Well, this is bound to be my final post of 2008 and I for one am glad that the year is almost over. I’ve had some pretty shitty years of late, but this has been by far the worst. Crap job, crap holiday, depression, no job then boredom. Next year, I hope, is going to be a hell of a lot better.
I’m also hoping that, at some point during 2009, I might actually want a girlfriend. I’ve been single for quite some time now, and a few of my friends have asked me why. Or, as one friend put it “You’re nice bloke, you’re funny and you’re not hideously ugly, so why don’t you have a girlfriend?”In all truthfulness, I really haven’t wanted one. Initially, I just wanted to get other aspects of my life (career, better living arrangements) sorted out before I even went looking for a girlfriend. The problem is, I’ve taken so long getting nowhere with everything else and, subsequently, been single for so long, that I can’t see myself letting go of my independence (such as it is) and my individuality and become merely a constituent part of a couple. The thing is, I’m actually quite a solitary kind of person. As much as I enjoy being with other people, I’m sometimes glade of the fact that I can go back home and be on my own. Of course, I do feel lonely from time to time. Sometimes I long for something as simple as a hug, but for the most part, I’m okay by myself.
There are actually quite a lot of reasons why I should not even attempt to meet anyone right now.
The biggest reason is my depression. Until I can fully conquer that, I don’t feel like subjecting myself to anyone else. I simply can’t deal with unhappiness. I can’t deal with seeing the people I care for being upset. A fair few years ago, I went out with a girl who, in retrospect, it’s apparent also suffered from depression. Obviously that was a terrible combination.
Whenever she told me, in tears, about her problems and issues (and, given her rather traumatic past, those issues were myriad) all I could do was cry. Hopeless really. I couldn’t help myself though; it just upset me so much. I loved her dearly; I guess I just wasn’t the right guy at the right time. She broke up with me almost immediately after she returned from a three month trip to America. If only she’d done it before she left. Instead I was forced to, quite unnecessarily as it turns out, pine for her over the summer months. During that whole time, I didn’t look at anyone else. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for her. I often wonder whether, during those wasted months, I might have met someone else. Maybe the course of my life would have been completely changed?
Ideally I needed to be stronger. I’m just not there yet. Maybe when I am I’ll finally be in a position to seek out a girlfriend. Until then, I’ll remain alone.
I do actually have rather a lot of friends who have girlfriends that I can’t stand. One’s far too controlling. On my birthday she made damn sure my mate could drink no more than 4 pints of lager. I hate people who try to manipulate and control others. The other day she also threw a strop because my friend was unable to get her some brown bread. Apparently she wanted a couple of slices of toast for breakfast the next morning. The only place that sold it was too busy and buying it would have meant that he would be late to meet up with me and another friend. As it turned out, he was late anyway. I tried calling him on both his mobile and his home phone, but both were engaged. When I eventually bumped in to him, it turned out that he was on the phone to his girlfriend back home. By the looks of it she was unleashing upon him a torrent of abuse. The phone was pressed to his ear, but the expression o his face suggested that he wasn’t listening. I just couldn’t put up with that sort of behaviour. Honestly, why couldn’t the lazy, stroppy cow have got off her arse and bought it herself.
You’d think she must have some sort of redeeming characteristic, even if it’ merely superficial. After all, a lot of very attractive women don’t seem to bother developing a personality because the increasingly vacuous world at large lets them get by on looks alone. She is, most definitely, not one of these people. Frankly, she’s no looker. Facially, she’s fairly forgettable. As for her body, well I’m pretty sure she’s loaned it from one of the male attendees of a local primary school. She’s short, with a straight up and down figure; no curves whatsoever. I’m sorry to be so superficial, but I do think that, in order for a relationship to work, there must at least be some measure of physical attractiveness. I’d, be the last person to extol the virtues of puffed up, silicone enhanced glamour models. That, in no way conforms to my idea of beauty. But what does it say about you if your girlfriend has the outward appearance of a little boy?
I’ve developed a small distaste for one of my other friends girlfriend for a different reason altogether. Like the aforementioned girlfriend, her appearance is a bit of an issue. She’s not ugly, certainly; take a look at a photograph of her and you’ll be pleasantly surprised about how attractive she looks. When I say it’s her appearance that’s the problem I’m referring completely to the lack of it. I can only attest to how good looking she appears to be from pictures, because, for the entire time they’ve been going out, almost four years, none of my mates friends have actually met her.
Frankly, I think that’s appalling. To her credit though, she doesn’t seem to restrict my friend’s movements too much (though he did go into London for Saturday drinks a hell of a lot more before he met her. Okay, U-Turn approaching; she is a manipulative cow who can’t even sum up the decency to meet her boyfriend’s mates).
I’m being too hard of course. There are other mate’s girlfriends that I think are utterly brilliant and completely lovely. In actual fact, I'll be spending my New Years Eve with one such couple. Unfortunately, the good ones seem to be the exceptions that prove the rule.
I bring all this up because I have a horrid feeling that I might have upset one of my friends. This particular friend has just started online dating. This time, he seems to be having a great deal more luck. Apparently he’s in contact with quite a number of girls, and actually went out with one last night. After the date, he gave me a call to let me know how it went. Initially he seemed quite positive. Actually, right up until the end he seemed positive, but wasn't completely convinced.
During the course of our conversation he reeled of a list of her more deplorable attributes, most of which would have been deal breakers for me. Bunking off work (oh how I long to have an opportunity to pull a sicky. Even when I was terribly ill, I seldom called in sick), professing to hate the internet and computers. Also she lives alone in her own flat, but squanders her opportunity for total independence by relying on her mother to come round and clean her flat. She also takes her washing back home to be washed and ironed by her mother. Even if you ignore my ideological problem with parental dependency, surely it's way more hassle than just doing it yourself?
Obviously I'm going to address the point that irks me the most. How can you hate the internet? Let's put aside the very obvious paradox of her only being able to tell my friend how much she hates computers because they met through an ONLINE dating site. Without the internet and computers, much of modern life would be so different. How you hate something that gives you access to so much information and entertainment? I'll admit that, as with any medium for communication and transmission of information, 95% of the internet is total dross; a complete waste of time. However, surely it's got to be worth it for what remains. Remember, even if it is only 5% useful, that's still millions of terrabytes of worthwhile data.
Anyway, despite their differences, they talked, almost nonstop for 3hours, so I guess, at least on that level, as my friend was at pains to point out, it was a success. He said that he appreciated her honesty. To be frank, there’s a difference between honesty and shamelessness. I once worked (very briefly, I should add) with a guy who, on pretty much his first day of employment, admitted (or perhaps even boasted) that he had just finished a driving ban. He then went on to say that she had been banned for drink driving. I find that sort of thing deplorable. What kind of person wouldn’t hide such a despicable thing from someone they’ve just met?
He’ll be seeing her again apparently, but I can't help but feel that I dulled his enthusiasm for her with my negativity. If that's the case, then I'm sorry. It is, after all, up to him. Besides, who am I to condemn someone I haven't even met. All I have to go on is what he said about her. Maybe that's the point. Maybe I'm just interpreting his own viewpoint for him. Maybe I'm getting it all wrong.
Anyway, as I write I'm fiddling about with my laptop. See, life can be exciting and fulfilling without someone.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Why can't we all just get along?
I got a wedding invite today. It served to show what a pedant I am. In life I hate uncertainty. I can’t gamble because of it. There may be a 99.9% chance that one thing will happen, but to my mind that doesn’t constitute a guarantee. I devote my time to contemplating the outcome of the 0.01% probability.
Ambiguity is fine in the right place. After all, art is supposed to be open to interpretation. Uncertainty, however, has no place in anything instructional, and a wedding invite certainly falls into that category. I spent ages trying to work out whether I’d been invited to the whole day or just the evening. It just wasn’t at all clear. I thought I was invited to everything, but I wasn’t 100% sure. It was only after conferring with other invitees that I finally reached a conclusion.
I’m actually rather fortunate to be suffering from the effects of anxiety at the moment. I suspect that the accompanying tightening of my throat is the only thing protecting my body from all the itinerant germs that are spreading throughout the house.
I haven’t suffered from anxiety for some months now. It’s odd that as soon as I decide not to be depressed and take action to address that issue, I start to suffer from the opposite problem. I suspect I’m feeling anxious about the difficulties that lie ahead. With depression, there is no progression, no future, only the pain of the present. With anxiety there is worry and fear about what may or may not come. Anxiety is panic of living, depression comforting embrace of death.
I started looking for a new job today, but there’s little about. I’ve maintained for a while that there is, in a lot of job advertisements, a number of subtle, almost clandestine hints that people who are not of ethnic minorities will have less chance of getting the job. At least that’s how I’d interpret the statement “We are particularly interested in applicant form ethnic minorities.”
Whether there is any actual discrimination going on (The term “positive discrimination” is, after all, an oxymoron. The job should go to whomever is most suited regardless of skin colour, sexuality or whatever) is, of course debatable. My point of view could just be a result of my own insecurities. It’s just my interpretation of a carelessly ambiguous statement. I am after all, a depressive, and I’m bound to think that the world is against me. I’m so frequently at odds with it I seldom see things any other way.
However, with the advert I stumbled upon last night, there was no room for interpretation. The advert was for a position at a company specialising in routing low cost calls to Poland. Now, I’ll leave the debate about European Union expansion into Eastern Europe for another time. All I will say is that there is clearly a market for the product that this company is peddling. What I am going to take issue with is the wording of the advert. Companies are, by law, forbidden from discriminating for any number of reasons (race, sexuality, disability) when it comes to recruiting for jobs. Apparently this company either don’t know of this law, or they simply don’t care. This advert demanded that any applicant for the position had to be Polish. This, I should add, is for a position at a company based in England. I could understand if the add said that any applicants had to be fluent Polish speakers; linguistic talents can, after all be attained, they are not proscribed by birth. But that wasn’t what this company said. How on earth can they get away with this?
I strongly believe that if decide to live in a different country you should embrace the native culture and values. This doesn’t mean giving up your own beliefs; that would be wrong as well as terribly boring. From my perspective, if I were to move to another country I'd make damn sure that I tried to learn their language and respect their traditions. I'd want to learn as much about their ways as I possibly could to prevent myself from unwittingly causing offence.Perhaps that's just me though. I do hold a great deal of stock in politeness, showing respect and behaving properly. As they say, "When in Rome."
As a child I remember lamenting my lack of diverse heritage. I distinctly remember being a little upset by my boring ancestry. Other cultures seemed so much more interesting by comparison. Their way’s fascinated me. Let's face it, Britain would be a more boring place without it’s many diverse cultures. However, it seems to me that things work best when other cultures become integrated in the main. They retain their unique identities whilst becoming a part of society as a whole. Problems arise when sections of the population segregate themselves from everyone else, bringing about a “them and us” mentality. If people don’t understand each other then there is little chance they’ll get along. For some reason, people become violently opposed to that which they believe to be different. I suppose there must be something tribal about our nature. We pin our colours to one team and support them above all others. We despise those whose loyalties lie elsewhere. We actively seek out those that are different so that we might have somebody to oppose, somebody to hate. However, if people of different backgrounds are given the chance to mix with one another they’ll realise that we’re far more alike than they may have first thought. If only we all understood each other a little better.
The point is, people should have a modicum of respect for the ways of their adoptive home and try to integrate themselves in to it. Prohibiting the indigenous inhabitants from taking a job with your country is hardly going to help promote understanding. More likely it will just incite hatred and resentment.
Poles already appear to have an image problem as far as a great number of British people are concerned. This sort of thing will only make it worse even amongst the more moderate or right minded members of the populace. After all, if somebody discriminates against you, it’s a hell of a lot easier to hate them right back.And remember, that cuts both ways.
Ambiguity is fine in the right place. After all, art is supposed to be open to interpretation. Uncertainty, however, has no place in anything instructional, and a wedding invite certainly falls into that category. I spent ages trying to work out whether I’d been invited to the whole day or just the evening. It just wasn’t at all clear. I thought I was invited to everything, but I wasn’t 100% sure. It was only after conferring with other invitees that I finally reached a conclusion.
I’m actually rather fortunate to be suffering from the effects of anxiety at the moment. I suspect that the accompanying tightening of my throat is the only thing protecting my body from all the itinerant germs that are spreading throughout the house.
