Well there you go an Englishman abroad, finally! After escaping the Chrimbo market back home, and setting off at 11:45 for the States, I arrived at Boston Logan at 6pm, whereby I ran into the first problem, immigration. I'm my own worst enemy at times, but really it does help if you read both sides of the document you need to fill out to gain entry into the USA. Maybe the kindly officer, female, was utterly bemused by the sight of the intrepid travel virgin, incapable of ticking boxes, that she finally let me through after I'd filled in the required number. Of course, I being I decided to declare the bags of contraband, which then held up proceedings some more, the contraband was four bags of coffee beans, six packets of bread yeast, and the killer of all murderous contraband...vanilla sauce powder.
Clearly the US Immigration & Customs were dealing with a less than intellectual member of the human species, and no doubt correctly assumed that a man who truthfully declares he's bringing vanilla sauce into the USA poses no real security threat. Of course I'm an innocent man, who's only criminal offence is being a man, which he naturally blames his mother for, well she's responsible for the chromosome lottery that has a silly moment.
Finally I managed to get through all the hurdles that officialdom deems necessary, to be met by a lot of people at the arrivals gate. That's the thing really, people meeting people for countless reasons, the majority no doubt enormously pleased to see their friend, relation, or milkman returning from his holiday in much warmer climes, which isn't very good for fresh milk, but he's ready to be back at work after a good rest from the endless cups of tea he's drunk before going away. That aside, I wander through somewhat bemused by the attention being paid to the vanilla sauce, maybe they don't have it in the states, to be met by my dear friend S, who, unbeknown to me, is holding a camera and lets rip with the viciousness of an uzi hell bent on blinding me with its barrel flash. My first words, uttered freely in the arena that is the arrivals hall was 'bastard', which a young lady thought was highly amusing, as did my friend.
I arrived to the joys of a Boston winter, slightly mild for the time of year, but with an abundance of snow, most of which had been shoved to one side by a macho pickup truck, immensely helped by the yellow snow plough blade attached to the front. It all seemed a bit overwhelming, landing in a land where the language is a variation of your own, and one where there are doubts as to the sanity of your virginal status. This isn't helped by the fact that every documentary, hollywood movie, TV series and news reports coming from the USA is heavily laden with a bias towards gun totting mayhem. Perhaps, in future, there should be a health warning issued on every media product urging caution when viewing the contents. Thus far, within the space of an hour of having my feet planted firmly on American soil, I'd certainly met the seriousness of the official world, as seen and practiced through American eyes, but people were polite, happy to talk, and perhaps contrary to popular belief far more open than is appreciated. My one real concern was the language barrier, my own, not having been in an English speaking country for the last eight years, and a language restricted and largely curtailed by its limitations of use in a career I've come to love, teaching the language of my birth, English.
But hope always springs eternal for virgins everywhere, and if one has misgivings due to the foreboding messages of a world that should know better, one can't be blamed for accepting the good graces of your real life hosts with a little more relish than is romantically acceptable. As I live in a world that spends an enormous amount of time willing its own destructiveness, the sights and sounds of politeness ring ever truer to one's aging ears. I could be ever more cynical and think that every polite word expressed by someone has a motive beyond its innocence, and maybe that's often the truth, yet somewhere deep the 'thank you' has a sense of value and worth, that is perhaps priceless and far too often abused by some of its practitioners.
On that note, it's with hand on heart that I thank 'S' for having made my present adventure possible. I've no doubt I'll be saying 'thank you' to him on many occasions over the next few weeks, but as always it'll be voiced with the appreciation it deserves.
As a final word I'll keep writing the blog as and when I get the opportunity, keeping you up to date with my travels as a virgin abroad. For now, wherever you're reading this, keep smiling!
An individual stroll through life, often taking an amusing view, or sometimes a little more serious one, depending on the mood.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Friendship and the Pond.
Well lots happened this week, and life became much clearer, ending up on Saturday with moving my friend 'D' to his new place. After many years of slumming it as a cosmopolitan wannabee, he's now happily looking forward to life on the edge of town, overlooking a small wood and the golf course; with tongue in cheek I wish him every happiness in his new found quest to becoming even more middle class than he already is; something he strongly protests he's not....Can't help wondering why my leg is acting as though it's being pulled for some reason. Seriously though, just for a moment, I've watched him these past few months entering another stage in his life, and I've never seen him happier. I'm equally happy to say that without his support, care and kindness at a particularly bad moment in my life, who know's where I would have ended up. And whilst it's perhaps not the 'manly' thing to say, my affection for him is without limit, even if I either don't show it enough, or don't say it; one of the joys of writing a blog is you can say it openly, thanks matey! But the next time you ask me to help you move, I'll be unavailable due to a forgotten meeting I'm supposed to be attending.
On Friday I had a final interview for a job and was accepted, which in the great scheme of things is nice to know that somebody wants me; especially in these times of economic uncertainty. I'm scheduled to start at the beginning of February due to my being happily in the USA over Christmas & New Year for a well deserved rest. Whether I keep the blog updated, whilst I'm away, or to wait until I get back to write it is open to debate, but the feeling at the moment is to escape any form of electronic communication and have a complete rest from it all. I'm well aware that I spend far too much time piddling about on the Internet and laptop, and it would be very nice to avoid both whilst away; we shall see. At the moment I'm focused on getting finished what I need to before I go, which means ever longer hours on the keyboard, not that I really mind, at least I'm busy and that's the most important thing.
However, I'm now beginning to feel a little excited with the passing of time, and the holiday ever closer. It'll be a number of firsts for me, and so a great adventure. It'll be the first time I've flown from one continent to another, the first time I've flown transatlantic, the first time in the USA, and the first time I've occupied the same seat for around 7 hours. Then when I get there it'll be the first time I've eaten a real 'dog', hotdog before anyone starts complaining, the first lobster, pastrami on rye, apple pie like mom used to make, and numerous other things along the way. Culturally, there's lots to take in, and despite an often slightly jaundiced view of the US, I'll have an open mind when I get there, and one of the things here is to accept that whatever perception I may have, it is driven by the media, whereas my personal relationships with Americans are completely the opposite.
History has always been of interest, so there will much to cover and see with visits to Boston, New York and Washington. Of course my time will be fairly limited, so whatever I see will be done with a purpose in mind. I've no real desire to be wandering down 5th Avenue, Wall Street or hanging around Times Square, but hopefully I can get to visit the Apollo Theatre in New York. Washington will be taken up with a visit to Capitol Hill, the Smithsonian and other sights. Boston is likely to be freezing, but unlikely to deter from visiting the Harbour area etc. Of course on a much lighter note, I'm playing with the idea of popping into the local IRS office and demanding, without menace, the repayment of taxes not paid to the British people since the revolution!
Hopefully, one of the highlights will be time spent on a beach, it'll take me back to those rare happy childhood days of wandering alone along the seafront during the winter months, which I've always said is the best time to visit a beach and see it in all's its glory, and at its supremely natural best.
A final remark about this trip, of a lifetime some might say, it might prove eventful in many, as yet unknown, ways, particularly as I'm no great lover of big bustling cities. But the one thing it's already shown before I set sail across the pond, is the value of friendship. And so 'S', from the bottom of my heart, thank you matey for making this possible.
On Friday I had a final interview for a job and was accepted, which in the great scheme of things is nice to know that somebody wants me; especially in these times of economic uncertainty. I'm scheduled to start at the beginning of February due to my being happily in the USA over Christmas & New Year for a well deserved rest. Whether I keep the blog updated, whilst I'm away, or to wait until I get back to write it is open to debate, but the feeling at the moment is to escape any form of electronic communication and have a complete rest from it all. I'm well aware that I spend far too much time piddling about on the Internet and laptop, and it would be very nice to avoid both whilst away; we shall see. At the moment I'm focused on getting finished what I need to before I go, which means ever longer hours on the keyboard, not that I really mind, at least I'm busy and that's the most important thing.
However, I'm now beginning to feel a little excited with the passing of time, and the holiday ever closer. It'll be a number of firsts for me, and so a great adventure. It'll be the first time I've flown from one continent to another, the first time I've flown transatlantic, the first time in the USA, and the first time I've occupied the same seat for around 7 hours. Then when I get there it'll be the first time I've eaten a real 'dog', hotdog before anyone starts complaining, the first lobster, pastrami on rye, apple pie like mom used to make, and numerous other things along the way. Culturally, there's lots to take in, and despite an often slightly jaundiced view of the US, I'll have an open mind when I get there, and one of the things here is to accept that whatever perception I may have, it is driven by the media, whereas my personal relationships with Americans are completely the opposite.
History has always been of interest, so there will much to cover and see with visits to Boston, New York and Washington. Of course my time will be fairly limited, so whatever I see will be done with a purpose in mind. I've no real desire to be wandering down 5th Avenue, Wall Street or hanging around Times Square, but hopefully I can get to visit the Apollo Theatre in New York. Washington will be taken up with a visit to Capitol Hill, the Smithsonian and other sights. Boston is likely to be freezing, but unlikely to deter from visiting the Harbour area etc. Of course on a much lighter note, I'm playing with the idea of popping into the local IRS office and demanding, without menace, the repayment of taxes not paid to the British people since the revolution!
Hopefully, one of the highlights will be time spent on a beach, it'll take me back to those rare happy childhood days of wandering alone along the seafront during the winter months, which I've always said is the best time to visit a beach and see it in all's its glory, and at its supremely natural best.
A final remark about this trip, of a lifetime some might say, it might prove eventful in many, as yet unknown, ways, particularly as I'm no great lover of big bustling cities. But the one thing it's already shown before I set sail across the pond, is the value of friendship. And so 'S', from the bottom of my heart, thank you matey for making this possible.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
The madness of.....jungle bells and kamikazi reindeer.
I know that I'm in danger of becoming even more boring than I normally am, but really! Saturday was just about the straw that broke the sodding camel's back; sorry camel, it's not your fault and whoever came up with the idiom wants shooting, tomorrow...or we can wait until after your Christmas pantomime gig.
The first part of the morning was pleasantly spent with an old friend, who wanted to visit a village shop, which was a mixture of DIY, gardening and barbecues. I might add at this point the entire reason for a leisurely drive into deepest Bavaria was to view a particular brand of barbecue called Weber; no doubt named after that distinguished sociologist, Max Weber, a dead man who has continued to rise in my estimation with each passing year of life. I might also point out that this is was a Saturday morning in December, -5c outside, and a hard frost had settled during the night, which made the German countryside look particularly pretty, especially from inside the car. But to my delightful friend, when it comes to barbecues, the weather is a mere side issue and of no great importance when planning ahead to spending an enormous amount of time on his huge balcony, happily cooking a herd of cattle. If nothing else, at such times and in his company, you quite often don't realise it's brass monkey weather, where everything from the nether regions has given up the ghost, withdrawn into the inner sanctum, and gone into hibernation until the daffodils are in full bloom. I digress slightly, but only because I'm sitting in front of a partially open window, and typing is the easiest way of preventing the fingers from falling off due to severe frostbite.
So having seen the barbecue, which resembled something the size of the Dead Sea, and having watched my friend's eyes widen in future culinary delight, and noticed that the cows had disappeared from the adjoining fields, we made our way home. As we drove along the autobahn I couldn't help but wonder why anyone should ever buy a decent car, which is capable of putting the willies up the likes of the Jeremy Clarksons of this world, and then drive at a speed a tortoise suffering from constipation would die from out of utter shame, were it to be seen piddling along at such a miserly rate of knots.
I was dropped off close to home, and although it would have been nice to have a Saturday off, I had to work as I'm taking far too long completing a particular task that needs doing. For the next few hours, with a short break for lunch, I managed to get stuck in and things were looking that much brighter, having abandoned the Internet and turned the phones off I was very productive. The latter part of the afternoon was marked down for getting the shopping done, and I duly wandered off into town at the appropriate moment. Knowing full well the town would be groaning with the weight of tourists, due to the Christmas market, I sensibly went the way of the 'wise men', avoiding the ant like infestation, by avoiding the main street into town.
Of course, by avoiding the town centre, I fully expected to avoid the crowds. Yes, by now it should have become apparent that I'm using the word 'Avoid/ing' a lot, not because I can't find a suitable synonym, but because I thought I'd got avoidance techniques down to a fine art. However, like all men of greater talent than I possess, which really doesn't say much about men in general, my delusions of avoidance greatness came to an abrupt end with a massive punch in the face; had a horse decided to kick me in the groin it would've hurt far less.
