A small little shift

The covers move beside me.

My eyes are shut - I'm only half awake but I'm listening. Unused to sharing my sleeping space, I wake up at every slight turn (although I pretend not to).

I'm facing the other way, identifying the sounds as they happen: he gets up, t-shirt goes on, picks something up. The door clicks. He walks out.

He pads to the kitchen, there's the faint sound of water running, then he's back.

There's a couple of gulps, then a gentle tap; glass on wood. He settles back, and I go to sleep.

It's a couple of hours later when I wake up, thirsty, squinting at my bedside table.

Then I'm so surprised that I sit up, and stare at the glass for what seems like a minute, but is probably less. I look at the sleeping form next to me, the half full glass on his side, then back to the previously empty glass on mine.

Huh.

It's a few hours later when we're both awake, and I'm wondering if, perhaps, I'd imagined it.

"Did you fill up my glass of water?" I say.
"Yep." he replies.
"Oh." I marvel, like he's just written a book and dedicated it to me, "Thank you."

And he won't know it, but in doing this small, unremarkable thing, there's just been a tiny shift in my brain.

I look at him differently now; this person who woke up thirsty, got himself a drink, and thought I might want one, too.

Some people might remember the day they got given flowers, or a piece of jewellery, received some grand gesture, or a kiss - but as that small, tiny, considerate act sticks with me even weeks later, I think, I will remember this.

Kids these days

One of the most terrifying things about being in your late twenties is that every so often, you catch sight of a date of birth which ends in something like "2010".

If you're anything like me, you'll like to think that people just stopped being born after about 1995; a time in which everyone was caught up in deciding which Take That member to scratch a heart around with the pointed end of a compass on their pencil case, not merely Tweeting their adoration of Harry Styles.

You'll like to imagine that everyone alive now should, and indeed does, remember a time when knowledge came from libraries, not from a mythical "search engine", or - sod it - a time before the internet itself.

The fact that all our worldly information is so readily available now - to the point where our capacity for memorising things is shrinking - is indicative of a more pressing concern: that there are children in the world at this very moment who have never booted up a CDROM of Encarta Encyclopedia, and magically produced the exact same "research" as everyone else handing in their homework that day.

The same goes for mobile phones. It's not the instant, hyper-connectivity of noughties children that worries me; more that kids these days will never have to search through the Yellow Pages for a house  number and mumble a greeting to their crush's mother,

 "Hello, Mrs Smith. Is Daniel there please?"

...before making stilted, quiet, awkward conversation while balancing carefully on the stairs; an operation that was always hindered by the meter long ringlets of stretchy phone cord which never quite reached anywhere out of parental earshot.

Worst still, by taking their first "I fancy you" steps via text message or Facebook, kids these days will never have to endure the tell-tale click of a phone being replaced on its hook, followed by the hot-faced embarrassment of their older sister yelling "Oooh! Who's MARK? Have you got a BOYFRIEND?" from her listening post in the kitchen.

BT phone boxes must seem like relics of another time to kids these days; make-do street toilets, public drug taking cubicles, an extreme last resort if you forget your mobile - not a place your best mate used to call you from when her parents regularly barred outgoing calls from their house.

And let us not start on TV on-demand services, which negate ever having an all-out sibling war over who recorded over the only VHS copy of Ghost with an episode of Byker Grove, or whose cassette recorder ate the ribbon on the latest Now...! double compilation.

Oh, kids these days. Those poor people born in 2013, whose idea of nostalgia will be a screen resolution without HD.

They're missing out.

The Restless Days

Every so often, a feeling of utter restlessness kicks me repeatedly for a few weeks.

When it does, concentrating on anything other than The Big Picture becomes a huge effort. Time at work is spent staring blankly at the now irrelevant tasks on my screen, and work e-mails no longer seem to be important. I lose interest and spend the time daydreaming, wondering and pondering instead - is this it? Is this all there is? What else do I really want?

While most of the time, this niggling feeling can be allayed by material things such as a nice cup of loose leaf tea, a chinwag with a friend or a Wispa Gold, during these restless days, the only thing that seems to lift the veil is the forming of a plan.

