What a madcap week! One of the most intense weeks I have experienced in quite some time.
The epic stadium of theatrics began on the evening of Friday 20th when I received a text message from my ex-boyfriend's partner asking me to call him. When I did, he informed me that our mutual friend had been diagnosed with a brain tumour and he had been admitted to hospital urgently and was awaiting further news.
When a friend is in trouble, I switch into 'Emergency Ben' mode and suddenly become rather efficient and focused. I just wish I could be like that more often without the triggers of other people's incidents.
I visited whenever I could and provided levity for that is what I do in situations of gravity, I simply cannot help it. It lightens everyone's mood and helps me to cope with the nastier side of life, so it’s a win-win situation.
What humbles me the most is how incredibly brave my ex has been whilst facing such danger. His attitude has been indomitable and that sort of strength touches my heart.
It was also a very sad week for a school friend of mine whose brother had gone missing (back in the UK) at the weekend and appallingly, was discovered dead a few days later. I felt so utterly helpless and saddened by this news, but the outpouring of support online via facebook was incredibly touching.
During work hours, I was kept occupied with doing two jobs. For those who aren't in the know, there is a guy at work who deals with all the sales material, proof reading copies and posters etc for the sales department and also handles the mailing out of larger items around the country. Due to his long-service leave, he is able to take time off quite frequently and I am more than happy to cover his job whilst he is away.
This involves me juggling my own job, his and also spinning a few plates all at the same time. Normally, I am quite adept at this sort of thing – the busier I am, the more in control I seem to be, but I think with the other things going on, I became a little bit frazzled this time. Sure, the heavy work load did prove to be a distraction at times, but when I stopped for a breather, I often felt overwhelmed by it all.
I hesitate as I write this for I don’t want it to sound like I'm making it 'all about me'… I don't want to be one of those people who make other people's severe problems into their own personal drama. That's not who I want to be.
On the Thursday night, I attended the book launch of acerbic journalist Catherine Deveny's third book of collected columns. It was a terrific launch and Catherine was her usual brutally hilarious self. Early on in the evening, she announced that she knew a guy whom I should be introduced to, so I waited around for a while as the book signing shenanigans continued and eventually she introduced me to one of her colleagues. "Michael, this is Ben, he works for Penguin Books. Now, off you go…" and she gestured with flapping hands for us to talk as she dashed off to attend to her adoring fan base.
I said to Michael; "I can get up on stage and tell jokes, sing my heart out and perform in front of hundreds, but I am hopeless at introducing myself to guys!" which, ironically, proved it wasn’t true as it seemed perfectly acceptable as an introduction.
We chatted for a while and then Catherine joined us before driving us to the Retreat pub in Brunswick (with a few other people in tow – I could tell a story here about the events of the trip and the discussions involved, but that's a little more private than I think you'd want to know about. Let's just say that conversation revolved around a certain operation I once had and Catherine proved how crippling funny she can be, even whilst driving.
At Retreat we had dinner and had a good old chinwag and lots of laughter. A few of us even played Spin the Bottle (albeit with a knife) which I have never played before and, despite feeling deliriously immature, really enjoyed the thrill of it.
Michael and I got on rather well (Well done, Catherine) but I couldn’t stay out too late as it was a 'school night', so I caught a taxi home.
So, with two jobs, a friend in hospital, a death and an unexpected night of near-debauchery, I had experienced a manic week.
The recent weekend which followed was thankfully a peaceful one. I was unable to visit my ex as he was still in the ICU post-surgery (they were only able to remove half of the tumour as the other half is attached to too many vital parts of the brain) but he is out today, back in the wards.
Chores were done over the weekend and I baked a couple of cakes. The highlight of the weekend was having a sort of 'date' with Michael. He came over and we had an afternoon of DVD watching with some pizza. We had a splendid afternoon and it was nice to finish off a run of heavy days with something so pleasant.
What I find difficult to reconcile is this feeling of guilt. Here I am enjoying this one good thing that has happened to me while other people are suffering. The juxtaposed emotions are conflicting and I am awash with tension as I try to do what's right.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Golden Heart
Heaven knows I am not the easiest person to live with so I am impressed that Mum managed to get through three weeks in the same apartment without throttling me.
Having lived alone for the past six years, I have become a little set in my ways. Not that this is a bad thing, it’s just awkward when people come to stay as it can be a bit of an intrusion, no matter who it is.
It had been three years since mum had last visited and back then it was with other family members. This time, it was just the two of us and I have to admit I am rather grateful about that. Sure, there were occasional moments when I could have done with some personal 'down time' and I did become a little exhausted with the itinerary I had organised for her – I only have myself to blame for that – but having the chance to spend some quality time together was pleasant.
