Decisions, decisions, decisions.
How do we know, when we make them, that they're the right ones? Of course, the answer is we don't, but that's not how I feel when I'm trying to make one. Whenever I weigh up my options I immediately see them in black or white and it's never that simple.
I think it comes from being burnt a few times (there haven't been many times where it was serious; I always tell people I have no regrets) but even if I had chosen the smoother path, there's no guarantee things would have turned out better. Pre-empting is something I am very guilty of, and unfortunately good at, for most things not just decision-making, and when I am conscious of it I actively try to relax and just 'go with the flow'. I feel much less anxious that way, but then again is trying to relax defeating the object?
Something always pops into my head when I'm thinking over what to do and that is the Rubicon.
When I was studying my MA it was explained to us that in order to become a 'creative' - that is a self-employed, artist type - you need to let go of your instincts to stick with what you know and embrace the idea of a bit of hardship as it can lead to what you want. It's obvious when you think about it, I mean if I wanted to be an artist I couldn't continue working in an office could I? I'd need time to paint, to build up contacts in the art world and to do all that I couldn't work full time. That means I couldn't continue living where I live as how would I pay the rent? Then there's food. And also the lifestyle to which I'm accustomed - going out with friends, eating at restaurants, not having to pore over bills to see if there's any appliance I can get rid of to save a bit of cash etc. Before long I'd say,'You know what? This idea of mine, about being an artist? It's too difficult. I'd end up on the street if I did that with no money etc. so I'd better stick with my crappy job, that I hate and just get on with my life.'
That sort of thought happens more than you'd think. There's always a worst case scenario that stops you taking the plunge, about lots of things, not just a job.
This train of thought is referred to as the Rubicon - it was a stream that marked the boundary of Ancient Rome, and any army that crossed it was seen as declaring war against the state. So, when Julius Caesar, who at that stage was still a General, crossed the Rubicon (in 49BC no less), he automatically declared war on the Senate, and thereafter there could only be one of two outcomes - either he would win, or he would lose. So, 'to cross the Rubicon' means to take an irrevocable step, either towards your dream job or something else, it doesn't matter, what matters is that ideas are turned into action - hand in your resignation letter, say 'I want a divorce' etc. It's the most difficult stage in the mental cycle of actively doing something, because the 'magnet' in all of us calling us back to the norm is at its strongest.
So there's the Rubicon, and I think it's worth remembering that Julius won after crossing it (and you know, went on to become one of the most famous Roman emperors of all time etc.), because it's proof that it really can work.
Can you tell I'm in the throes of making a decision right now? I admit that on the one hand it's a big one, but it's an exciting one, and that's the thing I always try to focus on. I guess it might be that I'm a bit out of practice right now, having rested on my laurels for quite a while, and perhaps I'm also influenced by other people's worries so my own are being a bit amplified. I feel like I'm about to cross my own Rubicon. In a way I know I am - especially when I look back at the analogy above. Denial is not just a river in Egypt!
Sigh.
I feel like I'm at an age where it's do or die and I really can see so many possibilities that would or could come out of my big decision. I never take such things lightly but I'm not scared as I always tend, at least I have in the past, to make good decisions that are proven right in the end. After so much deliberation it's hard for them not to be, but it's still hard to get to that place where you 're ready to trust your own judgement and take a leap of faith. Like Indiana Jones in the Last Crusade where he leaps into what seems like a void and there's actually an invisible bridge? That's my kind of symbolism.
Anyway, all this rumination means I digress from my point/issue. Is that all part of the deliberation process? Who knows? Maybe.
Just as I think I'm sure, something comes along to throw me of course. At least that's how it seems. I try to stay focused on the decision I've made /almost made and fit the things that are thrown at me around it, like a horoscope that whatever it says it fits your own personal situation.
I guess only time will tell if I cross my own Rubicon in the end. Not long to go now until I'll be forced to make a decision either way (eek) but the big one seems like the inevitable choice with every day that passes. Is it cheating to wait until it really is inevitable before making the decision? I think so, but I could be wrong and maybe it's the fact that a decision is made at all that's the important thing. I feel like I'm over thinking this now...
Why do we doubt ourselves so much? Or more accurately, why do I doubt myself so much?
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
Bad day
When I'm sad I tend to write poetry. I feel compelled to write and it makes me feel better.
Today's effort is The Gulf.
The Gulf
Coldplay reminds me of you. We didn’t have a song, but I remember it so clearly, you sitting in the dark of the room, the music playing in the background. That’s how I remember you: salad days of freedom and my first taste of real love.
I never meant to cause you trouble, I never meant to do you wrong.