In the past, the second it's dawned on me what the answer is, the weight lifts and I can start to enjoy the menial day-to-day stuff again. It might be deciding to say "Sod it" and book a round the world trip (a decision I made one day a couple of years back), quitting your job for something more fulfilling, or just doing something you haven't done before.

With my 28th birthday approaching in a couple of months, a self-imposed benchmark that'll put me firmly in the late twenties camp, this restless feeling tells me now is a good time to Do Something.

I'm single. I have no big responsibilities. I know that if I stay doing what I'm doing (e.g. get up, go to work, repeat until age 65), I'll look back on this little chunk of life and wish I'd done more. The question is, as ever, what?

While the small matter of a flat lease and generally being head over heels with London at the moment prevent me from straying too far for too long, I have made the small but no less significant step of booking a week off work in August.

There are no other solid plans at the moment, just a few self imposed rules: the week can't be spent in England (I owe my Vitamin D levels that much), and it's got to be something that puts me a little bit out of my comfort zone.

All that remains is to decide on a destination, book some flights, and learn the following phrase in whichever language applies,

"Table for one, please. And make mine a G&T."

These are a few of my favourite things: bookshelf

When you move out of home into somewhere rented, it never quite feels like it should. 

It's sort of a home, in that you feel "at home" when you get there, and it has everything you need from home. It's where you eat, sleep, and stumble in blind drunk. Sometimes it's better than home; it doesn't question where you've been, or get offended if you go straight upstairs without a "hello" when you walk through the door.  

The rented home has someone else's floors and a bland mushroom colour scheme, and it's like you're just plonking your belongings on top of it all for a while. 

So that's where my bookshelf comes in. It sits vertically in the corner of my bedroom; all available surfaces crammed full from the top with a speaker, leaving, thank you and birthday cards, photos, a Masquerade mask and, of course, books. 

In this house which isn't mine, my bookshelf is one of my favourite things.  

It's a comfort, a snippet of me in a bedroom that has all the personality of a Primark vest top. It's a list of things I've poured over again and again, or probably will do at a later date.

It's also why I'll never, ever get a Kindle. 

Here is my bookshelf. (Unedited)

Emma Jane Unsworth, Hungry The Stars and Everything // A.A. Gill, Paper View // Alain De Botton, Essays In Love // George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty Four // Ian McEwan, Enduring Love // Charlie Brooker, Dawn of the Dumb // Steve Toltz, A Fraction of the Whole // Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go // Mark Radcliffe, Gabriel's Angel

Jilly Cooper, Rivals // The Never Ending Story (DVD) // Labyrinth (DVD) // Submarine (DVD) // Stephanie Meyer, Eclipse // Hangover Square // Grace Dent, How to Leave Twitter (Didn't work.) // Stephanie Meyer, New Moon (FYI, there's a gap where I've lent Breaking Dawn to a friend. Yeah. You 'eard.)

The Superior Person's Third Book of Words // Jilly Cooper, Polo (Read until the spine fell off) // Charlotte Bronte, Wuthering Heights // A notebook (empty) // A.A. Gill is Further Away // A.A. Gill is Away // The Smelly Dog

Three months in the life of a certified hypochondriac

I have always thought of myself as a fairly normal girl.

Not too outlandish in my beliefs, not too brain-mental about anything more than other people's eating habits, skin picking, and sniffing. There's the innate fear of raw tomatoes on bread, but everyone has their Achilles heel. On the whole, I reckon I'm generally calm, analytical, and above all, of rational, sane mind.

Which is clearly why I've spent the last three months absolutely convinced that I was going to die.

Not once did I let my entirely self-diagnosed terminal prognosis slip to anyone. This, I reasoned, was something I had to get my head around first and then I would go to the doctor and he, with solemn face and kind words, would reveal the true trouble I was in. 

To begin with, it was just a niggling thought in the back of my mind. For the first month I swept my worries under the carpet; mind and hand occasionally lingering on the offending skin, telling myself that it was probably nothing.

Then it was Christmas (no time to hear such news), and my fear gathered momentum. Not an hour went by when I didn't consider my fate. After all, it was around this time last year that bad news came my way: so the timing would be almost poetic.

It was a few days into 2012 that I took a deep, brave breath... and checked my findings with Google.

And that, naturally, was when the real worrying began. 