As with many family relationships, there is a bond which transcends the tensions and conflicts which often arise when in close proximity for a long time. We may have had the odd minor snap between us (usually through my own impatience), but each time it was dispelled with a touch of humour. Both of us despise conflict and although this can be a flaw in some regard, it can actually be a blessing between two like-minded people.
We had great enjoyment attending various theatrical events and eating out at numerous restaurants and cafes in and around Melbourne. My wonderful friends were often on hand to assist with invitations to their homes and meals out.
Some of the best times were had when it was just the two of us discussing our own lives and our individual idiosyncrasies. Mum and I share a lot of beliefs and values. We often share opinions with each other that we may not be able to repeat to others for fear of being chastised. It is moments like these where I feel an emotional and spiritual intimacy with my mother and although we do not agree on all things, there is an unquestionable understanding between us.
From my Mum I have inherited a lot of qualities but to itemise them here would reek of egocentricity and I fear I do enough of that already, albeit it self-deprecatory mainly. Oddly enough, we also both share similar insecurities, so we can find solace together when necessary.
Mum has a gentle soul and a golden heart and it has been a pleasure playing host her during her stay
Having lived alone for the past six years, I have become a little set in my ways. Not that this is a bad thing, it’s just awkward when people come to stay as it can be a bit of an intrusion, no matter who it is.
It had been three years since mum had last visited and back then it was with other family members. This time, it was just the two of us and I have to admit I am rather grateful about that. Sure, there were occasional moments when I could have done with some personal 'down time' and I did become a little exhausted with the itinerary I had organised for her – I only have myself to blame for that – but having the chance to spend some quality time together was pleasant.
As with many family relationships, there is a bond which transcends the tensions and conflicts which often arise when in close proximity for a long time. We may have had the odd minor snap between us (usually through my own impatience), but each time it was dispelled with a touch of humour. Both of us despise conflict and although this can be a flaw in some regard, it can actually be a blessing between two like-minded people.
We had great enjoyment attending various theatrical events and eating out at numerous restaurants and cafes in and around Melbourne. My wonderful friends were often on hand to assist with invitations to their homes and meals out.
Some of the best times were had when it was just the two of us discussing our own lives and our individual idiosyncrasies. Mum and I share a lot of beliefs and values. We often share opinions with each other that we may not be able to repeat to others for fear of being chastised. It is moments like these where I feel an emotional and spiritual intimacy with my mother and although we do not agree on all things, there is an unquestionable understanding between us.
From my Mum I have inherited a lot of qualities but to itemise them here would reek of egocentricity and I fear I do enough of that already, albeit it self-deprecatory mainly. Oddly enough, we also both share similar insecurities, so we can find solace together when necessary.
Mum has a gentle soul and a golden heart and it has been a pleasure playing host her during her stay
Friday, October 30, 2009
Halloween
Ah, my favourite night of the year (I sound like Tim Curry in that old film version of The Worst Witch! Not a great film, but worth seeing for Tim, Diana Rigg and Fairuza Balk. The Bonnie Langford song could have been dropped though!)
Halloween (or 'hallowe'en' if we want to be pedantic!) has always had a special place in my heart. I love the darkness, the creepiness, the spookiness and the all-round silliness.
It's a day that always reminds me of my dear friend Alison as it felt like it was our day. Alison and I have always had a certain penchant for the occult and the supernatural (without actually being satanists, although we have experienced the occasional worrying look for conservative Christians in our time) and we often hung out together for the big night, be it a large fancy dress party or a small gathering of like-minded folk.
One of my favourite memories was one weekend in Bangor. Alison was there at university and I visited for the weekend. We were in the habit of giving each other gifts for Hallowe'en back then and I gave her a mutilated barbie wrapped in plastic and called it a 'Laura Palmer' doll along with a vacuum packed bag of cow's blood.
Ah, sweet Halloween.
Another year, back in 1992, it was an unusual year because I didn't have anything planned at all. My family were out that evening and I was staying in alone. I had a bath early in the evening and I went into my bedroom and switched on the TV. I sat on my bed, wrapped in just a towel and I began watching the BBC's Ghostwatch, starring Michael Parkinson, Sarah Greene, Mike Smith and Craig Charles.
90 minutes later, I was still in my towel and transfixed!
It was such a scary programme, there were rumours of people committing suicide (well, one rumour...) and many people genuinely thinking it was a live piece of television. It was compared to Orson Welles' War of the Worlds (not Jeff Wayne's - thank god!)
The BBC did get many complaints and got into a bit of trouble for it and so they promised not to air it again. It was finally released on DVD by the British Film Institute in 2002 and I bought it whilst in London visiting my friends Jamie and Kevin. Watching it then, older and wiser, I was still thoroughly spooked and I still get chills now just thinking about 'Pipes'.
