"...'Let's pretend it isn't,' said Rabbit, 'and see what happens.'"
I've never been a pet person. You know how some people class themselves as animal lovers? Yeah, I'm not one of them. I've got nothing against animals, I think they're very cute and I like having a cuddle, but I've always been happy to hand them back afterwards.
We never had hamsters or a dog or anything, but I remember our family cat when I was a tiddler (under 6). I remember her trying to sit on my lap and doing that thing that all cats do - kneading your thighs to get comfy. I found it unbearable. You know the sensation when someone jabs you in the sides and it kinda tickles, kinda hurts, but basically makes you squeal and jump away? That's what it was like for me. And obviously with me tensing up and trying not to squirm underneath, the kitty never gets comfy and just spends longer doing its torturous massage. Inevitably it ends with kitty sinking her claws into my tender legs and me jumping out of my seat cartoon-style.
Well I was always told that this reaction was because I was so young and my legs were a bit too small for our cat to get comfy. THAT WAS A LIE. I still cannot abide the sensation of a kitty walking across my lap. I like it when they settle and you have the warm furry ball to stroke, but rarely can I engage in mind-over-body mediation long enough for that to happen. I have to employ the services of a cushion, which really isn't as successful in attracting cat attention. Kitty wants warm legs, not a still cushion that either sinks in the middle or topples to the side if not perfectly balanced. All in all, I am happy to remain pet-free and thus free of negotiating the traumatic experience of lap sitting. Not to mention the lack of responsibility and cost...
So when we got the green light from our landlord to get rabbits, I was fairly nonplussed. Never had rabbits, never wanted them. Obviously thought they were cute, but really never saw the attraction. Imagine my surprise when I got home from a weekend away yesterday to two darling little fluff-balls and fell in love. One is a teeny tiny sandy coloured bunny, and one is a slightly bigger grey lionhead bad boy. Fucking adorable. The whole house can now be found regularly sitting round the garden cooing over the new additions, overreacting at every nibble and every whisker twitch.
But you know the best bit? They are officially my housemate's so I don't have to clean them, feed them or pay for them. Genius. Why has no one thought of this before? Difficult to orchestrate, I grant you, but the best arrangement certainly.
*Quote from A. A. Milne
Monday, 26 August 2013
Saturday, 17 August 2013
"We Hobbits ought to stick together, and we will. I shall go, unless they chain me up..."
"...There must be someone with intelligence in the party."
These girls though…they were generally older for a start, more akin to the 1D lads’ age, so maybe that changes thing. They were more of a sexualised age than I was in my Boyzone heyday. Plus the obvious elephant of social media – if you feel you are directly linked to your hero I would imagine that sharpens the obsession. I suppose it’s that link that leads on to the “stalking” - waiting outside hotel rooms, accosting anyone with a security badge, threatening to hurt yourself for their attention, bombarding them with twoots…you know the like. They know the band can see their message and that personal link could be established, but there are too many messages for theirs to stand out; they have to take it to the next level.
I discussed the fandom with my housemate, who pointed out that many people were obsessive in their youth, just not always about a pop band. “Interesting point” I thought, “was I obsessed with anything at 14?” And then it hit me.
My One Direction was Lord of the Rings. How utterly pathetic.
My obsession started when the first film came out. A quick Google tells me that was in 2001 so I would have been about 13. I don’t know what it was that hooked me to be honest; I had read and enjoyed The Hobbit, sure, but not fanatically. After seeing FotR for the first time I pretty much swallowed the books whole and vomited up stacks of posters - a mixture of artistic illustrations based on the books, really big movie posters, and collages of faces I had printed from the internet. I named all my friends after the characters - I was Pippin, my sister Merry. Two of my closest friends were Frodo and Sam despite the two of them not being close. In fact looking back a lot of the names given didn’t really make sense… Some people refused to be named, others asked eagerly to be included, and one person was thrilled just to be given the name of one of the horses after all the good names had run out. I created scrapbooks of film tickets, interviews from magazine, clippings, toys, any paraphernalia I could cram into my lever arch files (I had three).
But it wasn’t just Tolkien’s lore that had me; I was besotted with the actors too. I knew all their names, not just for the main 9 but all the named characters (I don’t know who played the Witch King however). My friend (Frodo) and I found chat room records of a conversation including Billy Boyd and Dominic Monaghan (Pippin and Merry) and would quote them at each other. Things that made no sense: “Who are you and why do you have the power to cancel the internet?” “ Dom, cause I am God”. We would use a very scientific method (MASH) to calculate the percentage of our love match with each actor, varying the spelling of our names and theirs in order to get a bigger score. I plastered my school planner in pictures and quotes and random runes and Elvish script. I wrote out every poem in the FotR by hand into a customised notebook; I would have continued but thankfully my sister bought me a properly published version and saved me the hassle.