There it was in black and white on the screen: this is what you have, therefore this is what is wrong with you. Forum after forum, health check website after health check website. Seek. Help. 

For those of you who think I'm joking, that I'm exaggerating the fear; hear this. My mind began extracting words from newspapers that I glanced at on the tube. Statistics I'd normally not pay attention to lept out at me from pages and the world's adverts, conversations and media seemed geared to impressing upon me a message: There is something wrong. 

It was after yet another week of internal worrying and sleeplessness when I finally forced myself to book an appointment at the doctors. 

And so it was that on Monday morning, 9:15 sharp, me and my gigantic fear walked into the clinic. Once there I sat, waiting to be seen, and gearing myself up for the news I knew, beyond doubt, was coming my way in a matter of minutes.

Eventually my name was called, and I calmly explained my findings to the doctor. "Right." he said, after writing down some notes. "Shall we have a look, then?"

I produced the offending skin and waited. 

"Sorry...which bit? Where did you say it was...?"

"Just there."

"Oh, there?"

"Yep. That's it."

I waited.

"Ok...Well, that's normal."

"Normal?"

"Completely normal."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. Everyone has it. There's nothing wrong."
"Oh. Right. Oh god, phew."

If it's possible to mentally skip out of a doctor's surgery, that was what I did.

Which is how I rattled along to my next conclusion: my body might be healthy, but my mind - well... not so much. 

Why I will never be a spy, a best selling author, a zoo keeper, or actually ever get anything done.

Sometimes, you can be sitting in front of the TV when a thought suddenly hits you.

Instead of sitting here watching crap-yet-strangely-watchable TV, you should be doing something else. 

Not washing up, or making tomorrow's Tupperware offering of pasta and ready made sauce with some token bits of courgette. Not painting the old school desk that's been sitting in the cupboard under the stairs for a month now waiting for you to sand off the words "WANKER" and "NICK WOZ ERE 82" and make it look nice (I haven't even bought the paint yet), but something else. Something important.

You wonder: could this be that that eureka moment where people go "Cor blimey, that's it!" and immediately start penning their first bestseller, or begin charting their long lost family members, or book that life changing trip across the world?

And is it really happening to me during an episode of Don't Tell The Bride?

With this little sudden impetus inside me, I waste no time. I start thinking about what I could do to leave a little mark on the world.

Like writing a book - that's what English graduates do, innit? We aspire to be novelists, right before we realise it's all a bit long and become journalists (or bloggers) instead.

Then I realise that my attention span tends to falter around the 600 word mark, and I don't really want to write a book. Because quite frankly, the world has enough sob stories about boys written by girls with English degrees.

It's then I recall an advert that caught my eye in the morning's Metro.

MI5 NEEDS YOU 

it said.

And low and behold, they have a position which, with some amount of career shifting and wishful thinking, I could probably, maybe do. So I put the wheels in motion to become a spy, and breeze through the first stage of the application:

Name:
Date of birth:
Are you definitely British:

And having passed that, I'm onto the next stage; whizzing through the online tests and giving serious thought to which close family member or partner I would confide in about my application, and whether I'd still be able to have a blog if I was in the secret service, when...

So that's out.

Failing a career as an award winning author or a spy, perhaps I just need an extra curricular hobby.

I know! I like penguins. And dogs. And WHALES. I could volunteer at the zoo!

Alright, alright. Maybe not with the animals, then. But surely I could do something equally useful, save the world's animals through administration and filing?

Oh.

And by this point, to be honest, the flash of inspiration is beginning to dwindle. 

Sound familiar? Come on, rouse me with a chorus of "We all do it".

It's not that the ideas aren't there, it's not that the enthusiasm is lacking: my 'to do' list is as long as my leg (not that my legs are particularly long, but still). It's the fact that when you sit down to put all these little ideas into practice, they often, for whatever reason, just don't seem so achievable any more.

Barriers pop up, whether it's money or work or lack of skills. There's so much I want to do, but sometimes I wonder how I'll ever get round to doing any of it.

I suppose this is why people decide to run marathons. 

Ooh, now there's a...

Nah. Sod that. 

Being British and the Cake Conundrum

There are many, many wonderful things about being British.

