequent. Prior to subscribing my dilemma had been what if I don't participate one week and my numbers come up?
But then I started to think back to ten years ago or whenever it was that the UK lottery was first commissioned. Prior to that there was no lottery, so no probability. After all - the future has no memory of the past and every second is a new opportunity. At the first lottery draw, back in 1994, every possible number equation had an equal chance of being the right combination of numbers to be the jackpot.
Now, I feel almost embarrassed to admit this, because it is so improbable, but because I've just spouted on about how I don't believe in probability I'll just come out with it ...
I have won the lottery every Saturday for the last three Saturdays. Granted, I only won ten pounds each time, but still. I'm a bit freaked out and it leads me to believe only one thing.
There is a glitch in the Matrix.
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