And although I never tried to find where the actors lived, never felt any strong emotions regarding their wives and girlfriends, never wrote to them or tried to contact them, maybe this would have been different if I had been able to tweet them. I definitely would have ‘followed’ them and sent tweets. If I had known they were doing any signings in London I would have attended. I believed I would be very good friends with Billy Boyd, Dominic Monaghan and Elijah Wood, if I just had the opportunity to get to know them. But I never presumed to orchestrate a meeting. I dreamt of it happening by fortuitous accident, yes, but I understood it was just a dream and I think part of me didn’t want to shatter the fantasy by confronting it. I knew I didn’t really know them, and I think I must have known deep down that a 14 year old school girl wouldn’t really have much in common with a fully grown movie star. I liked rock bands at that age too, I think I saw Biffy Clyro about 9 times, but again despite fancying them and thinking they were the coolest guys ever, I was too wrapped up in my own life to think about infiltrating theirs.
Why aren’t these teenagers more involved with their own social life than a pop band? How has an online social life replaced a real one? If you speak to half your friends online more than you do in person, is it any wonder people feel they could be friends with celebrities?
More importantly, how old do I feel right now? Urgh.
*Quote from JRR Tolkien
Thursday, 8 August 2013
"Honestly, if you're given the choice between Armaggeddon or tea, you don't say..."
"...'What kind of tea?'"
I've written before about my tea habit. It has been said that I have more tea running through my veins than blood... I can't deny it -
I love tea.
So you can imagine my surprise when I found that I was drinking NO TEA for days. I had started a new job and was too nervous to make myself a cup of tea. It was my eighth day at work today and I finally took the plunge and had a cuppa at my desk. One in the morning and one in the afternoon. Obviously no one batted an eyelid, but to me it was significant; I felt comfortable enough to be myself - I felt at home.
Perhaps you don't understand how serious my tea addiction is. Many people like tea, many people drink a lot of it - probably more than I do - but they do not have the emotional attachment that I do. In my first year of uni I lived in catered halls, we got breakfast and dinner. Now judge me if you will, but most of the time I was unable to crawl out of my bed in time to make the (10 o'clock finish?) breakfast. Not such a big deal really, except I was too cheap to buy anything for lunch... Each room had a little mini fridge that was just warm enough to keep a pint of milk for a couple of days before turning it to cheese, so I would rise about 10am and break my fast with a nice pot of tea. A little later I might feel a bit peckish. A normal person would leave their room and buy some food. Not me, oh no, that would involve getting out of my pyjamas! (The horror!) Nope, I would boil up the kettle and have another pot. And then another...and another...and another...and then I'd need to pee an awful lot.
To cut a long story short, I drank so much tea that it inhibited the iron uptake in my blood and I became severely anaemic (apparently my red blood cells were a quarter of the size they should have been). This made me more tired, which made me less inclined to get up for breakfast or to leave my room for anything other than lectures, going out in the evening, and watching dvds at my friend's room. So I ate less and drank more tea. I realised things had gone too far when I started getting the shakes if I'd gone too long without a fix, but I still can't break the feeling that each cup is my sole source of nourishment.
Now I drink a healthy amount and I think I appreciate each cup. There's something that speaks to the soul during you first real slurp (the first sip doesn't count as it's always too hot to really taste). I can feel the warmth slip down my throat and into my belly. An ease spills across my shoulders and down through my arms. I relax. The sharp edges of my surroundings soften and I'm hugged by the room. Things smell better, colours brighten. My mouth feels silky and my spit tastes sweet.
If I'm hungry, it fills me; if I'm cold, it warms. If I'm struggling with writer's block, it inspires me; if I'm tense, it soothes me. It's my wake up in the mornings, and my good night in the evening. It's an excellent post-dinner tummy-settler, and with a biscuit it's a proper good snack.
I have begun to court my love in a new work environment. We have been reunited and my life is better for it. A strong Assam, a delicate Darjeeling or a reliable breakfast brew; three faces of my beloved. Tea.
* Quote from Neil Gaiman
I've written before about my tea habit. It has been said that I have more tea running through my veins than blood... I can't deny it -
I love tea.
So you can imagine my surprise when I found that I was drinking NO TEA for days. I had started a new job and was too nervous to make myself a cup of tea. It was my eighth day at work today and I finally took the plunge and had a cuppa at my desk. One in the morning and one in the afternoon. Obviously no one batted an eyelid, but to me it was significant; I felt comfortable enough to be myself - I felt at home.
