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.
]]>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.
]]>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!
]]>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.
]]>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.
]]>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?
]]>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.
]]>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.
]]>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!
]]>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.
]]>I know I'm moaning, I'm tired. My poor brain is saturated with three months worth of wonder and now I'm looking forward to all my home comforts, the greatest appeal of which is that I don't have to ooh and ahh in amazement and gratitude at the sight of every new town or beach or brightly coloured tree.
They are all very nice in their own ways, but it gets a bit monotonous when every town has an Anzac Memorial, a Flinders Street* a McDonalds Olympic/Millennium Plaza/Park/Walk surrounded by oddly harsh and sterile (although brightly coloured) architecture.
I preferred New Zealand to Oz, much nicer place to be as a rule. Although it was good to get back to Australia and back to a proper city.
This trip has basically confirmed I'm a European at heart and I don't think I could live long term outside the good old EU. I like a place with a culture thats been around more than 2 centuries and where that culture is actually ingrained in society (again, another reason why New Zealand a lot better than Australia, don't get me started)
So, I'm back home in around 2 weeks now and I can't wait. I'm just deliberately ignoring all the things I have to do when I get back, ie: find a job, move out of home, plant my feet firmly on the ground once more... You know, real life. Ask me in 3 weeks, i'll wish I was back out here. Oh well, C'est la vie. The grass is always greener and all that I suppose.
*Damn you Matthew Flinder! Apparently this guy is so important in Australian history that every town with more than 3 streets feels the need to pay homage to him by naming a street after him (much like Notts' City Council did with Brian Clough Way) thereby confusing hundreds of thousands of tourists per year who have just figured out that there's a station on Flinders Street in Melbourne then are told there's actually a hospital/pet shop/takeaway/brothel there when they get to the new town.
You would think that you could tell the difference between towns but when they are all set up in a grid with the same street names ie: Flinders, Elizabeth, William, Queen, King, Adelaide, etc it gets a bit confusing remembering not only which city you are in but also in which direction the Queen Street is in comparison to Flinders in this particular town with the sun shining at an approximately 30 degree angle perpendicular to the ground and the Southern Cross hovering above that homogeneous shopping mall so it should be left at these lights. I think.
Yep, this post is coming to you from sunny Melbourne.
Been away since the 18th and am slowly adjusting to the backpacking lifestyle. Rather than bore you, I'll give a quick summary of where I've been and what I've seen before moving onto the observations about humanity
1)Beijing 4 days: Was quite cold compared to our mild winter at home so spent a lot of the time in the cold. Got really bad jet-lag and slept till 2pm after going to bed at 9 the previous night, therefore loosing a day. Ate a lot of duck, was dragged into several global foodchains by my travelling companion, felt ill, did all the touristy things bar the Great Wall because for some reason, 2 foreign girls weren't allowed to get on the normal bus, we had to get on the tour bus to Badaling which was 50 yuan instead of 2 yuan AND didn't take us to where we wanted to go!
All in all then an experience.
2)Sydney: great city, warm, nice people, menus that didn't include duck, result!
3)Oz Experience to Melbourne (where I am now): Strained with a tour guide who was convinced he was the worlds funniest, coolest dude when in fact he was about average and rather insipid people who hiked at a speed that frankly defies physics.
And so here I am in Melbourne, sat in a distinctly grubby hostel which has little flies constantly buzzing around the kitchen (nice) and questionably stained sheets. Best not dwelled on really
But the main topic of the day is going to be flirting, the ways and means so to speak.
I love watching people flirt, it's such an amusing pastime. As a detached individiual, you can see so much more than the people involved in the frisson can. EG: He like her loads but shes got one eye on him and one on the waiter, you know? That sort of thing. I like trying to figure out people's stories like that.
I have had an extended opportunity now to watch and study my travel buddy Nikki and am collecting enough data for an extended thesis on the subject.
She is a natural flirt. Actually, natural is not the right word, I don't think anyone can do what and as much as she does naturally, takes too much energy. She is a flirt, full stop.