It seems that not only were the tourists out in force, the Franconians had also decided to join them. The Franconians are a separate branch of the Teutonic family tree, who adopted the name 'France' after Boney's invasion of Germany, who in turn don't have much in the way of fond memories of his time in Germany. Ok, I'm being slightly flippant here, and taking several tonnes of pinched salt for the sake of artistic licence (those who take their history seriously go to the link above). However, what can't be escaped is that I live in a beautiful city, Nürnberg, which becomes particularly more gruesome with the arrival of sweaty bodies in their thousands, who are in turn joined by thousands of Franconians out to buy gifts, duly put under the Xmas tree to open on the evening of Christmas Eve, a tradition carried on by Lillibet Windsor and her hoard of kin being as they are of German extraction. It's one of those strange anomalies that the British hate Europe but are quite happy to have a monarch whose European ties reflect the European Union map. Maybe the fact that Europe wasn't interested in being a member of the British Empire, or the Commonwealth that followed, is the key to the problem
But I've seriously gone off the rails and need to get back to where I should be; which if you've read this far I've no doubts that you're wondering where the hell you are, or for that matter where the hell the idiot writing this is. As we can plainly work out I am here, and you are here, so we must be here together. Anyway, the town was packed solid and it was virtually impossible to move with any great purpose in mind. For a people who pride themselves on being logical, it beats the hell out of me as to why every Thomas, Andrea and kinder should want to come out at the same time. OOOOOOOOOOO I could whistle on a wallaby's pouch were it not so serious! I now realise why I quickly abandoned the game of rugby at such a young age, the scrummage is a very annoying and often painful experience. It also taught me the finer and more subtler forms of the Anglo-Saxon language, which later became even more refined by the French.
After swearing several times that I'll never venture forth into the jungle bells of an insane yuletide city, where kamikaze reindeer are the norm, and where Franconian men and children wander about wearing Santa hats sporting red flashing stars, unfortunately I will have to. God I hate life!
The first part of the morning was pleasantly spent with an old friend, who wanted to visit a village shop, which was a mixture of DIY, gardening and barbecues. I might add at this point the entire reason for a leisurely drive into deepest Bavaria was to view a particular brand of barbecue called Weber; no doubt named after that distinguished sociologist, Max Weber, a dead man who has continued to rise in my estimation with each passing year of life. I might also point out that this is was a Saturday morning in December, -5c outside, and a hard frost had settled during the night, which made the German countryside look particularly pretty, especially from inside the car. But to my delightful friend, when it comes to barbecues, the weather is a mere side issue and of no great importance when planning ahead to spending an enormous amount of time on his huge balcony, happily cooking a herd of cattle. If nothing else, at such times and in his company, you quite often don't realise it's brass monkey weather, where everything from the nether regions has given up the ghost, withdrawn into the inner sanctum, and gone into hibernation until the daffodils are in full bloom. I digress slightly, but only because I'm sitting in front of a partially open window, and typing is the easiest way of preventing the fingers from falling off due to severe frostbite.
So having seen the barbecue, which resembled something the size of the Dead Sea, and having watched my friend's eyes widen in future culinary delight, and noticed that the cows had disappeared from the adjoining fields, we made our way home. As we drove along the autobahn I couldn't help but wonder why anyone should ever buy a decent car, which is capable of putting the willies up the likes of the Jeremy Clarksons of this world, and then drive at a speed a tortoise suffering from constipation would die from out of utter shame, were it to be seen piddling along at such a miserly rate of knots.
I was dropped off close to home, and although it would have been nice to have a Saturday off, I had to work as I'm taking far too long completing a particular task that needs doing. For the next few hours, with a short break for lunch, I managed to get stuck in and things were looking that much brighter, having abandoned the Internet and turned the phones off I was very productive. The latter part of the afternoon was marked down for getting the shopping done, and I duly wandered off into town at the appropriate moment. Knowing full well the town would be groaning with the weight of tourists, due to the Christmas market, I sensibly went the way of the 'wise men', avoiding the ant like infestation, by avoiding the main street into town.
Of course, by avoiding the town centre, I fully expected to avoid the crowds. Yes, by now it should have become apparent that I'm using the word 'Avoid/ing' a lot, not because I can't find a suitable synonym, but because I thought I'd got avoidance techniques down to a fine art. However, like all men of greater talent than I possess, which really doesn't say much about men in general, my delusions of avoidance greatness came to an abrupt end with a massive punch in the face; had a horse decided to kick me in the groin it would've hurt far less.
It seems that not only were the tourists out in force, the Franconians had also decided to join them. The Franconians are a separate branch of the Teutonic family tree, who adopted the name 'France' after Boney's invasion of Germany, who in turn don't have much in the way of fond memories of his time in Germany. Ok, I'm being slightly flippant here, and taking several tonnes of pinched salt for the sake of artistic licence (those who take their history seriously go to the link above). However, what can't be escaped is that I live in a beautiful city, Nürnberg, which becomes particularly more gruesome with the arrival of sweaty bodies in their thousands, who are in turn joined by thousands of Franconians out to buy gifts, duly put under the Xmas tree to open on the evening of Christmas Eve, a tradition carried on by Lillibet Windsor and her hoard of kin being as they are of German extraction. It's one of those strange anomalies that the British hate Europe but are quite happy to have a monarch whose European ties reflect the European Union map. Maybe the fact that Europe wasn't interested in being a member of the British Empire, or the Commonwealth that followed, is the key to the problem
But I've seriously gone off the rails and need to get back to where I should be; which if you've read this far I've no doubts that you're wondering where the hell you are, or for that matter where the hell the idiot writing this is. As we can plainly work out I am here, and you are here, so we must be here together. Anyway, the town was packed solid and it was virtually impossible to move with any great purpose in mind. For a people who pride themselves on being logical, it beats the hell out of me as to why every Thomas, Andrea and kinder should want to come out at the same time. OOOOOOOOOOO I could whistle on a wallaby's pouch were it not so serious! I now realise why I quickly abandoned the game of rugby at such a young age, the scrummage is a very annoying and often painful experience. It also taught me the finer and more subtler forms of the Anglo-Saxon language, which later became even more refined by the French.
After swearing several times that I'll never venture forth into the jungle bells of an insane yuletide city, where kamikaze reindeer are the norm, and where Franconian men and children wander about wearing Santa hats sporting red flashing stars, unfortunately I will have to. God I hate life!
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Martin Scorsese I'm not!
'I shall be gone awhile' Captain Oates said to Scott as he left the tent, never to be seen again. And so off I wandered into the distance, around 300 metres, and hit the crowds. One could be forgiven if I chose to take that particular course of action, given that I find crowds as exciting as a bad case of the pox. The fact you know what lies ahead, and that what you're going to do, in this case get some film footage, means the level of ignorance is zilch.
I am talking of the Christmas market, and on the opening day nothing could be worse than milling with the throngs of sweaty humanity in all its glorious anonymous forms. The reason for my steps into the unknowingly known, is to film the event and eventually make a short film, that I can upload to this blog; if one has to suffer for one's art, I see no reason why others shouldn't as well. Endeavoring on this particular quest has been a bit of an eye-opener, and looking at the daily rushes I'm both delighted and equally horrified with my efforts. Delighted that I managed to actually film some shots that are half decent, horrified that I appear to be suffering from utter drunkenness at times. I do take my hat off to any director of photography, and any films I watch in the future will be more favourably looked upon.
Of course, filming crowd scenes with a cast of an unsuspecting thousands of unpaid extras leads to some luvvies getting in the way, at the most inopportune moments. But at other times, pure farce ensues such as when a delightful female butt cleavage wanders into shot, gratuitous sex scene, or a young child upon a carousel horse thinking the wooden rendition will go much faster if he rides it with a zealous intensity. Then there's the two horses pulling the stagecoach, which wends its winding way through the old city, leaving behind fresh evidence of not being very happy with forever going round in circles; the intelligence of horses is largely underrated in my book. The silly season continued with the refuse lorry stopping outside the bank; appropriate I thought considering the amount of crap the financial sector has dumped on us for the past year or so. I did the unforgivable and with the microphone recording the scenes, I can be heard to say 'bugger off'. I'm a little surprised that the microphone didn't pick up the occasional expletive I muttered, but then I must have been in my Marlon Brando voice mode, and so wasn't picked up.
Getting back to the filming, I'm a little surprised that I'll have to go back and do more filming, which gives me further insight into why so much material ends up on the cutting floor, edited out, never to be used in the final polished version. I filmed some two hours worth of material, and still there's not enough for a 15 minute film. But more importantly I managed to learn a lot in such a short space of time and I feel more confident about tightening up the shots I take. The other thing is that I filmed in the dark, and the camera didn't like it; mind you I don't think I would appreciate it all that much if I had a bright light shining intensely into my eyes.
Will I ever become a Scorsese, Lean or Fellini? No, but then I wouldn't want to be, although I'm fairly certain they weren't without their own trials and tribulations when they started out on their magnificent careers. If I manage to put something together that's half decent I'll be happy. All in all I'm fairly sure Hollywood's not waiting for me to knock on its door, if it is, it has a long wait.
Here I must end, I can hear the shower calling me. I'm off to a concert where I'll be watching Handel's 'Messiah' being performed, and if nothing else it'll be a pleasant few hours to pass the time away.
I am talking of the Christmas market, and on the opening day nothing could be worse than milling with the throngs of sweaty humanity in all its glorious anonymous forms. The reason for my steps into the unknowingly known, is to film the event and eventually make a short film, that I can upload to this blog; if one has to suffer for one's art, I see no reason why others shouldn't as well. Endeavoring on this particular quest has been a bit of an eye-opener, and looking at the daily rushes I'm both delighted and equally horrified with my efforts. Delighted that I managed to actually film some shots that are half decent, horrified that I appear to be suffering from utter drunkenness at times. I do take my hat off to any director of photography, and any films I watch in the future will be more favourably looked upon.
Of course, filming crowd scenes with a cast of an unsuspecting thousands of unpaid extras leads to some luvvies getting in the way, at the most inopportune moments. But at other times, pure farce ensues such as when a delightful female butt cleavage wanders into shot, gratuitous sex scene, or a young child upon a carousel horse thinking the wooden rendition will go much faster if he rides it with a zealous intensity. Then there's the two horses pulling the stagecoach, which wends its winding way through the old city, leaving behind fresh evidence of not being very happy with forever going round in circles; the intelligence of horses is largely underrated in my book. The silly season continued with the refuse lorry stopping outside the bank; appropriate I thought considering the amount of crap the financial sector has dumped on us for the past year or so. I did the unforgivable and with the microphone recording the scenes, I can be heard to say 'bugger off'. I'm a little surprised that the microphone didn't pick up the occasional expletive I muttered, but then I must have been in my Marlon Brando voice mode, and so wasn't picked up.
Getting back to the filming, I'm a little surprised that I'll have to go back and do more filming, which gives me further insight into why so much material ends up on the cutting floor, edited out, never to be used in the final polished version. I filmed some two hours worth of material, and still there's not enough for a 15 minute film. But more importantly I managed to learn a lot in such a short space of time and I feel more confident about tightening up the shots I take. The other thing is that I filmed in the dark, and the camera didn't like it; mind you I don't think I would appreciate it all that much if I had a bright light shining intensely into my eyes.
Will I ever become a Scorsese, Lean or Fellini? No, but then I wouldn't want to be, although I'm fairly certain they weren't without their own trials and tribulations when they started out on their magnificent careers. If I manage to put something together that's half decent I'll be happy. All in all I'm fairly sure Hollywood's not waiting for me to knock on its door, if it is, it has a long wait.
Here I must end, I can hear the shower calling me. I'm off to a concert where I'll be watching Handel's 'Messiah' being performed, and if nothing else it'll be a pleasant few hours to pass the time away.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Christmas...and the Camel.
Got the devastating news last night over a wonderfully refreshing radler, shandy to non-German speakers, that the Christmas market was opening this weekend. This annual event, celebrating centuries of yuletide, the German fascination for wooden toys, the coming together of people over a hot mug of punch, is upon us, and I will be inflicted with its grotesqueness. Not a happy moment, and one that seems to come ever more quickly with each passing year.
Ok, I know that I sound miserable, and as my son said the other night I should watch Scrooge to remind me of what Christmas is all about, nevertheless the Christmas market is a very severe pain in the butt. There are literally thousands of people who visit it during December, most are tourists, most of whom are carrying cameras and camcorders, most of whom think it's perfectly acceptable to get in your way as they take photographs of their loved ones. If this wasn't all there is to contend with, the market is set up in such a way that the stalls are set up in rows, with very narrow passages, making it virtually impossible to start at one end and not be in a bad mood by the time you get to the other end.
To the first time visitor the market is a thing to be enjoyed, and even I have to admit that such was the 'adventure' on my very first visit that I did enjoy it, mostly because it was new and unknown, and I was endowed with an abundance of ignorance. Five Christmas markets on, in as far as it is humanly possible, such romantic delusions have been abandoned and in the cold light of December, my only wish is that I was elsewhere, deeply so.
