To Blog or Not to Blog

I had planned to have a totally hedonistic weekend with a friend who came to visit me. She wasn't feeling great though so the weekend I envisaged with girly chats over a bottle of wine and dancing to the wee hours with gorgeous men in the vicinity to flirt with at will wne thorribly wrong. I ended up getting more tipsy at a Christening party attended by no less than 11 babies. To say the whole experience was bizzare would be an understatement. Such is life I suppose.

I did manage to overhear a conversation that will give me an anecdote for the next year on the washout of a weekend. My friend and I sat in a cafe for brunch/lunch and the table next to ours was soon occupied by a group who eptiomosed their own sub section of British culture.
She referred to them as 'Ra-Ras', you may know them as the polo set, toffs, or even the moneyed class. I feel confident in saying that they'd all been to expensive boarding or private schools, have several ponies and don't even bat an eyelid about jetting between their multiple family homes.

Well, safe to say the group became a parody in themselves, sounding exacly like the more affluent members of society who seem to be lampooned on every comedy show going. Their conversation actually contained the sentence 'Where did you meet Zara Phillips again?'
There was then a ten minute conversation between who I think was a brother and sister and another girl which trying to ascertain whether or not they were related to the Twickenham Forsythes or not?

'I think we are you know, on granddaddy's side.'

'I say that IS bizzare. Then you must be related to Millicent, she was my best friend in school AND she lives here now. That is quite bizarre.'

'It is isn't it, very bizarre'

'Well I'll tell you one thing. I'm NEVER going to Hampshire gain, you're all related to each other.'

Cue my friend and I simultaneously deciding to down our cups of tea to stop us from laughing at the absurdity of it all.

At this point, I'd like to make it clear to anyone who doesn't live in the UK that the above specimens are very rare indeed and actually coming into contact with the lesser spotted posh person, is not an everyday occurence for the majority of our small islands population.

Class is not a concept that I usually pay much attention to because of the circles I move in. My friends are from a variety of backgrounds and all are fairly earthy and aware of other sectors of life so to be presented with such an obviously insular group as the above was quite a shock to the system for me. I had forgotten that people like that still existed in the twenty first century.....

It takes all sorts I suppose, and that's where the humor inherent in life lies.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?gl=GB&hl=en-GB&v=1mYY1QGK0jQ

Ok so I haven't written a thing in 10 months, get over it, I have. I didn't have the internet and I'm generally crap.

Apparently people have been looking at the blog though. God knows why, the last entry was about Christmas- Christmas!

On that subject, John Lennon album playing the other day and when 'War is Over' came on with the first line 'So this is Christmas...' I overheard a woman wondering out loud 'Christmas?' in a way that suggested that it had arrived but had somehow escaped her notice.

It was almost as classic as the man looking for 'Catch Her or Catch Him in the Rye'. Sigh.
Stupidity still reigns unfortunately.

What else has been going on in the world? Well, I managed to find a spider (I hate them) which bites. In Britain. In my kitchen. At some random time of the night.
Then there was the guy who tutted at me in the street for no reason. Seeing as I was wearing a coat and jeans, figure he disapproved of my red lipstick, the mark of a harlot apparently. People around me are being all grown up and having babies and moving in with boyfriends and making careers and I'm still spinning round in a rut, surrounded by a self appointed cloud of uncertainty, with mounting pressure to conform to other peoples expectations for me.

The rest is a non ending cycle of work, eating, sleeping, going out, getting confused by idiots and mixed messages from all quarters and my own warped perceptions. Same as anyone else really.

So that's how boring my life is. Not the most auspicious declaration for a would-be writer of sorts. Boredom breeds creativity to prevent numbness of the brain in my experience though.

I promise there'll be some sort of universal theme to the next post, this is more an update to get me back into the swing of opening my thoughts to a public sphere.

Ho Ho Ho and all that jazz.

After weeks of battling stress, drama, illness, complacency and idiocy I've finally got 3 days off to recover, woo!

Christmas is always a weird time and brings out a little bit of the crazy in all of us and society encourages it. So far today, I've tried to understand what the hell was going on in 'Oklahoma!' through the medium of interprative dance, when it looked like some girl was trying to escape sinister Cancan dancers in a house which had no walls, cursed myself for buying my dad a Stylophone and yelled at my grandmother down the phone because it's the only way she can hear me these days. The usual Christmas activities really.