Perhaps you don't understand how serious my tea addiction is. Many people like tea, many people drink a lot of it - probably more than I do - but they do not have the emotional attachment that I do. In my first year of uni I lived in catered halls, we got breakfast and dinner. Now judge me if you will, but most of the time I was unable to crawl out of my bed in time to make the (10 o'clock finish?) breakfast. Not such a big deal really, except I was too cheap to buy anything for lunch... Each room had a little mini fridge that was just warm enough to keep a pint of milk for a couple of days before turning it to cheese, so I would rise about 10am and break my fast with a nice pot of tea. A little later I might feel a bit peckish. A normal person would leave their room and buy some food. Not me, oh no, that would involve getting out of my pyjamas! (The horror!) Nope, I would boil up the kettle and have another pot. And then another...and another...and another...and then I'd need to pee an awful lot.
To cut a long story short, I drank so much tea that it inhibited the iron uptake in my blood and I became severely anaemic (apparently my red blood cells were a quarter of the size they should have been). This made me more tired, which made me less inclined to get up for breakfast or to leave my room for anything other than lectures, going out in the evening, and watching dvds at my friend's room. So I ate less and drank more tea. I realised things had gone too far when I started getting the shakes if I'd gone too long without a fix, but I still can't break the feeling that each cup is my sole source of nourishment.
Now I drink a healthy amount and I think I appreciate each cup. There's something that speaks to the soul during you first real slurp (the first sip doesn't count as it's always too hot to really taste). I can feel the warmth slip down my throat and into my belly. An ease spills across my shoulders and down through my arms. I relax. The sharp edges of my surroundings soften and I'm hugged by the room. Things smell better, colours brighten. My mouth feels silky and my spit tastes sweet.
If I'm hungry, it fills me; if I'm cold, it warms. If I'm struggling with writer's block, it inspires me; if I'm tense, it soothes me. It's my wake up in the mornings, and my good night in the evening. It's an excellent post-dinner tummy-settler, and with a biscuit it's a proper good snack.
I have begun to court my love in a new work environment. We have been reunited and my life is better for it. A strong Assam, a delicate Darjeeling or a reliable breakfast brew; three faces of my beloved. Tea.
* Quote from Neil Gaiman
Wednesday, 7 August 2013
"All the world's a stage..."
" And all the men and women merely players."
Last week I had the pleasure of going to The Drowned Man, an immersive theatre production by Punchdrunk, with my beau (J-) and his sister (E-). I had no idea what to expect.
We arrived at this old warehouse, checked in our bags in the timber cloakroom and joined the queue for admission. We were handed a slip of paper outlining a plot, a tragic love story which I assumed would be the plot of the play. The paper was black one side and white the other. I read one side and glanced at the other. I was partly right.
I was a touch overexcited about the whole thing (and I REALLY needed to wee) so as we queued I think I was a little annoying... I felt as if we were queuing for a roller coaster. E- had just stepped off a flight from Los Angeles and had been awake for two days straight so we made interesting (if slightly opposing) companions for J-.
Before long we were at the front. We were handed a white mask and ushered into a dark doorway. There was one man in front of me, who I was thankful for as we were in a twisting turning passageway and everything was almost pitch black. There was an almost deafening cacophony of discordant tones and the only light came from reddish-orange lights that were round the next corner -- if I had been leading I would have walked mask-first into the wall several times. Eventually we reached a room with a group of other masked people. To be honest, it was fucking scary; a group of faceless strangers all turning to look at you simultaneously? Urrgh. Even turning to J- and E- was freaky; you forgot so quickly about the masks. And you couldn't see any facial expressions, couldn't hear what anyone might be saying...there was no opportunity to crack a joke, pull a face, or find any other way to make light of your situation. It was very unsettling, and you could not make it otherwise.
After a welcome speech from (I think) one of the "owners" of the "film studio" we were at, we were told to make our way to the bar for the "wrap party" we were to attend. She then hauled open the heavy lift door, and out we blindly stumbled. I happened to be one of the first, wandering in the dark corridors, picking cryptic papers up off the floor and letting myself in to offices and various "behind the scenes" rooms.
I won't dictate everything I saw, as it's better to be surprised and I wouldn't want to ruin it for anyone who might read this before seeing it (not that anyone's reading this, but still). The audience wandered freely over 4 or 5 floors, in and out through film sets, props, dressing rooms....and occasionally you would stumble upon the characters themselves (or they would suddenly appear in the room with you) acting out various scenarios. The loud soundtrack wiped out any hope of hearing dialogue so you were forced to understand through their movements. Wonderful, confusing movements.