Years later when I recalled those moments, searching for a kind of closure when we came face to face after all that time, I played Coldplay again. The hot, salty, grief-ridden tears came easy then.
I’d never let myself remember those heady, truly wonderful early days. All night phonecalls, laughter, devotion, passion; we seemed to live only for each other. At least I for you. Out of control, all that had been held in, buried deep in my heart, hidden from even myself, suddenly released.
Dedication to you is what I can remember, almost to my detriment, but I didn’t care. For such a long time I didn’t care. All I could see was you. All I could feel was you. All I wanted was you. All that I loved was you.
The memories. Joy. The pain. Uncertainty. Fear. All so tangled together.
It seemed like my future. You, me, us. Now it’s my past. We have different futures now.
I was the one who left; that final straw breaking my back. I didn’t admit that my heart had broken a long time ago.
I love you still but your love soon turned to hate. I wrote to you, years after, trying to explain but you didn’t hear me. I remember your pride.
When I saw you again you kept saying that I knew you. I realised then that I never truly had.
A yearning for what I thought we once had. Looking for a spark where once there was true fire.
Wednesday’s child is full of woe.
Hollow is the space between us, the gulf widening as time continues to pass. Things are so different now and we are strangers. Strange yet familiar.
I miss you – the intimacy of that moment, watching you sit in the dark of the room, the music playing in the background, the feeling of my heart soaring with its love for you. I yearn to go back, but life dictates that I must face forward. “Experience is the most brutal of teachers, but you learn, my God do you learn.”
The pain endures, slowly fades, until the song is over. If I ever caused you trouble, I never meant to do you harm.
Today's effort is The Gulf.
The Gulf
Coldplay reminds me of you. We didn’t have a song, but I remember it so clearly, you sitting in the dark of the room, the music playing in the background. That’s how I remember you: salad days of freedom and my first taste of real love.
I never meant to cause you trouble, I never meant to do you wrong.
Years later when I recalled those moments, searching for a kind of closure when we came face to face after all that time, I played Coldplay again. The hot, salty, grief-ridden tears came easy then.
I’d never let myself remember those heady, truly wonderful early days. All night phonecalls, laughter, devotion, passion; we seemed to live only for each other. At least I for you. Out of control, all that had been held in, buried deep in my heart, hidden from even myself, suddenly released.
Dedication to you is what I can remember, almost to my detriment, but I didn’t care. For such a long time I didn’t care. All I could see was you. All I could feel was you. All I wanted was you. All that I loved was you.
The memories. Joy. The pain. Uncertainty. Fear. All so tangled together.
It seemed like my future. You, me, us. Now it’s my past. We have different futures now.
I was the one who left; that final straw breaking my back. I didn’t admit that my heart had broken a long time ago.
I love you still but your love soon turned to hate. I wrote to you, years after, trying to explain but you didn’t hear me. I remember your pride.
When I saw you again you kept saying that I knew you. I realised then that I never truly had.
A yearning for what I thought we once had. Looking for a spark where once there was true fire.
Wednesday’s child is full of woe.
Hollow is the space between us, the gulf widening as time continues to pass. Things are so different now and we are strangers. Strange yet familiar.
I miss you – the intimacy of that moment, watching you sit in the dark of the room, the music playing in the background, the feeling of my heart soaring with its love for you. I yearn to go back, but life dictates that I must face forward. “Experience is the most brutal of teachers, but you learn, my God do you learn.”
The pain endures, slowly fades, until the song is over. If I ever caused you trouble, I never meant to do you harm.
Tuesday, 24 March 2009
Stranger Than Fiction
In the past few weeks since I blogged last, I’ll be honest with you, I've lacked inspiration. I've always felt that I must feel the need to write to do it properly – you know, have something to get out of my system. Otherwise it's a creative dead end and I feel like I’m spouting meaningless nonsense.
Then this morning, I realised that I’ve had something to talk about all along. Mothers.
Not just any mothers or indeed all mothers – I have so much respect for working mums and all that women do to bring up their children against the odds. I’ve seen it happen with my own eyes and I have immense respect for these people when against adversity they have done a superb job. However, as a female of the species myself I balk at other women who seem to hold these actions in such disregard, as well as those who are seemingly lacking in decorum or self awareness – more of that later.
No, in my case I mean mothers that I encounter every morning on the bus to work. These are a special breed of creature that reside in large, whitewashed, three storey houses in a desirable postcode, dress eccentrically shall we say, never have less than two children tagging along and ALWAYS have something to say.
But let’s focus on the kids first, I mean, everyone these days has a rant about kids, whether they are thoughtless, spoilt, ignorant (and let’s face it they mostly are) or just gormless. I don’t mean to sound old and cranky but it is so rare these days that you encounter a well mannered, smartly dressed young person under the age of 18, and if you do you need to scrape your chin up off the pavement as a result of your open mouthed amazement.