Like, when three people are standing around a kettle in the office kitchen waiting for it to boil, the lull in conversation can always be filled with mindless observations about the sun, rain, clouds, heat, cold (or lack of it).

And no matter how chaotic the shop, there will always be a staunchly adhered to queue at the pay desk, populated by people who possess the ability to communicate using only tuts and rolls of the eyes.

Then there's the way the transport system in our capital city is governed by a set of rules based on maintaining order and politeness: letting people off the train first, allowing those in a hurry to get by on the escalators, giving up your seat for someone who needs it, and then shutting the hell up so everyone can brood at the lack of space in silence.

We live in a country where "sorry" is probably the most spoken word in our collective vocabulary, uttered even if we're annoyed and complaining about something - which we frequently are - and yep, we do that really well, if quietly, too.

But for all these entertaining little British nuances, these little quirks based around maintaining order - sometimes there's the feeling that people can be just too damn polite. Not wanting to tread on toes or rock the proverbial boat, we'll often say the opposite of what we want when asked. I like to call it The Cake Conundrum:

They say: Would you like the last slice of cake?

You think: Yes. Say yes. You're starving. Say yes. Yes, yes, yes.

You say: Oh, no thank you. I'm stuffed. And I ate yesterday, so I really shouldn't.

All of which keeps the world a lovely polite place, but doesn't really do you (or your rumbling stomach) any favours.

The Cake Conundrum can be reversed and applied to many situations, but the end result is the same. One person doesn't say what they really want, and ends up feeling worse, maybe even a bit resentful for it. The other person has their cake, eats it, then feels rude when they later find out, usually by via someone else, that they deprived someone of much needed food.

To carry the metaphor to its healthy end: I suppose sometimes, I feel like I eat a lot of the cake.

You ask me a question, you'll get an honest answer. If you're dithering, I'll decide. You see a husky dog on the tube with a face like a cuddly bear and stare at it longingly; while I'll bound up to the owner, pat the dog on the head, ask it's name ("Bonza") and smile all the way to work.

Because politeness is good, politeness is great. Politeness makes this country go round.

But sometimes, it's good to shelve the weather talk, tell the cashier to hurry up, ask that person next to you to get their bag off your lap, and not automatically apologise when someone else bumps into you. Aside from anything else, you'll feel better for it.

And always, always smile at the dog.

Oh, by the way.

Last week I wondered into the living room, trailed as usual by two Labradors. This is the norm in my house, where you're followed everywhere by padding feet and expectant eyes. Even the toilet, unless you shut the door and demand, in a booming voice "Oi, OWT". But that's irrelevant.

Anyway, I went into my living room, looked down, and then I did the conga; clinging onto my dogs' tails as we circled the room, clicking our heels in the air and singing "Barrr-ap-pa-pah da da DAH!" and letting out several rounds of "Whoop (woof), whoop (woof), whoop (woof)" as we went.

Perhaps the eye-fog had lifted; maybe the senses had returned. More likely, my dad felt that the ideal time to heed my advice and fold up the hideous monstrosity commandeering our lounge floor was when my Mother was 889.25 miles away in Stockholm, thus unable to unleash her powers and resist.

And so it goes. Goodbye, Ugly Rug. Enjoy retirement in the loft of doom.

Ain't like we're owed anything, issit?

You know when you're really tired, but the minute you switch off the light your mind starts tumbling?

Well the other night I had this thought. It's not the cheeriest thought in the world, but then most things aren't when it's 11:55pm and you're lying on your own in a bed made for two.

It just suddenly struck me as weird that we assume everything will end up alright. Blame Hollywood if you like. We all have our insecurities but ultimately, we hope it's all going to magic itself good in the end.

It can feel sometimes as if all your friends are married, engaged, or have found someone they're head over heels with. Mutual adoration is all over the place. Talk to anyone with hearts in their eyes and they'll reassure you at length that a similar future is waiting for you.

But there's no guarantee, is there?

There's nothing to say that's definitely going to happen. And even if it does, well, people cheat, don't they? Eyes wonder. More and more people end up not being together than those who do. Life gets hard, people fall out of love. If it can happen at 23, it can happen at 50.