I saw a woman in a hag mask, another spiralling in a beautiful ballet on fake snow, a man scattering his clothes and raining sand on his naked body. I saw a heavily choreographed dance number, a drunken party, a human doodle and possibly a murder. What is "real" and what is "film"? And where did the audience fit in?
I love the immersive aspect, and I love the mystery...but I came away so unsatisfied. I wanted the whole plot. I didn't know I was supposed to follow the actors; I thought as much information could be gleaned from the sets. Once I got home I looked back at the black and white piece of paper, the one that I assumed had "the plot" on it. I remember seeing these characters, could put the bits I saw into the narrative....but who were the other characters? How did they fit in? Idly I turn the paper over. Another storyline. Different characters. A mirrored plotline. Although this solves some of my confusion (and mentally I kick myself HARD for missing it) there are still some characters left out...
I would recommend The Drowned Man, but I would advise you not to expect to "get it". You are an audience and, despite being given free reign of the internal workings of the entire set, you remain outside.
"Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."
* Quote from William Shakespeare
Last week I had the pleasure of going to The Drowned Man, an immersive theatre production by Punchdrunk, with my beau (J-) and his sister (E-). I had no idea what to expect.
We arrived at this old warehouse, checked in our bags in the timber cloakroom and joined the queue for admission. We were handed a slip of paper outlining a plot, a tragic love story which I assumed would be the plot of the play. The paper was black one side and white the other. I read one side and glanced at the other. I was partly right.
I was a touch overexcited about the whole thing (and I REALLY needed to wee) so as we queued I think I was a little annoying... I felt as if we were queuing for a roller coaster. E- had just stepped off a flight from Los Angeles and had been awake for two days straight so we made interesting (if slightly opposing) companions for J-.
Before long we were at the front. We were handed a white mask and ushered into a dark doorway. There was one man in front of me, who I was thankful for as we were in a twisting turning passageway and everything was almost pitch black. There was an almost deafening cacophony of discordant tones and the only light came from reddish-orange lights that were round the next corner -- if I had been leading I would have walked mask-first into the wall several times. Eventually we reached a room with a group of other masked people. To be honest, it was fucking scary; a group of faceless strangers all turning to look at you simultaneously? Urrgh. Even turning to J- and E- was freaky; you forgot so quickly about the masks. And you couldn't see any facial expressions, couldn't hear what anyone might be saying...there was no opportunity to crack a joke, pull a face, or find any other way to make light of your situation. It was very unsettling, and you could not make it otherwise.
After a welcome speech from (I think) one of the "owners" of the "film studio" we were at, we were told to make our way to the bar for the "wrap party" we were to attend. She then hauled open the heavy lift door, and out we blindly stumbled. I happened to be one of the first, wandering in the dark corridors, picking cryptic papers up off the floor and letting myself in to offices and various "behind the scenes" rooms.
I won't dictate everything I saw, as it's better to be surprised and I wouldn't want to ruin it for anyone who might read this before seeing it (not that anyone's reading this, but still). The audience wandered freely over 4 or 5 floors, in and out through film sets, props, dressing rooms....and occasionally you would stumble upon the characters themselves (or they would suddenly appear in the room with you) acting out various scenarios. The loud soundtrack wiped out any hope of hearing dialogue so you were forced to understand through their movements. Wonderful, confusing movements.
I saw a woman in a hag mask, another spiralling in a beautiful ballet on fake snow, a man scattering his clothes and raining sand on his naked body. I saw a heavily choreographed dance number, a drunken party, a human doodle and possibly a murder. What is "real" and what is "film"? And where did the audience fit in?
I love the immersive aspect, and I love the mystery...but I came away so unsatisfied. I wanted the whole plot. I didn't know I was supposed to follow the actors; I thought as much information could be gleaned from the sets. Once I got home I looked back at the black and white piece of paper, the one that I assumed had "the plot" on it. I remember seeing these characters, could put the bits I saw into the narrative....but who were the other characters? How did they fit in? Idly I turn the paper over. Another storyline. Different characters. A mirrored plotline. Although this solves some of my confusion (and mentally I kick myself HARD for missing it) there are still some characters left out...
I would recommend The Drowned Man, but I would advise you not to expect to "get it". You are an audience and, despite being given free reign of the internal workings of the entire set, you remain outside.
"Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."
* Quote from William Shakespeare
Wednesday, 17 July 2013
"Looks like I can take you..."
"Heh heh, yeah, keep looking"
It's only been a week, but I am officially A Gym User.