I haven’t suffered from anxiety for some months now. It’s odd that as soon as I decide not to be depressed and take action to address that issue, I start to suffer from the opposite problem. I suspect I’m feeling anxious about the difficulties that lie ahead. With depression, there is no progression, no future, only the pain of the present. With anxiety there is worry and fear about what may or may not come. Anxiety is panic of living, depression comforting embrace of death.
I started looking for a new job today, but there’s little about. I’ve maintained for a while that there is, in a lot of job advertisements, a number of subtle, almost clandestine hints that people who are not of ethnic minorities will have less chance of getting the job. At least that’s how I’d interpret the statement “We are particularly interested in applicant form ethnic minorities.”
Whether there is any actual discrimination going on (The term “positive discrimination” is, after all, an oxymoron. The job should go to whomever is most suited regardless of skin colour, sexuality or whatever) is, of course debatable. My point of view could just be a result of my own insecurities. It’s just my interpretation of a carelessly ambiguous statement. I am after all, a depressive, and I’m bound to think that the world is against me. I’m so frequently at odds with it I seldom see things any other way.
However, with the advert I stumbled upon last night, there was no room for interpretation. The advert was for a position at a company specialising in routing low cost calls to Poland. Now, I’ll leave the debate about European Union expansion into Eastern Europe for another time. All I will say is that there is clearly a market for the product that this company is peddling. What I am going to take issue with is the wording of the advert. Companies are, by law, forbidden from discriminating for any number of reasons (race, sexuality, disability) when it comes to recruiting for jobs. Apparently this company either don’t know of this law, or they simply don’t care. This advert demanded that any applicant for the position had to be Polish. This, I should add, is for a position at a company based in England. I could understand if the add said that any applicants had to be fluent Polish speakers; linguistic talents can, after all be attained, they are not proscribed by birth. But that wasn’t what this company said. How on earth can they get away with this?
I strongly believe that if decide to live in a different country you should embrace the native culture and values. This doesn’t mean giving up your own beliefs; that would be wrong as well as terribly boring. From my perspective, if I were to move to another country I'd make damn sure that I tried to learn their language and respect their traditions. I'd want to learn as much about their ways as I possibly could to prevent myself from unwittingly causing offence.Perhaps that's just me though. I do hold a great deal of stock in politeness, showing respect and behaving properly. As they say, "When in Rome."
As a child I remember lamenting my lack of diverse heritage. I distinctly remember being a little upset by my boring ancestry. Other cultures seemed so much more interesting by comparison. Their way’s fascinated me. Let's face it, Britain would be a more boring place without it’s many diverse cultures. However, it seems to me that things work best when other cultures become integrated in the main. They retain their unique identities whilst becoming a part of society as a whole. Problems arise when sections of the population segregate themselves from everyone else, bringing about a “them and us” mentality. If people don’t understand each other then there is little chance they’ll get along. For some reason, people become violently opposed to that which they believe to be different. I suppose there must be something tribal about our nature. We pin our colours to one team and support them above all others. We despise those whose loyalties lie elsewhere. We actively seek out those that are different so that we might have somebody to oppose, somebody to hate. However, if people of different backgrounds are given the chance to mix with one another they’ll realise that we’re far more alike than they may have first thought. If only we all understood each other a little better.
The point is, people should have a modicum of respect for the ways of their adoptive home and try to integrate themselves in to it. Prohibiting the indigenous inhabitants from taking a job with your country is hardly going to help promote understanding. More likely it will just incite hatred and resentment.
Poles already appear to have an image problem as far as a great number of British people are concerned. This sort of thing will only make it worse even amongst the more moderate or right minded members of the populace. After all, if somebody discriminates against you, it’s a hell of a lot easier to hate them right back.And remember, that cuts both ways.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Hang on a minute lads, I’ve got a great idea.
That's it. Enough of this moroseness. These are the things I resolve to do.
Write more. It always makes me feel better, even if I'm just blogging. I do, however, need to write with more purpose. Perhaps I should actually get round to writing a film, a novel, or even a short story. I could even write up a few reviews or work on some of the article ideas I've had recently.
Exercise more. I need to lose weight and get fit. Besides, exercise releases endorphins and endorphins make you happy. Happiness combats depression. Depression stops me from doing things. Actually, it's a bit of a no-brainer really. The only difficulty is getting started on a routine that I can actually stick to.
Get out the house more. If I walk to wherever I’m going I can get exercise. If I take my laptop to wherever I’m going can write. This will kill two birds with one stone. Of course, this one is easier said than done. After all, it is very cold outside this time of year.
Less video games. I don’t actually play that often, but I tend to get upset when I lose. Unfortunately, since around 90% of all Halo 3 players are way better than me, I tend to lose a lot.
And finally, less depression. I’m going to try to think positively. Logically I know that I have a lot going for me, but self-doubt always creeps in, crippling me. I need to modify the way I think. Clearly, given the ineptitude and unwillingness of the NHS to provide me with the professional help that would greatly benefit me, I’m going to have to figure things out for myself.
That’s it. If I can do those things I can set myself up to get to where I want to be.
I want…
A new job that I can be proud of. I want to gladly tell people what I do, not hide it out of embarrassment.
Move out. Being at home is not good for me. A more positive environment will help me to achieve more.
Maybe meet someone. We’ll see about this. I’m still hoping that serendipity will take care of this one. Contrived and proactive measures like online dating clearly aren’t for me. I might, however, consider speed dating, though only after I have some sort of job (and it doesn’t have to be my dream job, just enough to give me a modicum of self esteem).
This time I have to do it. I have to actually take positive steps towards where I want to be. Staying here, where I am now, simply isn't an option.
And now, with all that decided, it's time for bed.
Write more. It always makes me feel better, even if I'm just blogging. I do, however, need to write with more purpose. Perhaps I should actually get round to writing a film, a novel, or even a short story. I could even write up a few reviews or work on some of the article ideas I've had recently.
Exercise more. I need to lose weight and get fit. Besides, exercise releases endorphins and endorphins make you happy. Happiness combats depression. Depression stops me from doing things. Actually, it's a bit of a no-brainer really. The only difficulty is getting started on a routine that I can actually stick to.
Get out the house more. If I walk to wherever I’m going I can get exercise. If I take my laptop to wherever I’m going can write. This will kill two birds with one stone. Of course, this one is easier said than done. After all, it is very cold outside this time of year.
Less video games. I don’t actually play that often, but I tend to get upset when I lose. Unfortunately, since around 90% of all Halo 3 players are way better than me, I tend to lose a lot.
And finally, less depression. I’m going to try to think positively. Logically I know that I have a lot going for me, but self-doubt always creeps in, crippling me. I need to modify the way I think. Clearly, given the ineptitude and unwillingness of the NHS to provide me with the professional help that would greatly benefit me, I’m going to have to figure things out for myself.
That’s it. If I can do those things I can set myself up to get to where I want to be.
I want…
A new job that I can be proud of. I want to gladly tell people what I do, not hide it out of embarrassment.
Move out. Being at home is not good for me. A more positive environment will help me to achieve more.
Maybe meet someone. We’ll see about this. I’m still hoping that serendipity will take care of this one. Contrived and proactive measures like online dating clearly aren’t for me. I might, however, consider speed dating, though only after I have some sort of job (and it doesn’t have to be my dream job, just enough to give me a modicum of self esteem).
This time I have to do it. I have to actually take positive steps towards where I want to be. Staying here, where I am now, simply isn't an option.
And now, with all that decided, it's time for bed.
Incoherent and Inconsolable
It’s not really been a very good week for me. It’s not like anything particularly bad has happened; I’ve just been completely out of sorts.
Aside from Tuesday, where I spent much of the afternoon fixing a friends computer, I did very little throughout the week, save for catching up on TV. Whilst, in the first few weeks after I left my job, I felt a hell of a lot better, of late my mood has started to decline rapidly. My sense of self worth is now practically non-existent, I’ve had suicidal thoughts (though I still don’t think I’d actually do it) and I’ve even considered self-harm. After all, I feel like I deserve it. I’d been thinking about an “It’s a wonderful life” style scenario where I never existed. However, unlike Jimmy Stewart’s character, I suspect that my non-existence would have had very little impact on everybody. In fact, I have a horrid feeling that people would have been better off.
Regardless, I have been doing some slightly more productive self-analysis and I’m pretty sure I know why my life is so crappy. I think that I revel in my misery and, when presented with the opportunity to mess things up, I’ll take it. I basically need protection from myself. Without some sort of encouragement to take the right path, I’ll always take the route that will give me the most trouble.
I have wondered, in the past I feel that, sometimes, people in my life that I rely upon have deliberately steered me into harms way, whilst others have stood by and watched the catastrophe ensue. Am I just a plaything? Wind me up and watch the chaos ensue.
I feel like I’m just a joke to some people. A figure of fun. Sub-human and unworthy of any real respect.
I’m lucky, I do have some extraordinarily good friends and for that I am eternally grateful. Unfortunately they can’t be there all the time; they have their own concerns and their own issues to deal with. To be honest, though, I wouldn’t ask for help. It’s not really my way. I wonder whether, deep down, I feel like I can only rely on myself. Actually, I doubt that. I think I don’t ask for help because I don’t think I’m worth saving. I hope that those who have offered me a kind ear do not think worse of themselves because I have not spoken to them. It’s not you, not at all. It’s me. I just won’t ask anyone.
I should add that I am writing some of this post after having literally no sleep last night. I’m a little concerned that, of late, things seem to be playing on my mind so much, and it only takes a relatively minor concern to keep me up. Actually, the other part of it is not actually wanting to go to sleep. I stayed up and watched shows on the BBC iPlayer. Having the ability to catch up on so much TV is fantastic. Unfortunately, last night, it proved to be so addictive that I didn’t want to sleep. I was tired, I just couldn’t bring myself to rest my head on the pillow and let nature take it’s course.
I sometimes just want to be on my own. Other times I feel lonely. Often I feel like I just need to feel what it’s like to be in close physical contact with another human being. Sometimes I just need a hug or some sort of physical sign that I am not unloved.
I hate some much about myself. I look at how badly time has affected me. I’m fat, balding and hideous looking. A friend saw a photograph of me from 10 years ago and said I looked so different. So different and, although he didn’t say it, so much worse. Because I do look so much worse. I keep telling myself that I’ll feel like I can possibly seek out a girlfriend once I get myself in better shape. Unfortunately, the exercise only lasts so long. After all, when I do it, it seems to have no impact whatsoever. I tell myself I’ll eat more healthily, buy really, what’s the point. Even if I do manage to miraculously transform my physical appearance, I’ll probably still feel the same. Besides, I’m a depressive with no job who lives at home with his Mum. What woman would even consider me to be a prospect.
Is any of that going to change? I’ve had jobs, but they’ve all made me miserable. None of them have paid enough to allow me to leave home. Is any of that going to change?
Home is awful. When I’m left alone I can just about cope with things, but that so rarely happens. Most of the time I’m subjected to a torrent of abuse, all of which reinforces my negative self-image. I think I’m worthless and so does everybody who’s around me for much of the day.
Whatever I do to help at home is never enough. There’s always some thing I’ve done wrong, or maybe even forgotten to do at all. I never get anything right. My family see me as being distinctly second-class. They’ll help each other, but whenever I need anything they’ll typically turn their backs.
I try to be good, but ultimately I don’t think I am. I’m just not a nice person. I’m not as good as I want to be. My grasp exceeded my reach, and it does so by quite some margin.
All of my friends are moving so far away from me. They almost all have a career, a partner, a home or maybe even all three. I wouldn’t wish that they didn’t have these things, but as their priorities change I can see them fade into the distance. One day they’ll be so far ahead of me that I won’t be able to reach them. Let’s face it; I have no real prospect of ever catching them up. I’ve tried, but I seem to fall at every hurdle. Things will just work out so much better for them that they will for me. I’m glad of that at least. I couldn’t stand them to suffer as I have. They deserve good things. Maybe I don’t.
I have to stop myself from reaching for the sharpest implement I can find and using it to carve into my flesh. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe I just need to feel some pain that’s real, and not just in my head. Something for show and tell. I hear that self harm releases endorphins. Maybe that’s why I want to do it. It’d certainly be better for my health than chocolate.
Every year, I used to wonder if the next will be any better. It never is. This one has been worse than many. I no longer wonder whether next year will be a good one. I know that it won’t.