“Where do they get it from?” people cry as they are shoved out of the way in a queue, or spat at on the street. Some people say “oh it’s today’s television” or “it’s those bloody videogames”. Perhaps. Lots of people also say “I blame the parents”, and I am inclined to agree with them as a result of my personal experience. Here’s why.
Unfortunately for me my daily routine has led to a situation where I feel I’ve become an unwitting participant in a social experiment. It all started about 9 months ago when I started my current job. The bus route to my office is a fairly main one taking in various highlights from Islington schools and a shopping centre, to the City and a major train station, so as you can imagine, the passengers span a fairly wide spectrum from the top of the corporate ladder to the end of the dole queue. It’s also very busy in the morning, being filled with travellers that include city traders, shoppers, general office workers, retail workers, people off on holiday trailing suitcases and kids and parents on their way to school. Most of my journeys have passed without incident – although there was one time where we had a trainee bus driver who got the wrong route entirely and reversed the bus into a wall in an attempt to get out of a one way street, but that’s another story – although there is a select group that tend to make or break a journey for me. These are not hoodies, or drunks or smelly tramps, but what I like to call the I AM SAMS – The “I am a Stay At Home Mum” s.
Forget the Suffragettes, forget career women, forget Maggie T, these guys wave their hand and like a magic wand these events NEVER happened. Seriously, if you – like me – had to listen to these people almost every day, and believe me you have no choice BUT to listen, you would have to blink a few times to make sure you were still in 2009.
The thing is, the bus is always busy as a result of the various people mentioned above, so there we all are, so packed in like sardines we could have taken the Northern Line for a more spacious journey to work, that it’s not like anyone can’t hear you when you talk REALLY LOUD ABOUT YOUR KIDS AND HOW IRRITATING IT IS THAT THEY KEEP GETTING NITS SO YOU JUST WASH THEIR HAIR WITH NIT STUFF ALL THE TIME NOW.
Thanks for that. Now when what I really want to do is stand at the other end of the bus from you and your offspring, instead I have to handle the possibility that they are shaking lice eggs on to me as they jump around like maniacs because they JUST WOULDN’T DO BREAKFAST THIS MORNING SO YOU GAVE THEM JELLY BEANS INSTEAD. Great.
I mean who shouts out that sort of thing within earshot of total strangers?? How will your children ever learn how to behave in public if that’s the example that you set them?
Another two families that I am forced to stand at the bus stop with are just as bad. Two ladies, both with two children, stand motionless and watch whilst each child runs crazy rings around and around the bus stop or screams that there is nowhere for them to sit on the bench in the bus stop until someone takes pity on them and gives up their seat, or shout as loud as they can at 8am even telling their mother “DON’T YOU TELL ME WHAT TO DO YOU STUPID WOMAN!” if they are told that people are still sleeping. These kids are 7 years old, max.
There is no thank you or even acknowledgement from the mother for whoever gives up their seat, and no reprimand for the spoilt child. Once on the bus itself it only gets worse. I despair of children who push their way onto the bus past the elderly to sit on a seat. These kids are as young as 6 years old and yet they sit down with a satisfied grin. Cute you might say, but if they take the last seat there is no reproach from the mothers who could easily chide them and say “Come on, don’t be silly, you’re only 6 let this elderly lady sit down.” Nothing. The mothers are totally ignorant of such a situation and I stand horrified, offering my seat instead. It sickens me to see this happen EVERY day. It grinds me down and I dread arriving at the bus stop to see these people there. It chips away at my hope for society and people in general. Where is the compassion? Where is the kind-heartedness? Where is the respect? What’s worse is that the bus ride they take is less than 5 minutes so they could walk it! It gives me a heavy heart to see such things.
So you see why I’m frustrated, but back to my original point about the Suffragettes etc. Take this interlude for example. A few weeks ago, Nit Lady was there again, knocking people over with her giant designer pram that she insists on lifting through the front doors and then pushing through the packed bus to get to the back instead of using the back doors as is recommended for prams etc., don’t ask me why. Anyway, this time she brought a friend who was of a similar disposition. They were chatting in their LOUD manner as ever and as a result I couldn’t help but hear their conversation. Their discussion was about a nanny working for her as well as another wealthy woman who lived nearby and they were laughing about this other lady because – drum roll please – she had a job! Shock horror everyone! Someone who has children and works. Run for the hills!