Having got that off my chest, and as the season of goodwill to all men (and women) is now upon us, I think it's appropriate to talk about camels. Why camels I hear you muttering to yourselves as you plough through this, sitting comfortably in the sanctity of the one room, where nobody disturbs you. Should you actually be reading this elsewhere, I thank you. Should you be reading this in the toilet, please be careful when you finish as the edges of a laptop can be a little rough on the skin. But I digress from the subject of the camel, and if I were the camel I'd have the hump by now. On the other hand, if I was a female camel I'd get the hump twice; which would tend to prove that men are more forgiving, don't get the hump so often, and only have the capacity for half an argument. But that's by the by.
So what's so fascinating about camels? No idea really, except that I thought the camel should get a mention as it rarely gets one. This, after all, is the season of goodwill and camels deserve as much goodwill as the next man. Yes, I know, lots of mentions about men but it can't be avoided for the purposes of literary greatness. Although I will admit that I've never met a camel who could claim any form of literary greatness. To my knowledge there's no Camel Wordsworth, Camel Shakespeare, or Camel Dickens; but then again there's Camel Sutra, so there is one I guess, although his book on physical distortions and flexibility are far too advanced in its thinking for me.
The camel isn't a particular favourite of mine, unlike the dolphin who will always be tops or the gannet - a type of booby (no jokes please), but you can't help but admire this ship of the desert, even if they can be a temperamental so and so. Ask yourself where would the world of cinema be without 'Lawrence of Arabia? For that matter, where would David Lean, Alec Guiness, Omar Sharif, Anthony Quinn and Peter O'Toole be without the camel? These are serious questions that need an answer!
This brings us back to the beginning, and my miserable comments about the Christmas market. The camel, along with the donkey, two stubborn animals, who actually play a fundamental role in the story of Christmas, without them there would be no Christmas, and no Christmas market. On that particular note, I wonder how good the camel is to eat?
Ok, I know that I sound miserable, and as my son said the other night I should watch Scrooge to remind me of what Christmas is all about, nevertheless the Christmas market is a very severe pain in the butt. There are literally thousands of people who visit it during December, most are tourists, most of whom are carrying cameras and camcorders, most of whom think it's perfectly acceptable to get in your way as they take photographs of their loved ones. If this wasn't all there is to contend with, the market is set up in such a way that the stalls are set up in rows, with very narrow passages, making it virtually impossible to start at one end and not be in a bad mood by the time you get to the other end.
To the first time visitor the market is a thing to be enjoyed, and even I have to admit that such was the 'adventure' on my very first visit that I did enjoy it, mostly because it was new and unknown, and I was endowed with an abundance of ignorance. Five Christmas markets on, in as far as it is humanly possible, such romantic delusions have been abandoned and in the cold light of December, my only wish is that I was elsewhere, deeply so.
Having got that off my chest, and as the season of goodwill to all men (and women) is now upon us, I think it's appropriate to talk about camels. Why camels I hear you muttering to yourselves as you plough through this, sitting comfortably in the sanctity of the one room, where nobody disturbs you. Should you actually be reading this elsewhere, I thank you. Should you be reading this in the toilet, please be careful when you finish as the edges of a laptop can be a little rough on the skin. But I digress from the subject of the camel, and if I were the camel I'd have the hump by now. On the other hand, if I was a female camel I'd get the hump twice; which would tend to prove that men are more forgiving, don't get the hump so often, and only have the capacity for half an argument. But that's by the by.
So what's so fascinating about camels? No idea really, except that I thought the camel should get a mention as it rarely gets one. This, after all, is the season of goodwill and camels deserve as much goodwill as the next man. Yes, I know, lots of mentions about men but it can't be avoided for the purposes of literary greatness. Although I will admit that I've never met a camel who could claim any form of literary greatness. To my knowledge there's no Camel Wordsworth, Camel Shakespeare, or Camel Dickens; but then again there's Camel Sutra, so there is one I guess, although his book on physical distortions and flexibility are far too advanced in its thinking for me.
The camel isn't a particular favourite of mine, unlike the dolphin who will always be tops or the gannet - a type of booby (no jokes please), but you can't help but admire this ship of the desert, even if they can be a temperamental so and so. Ask yourself where would the world of cinema be without 'Lawrence of Arabia? For that matter, where would David Lean, Alec Guiness, Omar Sharif, Anthony Quinn and Peter O'Toole be without the camel? These are serious questions that need an answer!
This brings us back to the beginning, and my miserable comments about the Christmas market. The camel, along with the donkey, two stubborn animals, who actually play a fundamental role in the story of Christmas, without them there would be no Christmas, and no Christmas market. On that particular note, I wonder how good the camel is to eat?
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Revenge of the Trash Bin!
Today's one of those days, where having finally got your head around the need to turn into a computer geek, you're on a mission. Of course, the need far outweighs the actually meagre talent by which to execute such lofty ambitions. However, you're confident that whatever little knowledge you do have, will be sufficient for the task ahead. I should add at this point that there's no braver man than a fool on a mission, especially one that's largely self-taught, and one who's about technically advanced as the elastic on a jockstrap. Never mind, if nothing else one of the greatest testaments to the success of men is their somewhat naive ability to out-think their actual ability to think. By the way, this is known by two terms in the English language (1) delusions of grandeur and (2) a hopeless romantic.
Having got up before 8am, an excellent indication of determination to overcome the dire struggle ahead, I turned my beautiful laptop on, so whilst I'm preparing breakfast, then commencing with the necessary ablutions that are always mandatory upon rising, she's warming up nicely, expectantly awaiting the gentle caress of my delicate fingers. There's nothing that gets her going more than the gentle touch of fingers, caressing her keyboard. Watching her respond to this tender manipulation can only bring a smile to my face; a radiant and contented smile that signals nothing but pure pleasure.
Such a start gives a deep sense of accomplishment. In that very moment there's the acknowledgment of the close relationship, which intimately exists. At that moment you are at one with your beautiful laptop, and you're at peace. One can only sit back for a moment or two and marvel at the joyful union of like-minded spirits, softly enjoined together in a single purpose.
Thus with a dogged determination known only to the male species, females generally look on with a sympathetic smirk, you head into the wilderness. Let there be no misunderstanding here, I'm utterly convinced that the task ahead is a piece of carrot cake (I've mentioned carrot cake, not because it's got anything to do with the point in question, but because I like it, which is a good enough reason in my book, which by the way will be published at some point, but that's another story...). Anyway, enough of this prattling!
Some 12 hours later, after suitable pit stops for much needed sustenance, the following applies:
Having got up before 8am, an excellent indication of determination to overcome the dire struggle ahead, I turned my beautiful laptop on, so whilst I'm preparing breakfast, then commencing with the necessary ablutions that are always mandatory upon rising, she's warming up nicely, expectantly awaiting the gentle caress of my delicate fingers. There's nothing that gets her going more than the gentle touch of fingers, caressing her keyboard. Watching her respond to this tender manipulation can only bring a smile to my face; a radiant and contented smile that signals nothing but pure pleasure.
Such a start gives a deep sense of accomplishment. In that very moment there's the acknowledgment of the close relationship, which intimately exists. At that moment you are at one with your beautiful laptop, and you're at peace. One can only sit back for a moment or two and marvel at the joyful union of like-minded spirits, softly enjoined together in a single purpose.
Thus with a dogged determination known only to the male species, females generally look on with a sympathetic smirk, you head into the wilderness. Let there be no misunderstanding here, I'm utterly convinced that the task ahead is a piece of carrot cake (I've mentioned carrot cake, not because it's got anything to do with the point in question, but because I like it, which is a good enough reason in my book, which by the way will be published at some point, but that's another story...). Anyway, enough of this prattling!
Some 12 hours later, after suitable pit stops for much needed sustenance, the following applies:
- Excellent start
- Interruptions, very delightful in one case, very weird in the other
- Wholesale massacre of hard drive (done gingerly, scaredy catty operating, idiot in charge)
- "Up yours!" replies trash bin (jealous of me & laptop) refusing to do anything I tell it
- Trash bin threatened with punitive action, I threaten to put Barry Manilow in the bin
- Trash bin gives in, emptying its lot (arrogant smile on my face)
- Trash bin knowingly smirks (he who laughs last, laughs longest)
- 'C' drive before the start had 9GBs free, after 12 long hours it's now got 1.9GBs free
- Trash bin now in fits of giggles
- I can't find Barry Manilow
- I give up
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Men...& a question of multi-tasking.
It's been nearly a week since my last blog, largely due to having little to say about much in particular, which must come as a relief to the ozone layer. During the past week it seemed like an endless journey of one frustration after another, where no matter how hard I tried to work, work had very little in the way of focus. That's my own fault I know, but then I'm my own worse enemy at times, the more so when my brain, little and useless as it normally is, decides to go on a creative 'bender'.
The bender has nothing to do with gulping down copious amounts of alcohol, but more to do with the brain's perverse desire to think, and think far too much. These are dangerous waters; made even worse by bobbing about inside the available cavernous space of my skull. This grey matter, lurking furtively, perched high upon broad shoulders, suddenly explodes in a torrent of frenzied activity, causing the neurons to short circuit. The ensuing blackout, it might be favourably looked upon, is Mother Nature's way of keeping 'man' in his place; something which no-one could reasonably argue against, unless you happen to be a man.
That glaringly honest remark, remarkably said by a man, who strenuously denies he's in anyway to be considered remarkable, is perhaps no more than an acknowledgment that, generally but still true, men are largely incapable of doing anything remotely useful and worthwhile if they have to multi-task. A radical feminist once said that 'an individual working on a single task is a man, two tasks a very confused man, and a man working on three or more tasks at the same time, a goddamn genius who's fighting with his inner desire to be a woman.'
Men are notoriously inept when it comes to doing several tasks at the same time. Think of all those symbols of human greatness: the splitting of a single atom led to the A-Bomb accomplished by a number of men; yet it took only Madame Curie to see through every man with the x-ray at the same time. Newton's theory of gravity was born out of trying to discover why he kept being hit by apples, thrown by his female relatives who were washing, cleaning, feeding babies and doing the pots at the same time. It took one man to discover the wheel and his wife to find many uses it could be put to, much to her lasting regret. The list goes on endlessly.
Of course it might be argued that Mother Nature is very cruel to men, in that she gave him the choice of two brains, for the purposes of multi-tasking. As an evolutionary experiment it failed, which is why Charles Darwin never mentioned it in 'The Origin of Species', that and the fact he was a man. One brain sits at the top, which is often confused by the brain lower down below the belly button. Although to be fair, the upper brain works out the best way to naturally sow the oats, the lower one eventually carrying out the theory in practice. Even here Mother Nature confused the issue further by ensuring that some oat stalks performed better by leaving the husk off, some did better by putting the husk on, some oats had a trial run but filled out blank reports.
Mother nature then went on to introduce a thing called the 'G-Spot', causing men endless hours of lost sleep after it was mentioned by the 20th Century's greatest female thinker, 'Cosmo Politan'. Cosmo, some say, is Mother Nature's finest contribution to finally killing off any doubts that men could multi-task. Since the G-Spot was gloriously revealed to the world, women suddenly found that there was a much better way of making multi-tasking a more pleasurable experience.
I dedicate this particular blog to Susie in California, Steph in Australia, Tanz in the UK, & finally Isa who is somewhere in the world thoroughly enjoying herself at the moment. Without these particular individuals, the world would be immeasurably more serious than it is, and I thank each of you for making me laugh, and allowing me the privilege of sharing particular moments in your lives. Each of you have proved time and time again that the male species is only able to function if he's only required to do one thing at a time.
The bender has nothing to do with gulping down copious amounts of alcohol, but more to do with the brain's perverse desire to think, and think far too much. These are dangerous waters; made even worse by bobbing about inside the available cavernous space of my skull. This grey matter, lurking furtively, perched high upon broad shoulders, suddenly explodes in a torrent of frenzied activity, causing the neurons to short circuit. The ensuing blackout, it might be favourably looked upon, is Mother Nature's way of keeping 'man' in his place; something which no-one could reasonably argue against, unless you happen to be a man.
That glaringly honest remark, remarkably said by a man, who strenuously denies he's in anyway to be considered remarkable, is perhaps no more than an acknowledgment that, generally but still true, men are largely incapable of doing anything remotely useful and worthwhile if they have to multi-task. A radical feminist once said that 'an individual working on a single task is a man, two tasks a very confused man, and a man working on three or more tasks at the same time, a goddamn genius who's fighting with his inner desire to be a woman.'