Sadly, I have to also mention my dear friend Kirsty Steele who has since passed away. Kirsty was such a wonderful person with a gentle heart. She used to hold parties quite frequently at her home and hallowe'en night was no exception. Of course, they were fancy dress! One year, I went as 'The Dread Pirate Roberts' from The Princess Bride (although everyone thought I was Zorro) and another year, I was dressed as Frank N Furter from Rocky Horror (although people thought I was a whore). I even have a picture somewhere of my beautiful friend Rhian, tied to Kirsty's mother bed, dressed as Regan from The Exorcist ("Your mother's a biology teacher in Cheshire!!")
Kirsty passed away about nine years ago and she is often in my thoughts. So tonight, I shall raise a (non-alcoholic) glass in memory of her, of great nights in my youth and also to Alison, my dark-soul-mate without whom I would not be the same person today.
Halloween (or 'hallowe'en' if we want to be pedantic!) has always had a special place in my heart. I love the darkness, the creepiness, the spookiness and the all-round silliness.
It's a day that always reminds me of my dear friend Alison as it felt like it was our day. Alison and I have always had a certain penchant for the occult and the supernatural (without actually being satanists, although we have experienced the occasional worrying look for conservative Christians in our time) and we often hung out together for the big night, be it a large fancy dress party or a small gathering of like-minded folk.
One of my favourite memories was one weekend in Bangor. Alison was there at university and I visited for the weekend. We were in the habit of giving each other gifts for Hallowe'en back then and I gave her a mutilated barbie wrapped in plastic and called it a 'Laura Palmer' doll along with a vacuum packed bag of cow's blood.
Ah, sweet Halloween.
Another year, back in 1992, it was an unusual year because I didn't have anything planned at all. My family were out that evening and I was staying in alone. I had a bath early in the evening and I went into my bedroom and switched on the TV. I sat on my bed, wrapped in just a towel and I began watching the BBC's Ghostwatch, starring Michael Parkinson, Sarah Greene, Mike Smith and Craig Charles.
90 minutes later, I was still in my towel and transfixed!
It was such a scary programme, there were rumours of people committing suicide (well, one rumour...) and many people genuinely thinking it was a live piece of television. It was compared to Orson Welles' War of the Worlds (not Jeff Wayne's - thank god!)
The BBC did get many complaints and got into a bit of trouble for it and so they promised not to air it again. It was finally released on DVD by the British Film Institute in 2002 and I bought it whilst in London visiting my friends Jamie and Kevin. Watching it then, older and wiser, I was still thoroughly spooked and I still get chills now just thinking about 'Pipes'.
Sadly, I have to also mention my dear friend Kirsty Steele who has since passed away. Kirsty was such a wonderful person with a gentle heart. She used to hold parties quite frequently at her home and hallowe'en night was no exception. Of course, they were fancy dress! One year, I went as 'The Dread Pirate Roberts' from The Princess Bride (although everyone thought I was Zorro) and another year, I was dressed as Frank N Furter from Rocky Horror (although people thought I was a whore). I even have a picture somewhere of my beautiful friend Rhian, tied to Kirsty's mother bed, dressed as Regan from The Exorcist ("Your mother's a biology teacher in Cheshire!!")
Kirsty passed away about nine years ago and she is often in my thoughts. So tonight, I shall raise a (non-alcoholic) glass in memory of her, of great nights in my youth and also to Alison, my dark-soul-mate without whom I would not be the same person today.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Dancing in Limbo
Having watched Julie & Julia for a second time, I began reassessing the nature of blogs and what it is that makes one more successful than another. My rather embarrassing need for attention, fame and approval is one of the reasons behind this rather inept display of prose which clamours for some kind of recognition out there in the infinite web.
Julie Powell had a raisin d'etre, a deadline and blogged far more frequently. I seem to embrace the true definition of random and I mill aimlessly from one topic to another.
Granted, I do not curse as much as Julie, but I don't think I am any less verbose or entertaining.
Reading back that last sentence to myself. I see the pretension some have witnessed in my personality before, but I believe in speaking my thoughts and if I do come across as a bit of a pranny at times, then so be it. Those who know me have an understanding of my true nature and welcome it like a jolly yet slightly irritating uncle at family gatherings.
Before I digress further into the psychoanalysis of my own personality types, let me return to my original point. Blogging. What makes it interesting? Over the years of writing my own personal diaries and - in later years - online, I have noticed a pattern in my style. I begin with great enthusiasm and futily attempt (and fail) to emulate some high-brow academic with awkward turns of phrase and misplaced witticisms. Over time, there appear to be days when I become rather lackadaisical and pore out the most tedious drivel stating where I went, what I did and who I met without any depth or colour to the scene. It's like having a TV marathon starting with I, Claudius and ending up with Neighbours.
One also has to be careful about what one writes. I have often deleted sentences, paragraphs and, on occasion, entire blogs for fear of being reprimanded by readers - but there I go again with the rather egotistical notion that people are reading and/or give a crap.