This lady supposedly had a fairly high powered job and bought her children nice new clothes – I wasn’t aware this was a crime, were you? Every morning before work she would pick out an outfit for them in an attempt to be part of their routine before she went off to the office and left the nanny to deal with the rest of their day. The punch line is that once gone, the nanny would put said outfits away and dress the kids in any old thing – probably what they wore yesterday as SHE DIDN’T SEE THE POINT IN WASTING THE CLOTHES and presumably the kids would be bathed and ready for bed once mummy came home so she would be none the wiser.
The last word came from Nit Lady who said WHAT A WASTE OF TIME, I CAN’T BELIEVE SHE WORKS THE STUPID WOMAN HA HA HA HA HA AND IT’S JUST SOOOOO FUNNY THAT THE NANNY DOES THAT BEHIND HER BACK! I MEAN I DON’T BOTHER WITH NEW CLOTHES, I DRESS ALL MY CHILDREN IN SECOND HAND THINGS, NO ONE KNOWS THE DIFFERENCE AND IT SAVES ME MONEY HA HA HA HA.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t think it’s funny at all.
If parents are to give anything to their children at all surely it starts with the ability to respect other people. Ok, I’m not a mother myself, but I know right from wrong and I know it’s my mother that instilled that in me. I also know that I do want to have children someday, and I want to encourage those children to respect others – I mean, who wouldn’t???
That’s what I can’t understand, but I got a little bit of hope back this morning. I felt like Pandora when a little girl sat next to me on the bus today, she must have been 5 years old at the most. When she sat next to me she fell onto the seat, looked up at me and said “Sorry”. Then when her mum sat down opposite her she said “Mummeeee?” And her mum replied “Yes” and she said “I love you”. Now THAT’s cute. Polite and lovely in one minute! I was amazed and it really made me smile. Then I smiled even more as another mother was telling her son to stop messing with her hair and the little girl started to repeat her saying “stop messing with my hair” It really made me chuckle. Her mother was mortified of course and told her to stop copying, but that’s the point – she WAS mortified. And the little girl stopped it straight away.
Maybe there is some hope left after all.
Then this morning, I realised that I’ve had something to talk about all along. Mothers.
Not just any mothers or indeed all mothers – I have so much respect for working mums and all that women do to bring up their children against the odds. I’ve seen it happen with my own eyes and I have immense respect for these people when against adversity they have done a superb job. However, as a female of the species myself I balk at other women who seem to hold these actions in such disregard, as well as those who are seemingly lacking in decorum or self awareness – more of that later.
No, in my case I mean mothers that I encounter every morning on the bus to work. These are a special breed of creature that reside in large, whitewashed, three storey houses in a desirable postcode, dress eccentrically shall we say, never have less than two children tagging along and ALWAYS have something to say.
But let’s focus on the kids first, I mean, everyone these days has a rant about kids, whether they are thoughtless, spoilt, ignorant (and let’s face it they mostly are) or just gormless. I don’t mean to sound old and cranky but it is so rare these days that you encounter a well mannered, smartly dressed young person under the age of 18, and if you do you need to scrape your chin up off the pavement as a result of your open mouthed amazement.
“Where do they get it from?” people cry as they are shoved out of the way in a queue, or spat at on the street. Some people say “oh it’s today’s television” or “it’s those bloody videogames”. Perhaps. Lots of people also say “I blame the parents”, and I am inclined to agree with them as a result of my personal experience. Here’s why.
Unfortunately for me my daily routine has led to a situation where I feel I’ve become an unwitting participant in a social experiment. It all started about 9 months ago when I started my current job. The bus route to my office is a fairly main one taking in various highlights from Islington schools and a shopping centre, to the City and a major train station, so as you can imagine, the passengers span a fairly wide spectrum from the top of the corporate ladder to the end of the dole queue. It’s also very busy in the morning, being filled with travellers that include city traders, shoppers, general office workers, retail workers, people off on holiday trailing suitcases and kids and parents on their way to school. Most of my journeys have passed without incident – although there was one time where we had a trainee bus driver who got the wrong route entirely and reversed the bus into a wall in an attempt to get out of a one way street, but that’s another story – although there is a select group that tend to make or break a journey for me. These are not hoodies, or drunks or smelly tramps, but what I like to call the I AM SAMS – The “I am a Stay At Home Mum” s.
Forget the Suffragettes, forget career women, forget Maggie T, these guys wave their hand and like a magic wand these events NEVER happened. Seriously, if you – like me – had to listen to these people almost every day, and believe me you have no choice BUT to listen, you would have to blink a few times to make sure you were still in 2009.
