And the month just slips away...

But this morning I awoke to the most extraordinary sepia sky.

October, already? Bah!

No, I'm not going to revisit that old cliche about how time seems to be trotting along at a much quicker pace nowadays (even though it's true) and instead I'm going to ramble.

Yesterday I went for a walk. I'd traipsed up to Queen's Park to drop off a timesheet, a journey which had taken a bizarrely long time. Queen's Park is still in London, but it took me an hour and a half to get there. No delays, no trains standing for twenty minutes in a tunnel, but still: an hour and a half. By the time I arrived in Queen's Park, I felt travel-sick.

I haven't been travel-sick in years. It assaulted me regularly when I was a kid, but this was the first time in about twenty years that I've had that squicky feeling my stomach. So instead of travelling directly home - as I planned - I went for a walk instead.

And what a nice walk it was, too! I walked down to Westbourne Park, past the Grand Union Canal, skirted around Notting Hill (at least, I think I skirted it. I might have been in it. I've no idea) and ended up walking down Bayswater, past Whiteley's shopping centre and down to Kensington Park. That was lovely. I walked through the park until I reached Hyde Park, and then followed the road to Marble Arch. As I walked, I simply enjoyed. No iPod, no stories. Just me, and the city.

Because I do love London. No, that's not strong enough. I adore this city, entirely and completely. Really. I feel safe here, protected.

More than that, I enjoy it, as I enjoy the company of other people. There's a spirit to this place, a personality. I've lived here for over ten years, and it's still new. I'd never walked down this part of London before, you see, though I've flitted through it, so yesterday was filled with the joys of discovering something new about somebody you thought you knew well. There's endless contrast, there's the architecture, there's the distinctive flavour of each different area. There's discovery, there's beauty. Oh, yes. I love this city.

I also love this city in this season. Kensington Park was beautiful, with the squirrels out in full force, digging away at the soil. I know a lot of people dismiss them as vermin, but they make me laugh. Because it was Friday, and during working hours, the place wasn't that busy, and I also got to see the park-workers at their industry, maintaining the dignity and beauty of the place. 

So a good day in all, right? Except for one thing: I want to revisit the start of my novel, begin it a point in the story when something is actually happening. I've been meaning to revisit it since the beginning of the week and, somehow, I haven't. I don't know why, but I do know that my reluctance means something more than laziness.

Brambles and berries

I do love autumn. At the first hint of a misted morning, I become overwhelmed with the urge to read Keats and Tennyson and other poets of that ilk, swathe myself in some sort of velvet cloak and find a bosky path along which I can walk whilst admiring the gold and russet fall of leaves about me. 

I also become alarmingly poetic.

No, but really, I love this time of year. I always have. There's something satisfying about it, in a way that no other season is. Sure, I like spring. Spring is fun, because you've had the deep dark and depressing days of January and February and, thank goodness, they're coming to an end. Plus, Spring brings with it a cornucopia of bank holidays. 

Winter I like, but only at the beginning. I like it in December, when it comes adorned with the jewels of Christmas, but it loses its novelty when the lights and glitter become the grim reality of January. By February, I'm over it. Unless there's snow, of course. If there's snow, I'm happy as can be. And, no matter how bad winter gets, there's always hot chocolate.

Summer I like, but only cautiously. Whereas snow turns me into a grinning, dancing, spirited elf, summer heat turns me into a sticky troll. I hate it. I become slow and stupid and sickly. I switch off. I can't leave the house without having to be thorough with sunblock and hats.  It's an endurance test,  made only somewhat bearable by those long evenings, Wimbledon, and Pimms. 

But autumn! The colours, the scents, the flavours! It's the season, more than any other, that assaults the senses. It's the earth being self-consciously glamorous, showing off all the marvellous things it can do, before the monastic winter takes over. The earlier onset of night is merely cosy, not yet threatening.

And, there's something else about autumn. Something magical.

But enough of this! More of magic and mysteries tomorrow. Notice how I'm not apologising for having abandoned my blog over the summer. It was summer, it was hard work to get anything done. Besides, I was busy changing my life and working on my book. And yes, more of that later, too.

Wimbledon question answered.

So I have been profoundly lax ... and the only reason to offer is that of sheer laziness.

However, now that the school year is winding down and the end is, finally, in sight, I've got time to catch breath.