Does one ignore these little fences of security and express oneself to such a degree that followers bristle with vitriol or should one stay safe and post pictures of kittens eating brocolli?
Then I wonder how much of my soul I should convert into written text. I have been criticised before for thinking too much! Seriously? Can one think too much? I believe it simply makes me more interesting that I don't accept things at face value and that I like to plough through the depths of meaning that is layered before me.
It is far more fun to question things, expand the perspective and stand in another person's shoes. Sure, I may come to the most absurd and incomprehensible conclusions at times, but the journey is the most entertaining part.
Although I do tend to wear my heart on my charity-shop-purchased sleeve, I like to imagine it heightens the interest levels to a degree beyond 'tedious'.
So, to conclude, am I dancing in limbo? Is this a mere excercise for my brain and my qwerty-happy fingers? Will there be a satisfying denouement or will it peter out like a long-running TV show which has emptied the barrel of high-concept ideas?
Maybe someone will read this and leap back from their screens in a blissful act of serendipity after a misplaced Google 'I'm Feeling Lucky' search and scream from their luxury apartment that they have discovered the next Oscar Wilde (Well, while I'm being an egotistically-driven megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur, I might as well go whole-hog, right?) and the next thing I know, I'll be a household name, like 'Toilet Duck' or 'Durex'.
Or maybe someone will tap me on the shoulder politely and then, as I look around, punch me in the face for being a pretentious bumhole and subsequently break my fingers for the sake of humanity and literature.
I expect it will be somewhere between these two extremes. Until the day of revelation comes, I shall continue to do my quickstep across the keyboard and hope that this limbo is not for eternity.
Postscript: If, like with Julie Powell, someone wants to make a movie about my life, I quite like the idea of David Tennant playing me. He'd have to eat a few pies first though.
Julie Powell had a raisin d'etre, a deadline and blogged far more frequently. I seem to embrace the true definition of random and I mill aimlessly from one topic to another.
Granted, I do not curse as much as Julie, but I don't think I am any less verbose or entertaining.
Reading back that last sentence to myself. I see the pretension some have witnessed in my personality before, but I believe in speaking my thoughts and if I do come across as a bit of a pranny at times, then so be it. Those who know me have an understanding of my true nature and welcome it like a jolly yet slightly irritating uncle at family gatherings.
Before I digress further into the psychoanalysis of my own personality types, let me return to my original point. Blogging. What makes it interesting? Over the years of writing my own personal diaries and - in later years - online, I have noticed a pattern in my style. I begin with great enthusiasm and futily attempt (and fail) to emulate some high-brow academic with awkward turns of phrase and misplaced witticisms. Over time, there appear to be days when I become rather lackadaisical and pore out the most tedious drivel stating where I went, what I did and who I met without any depth or colour to the scene. It's like having a TV marathon starting with I, Claudius and ending up with Neighbours.
One also has to be careful about what one writes. I have often deleted sentences, paragraphs and, on occasion, entire blogs for fear of being reprimanded by readers - but there I go again with the rather egotistical notion that people are reading and/or give a crap.
Does one ignore these little fences of security and express oneself to such a degree that followers bristle with vitriol or should one stay safe and post pictures of kittens eating brocolli?
Then I wonder how much of my soul I should convert into written text. I have been criticised before for thinking too much! Seriously? Can one think too much? I believe it simply makes me more interesting that I don't accept things at face value and that I like to plough through the depths of meaning that is layered before me.
It is far more fun to question things, expand the perspective and stand in another person's shoes. Sure, I may come to the most absurd and incomprehensible conclusions at times, but the journey is the most entertaining part.
Although I do tend to wear my heart on my charity-shop-purchased sleeve, I like to imagine it heightens the interest levels to a degree beyond 'tedious'.
So, to conclude, am I dancing in limbo? Is this a mere excercise for my brain and my qwerty-happy fingers? Will there be a satisfying denouement or will it peter out like a long-running TV show which has emptied the barrel of high-concept ideas?
Maybe someone will read this and leap back from their screens in a blissful act of serendipity after a misplaced Google 'I'm Feeling Lucky' search and scream from their luxury apartment that they have discovered the next Oscar Wilde (Well, while I'm being an egotistically-driven megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur, I might as well go whole-hog, right?) and the next thing I know, I'll be a household name, like 'Toilet Duck' or 'Durex'.
Or maybe someone will tap me on the shoulder politely and then, as I look around, punch me in the face for being a pretentious bumhole and subsequently break my fingers for the sake of humanity and literature.
I expect it will be somewhere between these two extremes. Until the day of revelation comes, I shall continue to do my quickstep across the keyboard and hope that this limbo is not for eternity.