She's a girl who lights up whenevr there's a guy around and is absolutely miserable when there aren't any. So Beijing was fun for me, guess who got the brunt of the flirt's bad mood?
Before I continue I should say, yes, this girl is my friend and that is why I'm sharing this with you people. It's catahatic for me and may be entertaining for you and stops me bitching to our mutual friends, so everybody wins. I believe these observations apply to all flirts, my subject of close study, aka Nikki, will be referred to as an example alone.
So the natural flirt is morose and sluggish when not surronded by people of an attractive gender or nature. This state of affairs does not last long however as they are not very discriminatory in their choices of flirting partners.
They are incredibly tactile in their flirting and will basically (if not really) climb into their flirting partner/victims lap.
Usually, the flirt is quite enetertaing but things take a sinister and sour turn as soon as the Flirt has lost attention for more than a minute. These individuals like to not only dominate attention and conversation but anything else for that matter, so that they remian the centre of focus. In circumstances where a loss of attention does occur, the Flirt will stop at nothing to get attention back, focused on them. For example, they will interrupt conversations, physically turn someone back towards them by grabbing their hands etc and generally freze out the person who has gained the attention of whoever it is the Flirt is trying to flirt with, which is generally the person in the room who isn't paying the Flirt immideate attention. The Flirt in other words, likes a challenge.
My case in point, Nikki has openly said to me 'It'd would be nice if I saw you being chatted up at a bar instead of me for once.' (Now you see why I don't feel guilty about posting all this online?)I really had to struggle to keep a straight face and bite my tongue because on this trip that is never going to happen whilst she's around.
I like the next person, am perfectly capable of flirting and being flirted with. And since we've been away, it has happened frequently. I, on the other hand, do not find it acceptable to clamber over anyone who is there to get the attention of someone I've just met who is already talking to my friend or anyone else for that matter in a blatant and frankly desperate attempt to get as many guys to like me as possible. So the above scenario is osmething I've expereinced on quite a few occasions. And by like I mean give me their attention, which in my book is not one and the same thing.
Because it seems from my close observation that the Flirt is suffering from a genuine lack of confidence in themselves, even though they seem to be suffering in abundance. I don't judge my self worth based upon getting a guy's attention away from someone who is having a genuine conversation and interesting another person without grabbing their hands every two seconds, or sitting on them, or leaning on them or hugging them like a small child geting their mother's attention, but the Flirt obviously does. They are only genuinely happy in the few post euphoric hours immediatley after a 'conquest' of sorts and always, looking for the next one.
I think it shows a lack of inner peace and stability. It's constantly measuring self worth by how long and even intense a first conversation can be, and that can't be good. After all, when you've only met someone for a few hours, why should you care how much attention they give you really? It's fine if you just want a chat and a flirt, but The Flirt seems to need it to confirm that yes, they are genuine, likeable people. It just makes me wonder what they think about themselves late at night if they constantly need the buzz of new interactions to feel good. It can't be a good place, alone at night, if you think like that.
More from the frontline soon
]]>After a very boozy night in Wrexham, where I was visiting my fellow travel buddy, (no doubt you'll hear more about her, we're going to Australia in 2 weeks!) we finally decided we'd had enough of celebrating the Welsh Rugby team's triumph over England (WALES! WALES!).
So, down the road in the freezing cold we went (glad that we had jackets but cursing that they weren't long woolly coats) and into this taxi office which I don't know how to begin to describe.
Purgatory might be a start.
For those of you who aren't familiar with the term, Purgatory is the place that Catholics believe your soul goes to await judgement. The waiting room before you visit St. Peter at the Pearly Gates who either lets you into God's backyard, or banishes you to eternal torment. Thing is, everyone hangs round in purgatory until the last judgement, otherwise known as the Apocalypse. So if you died say, oooh I don't know, 50 years after the Adam and Eve were kicked out of the Garden of Eden, you'd still be waiting now. And that's a bloody long time. If you believe in all that of course. Personally, i hate queuing. I would seriously consider joining a religion purely on the basis of not having to wait for a decision or an answer. But then I suppose that's not the point of religion is it? They're kind of built on conditions and waiting and personal growth and development. Which again takes time, perhaps even an eternity.Anyway, enough of the theological discussion for today...