In all fairness, ever since the Wimbledon final I've been pretty breathless. That was some humdinger of a match. As those five sets came to their end in the gloom of a July evening, a sense of destiny prevailed. This was a great tennis match - some commentators believe it was one of the greatest - and, whether you agree or not, it's certainly true that it created a buzz around the sport that we - those who read the British press, that is - haven't felt in a long time.

Some of that buzz was generated by Andy Murray's win against Richard Gasquet, a win that was significant for a whole set full of reasons. For me, it was a good win, if only because it broke that fourth round monkey which Murray's carried about since he began his professional career. Importantly, we also saw Murray take a win against one of his fellow 21 year olds. Possibly it's only keen tennis followers who know this, but Murray has a shocking record against his contemporaries - your Nadals, your Djokovics, your Gasquets - which is a fact that has worried me slightly. Part of the problem, though, is that the first two names on that list belong to two players who have stepped far away from the rest of the crowd. Murray, for all his hard work and the clear advances he has made with his game, is still very much one of the top ten names. He's not anywhere near the top three - yet.

The top three! Roger, Rafa and, as of the Oz Open this year, Nole. But come the clay season, only one name mattered.

Rafa. Could he stay unbeatable on clay? I think this was a valid question, back in March. After all, Rafa had seemed god-like until he lost to Roger at Wimbledon; the US hard court swing seemed to see him drop into relative doldrums which he didn't show any signs of rising from once the 2008 season began. Rumours of chronic injury persisted; some people seriously considered the idea that Rafa would lose his no. 2 spot to Nole. It seemed possible.

And then the ATP moved onto clay and all conjecture became ridiculous. Rafa wasn't in any trouble on clay. If anything, unbelievably, he was better.

Then came Roland Garros, and the result - the shock result - that I discussed in my last post. What would happen on grass? Could Rafa improve last year's results? Would Roger keep his grass-court crown?

This buzz followed Rafa onto the grass courts of Queens. But for the first time, I sensed a new approach in the media coverage of him. For the first time, there was respect. For the first time, Rafa was presented as a player who had a real chance on this surface and not just as a clay-court great. BBC coverage was positively - and in the case of Andrew Castle, sickeningly - sycophantic. And then Rafa won Queen's and the buzz became something bigger.

For the first time, the pre-Wimbledon discussions of the potential winner showed a distinct two camps. That the winner would be either Rafa or Roger was never in doubt - sorry, Murray - but which one of the two...well, that discussion went on and on. Both had won their pre-Wimbledon tournaments and both showed great form. But that final at Roland Garros... well, it had left too many questions in the minds of the serious tennis commentator. Look down at my post: it wasn't just the win, it was the nature of the win.

Both Rafa and Roger showed imperious form in the run to the final. Sure, Rafa dropped a set, but somehow never seemed in any danger. As for Roger... I don't have the stats on me, but I don't think anybody even had a break point against him. He seemed so at home at Wimbledon, so at ease. So what if Rafa seemed to be in the same tennis zone that had taken him to the title at Roland Garros? This was Roger Federer. This was Wimbledon. Some things never change, and one of those things is what happens when you put that man in that place on the final Sunday. Right? 

Oh, but that final! Two sets of jaw-dropping tennis from Rafa, two sets of jaw-dropping fight from Roger. Every martial metaphor I can think of springs to mind for this match ... everything wonderful about tennis was displayed during that long July afternoon. Roger fought, he fought with every bone and sinew, he fought with every breath, he fought with every moment of long experience, he fought until the very last point and in no way did he let himself down. This was no concession, this was not the bittersweet goodbye of the overthrown king - this was something he wanted, something he cared about and something to which he gave his all.

And against a different opponent, it would have made all the difference. But if there is such a thing as destiny, if fate does indeed interfere in the lives of man, then it was busy in that match. Rafa was the indomitable gladiator, seeing the fight in his opponent... and fighting harder. If Roger fought with every bone and sinew, Rafa fought with bone, sinew, muscle and blood. From the first, it seemed, Rafa believed this was his to lose ... and he wasn't going to lose.

And he didn't.

Two weeks later, and tennis has become relegated to its usual position, third bullet-point down in the 'Other Sports' column. Now all talk is, lazily, of the Olympics and (in the British media at least) of the latest young British talent to show us that we have reason to worry about our next generation of could-be champions. 