Postscript: If, like with Julie Powell, someone wants to make a movie about my life, I quite like the idea of David Tennant playing me. He'd have to eat a few pies first though.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
He Never Mentioned Love
On Wednesday evening, I had a mad dash to get to my doctor's appointment. I left work early, but was stymied by cancelled trains, faulty pedestrian crossings and slow-walking idiots who take up the entire width of the pavement/footpath/sidewalk (delete as applicable for your country of origin).
I had to run the last five minutes in order to arrive in time, so I was all sweaty and provided evidence of how unfit I have become over the last few months.
Once in the GP's surgery, we began our usual chatty banter. I had already decided earlier in the day that I was going to attempt to find out his 'marital status' as my flirtation skills are bordering on retarded and I wanted to discover if my efforts were futile.
Well, before I could put my plan of truth excavation into action, he provided me with all the answers I wanted when casually referring to himself and his partner.
My heart sank.
Trying not to appear too winded, I aimed for a look of casual interest and asked how long they'd been together and all that sort of jolly chat. All this whilst dealing with stitches being ripped from my back and a swab dabbing at my infection.
Trying to feign nonchalance before one's crush is a hard task and I genuinely felt a little moisture build behind my eye, but I forced myself to be strong and told myself I was being daft.
Of course he's in a happy, stable relationship! He is kind, gentle, warm-hearted and beautiful. I shouldn't have expected anything else.
We did, during our talk, mention my life as a single man (it's been a few years now) and he said that one day some guy would sweep me off my feet.
What I should have said, rather than make the guttural sound of a self-deprecating 'guffaw', was "I just hope it is someone like you!"
It's not all sad. Yes, I may have an infection in my wound and yes, I may have discovered I have fallen for the unobtainable (again); but as my friend Dave says, it's good to know my heart can feel that flutter. For a while I thought my heart had turned to ice and I was incapable of feeling that thrill of connection and chemistry. Having this minor one-sided 'affair' for the past few weeks has taught me that I still have the ability to love.
All I need to do is find some reciprocation.
I had to run the last five minutes in order to arrive in time, so I was all sweaty and provided evidence of how unfit I have become over the last few months.
Once in the GP's surgery, we began our usual chatty banter. I had already decided earlier in the day that I was going to attempt to find out his 'marital status' as my flirtation skills are bordering on retarded and I wanted to discover if my efforts were futile.
Well, before I could put my plan of truth excavation into action, he provided me with all the answers I wanted when casually referring to himself and his partner.
My heart sank.
Trying not to appear too winded, I aimed for a look of casual interest and asked how long they'd been together and all that sort of jolly chat. All this whilst dealing with stitches being ripped from my back and a swab dabbing at my infection.
Trying to feign nonchalance before one's crush is a hard task and I genuinely felt a little moisture build behind my eye, but I forced myself to be strong and told myself I was being daft.
Of course he's in a happy, stable relationship! He is kind, gentle, warm-hearted and beautiful. I shouldn't have expected anything else.
We did, during our talk, mention my life as a single man (it's been a few years now) and he said that one day some guy would sweep me off my feet.
What I should have said, rather than make the guttural sound of a self-deprecating 'guffaw', was "I just hope it is someone like you!"
It's not all sad. Yes, I may have an infection in my wound and yes, I may have discovered I have fallen for the unobtainable (again); but as my friend Dave says, it's good to know my heart can feel that flutter. For a while I thought my heart had turned to ice and I was incapable of feeling that thrill of connection and chemistry. Having this minor one-sided 'affair' for the past few weeks has taught me that I still have the ability to love.
All I need to do is find some reciprocation.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Things Happen
My Mum is arriving on Tuesday to stay with me for three weeks. I went out this morning to buy some odds and ends including a nice bright yellow litter tray. The litter tray is for my cat, not Mum.
The morning's expedition was a little fraught as I was in a bit of pain. Let me explain why.
Saturday was a nice day: to begin with. ("Marley was dead: to begin with.")
I went into the city first thing to buy some Yorkshire Gold tea and I met my friends Louise, Adam and Nick and we headed to my favourite cafe, Gordon's, for breakfast. Then we went to Chokolait for some superb hot chocolate drinks. I had been introduced to this shop by Adam's sister, Nicole. She has a nose for chocolate...
Then we all headed back to my place for a fun afternoon of tea, biscuits and The IT Crowd.
Everyone was more than happy to assist me in shifting some furniture. I wanted to rearrange the rooms in order to make the place nice for Mum's visit.
However, very early on in this venture, I pushed a unit a little awkwardly and suddenly, every move I made was accompanied by agonizing pain shooting from my lower back down my left leg and up to my neck.
This was rather bad timing as we were only half way through the job. Unable to move, I had to stand relatively still as the others shifted each heavy object between them to my rather useless directions. I was a little humiliated as I felt like a slave-driver.
My three amigos were incredibly patient and kind to do everything for me and I am ever-so grateful.