The thing is, the bus is always busy as a result of the various people mentioned above, so there we all are, so packed in like sardines we could have taken the Northern Line for a more spacious journey to work, that it’s not like anyone can’t hear you when you talk REALLY LOUD ABOUT YOUR KIDS AND HOW IRRITATING IT IS THAT THEY KEEP GETTING NITS SO YOU JUST WASH THEIR HAIR WITH NIT STUFF ALL THE TIME NOW.
Thanks for that. Now when what I really want to do is stand at the other end of the bus from you and your offspring, instead I have to handle the possibility that they are shaking lice eggs on to me as they jump around like maniacs because they JUST WOULDN’T DO BREAKFAST THIS MORNING SO YOU GAVE THEM JELLY BEANS INSTEAD. Great.
I mean who shouts out that sort of thing within earshot of total strangers?? How will your children ever learn how to behave in public if that’s the example that you set them?
Another two families that I am forced to stand at the bus stop with are just as bad. Two ladies, both with two children, stand motionless and watch whilst each child runs crazy rings around and around the bus stop or screams that there is nowhere for them to sit on the bench in the bus stop until someone takes pity on them and gives up their seat, or shout as loud as they can at 8am even telling their mother “DON’T YOU TELL ME WHAT TO DO YOU STUPID WOMAN!” if they are told that people are still sleeping. These kids are 7 years old, max.
There is no thank you or even acknowledgement from the mother for whoever gives up their seat, and no reprimand for the spoilt child. Once on the bus itself it only gets worse. I despair of children who push their way onto the bus past the elderly to sit on a seat. These kids are as young as 6 years old and yet they sit down with a satisfied grin. Cute you might say, but if they take the last seat there is no reproach from the mothers who could easily chide them and say “Come on, don’t be silly, you’re only 6 let this elderly lady sit down.” Nothing. The mothers are totally ignorant of such a situation and I stand horrified, offering my seat instead. It sickens me to see this happen EVERY day. It grinds me down and I dread arriving at the bus stop to see these people there. It chips away at my hope for society and people in general. Where is the compassion? Where is the kind-heartedness? Where is the respect? What’s worse is that the bus ride they take is less than 5 minutes so they could walk it! It gives me a heavy heart to see such things.
So you see why I’m frustrated, but back to my original point about the Suffragettes etc. Take this interlude for example. A few weeks ago, Nit Lady was there again, knocking people over with her giant designer pram that she insists on lifting through the front doors and then pushing through the packed bus to get to the back instead of using the back doors as is recommended for prams etc., don’t ask me why. Anyway, this time she brought a friend who was of a similar disposition. They were chatting in their LOUD manner as ever and as a result I couldn’t help but hear their conversation. Their discussion was about a nanny working for her as well as another wealthy woman who lived nearby and they were laughing about this other lady because – drum roll please – she had a job! Shock horror everyone! Someone who has children and works. Run for the hills!
This lady supposedly had a fairly high powered job and bought her children nice new clothes – I wasn’t aware this was a crime, were you? Every morning before work she would pick out an outfit for them in an attempt to be part of their routine before she went off to the office and left the nanny to deal with the rest of their day. The punch line is that once gone, the nanny would put said outfits away and dress the kids in any old thing – probably what they wore yesterday as SHE DIDN’T SEE THE POINT IN WASTING THE CLOTHES and presumably the kids would be bathed and ready for bed once mummy came home so she would be none the wiser.
The last word came from Nit Lady who said WHAT A WASTE OF TIME, I CAN’T BELIEVE SHE WORKS THE STUPID WOMAN HA HA HA HA HA AND IT’S JUST SOOOOO FUNNY THAT THE NANNY DOES THAT BEHIND HER BACK! I MEAN I DON’T BOTHER WITH NEW CLOTHES, I DRESS ALL MY CHILDREN IN SECOND HAND THINGS, NO ONE KNOWS THE DIFFERENCE AND IT SAVES ME MONEY HA HA HA HA.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t think it’s funny at all.
If parents are to give anything to their children at all surely it starts with the ability to respect other people. Ok, I’m not a mother myself, but I know right from wrong and I know it’s my mother that instilled that in me. I also know that I do want to have children someday, and I want to encourage those children to respect others – I mean, who wouldn’t???
That’s what I can’t understand, but I got a little bit of hope back this morning. I felt like Pandora when a little girl sat next to me on the bus today, she must have been 5 years old at the most. When she sat next to me she fell onto the seat, looked up at me and said “Sorry”. Then when her mum sat down opposite her she said “Mummeeee?” And her mum replied “Yes” and she said “I love you”. Now THAT’s cute. Polite and lovely in one minute! I was amazed and it really made me smile. Then I smiled even more as another mother was telling her son to stop messing with her hair and the little girl started to repeat her saying “stop messing with my hair” It really made me chuckle. Her mother was mortified of course and told her to stop copying, but that’s the point – she WAS mortified. And the little girl stopped it straight away.