Yet, I don't think anybody will easily forget the drama that played out during that long July afternoon. When we saw, once and for all, that great sport is the same as great art, with the same breathless humanity demonstrated in each cheer and each groan; when we saw that those human traits which can be used for so much ill - pride and obstinacy and passion - can be turned to such greatness. I felt proud to be a fan of this sport, and proud to be a fan of such great sportsmen. These are the best of times in tennis, at least, I have no doubt.

And just to end this entry in a small and petty way, here's my final thought. I'm a woman, and I think this final, more than any other perhaps, shows what a profound joke the equal prize monies given at a Grand Slam is. If women want to earn the same, they should play best of five sets. Simple as. Otherwise - and excuse the language - they're taking the piss.

But what about Wimbledon?

Skin still rashed up, but I'm not going to write about that because it's far too depressing.

Yesterday was the men's final at Roland Garros. Just as it has been for the last few years, it was a match between Rafa Nadal and Roger Federer. Just as it has been for the last few years, it resulted in a victory for Rafa Nadal. What makes it different this year, though, is the nature of the result.

6-1, 6-3, 6-0. Straight sets. Two trips to the bakery. Comprehensive. Embarrassing. Unbelievable.

Prior to the final, both players gave the usual soundbites. No, said Rafa, it wasn't certain that he'd win; yes, it was always a pleasure to play Federer, one of the greatest players of all time; yes, he'd play his best and that was all he could do. As for Federer, he'd never felt closer to taking that elusive RG title and he thought he now had the game to beat Nadal. No, his lack of form so far didn't worry him. This year, quoth he, would be his year. And, for what it's worth, other people - including the great Bjorn Borg - agreed with him.

6-1, 6-3, 6-0. 

The first time Roger has had a love set since 1999. 

It was a strange match to watch. There was a sense that you were watching something special, something historic, but for all the wrong reasons. As forehand after forehand sprayed wide, as volleys and drop shots failed to clear the net, it all felt like some tennis-themed Twilight Zone. This was Roger Federer - or looked like him - but where were his impossibly angled passing shots, the imperious net game? Where was the ballet tennis that has seen him reign supreme over the tennis world for the last few years? Remember, this is the guy who has been number one in the world since 2004. This is the guy who, during 2006 and 2007 seemed entirely unbeatable (unless it was a clay court and his opponent was Rafa).  What was this?

The truth is, of course, that this year Roger Federer has been a shadow of his former self. He lost to Mardy Fish and to Andy Roddick - which, for some people, has been the sign of a forthcoming apocalypse - and has been unable to find the form that he's enjoyed over the last few years. Glandular Fever has been blamed - apparently contracted prior to the Australian Open - but whatever the reason, he's failed to find perfection. 

Oh, there have been glimpses of his usual stunning play, but no more than that. His semi-final against Monfils at RG this year was perhaps the most telling: there were two Rogers out there. One of the Rogers was the dominating Roger, the unbeatable Roger. The other Roger couldn't hit the ball within the lines - or over the net - to save his life. Luckily the first Roger had more court-time than the latter, but it can't have felt like a good match and he can't have been happy when he sat down for a post-match analysis.

It's been easy to forget that, years ago, Roger Federer was considered a possible underachiever, somebody who had to sort out his mental demons if he were ever to hit his potential. His self-confidence was hard-won; that incredible aura of invincibility was a prize, not a right. In other words, this wasn't something that came naturally to him. He'd earned it.

So what now? As usual, he was positive in post-match presser, and claimed that it wouldn't affect his mental preparation for the grass court season; he is, he believes, still the favourite for Wimbledon. 

Well, yes. It'd be foolish to think that anybody else will be walking away the victor from SW19 in July. But, fool that I am, I can't help looking down the list of players... and seeing a few players that might just take the crown from the King.

Yuck. And also, ouch.

So the little bit of eczema I thought I had isn't eczema. It's dermatitis.

 

And the rash on my ear isn't eczema. It's impetigo.

Apparently.

I really should go and see the doctor more often. I'm on antibiotics and have to stay off work until the grossness clears up. 

But I'm a bit worried. I'm usually a healthy sort of person and this year I've had quite a few low-level annoyances. Not big dramatic illnesses - touch wood, thank goodness etc etc - but stupid little things. I'm not sure if fungal infections can stick around and cause chronic little things, but I'm beginning to think that could be the case.