The trouble was, I was due to head out to a fund-raising Trivia Night that evening, but my lack of mobility hindered my attendance. So, eased into a chair and wedged in with cushions, Louise and co. stuck around and got me food and kept me entertained for the majority of the evening. We watched things such as Alan Partridge and the DVD of I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue. Laughter is the best medicine, but it can also be rather irritating when each chuckle aggravated my spine.
After my saintly friends left, I was too tired to stay up. I slowly hobbled like a crippled elderly gent into my bed and tried to get as physically comfortable as possible. The problem was two-fold because of a) my lower back pain and b) my healing, stitched-up shoulder. Knocking back painkillers, I lay in the dark praying for an early train to Sleepy Town.
Eventually I drifted off, but proceeded to have freaky dreams about me going to work without my trousers and being harassed by various enemies.
So, this morning, feeling a little better, I still had to continue chores getting the flat ready and shifting more furniture. I am luckily more supple today, but it does hurt when I lift too much, turn suddenly or sneeze.
This afternoon I intend to tackle the kitchen as the lounge is more or less sorted.
As I type this, I realise how incredibly dull this post is, but hopefully while my Mum is here, there will be far more interesting things to write about.
I also think I am going to struggle using Kirsty MacColl song titles for my posts as I continue to use them up. I may have to incorporate some Beverley Craven songs eventually...
The morning's expedition was a little fraught as I was in a bit of pain. Let me explain why.
Saturday was a nice day: to begin with. ("Marley was dead: to begin with.")
I went into the city first thing to buy some Yorkshire Gold tea and I met my friends Louise, Adam and Nick and we headed to my favourite cafe, Gordon's, for breakfast. Then we went to Chokolait for some superb hot chocolate drinks. I had been introduced to this shop by Adam's sister, Nicole. She has a nose for chocolate...
Then we all headed back to my place for a fun afternoon of tea, biscuits and The IT Crowd.
Everyone was more than happy to assist me in shifting some furniture. I wanted to rearrange the rooms in order to make the place nice for Mum's visit.
However, very early on in this venture, I pushed a unit a little awkwardly and suddenly, every move I made was accompanied by agonizing pain shooting from my lower back down my left leg and up to my neck.
This was rather bad timing as we were only half way through the job. Unable to move, I had to stand relatively still as the others shifted each heavy object between them to my rather useless directions. I was a little humiliated as I felt like a slave-driver.
My three amigos were incredibly patient and kind to do everything for me and I am ever-so grateful.
The trouble was, I was due to head out to a fund-raising Trivia Night that evening, but my lack of mobility hindered my attendance. So, eased into a chair and wedged in with cushions, Louise and co. stuck around and got me food and kept me entertained for the majority of the evening. We watched things such as Alan Partridge and the DVD of I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue. Laughter is the best medicine, but it can also be rather irritating when each chuckle aggravated my spine.
After my saintly friends left, I was too tired to stay up. I slowly hobbled like a crippled elderly gent into my bed and tried to get as physically comfortable as possible. The problem was two-fold because of a) my lower back pain and b) my healing, stitched-up shoulder. Knocking back painkillers, I lay in the dark praying for an early train to Sleepy Town.
Eventually I drifted off, but proceeded to have freaky dreams about me going to work without my trousers and being harassed by various enemies.
So, this morning, feeling a little better, I still had to continue chores getting the flat ready and shifting more furniture. I am luckily more supple today, but it does hurt when I lift too much, turn suddenly or sneeze.
This afternoon I intend to tackle the kitchen as the lounge is more or less sorted.
As I type this, I realise how incredibly dull this post is, but hopefully while my Mum is here, there will be far more interesting things to write about.
I also think I am going to struggle using Kirsty MacColl song titles for my posts as I continue to use them up. I may have to incorporate some Beverley Craven songs eventually...
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Fifteen Minutes
I am occasionally bamboozled by the things I read in newspapers or hear about through word-of-mouth. One of the things that makes me scratch my noggin the most is the articles which pronounce shock revelations in regard to recent research. It wasn't so long ago that some time-wasting students of the university of the bloody obvious released a study in which it was revealed that we, as a race, are becoming more narcissistic and egocentric due to the nativity of the online blog.
Are we not more shocked that some arse-faced numb-nuts are actually whittling away precious funding by coming up with such ludicrously tedious data? Why did no one just come to me or the nearest Betty Wallace or Jimmy Fishnet and ask one of us? It doesn't take a dedicated Mensa student to figure that one out.
I believe we are all a tad egocentric, for heaven's sake, that's what the ego is. The birth of the internet has just provided us with a forum to display it to a wider audience.
See, nobody is paying me for spouting such crassly blatant statements. If anyone would like to, let me know and I'll give you my bank details.