Men are notoriously inept when it comes to doing several tasks at the same time. Think of all those symbols of human greatness: the splitting of a single atom led to the A-Bomb accomplished by a number of men; yet it took only Madame Curie to see through every man with the x-ray at the same time. Newton's theory of gravity was born out of trying to discover why he kept being hit by apples, thrown by his female relatives who were washing, cleaning, feeding babies and doing the pots at the same time. It took one man to discover the wheel and his wife to find many uses it could be put to, much to her lasting regret. The list goes on endlessly.
Of course it might be argued that Mother Nature is very cruel to men, in that she gave him the choice of two brains, for the purposes of multi-tasking. As an evolutionary experiment it failed, which is why Charles Darwin never mentioned it in 'The Origin of Species', that and the fact he was a man. One brain sits at the top, which is often confused by the brain lower down below the belly button. Although to be fair, the upper brain works out the best way to naturally sow the oats, the lower one eventually carrying out the theory in practice. Even here Mother Nature confused the issue further by ensuring that some oat stalks performed better by leaving the husk off, some did better by putting the husk on, some oats had a trial run but filled out blank reports.
Mother nature then went on to introduce a thing called the 'G-Spot', causing men endless hours of lost sleep after it was mentioned by the 20th Century's greatest female thinker, 'Cosmo Politan'. Cosmo, some say, is Mother Nature's finest contribution to finally killing off any doubts that men could multi-task. Since the G-Spot was gloriously revealed to the world, women suddenly found that there was a much better way of making multi-tasking a more pleasurable experience.
I dedicate this particular blog to Susie in California, Steph in Australia, Tanz in the UK, & finally Isa who is somewhere in the world thoroughly enjoying herself at the moment. Without these particular individuals, the world would be immeasurably more serious than it is, and I thank each of you for making me laugh, and allowing me the privilege of sharing particular moments in your lives. Each of you have proved time and time again that the male species is only able to function if he's only required to do one thing at a time.
Monday, November 9, 2009
For the love of an onion!
So how was your weekend? Did everything go to plan? Did you decide to be completely decadent and spend the entire weekend sleeping? Or did you helplessly watch it drift by, as though it had a mind of its own?
Like most of my well laid plans, I had a dream too! But my dreams tend to get waylaid by some impish joker, who thinks nothing of throwing a spanner into the works, that or throw a bucket of water over me. For the first time in more months than I can remember, I decided I'd have a weekend free of toil. The plan was to spend as much of the weekend as possible being 'arty'; waving paintbrushes like a Japanese robot, freed from the monotonous practice of building endless cars that nobody wants to buy, who suddenly discovers life. Life would either be seen by the robot to be a splendorous tribute to Mother Nature's determination to overcome all obstacles in her way, as is par for the course (well done Tigress Woody), or be faced with the unenviable truth that life at the mill is a somewhat pleasurable form of slavery.
So there I am, up at 6am on Saturday morning, the autumnal darkness no different to going to bed at 2am, as I often seem to these days. By 9am I'm doing the food shopping at the local supermarket; thank god for small supermarkets! Nothing worse than having a shopping trolley, suffering from a cranky wheel determined it's the boss. Have you ever wondered how many hours of your life you've wasted wrestling with a trolley, only to come away with the crap beaten out of you? Yes, you do the sensible thing and exchange it for another, only to find that it's decided that as a fully paid up member of the 'Truckin' Trolleys' Co-Operative Union, it's going to be an even bigger pain in your butt, than your former headmaster was giving you several strokes of the whippy stick.
I was in luck as the trolley decided it was going to give me an easy time; by 9.30 I was back on the streets, loaded up with healthy food, it had 'Bio' on the label. I've always taken those three letters on trust, never once questioning whether 'Bio' means produced naturally, produced as a result of biological and chemical warfare, or biodegradable and therefore the end product will rot down without too much damage to the environment, but may well cause a blockage elsewhere in the system. 10 minutes later I'm back home, whipping myself into culinary thoughts of the first excellent homemade chicken, leek and mushroom soup of the friggin' chilly season. But upon emptying the three shopping bags, a glaring omission, the humble but very essential onion. One can only take pity on a fully grown man, who's boyish excitement is a more delightful sight than his normal miserable, chewed toffee, face, who collapses into a Tsunami of doubt, quickly followed by the ungentlemanly expressions of a great ape after being told by Desmond Morris that he and the idiot are closely related.
Plan B was eventually brought into play, as soon as the hairshirt had been removed, and the self-flagellation with a washing up sponge had been completed. One can only admire the tenacity of a man on a mission. Plan B is always brought into play for the only reason that it makes those who use it appear organised, have options, and is useful to have around in an emergency. Nothing could be further from the truth. Plan B is nothing more than an exercise in seeing how far you can out do the imagination of Hans Christian Anderson. Basically Plan B follows the well-trod path of cock up, reaction to cock up, and intelligent response to undo said cock up. There's perhaps no greater sight than a man with his cock up, doing all he can to save face at the sight of his cock up, finally overcoming his embarrassment at that moment in time.
By now it was around 10.30am, and as with any conflict involving the British mentality, a frappe was in order; living in foreign climes for some time tea has largely been replaced by the exotic nature of coffee's ability to be disguised in any number of ways. Despite it being friggin' chilly, and hanging on to the last vestiges of machismo, an ice cold frappe still holds an appeal and not one you let go of lightly. So frappe and sandwich, I was feeling hungry due to the shopping trip, and the overworked brain that had at least decided most of it was going to enjoy the weekend, and come what may do no work.
Eventually, I returned to the city centre, a few minutes from my doorstep and proceeded to find the missing onion. As the outdoor market is in the main square of town, I was surrounded by the fruit and veg of the season, neatly laid out in mutlicoloured rows of succulent and tasty offerings. As I wandered from stall to stall I couldn't remember what I wanted., which I have to admit is somewhat worrying. Standing there, I suddenly remembered that I needed something else, which had nothing to do with peppers, apples or bent cucumbers, but for the life of me I couldn't remember what it was either. Had I been aware of my forgetfulness perhaps I might have rightly concluded that senility was on its way, but somehow forgetting what forgetfulness is can be a mixed blessing.
But after 3 hours or so wandering aimlessly about in department stores, which is always a nightmare on a Saturday, where I bought some DVDs and boxer shorts, neither which were needed in the great scheme of things. I was rescued from the thickness of my own fog by that all American hero, CAPTAIN STARBUCKS! Those who may decry Starbucks clearly have never experienced its uncanny ability to sweep away the brain's stubborn nature. Sitting outside in the cold, enjoying a piping hot Grande coffee of the week, watching people going about their business, is all the recuperative medication one needs to remember that you've just spent endless hours doing precisely nothing. But the one thing I did remember was that I needed an onion.
The rest of the weekend? I went back to work and had dinner on Sunday with another dear friend. At least if I'm working, enjoying the company of a close friend, I'm not in the slightest danger of forgetting......How did I say I was going to finish this blog?
Like most of my well laid plans, I had a dream too! But my dreams tend to get waylaid by some impish joker, who thinks nothing of throwing a spanner into the works, that or throw a bucket of water over me. For the first time in more months than I can remember, I decided I'd have a weekend free of toil. The plan was to spend as much of the weekend as possible being 'arty'; waving paintbrushes like a Japanese robot, freed from the monotonous practice of building endless cars that nobody wants to buy, who suddenly discovers life. Life would either be seen by the robot to be a splendorous tribute to Mother Nature's determination to overcome all obstacles in her way, as is par for the course (well done Tigress Woody), or be faced with the unenviable truth that life at the mill is a somewhat pleasurable form of slavery.
So there I am, up at 6am on Saturday morning, the autumnal darkness no different to going to bed at 2am, as I often seem to these days. By 9am I'm doing the food shopping at the local supermarket; thank god for small supermarkets! Nothing worse than having a shopping trolley, suffering from a cranky wheel determined it's the boss. Have you ever wondered how many hours of your life you've wasted wrestling with a trolley, only to come away with the crap beaten out of you? Yes, you do the sensible thing and exchange it for another, only to find that it's decided that as a fully paid up member of the 'Truckin' Trolleys' Co-Operative Union, it's going to be an even bigger pain in your butt, than your former headmaster was giving you several strokes of the whippy stick.
I was in luck as the trolley decided it was going to give me an easy time; by 9.30 I was back on the streets, loaded up with healthy food, it had 'Bio' on the label. I've always taken those three letters on trust, never once questioning whether 'Bio' means produced naturally, produced as a result of biological and chemical warfare, or biodegradable and therefore the end product will rot down without too much damage to the environment, but may well cause a blockage elsewhere in the system. 10 minutes later I'm back home, whipping myself into culinary thoughts of the first excellent homemade chicken, leek and mushroom soup of the friggin' chilly season. But upon emptying the three shopping bags, a glaring omission, the humble but very essential onion. One can only take pity on a fully grown man, who's boyish excitement is a more delightful sight than his normal miserable, chewed toffee, face, who collapses into a Tsunami of doubt, quickly followed by the ungentlemanly expressions of a great ape after being told by Desmond Morris that he and the idiot are closely related.
Plan B was eventually brought into play, as soon as the hairshirt had been removed, and the self-flagellation with a washing up sponge had been completed. One can only admire the tenacity of a man on a mission. Plan B is always brought into play for the only reason that it makes those who use it appear organised, have options, and is useful to have around in an emergency. Nothing could be further from the truth. Plan B is nothing more than an exercise in seeing how far you can out do the imagination of Hans Christian Anderson. Basically Plan B follows the well-trod path of cock up, reaction to cock up, and intelligent response to undo said cock up. There's perhaps no greater sight than a man with his cock up, doing all he can to save face at the sight of his cock up, finally overcoming his embarrassment at that moment in time.
By now it was around 10.30am, and as with any conflict involving the British mentality, a frappe was in order; living in foreign climes for some time tea has largely been replaced by the exotic nature of coffee's ability to be disguised in any number of ways. Despite it being friggin' chilly, and hanging on to the last vestiges of machismo, an ice cold frappe still holds an appeal and not one you let go of lightly. So frappe and sandwich, I was feeling hungry due to the shopping trip, and the overworked brain that had at least decided most of it was going to enjoy the weekend, and come what may do no work.
Eventually, I returned to the city centre, a few minutes from my doorstep and proceeded to find the missing onion. As the outdoor market is in the main square of town, I was surrounded by the fruit and veg of the season, neatly laid out in mutlicoloured rows of succulent and tasty offerings. As I wandered from stall to stall I couldn't remember what I wanted., which I have to admit is somewhat worrying. Standing there, I suddenly remembered that I needed something else, which had nothing to do with peppers, apples or bent cucumbers, but for the life of me I couldn't remember what it was either. Had I been aware of my forgetfulness perhaps I might have rightly concluded that senility was on its way, but somehow forgetting what forgetfulness is can be a mixed blessing.
But after 3 hours or so wandering aimlessly about in department stores, which is always a nightmare on a Saturday, where I bought some DVDs and boxer shorts, neither which were needed in the great scheme of things. I was rescued from the thickness of my own fog by that all American hero, CAPTAIN STARBUCKS! Those who may decry Starbucks clearly have never experienced its uncanny ability to sweep away the brain's stubborn nature. Sitting outside in the cold, enjoying a piping hot Grande coffee of the week, watching people going about their business, is all the recuperative medication one needs to remember that you've just spent endless hours doing precisely nothing. But the one thing I did remember was that I needed an onion.
The rest of the weekend? I went back to work and had dinner on Sunday with another dear friend. At least if I'm working, enjoying the company of a close friend, I'm not in the slightest danger of forgetting......How did I say I was going to finish this blog?
Thursday, November 5, 2009
A short history of bonfire night.
I'd completely forgotten it was bonfire night in the UK. For those who don't know about this particular event, of sorts, which has spawned enough historical myths to be the basis of JR Tolkien's weighty tomes 'Lord of the rings', I'll try to enlighten you.
Firstly, it's the very British way of supporting the underdog, by burning effigies to declare their immense joy at Guido (Guy) Fawkes being dispatched for attempting to blow up parliament and get rid of a bunch of cronies, enjoying the high life as Members of Parliament. As history shows us, nothing much as changed.
Secondly, it was a dastardly attempt to get rid of the King, not because he was a particularly bad guy, but because he was a protestant, whilst Guido and his mates were catholic terrorists who thought Britain would be better off in the European Union of the time. Again, nothing much has changed, except if you're English you still want to remain a castaway on a desert island. If you're Scottish, you like the idea of annoying the hell out of the Westminister mafia, so you'd like to be more European. If you're Welsh, you only want to see more sheep roaming the hills.