Notice I'm not looking it up, though. Just thinking about it. At this stage it's an annoyance, nothing more.

Ooh, I've eaten too much.

Pound cake is good. Very good, especially when served with strawberries and cream.

Yes, I know it's decadent. But half-term is over in a few hours and I've got to do something to keep up my spirits.

I made the pound cake today, incidentally, not yesterday. But I have a very good excuse. Yesterday I was traumatised by an Evil Insect Incident. Afterwards I had to have a good long lie-down, so pound cake had to wait.

What was the incident? Oh, no doubt it'll seem trivial now. No doubt, it'll seem like a girly over-reaction, now. But yesterday...

...okay, it was a small thing. I'd decided to marinade some salmon in a sort of honeyandfresh gingerandchilli sort of sauce, which I'd make from scratch. I chucked the salmon into a dish, squeezed on a bit of olive oil, a bit of honey, a bit of soy sauce, a bit of sliced ginger. Then I grabbed a chilli pepper and cut in half. I had some idea of using half of it and keeping the other half until the next day.

As I cut into it, I noticed a dry sort of dusty stuff crumble out onto the chopping board. I didn't think too much of it - I've seen that before - but then I noticed movement.

Something moving.

In the chilli.

Already groaning with disgust, I looked closer. 

There it was! A wriggly little translucent ridged grub, trying to hide underneath the seed membrane.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I screamed. Yes. Actually screamed. High-pitched. Girly. You know the kind.

The chilli pepper went into the bin and then very quickly down the rubbish chute. No way was I keeping that little beastie anywhere within eyeshot. I threw away the other chillis I'd bought, just in case there was some kind of colony involved.

Still shuddering. Yuck.

I used dried chilli flakes instead. Just as good, actually. But I fear I'll never summon up the courage to cut open a fresh chilli pepper again.

Today I will make pound cake.

Doesn't that sound like the first line of a poem? Something along the lines of that 'When I'm an old woman I shall wear purple' poem. 

Anyway, I didn't choose it as my title because I was writing a poem, I chose it because...well, because today I'm going to make pound cake.

If only life were always so beautifully simple.

It'd be great if they could make a week last longer.

About two weeks, say.

Only the weeks we wanted, of course. This week needs to be twice as long but I want my last seven and a half weeks of work to fly past. Only the days, though. The evenings have to last longer, to make up for the 8 hours wasted at work. 

Hmm. Time may be relative, but I'd prefer if we had a bit more control over what it was relative to. 

Still recovering from yesterday. Mystic Meg promised me a day which would include a brush with showbiz, so I headed off to Harrods ready for anything. Would I be discovered? (I'm not sure what I'd be discovered as or for, but I was ready for it nonetheless). Would I trip over Brad Pitt and convince him that Angelina was a worthless piece of fluff and that I was the woman he'd been waiting for? (Not that I think Angelina is a worthless piece of fluff. And actually, I think they make a lovely couple). 

Such possibilities - plus all the possibilities I hadn't considered - were very pleasing, so I headed into town in a high good humour. I was off to Harrods for donuts (all this talk of Krispy Kreme) and to buy a new collar for my cat.

No, she's not that spoiled, it's just that there are actually very few places in central London were you can buy pet stuff.

My first brush with showbiz came at Knightsbridge Tube station. As I headed up the escalator, I spotted an advert for Guitar Hero on those little TV screens they have on the wall, an advert that stars a buddy of mine. Well, I say starred...he's air guitaring dressed as a tennis player. 

I was still laughing half an hour later. It's classic. I'm going to tease him about it a lot.

Then, donuts in hand, I walked over to Piccadilly Circus and popped into Zavvi (used to be the Virgin Megastore) to check out new CD releases. I didn't see anything interesting to buy, but I did walk past that actress from Love Soup (she's also been in an episode of Doctor Who). 

Then, after that excitement had passed, I crossed the road at Piccadilly Circus (to check on the process of the Cinnabon store. Yes, I am that sad) and passed a German TV crew preparing to film some film thingie.

Oh! The glamour of it all!

So Mystic Meg was entirely correct. I did brush with showbiz three separate times, and it's not her fault that I'm not currently inked in to scribe three major new Hollywood blockbusters, is it?

But that wasn't the most exciting part of the day. Thank goodness I was still high on the sugar rush when I got home because, when I got home, my door lock had broken and I was locked out.