I go, I pick things up, sweat a bit and put them down. I walk on a machine, then run on the machine, and finish by sitting next to the machine with my head between my knees trying not to be sick. Truly I am living the dream.
But despite these obviously uplifting experiences, I seem to suffer from a lack of motivation - if I don't trot myself off to the gym first thing in the morning I will just put it off all day and have a little cloud of guilt hanging over me. I think I might be more inspired to go if I listened to the Pumping Iron soundtrack every meal time. I could wake up to it, enjoy my post-lunch cup of tea to its funky tones, and play it in the kitchen while I prepare my dinner. Pull some poses, you know? Strut my muscular stuff (NB I do not have muscular stuff to strut) And even though I fear this might trigger me talking like Arnie for a large portion of the day, perhaps it would be worth it.
Or maybe I should start my own gym, purely based on the fantastic feeling of The Pump. Hey, if it works forSwarzegener Schwartzeneggor Schwartzenegger Schwarzenegger, why can't it work for others? And boy does it work for...the aforementioned hard-to-spell individual; he is coming day and night - "Can you believe how much I am in heaven?"
So we could place a larger than life sized gold plated statue of Mr. S in the centre -- ooh ooh! which could double up as a water dispenser! A new motivational quote would be championed each day ("Milk is for babies. When you grow up you have to drink beer") and everyone would work towards achieving The Pump. We could put little speakers in all the weight machines and when you reach a certain level of "pump" (yet to be established) the twangs of Pumping Iron could filter their way into the individual's sweaty brain and they would know they had made 70's Arnie proud. And let's face it, who wouldn't want that? Is there any greater satisfaction? Well, actually, maybe the orgasm-like 'pump' we have been striving to achieve...
In any case, I need to stop muttering "if it jiggles it's fat" at fellow gym members.
* Quotes from Arnold Schwarzenegger
It's only been a week, but I am officially A Gym User.
I go, I pick things up, sweat a bit and put them down. I walk on a machine, then run on the machine, and finish by sitting next to the machine with my head between my knees trying not to be sick. Truly I am living the dream.
But despite these obviously uplifting experiences, I seem to suffer from a lack of motivation - if I don't trot myself off to the gym first thing in the morning I will just put it off all day and have a little cloud of guilt hanging over me. I think I might be more inspired to go if I listened to the Pumping Iron soundtrack every meal time. I could wake up to it, enjoy my post-lunch cup of tea to its funky tones, and play it in the kitchen while I prepare my dinner. Pull some poses, you know? Strut my muscular stuff (NB I do not have muscular stuff to strut) And even though I fear this might trigger me talking like Arnie for a large portion of the day, perhaps it would be worth it.
Or maybe I should start my own gym, purely based on the fantastic feeling of The Pump. Hey, if it works for
So we could place a larger than life sized gold plated statue of Mr. S in the centre -- ooh ooh! which could double up as a water dispenser! A new motivational quote would be championed each day ("Milk is for babies. When you grow up you have to drink beer") and everyone would work towards achieving The Pump. We could put little speakers in all the weight machines and when you reach a certain level of "pump" (yet to be established) the twangs of Pumping Iron could filter their way into the individual's sweaty brain and they would know they had made 70's Arnie proud. And let's face it, who wouldn't want that? Is there any greater satisfaction? Well, actually, maybe the orgasm-like 'pump' we have been striving to achieve...
In any case, I need to stop muttering "if it jiggles it's fat" at fellow gym members.
* Quotes from Arnold Schwarzenegger
Tuesday, 25 June 2013
"We live in deeds, not years: in thoughts, not breaths..."
"...In feelings, not in figures on a dial."
Well, I don't know about you but I seem to live in computer screens, rumpled duvets and large cups of tea.
*Quote from Philip James Bailey
Well, I don't know about you but I seem to live in computer screens, rumpled duvets and large cups of tea.
*Quote from Philip James Bailey
Thursday, 20 June 2013
"Workin' 9 to 5..."
"...What a way to make a livin'."
I sit here shivering in my little pink cardi and backless dress, chewing on my pen and lamenting the deceptive sun that shone through my window this morning. A line of drool dribbles down the macerated ballpoint and onto the minutes I’m editing. It lands in a doodle of transvestite fish with legs and a top hat inked earlier in red, which adds a sort of ‘Jack the Ripper-esque’ touch that usually escapes my scribbles. After admiring the artwork, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and surreptitiously glance around to see if anyone noticed. They didn’t; the fish and I are safe.
A little later, and no further with my editing, my skin is complaining of goose pimples and my tummy is gurgling. My mind instantly connects the two and produces a picture of a cup of tea. My mouth, delighted by the image, celebrates by acting independently of said brain and loudly announces its desire:
“TEA!”