The run up for Christmas has been particularly manic with the whole Credit Crunch and high street woes. Whilst trade has been picking up closer to Christmas and with it bringing a swath of cute guys shopping for presents (yes!) there have also been the ah, how should I put it, 'Christmas-Crazed' shoppers. My favourite was the woman who asked me not once, but twice, whilst using the lift and after using it, where the lift was to take her back downstairs. In her world I guess lifts have the lifespan of a firework, a one time only use. I was also asked if I knew where Jonny Wikinson was (as I'm not his PA I didn't feel licensed to tell a potential stalker his current location) and where we kept our fake moustaches. Add that to the countless requests for diaries, Cheryl Cole's autiobiography and wrapping paper I was ready to renounce Christmas.

I was saved from potential Scroogedom by the completely random and unexpected proccurrement of wrapping paper which meant that I could actually wrap presents this year instead of bribing my sister to do them for me as per usual. Loe and behold, I unrolled the paper to reveal guide lines to cut the paper straight. Halleujah! So I was able to wrap my rectangular shaped presents (which also helped the wrapping miracle) and allowed myself to feel Christmassy and sparkly in time for Christmas Eve, which was nice.

Speaking of Halleujah, Jeff Buckley's version kicks ass and should have been Number 1 over the X-Factor girl and that's all I'll say on the subject.

Mmmm! I smell turkey! I'm looking forward to Christmas dinner, not least because not only am I not cooking it but also because my parents have a dish washer which means no starring at the scummy, blocked sink and the piles of other people's dishes stacked up around my tiny kitchen for days and days on end.

I hope you're all having a good Christmas and doing exactly what I am: pigging out, relaxing and watching lots of good tv. Sheer bliss. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

As I've, hopefully, got quite a few years ahead of me before I can be classed as qualified on the subject of parenthood, I wonder if my musings on the subject bear any validity? Not that I'm about to issue a polemic, just share with you a cluster of random events which have set my mind on this particular bent at late.

I overheard a woman the other day musing over the future of her child. She warily eyed a pair of teenagers before glancing at her child in her buggy and declaring "God I hope she doesn't grow up to be an Emo! I hate Emos. I wouldn't mind if she was a punk though: I quite like a mohawk." This got me thinking - do most parents look at their child's particular and generally bizarre fads and groan? Or do they take it in their stride as another step on the joyous journey which is parenthood? Did the parents of the girl I spied today dressed like a Thundercat, complete with a cat shaped hat and orange feline contact lenses wince when she waltzed down the stairs this morning? Was it an expression of her 'creativity' or is it in fact a rebellion against her self-professed 'dog people' parents?* What about those really obnoxious kids you see in supermarket queues, kicking up a fuss and generally showing themselves up? Is this just a mini annoyance to their long suffering parents or does it make them die inside to have their child rail against them so unfairly?

That type of problem doesn't seem to exist with really small children. It's a nature thing. All baby animals are cute so that adults 'coo' and 'ah' over them and ensure their DNA gets passed on. A male friend of mine for instance went all gooey the other day when he saw a little boy hug a little girl. He had an 'expectant parent' glow when he was telling me about 'the sweetest thing' he'd ever seen. Not that he is expecting, it's just that I know he's been having the children discussion with his girlfriend of late and genuinely seems thrilled at the prospect of being a dad in the not so distant future.

Actually, all the parents I know are very happy. They get a special kind of glow when they talk about their children. Another friend of mine who's already a father, is obviously a doting dad: I never thought I'd see someone so happy when discussing a baby's constant, ear-piercing scream caused by constipation (information, I hastily add, voluntarily given on his part and not actively sought out by me).

Childhood from a parents view must be a trial, after all the late nights, screaming matches, school, food and health worries and finally the teenage backlash, it should be a relief to have an adult child at last; 'should' being the operative word here.

I don't know about you, but when I see a celebrity or some random person doing something daft and generally embarrassing themselves, one of the first things that goes through my head is 'What would your parents say?' Glamour models for instance or porn stars, or, on a less intense and seedy note; Stephen Fry getting drunk on TV.

Ok he is a national treasure and is allowed to get away with it and if his autobiography s anything to go by (which I recommend reading by the way, it's very good) seeing their son getting a bit squiffy on national TV is probably a relief to his parents. I could imagine the ear bashing from my parents if it was me. Of course, it was all the name of serious journalism and to find the best tasting Bourbon in the South for his new TV show which I'm thoroughly enjoying. Right now, he's floating over an autumnal scene in a hot air balloon, reminding me that autumn is well and truly here.