I don’t know whether any of this has made sense. As much as I have enjoyed writing, deep down I know I’ll never make a career of it. I’m just not good enough. And even if I was, I just can’t seem to see the way forward. I can do a lot of things, but all of them only to a mediocre standard. I’m simply not good enough at any one thing to be able to make a career of it.
Aside from Tuesday, where I spent much of the afternoon fixing a friends computer, I did very little throughout the week, save for catching up on TV. Whilst, in the first few weeks after I left my job, I felt a hell of a lot better, of late my mood has started to decline rapidly. My sense of self worth is now practically non-existent, I’ve had suicidal thoughts (though I still don’t think I’d actually do it) and I’ve even considered self-harm. After all, I feel like I deserve it. I’d been thinking about an “It’s a wonderful life” style scenario where I never existed. However, unlike Jimmy Stewart’s character, I suspect that my non-existence would have had very little impact on everybody. In fact, I have a horrid feeling that people would have been better off.
Regardless, I have been doing some slightly more productive self-analysis and I’m pretty sure I know why my life is so crappy. I think that I revel in my misery and, when presented with the opportunity to mess things up, I’ll take it. I basically need protection from myself. Without some sort of encouragement to take the right path, I’ll always take the route that will give me the most trouble.
I have wondered, in the past I feel that, sometimes, people in my life that I rely upon have deliberately steered me into harms way, whilst others have stood by and watched the catastrophe ensue. Am I just a plaything? Wind me up and watch the chaos ensue.
I feel like I’m just a joke to some people. A figure of fun. Sub-human and unworthy of any real respect.
I’m lucky, I do have some extraordinarily good friends and for that I am eternally grateful. Unfortunately they can’t be there all the time; they have their own concerns and their own issues to deal with. To be honest, though, I wouldn’t ask for help. It’s not really my way. I wonder whether, deep down, I feel like I can only rely on myself. Actually, I doubt that. I think I don’t ask for help because I don’t think I’m worth saving. I hope that those who have offered me a kind ear do not think worse of themselves because I have not spoken to them. It’s not you, not at all. It’s me. I just won’t ask anyone.
I should add that I am writing some of this post after having literally no sleep last night. I’m a little concerned that, of late, things seem to be playing on my mind so much, and it only takes a relatively minor concern to keep me up. Actually, the other part of it is not actually wanting to go to sleep. I stayed up and watched shows on the BBC iPlayer. Having the ability to catch up on so much TV is fantastic. Unfortunately, last night, it proved to be so addictive that I didn’t want to sleep. I was tired, I just couldn’t bring myself to rest my head on the pillow and let nature take it’s course.
I sometimes just want to be on my own. Other times I feel lonely. Often I feel like I just need to feel what it’s like to be in close physical contact with another human being. Sometimes I just need a hug or some sort of physical sign that I am not unloved.
I hate some much about myself. I look at how badly time has affected me. I’m fat, balding and hideous looking. A friend saw a photograph of me from 10 years ago and said I looked so different. So different and, although he didn’t say it, so much worse. Because I do look so much worse. I keep telling myself that I’ll feel like I can possibly seek out a girlfriend once I get myself in better shape. Unfortunately, the exercise only lasts so long. After all, when I do it, it seems to have no impact whatsoever. I tell myself I’ll eat more healthily, buy really, what’s the point. Even if I do manage to miraculously transform my physical appearance, I’ll probably still feel the same. Besides, I’m a depressive with no job who lives at home with his Mum. What woman would even consider me to be a prospect.
Is any of that going to change? I’ve had jobs, but they’ve all made me miserable. None of them have paid enough to allow me to leave home. Is any of that going to change?
Home is awful. When I’m left alone I can just about cope with things, but that so rarely happens. Most of the time I’m subjected to a torrent of abuse, all of which reinforces my negative self-image. I think I’m worthless and so does everybody who’s around me for much of the day.
Whatever I do to help at home is never enough. There’s always some thing I’ve done wrong, or maybe even forgotten to do at all. I never get anything right. My family see me as being distinctly second-class. They’ll help each other, but whenever I need anything they’ll typically turn their backs.
I try to be good, but ultimately I don’t think I am. I’m just not a nice person. I’m not as good as I want to be. My grasp exceeded my reach, and it does so by quite some margin.
All of my friends are moving so far away from me. They almost all have a career, a partner, a home or maybe even all three. I wouldn’t wish that they didn’t have these things, but as their priorities change I can see them fade into the distance. One day they’ll be so far ahead of me that I won’t be able to reach them. Let’s face it; I have no real prospect of ever catching them up. I’ve tried, but I seem to fall at every hurdle. Things will just work out so much better for them that they will for me. I’m glad of that at least. I couldn’t stand them to suffer as I have. They deserve good things. Maybe I don’t.
I have to stop myself from reaching for the sharpest implement I can find and using it to carve into my flesh. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe I just need to feel some pain that’s real, and not just in my head. Something for show and tell. I hear that self harm releases endorphins. Maybe that’s why I want to do it. It’d certainly be better for my health than chocolate.
Every year, I used to wonder if the next will be any better. It never is. This one has been worse than many. I no longer wonder whether next year will be a good one. I know that it won’t.
I don’t know whether any of this has made sense. As much as I have enjoyed writing, deep down I know I’ll never make a career of it. I’m just not good enough. And even if I was, I just can’t seem to see the way forward. I can do a lot of things, but all of them only to a mediocre standard. I’m simply not good enough at any one thing to be able to make a career of it.
Friday, December 19, 2008
They fuck you up…
I’ll tell you about my Dad. I’ll start by saying he wasn’t perfect; nobody is, of course, but he did help me a lot. Looking back, I can tell that he was, at least a little bit, aware of my depressive tendencies. I distinctly remember him trying to help me to deal with stress.
The problem is, I became too reliant on him as a crutch. I did nothing for myself. I still wasn’t doing anything for my own gratification; I did everything to please him.
He’d push me to do better, and without it, I doubt I’d have made it as far as university. I know my sister never really needed that sort of encouragement. Perhaps she feels left out, less loved because of it. But the point is, she didn’t need the attention. She might have wanted it; she might have felt that she’d missed out by not getting the same as I did, but, she wasn’t unloved, I’m sure of that. She just didn’t need as much care as me. She didn’t need as much guidance.
I don’t suppose it helped that he actively dissuaded me from trying to become a writer. Maybe that’s the reason I’m so reluctant. I know he wouldn’t want that. I can’t seem to escape his expectations, even though he’s been dead for a little over twelve years.
With him gone I had no reason to excel. So I didn’t. And I haven’t. I know he’d be terribly disappointed with me and that makes me feel so much worse.
I’d also say he’s responsible for some of my failings with women, especially early on, before he died. I have to be honest, I hadn’t even kissed a girl before went to university, just two weeks after my Father’s death. Before that, every time I betrayed an interest in the opposite sex or it was suggested that I might fancy a girl, my dad would tease me mercilessly. For someone of my disposition this was more than enough to discourage me from seeking out a girlfriend altogether. This is, of course, one of the reasons why, despite his efforts, I know that my Dad didn’t fully understand me.
I’m still, on occasion, a little shy when it comes to women. If I’m not in one of my more gregarious mood, I sometimes become unable to think of a single thing to say. A girl I liked from my previous work place once said that she thought I tried to hard. She’s right of course; when I put no effort in to it, when I don’t force it, everything comes very easily. Another girl even once said that I was charming. Again, I wasn’t trying then. Of course as soon as I realised that I was in the game, I defaulted to my usual tongue-tied self.
Ultimately, my problem is me. I often go for girls beyond my reach (wanting the things that I can’t have seems to be something of a theme for me). They’re always the ones who are unavailable, either because of some deep ceded psychological problem, or because they’re already attached. Either way, though, they’re unattainable. Of course then, with being no prospect that we would ever be together I have to simply rely on imagination and dream of what might be. Fantasy is, after all, so much more compelling than reality.
I wonder, if I desired that which I could actually have, I’d have be forced to deal with change. I’d be forced to deal with the possibility of happiness. I’m not scared by the prospect of being turned down by a girl, just by the idea that she might accept me.
I can’t really explain to my Mum how my depression makes me feel. Every time I touch upon the subject she’ll say something that makes me wish that I’d never brought it up. When I recently mentioned how badly I felt her response was to berate me. She said, “You’re making me worry about you and that’s going to make e mil. You don’t want me to get ill again do you?” Of course not, but that’s hardly a constructive thing to say is it? She seems to have a unique misunderstanding of me. She subjects me to all the negative things that a depressive should be spared. I’m growing fat on negativity (figuratively and literally), and she’s the one who’s doing most of the feeding.
Without a doubt, every day I spend in her presence makes me worse. I try my best to get by in this house, causing as little argument and conflict as possible. She complains that I don’t empty the rubbish; I do it every night now. Of course today, she filled up the bin during the course of one afternoon, before I’d even used it, and complained, once more, that she has to do everything. Why, she asked, can’t I just empty the bin. After all, I only empty it every evening. Of course, that’s not good enough. My mum has always been like this. Always moaning at me, always criticising me. Always interrupting me when I’m in the middle of something. I can’t concentrate when she’s in the house. When I wake, suddenly in the night, I often think I’ve heard her shriek my name (could I not be called something less screamable. Something with more than one syllable and no high pitched ending). Whatever I do to placate her, she always finds something else to moan about. There really is no reason why I should bother to put in any effort at all. However much I do, she always finds my efforts wanting in some way.
I wonder; is she like the cat that sits on the lap of the person who has a distaste or phobia of felines?
You seek attention from those who deny it from you. Is this the same? Is this her way of getting my attention? She complains so much that I don’t sit with her on evenings when I’m at home, preferring the solitude of my room. Of course when I do keep her company I’m subjected to abuse and criticism. It’s no wonder I stay in my room. She seems not to have grasped this simple concept.
I don’t feel welcome. She keeps threatening to throw me out. I know she doesn’t mean it, but I can’t help but feel insecure.
Ultimately, I know I’m a disappointment to my Dad. Worse, perhaps, I’m a disappointment to myself. I had such a brilliant idea of how my life would be by this age, but it just hasn’t happened. As much as I can attribute the blame to others, I know that I am, in the end, the one who is responsible for this shambolic existence of mine.
I’m going to try to get out more as soon as I can. I haven’t felt like leaving the house recently. When I have endured the outside would I’ve felt extremely uncomfortable. Hopefully I’ll be out tomorrow. Out with friends for drinks. With any luck I’ll be able to keep up a façade of happiness long enough for nobody to realise that I’m hiding my sadness behind a mask. Of course, pretend long enough and it ceases to be an act. It’s much easier to be happy when you’re actually having fun.
I’ll be back with my normal posting soon. Hopefully. By the way, this is often how I've felt when I've stopped writing in the past. Perhaps it will help if I write through it.
The problem is, I became too reliant on him as a crutch. I did nothing for myself. I still wasn’t doing anything for my own gratification; I did everything to please him.
He’d push me to do better, and without it, I doubt I’d have made it as far as university. I know my sister never really needed that sort of encouragement. Perhaps she feels left out, less loved because of it. But the point is, she didn’t need the attention. She might have wanted it; she might have felt that she’d missed out by not getting the same as I did, but, she wasn’t unloved, I’m sure of that. She just didn’t need as much care as me. She didn’t need as much guidance.
I don’t suppose it helped that he actively dissuaded me from trying to become a writer. Maybe that’s the reason I’m so reluctant. I know he wouldn’t want that. I can’t seem to escape his expectations, even though he’s been dead for a little over twelve years.
With him gone I had no reason to excel. So I didn’t. And I haven’t. I know he’d be terribly disappointed with me and that makes me feel so much worse.
I’d also say he’s responsible for some of my failings with women, especially early on, before he died. I have to be honest, I hadn’t even kissed a girl before went to university, just two weeks after my Father’s death. Before that, every time I betrayed an interest in the opposite sex or it was suggested that I might fancy a girl, my dad would tease me mercilessly. For someone of my disposition this was more than enough to discourage me from seeking out a girlfriend altogether. This is, of course, one of the reasons why, despite his efforts, I know that my Dad didn’t fully understand me.