Thirdly, Guido took the full brunt of the polite manners the English are famed for. He was politely told he was going to be tied to a post, which sat on top of some fine wheat sheaves left over from the harvest festival, underneath were faggots and kindling, and then after the archbishop had prayed to God to save Guido's tormented soul, he would be set alight. Guido not wishing to appear a miserable bugger, and to prove his English credentials, said 'thank you'.
The English establishment, not wishing to let the peasants forget, agreed it was permissible to have a bonfire every year. The establishment secretly agreed that burning an old guy every November 5th would in fact reduce the numbers requiring the services of the Poor Law, and would also greatly reduce expenditure on pensions.
As Guido was being burnt at the stake, the good English peasants threw potatoes at him, which duly landed in the fire. It was soon learnt that the time it took to burn an old guy, was exactly the same time it took to bake potatoes to perfection. This is why baked potatoes are enjoyed on bonfire night, fillings for the baked potatoes came a little later, when the English wished to show the world that they could outdo French and Italian cuisine.
The use of fireworks stems from the need of the military to test new smart bombs. Sparklers on the other hand are used to remind people that once upon a time there was no electric lights, and that it's the only way to find your way across a muddy field on a very dark night in November.
So there we have it, a brief historical account of why the British celebrate bonfire night, eat baked potatoes, use fireworks, and wave sparklers around like lunatics.
Have fun tonight and make sure you know where you put the bangers!
Firstly, it's the very British way of supporting the underdog, by burning effigies to declare their immense joy at Guido (Guy) Fawkes being dispatched for attempting to blow up parliament and get rid of a bunch of cronies, enjoying the high life as Members of Parliament. As history shows us, nothing much as changed.
Secondly, it was a dastardly attempt to get rid of the King, not because he was a particularly bad guy, but because he was a protestant, whilst Guido and his mates were catholic terrorists who thought Britain would be better off in the European Union of the time. Again, nothing much has changed, except if you're English you still want to remain a castaway on a desert island. If you're Scottish, you like the idea of annoying the hell out of the Westminister mafia, so you'd like to be more European. If you're Welsh, you only want to see more sheep roaming the hills.
Thirdly, Guido took the full brunt of the polite manners the English are famed for. He was politely told he was going to be tied to a post, which sat on top of some fine wheat sheaves left over from the harvest festival, underneath were faggots and kindling, and then after the archbishop had prayed to God to save Guido's tormented soul, he would be set alight. Guido not wishing to appear a miserable bugger, and to prove his English credentials, said 'thank you'.
The English establishment, not wishing to let the peasants forget, agreed it was permissible to have a bonfire every year. The establishment secretly agreed that burning an old guy every November 5th would in fact reduce the numbers requiring the services of the Poor Law, and would also greatly reduce expenditure on pensions.
As Guido was being burnt at the stake, the good English peasants threw potatoes at him, which duly landed in the fire. It was soon learnt that the time it took to burn an old guy, was exactly the same time it took to bake potatoes to perfection. This is why baked potatoes are enjoyed on bonfire night, fillings for the baked potatoes came a little later, when the English wished to show the world that they could outdo French and Italian cuisine.
The use of fireworks stems from the need of the military to test new smart bombs. Sparklers on the other hand are used to remind people that once upon a time there was no electric lights, and that it's the only way to find your way across a muddy field on a very dark night in November.
So there we have it, a brief historical account of why the British celebrate bonfire night, eat baked potatoes, use fireworks, and wave sparklers around like lunatics.
Have fun tonight and make sure you know where you put the bangers!
Being positive!
Last night was something of a relief after spending two days on producing an ebook from scratch; lots of headaches and thinking that the word 'numskull' was purely invented for my own personal use. The good news is that I'm nearly there, the only problem being the formatting, which leaves much to be desired; Oh the joy of enthusiastic ignorance, and men with new toys.
Returning to last night, I finally bumped into a dear friend I hadn't seen for a while, which was AB FAB! I guess, thinking a little more deeply than I normally do, which probably accounts for the painful big toe, I'm blessed with friendships that can be separated by long periods of time, but reunited again seem to naturally continue from where they left off.
As we chatted, it was a lovely feeling having that all too rare ability to make someone smile and laugh. No, I'm appalling at telling jokes, my comic timing died a very sad and lonely death long before I was actually born. My forte, god that sounds pretentious, is my unfailing sense of humour when it comes to the moment at hand, or a particular situation I find amusing for some strange reason. This I developed at primary school, where as a bullied 'fatty' I was the blob on the end of several beatings. I discovered that wandering around the playground on all fours, acting as though I was a St. Bernard dog, was the cause of much merriment amongst my peers, and much to the annoyance of the teaching staff. More importantly the bullying ceased for a while. In the end I suppose I couldn't escape the attentions of my tormentors, but the respite was welcomed.
My friend, as I walked them home, said I sounded very positive. I guess I am positive, much to do with finally working out what it is I actually want to do in life. But to do what you really want to do, race south American sloths over the 100 metres, is going to be hard and you can't help but be positive. If life's taught me one thing, bananas taste nothing like carrots; being positive is simply...well...not being negative. And if you can understrand that much, you'll never put batteries in the wrong way again.
Thanks for joining me. Keep smiling, it makes you either stand out in the crowd, or the cause for you being locked up in a mental asylum. Either way, it makes you different...that's why your friends love you! ;-)
Returning to last night, I finally bumped into a dear friend I hadn't seen for a while, which was AB FAB! I guess, thinking a little more deeply than I normally do, which probably accounts for the painful big toe, I'm blessed with friendships that can be separated by long periods of time, but reunited again seem to naturally continue from where they left off.
As we chatted, it was a lovely feeling having that all too rare ability to make someone smile and laugh. No, I'm appalling at telling jokes, my comic timing died a very sad and lonely death long before I was actually born. My forte, god that sounds pretentious, is my unfailing sense of humour when it comes to the moment at hand, or a particular situation I find amusing for some strange reason. This I developed at primary school, where as a bullied 'fatty' I was the blob on the end of several beatings. I discovered that wandering around the playground on all fours, acting as though I was a St. Bernard dog, was the cause of much merriment amongst my peers, and much to the annoyance of the teaching staff. More importantly the bullying ceased for a while. In the end I suppose I couldn't escape the attentions of my tormentors, but the respite was welcomed.
My friend, as I walked them home, said I sounded very positive. I guess I am positive, much to do with finally working out what it is I actually want to do in life. But to do what you really want to do, race south American sloths over the 100 metres, is going to be hard and you can't help but be positive. If life's taught me one thing, bananas taste nothing like carrots; being positive is simply...well...not being negative. And if you can understrand that much, you'll never put batteries in the wrong way again.
Thanks for joining me. Keep smiling, it makes you either stand out in the crowd, or the cause for you being locked up in a mental asylum. Either way, it makes you different...that's why your friends love you! ;-)
Monday, November 2, 2009
Work, the law & a wonderful hug!
The first Monday morning I'm officially unemployed, I have to go back to my old workplace because my darling of a lawyer, in truth and being a gentleman at heart she's a magnificent friend, tells me late last night there was still a little doubt about the settlement I'd reached. Thus, being no wiser about the joys of legal wrangles, legal loopholes, and worse of all legal language, I find myself arising out of bed at 6am, utterly brain dead, dragging my saggy bottom into the shower.
Why I mentioned my saggy bottom, I've no idea. My guess is that I'm being utterly selfish, and because I've suffered for keeping my nose legally clean, then you can suffer along with me; the law above all is blind, just, and O so very fair. Anyway, ignoring the Brothers Grimm moment of lucidity, eventually I arrive back at the former place of employment. I'm not too proud to admit I was once a lackey, but now I'm a visitor, which in terms of psychology felt a little weird, or that might just be me. You can argue amongst yourselves on that particular point.
Ringing the front doorbell, of the former company, which is either a completely different approach to getting inside the building, or that they don't let any riff raff in anymore without an excellent reason, I'm allowed to enter. Entering into the main foyer the girls on reception are pleased to see me, one so delighted that she drops her headset and gives me a massive tight hug. Getting to my age in life I'll bathe in the moment...
It was good to see a few old faces, commiserating with me, wishing I was back doing the job I thoroughly adore, teaching. But this isn't possible given the state of the economy, although I did say that I'd go back if I was asked. Some were surprised to see me, as they should be; no that was awful, I sound arrogant...not like me at all, after all being English I know my place, presently in the dole queue.
I saw the head of HR, who said that everything had finally been settled and he had been in touch with my lawyer, so I didn't have to return after all. My lawyer, bless her, called me around 10 minutes later to tell me that everything had been settled. This seems to be one of the joys of the whole thing, which put a smile on my face, the person who told me I was being let go assuring me that I was actually being let go, whilst my lawyer tells me after the event. I know it sounds a little strange, this particular way of doing things, but she's been fantastic throughout the whole process and a wonderful friend. The reason for the back to front jungle drums scenerio, is due to her making sure that I was protected, such care tends to make you feel a little humble.
With that in mind, it's not often that you find yourself being hugged by a number of beautiful women, missed by former male colleagues, and mollycoddled by an agent of the law. Nor is it every day that you find that the words you write are being read in places such as California, New York, Ireland, Brussels, Canada, and the UK; another humbling, but exciting, feeling. To everyone, friends who are supportive of my desire to write, the individuals who take the time out of their busy lives to read my thoughts, and my former colleagues, I thank each and everyone of you.
Sadly, or happily if you've fell to sleep by now, I have to get back to the real world and finish washing the pots. Writing a blog is wonderful, it's called aversion therapy I believe, the downside it has to end at some point.
Bye for now, and keep smiling ;-)
Why I mentioned my saggy bottom, I've no idea. My guess is that I'm being utterly selfish, and because I've suffered for keeping my nose legally clean, then you can suffer along with me; the law above all is blind, just, and O so very fair. Anyway, ignoring the Brothers Grimm moment of lucidity, eventually I arrive back at the former place of employment. I'm not too proud to admit I was once a lackey, but now I'm a visitor, which in terms of psychology felt a little weird, or that might just be me. You can argue amongst yourselves on that particular point.
Ringing the front doorbell, of the former company, which is either a completely different approach to getting inside the building, or that they don't let any riff raff in anymore without an excellent reason, I'm allowed to enter. Entering into the main foyer the girls on reception are pleased to see me, one so delighted that she drops her headset and gives me a massive tight hug. Getting to my age in life I'll bathe in the moment...
It was good to see a few old faces, commiserating with me, wishing I was back doing the job I thoroughly adore, teaching. But this isn't possible given the state of the economy, although I did say that I'd go back if I was asked. Some were surprised to see me, as they should be; no that was awful, I sound arrogant...not like me at all, after all being English I know my place, presently in the dole queue.
I saw the head of HR, who said that everything had finally been settled and he had been in touch with my lawyer, so I didn't have to return after all. My lawyer, bless her, called me around 10 minutes later to tell me that everything had been settled. This seems to be one of the joys of the whole thing, which put a smile on my face, the person who told me I was being let go assuring me that I was actually being let go, whilst my lawyer tells me after the event. I know it sounds a little strange, this particular way of doing things, but she's been fantastic throughout the whole process and a wonderful friend. The reason for the back to front jungle drums scenerio, is due to her making sure that I was protected, such care tends to make you feel a little humble.
With that in mind, it's not often that you find yourself being hugged by a number of beautiful women, missed by former male colleagues, and mollycoddled by an agent of the law. Nor is it every day that you find that the words you write are being read in places such as California, New York, Ireland, Brussels, Canada, and the UK; another humbling, but exciting, feeling. To everyone, friends who are supportive of my desire to write, the individuals who take the time out of their busy lives to read my thoughts, and my former colleagues, I thank each and everyone of you.
Sadly, or happily if you've fell to sleep by now, I have to get back to the real world and finish washing the pots. Writing a blog is wonderful, it's called aversion therapy I believe, the downside it has to end at some point.
Bye for now, and keep smiling ;-)
Saturday, October 31, 2009
The sadness of a twittering twat!
There are a million individuals following Stephen Fry on Twitter, a man lovingly referred to as a 'national treasure' in Britain. Such an accolade, no matter how much he may humbly deny it, is well deserved, and with very good reason.
In a world that has become largely selfish and self-centred, where a culture of greed persists, Stephen Fry's talent, technological curiosity, and refusal to take himself seriously, in addition to moving us off our arses to rise up in bloody annoyance at ignorant journalists and the shenanigans of dubious corporate activity, makes him unusual in many ways.
I have a following relationship with Stephen Fry, in that I follow his tweets. Sometimes I will respond to a comment he has made. Recently when he visited Nuremberg, Germany I twittered him and suggested he visit my favourite restruarant. At no time during my following of Stephen Fry, has he responded or replied to anything I may have commented on or suggested to him; nor for that matter have I expected him to.