Maybe there is some hope left after all.
Monday, 9 February 2009
And the BAFTA goes to...
I’ve been thinking, ‘Do I have an incredibly busy life?’
I know that if I told you the contents of my diary this week the chances are you would say ‘yes’. However, I don’t feel overstretched, or rushed, or like the very seconds of my life are so full to the brim with something – mostly drama – I am somehow missing out on living. So the question is, how do you judge something like that? Do I judge it? Or does it have to be refereed by the eye of the beholder?
I often, if not always, get the impression that the latter is the case as I feel lonely eyes boring into my skull whenever I say, “Oh I can’t make that, I’m taking a course on Monday evenings” or “Nope, sorry, Friday’s out again, as I’m off to the Jazz Cafe”
I hear the unspoken words “How DARE you!” or “Where is/was MY invitation?” The insinuation being that because I am more busy I am somehow more popular, but this is simply not the case. The thing is, ok a lot of the events I attend or places I go ARE at the invitation of others, but it’s not like I hold the secret to the perfect social life.
Yes I DO like to stay busy and I bore easily, so as you’d expect I’m always on the lookout for things that I would be interested in. It’s also true that I prefer not to find out something about AFTER the event or feel a crushing disappointment to have seats up in the gods for a play, knowing that had I bought on the day booking opened I would be on the front row with the smug people ‘in the know’. Is that so bad? Isn’t it normal? Surely it’s better than being the glaring person who can feel the jealous bile rising in their throat? I can say this with some certainty, having only today had the comment “How jealous am I? I actually want to kill you right now”. Okaaaay.
Strangely, as a result of this I have started to get a reputation for being one of those ‘in the know’, especially when it comes to the theatre. I must stress that this is not a coincidence. For many years I toiled in the Big Smoke that is London Town constantly missing things. I would miss festivals, gigs, plays, even cinema releases! Half of the time it was because I had no one to go with, but equally it was because I had no idea they were even there. After around 7 years of this – yes, 7! – I decided enough was enough.
It all started a few years ago when after many indistinguishable weeknights of boredom, one night sitting at home I had a brainwave. “I know,” I said, “I’ll do an MA! There must be one I can do somewhere!” To cut a (very) long story short I did actually do this, but in my infinite wisdom chose to study full time in the evenings – thereby eradicating all weeknight boredom (and unbeknownst to me, in the process weekends, bank holidays, months and years too). Anyway, hooray! Boredom had evaporated like a puddle in a drought, and during my studies I discovered a novel way of detecting events in advance.
Are you ready for my big secret...?
Join a club.
Yes, the complex, demanding, arduous task that you need to complete is just that. Of course, I am absolutely joking when I say that it is hard as it is ridiculously easy! This is why I cannot understand why people don’t do it.
For one of the modules on my MA course I was encouraged to join the Museums Association. Boring you may think, however, did you know that as well as discounts for special events, their membership entitles you to free or discounted entry at almost 800 venues and special exhibitions? Excellent huh? Well, ok, if you like museums you’re sorted.
Anyway, this got me thinking, what other organisations can I join and get benefits from? Well, I’ll tell you – The British Library, The Southbank Centre, The BFI, Friends of Wembley Stadium and The RSC.
Since joining these 5 organisations, and solely because of their membership, in the past year I have been to a lot of events including the BAFTAs last night (hence above acrimonious comment), The London Film Festival and Hamlet with David Tennant and Patrick Stewart – the sold out one. I’m always effusive about the benefits of memberships, but people just don’t listen. Either that or they can’t be bothered and find it easier to be vitriolic instead.
I’m open about the fact that if I wasn’t a member, I would not be a busy person as I’d also think “Oh, there’s nothing to do tonight except watch Corrie”, and as I say, it’s not as if I have a secret formula like Pimms No1 or Colonel Harland Sanders’ special recipe chicken. It’s not as if it costs the earth either, although I understand that not everyone loves Shakespeare enough to join the RSC, hear about the Bard every month in the newsletter as well as paying for the privilege.
So to all those out there who might feel a bit green at the fact that I went to the BAFTAs last night, saw Brangelina and won a prize as well, I don’t feel guilty. Don’t get jealous, get busy like me – if you want to go to these things then go! If you don’t then you only have yourself to blame as you’ve got the knowledge, now put it to use and stop moaning.
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
Me and Mrs Jones
Well, let me start by saying I attempted to follow up yesterday's post last night whilst I was at my evening course (my momentum is still there!). However, university servers being as they are, mine shut down at 7pm after I'd written about 300 words and I was unable to post it.