Now, my housing office is closed for a half-day on Wednesday. Guess which day most emergencies seem to occur on? That's right. Luckily the head office was open and they called somebody who called somebody else and, twenty minutes later, a man with a drill came to try and get me in.

It took him an hour and a half - and seven drill bits - to bore a hole through the lock and jiggle the little brass bar within. During this hour and a half I sat outside in my hallway and wondered whether it would be wrong to eat the rest of my donuts in front of him without offering him one. I erred on the side of caution and went hungry.

An hour and a half! I felt quite exhausted, watching him work away. Still, I got home at last which is the crucial thing. I still wrote my 1000 words, as well, so the donuts did their job.

No flow! *sad*

Well, it's not really so bad. I've still managed to write about 1500 words today. It's not my best stuff, though. It feels like hard work and will probably read like hard work as well.

I'm currently avoiding watching Murray's first round Roland Garros match. It's hard work for him out there as well, to be honest. Shouldn't be, but there you are.

Isn't subjectivity annoying? I wish there were some kind of quality meter built into Word. You know, so that when you save a draft, the little dancing paper clip helpmate pops up and says something like 'Wow! That's genius!' or (more likely, today), 'Hmm. I don't want to say you've completely wasted your time, but...' 

Actually, that'd be quite fun. If I were a computer programmer, I'd spend far too much time thinking of all the sarcastic things the little Cowell-esque paper clip could say. Sure, it could just be blunt, but where's the fun in that?

Anyway. It could never work because of that whole aforementioned subjectivity thing. More likely you'd have to have two little dancing paper clips so that they could argue about it. On the days when they can't argue, you must either have written something truly great or something truly dire. You'd know which one by their comments. And then when they argue, you'd learn a fair amount about what you're doing well and what you're doing badly. 

It could be a very valuable tool, but more likely it'd turn into yet another reason not to do anything. I don't need another one. Not while there's the internet, anyway...

I do feel I should say something about yesterday's Eurovision contest, but there isn't much point. I used to love it, back when I was a kid, because there was a genuine excitement about who might win. Nowadays it's just unfunnily political. I reckon the UK (and the BBC) should just remove their substantial financial investment from the franchise. Well, what's the point of it nowadays? All it does is highlight simmering resentment and age-old bias. Not even its high campery acts as a suitable distraction anymore.

So, I reckon we should bid farewell to Eurovision. Well, who needs it? We've got Britain's Got Talent to watch. It's as good a replacement as any.

Celebrate good times, oh yeah!

Half-term! 

Also in the good news headlines: it seems that Cinnabon is opening a franchise in London at the Trocadero.

I have very fond memories of Cinnabon: I seem to remember visiting stores in Vancouver and Calgary, back in the day. As I recall, the cinnamon buns were sold warm from the oven, and you were given little pots of icing to pour over them.

However, it's altogether possible that I'm remembering something different. It doesn't matter. As far as cinnamon rolls are concerned, there is no bad. 

Same with donuts. I planned to go to Krispy Kreme today. I didn't. 

Mmm. Krispy Kreme.

The BBC Writer's Room are currently running this competition. I'm thinking about entering. On the other hand, my current project is going very well and if I navigate away from it then I'll lose all the flow. Flow, as I have mentioned before, is as desired as a warm cinnamon bun on a cold morning. I'm having a little hiccup this week - a night out in London Town, not a late night but late enough that I didn't write which threw me out for the rest of the week - and I'm not keen on having another. So I don't know. I'll think about it.

Too many passwords.

I can't remember them all. It often takes me four or five attempts to log in to any given website. Bring on retinal prints, that's what I say.

DWF is buzzing with the news that Russell T. Davies will no longer be the showrunner of Doctor Who after the 2009 specials; he'll be replaced by the great and mighty Steve Moffatt. I'm pretty pleased by the news: RTD has done a fantastic job and is cruelly savaged on the forums for no reason other than the fact that this isn't 1975 and he's not writing the series in the same way it was done back then. His detractors condemn him for being 'populist' while blithely ignoring the fact that, if this were a bad thing, Doctor Who wouldn't be figuring so consistently well in the weekly TV rating top 10. 

So, thanks Russell and well done. I'll be sad to see you go.