It is my second autumn of the year, one in each hemisphere. So I've had the leaves turning crispy twice, the nights drawing in and the days getting colder twice in the space of six months. Anyway, it's getting colder, the heating is on and I've got a lovely new winter coat to keep me warm on cold frosty mornings. I like autumn, it's encourages my inner child to come out to play, be it stomping through leaves or dressing up for Halloween. I'm not ready to give up every vestige of my childhood yet. When do you have more fun than when you forget about what other people think about you (like a kid does)or can wear whatever you want without people looking at you like you're mad or laughing until your sides ache? Maybe parenthood isn't a bed of roses, but getting to act like a kid when you're playing with your child? I’m guessing that's one of its main appeals. I think I’ll stick to just behaving a child for now.

*Inverted commas added around the word 'creativity' because there was a whole bunch of strangely dressed teens and I'm not sure that Cardiff's answer to Cosplay can really be called creative when all their outfits were a) all shop bought and not hand made or customized and b) chosen on the basis that they would be approved by the other members of the group- thus negating it's creativity and daringness.

There are some very simple ways to tell when the financial world is going belly up. People panic, no one can sell a house, Iceland goes bankrupt and the news is covered with tales of doom and gloom and, of course, the cost of living rockets. Now most economic advisors would compare the price of milk and bread to a year ago. I however am not an economist and therefore have come up wih my own price index- the price of a pack of Munchies.

Now Munchies are an expensive chocolate at the best of times, but I actually bought a pack for, wait for it, 70p yesterday. They were to combat a bout of lunchtime depression brought about by life in general and feeling rubbish due to the first cold of the winter. The thought of paying 70p was so depressing it almost pushed me into buying a second pack to comabat the illl effects on my psyche and purse that the first produced. I resisted temptation though. I settled for a milky way instead.

And to make money matters worse, I found a letter this morning addressed to the occupier saying we owe British Gas money and they'll send around bayliffs if we don't pay up. We're not even with British Gas, we only moved in a month ago. Apparently we owe money since January 2007. Couple that with emergency tax after 3 months on a basic wage and I'm completely broke. But apparently better off than a whole frozen country which makes cheap burgers. Or something to that effect.

Yesterday was a Wednesday, as I'm sure you are all aware. Being an alliteration fiend and prone to generalisation and categorisation, I have dubbed the middle of the week as 'Wacky Wednesdays' and yesterday was wacky on so many levels.

The name started because it happens to be my busiest day in work when it comes to workload and coincidentally is the day that everyone needs a bit of extra help and hand holding so I'm generally run off my feet. This is a phenomena experienced by most of work colleagues from the nods of agreement and complaints about weird questions and customers. My favourite yesterday was a woman who wanted books with a larger typeface than the one she was holding in her hand. Not a large print book you understand, just larger print than the size she had. Her only other requirement was that it was fiction. Apparently I was supposed to know how big the font was in every book. It's at times like this x-ray vision would be a bonus in life.

Then there was my friend who bought a goldfish for her boyfriend and had it hidden in a locker in work before she could take him home. Weirder still, the fish was basically sedated with this stuff that goes in the water to 'calm' the fish down as well as balance chlorine levels from the tap water- a kind of fish opiate it would seem. The poor fish looked so depressed and confused swimming around in the dark. Probably didn't help that everyone kept opening the locker to have a peak and make sure he hadn't gone belly up. Or that we put a leaflet with a kitten on it next to the bowl to see it's reaction.

I also managed to get absolutely drenched on the way too and from work. I may as well have gone wading in the river. The heavens opened literally as I stepped out the door sans umbrella without time to hunt for it properly, bucketed down for the entire fifteen minute walk to the train station in which I discovered that my trainers really, really need replacing now that the sole of the shoe is coming away and letting in all the water. Owning canvas shoes and living in Wales is not the brightest idea, but I do soldier on. Despite having a sopping wet right foot. And then of course, it stopped raining the minute I got on the train. Sod's law isn't it?

Of course, it stayed dry in the run up to leaving work and then mimicked a biblical flood as I stepped out of the door and had exactly the same problem on the way to the train station that I did 9 hours earlier. I got more wet on the three minute walk from work than I did on the fifteen minute one from home. I was also carrying big cardboard boxes for packing (more later) so I was getting drenched and alternating between shielding the front of my body with the boxes to using them as an umbrella, getting weird looks from all the smokers hunched together like cattle in the awnings of pub doorways.

If that wasn't a weird enough sight on a Tuesday evening, I finally make it into the relatively dry station and see that I was actually pretty normal looking (even if I did resembled a drowned rat)compared to a soggy Sylvester and Tweety Pie on the opposite platform. Then after watching the rail staff teasing people by changing the platform number of a train and dangling a carrot train, as it were, on the original platform ('The train on Platform B is not for public use. The Train for a Valley Town an Hour Away has moved to Platform G...') and watching the panicked and scurrying masses adapting to this quick change, the carrot train as I've dubbed it, pulled off and I noticed that it's been named after a certain prominent and living Welshman's honour. That narrows the list down considerably doesn't it? Yep, one carriage proudly bore the name 'Sir Tom Jones'. So yeah, definitely Wacky Wednesday.