I’m still, on occasion, a little shy when it comes to women. If I’m not in one of my more gregarious mood, I sometimes become unable to think of a single thing to say. A girl I liked from my previous work place once said that she thought I tried to hard. She’s right of course; when I put no effort in to it, when I don’t force it, everything comes very easily. Another girl even once said that I was charming. Again, I wasn’t trying then. Of course as soon as I realised that I was in the game, I defaulted to my usual tongue-tied self.
Ultimately, my problem is me. I often go for girls beyond my reach (wanting the things that I can’t have seems to be something of a theme for me). They’re always the ones who are unavailable, either because of some deep ceded psychological problem, or because they’re already attached. Either way, though, they’re unattainable. Of course then, with being no prospect that we would ever be together I have to simply rely on imagination and dream of what might be. Fantasy is, after all, so much more compelling than reality.
I wonder, if I desired that which I could actually have, I’d have be forced to deal with change. I’d be forced to deal with the possibility of happiness. I’m not scared by the prospect of being turned down by a girl, just by the idea that she might accept me.
I can’t really explain to my Mum how my depression makes me feel. Every time I touch upon the subject she’ll say something that makes me wish that I’d never brought it up. When I recently mentioned how badly I felt her response was to berate me. She said, “You’re making me worry about you and that’s going to make e mil. You don’t want me to get ill again do you?” Of course not, but that’s hardly a constructive thing to say is it? She seems to have a unique misunderstanding of me. She subjects me to all the negative things that a depressive should be spared. I’m growing fat on negativity (figuratively and literally), and she’s the one who’s doing most of the feeding.
Without a doubt, every day I spend in her presence makes me worse. I try my best to get by in this house, causing as little argument and conflict as possible. She complains that I don’t empty the rubbish; I do it every night now. Of course today, she filled up the bin during the course of one afternoon, before I’d even used it, and complained, once more, that she has to do everything. Why, she asked, can’t I just empty the bin. After all, I only empty it every evening. Of course, that’s not good enough. My mum has always been like this. Always moaning at me, always criticising me. Always interrupting me when I’m in the middle of something. I can’t concentrate when she’s in the house. When I wake, suddenly in the night, I often think I’ve heard her shriek my name (could I not be called something less screamable. Something with more than one syllable and no high pitched ending). Whatever I do to placate her, she always finds something else to moan about. There really is no reason why I should bother to put in any effort at all. However much I do, she always finds my efforts wanting in some way.
I wonder; is she like the cat that sits on the lap of the person who has a distaste or phobia of felines?
You seek attention from those who deny it from you. Is this the same? Is this her way of getting my attention? She complains so much that I don’t sit with her on evenings when I’m at home, preferring the solitude of my room. Of course when I do keep her company I’m subjected to abuse and criticism. It’s no wonder I stay in my room. She seems not to have grasped this simple concept.
I don’t feel welcome. She keeps threatening to throw me out. I know she doesn’t mean it, but I can’t help but feel insecure.
Ultimately, I know I’m a disappointment to my Dad. Worse, perhaps, I’m a disappointment to myself. I had such a brilliant idea of how my life would be by this age, but it just hasn’t happened. As much as I can attribute the blame to others, I know that I am, in the end, the one who is responsible for this shambolic existence of mine.
I’m going to try to get out more as soon as I can. I haven’t felt like leaving the house recently. When I have endured the outside would I’ve felt extremely uncomfortable. Hopefully I’ll be out tomorrow. Out with friends for drinks. With any luck I’ll be able to keep up a façade of happiness long enough for nobody to realise that I’m hiding my sadness behind a mask. Of course, pretend long enough and it ceases to be an act. It’s much easier to be happy when you’re actually having fun.
I’ll be back with my normal posting soon. Hopefully. By the way, this is often how I've felt when I've stopped writing in the past. Perhaps it will help if I write through it.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Dreams that probably won’t come true. Part 2
So, finally back to that other dream I had last week.
Well this dream was a little peculiar. I suspect it’s come about as a result of my brain trying to resolve, or at least explore, some of the issues my conscious mind has been trying to repress. I’ll explain the dream and I’ll try to tell you what I think it all means.
Okay, so on to Sunday nights dream. This one really was kind of weird. You see, in this dream, it turned out that my sister had managed to buy up an eight year lease on an apartment building containing 300 flats. It subsequently turned out that, rather than getting this through some sort of shrewd investment as I had initially thought, my sister had got lucky and picked it up for £8.50. Perhaps this is my way of considering the credit crisis. I think, personally, that it comes from feeling that my sister somehow managed to get all the breaks, whilst I was left with sod all. Anyway, we make the journey down to the building, which is located in the E8 postcode. I looked up where E8 is, and apparently it’s Hackney. Why Hackney, I wonder. I guess I must have seen the postcode E8 on the news lately without realising it.
Then there was some bit where I went to a restaurant on the ground floor of the apartment block. My sister owned the lease on that too. I remember lots of people arriving whist I was, somehow, excluded. I think I may have been looking after everybody’s coats.
After that the action cuts to a flat within the building. It’s not my flat; oddly it’s one that’s being rented by one of my ex-girlfriends. This, in itself, is a little odd since this particular girlfriend recently got married to a man in his late 40s (she’s the same age as me) who has two teenage kids. To be honest, that whole situation surprised me a bit. This, after all, is the girl who said she never wanted kids. What the hell was she doing taking on responsibility for the children of some guy who’s only 18 years from collecting his pension. Technically, he’s old enough to be her dad. What the fuck does she see in him? Is it just security? Did she marry him because he looks after her and can provide her with the safety net to allow her to do whatever the hell she likes? In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s sleeping with somebody else behind his back. That is, after all, exactly what she did to me when we were gong out.
(It was at this point, in my original draft of this post that I went into a bit of a rant about this girl and attempted to deconstruct the whole relationship. I’ve omitted it here, simply for the sake of keeping the post a reasonable length. I’ll probably stick it all into a future post so you’ll probably have the opportunity to read it at a later date).
Anyway, lots of stuff happened and the party got gradually more and more debauched. It was then that I very clearly remember being on a sofa, fingering Lily Allen. Fuck knows why. I’ve never really had a particularly strong attraction to Ms Allen. Maybe, deep down what I really want to do, more than anything else is to digitally penetrate Lily Allen? It’s funny, I would have thought I’d have loftier goals than that. Like maybe aspiring to get a blowjob from Kate Nash. Actually, now that I think of it, the girl may just have looked and dressed a bit like Lily Allen. I wonder if that has any significance?
Later on, still at the party, I borrowed one of my ex’s DVDs. She had one of mine, my dream self was sure of it, so I felt fully justified. As sure as I was, I had to double check that I was right. I managed to find a DVD full of pirated films. The handwriting on it was mine. I left it where it lay and took my ex's DVD. My actions were vindicated.
After that, I left the party and ended up walking down the train line to god knows where. I got to the station, walked on to the platform (I think) and made my way to a bar. When I was in the bar I had an overwhelming feeling of uncoolness. Everyone around me seemed younger, cooler and better dressed than me. I felt like I was looking for somebody, but I don’t know who. I went up to the bar. Everybody around me was ordering weird, trendy cocktails. I looked around. Nobody had the kind of drinks you’d usually find in a pub. All the glasses were full of neon and pastel liquids stuffed to the gills with chunks of fruit and leafy stuff. All I wanted was a cold beer. I don’t think I ever got one though. The last thing I remember seeing is a large, cardboard box, cut in half diagonally. It was sitting on the bar. In side were uneven cut-outs displaying the names of a bunch of bands like Shed Seven. As nonsensical as it sounds, I, for some reason, thought that this was the mechanism for operating the jukebox.
Then I woke up, feeling quite depressed.
So, what does it all mean? At a guess, I’d say that I think my sister’s done better than me, but it’s mostly down to luck. I feel like my ex-girlfriend owes me something, but I’m not sure what. Finally, and this is a recurring theme, I don’t feel I’m young, cool and great anymore and I’m going nowhere.
Buggered if I can understand the Lily Allen stuff though.
Well this dream was a little peculiar. I suspect it’s come about as a result of my brain trying to resolve, or at least explore, some of the issues my conscious mind has been trying to repress. I’ll explain the dream and I’ll try to tell you what I think it all means.
Okay, so on to Sunday nights dream. This one really was kind of weird. You see, in this dream, it turned out that my sister had managed to buy up an eight year lease on an apartment building containing 300 flats. It subsequently turned out that, rather than getting this through some sort of shrewd investment as I had initially thought, my sister had got lucky and picked it up for £8.50. Perhaps this is my way of considering the credit crisis. I think, personally, that it comes from feeling that my sister somehow managed to get all the breaks, whilst I was left with sod all. Anyway, we make the journey down to the building, which is located in the E8 postcode. I looked up where E8 is, and apparently it’s Hackney. Why Hackney, I wonder. I guess I must have seen the postcode E8 on the news lately without realising it.
Then there was some bit where I went to a restaurant on the ground floor of the apartment block. My sister owned the lease on that too. I remember lots of people arriving whist I was, somehow, excluded. I think I may have been looking after everybody’s coats.
After that the action cuts to a flat within the building. It’s not my flat; oddly it’s one that’s being rented by one of my ex-girlfriends. This, in itself, is a little odd since this particular girlfriend recently got married to a man in his late 40s (she’s the same age as me) who has two teenage kids. To be honest, that whole situation surprised me a bit. This, after all, is the girl who said she never wanted kids. What the hell was she doing taking on responsibility for the children of some guy who’s only 18 years from collecting his pension. Technically, he’s old enough to be her dad. What the fuck does she see in him? Is it just security? Did she marry him because he looks after her and can provide her with the safety net to allow her to do whatever the hell she likes? In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s sleeping with somebody else behind his back. That is, after all, exactly what she did to me when we were gong out.
(It was at this point, in my original draft of this post that I went into a bit of a rant about this girl and attempted to deconstruct the whole relationship. I’ve omitted it here, simply for the sake of keeping the post a reasonable length. I’ll probably stick it all into a future post so you’ll probably have the opportunity to read it at a later date).
Anyway, lots of stuff happened and the party got gradually more and more debauched. It was then that I very clearly remember being on a sofa, fingering Lily Allen. Fuck knows why. I’ve never really had a particularly strong attraction to Ms Allen. Maybe, deep down what I really want to do, more than anything else is to digitally penetrate Lily Allen? It’s funny, I would have thought I’d have loftier goals than that. Like maybe aspiring to get a blowjob from Kate Nash. Actually, now that I think of it, the girl may just have looked and dressed a bit like Lily Allen. I wonder if that has any significance?
Later on, still at the party, I borrowed one of my ex’s DVDs. She had one of mine, my dream self was sure of it, so I felt fully justified. As sure as I was, I had to double check that I was right. I managed to find a DVD full of pirated films. The handwriting on it was mine. I left it where it lay and took my ex's DVD. My actions were vindicated.
After that, I left the party and ended up walking down the train line to god knows where. I got to the station, walked on to the platform (I think) and made my way to a bar. When I was in the bar I had an overwhelming feeling of uncoolness. Everyone around me seemed younger, cooler and better dressed than me. I felt like I was looking for somebody, but I don’t know who. I went up to the bar. Everybody around me was ordering weird, trendy cocktails. I looked around. Nobody had the kind of drinks you’d usually find in a pub. All the glasses were full of neon and pastel liquids stuffed to the gills with chunks of fruit and leafy stuff. All I wanted was a cold beer. I don’t think I ever got one though. The last thing I remember seeing is a large, cardboard box, cut in half diagonally. It was sitting on the bar. In side were uneven cut-outs displaying the names of a bunch of bands like Shed Seven. As nonsensical as it sounds, I, for some reason, thought that this was the mechanism for operating the jukebox.
Then I woke up, feeling quite depressed.
So, what does it all mean? At a guess, I’d say that I think my sister’s done better than me, but it’s mostly down to luck. I feel like my ex-girlfriend owes me something, but I’m not sure what. Finally, and this is a recurring theme, I don’t feel I’m young, cool and great anymore and I’m going nowhere.
Buggered if I can understand the Lily Allen stuff though.
Big Weekend. Part 2
Often, when an evening comes to an end, I’m glad to get to be heading back home, but on Saturday night that wasn’t the case. When everybody wanted to leave, I would have been happy to stay a while longer. Honestly, most nights, by the time I’ve managed to get everyone to go, I’ve been bored for a fair while.