I am filled with horror that Stephen, a kindly soul, generous with the limited time available to him, keeps us delightfully amused with his 140 characters. And yet he finds himself attacked by a moronic twitter accusing him of being boring. This is completely outrageous and the individual responsible for uttering such banal profanities should be strung up by the balls, hung like a dead rat, and drowned in a bucket of foul smelling baby's diapers.
To Stephen I would say this: the world rejoices in you being there, because of who you are. To abandon twitter because of some mealy mouthed jackass, who possesses less brain cells than an amoeba, simply gives the cretin his undeserved 15 minutes of infamy.
Please stay with those that care, and who enormously enjoy your company.
In a world that has become largely selfish and self-centred, where a culture of greed persists, Stephen Fry's talent, technological curiosity, and refusal to take himself seriously, in addition to moving us off our arses to rise up in bloody annoyance at ignorant journalists and the shenanigans of dubious corporate activity, makes him unusual in many ways.
I have a following relationship with Stephen Fry, in that I follow his tweets. Sometimes I will respond to a comment he has made. Recently when he visited Nuremberg, Germany I twittered him and suggested he visit my favourite restruarant. At no time during my following of Stephen Fry, has he responded or replied to anything I may have commented on or suggested to him; nor for that matter have I expected him to.
I am filled with horror that Stephen, a kindly soul, generous with the limited time available to him, keeps us delightfully amused with his 140 characters. And yet he finds himself attacked by a moronic twitter accusing him of being boring. This is completely outrageous and the individual responsible for uttering such banal profanities should be strung up by the balls, hung like a dead rat, and drowned in a bucket of foul smelling baby's diapers.
To Stephen I would say this: the world rejoices in you being there, because of who you are. To abandon twitter because of some mealy mouthed jackass, who possesses less brain cells than an amoeba, simply gives the cretin his undeserved 15 minutes of infamy.
Please stay with those that care, and who enormously enjoy your company.
Halloween
Halloween tonight, ghosts, spooks, bad spirits up to no good, and generally everyone involved having a whoopee good time.
As always it'll pass me by, not because I'm against it, far from it, but it strikes me that, like Xmas, it's a time when children can be children and enjoy the swift passing of the bogey man. You can't but smile at cherubic faces, fully unaware that roaming the streets, hiding in dark corners, flying through the skies, are very unpleasant people, or things, just waiting to ponce on a unsuspecting tasty meal.
I'm joking of course, but it's Halloween and the one time of the year that parents, relatives and adult friends can scare the living daylights of kids and nobody thinks bad of them. Maybe adults secretly enjoy the witching hours, enabling them to let off steam, laugh and if only for a short time to rid themselves of pent up stress. That and getting involved with carving out grotesque faces in pumpkins, tricking kids and peers, and hiding treats in the most ridiculous places, normally found reasonably quickly by children; children largely faced with adults who've forgotten that kids have a wonderful nose and gift for delicious goodies to be eaten without guilt, or the same adults telling them that the same scrumptious delights are bad for their health and waistline the rest of the year.
No matter if you're an adult, enjoy the childish pranks and let the few hours wash over you in pure joy, especially if you're with children. Remember that kids grow up and if you're too nasty to them, scare the crap out of them, they'll have their revenge.
You'll end up in a home filled with the living dead, occasionally being drained of blood by people wearing white coats sticking long stakes into you. HAHAHA!
As always it'll pass me by, not because I'm against it, far from it, but it strikes me that, like Xmas, it's a time when children can be children and enjoy the swift passing of the bogey man. You can't but smile at cherubic faces, fully unaware that roaming the streets, hiding in dark corners, flying through the skies, are very unpleasant people, or things, just waiting to ponce on a unsuspecting tasty meal.
I'm joking of course, but it's Halloween and the one time of the year that parents, relatives and adult friends can scare the living daylights of kids and nobody thinks bad of them. Maybe adults secretly enjoy the witching hours, enabling them to let off steam, laugh and if only for a short time to rid themselves of pent up stress. That and getting involved with carving out grotesque faces in pumpkins, tricking kids and peers, and hiding treats in the most ridiculous places, normally found reasonably quickly by children; children largely faced with adults who've forgotten that kids have a wonderful nose and gift for delicious goodies to be eaten without guilt, or the same adults telling them that the same scrumptious delights are bad for their health and waistline the rest of the year.
No matter if you're an adult, enjoy the childish pranks and let the few hours wash over you in pure joy, especially if you're with children. Remember that kids grow up and if you're too nasty to them, scare the crap out of them, they'll have their revenge.
You'll end up in a home filled with the living dead, occasionally being drained of blood by people wearing white coats sticking long stakes into you. HAHAHA!
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
3 friends...a cabrio...& a baked potato!
Today's one of those days, where there's a very warm glow to the face. No doubt due to the rarity of a complete lunatic of a friend, who for all his weird and wonderful idiosyncrasies, completely outdid himself earlier tonight.
In the middle of cooking the evening meal of baked potatoes, I've been on a change of diet for the past few weeks, my body seems to be straining at the leash to persuade me to indulge myself in something wickedly sweet, high in calories, and oh so disastrously sinful, he calls me on the phone. Nothing unusual in that, until I hear the tone of his voice, which slightly resembles that of a child who is up to no good, and enjoying every single moment of it.
My friend's voice is cheerfully urgent, as though slightly possessed by the innocence of a cherub, and the heart of a devilish plastic garden gnome, all of a glee because it had overheard something being said by the lady of the house, in response to the gardener's explanation of how he gets his cucumbers to grow so big. I digress, completely off the point, but you've got the idea.
'Be downstairs' he says 'and make sure you're wearing your woolly hat'. Naturally, with the tatties in the oven, dressed in jogging pants and a sweatshirt, part of the much preferred dress code, I ask 'why?' A perfectly reasonable question I thought. 'Just do it...be outside your door in three minutes.'
Now there's no point in trying to reason with him when he's so insistent, so I go downstairs and living on a street where it's one-way to traffic, I look up the road. No more than a few seconds later, I watch this pair of headlights coming towards me. I'm fully expecting his blue Audi, so didn't pay much attention, but upon seeing me the driver of the car slows down. As I'm between minds, potatoes getting a crispy tan in the oven and the garden gnome on his way, I find the car's behaviour a bit strange. Maybe cars today, run as they are by computers, had a malicious virus causing it to hate strange idiots loitering about doorways, especially when said car sees a strange man wearing jogging pants and sweatshirt, bottomed off with no socks and wearing slippers. No matter, even if it's slightly unnerving, not much damage would have been inflicted had the car suddenly sped up and hit me; after all I'm fairly well endowed with enough padding to soak up the bump. Which goes a little way to explain why I'm eating more healthily, the downside is that the loo is unhealthily overworked. Yes, I know. That was far too much information, but if I'm suffering from choccy withdrawal symptoms, the rest of the world can jolly well suffer along with me.
So nice white cabriolet pulls up besides me, with my friend full of the joys of an Indian summer. I cannot believe my eyes, the top is down. Now, should anyone care to take a peek at their calender they will notice that we're just a few days away from November, and the last time I heard November in Germany isn't known for being the warmest of places, especially in the evening. But this is my friend. How his particular mind works would be beyond the genius of Darwin, but evolved it has to a level of wondrous delight and mirth making; which is why, and he'll hate me for saying it, he's dearly loved; life would be immeasurably poorer without his particular 'moments.'
The 'boy with the nice, roofless, toy' wants to go for a spin around town. Fetching my coat, we set off a few moments later. We stop to pick up another friend, also male, on the way. So there's my friend driving in his Hugo Boss suit, I know how that sounds but we can forgive him. I'm sitting next to him in the passenger seat, wearing my winter coat, jogging pants, and the other friend in the back dressed sensibly in jeans etc. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound as they say.
I have to say that there's moments when you find it almost impossible not to enjoy the absurdity of the situation you find yourself in. The looks from people, seeing the three of us driving around with the top down, so close to November, was pure delight. The chilly air disappeared, replaced by the warmth of friendship, simply doing something harmlessly stupid, in the good sense of the meaning.
And the sun tanned potatoes? They were scrumptious, going down a treat.
In the middle of cooking the evening meal of baked potatoes, I've been on a change of diet for the past few weeks, my body seems to be straining at the leash to persuade me to indulge myself in something wickedly sweet, high in calories, and oh so disastrously sinful, he calls me on the phone. Nothing unusual in that, until I hear the tone of his voice, which slightly resembles that of a child who is up to no good, and enjoying every single moment of it.
My friend's voice is cheerfully urgent, as though slightly possessed by the innocence of a cherub, and the heart of a devilish plastic garden gnome, all of a glee because it had overheard something being said by the lady of the house, in response to the gardener's explanation of how he gets his cucumbers to grow so big. I digress, completely off the point, but you've got the idea.
'Be downstairs' he says 'and make sure you're wearing your woolly hat'. Naturally, with the tatties in the oven, dressed in jogging pants and a sweatshirt, part of the much preferred dress code, I ask 'why?' A perfectly reasonable question I thought. 'Just do it...be outside your door in three minutes.'
Now there's no point in trying to reason with him when he's so insistent, so I go downstairs and living on a street where it's one-way to traffic, I look up the road. No more than a few seconds later, I watch this pair of headlights coming towards me. I'm fully expecting his blue Audi, so didn't pay much attention, but upon seeing me the driver of the car slows down. As I'm between minds, potatoes getting a crispy tan in the oven and the garden gnome on his way, I find the car's behaviour a bit strange. Maybe cars today, run as they are by computers, had a malicious virus causing it to hate strange idiots loitering about doorways, especially when said car sees a strange man wearing jogging pants and sweatshirt, bottomed off with no socks and wearing slippers. No matter, even if it's slightly unnerving, not much damage would have been inflicted had the car suddenly sped up and hit me; after all I'm fairly well endowed with enough padding to soak up the bump. Which goes a little way to explain why I'm eating more healthily, the downside is that the loo is unhealthily overworked. Yes, I know. That was far too much information, but if I'm suffering from choccy withdrawal symptoms, the rest of the world can jolly well suffer along with me.
So nice white cabriolet pulls up besides me, with my friend full of the joys of an Indian summer. I cannot believe my eyes, the top is down. Now, should anyone care to take a peek at their calender they will notice that we're just a few days away from November, and the last time I heard November in Germany isn't known for being the warmest of places, especially in the evening. But this is my friend. How his particular mind works would be beyond the genius of Darwin, but evolved it has to a level of wondrous delight and mirth making; which is why, and he'll hate me for saying it, he's dearly loved; life would be immeasurably poorer without his particular 'moments.'
The 'boy with the nice, roofless, toy' wants to go for a spin around town. Fetching my coat, we set off a few moments later. We stop to pick up another friend, also male, on the way. So there's my friend driving in his Hugo Boss suit, I know how that sounds but we can forgive him. I'm sitting next to him in the passenger seat, wearing my winter coat, jogging pants, and the other friend in the back dressed sensibly in jeans etc. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound as they say.
I have to say that there's moments when you find it almost impossible not to enjoy the absurdity of the situation you find yourself in. The looks from people, seeing the three of us driving around with the top down, so close to November, was pure delight. The chilly air disappeared, replaced by the warmth of friendship, simply doing something harmlessly stupid, in the good sense of the meaning.
And the sun tanned potatoes? They were scrumptious, going down a treat.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Perceptions
Originating as I do from the UK, for many years I was lumbered with a concrete overcoat, which has always been a wearisome burden, that of having culturally indoctrinated perceptions. Such things as class, gender, sexuality were always dogmatic and cast in stone. And as I grew up, it was always about 'knowing your place', which in my case was very working class, very homophobic, and doffing my non-existent cloth cap to 'my betters'.
Upon such 'wonderful' foundations, moulded and shaped by centuries of unremitting ridiculous propaganda, the fog eventually lifted from the no longer young shoulders, the blindness healed by a highly intelligent and immensely beautiful, inside and out, individual, who it was my incredibly good fortune to meet at college. This truly delightful individual began to teach me the 'essence of value'. Prior to this my one guiding light was my dearly missed, and utterly beloved dad, who departed this life some 39 years ago; an exceptional man who's loss still remains painful, the more so having only blessed this earth for 36 years. At the age of 14 I lost the one role model, full of wisdom and strength, that's so vital to curbing the excessive zeal of the troublesome teens, that often sees many fall by the wayside.
For many years, too many in hindsight, life was a struggle in every sense of the word, the lack of what many would call 'success', of never knowing what my particular potential was, of drifting aimlessly through life, never really having any direction in which to head. When I occasionally headed off to what might be euphemistically called 'life with a sense of purpose', I inevitably found nothing of the sort. All that I found was more of the same that I was trying to escape from in the first place. Maybe that has something to do with a 'self-fulfilling prophesy' in part, but I'm more inclined to believe it's got more to do with the perception others have had of me, and almost certainly still do.