I tend to bumble along, assuming everything will be fine. That things will just fall into place - somehow. That my next proper relationship will be the big one. Because it has to be, doesn't it? Them's the rules. I'm well due a seven year-er where moving in doesn't culminate in a shattering revelation, and engagement becomes more than just a thing you "like" on someone elses Facebook. Where the idea of children seems more an exciting natural progression than a terrifying way to lose friends and cripple your social life.

We think we're entitled to it. Well, I do. I assume this is what will happen. Not immediately, but eventually. All around me there are stories about how it hasn't; might not, probably won't. Yet still my mind says it will.

It has to.

But just because you've got the raw end of the deal a couple of times, doesn't mean you're owed anything - does it?

Work options, and a tenuous link to a children's TV series from the 1980s. Yeah. You heard.

This is the Littlest Hobo:

For those of you who are unfamiliar with children's TV from the 1980s, the Littlest Hobo was a dog who went from town to town helping people. He had pointy fox ears and every week he'd find himself in a new situation with new owners or saving a child from a burning building, and the townspeople would always be like "Oh hey, Hobo! Stick around!" but he'd be like "No, no, maybe tomorrow I'll learn to settle down, until tomorrow I'll just keep moving on".

Or at least he would have said that if he could talk. He couldn't, it wasn't that sort of programme. The theme tune said it instead.

Unlike the Littlest Hobo, I've never rescued someone from certain death (that I'm aware of), but - tenuous link ahead - like that fictional German Shepherd, I've always done the switching and moving that accompanies contract / temporary jobs rather than sticking in one place.

It occurred to me a while back that, after my current role ends, it might be a good time to try and find a permanent job. What with wanting to move out (for longer than one month) and generally needing to feel a bit more settled with life and everything. You know, get some sort of specialism under my belt; find myself a job title. So I can say "Hi I'm the Littlest Hobo and I rescue people from fires" rather than "Hi, I'm the Littlest Hobo and I'll rescue anyone from wherever, really. Not arsed. Cat up a tree? Sure, I'll give it a go. Why not. Beer?"

Then I think about my current position, currently standing at eight months. It's the longest time I've spent in one place doing one thing. And I'm a bit bored. Unchallenged. A bit creatively stifled - as wanky as that sounds - by being part of a massive company where everything takes a million years of sign offs and green light go-aheads to get anything done.

So lately I've been toying with going freelance. I don't know how freelancing works, let alone if it will work for me. I don't know if I've got the balls to do something that basically involves having more self-belief in your abilities, not to mention contacts in high places, than I currently do.

But the fact is, time's getting on. And if nothing comes up in the next month and a bit, I'm having to face the fact that I might not have a choice.

I bet Lassie never had this problem.

Has it come to this? Yes. Yes it has.

Yesterday I excavated the depths of boredom.

Without this blog turning into too much of a yawn fest (yours and mine), it's impossible to refer to my life at the moment without mentioning it.

"It" being the stupendously mind-numbing way that I spend the hours of ten til six every day. Aside from the occasional Z-list encounter where I fire a series of the most ridiculous questions I can muster at a "celebrity" (I use the term loosely) and record the answers - my working life has become the last word in dull.

Put it this way. The high point of last week was when I found a slinky on a desk. Enamoured with my find, I yelled "LOOK! SLINKY!" across the office. At which point me and a work companion ran - RAN - through the doors and into the stairwell.

"I'll wait at the bottom!!!" she cried, leaping with fervour down a flight of stairs.

There on our respective floors we crouched. Two twenty six year old professionals in the echoing back passage of an office block, eyes glistening, giddy with joy; anticipating the journey of a toy which last saw popularity circa 1994.

What happened next is best described by this. It's a stickman* drawing sent to me by Ayemiy, who witnessed the scene as it unfolded on Twitter that day.

The slinky "flumped" its way down one step, before collapsing on its side in an exhausted, pathetic heap.

"Oh." I said.
"Oh." replied my colleague.

And with that, sullen, downtrodden and visibly disappointed, we returned to our desks to continue throwing our CVs down the wishing well of re-employment.



*All the Twitter professionals (lolz) say that you need a background that expresses WHO YOU ARE if you are ever to succeed at microblogging. I couldn't really be arsed, so last week I asked people to draw me stickmen for it instead. The result so far is here. Yeaaaah. It's a work in progress.