I’m really glad everything worked out so well. Typically, when my friend tries to organise these get-togethers, nobody turns up. This time, however, there were at lest fifteen people in attendance. The evening started in the basement bar of the Glasshouse Stores on Brewer Street in Soho. Mindful that the handful of people that started the evening would eventually become a huge group, we quickly took a place at the largest table in the pub. Unfortunately, within seconds we were ejected. Apparently the table had been reserved. Quite why a reserved notice couldn’t have been plonked down on the table before we sat down, just after 6pm when the basement bar opened, I don’t know. In retrospect, though, I’d say it all actually worked out for the best. If everybody had an easy, convenient place to sit, I doubt there would have been us much mixing and cross chatter.
After I’d eaten dinner, a not at all that bad for a pub Chicken Tikka Masala, I spent much of the time flitting about between groups. I don’t really understand why I felt so exuberant, I just was. When last orders were called, and it came time to find another venue in which to continue the revelries, I didn’t even consider going home. I just casually went along with everybody as they decamped to The Borderline. I say everybody, but the vast majority of the group were bound for the last train home; only six of us remained behind, destined to reach our journeys end on a night bus.
The Borderline was, as ever, great. I’ve always been a fan of music of the indie rock persuasion and, since that’s all they play at The Borderline, I was well catered for. I can’t say exactly when we left, I hadn’t checked my watch all evening. What I do know is that I could quite happily have stayed for much longer.
Often, when an evening comes to an end, I’m glad to get to be heading back home, but on Saturday night that wasn’t the case. Honestly, most nights, by the time I’ve managed to get everyone to go, I’ve been bored for a fair while.
I really do find it hard to explain my good mood. For some inexplicable reason, throughout the entire evening I’d felt overwhelmed by a feeling of euphoria. I’d talked to random people at the bar, chatted away happily to friends and acquaintances. It sounds strange to say, but I was just unaccountably happy.
My good cheer even saw me through a trip to the Strand branch of McDonalds. Although I refused to eat there (after a certain time they will only serve meals. Pointless and exploitative when I, and I’m sure many others, would only require a burger) I did want to make use of their toilet facilities. Yet more talking to strangers ensued. Whilst waiting in the queue for the toilet I got chatting to a girl who was clearly being mocked for her burgerlessness by her Big Mac chomping housemate. My theory about McDonalds exploiting drunken customers by only serving means only fell on quite hostile ground, but after a while, I finally managed to get a laugh or two out of the girl.
Of course, that’s how I felt I’d come across. In actual fact I may have seemed like a blithering idiot. The girl from the McDonalds toilet thought so, at least initially. It’s so hard for me to tell. I mean, I could have just imagined all the good stuff.
Anyway, whilst I was on top, I felt really good. Of course, it wasn’t to last. The manic phase would, as was always the case, be followed by a massive come down. This time, I would have to say, it was a hell of a lot worse and longer lasting than usual. My evening on high, as it turns out would cost me a couple of days in the doldrums. It all started when I left everybody else behind so as I could find my nightbus. Typically, and this seemed to be the public transport trend for the evening, I managed to miss the bus by a few seconds. One day I really must try and remember exactly where it is that I catch a Harrow bound nightbus. Having to checks practically all the routes posted by every bus stop around Trafalgar Square is a bit of a bind. Usually, when I get the nightbus back, I head straight upstairs. This time however, I took a seat downstairs, just behind the exit doors. Unfortunately my inferior vantage point was made worse by the dirt caked across the window next to me
So I spent the trip back staring despondently out of the grime stained window, desperately trying to work out if the bus really was going in the right direction (I don’t trust night bus drivers. Not after the night when I ended up having to walk all the way home from Sudbury one night despite the driver’s insistence that the bus was bound for Harrow). I was distracted only by a need to curse the crapness of my new iPod remote. This particular one had cost £30 but was probably more useless than the cheap eBay crap I’d just had to send back. And so it was from Harrow Bus Station that I was forced to walk home with only the mildly distorted music coming from my iPod to keep me company throughout the freezing cold night. Actually, for the sake of accuracy, I should say that I pressed the button to get off right before Harrow Bus Station (there really are far to many stops on most bus routes if you ask me). Despite the fact that I only had to get up from a seat right behind the door, the bus driver still managed to shut it in my face before I exited. I really do hate those guys. Would it be terribly paranoid of me to say that I’m sure they all have it in for me?
I went though my front door mere moments after four and prepared a snack of cheese toasted on baguette (lovely with some ketchup on top) to help soothe me though the hangover that had already started before the night had come to an end.
I spent much of Sunday in bed, not arising until after 2pm and then returning to bed once more at 6.30. Today I fared little better. I had no desire to leave the house, but if I wanted to claim the money back for my defective iPod remote I would, by necessity, have to make a trip to Watford. Of course I could have simply gone to Harrow Town Centre, but that place would have just depressed me even further. Invariably, what with it being Christmas, there would be even more Charity collectors littering the streets, and I was in no mood to deal with any of them, at least not with any civility. Fortunately, HMV accepted the remote back with no trouble whatsoever. On the way back I picked up some essential supplies from Tesco (Doritos, Pringles and yet more Pepsi Max), availed myself of their cheap petrol made even cheaper by a voucher good for a 5p per litre discount, and headed back home.
In the last few days I’ve been sometimes up and sometimes down. Today I’ve mostly been fine. Yesterday I was fine whilst I was helping my friend to fix his PC (and simultaneously realising how much better Macs are, but that’s for another post), but after he left I felt just as bad as ever.
By the way, as a postscript to this, I do think I may have, on Saturday, said something to one of my friends that, due to my gabbery, inarticulate nature at the time, may have been easy to misinterpret. I will say right now, I meant no real offence, that is, if any was caused.
I’m really glad everything worked out so well. Typically, when my friend tries to organise these get-togethers, nobody turns up. This time, however, there were at lest fifteen people in attendance. The evening started in the basement bar of the Glasshouse Stores on Brewer Street in Soho. Mindful that the handful of people that started the evening would eventually become a huge group, we quickly took a place at the largest table in the pub. Unfortunately, within seconds we were ejected. Apparently the table had been reserved. Quite why a reserved notice couldn’t have been plonked down on the table before we sat down, just after 6pm when the basement bar opened, I don’t know. In retrospect, though, I’d say it all actually worked out for the best. If everybody had an easy, convenient place to sit, I doubt there would have been us much mixing and cross chatter.
After I’d eaten dinner, a not at all that bad for a pub Chicken Tikka Masala, I spent much of the time flitting about between groups. I don’t really understand why I felt so exuberant, I just was. When last orders were called, and it came time to find another venue in which to continue the revelries, I didn’t even consider going home. I just casually went along with everybody as they decamped to The Borderline. I say everybody, but the vast majority of the group were bound for the last train home; only six of us remained behind, destined to reach our journeys end on a night bus.
The Borderline was, as ever, great. I’ve always been a fan of music of the indie rock persuasion and, since that’s all they play at The Borderline, I was well catered for. I can’t say exactly when we left, I hadn’t checked my watch all evening. What I do know is that I could quite happily have stayed for much longer.
Often, when an evening comes to an end, I’m glad to get to be heading back home, but on Saturday night that wasn’t the case. Honestly, most nights, by the time I’ve managed to get everyone to go, I’ve been bored for a fair while.
I really do find it hard to explain my good mood. For some inexplicable reason, throughout the entire evening I’d felt overwhelmed by a feeling of euphoria. I’d talked to random people at the bar, chatted away happily to friends and acquaintances. It sounds strange to say, but I was just unaccountably happy.
My good cheer even saw me through a trip to the Strand branch of McDonalds. Although I refused to eat there (after a certain time they will only serve meals. Pointless and exploitative when I, and I’m sure many others, would only require a burger) I did want to make use of their toilet facilities. Yet more talking to strangers ensued. Whilst waiting in the queue for the toilet I got chatting to a girl who was clearly being mocked for her burgerlessness by her Big Mac chomping housemate. My theory about McDonalds exploiting drunken customers by only serving means only fell on quite hostile ground, but after a while, I finally managed to get a laugh or two out of the girl.
Of course, that’s how I felt I’d come across. In actual fact I may have seemed like a blithering idiot. The girl from the McDonalds toilet thought so, at least initially. It’s so hard for me to tell. I mean, I could have just imagined all the good stuff.
Anyway, whilst I was on top, I felt really good. Of course, it wasn’t to last. The manic phase would, as was always the case, be followed by a massive come down. This time, I would have to say, it was a hell of a lot worse and longer lasting than usual. My evening on high, as it turns out would cost me a couple of days in the doldrums. It all started when I left everybody else behind so as I could find my nightbus. Typically, and this seemed to be the public transport trend for the evening, I managed to miss the bus by a few seconds. One day I really must try and remember exactly where it is that I catch a Harrow bound nightbus. Having to checks practically all the routes posted by every bus stop around Trafalgar Square is a bit of a bind. Usually, when I get the nightbus back, I head straight upstairs. This time however, I took a seat downstairs, just behind the exit doors. Unfortunately my inferior vantage point was made worse by the dirt caked across the window next to me
So I spent the trip back staring despondently out of the grime stained window, desperately trying to work out if the bus really was going in the right direction (I don’t trust night bus drivers. Not after the night when I ended up having to walk all the way home from Sudbury one night despite the driver’s insistence that the bus was bound for Harrow). I was distracted only by a need to curse the crapness of my new iPod remote. This particular one had cost £30 but was probably more useless than the cheap eBay crap I’d just had to send back. And so it was from Harrow Bus Station that I was forced to walk home with only the mildly distorted music coming from my iPod to keep me company throughout the freezing cold night. Actually, for the sake of accuracy, I should say that I pressed the button to get off right before Harrow Bus Station (there really are far to many stops on most bus routes if you ask me). Despite the fact that I only had to get up from a seat right behind the door, the bus driver still managed to shut it in my face before I exited. I really do hate those guys. Would it be terribly paranoid of me to say that I’m sure they all have it in for me?
I went though my front door mere moments after four and prepared a snack of cheese toasted on baguette (lovely with some ketchup on top) to help soothe me though the hangover that had already started before the night had come to an end.
I spent much of Sunday in bed, not arising until after 2pm and then returning to bed once more at 6.30. Today I fared little better. I had no desire to leave the house, but if I wanted to claim the money back for my defective iPod remote I would, by necessity, have to make a trip to Watford. Of course I could have simply gone to Harrow Town Centre, but that place would have just depressed me even further. Invariably, what with it being Christmas, there would be even more Charity collectors littering the streets, and I was in no mood to deal with any of them, at least not with any civility. Fortunately, HMV accepted the remote back with no trouble whatsoever. On the way back I picked up some essential supplies from Tesco (Doritos, Pringles and yet more Pepsi Max), availed myself of their cheap petrol made even cheaper by a voucher good for a 5p per litre discount, and headed back home.
In the last few days I’ve been sometimes up and sometimes down. Today I’ve mostly been fine. Yesterday I was fine whilst I was helping my friend to fix his PC (and simultaneously realising how much better Macs are, but that’s for another post), but after he left I felt just as bad as ever.
By the way, as a postscript to this, I do think I may have, on Saturday, said something to one of my friends that, due to my gabbery, inarticulate nature at the time, may have been easy to misinterpret. I will say right now, I meant no real offence, that is, if any was caused.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Big Weekend Part 1
Well I didn’t manage to get anything written on Sunday. I’ll go in to why a little bit later. Let’s just say I was pretty busy this weekend. My whistle-stop tour of Eastbourne on Friday was quite exhausting. I’d actually intended to take my laptop along so that I could write on the train, and then head back home the next day. However, given that I was definitely going to be having a big night on Saturday, I realised that would be a terrible idea. In other words, I acknowledge the fact that I’m getting older now and probably can’t handle the pace. Or it could just be that I didn’t want to spend the night (alone, I should add) in a bed that wasn’t my own.
After managing to miss both my trains by mere seconds, I arrived in Eastbourne a little latter that I’d hoped, at 4.45pm. Actually, to be completely accurate, I made it on time for the second one, but was told, all too harshly by some Hitleresqe station attendant, that I couldn’t board. After he made his fascistic declaration, there was then at least a 20 second delay before the train left the platform. These little bastards do like to abuse the little bit of power they have. I would have actually ignored him had I not been convinced that the train door wouldn’t have opened if I’d pressed the open/close button. Next time that happens I’ll simply pay the little prick no attention whatsoever. Rude fucker. Anyway, after a 30 minute wait, the next train bound for Eastbourne set off.