On the other hand, woo-hoo! Steve Moffatt is a talented writer who has written one of my favourite TV episodes of all time in the DW S3 episode 'Blink'. Some fans are now predicting a show with more gravitas, darker themes, better scares... apparently they've forgotten that the strength of Doctor Who is that it shows such great variety and that many viewers would stop watching if it turned into a darker BSG-style show. The crucial thing is that Moffatt believes that the show needs a) more scary monsters and b) more scary things in it. All this is Very Good: the whole point of DW is that it should be watched from behind the sofa.

In other news...er. I did have some, can't remember it. Oh yes! More Ofsted tomfoolery. I was going to rant about it but now I'm in a good Doctor Who-styled mood, so I'll save my rant. 

Needless to say, I am extremely glad that I am leaving my current job and extremely glad that I will be doing my utmost to avoid having a full-time teaching position in the future.

I might like this week.

I've two days out, two different courses. Actual time spent in classroom? 3 days. Nice.

Next week is half-term. Nice.

Nadal beat Federer yesterday. Nice.

No pesky evening things to stuff up my schedule. Nice.

No Doctor Who on Saturday. Grrr. On the other hand, I won't be wasting Saturday pm on the boards. Nice.

So, that's all good stuff.

I ended up being quite productive yesterday: quite by accident, of course. Astonishing, since I spent some time yesterday preparing stuff for today's lessons, and watching the final 4 episodes of Series 1 Gilmore Girls. But by the time I shut down my computer I'd written over 3000 words. Nice.

Okay, so not that much to say. Nothing in the news that is making me rant, nothing happening that is worrying me. Just a sunny start to what should be a decent week.

Don't worry. I'll be ranting again by mid-week. 

Still suffering from the blahs...

...so I'm going to blame the weather. The sky's all stuffed up and it's made me feel all dozy and slow. For proof: I've written barely anything. And I had such hope yesterday!

I blame Doctor Who. Well, I blame it for most things, but definitely my currently laziness. Last night was the 'The Unicorn And The Wasp', an Agatha Christie episode. I loved it, voted it my first 5 out of 5 of the season and generally wore a big beam on my face for the rest of the evening. 

Then I went to the Forum.

Here's a piece of advice to any writer: whatever you do, don't go to any sort of internet community that builds itself around your product. Oh, you'll read lots of good stuff that makes you feel Pretty Special. But mostly you'll read a lot of rubbish that'll make you want to dash your head in with a brick of China Tea. 

It is true that most people like Doctor Who right now, apart from the fans.

But never mind that! I loved it, which is the only thing that really matters. But I did spend far too long, last night, refreshing the rating thread so that I could watch the voting numbers change. Good grief. I can reach new depths of obsessive behaviour so easily. It's almost scary.

Anyway, today I've spent reading 'The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.' I've no idea who the murderer is, but there's no surprise there because I've always been rubbish at figuring it out. It's why I like Agatha Christie so much (compare with M. Night. Whatsisface, whose twists I always spot in the first three minutes. I then spend the rest of the film looking out for the real twist, because I figure that if I can see it, it's too obvious to truly be the twist. So then I concoct ever more elaborate plots in my head, only to discover, in the final reveal, that I was right all along and that I've just wasted 90 minutes + of my life. This, you'll understand, is why I don't watch his movies anymore).

Reading is good. Therefore, I won't feel guilty for not having written yet. Besides, it's not yet five. There's still time.

Oh, and I almost forgot. I shouldn't apportion all the blame to Dr Who. It was the fault of tennis, too. Great match against Nadal and Djokovic yesterday. I am trying very hard to avoid the Hamburg final right now, played between Nadal and Federer. My blood pressure can't handle it...

Weekend blahs...

...which is odd. 

Yesterday I handed in my notice. I didn't mean to, was going to wait until Monday. But then the Head asked me into the office for a quick chat which turned out to be the one about what my plans might be. 

I thought I'd feel good after doing it, thought I'd feel relief. I remember my grandmother telling me that she felt like a weight had lifted off her shoulders when she left a job that had become pure purgatory by the end. I thought I'd feel the same.

I don't. I think it's because I've already done the mental disconnect: in my head, I've left. Which is a bit dodgy, considering that term doesn't end until July.

But this all sounds very miserable and melancholic and certainly shouldn't be either! If I'm honest, the adrenaline isn't flowing because it doesn't need to. This all feels right, it feels like I'm doing the right thing and, because it feels that way, there's no need for analysis. This, then, is that marvellous thing called 'Flow.' 