What I had written doesn't seem all that poignant now, like ‘I guess you had to be there’ so I won't go into detail. It started off very boring you see as it’s computer based and we were going over the basics from last week: “To open a document, click File and...” Yawn. Anyway, forget that, the moment has gone. Today I’ve been thinking about Doctor Who amongst other things.
The seed was planted by another blogger (you know who you are) as when I read it, I remembered something. I remembered a news item that I saw online a few days ago – a man called John Scott Martin sadly died recently. His ‘claim to fame’ was that he operated the Daleks in 110 episodes of Doctor Who. 110! He was 82.
What struck me about this man was that he had crouched inside what was in his own words ‘a bit like a supermarket trolley’ sometimes in only a T shirt and swimming trunks because it got so hot, and he had fond memories of it! I can only hope that I will be the same when I look back on my employment history.
I can’t pretend I’m not really pleased that at least someone is reading this and thanks for your comments, but I see I’ve just had one about Bridget Jones pants. I’m not sure how to feel about that. I wonder if that’s what it’s like to be famous – you put yourself out there and then you don’t know what to do with what comes back?
Anyway, that got me thinking again (can you tell I do that a lot?). Maybe I was a Bridget Jones once – I think most girls are at some point filled with blind hope and drama when they don’t know any better, and also with writing this like a diary I suppose the similarities are obvious. Unlike Miss Jones though, I’m not dizzy, I don’t talk about my underwear and I’m not single. It did make me think about who I CAN compare myself to though, but who else is there? Other women writers that spring to mind are Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath, both incredible, prodigious, creative minds – and both committed suicide, so they’re out. I don’t know and since I haven’t been doing this for very long I’ve decided to keep writing with a stream of consciousness narrative and see what happens. Maybe someone can see traits already? Most comments are welcome.
What I had written doesn't seem all that poignant now, like ‘I guess you had to be there’ so I won't go into detail. It started off very boring you see as it’s computer based and we were going over the basics from last week: “To open a document, click File and...” Yawn. Anyway, forget that, the moment has gone. Today I’ve been thinking about Doctor Who amongst other things.
The seed was planted by another blogger (you know who you are) as when I read it, I remembered something. I remembered a news item that I saw online a few days ago – a man called John Scott Martin sadly died recently. His ‘claim to fame’ was that he operated the Daleks in 110 episodes of Doctor Who. 110! He was 82.
What struck me about this man was that he had crouched inside what was in his own words ‘a bit like a supermarket trolley’ sometimes in only a T shirt and swimming trunks because it got so hot, and he had fond memories of it! I can only hope that I will be the same when I look back on my employment history.
I can’t pretend I’m not really pleased that at least someone is reading this and thanks for your comments, but I see I’ve just had one about Bridget Jones pants. I’m not sure how to feel about that. I wonder if that’s what it’s like to be famous – you put yourself out there and then you don’t know what to do with what comes back?
Anyway, that got me thinking again (can you tell I do that a lot?). Maybe I was a Bridget Jones once – I think most girls are at some point filled with blind hope and drama when they don’t know any better, and also with writing this like a diary I suppose the similarities are obvious. Unlike Miss Jones though, I’m not dizzy, I don’t talk about my underwear and I’m not single. It did make me think about who I CAN compare myself to though, but who else is there? Other women writers that spring to mind are Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath, both incredible, prodigious, creative minds – and both committed suicide, so they’re out. I don’t know and since I haven’t been doing this for very long I’ve decided to keep writing with a stream of consciousness narrative and see what happens. Maybe someone can see traits already? Most comments are welcome.
Monday, 26 January 2009
The first day of the rest of your life type thing.
Ok so today the third person said to me "You should write a blog" and I caved.
I'm completely willing to try my hand at this and I know it's not that hard, but I've always been terrible at sticking to this sort of thing. I'm a great admirer of those who can stick to keeping a diary of their life, such as Samuel Pepys, Alan Clark, Che Guevara, Sylvia Plath etc. but the truth is, as much as I enjoy reading about the minutiae of people’s lives, I've just never had the inclination to chat about myself.
Thinking about it that’s a bit of an understatement, because I know full well that I’ve spoiled at least 10 diaries in the past as over the years I've started numerous memoirs at various periods in my life – after an argument when I felt the need to write and let it all out, when I bought a cool looking diary (I’m a bit of a stationery-aholic), when I was given a diary as a present, when I tried to get organised – and don’t get me wrong, each time I tried I meant to continue with it. I really meant it when I wrote my contact details in the front, or added the very few phone numbers I actually knew in my childhood, or even adding my lecture timetable in my first year at uni. “This time I’m definitely going to use this”. But with me if just one day it was too big for my bag then the habit of keeping it with me was gone, and the next thing I knew it was two years later. Oops.