I entertained myself on the journey by watching the quite excellent Nathan Barley on my iPod. I’m not sure why, but it all seemed to resonate far more this time round than it did on first viewing. Perhaps, I didn’t pay quite as much attention to the show as I should have. I suspect, however, that it’s more likely that, in the intervening years since first watching it, I’ve simply become more jaded and cynical and, as such, I’m more in tune with the tone of the whole thing.
A little way in to episode four, the train finally pulled in to Eastbourne. Obviously I didn’t see an awful lot of the town, what with it being dark, but I was quite surprised by the comparative lack of pubs. After my friend collected me from the station, I remember seeing only one other pub on the way to our final destination, which must have been a good 750m from our starting point.
The whole idea of the trip to Eastbourne was to help celebrate my friend’s birthday. As it turned out it wasn’t actually his birthday until two weeks later. They’d simply decided to celebrate it that Friday due to the fact that the next Friday was his work’s Christmas dinner and, on the one after that, he’d be visiting his parents in Ireland. In many ways I could have done without going all the way down there on that particular weekend given how busy I would be the following day. Still, in many ways, finding out that it wasn’t actually his birthday came as something of a relief. I’d felt sure that Facebook, MS Outlook or my phone would have reminded me of my friends birthday (one or all three usually did with practically everyone else’s), so it was good to know that my usual technological support system hadn’t actually fallen apart.
Early on, the discussion concentrated on what everybody had ordered for their Christmas dinner and I worried that, for the whole evening, I would be subjected to the esotericism of work based conversation. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case and, as the alcohol flowed, the evening gradually became more enjoyable, especially after I stumbled upon a little more common ground.
That said, by 9.15pm, when I had to leave to get my train back, I was pretty much ok with going home. I suspect I didn’t make a great impression on my friend’s colleagues (most of my jocular comments were greeted only by perplexed gazes), but then again, I suspect that I probably won’t end up seeing them again anyway. I get the feeling that staff are quite transient. Still, it was good to see my mate again. It’s a shame we don’t get the opportunity to meet up more often really.
After a bunch of delays on the tube, I made it back by 1ish and set my alarm for 12pm. I was knackered, but I had to get up in time to collect my Crumpler Crippy Duck laptop messenger bag that the postman had, apparently, tried to deliver the day before. He’s left a card saying that nobody had been in when he called, but since the house had been occupied for the whole of Friday morning, I suspect that he simply hadn’t been able to sum up the requisite intellectual prowess to ring the doorbell and let his presence be known. They do seem to do that a lot actually. It’s not as if the doorbell is cunningly concealed. It’s quite obvious; all you have to do is look.
So, that’s Friday out the way. I think I’ll save Saturday's events for the next post.
After managing to miss both my trains by mere seconds, I arrived in Eastbourne a little latter that I’d hoped, at 4.45pm. Actually, to be completely accurate, I made it on time for the second one, but was told, all too harshly by some Hitleresqe station attendant, that I couldn’t board. After he made his fascistic declaration, there was then at least a 20 second delay before the train left the platform. These little bastards do like to abuse the little bit of power they have. I would have actually ignored him had I not been convinced that the train door wouldn’t have opened if I’d pressed the open/close button. Next time that happens I’ll simply pay the little prick no attention whatsoever. Rude fucker. Anyway, after a 30 minute wait, the next train bound for Eastbourne set off.
I entertained myself on the journey by watching the quite excellent Nathan Barley on my iPod. I’m not sure why, but it all seemed to resonate far more this time round than it did on first viewing. Perhaps, I didn’t pay quite as much attention to the show as I should have. I suspect, however, that it’s more likely that, in the intervening years since first watching it, I’ve simply become more jaded and cynical and, as such, I’m more in tune with the tone of the whole thing.
A little way in to episode four, the train finally pulled in to Eastbourne. Obviously I didn’t see an awful lot of the town, what with it being dark, but I was quite surprised by the comparative lack of pubs. After my friend collected me from the station, I remember seeing only one other pub on the way to our final destination, which must have been a good 750m from our starting point.
The whole idea of the trip to Eastbourne was to help celebrate my friend’s birthday. As it turned out it wasn’t actually his birthday until two weeks later. They’d simply decided to celebrate it that Friday due to the fact that the next Friday was his work’s Christmas dinner and, on the one after that, he’d be visiting his parents in Ireland. In many ways I could have done without going all the way down there on that particular weekend given how busy I would be the following day. Still, in many ways, finding out that it wasn’t actually his birthday came as something of a relief. I’d felt sure that Facebook, MS Outlook or my phone would have reminded me of my friends birthday (one or all three usually did with practically everyone else’s), so it was good to know that my usual technological support system hadn’t actually fallen apart.
Early on, the discussion concentrated on what everybody had ordered for their Christmas dinner and I worried that, for the whole evening, I would be subjected to the esotericism of work based conversation. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case and, as the alcohol flowed, the evening gradually became more enjoyable, especially after I stumbled upon a little more common ground.
That said, by 9.15pm, when I had to leave to get my train back, I was pretty much ok with going home. I suspect I didn’t make a great impression on my friend’s colleagues (most of my jocular comments were greeted only by perplexed gazes), but then again, I suspect that I probably won’t end up seeing them again anyway. I get the feeling that staff are quite transient. Still, it was good to see my mate again. It’s a shame we don’t get the opportunity to meet up more often really.
After a bunch of delays on the tube, I made it back by 1ish and set my alarm for 12pm. I was knackered, but I had to get up in time to collect my Crumpler Crippy Duck laptop messenger bag that the postman had, apparently, tried to deliver the day before. He’s left a card saying that nobody had been in when he called, but since the house had been occupied for the whole of Friday morning, I suspect that he simply hadn’t been able to sum up the requisite intellectual prowess to ring the doorbell and let his presence be known. They do seem to do that a lot actually. It’s not as if the doorbell is cunningly concealed. It’s quite obvious; all you have to do is look.
So, that’s Friday out the way. I think I’ll save Saturday's events for the next post.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Normal service will resume shortly
I'm afraid there's no proper blog entry today, so I'll have to break my promise to tell you more about my strange dreams. I was trying to finish off a post, but, for some reason, I was finding it incredibly difficult. Anyway, the writing then lead of onto an unexpected tangent and I've ended up typing reams of stuff about something totally unrelated. Unfortunately, it's a bit of a mess at the moment, which is why I'm not publishing it tonight. Once I've knocked it all in to shape I'll stick it on the blog for your reading pleasure. Rest assured though, I'll definitely be back with something after the weekend.
The next couple of days are going to be pretty hectic for me, which is why I won't have time to post anything until Sunday at the earliest. Tomorrow (Friday), I'm off to Eastbourne for a friend’s birthday. I'll be staying over for the night and then, rushing straight back home the next day. From there I'll be meeting up with a whole bunch of friends for a night of yet more drinking. Actually, I may not post on Sunday after all since there's a very real possibility that, by that time, I'll be dead.
I'm determined not to let this blog die, so I do intend to keep posting regularly, every day if I can, mortality permitting.
I'll give you a little update on the highlights of my boring arse life before I go.
The replacement iPod remote I ordered came through. That didn't work either, so I've sent it back for a refund. It looks like there's definitely some sort of compatibility issue with the iPod Touch, something that was confirmed by the message I got from the original seller. Maybe I’m not cursed after all.
Unfortunately, that discovery left me with only one option. If I wanted to have control over my iPod whilst it resided safely in my pocket, I'd have to buy something more expensive. One short trip to the Watford Branch of HMV and £29.99 later and I was the proud owner of a Gear4 Blueye.
The Blueye does seem pretty good. It has an FM radio and bluetooth connectivity, effectively allowing you to use your ipod as a bluetooth headset for you phone. I'll probably never use the radio (on the iPod Touch there's no on screen indication of what station your listening to), though I may, at some point, make use of the bluetooth headset functionality. I've missed a hell of a lot of phone calls because I've been listening to my iPod whilst I've been walking down the street, an act which, in itself, tends to negate the phones vibration alert. With this, the phone call is channelled through to my iPod headphones, the music stops and I can talk to whoever is on the other end of the line via the remote's built in microphone. In other words, it works exactly like any other bluetooth headset.
It's all very nice, of course, but I cant help thinking that I would have rather stuck with spending only £3.99 for basic remote functionality, which was, after all, the only thing I really needed.
On the plus side, last night I managed to win the auction (though there was no other competition) for the laptop bag I wanted. It's made by a company called Crumpler who seem to give all their bags the most bizarre name. The particular bag I won is a vertical messenger bag called the "Crippy Duck". It's pretty big, and it should be large enough to hold a 17" laptop, which will come in handy because it'll hold the 16.4" Sony laptop that I may pick up once I finally get fed up with my trusty Samsung X15. However, the most important thing is that it should be large enough to act as a carry on bag for when I go away next year. I intend to stick another, smaller messenger bag inside of that (I've currently got my eye on an auction for another Crumpler bag, The Ed McBain's Lovechild) containing all my electronic goodies. That I'll use as my day bag for when I'm walking around seeing the sites or hanging out in cafes and bars.
Just in case you're interested my Crippy Duck cost £13.99 and comes in a fetching combo of navy blue and silver. The seller posted the bag the day after the auction finished, so hopefully I should be taking delivery of it within the next couple of days.
Well, that ended up being quite a long post after all that. It wasn’t particularly interesting, but at least it was something.
The next couple of days are going to be pretty hectic for me, which is why I won't have time to post anything until Sunday at the earliest. Tomorrow (Friday), I'm off to Eastbourne for a friend’s birthday. I'll be staying over for the night and then, rushing straight back home the next day. From there I'll be meeting up with a whole bunch of friends for a night of yet more drinking. Actually, I may not post on Sunday after all since there's a very real possibility that, by that time, I'll be dead.
I'm determined not to let this blog die, so I do intend to keep posting regularly, every day if I can, mortality permitting.
I'll give you a little update on the highlights of my boring arse life before I go.
The replacement iPod remote I ordered came through. That didn't work either, so I've sent it back for a refund. It looks like there's definitely some sort of compatibility issue with the iPod Touch, something that was confirmed by the message I got from the original seller. Maybe I’m not cursed after all.
Unfortunately, that discovery left me with only one option. If I wanted to have control over my iPod whilst it resided safely in my pocket, I'd have to buy something more expensive. One short trip to the Watford Branch of HMV and £29.99 later and I was the proud owner of a Gear4 Blueye.
The Blueye does seem pretty good. It has an FM radio and bluetooth connectivity, effectively allowing you to use your ipod as a bluetooth headset for you phone. I'll probably never use the radio (on the iPod Touch there's no on screen indication of what station your listening to), though I may, at some point, make use of the bluetooth headset functionality. I've missed a hell of a lot of phone calls because I've been listening to my iPod whilst I've been walking down the street, an act which, in itself, tends to negate the phones vibration alert. With this, the phone call is channelled through to my iPod headphones, the music stops and I can talk to whoever is on the other end of the line via the remote's built in microphone. In other words, it works exactly like any other bluetooth headset.
It's all very nice, of course, but I cant help thinking that I would have rather stuck with spending only £3.99 for basic remote functionality, which was, after all, the only thing I really needed.
On the plus side, last night I managed to win the auction (though there was no other competition) for the laptop bag I wanted. It's made by a company called Crumpler who seem to give all their bags the most bizarre name. The particular bag I won is a vertical messenger bag called the "Crippy Duck". It's pretty big, and it should be large enough to hold a 17" laptop, which will come in handy because it'll hold the 16.4" Sony laptop that I may pick up once I finally get fed up with my trusty Samsung X15. However, the most important thing is that it should be large enough to act as a carry on bag for when I go away next year. I intend to stick another, smaller messenger bag inside of that (I've currently got my eye on an auction for another Crumpler bag, The Ed McBain's Lovechild) containing all my electronic goodies. That I'll use as my day bag for when I'm walking around seeing the sites or hanging out in cafes and bars.
Just in case you're interested my Crippy Duck cost £13.99 and comes in a fetching combo of navy blue and silver. The seller posted the bag the day after the auction finished, so hopefully I should be taking delivery of it within the next couple of days.