We were waiting in Purgatory for a taxi for a very long time, possibly eternity, depending on your theological and philosophical viewpoints. Well, it was about 45mins, but believe me it felt like eternity.
The actual office was like a cheap Spanish hotel circa 1978: all formica, sludge-green marble tiles and stained wood.
Then there were the fellow inmates.
If you're not British and are reading this, please, please don't take this account as an indication of the type of people who populate this fair and green land, believe me, they are the minority. No country could survive if they were the majority of its population. Seriously, we'd have died out with the dinosaurs if that was true.
Other than the usual scantily clad good time gals and the 'wahhey alright luv' lads,we had: the drunken female soldier and a cast of supporting players.At least, I think she was a soldier, I'm merely guessing from the tirade she was unleashing on an innocent bystander who was foolish enough to insult his mate in her presence...
'I can't believe you're speaking to your mate like that! I haven't been out in 14 months, I've been in Iraq, and I can't believe you're disrespecting him like that! As a girl, who's been in Iraq, me and my mates are like that, rock solid, especially since I've been in Iraq and I haven't been out in 14 months. I haven't even been in Wrexham for 9 months, cos I've been in Iraq and I can't believe I've been there fighting and your talking to your mate like that. Is he your best mate? I haven't been out for 14 months so I'm drunk, cos I've been in Iraq but honestly, you shouldn't speak to him like that! I know its none of my business, but I haven't been out in 14 months, I've been in Iraq and I wouldn't do that to my mates and they wouldn't do that to me, cos I've been in Iraq and I haven't been out in 14 months and... is that my taxi? I'm off!' And that's the lucid version!
The there was the guy who was so wasted he dropped something resembling mayonnaise all the way down his trousers and onto his shoes without even noticing as he tucked into his greasy burger. And to round off the night's entertainment, a dumb blonde, in a very short skirt boasted to a brunette she'd just met, in an equally short skirt, that she was so good looking that she had had photos taken and been told that she should be a model, to which the brunette scathingly replied, 'Did you pay for the photos though?'
As I was sitting next to the brunette, I had to try really hard to hide my laughing fit when the blonde replied in a confused tone, 'No, well yeah I did pay for them but they did say I should be a model!' 1 - 0 to the brunette I think.
So, yeah, that's what Wrexham looks like on a Saturday night after Wales beat England in the rugby and the first paychecks since Christmas have been cashed.
In a few weeks, I'll get to compare the social habits of the Aussies with my existing catalogue of reference. Something tells me that nothing will beat that cab office though. I mean, that was a sitcom/documentary waiting to happen a la Fawlty Towers and it all happened. You can't make that stuff up. It wouldn't surprise me if there was a hidden camera in there and it was a set up it was so ridiculous. Which is a lot less likely now that Jeremy Beadle has gone to the real Purgatory or wherever (don't worry, no more theology).
Speaking of pranks, I think I gave some old dears a heart attack earlier today when my mate Nick snuck up behind me in work and jabbed me in the ribs when I had no idea he was there. My very loud and ladylike scream of 'JESUS CHRIST!' would have made my grandmother proud no doubt, God rest her soul.
Oh well, I've only got 8 shifts to go now (with no breaks till my last day, thank you very much boss!) so I suppose it doesn't really matter if I offended anyone, they probably won't see me again. I'm sure they'll get over it. So I'm leaving behind the relative security of employment and my friends and family and am off on an Australian Odyssey (via China, New Zealand and Japan). Off course I'm very excited, but also getting more and more nervous by the day. The problem is at the moment I'm busy focusing on what and who I'm leaving behind rather than what I'm going to gain.
Then again, the more miles I put between myself and that taxi office the better. Waahey, nerves solved, where's my ticket? I'm off!