Oh, and while I am thinking about it - you may not see the relevance, but there's a winding path of stepping stones bravely transcending the raging torrent of thoughts which leads me to this statement - if a tree falls down in a forest, of course it'll bloody well make a friggin' sound even if there's no one there to hear it. Just the same as a mobile phone will ring its cellular heart out in an empty train carriage. One does not need an aural receptacle for there to be sound. Just as light exists without sight.
Rant over. Discuss at your own leisure. In a box. With a cat. And a hammer.
Now onto the main part of the post...
What an interesting few days it has been.
Let me begin by saying that on Thursday, post-operation (it makes it sound so grand, calling it an 'operation' when it was merely a slice 'n' dice in a GP's surgery, but grant me the option for melodrama if you will), I returned to work like a brave little soldier facing the front line with a severe case of 'limb gone AWOL'.
Probably not the best idea as I was in slight agony. After lunch, as I waited for my usual early-afternoon poo and found myself seeing pretty lights dancing before my eyes. The notion of being found by a work colleague passed out in the lavatory with my trousers around my ankles had me rather worried. Mainly because I was wearing my Doctor Who boxer-shorts.
Having regained some sort of composure and dignity, I took myself back to my desk only to discover I was feeling rather feverish, dizzy and not far from the nauseous bracket. Given these rather worrying symptoms, I decided that the best procedure would be to head home and rest like I was supposed to be doing in the first place.
On Friday, after an unsurprisingly uncomfortable sleep (that's two nights of bad sleep thanks to old Cysty McCysto) I had to drag myself back to see the doctor for a redressing. (No, not 'undressing')
When I entered his office, he immediately noticed my posture and told me to relax. Once again, I felt like shouting my catchphrase; "Have you MET me?"
He stood opposite me, grabbed me by the shoulders and began to shake me. Not in a '1950s-misogynistic-husband-beating-his-wife' sort of way, but more of a 'this-is-how-you-toss-a-salad' sort of way. It was friendly, professional yet casual.
I can't deny it brought a smile to my face.
Later during the date - er - I mean 'appointment' - I pointed out how I would also like to remove the unsightly little bump near my eye which graces my face as subtly as a rhino on a bouncy castle. He reached out, tenderly embracing my head with his tenacious fingers and staring into my eyes. Well, 'between' them is more apt, but it was a wonderful sensation.
Does this guy know how to flirt, or what? Damn that ethical code these doctors have.
Saturday (today), I attended a Tuppaware party. The last one I attended was over six years ago at my friend Tina's place and I still use the wonderful cereal dispenser to this day.
Today's party was being hosted by another superb friend, Michelle. I was not totally enamoured with the majority of the products this time as they seem to have been attacked by the Manic Pastel Monster of Doom. However, my name was drawn from the plastic jug to win the prize of a fancy cake slice - very handy should there be a zombie outbreak and I need something to fend off a pesky corpse or two.
Once it was over, Michelle and I headed out to see Julie & Julia.
Having read (and loved) the book four years ago, I have been looking forward to this movie for some time and I was not disappointed (although I would have liked to have seen the maggot scene as so beautifully described in the book. Then again, maybe not...)
For those of you that do not know, is about two women. Julia Child (Meryl 'Oscars-should-be-called-Meryls' Streep), who wrote 'Mastering the Art of French Cooking' and Julie Powell (Amy 'Eat-me-I'm-so-cute' Adams) who decides to cook every recipe from said book and blog about it. Both are very successful and the rest is history.
Coming away from that movie, I wondered what my niche could be. What is it that I could do to fulfill my purpose in life? What can I blog about that anybody would be even remotely interested in?
Do I blog my way through reading all of the 'Popular Penguin' titles as I once suggested to my peers?
Do I tell of the slightly hopeless attempts at finding love in this crazy old world?
Do I recount my exploits as I try to pay off debts and save enough money to visit Cuba?
And then we come full circle back to the ego thing.
Blog. The billboard of pretension. Flaunting itself in desperation for fame and approval. "Like me!" "Enjoy me!" "Tell me I'm talented!"
It's the twenty-first century's answer to the British Holiday Camp Talent Show. Only this time, the competition is larger and the losers don't get thrown into the icy waters of the outdoor pool... it's worse... it's the freezing ocean of obscurity.
The truth is, despite my slight yearning for that quarter of an hour of global recognition (Paraphrasing Mr A. 'hole a bit), I am quite happy if I can entertain just one other person with my trivial ramblings. Sure, it passes my time and is cathartic in a cerebral way, but part of me warms to the idea that out there, one person - any person - has read through and heard my voice.
No big ambition.
Just a glimmer of hope.
Are we not more shocked that some arse-faced numb-nuts are actually whittling away precious funding by coming up with such ludicrously tedious data? Why did no one just come to me or the nearest Betty Wallace or Jimmy Fishnet and ask one of us? It doesn't take a dedicated Mensa student to figure that one out.
I believe we are all a tad egocentric, for heaven's sake, that's what the ego is. The birth of the internet has just provided us with a forum to display it to a wider audience.