I have not said this quietly. I have shouted “TEA” in a surprisingly deep voice apropos of (apparently) nothing. I cover brilliantly, obviously, and enquire as to the beverage requirements of the room. I’ve been in the office for 2 hours now and this is my third cup of the day, which is pretty much par for the course to be honest. I try to average one cup an hour as I’ve found this is a steady enough stream to keep the shakes at bay, but is occasional enough to keep colleagues from making snarky comments (these begin in jest but soon take on an edge of realism concerning contributions to the tea club kitty I’m just not comfortable with).
Another 10 minutes tick by, a few more red scrawls are added to the soggy document. I suddenly become aware that my left foot, curled up beneath me on my wheelie chair, has gone to sleep and I am faced with the eternal dilemma: do I leave it there and let the numbness grow, or do I move now and suffer the pain?
The world now splits into two – one universe follows the Philly who extricates the foot, digging her fingernails into her palms until the pain subsides, and doggedly continuing her procrastination.
The other universe follows the Philly who remains on the dead foot until the numbness progresses to her knee, forcing her to disentangle it manually. This Philly is then subject to the weekly fire alarm test which (despite hearing it every Friday at 11am) still makes her jump. This results in her good leg shooting out and kicking the desk, which provides the propulsion to rocket the wheelie chair backwards into a wall, the impact of which topples her from said chair which, owing to the aforementioned dead leg, she then struggles to climb back into.
I will leave it to you, dear reader, to judge which of these universes we live in.
*Quote from Dolly Parton
I sit here shivering in my little pink cardi and backless dress, chewing on my pen and lamenting the deceptive sun that shone through my window this morning. A line of drool dribbles down the macerated ballpoint and onto the minutes I’m editing. It lands in a doodle of transvestite fish with legs and a top hat inked earlier in red, which adds a sort of ‘Jack the Ripper-esque’ touch that usually escapes my scribbles. After admiring the artwork, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and surreptitiously glance around to see if anyone noticed. They didn’t; the fish and I are safe.
A little later, and no further with my editing, my skin is complaining of goose pimples and my tummy is gurgling. My mind instantly connects the two and produces a picture of a cup of tea. My mouth, delighted by the image, celebrates by acting independently of said brain and loudly announces its desire:
“TEA!”
I have not said this quietly. I have shouted “TEA” in a surprisingly deep voice apropos of (apparently) nothing. I cover brilliantly, obviously, and enquire as to the beverage requirements of the room. I’ve been in the office for 2 hours now and this is my third cup of the day, which is pretty much par for the course to be honest. I try to average one cup an hour as I’ve found this is a steady enough stream to keep the shakes at bay, but is occasional enough to keep colleagues from making snarky comments (these begin in jest but soon take on an edge of realism concerning contributions to the tea club kitty I’m just not comfortable with).
Another 10 minutes tick by, a few more red scrawls are added to the soggy document. I suddenly become aware that my left foot, curled up beneath me on my wheelie chair, has gone to sleep and I am faced with the eternal dilemma: do I leave it there and let the numbness grow, or do I move now and suffer the pain?
The world now splits into two – one universe follows the Philly who extricates the foot, digging her fingernails into her palms until the pain subsides, and doggedly continuing her procrastination.
The other universe follows the Philly who remains on the dead foot until the numbness progresses to her knee, forcing her to disentangle it manually. This Philly is then subject to the weekly fire alarm test which (despite hearing it every Friday at 11am) still makes her jump. This results in her good leg shooting out and kicking the desk, which provides the propulsion to rocket the wheelie chair backwards into a wall, the impact of which topples her from said chair which, owing to the aforementioned dead leg, she then struggles to climb back into.
I will leave it to you, dear reader, to judge which of these universes we live in.
*Quote from Dolly Parton
Tuesday, 11 June 2013
"So this is the New Year..."
"...and I don't feel any different."
Last year my only New Years Resolution was to “not die” and, as I achieved it, I planned to follow it this year with the inspiring “take care of myself”. I have since come to the conclusion that perhaps I should try to be a bit more ambitious. So here, much belatedly, I will define certain features of “taking care or myself”.
1) Spend more time with loved onesI have an uncanny ability to drop out of existence for weeks at a time. Although this is slightly beyond my control, I often find that the best way to pull yourself out of an antisocial fug is to force yourself to be social. I always know I’ll have a good time when I get there, it’s the effort of dragging myself out of the house first…
2) Improve my sense of well beingAs well as assuming everyone around me is immortal, I need to stop believing my sedentary, food-focussed lifestyle won’t have any adverse effects. Unfortunately this involves finding a way to enjoy eating better and doing regular exercise, in order to ultimately be happy in my own skin.