I've just been screaming at my computer screen in frustration because what should have been the simple act of booking a train ticket online has proved to be impossible. I should have saw it coming really, my horoscope did warn me it would be a day of 'technical gliches'. It also described these malfunctions as 'a little bit funny'. Believe me they are not.
You see for the 99.9999 percent of people who share my horoscope sign, this might be slightly amusing, but for me, the human wrecking machine, it's just very,very boring at this stage.
Technology and I do not mix. Not because I'm illiterate or a technophobe, oh no. It just doesn't react well to me.
Right now I'm typing on a semi working laptop which has formatted itself on at least 3 occasions and regularly switches various programmes and itself off. It's a bit like Russian Roulette with information, you never know when you'll find the bullet and loose all your information. There's also no audio, the volume button's broke so it's on full blast even if it did work (which means I can't put music on my MP3 player, noooooooooooo) no video and it also has an aversion to downloading anything which would make my life easier including msn, java script and anti virus software.
It's not just this computer either. I am jinxed. If a computer is going to go wrong, it will wait until I'm around. For example, the computer system in work which tells us which books we have in store repeatedly lies to me and tells me we don't stock books like the Life of Pi or the Da Vinci Code which we have dozens of and states we have multiple copies of books that can't be found anywhere in the store.
And other technological devices go haywire around me. I went through at least 5 portable CD players in the space of 2 years and I'm on my 3rd MP3 player in 2 years, and my current one is going a bit funny too. All of these just stopped working one day. They weren't dropped, I didn't spill anything on them, the batteries didn't leak, they literally just went dead.
The latest trend is volume buttons. As mentioned previously, the computer's doesn't work, and my MP3 player has developed a habit of cranking the volume up to maximum levels at the slightest touch so random strangers get to see me jump in pain and pull my headphones out of my ears when I'm sat on the train. Same goes for the TV remote, every time I press the volume down button, it turns up.
I swear I must emit a magnetic electrical pulse or something. It's gone way past coincidence now. It always seems to be when I'm in some sort of emotional state. Any heightened state of emotion and the computer will switch itself off, the tv remote will stop working, the screen on the mobile goes blank...Only if I'm calm and not in anyway agitated, by anger, sadness or happiness, does it seem to work properly but even then, it's touch and go. I can't be the only person this happens to surely? Maybe it's just bad luck. OR...
It might all be a plot by some underground Luddite cell. Yeah, that's it!They could have infiltrated the offices of Microsoft, Apple and the various ISPs and are acting out a systematic campaign. A few tweaks here, a few tugs there and the frustration builds up to such a level that the poor defenseless victims of the plot to 'Rid the World of Technology', (RWT for short), get so enraged, that they throw their computers out the window, their mobile phones into heavy traffic
and their Blackberries into the nearest river and relocate to the outer Hebrides, the Sahara Desert or Siberia in a bid to get away from that omnipresent, unavoidable, uncontrollable f@#'/;-! technology.
And there's the real problem with technology. It makes life so much easier that when it lets us down, you suddenly realise how much you've come to depend on it, and that is very, very annoying. When I put that much of my trust into something or someone, I do not expect to be let down and technology does it way too often for me to love it.
But damn it, I need it! Without my MP3 player, without the TV, without the net, life is just not as colourful. So please, I am pleading with the big electronic and computer companies here, please find systems which don't react to my weird emotional vibes? Do you think you could do that? I swear, if you do, I won't complain or rant and rave about your products anymore. I won't. I promise.
What? You can't do it? Oh well, I probably wouldn't have kept my promise anyway...
]]>The chain I work for happens to be a bookshop which also dabbles in cds and dvds, so we get quite a mix of customers. One minute I'm being asked by a chavy non-reader where the 'women's reading books' are , the next some stuck-up individual has decided I'm infinetly below them on the foodchain as I'm just a weak and feeble little shopgirl and that waving their money in my face or hovering near and glaring at me will automatically make me stop whatever it is I am doing (generally processing something through the ills or talking to another customer) and grovel at their feet, pleased that they would even contemplate deigning to speak to me.