In other news, I've finally got my house! Yay! It's small but really nice. Unfortunately the stress hasn't quite abated yet as we have only one front door key between 3 of us which is causing all manner of problems even though only one of us is in there at the moment. And then of course there's the flakey roomy who is on again off again with the idiot boyfriend who may or may not be moving away (read not: he's too lazy too hold down a job, he's not going to cart his arse across country) which is sending me and my other house mate into a blind panic worrying that he is going to try and move in with us. This is not going to happen, I won't let it. He's a grade A f********* and words I won't even hint at in print. I do not want to live in a house where I've got two people at each others throats all the time. I suppose it's her choice at the end of the day if she stays with him or not but he makes her absolutely miserable, she's always crying she's never happy, she's drawn, pale and not eating properly and he treats her like rubbish. He mentally and emotionally abuses her and everyone can see it but her, the one person who really needs to see it! It's very frustrating and I worry about her.

I should be packing right now so I can move in this weekend. It's exciting but a bit scary too. I've lived away from home before, but this is properly moving out now, not having 2 houses on the go. Look at me, I'm all grown up (wipes away tear) how did it happen so fast?

As the title of the post suggests, there's no central theme to this entry, rather some random musings and an excuse to write (I've been getting itchy typing fingers).

Topic Numero Uno:
First up, 85 page views by 18 visitors, in one day???? What's up with that? I log onto my page today and that's what the stats are claiming for today, the 18th of August 2008. surely that's a mistake? I'll put it down to a technological failure or people skipping between my blog and the ones either side with the 'next blog button' I'm not delusional enough to believe my prose are that inspiring. Perhaps someone out there has decided my blog is actually a coded message from outer space and if they are persistent enough and look at the page say, ooo roughly 62 times, the co-ordinates to the meeting place where Superman will reveal his awesome super powers to the world will be revealed (or something equally ridiculous to that effect).

Topic Number Two:
The House Hunt Horror Saga rolls on as I once again trudge into the war zone to go House Hunting tomorrow. For those keeping up with my woes, notice how it's gone back to a house hunt, that is because the original third person has changed her mind (I think, I'm trying not to dwell on the alternative here, it might trigger a nervous breakdown at this point in proceedings)and is leaving her wanker of a boyfriend (she says...) so I'm back to trawling for nice 3 bed places. It's a much easier and cheaper task in the long run, which makes me happy, but doesn't get rid of the stress and general worry because now I've got two people who seem to be relying on me to rescue them from their housing nightmares.

Hopefully it will be better than last week which due to a 'clerical error' (so they said) I was left crying in the street with my lovely sis having to comfort me and sort me out cos I was upset angry and incredibly wound up by said error. In summation then: it's still a nightmare and I'm steadily loosing optimism.

Topic the Third
I found a new reason to worry today as the new computers with funky touch screens have started to be installed in work. It's only a matter of time before I'm unveiled as the walking, technological disaster that I am. Oddly enough I had managed to conceal it quite well, until now that is. I am about to be unmasked.

Topic Goes Fourth
Writers block is slowly being lifted due to necessity. I've spent quite a lot of time recently being forced to stay in strategic areas of traffic flow at work in case anyone should need help (but as Murphy's law would have it, they only ask when I'm actually doing something else, not waiting round like a muppet for someone to ask me a question) and in order to make sure I survive these periods of staring into space... Sorry! I mean, of course, looking attentive and eager to help, my mind has been free to wander and actively seek inspiration which all in all has been very useful so far. Also got an offer of a proofreader from a budding author friend of mine which is useful (he's also a teacher so he can mark critically, which is what I need)

Topic Five
Have finally got myself a copy of this kid’s book I've been after for ages which I have never read before but remember with fondness due to a TV series (good old BBC!). Does anyone else remember Elidor? The door in the series always reminded me of my grandmothers front door which led to the tradition of peering around the staircase gingerly every time I came down from upstairs or out of the living room and trying to get to the other side of the hall and the safety of either the living room or the stairs (depending on the direction of travel) in as few steps as possible in order to thwart the machinations of the dark people in Elidor. My personal best was two steps; one precarious and short-lived leap to the centre of the room right opposite the hazardous letterbox (the visual aid of the bad guys)before making a final leap to safety.