3) Make better use of my timeAs anyone who has lived with me can testify, there’s nothing I like better than sleeping late into the morning. There’s also few things I hate more than feeling I’ve slept my day away. I know I don’t make the most of my time and I would love to do more - be more productive, less slug-like. I like who I am, but I’d like it if that person could have a little more drive and energy. (I would also like to clarify – spending time completing video games counts as productive).
4) Utilise opportunitiesMy mood concerning my job fluctuates quite drastically. I won’t say I want a new career path, but I want to know I’m making the most out of every opportunity that comes up.
What are you mid-year resolutions??
* Quote from Death Cab for Cutie
Last year my only New Years Resolution was to “not die” and, as I achieved it, I planned to follow it this year with the inspiring “take care of myself”. I have since come to the conclusion that perhaps I should try to be a bit more ambitious. So here, much belatedly, I will define certain features of “taking care or myself”.
1) Spend more time with loved onesI have an uncanny ability to drop out of existence for weeks at a time. Although this is slightly beyond my control, I often find that the best way to pull yourself out of an antisocial fug is to force yourself to be social. I always know I’ll have a good time when I get there, it’s the effort of dragging myself out of the house first…
2) Improve my sense of well beingAs well as assuming everyone around me is immortal, I need to stop believing my sedentary, food-focussed lifestyle won’t have any adverse effects. Unfortunately this involves finding a way to enjoy eating better and doing regular exercise, in order to ultimately be happy in my own skin.
3) Make better use of my timeAs anyone who has lived with me can testify, there’s nothing I like better than sleeping late into the morning. There’s also few things I hate more than feeling I’ve slept my day away. I know I don’t make the most of my time and I would love to do more - be more productive, less slug-like. I like who I am, but I’d like it if that person could have a little more drive and energy. (I would also like to clarify – spending time completing video games counts as productive).
4) Utilise opportunitiesMy mood concerning my job fluctuates quite drastically. I won’t say I want a new career path, but I want to know I’m making the most out of every opportunity that comes up.
What are you mid-year resolutions??
* Quote from Death Cab for Cutie
Tuesday, 4 June 2013
"'Cause I'm as free as a bird now..."
"...and this bird you cannot change."
My life is soon to take a bit of a turn. Recently I was offered a job, similar to the post I currently hold but at a faster paced and more innovative Local Authority. And I jumped.
Now I'm suffering the fallout of leaving my current job. Some people know and are happy for me, some are unaware which makes me feel like a traitor and a liar, and some know and are setting out to make the move as difficult as possible.
Every time I get upset I think, "go to the mattresses" - it's not personal, it's business. It's not personal, it's business. And if I had enjoyed my current post more then I wouldn't be leaving. Nothing people do or say now can change the dissatisfaction I've been dealing with for the past 18 months.
Every time I feel unsure whether I'm making the right choice I think, "Free Bird" - I can't let the fear of something new keep me down, I'd rather try and fail than never try at all.
Even though it's only a new job, I'm using it to spring clean my life. I've signed my contract to live in London for another year, I've cut my hair to my shoulders and I'm currently gutting my possessions. Everyone I know seems to be moving forward in their lives - with partners, careers, commitment, property... It's time to stop dreaming of what I want to be when I grow up, and realise that I've done all my growing. I'm 25, I am what I am, and I need to take control over my life and the world around me.
Throughout my career I've been plagued by people looking down at me and assuming I didn't know what I was doing. Maybe that owed a little to my age, or to my gender, but I believe that people will take you as they see you. If I feel confident and in control, others won't doubt me.
Tune in next time for my mental breakdown...?
* Quote from Lynyrd Skynyrd
My life is soon to take a bit of a turn. Recently I was offered a job, similar to the post I currently hold but at a faster paced and more innovative Local Authority. And I jumped.
Now I'm suffering the fallout of leaving my current job. Some people know and are happy for me, some are unaware which makes me feel like a traitor and a liar, and some know and are setting out to make the move as difficult as possible.
Every time I get upset I think, "go to the mattresses" - it's not personal, it's business. It's not personal, it's business. And if I had enjoyed my current post more then I wouldn't be leaving. Nothing people do or say now can change the dissatisfaction I've been dealing with for the past 18 months.
Every time I feel unsure whether I'm making the right choice I think, "Free Bird" - I can't let the fear of something new keep me down, I'd rather try and fail than never try at all.