Ok, I have issues with some people. What I've also noticed though is generally people are really nice. But like everything, and it's a trait that we British seem to relish, we only remember our negative encounters.
I like to think I'm generally a tolerant person with only other people's obvious intolerance really irritating me (Yes, I am aware of the contradiction in that sentence, but it's true!) More and more though, I find myself moaning and bitching in my head about other people's public faces, in that some are so obviously, glaringly different to what they actually are.
Sometimes you can pick up on it in a conversation. For instance, walking through the shop, I'll hear someone yelling at their kids, loosing their temper about nothing and then later they put on their posh, polite voice to ask a question. Or worse, when a customer feels that they need to change how they ask a question, ie using long complicated words and phrases that you can tell they wouldn't usually use because they feel that is expected of them. It's people hiding what they really are, and I don't like that.
I know everyone does it some extent or other, including myself. We all like to appear a certain way to certain people, but it pains me to see people obviously uncomfortable in their own skin making themselves feel worse by putting on an act which isn't natural to them; and their uncomfortableness always shows.
The new way to do this is via the net. I'm trying my very best here to be honest and present myself here as I do in real life,there's bound to be slip ups though just because my written English is always more formal than my spoken English.
Anyway, browsing through Facebook earlier, I read a co-workers page and couldn't help thinking how fake it was. This person's Facebook profile was clearly focused on making this person out to be an ultra bohemian, romantic, arty person who belongs to the latest uber cool and arty set. The reality is, from what I've witnessed anyway, is that this person doesn't exist.
Ok, certain aspects of their personality is like that, but the Facebook profile has blown this side of the character out of all proportion.
Which leaves me with the scary possibility that I now have to go through every single Facebook etc profile of everyone I know with a fine toothcomb to define which of a few possibilities are true 1) That the Facebook person is the real person 2) That the Facebook profile is how the person sees themselves 3)The profile is how the person wishes to present themselves to the world, accurate or not 4) The profile represents the only parts of the person which they wish to display on the Internet.
So right now, I'm scanning through my own Facebook profile to see what mine is like. Actually I know already, mine is possibility 4, as is this blog for that matter. I'm only showing you what I want you to see. I'm very aware of my ability to self-censor. However, anything I do post about myself is true, at least in that moment and in my opinion.
I don't think I could pretend to be something I'm not like those people I've mentioned earlier. Because it seems to me that they don't pretend to be something they're not in the short run to make life slightly smoother, it comes to easy for that. Some people go so far as to lie to themselves that it is not their insecurity which makes them feel that they must act in this certain way to be treated fairly, but that they will not be accepted for themselves without changing themselves. Sadly, it seems to me that the truth is they don't accept themselves. It's sad. It's actually painful to watch.
I know that what I am typing here I could not type and post on the Internet without using this pseudonym. I know this is because I fear peoples reactions if they find out this is what I think. I'm afraid of being rejected for these opinions, I know this. But I'd think I'd rather live in the knowledge that my control freak nature and my fear of seeming pretentious or a complete idiot leads me to make up a name for myself and leave no incriminating evidence linking this blog to me is because I'm scared of people seeing me how I see me. I think I'd rather that than pretending other people have a problem they project onto me which makes me do all these things.
I know its because I, like everyone else is insecure. So insecure in fact that we don't notice, or even care what other people are doing. We're just too self involved. It's the human condition, unfortunately.
]]>Whilst I love the freedom of the Internet and am all for free access to information as a means of education, neither am I blind to its negative aspects such as the lack of control. Once something has made its way into the electronic world it is free. It can't be retracted or edited. So I warn you from the start my words will be carefully chosen.
Despite But then I also have a strong desire to write which never seems to leave me so unfortunately for the general public, I'll be inflicting my thoughts and opinions on you all. Yes I know, everyone is doing it, that doesn't necessarily sanction the process. Or mean that I should be writing anything for that matter. But all the same it's going to happen. I may regret it in days weeks or years to come, or I may not. Who knows. That's the beauty of life, always the surprise.
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