Topic the Penultimate
I've been listening to a rather varied mix of tunes whilst composing this including the mighty Pearl Jam, the unstoppable Duran Duran ('Please, please tell me now!') and the truly brilliant Cure. All are brilliant for various reasons and all are making me grin like a Cheshire Cat

Topic the Final
My birthday is looming in less than a month which means the Annual Internal Life Review and Audit (the A.I.L.R.A. if you want an acronym) is underway which generally leaves me depressed, unmotivated and regretful. I'm going to be awful when I get to an actual significant birthday if I'm like this in my twenties. Due to the generally awful conditions which face me around the day of my birth each year (I tell you, the Universe has a homing beacon for it, strikes every year without fail) I dread this event for weeks to come especially when my mother gets that look on her face and does that arm gesture which accompanies the phrase 'Now, please just THINK about what you would like to do for your birthday.' This is closely followed by a general ban and lifting of permission for me to buy anything for myself as ‘someone may have already got it for you', which never happens so I've deprived myself of something either incredibly useful or entertaining for at least a month to no avail.
Mum gave the speech about a week and a half ago, so the A.I.L.R.A. is in full swing right now. I'm not even going to attempt to guess what horror awaits this year but I have managed to get time of work (reeeesult!) so an educated guess will say that I will waste the day doing stuff like laundry and wishing I'd actually thought of something fun to do...

That's enough randomness for now. Stay tuned for more forays into a boring, static mind.

I'm a rather frustrated bunny as I type this. 'AH!', sighs my (1) reader, 'It's another Rant Blog of exceeding length. Again' Well yes, I'm afraid it is, although I will try to keep it briefer this time around. Thanks to everyone who took the time and could be arsed to read the last or any post (novel length ones especially). Nice to know it’s all being read.

So what is it now? Well, life, the universe, the unrelenting injustice poured down on our heads on a daily basis by each other and our maker(s)and those really petty annoying things like forgetting your umbrella when it rains, train delays and hay fever which come together to make a collective miasma of misery and fill me and others like me with 'Not-a-Happy-Bunny' Syndrome The main bugbear at present however is the time period which I shall refer to in later times as the Great Flat Hunt Tribulation, or possibly the House Hunt Horror (more poetic, but less accurate than the first title).

So, the current living situation is with the 'rents, which, whilst not the best situation in the world, could be a hell of a lot worse. For one thing, the fridge is always stocked. None of that cobbling together a meal together from pasta, leftover eggs and something which you (literally) dig out of the back of the freezer, so encrusted with ice crystals you can't identify it as animal, mineral or vegetable until it's irradiated for half an hour in the microwave (by which point it's either inedible or so unappealing you eat the pasta dry).
I'm also saving a packet by not paying rent, bills etc which is rather handy. My father has always warned me that nothing in this life is free and that is indeed true. The payoff in this case is an infringement of my civil liberties. But that's an entirely different story.

Ironically enough, after dealing with enough letting agents and braving grotty flats to decide that I've had enough of the whole process, I've come to the conclusion that I need to spend MORE time with them in these grotty places in order to gain enough insight and information to beat them at their own game. This means loosing a few battles but winning the war in the end.

Yes, I did just equate house hunting with warfare and I stand by my analogy. It really is very fitting. Expectant lambs promised a glorious future are taken to these exotic places they've never been to before (the wilds of Cardiff’s backstreets to be more precise) where anything could be lurking behind the nearest door, more often than not stepping gingerly over uneven ground, wary of stepping on an explosive or half digested pizza ends. Then there's the psychological warfare with the silky tongued agent 'Yes it's a beautiful flat isn't it? Don't worry about the gaping hole there, that will be gone in 30 seconds time, we have a very fast building contractor. Yes the windows are bullet proofed. That attack last week was exaggerated by the media. Mind the blood there.' The lambs leave, feeling cheated angry and more often or not, out of pocket because 'I'm sure the asking price in the advert was 500 a month but it's suddenly 600?' The lambs return home to a cheering crowd, but they feel they've somehow lost their innocence because of the things they've seen and the lies they were told.

And then the cycle begins again.

Haven't actually looked at many of these, but the ones we have seen so far have been pretty horrific. We have a very tight budget so I'm not expecting the Taj Mahal, just something liveable that isn't a shoebox. No luck so far with what we've seen. First, there was the one that was a hole. A top floor flat in a house with another flat and 3 bedsits all squished into the middle floor, with a 3 foot wide by 6 feet long, carpeted kitchen complete with symmetrical sloping roofs which stretched down to meet the counter tops with probably a metre at best between said sloping ceiling and the cooker hob. Ridiculous price tag of 600 a month. Then there was the one my future housemate saw which had a random shower cubicle in the corner of one of the bedrooms.