I should probably learn to expect the unexpected

It's Saturday afternoon. You're lying on your bed, busy living vicariously through Facebook, when a chat message pops up.

Three hours later you're sitting on a sofa in South London. There's tea, Diet Coke and Jammy Dodgers on the coffee table; a DVD rolling end credits on the television. A slightly dishevelled, blond-haired head has just shifted itself onto your lap. There's an arm curled around your leg.

And you're glancing down at the male form next to you wondering where to put your hands and how exactly this came to be.

In all honesty, it's probably down to you. If you will leave temporary jobs and fire off "goodbye" e-mails to colleagues you have identified as being good looking, urging them to add you on Facebook and keep in touch...it shouldn't really come as a surprise when they do. But a lot has happened since that otherwise horrendous temp job in August 2009: namely a round the world trip, a Bastard Ex and a move out of home then back again.

The latter you mention in passing (impossible not to when revealing where you "currently" live), while hoping he doesn't press for the finer details. He doesn't. You're relieved.

It's late, you have a train or three to catch and after some prodding, you manage to coax the tall male form out the door and to the station. You chat on the way, hands in pockets, he apologises for his hungover state. He walks you up to the platform just as the train arrives.

"Thanks for coming over" he says as the doors open.
"Thanks for having me" you reply, stepping up towards the train, "Get to bed!"

And you both lean in. The kiss is short, a peck on the lips this time instead of the cheek. You hop onto the train and take a seat. Leftover chicken bones lie at your feet. Drunk, rioting, marching, boat racing London is on it's way home, and so are you.

Your phone buzzes with a message. You'll reply when safely home, as requested.

And what do you think?

Well, in all honesty, you don't quite know.

Well, at least he's honest

 

How to cheer up a the British troops, or not, as the case may be.

There's always something weird going on outside my place of work.

It comes with the media territory, I think. From "fun" fashion to fame-hungry hopefuls breakdancing outside the entrance, ain't never a dull day. But as entertaining as it is, all this activity does makes the surrounding streets a haven for those with a campaign on the brain.

One such person met my eye yesterday as I walked towards work. There he was, loitering about in a functional kagool, looking for an innocent victim to pounce on. Armed, no doubt, with a lengthy survey or money-swindling form that would require a fixed gaze, a stern "No thank you!" or sudden preoccupation with my mobile phone screen.

"Hi, have you got a minute?" he said, all friendly like.

I gave him the once over. No clipboard. No leaflets. No visible religious paraphernalia. No dreadlocks or dubious smell about his person. Satisfied that I wasn't about to sponsor a cucumber, I shuffled over.

He produced some sort of listening device and waved it about.

"We're recording Christmas messages for British troops overseas. I was wondering if you'd be able to record one for us? It can be as long as you like, or you can just say Merry Christmas and that's it. Up to you!"

It didn't sound too hard; speak into a voice recorder, share a bit of Christmas good will, heal the world, then toddle off to work. What can I say? Catch me before 10am and I'll agree to most things.

So he checked I was ready, and with that, the "listening device" was aimed at face height and I found myself staring into a lens.

"Oh, hello!" I exclaimed, momentarily thrown by the introduction of a camera. "Merry Christmas!" I paused, job done, only to find Mr Kagool still nodding, still recording, still beaming expectantly at me to continue.

"Merry Christmas! I hope you're having a good time in..." I continued automatically, quickly realising the ridiculousness of such a sentiment considering the recipients were probably the only Brits guaranteed not to be having anything resembling a "good time" at this - or any other - time of year.

Nice one, idiot.

I bumbled on.

"a good time in, err...in..." I stumbled, realising I hadn't a clue where said British troops tended to be these days, Afghanistan? Iraq? RAF Northolt? Before cleverly concluding with:

"in...wherever you are! Errrr...oh..."

Another pause from me. More expectant grinning from Mr. Kagool. Seriously? You want more, after that?

"Ok! I'm done!" the camera was turned off, I was thanked and sent on my way.

Look, I know some of you have army friends overseas. I know you've probably sent them presents and letters and cards, packages of tangible gifts full of heart felt lovely wishes in what must be their most difficult month abroad, fighting in dangerous countries when they'd rather be at home with loved ones. 