See, nobody is paying me for spouting such crassly blatant statements. If anyone would like to, let me know and I'll give you my bank details.
Oh, and while I am thinking about it - you may not see the relevance, but there's a winding path of stepping stones bravely transcending the raging torrent of thoughts which leads me to this statement - if a tree falls down in a forest, of course it'll bloody well make a friggin' sound even if there's no one there to hear it. Just the same as a mobile phone will ring its cellular heart out in an empty train carriage. One does not need an aural receptacle for there to be sound. Just as light exists without sight.
Rant over. Discuss at your own leisure. In a box. With a cat. And a hammer.
Now onto the main part of the post...
What an interesting few days it has been.
Let me begin by saying that on Thursday, post-operation (it makes it sound so grand, calling it an 'operation' when it was merely a slice 'n' dice in a GP's surgery, but grant me the option for melodrama if you will), I returned to work like a brave little soldier facing the front line with a severe case of 'limb gone AWOL'.
Probably not the best idea as I was in slight agony. After lunch, as I waited for my usual early-afternoon poo and found myself seeing pretty lights dancing before my eyes. The notion of being found by a work colleague passed out in the lavatory with my trousers around my ankles had me rather worried. Mainly because I was wearing my Doctor Who boxer-shorts.
Having regained some sort of composure and dignity, I took myself back to my desk only to discover I was feeling rather feverish, dizzy and not far from the nauseous bracket. Given these rather worrying symptoms, I decided that the best procedure would be to head home and rest like I was supposed to be doing in the first place.
On Friday, after an unsurprisingly uncomfortable sleep (that's two nights of bad sleep thanks to old Cysty McCysto) I had to drag myself back to see the doctor for a redressing. (No, not 'undressing')
When I entered his office, he immediately noticed my posture and told me to relax. Once again, I felt like shouting my catchphrase; "Have you MET me?"
He stood opposite me, grabbed me by the shoulders and began to shake me. Not in a '1950s-misogynistic-husband-beating-his-wife' sort of way, but more of a 'this-is-how-you-toss-a-salad' sort of way. It was friendly, professional yet casual.
I can't deny it brought a smile to my face.
Later during the date - er - I mean 'appointment' - I pointed out how I would also like to remove the unsightly little bump near my eye which graces my face as subtly as a rhino on a bouncy castle. He reached out, tenderly embracing my head with his tenacious fingers and staring into my eyes. Well, 'between' them is more apt, but it was a wonderful sensation.
Does this guy know how to flirt, or what? Damn that ethical code these doctors have.
Saturday (today), I attended a Tuppaware party. The last one I attended was over six years ago at my friend Tina's place and I still use the wonderful cereal dispenser to this day.
Today's party was being hosted by another superb friend, Michelle. I was not totally enamoured with the majority of the products this time as they seem to have been attacked by the Manic Pastel Monster of Doom. However, my name was drawn from the plastic jug to win the prize of a fancy cake slice - very handy should there be a zombie outbreak and I need something to fend off a pesky corpse or two.
Once it was over, Michelle and I headed out to see Julie & Julia.
Having read (and loved) the book four years ago, I have been looking forward to this movie for some time and I was not disappointed (although I would have liked to have seen the maggot scene as so beautifully described in the book. Then again, maybe not...)
For those of you that do not know, is about two women. Julia Child (Meryl 'Oscars-should-be-called-Meryls' Streep), who wrote 'Mastering the Art of French Cooking' and Julie Powell (Amy 'Eat-me-I'm-so-cute' Adams) who decides to cook every recipe from said book and blog about it. Both are very successful and the rest is history.
Coming away from that movie, I wondered what my niche could be. What is it that I could do to fulfill my purpose in life? What can I blog about that anybody would be even remotely interested in?
Do I blog my way through reading all of the 'Popular Penguin' titles as I once suggested to my peers?
Do I tell of the slightly hopeless attempts at finding love in this crazy old world?
Do I recount my exploits as I try to pay off debts and save enough money to visit Cuba?
And then we come full circle back to the ego thing.
Blog. The billboard of pretension. Flaunting itself in desperation for fame and approval. "Like me!" "Enjoy me!" "Tell me I'm talented!"
It's the twenty-first century's answer to the British Holiday Camp Talent Show. Only this time, the competition is larger and the losers don't get thrown into the icy waters of the outdoor pool... it's worse... it's the freezing ocean of obscurity.
The truth is, despite my slight yearning for that quarter of an hour of global recognition (Paraphrasing Mr A. 'hole a bit), I am quite happy if I can entertain just one other person with my trivial ramblings. Sure, it passes my time and is cathartic in a cerebral way, but part of me warms to the idea that out there, one person - any person - has read through and heard my voice.
No big ambition.
Just a glimmer of hope.
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