Even though it's only a new job, I'm using it to spring clean my life. I've signed my contract to live in London for another year, I've cut my hair to my shoulders and I'm currently gutting my possessions. Everyone I know seems to be moving forward in their lives - with partners, careers, commitment, property... It's time to stop dreaming of what I want to be when I grow up, and realise that I've done all my growing. I'm 25, I am what I am, and I need to take control over my life and the world around me.
Throughout my career I've been plagued by people looking down at me and assuming I didn't know what I was doing. Maybe that owed a little to my age, or to my gender, but I believe that people will take you as they see you. If I feel confident and in control, others won't doubt me.
Tune in next time for my mental breakdown...?
* Quote from Lynyrd Skynyrd
Friday, 3 May 2013
"I'm the best there is at what I do.."
"...But what I do best isn't very nice."
So I've mentioned my MOOC before - this bloglet is one of my assignments. I had to "Create a comic based on a story regarding gender you or a close friend/family member has experienced." Mine is based on an experience from work.
For any non-British readers (ha! As if I have readers!) it's worth mentioning that I work in Local Government, and our Local politicians are given the title of "Councillor". I work in politics, not mental health!
Also worth mentioning, I have terrible handwriting and I'm not great at drawing. Anyway, whining and apologies over, bask in the glory of the wonderful thing I created:
Toodles x.x.x
*Quote from Uncanny X-Men #162
Monday, 8 April 2013
"We don't need no education..."
"..we don't need no thought control."
I recently got a message from a rather lovely friend asking me to start blogging again. Isn't that sweet? I've only written a handful of posts and they are mostly pretty trashy. But maybe I should try harder...
Last month saw the inaugural International Day of Happiness. What a lovely idea, but does it really mean anything? One of the things organisers are encouraging people to do it to make a Happiness Day Resolution and choose an action to support and develop their happiness over the coming year. Well for once I was tired of my default critical perspective, decided to throw my lot in with an ideal and ditch my "dark sarcasm*" in favour for the pursuit of happiness. And so I announce to you:
My name is Philly, and I am a learnaholic. (That's right, I have made up a word.)
Basically, I've always been a sponge for knowledge. I am a swot, a geek, a boffin, a nerd. Always have been, always will be. Innit. I remember cheering in primary school when they told us we would be getting homework...I will never forget the looks I got from my fellow students around me... Learning makes me happy, and so I chose to actively pursue this over the course of this year. I looked into options such as a distance learning degree or adult learning classes, but I couldn't really sign up with bankrupting myself of time and money. Which I didn't think would make me very happy. Happily (see what I did there?) I found MOOC, or Massive Open Online Courses, and have currently enrolled on one about Gender in Comic Books - an issue close to my heart in one of my favourite mediums. I'm only in week one at the moment, but hopefully when I'm a bit further in I'll be able to post about some of my thoughts....won't that be fun for you?
So please excuse my very brief, very self-centred post today, but I think I need to dip my toe back into the water before throwing my shoes in. (That's another song reference, but I think I'll save it for a future post)
*Quote from Pink Floyd
I recently got a message from a rather lovely friend asking me to start blogging again. Isn't that sweet? I've only written a handful of posts and they are mostly pretty trashy. But maybe I should try harder...
Last month saw the inaugural International Day of Happiness. What a lovely idea, but does it really mean anything? One of the things organisers are encouraging people to do it to make a Happiness Day Resolution and choose an action to support and develop their happiness over the coming year. Well for once I was tired of my default critical perspective, decided to throw my lot in with an ideal and ditch my "dark sarcasm*" in favour for the pursuit of happiness. And so I announce to you:
My name is Philly, and I am a learnaholic. (That's right, I have made up a word.)
Basically, I've always been a sponge for knowledge. I am a swot, a geek, a boffin, a nerd. Always have been, always will be. Innit. I remember cheering in primary school when they told us we would be getting homework...I will never forget the looks I got from my fellow students around me... Learning makes me happy, and so I chose to actively pursue this over the course of this year. I looked into options such as a distance learning degree or adult learning classes, but I couldn't really sign up with bankrupting myself of time and money. Which I didn't think would make me very happy. Happily (see what I did there?) I found MOOC, or Massive Open Online Courses, and have currently enrolled on one about Gender in Comic Books - an issue close to my heart in one of my favourite mediums. I'm only in week one at the moment, but hopefully when I'm a bit further in I'll be able to post about some of my thoughts....won't that be fun for you?
So please excuse my very brief, very self-centred post today, but I think I need to dip my toe back into the water before throwing my shoes in. (That's another song reference, but I think I'll save it for a future post)
*Quote from Pink Floyd
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