Time, however short it is, still leaves its indelible mark in some way. Thus it comes as no real surprise that the vast majority can only cope with that brief amount of time by shoving everything into a box of one label or another. This is not to say that we shouldn't have an opinion about things that matter to us, passion comes from that, but to simply 'label' someone because they're different, because they don't cosily fit into a certain perception is wrong. I say wrong because 'labelling' does more to cause conflict and unhappiness in the world than anything else I know, or ever have known.
Let me for a moment turn to myself and say this about my character. Because I'm quiet, reserved, even introspective, some will say I'm odd, antisocial, and cold. Yet the opposite can be far truer, for it's been said by others, when I'm occasionally in company, that I'm very funny, easy to get on with, good company. I make people smile, laugh and feel good. Yet, I'm still me, reserved, introspective, strange, with very little to say verbally. Then there's the challenge that I'm not passionate, or filled with passion. If by that it's meant that I don't jump up and down like some demented banana high on crack cocaine, then they would be perfectly correct. Yet my paintings are full of passion, my writing has its moments. I've seen the destructiveness of passion, the hurt it causes, the damage it inflicts, and the pain it leaves behind. But still the world swallows the notion that without the outward show of a 'belly filled with fire', then all else is, by definition, boring. to be avoided; a sad misconception if ever there was one.
For example, I had this exchange on Twitter Saturday, with an individual, who is often forthright in her own particular 'world view.' I don't know this individual personally, nor am I ever likely to because we both move in 'different' worlds. Out of respect, and because I'd find it personally an unacceptable invasion of privacy to say who the individual is, I'll simply refer to them as 'Lady K'.
Lady K: 'I really don't care about $ or men with $..I LOVE men with TALENT and abundant life force..most men over 40 go comatose..just my observation'....who went on to add...
'I don't want a man who "listens" and is "calm" grrrr...I want a man who is on fire and is wild and funny and is BRAVE..I love BRAVE men'
Toni Bryan: 'Strange how many women have been abandoned by 'wild' men, but cry on the shoulder of a man who listens & is calm.'
Lady K: 'OK..TRUER words were never spoken..'
It's all in the perception!
And so to bring this up to date, my dear, dear friends look at me and no doubt despair of me at times, and yet though all of us are immensely different in many ways, each of us accepts the other for who they are. We don't look at the 'label', we look at the individual. I somehow think that the world would be a better place if we took the time to remove our heads from where the sun never shines, and started seeing the daylight a little more often.
Upon such 'wonderful' foundations, moulded and shaped by centuries of unremitting ridiculous propaganda, the fog eventually lifted from the no longer young shoulders, the blindness healed by a highly intelligent and immensely beautiful, inside and out, individual, who it was my incredibly good fortune to meet at college. This truly delightful individual began to teach me the 'essence of value'. Prior to this my one guiding light was my dearly missed, and utterly beloved dad, who departed this life some 39 years ago; an exceptional man who's loss still remains painful, the more so having only blessed this earth for 36 years. At the age of 14 I lost the one role model, full of wisdom and strength, that's so vital to curbing the excessive zeal of the troublesome teens, that often sees many fall by the wayside.
For many years, too many in hindsight, life was a struggle in every sense of the word, the lack of what many would call 'success', of never knowing what my particular potential was, of drifting aimlessly through life, never really having any direction in which to head. When I occasionally headed off to what might be euphemistically called 'life with a sense of purpose', I inevitably found nothing of the sort. All that I found was more of the same that I was trying to escape from in the first place. Maybe that has something to do with a 'self-fulfilling prophesy' in part, but I'm more inclined to believe it's got more to do with the perception others have had of me, and almost certainly still do.
Time, however short it is, still leaves its indelible mark in some way. Thus it comes as no real surprise that the vast majority can only cope with that brief amount of time by shoving everything into a box of one label or another. This is not to say that we shouldn't have an opinion about things that matter to us, passion comes from that, but to simply 'label' someone because they're different, because they don't cosily fit into a certain perception is wrong. I say wrong because 'labelling' does more to cause conflict and unhappiness in the world than anything else I know, or ever have known.
Let me for a moment turn to myself and say this about my character. Because I'm quiet, reserved, even introspective, some will say I'm odd, antisocial, and cold. Yet the opposite can be far truer, for it's been said by others, when I'm occasionally in company, that I'm very funny, easy to get on with, good company. I make people smile, laugh and feel good. Yet, I'm still me, reserved, introspective, strange, with very little to say verbally. Then there's the challenge that I'm not passionate, or filled with passion. If by that it's meant that I don't jump up and down like some demented banana high on crack cocaine, then they would be perfectly correct. Yet my paintings are full of passion, my writing has its moments. I've seen the destructiveness of passion, the hurt it causes, the damage it inflicts, and the pain it leaves behind. But still the world swallows the notion that without the outward show of a 'belly filled with fire', then all else is, by definition, boring. to be avoided; a sad misconception if ever there was one.
For example, I had this exchange on Twitter Saturday, with an individual, who is often forthright in her own particular 'world view.' I don't know this individual personally, nor am I ever likely to because we both move in 'different' worlds. Out of respect, and because I'd find it personally an unacceptable invasion of privacy to say who the individual is, I'll simply refer to them as 'Lady K'.
Lady K: 'I really don't care about $ or men with $..I LOVE men with TALENT and abundant life force..most men over 40 go comatose..just my observation'....who went on to add...
'I don't want a man who "listens" and is "calm" grrrr...I want a man who is on fire and is wild and funny and is BRAVE..I love BRAVE men'
Toni Bryan: 'Strange how many women have been abandoned by 'wild' men, but cry on the shoulder of a man who listens & is calm.'
Lady K: 'OK..TRUER words were never spoken..'
It's all in the perception!
And so to bring this up to date, my dear, dear friends look at me and no doubt despair of me at times, and yet though all of us are immensely different in many ways, each of us accepts the other for who they are. We don't look at the 'label', we look at the individual. I somehow think that the world would be a better place if we took the time to remove our heads from where the sun never shines, and started seeing the daylight a little more often.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Freedom of speech
I'm in a more serious mood today, for no other reason than the world around me seems hostile. I refer to the British press and their subjective reporting, tainted by their political bias, and need to see who can be either the most controversial, or the more vitriolic in their comments. It seems that the storm of condemnation, towards Nick Griffin, leader of the BNP, and the Daily Mail colunmist, Jan Moir, has reached the point of hysteria, whereby calls for restraints on the freedom of speech should be brought into effect.
This I find worrisome, in particular because both Griffin & Moir are exercising their right to free speech, an ideal which underpins the very foundations of a democracy. Without free speech there is no democracy, there is only a totalitarian nightmare, something George Orwell expressed all too well in '1984'. I personally find both Griffin's political ideology, and Moir's condemnation of Stephan Gately, offensive for the very reason they offend my own personal views of the world. Yet, whilst I would heartily disagree with them, nevertheless I would never presume that my own 'world view' is any more less offensive to either them, or to many others that live in the world.
The very basis of free speech, will always mean that there will views we find personally offensive. Such views may cause us to rise in anger, to express our own views forcefully, and in the extreme cause us to break the law in some way. Yet we cannot have a muted version of free speech. You can only have a freedom of speech, which allows for every view, however reprehensible you find that view.
I fully understand the distaste individuals find in the views held by Griffin & Moir. Such views are against what I, and many others, would consider fair, just, and plain sensible. Yet, paradoxically, their views, unpleasant though they are, strengthen the very fragility of a freedom of speech in a democracy. Divergent views are a necessary framework to ensure that freedom of speech survives, unmolested by those who wish to be rid of that freedom. There is no halfway house. If there is to be the freedom of speech, then we must accept all have the right to say what they truly believe, even if we find ourselves angered and deeply divided by those beliefs.
We would do well to remember that once you begin to deny the individual the right to a freedom of speech, then you begin to deny the right to belief, the right to association. You begin to impose censorship, you curtail the right to freely read, write, watch, listen and enjoy a diversity of life. In other words, deny the right to free speech and you allow those in positions of power to carry out the worst excesses of human behaviour.
A belief is to be protected, and providing such a belief does no harm, other than annoy the hell out of us, then we should argue against it through discussion. And if the majority uphold that belief, then the minority must be able to freely oppose it without fear. Beliefs that are wholly intent on causing pain and injury against children, have no place in a democracy, no fair minded individual would ever condone abuses against children. But healthy passionate debate does, because this is the only way we can protect ourselves, and those we disagree with, from something far more horrific, totalitarianism.
Finally, it seems to me that life has become about extremes of one kind or another. Perhaps the human species has become lost, disjointed, and disempowered. Maybe the only explanation to life is to express views, which are the result of disenfranchisement from society and politics. Perhaps life has become an unachievable dream, and this is immensely frustrating, leading to conflict. I have no great answers to the pain of conflict, which seems to surround me; except one.
If everyone managed to make someone smile every day, then the world would be a better place to live in. Try it :-)
This I find worrisome, in particular because both Griffin & Moir are exercising their right to free speech, an ideal which underpins the very foundations of a democracy. Without free speech there is no democracy, there is only a totalitarian nightmare, something George Orwell expressed all too well in '1984'. I personally find both Griffin's political ideology, and Moir's condemnation of Stephan Gately, offensive for the very reason they offend my own personal views of the world. Yet, whilst I would heartily disagree with them, nevertheless I would never presume that my own 'world view' is any more less offensive to either them, or to many others that live in the world.
The very basis of free speech, will always mean that there will views we find personally offensive. Such views may cause us to rise in anger, to express our own views forcefully, and in the extreme cause us to break the law in some way. Yet we cannot have a muted version of free speech. You can only have a freedom of speech, which allows for every view, however reprehensible you find that view.
I fully understand the distaste individuals find in the views held by Griffin & Moir. Such views are against what I, and many others, would consider fair, just, and plain sensible. Yet, paradoxically, their views, unpleasant though they are, strengthen the very fragility of a freedom of speech in a democracy. Divergent views are a necessary framework to ensure that freedom of speech survives, unmolested by those who wish to be rid of that freedom. There is no halfway house. If there is to be the freedom of speech, then we must accept all have the right to say what they truly believe, even if we find ourselves angered and deeply divided by those beliefs.
We would do well to remember that once you begin to deny the individual the right to a freedom of speech, then you begin to deny the right to belief, the right to association. You begin to impose censorship, you curtail the right to freely read, write, watch, listen and enjoy a diversity of life. In other words, deny the right to free speech and you allow those in positions of power to carry out the worst excesses of human behaviour.
A belief is to be protected, and providing such a belief does no harm, other than annoy the hell out of us, then we should argue against it through discussion. And if the majority uphold that belief, then the minority must be able to freely oppose it without fear. Beliefs that are wholly intent on causing pain and injury against children, have no place in a democracy, no fair minded individual would ever condone abuses against children. But healthy passionate debate does, because this is the only way we can protect ourselves, and those we disagree with, from something far more horrific, totalitarianism.
Finally, it seems to me that life has become about extremes of one kind or another. Perhaps the human species has become lost, disjointed, and disempowered. Maybe the only explanation to life is to express views, which are the result of disenfranchisement from society and politics. Perhaps life has become an unachievable dream, and this is immensely frustrating, leading to conflict. I have no great answers to the pain of conflict, which seems to surround me; except one.
If everyone managed to make someone smile every day, then the world would be a better place to live in. Try it :-)
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
An abnormally normal day!
After yesterday's somewhat strange dream, today was verging on the normal. I'm often confused by the term 'normal', as I've never really been able to pin it down with any accuracy. Perhaps, thinking about it, we should ask those very fine lexicographers, at the Oxford English Dictionary, to banish it, along with that other nonsensical, all encompassing, word of fuzziness, 'fine'.
This morning started with an 8am meeting with my future employment adviser, which took over 80 minutes, no doubt due to the language barrier, she spoke in German, my dear friend spoke in German and English, and I was left with very little to say. Had I actually said anything remotely normal, I would have declared myself insane. My brain is apt to remain asleep for at least 4 hours after I've got out of bed. Until such time that my mouth connects with my grey matter, I envy the wonderful babblings spoken by babies.
The meeting eventually ended, and I was told in no uncertain terms that I must improve my German, as I write this I can now say Ein, Zwei, Drei und Vier, hopefully I will have advanced to Fünf und repeated Sex several times tomorrow. I suppose by Christmas Day I'll have learnt to count up to 20, what happens after that, I've no answer; I'll have run out of thumbs, fingers and toes. As far as learning even the most basic German, I think I'd be far more successful taking up knitting, which I also can't do but at least my fingers would have something to do after I finish counting up to 10 in German.