There was also the hair-raising journey in the back of the letting agents car to the property in genuine fear for our lives. Every time he changed gear, the car jerked in a way that made you appreciate the value of a seatbelt and feel like a human crash test dummy. I wanted to kiss the ground when I finally got out of the car. That session was particularly grueling and annoying because we didn’t get to see the one flat we specifically asked to which meant I had to go back today, on my one day off, to look and guess who it was showing me around? This time we followed behind him.

To cut a long story short then: no joy with house hunting, very demoralising and stressful all round. Moving house and all it entails is supposed to be the most stressful thing you can ever do and now I understand why. Ready for the primal scream? AGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!

I'm done now.

After careful consideration I have come to the conclusion I have become the victim of a plague that is supposedly sweeping my generation, the twenty something crisis.

I’m at a stage in my life where there are many possibilities and therefore many decisions to make. Making decisions for me is the action most likely to send my fragile grip on reality into orbit. So as you can probably guess, this is a somewhat trying age for me (and for Jamie Cullum too it would seem, hence the title of this post. ‘Twentysomething’ is my current life anthem).

I think I’m finally starting to understand what everyone is talking about when they come on the tv or hold media conferences declaring that turning forty is the best thing that ever happened to them, they feel much more sure of themselves now, well of course you do, you’ve done the hard part already. The phrase ‘it’s all downhill from here’ shouldn’t have such negative connotations in my view. Yeah, there might not be such a peak anymore, but it’s a nice cruise to the finish, no more slogging up the hill. And of course, there’s now no pressure from various places to make decisions about your entire future right this second, now, or you'll miss the boat, your life will be ruined without a detailed and pre approved ten point plan that has worked for all your acquaintances and their forebears before you. After all, you've don’t it already and now you’ve earned the right to dish out the warnings of impending social and financial doom. You’ve made your decisions, though secretly you’re now envious of all those youngsters who have so much potential and so many options spread out in front of them. The world is at their feet, that’s great isn’t it! Not at all terrifying (yeah right!) I suppose you always want to be on the other side of the metaphorical hill, whether you’re ‘over’ it or not, the grass is always greener and all that.

So, I’m back at my old job. Yay money, boo minimum wage. Not sure if it was a good idea or not to be honest, but hey, I need money and I know there’s a lot worse things. You see this is all part of the decision making problems. I don’t like going backwards and going back to a job I’ve already left and moved on from falls into that category. On the plus side, it means no more job hunting, avoiding the job centre (joy of joys!) and I get to work with people I genuinely like, including the two people who I’m planning to move into a house with (another good reason why a job straightaway was key). But since I’ve been away, the company has got new hiring policies which means I’m on a 12 week probation period to see if I can do the job I was hired for almost a year ago and had for about 6 months as well as filling in the same application forms etc that I did a year ago, except this time my last reference is from the place I’m officially applying to! Sigh, red tape rules my life. It also means that I don’t get a wage raise for another six months because they start from scratch (damn and blast it all!). Oh well, least I’ve got a job with a credit crunch looming, that’s always good.

Whilst shelving books ALL DAY today (this can’t go on long term, it is way too boring) my mind started wandering back to the problem that plagued me all around Australasia: I HAVE NO PLAN. This is the first time in my entire life where the future has stretched before me with no next step. Sure I have ambitions and long term goals, but this is the first time that there has been no, definite time scale. School was dominated by exams, exams would lead me onto University, Uni would lead to a degree, then I had travelling to look forward to. Now it’s a bit of a shock. There’s nothing there! Big open road that me and as rumour has it, a lot of people my age are travelling down, directionless with a broken sat-nav, no map and an expired AA policy.It should be freeing but it’s rather disconcerting as a natural over-planner. It seems I’m going to have to embrace spontaneity, go native, cross country without a 4x4. Embrace the inner action hero, or if that fails, road trip movie protagonist.

Well, I do have a plan, of sorts. I decided when I was away that I was going to give myself the freedom to chase my dream. I’ve always wanted to write professionally, I’m not particularly fussy about what type of writing but it’s the only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do. When I’ve considered potential careers, I’ve always had a ‘and I can write a story/novel etc in my free time’ clause. In other words, I’ve always considered my ‘career’ whatever it may be as a means to an end, something to support me so I can write.

I’m acutely aware what a difficult field it is to break into and that luck is as much a factor in your ability to support yourself with a pen as talent and hard work are. I have chosen, however, not to let the fear of failure and poverty cripple me, mainly because I’ve realised it’s not me who is afraid of it, I’ve just been conditioned to think I am. It’s the people around me who have decided that it can’t be done and I’ve let myself be swayed by their cautious views, until now.