Well, that ended up being quite a long post after all that. It wasn’t particularly interesting, but at least it was something.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Dreams that almost certainly won’t come true. Part 1
Wait, I’ve just thought of something vaguely interesting. My dreams seem to be having a profound effect on me recently. I’m not sure If I’ve mentioned this already. If I have, here’s a recap. The unfortunate problem with dreams is that as time passes, they gradually fade from your memory. Lat week I had a dream that left me completely stressed out when I woke up. Yet, I can’t recall a single thing that happened in it.
Another time I had a sort of Science-fictiony dream. The details are a little hazy, but I do remember that I was in one of a series of futuristic-style houses on a long stretch of quite white-sanded beach. The decoration was kind of minimalistic. Everything was gleaming white and pristine, kind of like a combination of the bridge of the Enterprise in the new Star Trek film (I had just seen the new trailer the night before, so I guess that could have been an influence) and an Apple store. I actually thought it all looked pretty nice. Kind of like my ideal combination of technology and nature. For some reason I’ve always wanted to live by water. I have no real idea why. It’s not like I have any childhood memories of near sea dwelling. The closest I’ve ever got to living by a sea or river was when I had my final house in Staines, and I was at least 300 meters away from the banks of the Thames. Maybe it’s some sort of genetic memory or a shared consciousness sort of thing. I am, after all, English, and we are a seafaring nation. Nope, that just sounds like bollocks.
Anyway, that’s just drivel. I’ll get back to the dream. So, I’m sitting happily in my beachfront iHome, when all of a sudden, the strange plain white globe like object in my living room rose up in to the air. At this point I’m a little hazy. I seem to remember it glowing with a purple light and emitting some sort of orange gas. I opened the sliding doors onto the beach and walked outside. It soon became obvious that the same thing had happened to everybody else on the beech. The coastline was gradually becoming enveloped by this strange orange mist. It was then that a girl with short, blonde hair approached me. I think it was the Speedster girl from the TV show Heroes (I’d watched an episode the previous night), though it could have been someone else. I really don’t know. Anyway, we had some sort of conversation (I think it was about what was going on. That would be the obvious thing I guess. After all, the weird spherical things in your living room don’t turn purple and emit an orange gaseous substance every day). She kissed me and left. Then I woke up. Jesus, it seems like every time I write “and then she kissed me” it’s always followed by “then I woke up”. I must sort my life out. Ideally I’d like to reverse the order of those two sentences. Yeah, that would work for me.
I’ll talk about the dream I had a few nights ago in my next post.
Another time I had a sort of Science-fictiony dream. The details are a little hazy, but I do remember that I was in one of a series of futuristic-style houses on a long stretch of quite white-sanded beach. The decoration was kind of minimalistic. Everything was gleaming white and pristine, kind of like a combination of the bridge of the Enterprise in the new Star Trek film (I had just seen the new trailer the night before, so I guess that could have been an influence) and an Apple store. I actually thought it all looked pretty nice. Kind of like my ideal combination of technology and nature. For some reason I’ve always wanted to live by water. I have no real idea why. It’s not like I have any childhood memories of near sea dwelling. The closest I’ve ever got to living by a sea or river was when I had my final house in Staines, and I was at least 300 meters away from the banks of the Thames. Maybe it’s some sort of genetic memory or a shared consciousness sort of thing. I am, after all, English, and we are a seafaring nation. Nope, that just sounds like bollocks.
Anyway, that’s just drivel. I’ll get back to the dream. So, I’m sitting happily in my beachfront iHome, when all of a sudden, the strange plain white globe like object in my living room rose up in to the air. At this point I’m a little hazy. I seem to remember it glowing with a purple light and emitting some sort of orange gas. I opened the sliding doors onto the beach and walked outside. It soon became obvious that the same thing had happened to everybody else on the beech. The coastline was gradually becoming enveloped by this strange orange mist. It was then that a girl with short, blonde hair approached me. I think it was the Speedster girl from the TV show Heroes (I’d watched an episode the previous night), though it could have been someone else. I really don’t know. Anyway, we had some sort of conversation (I think it was about what was going on. That would be the obvious thing I guess. After all, the weird spherical things in your living room don’t turn purple and emit an orange gaseous substance every day). She kissed me and left. Then I woke up. Jesus, it seems like every time I write “and then she kissed me” it’s always followed by “then I woke up”. I must sort my life out. Ideally I’d like to reverse the order of those two sentences. Yeah, that would work for me.
I’ll talk about the dream I had a few nights ago in my next post.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Bad Karma?
No sex, but yet more electrical dysfunction. Things are kind of getting ridiculous now. Of the last four electrical items I’ve bought, I’ve had some sort of problem with three of them. Here’s an account of today’s misfortune. After getting fed up with having to keep taking my iPod Touch out of my pocket every time I wanted to operate it, I finally splashed out £3.99 on a remote control from eBay. Perhaps, given the price, I should have expected it, but the remote control didn’t work. Actually, I suspect that the idiocy of the eBay seller had something to do with why it didn’t work. The genius had decided that the ideal packaging for a delicate electrical item would be a single letter envelope. No padding, no jiffy bag, just an envelope. There really are a lot of morons out there. This is actually the second time someone on eBay has tried to send me something in an envelope. The first time all I got was an envelope with an invoice inside. The large tear up the side of the envelope had taken care of the mp3 player battery I’d ordered. At least the guy sent me another one. Of course, that one came in an envelope too, but at least he’d reinforced the sides with sellotape. Seriously, what is wrong with people? Has there been a worldwide shortage of common sense? Maybe I should just stop ordering stuff from eBay? That would definitely be the sensible thing to do. Of course I won’t. My misplaced optimism will make sure of that.
Anyway, I contacted the seller and, because he doesn’t have a replacement, he’s asked me to send it back to him. Obviously that's a bit of a pain in the arse. I’ve ordered an identical one from another eBay seller, so hopefully that’ll work out better. I’m actually also on the lookout for a funky laptop messenger bag. I’m going to try to get a smallish one (for day to day travel with my mini-laptop) and a largish one that I can use both for my bigger laptop and as hand luggage for when I go travelling. Actually, it’s looking more and more likely that I’ll be going travelling to America next year. One of the major things that stopped me from doing it this year was money. Next year, I’ll hopefully have a job. Hopefully. You really can’t guarantee anything with me. Anyway, I have some friends who have, for various reasons, expressed an interest in heading out there next year. I did kind of want to do the trip on my own, but the one thing that held me back was the expense. A single traveller pretty much pays twice as much whenever he lays his head down on a hotel pillow. With two people per room, the cost is essentially halved. I’ll go in to more detail about this some other time, but only if it looks like it’s going to work out. Basically one of my friends wants to do the New York Marathon next November. A few others might want to give it a go too. Obviously I wound never do something so crazy. I’d probably die if I tried. No, instead, I’ll just avail myself of the opportunity to board with someone. After that, another friend has suggested travelling to Boston and Niagara Falls. That would more or less mean that I’d be covering much the same ground as I would have done on this years abortive trip.
Anyway, a pretty short post today. Then again, there’s only so much you can write about when the only time you’ve left the house is to get your weekly shopping. For anybody who’s interested, I bought some milk, A large packet of Hot Chilli Doritos, 2x 2litre bottles of Pepsi Max, Orange Juice, bread (Hovis, medium sliced), 2x fresh Tescos Italian Margarita pizzas, Spaghetti in Tomato Sauce and some shower gel.
I really do have to come up with something better to write tomorrow, because this post seemed kind of desperate.
Anyway, I contacted the seller and, because he doesn’t have a replacement, he’s asked me to send it back to him. Obviously that's a bit of a pain in the arse. I’ve ordered an identical one from another eBay seller, so hopefully that’ll work out better. I’m actually also on the lookout for a funky laptop messenger bag. I’m going to try to get a smallish one (for day to day travel with my mini-laptop) and a largish one that I can use both for my bigger laptop and as hand luggage for when I go travelling. Actually, it’s looking more and more likely that I’ll be going travelling to America next year. One of the major things that stopped me from doing it this year was money. Next year, I’ll hopefully have a job. Hopefully. You really can’t guarantee anything with me. Anyway, I have some friends who have, for various reasons, expressed an interest in heading out there next year. I did kind of want to do the trip on my own, but the one thing that held me back was the expense. A single traveller pretty much pays twice as much whenever he lays his head down on a hotel pillow. With two people per room, the cost is essentially halved. I’ll go in to more detail about this some other time, but only if it looks like it’s going to work out. Basically one of my friends wants to do the New York Marathon next November. A few others might want to give it a go too. Obviously I wound never do something so crazy. I’d probably die if I tried. No, instead, I’ll just avail myself of the opportunity to board with someone. After that, another friend has suggested travelling to Boston and Niagara Falls. That would more or less mean that I’d be covering much the same ground as I would have done on this years abortive trip.
Anyway, a pretty short post today. Then again, there’s only so much you can write about when the only time you’ve left the house is to get your weekly shopping. For anybody who’s interested, I bought some milk, A large packet of Hot Chilli Doritos, 2x 2litre bottles of Pepsi Max, Orange Juice, bread (Hovis, medium sliced), 2x fresh Tescos Italian Margarita pizzas, Spaghetti in Tomato Sauce and some shower gel.
I really do have to come up with something better to write tomorrow, because this post seemed kind of desperate.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Welcome to the Cult of Steve
I’m still a little astonished that I found this eMac just sitting by the road. It does kind of even out things as far as my electrical yos and woes tally goes. Yes, I had to spend out £81 on fixing my ailing laptop, but I have, over the course of roughly the same time period, managed to get a complete (save for mouse and keyboard) Mac. I think I mentioned in an earlier post that buying an iPod had almost turned me into a Macolyte (do you see what I did there. It’s a bit of a portmanteau, blending together Mac and acolyte. See, I can even do linguistic freestyling. I got the mad skills). Well, this eMac is making a pretty compelling argument to switch teams. It definitely looks a hell of a lot prettier on my desk than my old PC did, especially since I finally took delivery of my white Apple keyboard. The reason it took a whole week to arrive was that the seller didn’t bother to post the thing until Friday. Any time I’ve ever sold anything on eBay I’ve always made sure I posted it as soon as possible. I really don’t understand how somebody could put off doing it for almost a week. Anyway, so that was problem no. 1 with my apple keyboard. Problem no. 2 was potentially more serious. It had a wonky spacebar. I’ve started to get the impression that somebody up there wantsmetotypeeverythinglikethisforeverandever. Fortunately, I completely failed to remember that I’d pledged never to fiddle with things ever again, and promptly set about trying to rectify the problem. As luck would have it, the base of this particular type of apple keyboard is completely transparent, so I was able to actually see what the problem was before I started ripping keys off. Fortunately, this time, I didn’t completely screw things up, so I’m now the proud owner of a new and fully functional Apple keyboard. The thing is, despite the problems I had with delivery delays and disrepair, I was still pretty loathe to give the seller bad feedback. Why? Why could this possibly be? Essentially I got bad service. It took an age to get to me and was kind of broken when it finally made it here. The thing is, I kept thinking of perfectly valid reasons for the problems. What if there was some sort of family emergency that prevented the guy from taking the package to the post office? Besides, when they finally did send the keyboard it went first class, not second class as they’d said in the listing. Subsequently the postage actually cost more that they’d charged (and how often does that happen with eBay stuff). Of course, if they’d posted it several days earlier that wouldn’t have happened, but then I guess t hat wouldn’t have been possible owing to the dead Grandmother (I imagine the family emergency would probably involve the death of an elderly relative. After all, old people seem to die all the time). And as for the (easily repairable) damage; wasn’t it quite likely that the retaining clip for the space bar had come away during transit?
Actually, I haven’t I haven’t dispensed with my PC altogether. It’s still sitting in the integrated PC tower cubby hole on my desk. I’ve simply removed the old, beige monitor and swapped it over for the shiny white eMac. After that I hooked up the PC to my HD telly so that I can use it for downloads and streaming pictures from iPlayer and 4 on demand. Pretty neat huh? Or maybe it’s just a way for me to earn more geek points?