And with any luck, all that will distract them from the blithering, early morning ramblings of a politically oblivious clown, standing in front of a respectable institution wishing them a bloody good Christmas, as if they're off on their hollibobs in Spain or something.

Yeah. Spontaneous goodwill isn't my strong point. Let's hope I don't make the final cut, eh?

Hello Hermit

I don't know what's going on at the moment. Seriously, I'm hoping and praying it's the weather and that I haven't gone away young and come back old before my time - but at the moment, I am a hermit.

A deeply uncool thing to admit, especially in this little land of blogs where everyone is crafting a super-something impression of themselves under the guise of honesty, but there it is. You are funny, cool, posh, hot, skinny, experimental, fashionable, brilliant or busy...and I am a hermit.

Three dimensional friends are in short supply at the moment. They are out there, but they're avatars and carefully chosen Facebook photos who leave witty one liners, links and likes lying around your cyberspace. Friends are kisses on text messages and names above company names on emails, swapping in-jokes at work. Friends are a snatched hour with them and their other half, walking around your local Christmas market before returning home separately for food and bed. Friends are cancelled dinners in a tube strike, half-arranged ski holidays, congratulations on an engagement card and weekends arranged months in advance, at the other end of the country.

Actually meeting up physically with friends used to be a nightly - at the very least weekly - occurrence. I'm telling myself that this is how things go in winter and I've simply forgotten, because I skipped it all last year. I'm fooling myself into thinking that electronic interaction counts as friendship. But that doesn't change the fact that all I want to do every evening is go home, curl up on the sofa, watch TV, tap on my laptop, have a bath and go to bed.

I honestly think there are dinner plates with a more active social life than me.

I can't be alone in this...

...can I?

Coober Pedy. Strange place.

Scuse the lack of interaction, internet's been more than dodgy. Fear not! I got back from Coober Pedy last Wednesday. It's a place so out of touch with my own experience that it's hard to form an opinion on whether I liked it or not. It filled my need for something different, let's put it that way. There was a film set unreality about it, err...a bit like being on the King King ride at Universal Studios. Know what I mean?



When it's not being all famous n that, Coober Pedy is a real, working opal mining town where real people live and work underground. They're laid to rest there too, in graves where beer bottles are left as a mark of respect instead of flowers. One beer keg headstone was engraved with the solemn words 'Have a drink on me'. I'm reliably informed that they did.

One thing's for sure, the town and alcohol have an uneasy relationship. The main street is a designated 'dry zone', like several other inland towns near Government funded Aboriginal settlements where alcoholism is rife. It's such a problem that the the two Liquor Stores are banned from selling casks of wine before 3pm (because everybody knows alcoholics don't drink after then). From the interactions I see on the street and the stories I hear from a local, the white people and the Aboriginals have an uneasy relationship, too. But we'll save that one for another day.



There was the local radio station, aptly named Dusty FM. A drive-in cinema, still screening a film every Saturday night. My hostel room was 6.5 metres below the surface (see above). On Monday 11th January, it was 45 degrees, yet my room was a cool 20 with not an air con unit in sight. Outside of town, there were vast empty plains which used to be the sea bed, but is now used to replicate the surface of the moon in mostly bad films (apart from Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. That's good).

There were kangaroos hopping down the unsealed roads, dogs wondering loose. A few tourists, motels, locals and lots of opal shops graced the main street, while spaceships and other sci-fi props sat gathering red dust at the side of the road. Just like any other day.



Overall, Coober Pedy, with its eccentric and indigenous inhabitants seemed like the kinda place that anything could happen. And to be honest, if the town notice board is anything to go by, I think it probably does.

They GOD DARN done it again!

Teeheehee...look! I found another one!



Why not send a knee mail to God?

KNEE MAIL.

Geddit?

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAA.

Urrrhhhhhhhhh. Owwwwwwwww. Meehhhhhhhhhh. Aaaaaaaaaaah. Waaaaaaaah.

Yeah.

I still don't have a job.

Weird email sent to blog address

From: ---------@gmail.com
To: pleasesendmesomelove@googlemail.com
Subject: What happens if you dont eat alot

Hi,
What happens if you dont eat alot? There are so many factors to consider.
Would you be kind enough as to give me some pointers as what to look for or avoid? Any help appreciated. I really appreciate your help.

yours truly,
Julie

Worddddd?