I know it’s all coming from a place of love and is said out of fear. My parents, for instance, seem to have visions of me living in a squat, on state benefits, with 500 children and a drop beat husband who I’ll be supporting by drug trafficking or prostitution because I didn’t get a nice safe Graduate job in a bank or an office or somewhere equally mundane where my ‘potential’ wouldn’t have been wasted. They are just trying to protect me from an unnecessarily hard life, particularly because I’ve always worked so hard to get a good foundation in life. But I’d rather just be happy doing what I love to do, what I feel compelled to do.

This is a bone of contention with my father especially. He just can’t seem to understand the concept that a 6 figure salary is useless to me if I hate the job I’m doing. That is because his entire working life has always been about making money. Dad never had the chance to have a ‘career’, he just had a job, a way to pay the bills, not something to build up and be proud of and he wants it to be different for me and my sister. Thing is, I’ve been thinking, maybe I don’t want a career, a conventional one anyway. Because really, what does a career achieve? When a banker or a HR assistant or a PA retires, what have they actually gained other than a pension, age and life experience? Really, what have they achieved in life except pushing money from one place to another? Does it really matter that they landed that big account single-handedly? Is that the sort of thing a grandchild asks about when they want to know about Granny/Grandad’s life in the so-called noughties?

I’d like to do something meaningful with my life. Careers which have a direct effect on people’s lives, that are based around helping people, seem to be the most rewarding. Nurses, charity workers etc might not be the richest people in the world, but at least when they look back on their lives they can safely say that the made a positive impact on peoples’ lives. This sort of job I wouldn’t mind, and quite honestly is the sort of thing that I think I’ll end up doing long term.

Now I know SOMEONE has to do the banal little jobs, making sure everyone gets their pay, filling out the health and safety forms and organising that tax rebate of yours, but I know I’m just not cut out for them. Money isn’t a big enough reward for me at this point in my life. I’m looking for those elusive buzz words ‘job satisfaction’. That’s the thing I keep trying to make my father understand. Right now, I have no ties whatsoever. I do not NEED a job that makes my life easier. This is the best time for me to follow my crazy dreams and work for minimum wage and move out of home and make less than £800 a month stretch for all my needs because it’s just me to worry about. Other than rent and utility bills I have no serious commitments like a mortgage kids to get in my way. Dad wants me to get a good job now so I can save up the pennies and live my life once all the responsibilities now. Seriously who does that? I’m well aware that if I don’t do it now, when I’m young enough, stupid enough and in the position to take a risk, I never will. There will never be a better time to do this so I may as well do it now, whilst I still have the ability and inclination.

So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m giving myself a year to seriously try to be a writer. No more excuses, I have none now: no serious distractions (there’s no severe consequences for letting your mind wander to plots and sentence structures when you’re tidying up book shelves, unlike writing pieces of coursework); no more waiting for inspiration to strike; no more pressing matters.

If I want to make this work I’ll have to approach it seriously. I’ve already started sketching an action plan which includes spending a heap of money on a new computer (my old laptop finally gave up the ghost whilst I was away I’ve been told, it had been threatening to do it for ooh around 2 years now, see previous post) at the first opportunity and until then using the old fashioned method of handwriting (which I prefer anyway, paper is much more portable) and if a computer is needed, getting my lazy self to the library (an excuse to read books for free, like I need one!).
If I don’t try, I’ll always wonder you see. I’m too curious for my own good. It’s one of the reasons I get bored so easily; once you know something, move onto the next mystery and there’s nothing more mysterious than the contents of my head, it baffles me several times daily. Am I making a mistake? Maybe. Will I look back in twenty years time and laugh at my pitiful attempts to be a writer? Most likely. Will I regret it? Perhaps, but I’ll regret it more if I don’t try.

So, I’m going to summon my courage and get on with it. It may not be the sanest thing to do, it may not be the right thing to do but if I’m actually going to make my own life, make my decisions, do what I want to rather than what I feel is expected of me and trust that taking a risk won’t ruin my life. I have to try. It could be a pipedream, I’m probably putting off the inevitable, but hey, there it is.

Oh look, direction on a clear, metaphorical life road. Only one signpost as far as the eye can see, no mileage included. Wind in my face, defunct sat-nav, maps and AA card tossed in the nearest bin as I wiz past in my scruffy but infinitely cool vintage car with the top down. Bloody brilliant!

Ok, so it didn't even take a week.

This is my going to be my 5th full day at home and I'm already going stir crazy. I'm meeting up with some friends later which should be good, but in general, yes the insanity has set in.