These days I do actually have a diary, but I use it for recording the things that I do and in my experience the only way to ensure I keep a diary is to rely on it. It started as a work thing to record meetings and deadlines really, as up until a few years ago my social calendar consisted of occasional drinks at the weekend and that was about it. Since then though I’ve dramatically expanded my repertoire to include the theatre, dinner, evening classes, parties, meetings, the cinema, talks and more so now I really need it because otherwise I’d truly have no idea what I was doing this week! In fact I’m starting to feel like Yes Man – great book, have you read it?
Obviously the real difference with a diary is made when you feel you actually have something to put in it. When I called this blog A boring life is an early death, I did that not because I’m being ironic, but because I’ve been there in the social wilderness and I can vouch for that statement as feeling true. Self imposed I might add, I didn’t do anything crazy and get all embarrassed, I just needed time to myself. The problem with that is, when you’re ready to come out of it things have passed you by and you need to start from scratch, which I did, and things are very different now, but that’s another story.
Back to the diary – my entries are short and sweet, some might say a la Bridget Jones I guess, but I have to admit I find it fascinating to look over last year’s diary and actually have a record of what I was up to. Inevitably there are the “Oh yeah!” moments when I relive something I’d totally forgotten and that’s a nice feeling. In fact I’ve even started to note extras after the event that weren’t planned just so next year I’ll be able to relive a few moments in extra detail. E.g. the original entry was Tom’s birthday but it now reads Tom’s birthday, Slim Jims + The Cuckoo. See what I mean?
Maybe that feeling is the reason that people record their everyday moments or perhaps it’s just for posterity once they are gone. Either way diaries are amazing creations, like personal books just for you and all about you. I'm not making any promises, but that's very cool.
I'm completely willing to try my hand at this and I know it's not that hard, but I've always been terrible at sticking to this sort of thing. I'm a great admirer of those who can stick to keeping a diary of their life, such as Samuel Pepys, Alan Clark, Che Guevara, Sylvia Plath etc. but the truth is, as much as I enjoy reading about the minutiae of people’s lives, I've just never had the inclination to chat about myself.
Thinking about it that’s a bit of an understatement, because I know full well that I’ve spoiled at least 10 diaries in the past as over the years I've started numerous memoirs at various periods in my life – after an argument when I felt the need to write and let it all out, when I bought a cool looking diary (I’m a bit of a stationery-aholic), when I was given a diary as a present, when I tried to get organised – and don’t get me wrong, each time I tried I meant to continue with it. I really meant it when I wrote my contact details in the front, or added the very few phone numbers I actually knew in my childhood, or even adding my lecture timetable in my first year at uni. “This time I’m definitely going to use this”. But with me if just one day it was too big for my bag then the habit of keeping it with me was gone, and the next thing I knew it was two years later. Oops.
These days I do actually have a diary, but I use it for recording the things that I do and in my experience the only way to ensure I keep a diary is to rely on it. It started as a work thing to record meetings and deadlines really, as up until a few years ago my social calendar consisted of occasional drinks at the weekend and that was about it. Since then though I’ve dramatically expanded my repertoire to include the theatre, dinner, evening classes, parties, meetings, the cinema, talks and more so now I really need it because otherwise I’d truly have no idea what I was doing this week! In fact I’m starting to feel like Yes Man – great book, have you read it?
Obviously the real difference with a diary is made when you feel you actually have something to put in it. When I called this blog A boring life is an early death, I did that not because I’m being ironic, but because I’ve been there in the social wilderness and I can vouch for that statement as feeling true. Self imposed I might add, I didn’t do anything crazy and get all embarrassed, I just needed time to myself. The problem with that is, when you’re ready to come out of it things have passed you by and you need to start from scratch, which I did, and things are very different now, but that’s another story.
Back to the diary – my entries are short and sweet, some might say a la Bridget Jones I guess, but I have to admit I find it fascinating to look over last year’s diary and actually have a record of what I was up to. Inevitably there are the “Oh yeah!” moments when I relive something I’d totally forgotten and that’s a nice feeling. In fact I’ve even started to note extras after the event that weren’t planned just so next year I’ll be able to relive a few moments in extra detail. E.g. the original entry was Tom’s birthday but it now reads Tom’s birthday, Slim Jims + The Cuckoo. See what I mean?
Maybe that feeling is the reason that people record their everyday moments or perhaps it’s just for posterity once they are gone. Either way diaries are amazing creations, like personal books just for you and all about you. I'm not making any promises, but that's very cool.
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