The place where I ordered the laptop keyboard was actually pretty efficient. At least that’s what I thought when the postman handed me a package on Thursday morning. That’s fast work considering the fact that I only ordered it late on Wednesday night. Unfortunately, once I opened the package my glee turned in to disappointment. Whilst the keyboard inside looked just about right, when I tried to fix it into place, it became obvious that they’d set the wrong one. None of the screw hole matched, so it was going to have to go back. I made a cal to the spare parts company and the guy on the other end of the line asked me to send back the incorrect keyboard and email him with some pictures of the one I needed, just to make sure they got it right this time. You’d think that would be easy. After all, all I’d have to do was take a picture with my camera phone, send it to my mini-laptop via Bluetooth, attach it to the email and I’d be done. You’d think that, (I know I did) but then you (and I) would be completely wrong. First off, for some reason, the phone wouldn’t connect to the laptop. I’m going to blame the phone for this. You’ll see why later. After that I tried to whip out the memory card and transfer the file through the memory card slot. Of course I couldn’t do that because I’d been forced to save the pictures onto the phone memory because the memory card was full. I’d actually bought a 4gb SD card, but that seemed to cause my increasingly pedantic phone to crap out, so I was forced to go back to using the 512mb card that came with it. Anyway, I erased some pictures, transferred the photos over to the memory card, shoved the memory card into the laptop, attached the pictures to an email, sent the email, realised that I didn’t have the right email address, called the company back, got the address, resent the email (in which I requested that thy reimburse me for the postage costs. So far they haven’t) and waited. In other words, it was a bit of a pain. After that, I headed off to the post office and handed my package to the typically incompetent staff who completely ignored my request to send it by recorded delivery. Anyway, once I’d finally sorted everything out I walked ou the pot office and set off home. Then I walked right back the way I’d come and walked into the shop neighbouring the post office. I’d pretty much needed a haircut for a fair few weeks now, but since I could never seem to find the time to make it to the barbers (when you have virtually limitless time you spend pretty much all of it doing very little that’s actually constructive) I hadn’t bothered. Now, since I was right outside, I figured that I might as well get a haircut. I think I’m actually starting to develop a pathological fear of haircuts. You’d probably have the same issue too if, every morning when you woke up, you left half your hair on your pillow. The truth is though, and this is going to sound kind of bizarre, I tend to look less bald once they lop off some of my hair. I guess it’s because the weight of the long hair, working in unison with the laws of physics, pulls down the hair from my scalp and opens up a gaping chasm of baldness. Short hair has more of a tendency to lie flat and patch up the gaps. Still, despite that, I’m still quite loath to do it. I just like having long hair. That’s why my Xbox Avatar still has the same haircut I had circa 1999.
On the plus side, they sent out the correct keyboard straight away, and it arrived on Saturday along with the Apple keyboard. No postage refund though, and I’m not sure I can be bothered to hassle them about it. After all, it was only £2.10. Is it really worth the effort? Isn’t my time more valuable than that? That was supposed to be a rhetorical question by the way. Even still I suspect that the answer would be no, my time really isn’t that valulable.
Some way back a couple of paragraphs ago, I bitched a little bit about my current mobile phone, the Sony Ericsson K850i. I think it’s fair to say that I’ve been all that happy with it. In the past I’ve been a bit fan of Sony Ericsson. My last five phones have been made by those guys and each model has been better and more useable than the last. That is, until I got the K850i. On paper, it seems great. Five megapixel camera, SD memory card slot (the old ones would only take the more expensive memory stick cards. The K850i does both), xenon flash…. the list of great features just goes on and on. Unfortunately, the phone is way less than the sum of its parts. Every time I take a close up picture requiring flash, the phone does one of two things. Either the flash isn’t potent enough and all I get is a series of indistinct, silhouette-ish blurs or the flash goes crazy and everyone’s facial features are wiped out by the blinding light. This didn’t happen with my old K800 with its supposedly inferior 3.2 Megapixel camera. Not ever. After a while I noticed a more serious issue. I use my phone as an alarm clock, so it’s kind of vital that it stays functional overnight. Overnight, the phone shut itself off completely. My alarm didn’t go off. Fortunately, through some perversion of nature, I’d got used to waking up in the morning (I’d much rather wait until the afternoon. Midday is a much more civilised hour and I’ll do whatever it takes to get businesses worldwide to recognise this fact), so after a bit of a rush, I managed to make it in to work on time (well, as on time as I ever was). The problem is, the phone keeps shutting itself down at random times. Now, I’m famed for always being contactable through my mobile. The only time I usually won’t answer the phone is when I’m on the tube, and simply because I can’t due to the lack of reception (I do hope they get that sorted out soon. I mean, if the French can do it…) or engaged in an intimate situation (there was a time when that meant I’d be having sex. Ah, halcyon days. Now it just means I’m in the shower or on the bog. Oh, or I could be engaging in some personal intimacy, if you get my meaning). Anyway, if none of that was going on, I’d answer the phone. Now, with this stupid mobile, I could be out of contact at any random time. It’s maddening. It’s completely spoiling my reputation for easy contactability. On the plus side, since I currently don’t have a job, I don’t have to get up in the morning, so there’s no need to worry about the alarm any more.
I’m eligible for an upgrade in February, so at least I’ll be able to pick out a replacement pretty soon.
I’d been thinking about maybe getting an LG Renoir (touchscreen, 8mp camera, gps. On paper it sounds great). Actually, I’ve been so impressed with my iPod Touch that I’m giving some thought to getting an iPhone, despite the woefully inadequate camera and the extortionate tariff (to get anything worthwhile you’ve got to sign up to an 18 month contract costing £35 a month). Under no circumstances would it be vaguely sensible to get another Sony Ericsson phone. Not after I was so badly let down by my current one. I’d have to be completely mad to do it.
Anyway, I’ve weighed up the options, done some extensive research and I think I’ve decided to go for the C905. If you’re curious about what that’s like, you should be able to find it on the Sony Ericsson website.
Oh, and just as a postscript to this… post, my life will get more interesting (hopefully) so with any luck my future entries wont focus so much on the mundane tedium of my existence. Personally I’m hoping to add a little bit more sex in the future.
Actually, I haven’t I haven’t dispensed with my PC altogether. It’s still sitting in the integrated PC tower cubby hole on my desk. I’ve simply removed the old, beige monitor and swapped it over for the shiny white eMac. After that I hooked up the PC to my HD telly so that I can use it for downloads and streaming pictures from iPlayer and 4 on demand. Pretty neat huh? Or maybe it’s just a way for me to earn more geek points?
The place where I ordered the laptop keyboard was actually pretty efficient. At least that’s what I thought when the postman handed me a package on Thursday morning. That’s fast work considering the fact that I only ordered it late on Wednesday night. Unfortunately, once I opened the package my glee turned in to disappointment. Whilst the keyboard inside looked just about right, when I tried to fix it into place, it became obvious that they’d set the wrong one. None of the screw hole matched, so it was going to have to go back. I made a cal to the spare parts company and the guy on the other end of the line asked me to send back the incorrect keyboard and email him with some pictures of the one I needed, just to make sure they got it right this time. You’d think that would be easy. After all, all I’d have to do was take a picture with my camera phone, send it to my mini-laptop via Bluetooth, attach it to the email and I’d be done. You’d think that, (I know I did) but then you (and I) would be completely wrong. First off, for some reason, the phone wouldn’t connect to the laptop. I’m going to blame the phone for this. You’ll see why later. After that I tried to whip out the memory card and transfer the file through the memory card slot. Of course I couldn’t do that because I’d been forced to save the pictures onto the phone memory because the memory card was full. I’d actually bought a 4gb SD card, but that seemed to cause my increasingly pedantic phone to crap out, so I was forced to go back to using the 512mb card that came with it. Anyway, I erased some pictures, transferred the photos over to the memory card, shoved the memory card into the laptop, attached the pictures to an email, sent the email, realised that I didn’t have the right email address, called the company back, got the address, resent the email (in which I requested that thy reimburse me for the postage costs. So far they haven’t) and waited. In other words, it was a bit of a pain. After that, I headed off to the post office and handed my package to the typically incompetent staff who completely ignored my request to send it by recorded delivery. Anyway, once I’d finally sorted everything out I walked ou the pot office and set off home. Then I walked right back the way I’d come and walked into the shop neighbouring the post office. I’d pretty much needed a haircut for a fair few weeks now, but since I could never seem to find the time to make it to the barbers (when you have virtually limitless time you spend pretty much all of it doing very little that’s actually constructive) I hadn’t bothered. Now, since I was right outside, I figured that I might as well get a haircut. I think I’m actually starting to develop a pathological fear of haircuts. You’d probably have the same issue too if, every morning when you woke up, you left half your hair on your pillow. The truth is though, and this is going to sound kind of bizarre, I tend to look less bald once they lop off some of my hair. I guess it’s because the weight of the long hair, working in unison with the laws of physics, pulls down the hair from my scalp and opens up a gaping chasm of baldness. Short hair has more of a tendency to lie flat and patch up the gaps. Still, despite that, I’m still quite loath to do it. I just like having long hair. That’s why my Xbox Avatar still has the same haircut I had circa 1999.
On the plus side, they sent out the correct keyboard straight away, and it arrived on Saturday along with the Apple keyboard. No postage refund though, and I’m not sure I can be bothered to hassle them about it. After all, it was only £2.10. Is it really worth the effort? Isn’t my time more valuable than that? That was supposed to be a rhetorical question by the way. Even still I suspect that the answer would be no, my time really isn’t that valulable.
Some way back a couple of paragraphs ago, I bitched a little bit about my current mobile phone, the Sony Ericsson K850i. I think it’s fair to say that I’ve been all that happy with it. In the past I’ve been a bit fan of Sony Ericsson. My last five phones have been made by those guys and each model has been better and more useable than the last. That is, until I got the K850i. On paper, it seems great. Five megapixel camera, SD memory card slot (the old ones would only take the more expensive memory stick cards. The K850i does both), xenon flash…. the list of great features just goes on and on. Unfortunately, the phone is way less than the sum of its parts. Every time I take a close up picture requiring flash, the phone does one of two things. Either the flash isn’t potent enough and all I get is a series of indistinct, silhouette-ish blurs or the flash goes crazy and everyone’s facial features are wiped out by the blinding light. This didn’t happen with my old K800 with its supposedly inferior 3.2 Megapixel camera. Not ever. After a while I noticed a more serious issue. I use my phone as an alarm clock, so it’s kind of vital that it stays functional overnight. Overnight, the phone shut itself off completely. My alarm didn’t go off. Fortunately, through some perversion of nature, I’d got used to waking up in the morning (I’d much rather wait until the afternoon. Midday is a much more civilised hour and I’ll do whatever it takes to get businesses worldwide to recognise this fact), so after a bit of a rush, I managed to make it in to work on time (well, as on time as I ever was). The problem is, the phone keeps shutting itself down at random times. Now, I’m famed for always being contactable through my mobile. The only time I usually won’t answer the phone is when I’m on the tube, and simply because I can’t due to the lack of reception (I do hope they get that sorted out soon. I mean, if the French can do it…) or engaged in an intimate situation (there was a time when that meant I’d be having sex. Ah, halcyon days. Now it just means I’m in the shower or on the bog. Oh, or I could be engaging in some personal intimacy, if you get my meaning). Anyway, if none of that was going on, I’d answer the phone. Now, with this stupid mobile, I could be out of contact at any random time. It’s maddening. It’s completely spoiling my reputation for easy contactability. On the plus side, since I currently don’t have a job, I don’t have to get up in the morning, so there’s no need to worry about the alarm any more.
I’m eligible for an upgrade in February, so at least I’ll be able to pick out a replacement pretty soon.
I’d been thinking about maybe getting an LG Renoir (touchscreen, 8mp camera, gps. On paper it sounds great). Actually, I’ve been so impressed with my iPod Touch that I’m giving some thought to getting an iPhone, despite the woefully inadequate camera and the extortionate tariff (to get anything worthwhile you’ve got to sign up to an 18 month contract costing £35 a month). Under no circumstances would it be vaguely sensible to get another Sony Ericsson phone. Not after I was so badly let down by my current one. I’d have to be completely mad to do it.
Anyway, I’ve weighed up the options, done some extensive research and I think I’ve decided to go for the C905. If you’re curious about what that’s like, you should be able to find it on the Sony Ericsson website.
Oh, and just as a postscript to this… post, my life will get more interesting (hopefully) so with any luck my future entries wont focus so much on the mundane tedium of my existence. Personally I’m hoping to add a little bit more sex in the future.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