Have a lovely long list of tasks to accomplish like actually unpacking , tidying my room and the house in general because my family are hoarders, and horror of horrors going to the job centre.

I've already started looking online for jobs as part of the 'Move out of Home and Get A Life' plan but seeing as I'm now so skint from my amazing trip of a lifetime, I think Job Seeker's Allowance is beckoning. Oh God I really hate that place. The Job Centre is so depressing. That's hardly suprising though: it's a place designed for people desperate for work and money to congregate and be asked inane questions whilst wading through millions of pointless forms that have been over-simplified so much they are impossible to make head or tail of. Everything about it, from the physical aspects of the building to the annoying touch screen computers which never work properly, collects negative vibes and makes me want to run away screaming. I suppose that's a good thing really because it makes people find work just to stop having to visit there. Which is what most of us want anyway. Still, I feel bad enough about being unemployed as it and that once fortnightly visit just adds to the misery as a rule.

I'm slowly adjusting back into normal life (translation: I've caught up with Desperate Housewives and Dr Who, now there's only Lost and Heroes to watch, who would have thought the writer's strike would be a positive thing? Half a series means half the virewing time and my catch up tv marathon cut in half) but it's a very strange feeling. It's kind of like I've never been away, but at the same time I feel like I was away for a lot longer than 4 months.
As far as I can tell, all my friends and family are in more or less the same state they were when I left (I was pretty good at keeping in touch with people, so I've had regular updates on the major developments). It's the pop culture I'm down on.

Like when I found out a few weeks ago that Boris Johnson is the new Mayor of London. I thought it was a joke. I really did. My second thought was along the lines of 'My God, London has gone the way of California with the Terminator/Kindergarten Cop as the Governor' and the thrid thought was 'Who the hell voted him in???' To be honest I don't know that much about his policies, but in my book, any man who could be decimated by Ian Hislop and Paul Merton on 'Have I Got News for You' really shouldn't be the political representative of Britiain's capital.

Then yesterday, I discovered a tv show called 'Beat the Celebrity'. I though we'd scraped the barrel of celebrity/reality tv shows 5 years ago- I was wrong.

Oh yes, and Gordon Brown is going to suspend Habeus Corpus even further than before. At this point, Victor Meldrew would be screaming 'What's happened to this bloody country Margaret???' but luckily for all concerneed I am not him. Just interesting how much four months can change everything. Then again, my dad came in from work on Wednesday morning, the day after I got off a 12 hour flight and had no sleep for 24 hours and after sitting down for approxiamtely 3 minutes, began lecturing me on getting a job, doing the washing, emptying the dishwasher and generally 'pulling my weight' which I had failed to do in the 40 minutes of that day I had been conscious after been out cold with jet lag. So like I said, the PEOPLE I know are exactly the same, it's everything else that's different.

Like tv. It's always disquieting when the BBC changes its little promo videos, even more so when you have had no idea that they changed but you can always get over it with the following Points of View letter from Mr V. Meldrew as read by the dulcit tones of Mr Terry Wogan:

'Dear BBC
I am writing to inform you that I am very dissapointed in your decision to get rid of the sychronized swimming hippos.
As I recall, that was a very expensive piece of footage to create and I'm sure your new video with the neon lights moving around a carnival was also an expensive waste of the taxpayer's money. Surely you could have followed David Cameron's example and 'Gone Green' by either using Energy saving Light Bulbs or perhaps airbrushing in some tutus on the hippos to mimic Disney's Fantasia (copyright the Disney Cooperation)? Might I suggest thinking of your Carbon Footprint in future and using a water conservation strategy next time because I'm sure that this waste of the tax payer's money is somehow related to the housepipe ban in Greater London and the South in general which is ravaging my prize winning Begonias.

Regards,
V. Meldrew, Basildon'

See! You can get over any shock when that kind of stupidity is presented before you, laugfhter is the best medicine after all. It's also great to see Terry Wogan barely hiding his amusement and exasperation as he has to respond to the letter as well. However, seeing as I missed the changeover, I also missed the Great British Public's outrage at said change and the BBC's attempt to sooth the masses via Mr Wogan.

AND I missed Eurovision this year! Eurovision is one of the markers of the year I find, it's a hallmark of Spring ( which I missed this year) and I 'll have to wait another year to hear the genius of Wogan (see, there WAS a link to that last point, however tenuous) on the voting strategy of Europe 'Scandinavia? 50 points to Sweden? Now there's a suprise..'

Oh well, shouldn't moan, I did have an absolutely amazing time, but I think the adjustment period will go on for a while yet.