Crafty god squad

I'm not at all religious. I'll often thank god, but that's more likely to happen in Kurt Geiger upon finding out beautiful shoes are in my size than in a church on a Sunday. Not that many Christians seem to venture into a church these days anyway. Most of my mates declare their allegiance to the lord having once screamed a church down while having their head dipped into a bird bath as a nipper, but ask them when they last went round his house for a drink and it's a different story. Oh, Christmas Eve eh? Midnight mass after the pub chucked out? Dedication to the cause, that.

So it's understandable that churches might be getting a bit crafty, luring people in with promises of amazing miracles and spiritual well being n all that. Gone are the days of sinister guilt trips and boring incentives. It's all a bit clever now. These days, the church is all about raising a smile and getting all down with the kids.

Or at least our local church in Hull was. They weren't down with the "Jesus Loves You" shiz, no no. They wanted the students to giggle their way through those big wooden doors. So they got their thinking caps on and caught our attention. They'd always use a bit of word play, a pun or two. Sometimes just a question to tickle the drunken insensibility's of students. This photo was on my computer from 2006, entitled "Yes we have!!.jpg" and was taken at around 02:30am on the way back from another successful night at the students' union:



Then a few weeks ago, I returned to my uni town to visit friends and was immensely pleased to discover that 3 years on, and the church is still keeping up its cheerful little marketing campaign. In fact, I'd even say it's upped the ante.



Next week, I'll be heading back up north and you bet I'll be looking to see what little nugget of churchy goodness the Trinity is offering up for drunken worship that week.

I do love a bit of nifty wordplay.

Enjoy le weekend all...

It's not a date

A few weeks ago I stood outside Brixton Academy at 3am; my phone battery was seconds from dying and my sister was still stumbling around inside, giggling manically and trying to remember how to walk. Our other friend had gone home and the venue was emptying rapidly, a sea of people spilling out of the doors and onto the pavement.

"You look like you need a hug" a tall bloke walked towards me with a concerned look on his face, arms outstetched. Oh well, I thought, when in Brixton... and gratefully accepted the slightly damp embrace. His friend appeared and so I hugged him too. They wondered off, and I continued to wait.

A few minutes later, they came back, more hugs were exchanged and we started chatting. "Blimey," I said. "You're tall" before instantly regretting it. Of course he's tall. He knows he's tall. How annoying must it be when people point out the obvious? "Sorry, you know you're tall. I bet that's really annoying when people do that"

At that moment, having remastered the art of speech and mobility, my sister appeared, bounding out onto the pavement. "FUCKING HELL! Alright up there? What are you, about eight foot?" before bursting into hysterics for about an hour. Meanwhile, the rest of us carried on chatting. Ladies and gentlemen: don't do drugs.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that he accepted my drunken "Let's be friends!" offer (really) and we swapped numbers. Since then, sporadic texting has ensued. Very sporadic. As in, I'd get a text asking if I wanted to go for a beer, I'd reply saying yes, when? And get nothing back for over a week. I'd pretty much written it off - after all, what do I know about this bloke? He's 24, really tall and lives in Clapham. He climbed Ben Nevis a couple of weeks ago, probably in one stride. He likes the Prodigy. Err...oh, and his sister has a cat.

Then late on Saturday night while watching one of the worst DVDs I've ever contributed £0.70p towards, my phone beeped.

I went back to Brixton tonight to see The Specials. Top gig. You out n about?

No, I'm mourning the last 90 minutes of my life which I'll never get back.

Was it superbad? I'm home watching a film too. May have a frankfurter. Thursday..beer?

Thursday I can do.

Let's have that beer somewhere central. See you Thursday x

Now, let's get this straight. I just thought this bloke seemed alright at 3am outside a Prodigy concert, five pints down. It's not a date. Plus this whole "lets go for a beer" thing has been going on since mid April, so there's hardly any real urgency on either side. It's just a meeting between two people who actually don't know a thing about each other. He could be a murderer or a mentalist for all I know.

Also, when's a good time to let him know that I don't actually like beer?