On the way home I stopped for a coffee at Starbucks. By now my fingers had succumbed to the cold autumn air, but at least the sun had its woolly hat on and the sky was a cheerful blue. Coffee was its normal self, piping hot, served in a large mug, and fairly tasteless, which is normal for Starbucks. Thankfully I don't go there to drink good coffee, I go for the ambiance and the opportunity to chill out. After an unsuccessful attempt to draw a chair, I doodled 2 more sketches before happily leaving, warm, arty, and fingers happily back to normal.
The rest of the morning was spent on the Internet, surfing for the hidden delights of a German integration course. You can imagine my ecstatic delight to find the German language pot overflowing with tempting morsels of 'der', 'die', 'das'. This now means I'll be 'Der Mann', She'll be 'Die Frau', and das is as far as I've got. Thank god there's only 'THE' in English, it makes life so much easier.
After a sandwich for lunch I strolled back into town for an ink catridge, arriving back home at 6pm with more than I went out for. The first pair of gloves of the season were bought, not that I'm going to buy anymore. Walking around town, my heart dropped several feet upon seeing Christmas window displays. I find it so depressing seeing Christmas in the third week of October; but then I find Christmas depressing on Christmas Day. I think it would be a wonderful idea to Twitter our political servants, demanding that Christmas shopping be banned until December 1st at the very earliest. No, I'm not being miserable, I just wish it would stay where it's supposed to, December.
On that note I'll disappear before Mr. Claus blacklists me. All in all, an abnormally normal day.
This morning started with an 8am meeting with my future employment adviser, which took over 80 minutes, no doubt due to the language barrier, she spoke in German, my dear friend spoke in German and English, and I was left with very little to say. Had I actually said anything remotely normal, I would have declared myself insane. My brain is apt to remain asleep for at least 4 hours after I've got out of bed. Until such time that my mouth connects with my grey matter, I envy the wonderful babblings spoken by babies.
The meeting eventually ended, and I was told in no uncertain terms that I must improve my German, as I write this I can now say Ein, Zwei, Drei und Vier, hopefully I will have advanced to Fünf und repeated Sex several times tomorrow. I suppose by Christmas Day I'll have learnt to count up to 20, what happens after that, I've no answer; I'll have run out of thumbs, fingers and toes. As far as learning even the most basic German, I think I'd be far more successful taking up knitting, which I also can't do but at least my fingers would have something to do after I finish counting up to 10 in German.
On the way home I stopped for a coffee at Starbucks. By now my fingers had succumbed to the cold autumn air, but at least the sun had its woolly hat on and the sky was a cheerful blue. Coffee was its normal self, piping hot, served in a large mug, and fairly tasteless, which is normal for Starbucks. Thankfully I don't go there to drink good coffee, I go for the ambiance and the opportunity to chill out. After an unsuccessful attempt to draw a chair, I doodled 2 more sketches before happily leaving, warm, arty, and fingers happily back to normal.
The rest of the morning was spent on the Internet, surfing for the hidden delights of a German integration course. You can imagine my ecstatic delight to find the German language pot overflowing with tempting morsels of 'der', 'die', 'das'. This now means I'll be 'Der Mann', She'll be 'Die Frau', and das is as far as I've got. Thank god there's only 'THE' in English, it makes life so much easier.
After a sandwich for lunch I strolled back into town for an ink catridge, arriving back home at 6pm with more than I went out for. The first pair of gloves of the season were bought, not that I'm going to buy anymore. Walking around town, my heart dropped several feet upon seeing Christmas window displays. I find it so depressing seeing Christmas in the third week of October; but then I find Christmas depressing on Christmas Day. I think it would be a wonderful idea to Twitter our political servants, demanding that Christmas shopping be banned until December 1st at the very earliest. No, I'm not being miserable, I just wish it would stay where it's supposed to, December.
On that note I'll disappear before Mr. Claus blacklists me. All in all, an abnormally normal day.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
What a lovely chilly morning.
Having gone to bed at 3.30am, I awoke at 6; this was no doubt caused by the very weird, but enjoyable, dream I was having about Patsy Cline who was performing on a very large stage across the way from me. She was singing 'Sorry', which in the cold light of day I've no idea if that's the title of the song...ok...I know I could lazily move the mouse up to the Wiki search box, but I'm not very motivated this morning, sorry. Anyway, why I was thinking about Patsy Cline I've no idea as Country & Western music is probably bottom of my eclectic music tastes, nevertheless, thinking of her I was even though she'd be the last one I'd be dreaming of.
Getting out of bed at 6, after being very cosily and snugly swaddled in the continental quilt, the windows being open and sleeping in the altogether, the blast of freezing air hit me with enough force to repel an army of drunken ants, who'd been out on the forest floor imbibing copious amounts of cherry juice; although the thought of hooligan ants, staggering around on 6 legs, bumping into each and everything has nothing to do with the dream about Patsy Cline. The shock woke me from my normal muddled headed state, which in turn caused me to head for the loo, some 12ft away from the bedroom. Reaching the bathroom I was further greeted by Jack Frost's half brother, who mockingly laughed at my nakedness, and in that fine myth taking way of being the butt of someone's cruel merriment I turned into an hermaphrodite, asexual, undignified by the attainment of 2 splendid rock-hard nipples and the disappearance of everything below the equator.
Am I to blame the delightful Patsy, who woke me in the first place, or should I blame myself for leaving the windows open now the earth's had enough and turned its back on the developed world and headed to warmer climes in the south? I've no idea, all I do know is that whilst it's nice to go to bed when all around you have long been tucked up in bed, it's not so nice to accept that the chilly autumn air has a far more sobering truth to pass on; I'm getting older, less able to do without sleep, and whatever I believed to be naturally magnificent was, in fact, self delusional.
Now that could explain why Patsy was warbling 'Sorry'.
Getting out of bed at 6, after being very cosily and snugly swaddled in the continental quilt, the windows being open and sleeping in the altogether, the blast of freezing air hit me with enough force to repel an army of drunken ants, who'd been out on the forest floor imbibing copious amounts of cherry juice; although the thought of hooligan ants, staggering around on 6 legs, bumping into each and everything has nothing to do with the dream about Patsy Cline. The shock woke me from my normal muddled headed state, which in turn caused me to head for the loo, some 12ft away from the bedroom. Reaching the bathroom I was further greeted by Jack Frost's half brother, who mockingly laughed at my nakedness, and in that fine myth taking way of being the butt of someone's cruel merriment I turned into an hermaphrodite, asexual, undignified by the attainment of 2 splendid rock-hard nipples and the disappearance of everything below the equator.
Am I to blame the delightful Patsy, who woke me in the first place, or should I blame myself for leaving the windows open now the earth's had enough and turned its back on the developed world and headed to warmer climes in the south? I've no idea, all I do know is that whilst it's nice to go to bed when all around you have long been tucked up in bed, it's not so nice to accept that the chilly autumn air has a far more sobering truth to pass on; I'm getting older, less able to do without sleep, and whatever I believed to be naturally magnificent was, in fact, self delusional.
Now that could explain why Patsy was warbling 'Sorry'.
Monday, October 19, 2009
I've been away far too long :-(
Being away for so long is simply a sign that I was utterly stuck in another world & it took over everything, including the time I should've spent here writing. However, whether it's good news or bad. the world of paid employment has decided it's better off without me! Oh, it was nothing I've done to warrant such treatment, nothing more than a response to the economic climate I & a vast many others find themselves in at the present time.
Am I worried? Curiously I'm stuck between thinking it's a bad thing, shallow response to materialism, & it's a very good thing, hearty response to spiritual enlightenment. Perhaps the latter is slightly more worrying than the former, yet I remain hopeful that I'll have the courage of my hidden convictions and treat this as a wonderful opportunity to do something for myself, that will in its own way make some kind of sense of the barbarity of the economic climate.
I do find it very strange, even perverse, and have always done so that those responsible for causing so much misery, potential or otherwise, always appear to walk away from their appalling negligence, greed and wilful behaviour without much in the way of discomfort. let alone held accountable for their actions. Yet I'm not alone in such thoughts, and there are often press reports of excessive behaviour by certain companies, executives, even MPs, who seem to believe in a god given right to pick the ripest cherries. Not being alone in those thoughts, and often listening to a deafening crescendo of vitriol and condemnation against the selfish disregard exhibited by certain individuals, sadly I find myself surrounded by hollow calls that easily dissipate with the merest wisp of wind.
I may be entirely wrong of course, but it seems that the present economic climate was wholly caused by a financial sector that was out of control, and even after the various governments of the developed world bankrolled and bailed out the financial sector, those governments failed to take the opportunity to come down heavily on those individuals who have caused such widespread misery around the world. The upshot being that those hardworking people, who daily toil away to make a living will continue to be punished by the very same system that gladly seems to look favourably upon reprehensible miscreants and ne'er do wells, and which looks for any reason possible to forgive, or forget, deeds that would normally land decent people in court and possibly jail.
Perhaps the time has arrived when those decent hardworking folk should rise up and Twitter the hell out of their elected representatives, suggesting that they do the job they're supposed to and legislate against those individuals who have caused the devestation they clearly have.
Having got that out of my system, and facing the prospect of unemployment in a few weeks time, I look forward to the future and having the opportunity to seek my own fortune, not that I'd want to earn one because that brings with it almost the same amount of problems that being poor does albeit in much different ways. No, not fortune in terms of having an excess of wealth, but fortune in terms of being independent and at least having some control over what I do. I'm perhaps fortunate that I have no dependents, no mortgage, no car, have no debts and in a position where I can afford to take a risk. I realise that I'm far better off than many individuals, but equally I have no money in the bank to tide me over, so it will be a risk whatever I do.
Maybe I've slowly come to realise that I've never had any real control over my life, let others dictate the control. Maybe that's been the way because I've never been able to see through the fog that all too often surrounds us on a daily basis. Whatever comes from my little foray into the unknown, and fully understanding the risks there are, I go forward much happier than I've ever been. And that's no bad thing!
Am I worried? Curiously I'm stuck between thinking it's a bad thing, shallow response to materialism, & it's a very good thing, hearty response to spiritual enlightenment. Perhaps the latter is slightly more worrying than the former, yet I remain hopeful that I'll have the courage of my hidden convictions and treat this as a wonderful opportunity to do something for myself, that will in its own way make some kind of sense of the barbarity of the economic climate.
I do find it very strange, even perverse, and have always done so that those responsible for causing so much misery, potential or otherwise, always appear to walk away from their appalling negligence, greed and wilful behaviour without much in the way of discomfort. let alone held accountable for their actions. Yet I'm not alone in such thoughts, and there are often press reports of excessive behaviour by certain companies, executives, even MPs, who seem to believe in a god given right to pick the ripest cherries. Not being alone in those thoughts, and often listening to a deafening crescendo of vitriol and condemnation against the selfish disregard exhibited by certain individuals, sadly I find myself surrounded by hollow calls that easily dissipate with the merest wisp of wind.
I may be entirely wrong of course, but it seems that the present economic climate was wholly caused by a financial sector that was out of control, and even after the various governments of the developed world bankrolled and bailed out the financial sector, those governments failed to take the opportunity to come down heavily on those individuals who have caused such widespread misery around the world. The upshot being that those hardworking people, who daily toil away to make a living will continue to be punished by the very same system that gladly seems to look favourably upon reprehensible miscreants and ne'er do wells, and which looks for any reason possible to forgive, or forget, deeds that would normally land decent people in court and possibly jail.
Perhaps the time has arrived when those decent hardworking folk should rise up and Twitter the hell out of their elected representatives, suggesting that they do the job they're supposed to and legislate against those individuals who have caused the devestation they clearly have.
Having got that out of my system, and facing the prospect of unemployment in a few weeks time, I look forward to the future and having the opportunity to seek my own fortune, not that I'd want to earn one because that brings with it almost the same amount of problems that being poor does albeit in much different ways. No, not fortune in terms of having an excess of wealth, but fortune in terms of being independent and at least having some control over what I do. I'm perhaps fortunate that I have no dependents, no mortgage, no car, have no debts and in a position where I can afford to take a risk. I realise that I'm far better off than many individuals, but equally I have no money in the bank to tide me over, so it will be a risk whatever I do.
Maybe I've slowly come to realise that I've never had any real control over my life, let others dictate the control. Maybe that's been the way because I've never been able to see through the fog that all too often surrounds us on a daily basis. Whatever comes from my little foray into the unknown, and fully understanding the risks there are, I go forward much happier than I've ever been. And that's no bad thing!
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