Apparently 'flow' makes me tired, because when I got home I was shattered. I watched 'Ghostlight', a 7th Doctor (Sylvester McCoy) adventure from the final series. Since this episode is gloriously barmy, it instantly filled me with the desire to write something equally barmy and totally non-linear. But since I was so exhausted I treated myself to an evening on the sofa... in other words, I fell asleep. In other words, I didn't write.

I feel a bit guilty about it this morning - I've noticeably not written anything this morning yet, despite being awake for nearly 2 hours - but never mind. I felt terribly daring, not doing anything. It was quite exciting.

Anyway, this weekend will be productive because I've nothing planned. Such bliss! I ended this week's word count at 38 816 words, which is about 400 words short of my 10 000 words a week target. So that's okay. And next week I don't have any pesky evening things to do, so it should be 40 000 words by next Friday. Very nice!

Although... non-linear narrative, eh? No exposition, no explanation, as per Ghostlight? Sure, I can do that. Why not?

Consistency is something I have trouble with...

...though I do have a talent for the blatently obvious.

Two months! Well, not quite, but near enough. Two months since I lasted posted, and what a two months it's been.

In all fairness, I've been pretty busy getting back into a regular writing routine. I'm novelizing, which means I set myself a daily writing target of 1000 words (although I've got a broader target of 10 000 words a week, so there. I'm a writer. I'm not a mathematician). It takes me about an hour to actually get the 1000 words minimum down on the paper, but that hour requires a good hour of preparation and a fair amount of bimbling about during the writing. So one hour of writing takes about three hours. Which, if you get home at six and eat supper and then have to watch an hour of Gilmore Girls before bedtime (as well as check emails, wander through DWF etcetera) means that you don't have much time to do anything else. 

Wow. What a life I lead.

Anyway, over the last few weeks I've made the decision to leave my current job. At first I was going to apply for another full time position: got a few interviews, didn't take them. I couldn't really understand why I was so resistant, but I kept sending off for more application forms.

Then, a few weeks ago, I realised what it was. There I was, sitting at my desk, looking at the pile of forms and job descriptions, and I felt like crying. Did cry, a little, in fact. 

I just didn't want it. I didn't want the daily routine, didn't want the pressures and power plays and personal agendas that a permanent position would present. I didn't - don't want - anything to do with the political world that enwraps education nowadays. 

Basically, I just don't want to be a teacher anymore.

But I'm a sensible girl and I have to find money for the rent, so I've decided to work as a supply teacher from September. The idea is, I'll do some tutoring as well - to bulk up the monthly wage - and from talking to a few people, I've found that it won't mean too drastic a drop in salary. I made the decision a few weeks ago - and felt great about it - and now I'm less bouncy since fear is replacing pure excitement. Nonetheless, it's the right thing to do. Behind it all is my motivation to make writing the absolute centre of my life. To declare to all and sundry that this is what I want -- no, not what I want, but what I do. 

This being the case, I've also determined to enjoy the last half term at my current position. To end the year on a high, to end the year with the memory of what teaching can achieve if only the politicians and the advisors and other idiots would let the classroom practitioner get on with their job. To remember that the best teaching is all about the relationship that exists between the teacher and their students, and to remember that a good lesson inspires as well as teaches. At the height of my six year career, I've known this and I've lived this. I'd like it to be how I end this part of my career. 

Happy Friday

Bank holidays rule. Especially this year, because Easter has come so early that we get the Easter-based Bank Holidays off...but they don't eat into our spring term holiday itself. Oh no! So I get a long weekend, a week and half back at work, and then the two week spring term holiday.

All this is Very Good.

What else is Very Good?

Well, I've got a few ideas about stories and four days to work on them. There's an excitingly wild and windy feeling outside, and that's Very Good because it's atmospheric. 

And the other day, I got Very Good advice from a friend at work. He was talking about contacting a hero of his, and how he had reservations, but his life coach pointed out that he was just mindreading, putting words and thoughts and reactions into somebody else's voice when in fact he had no idea how that person would react.  Pre-empting.

Blimey, I do that. I do that a lot. So many times I decide not to do something (usually writing related) because there'll be 'no point.' And so I'll have missed a gazillion opportunities. 'Cos it's easier not to do than it is to fail.

But the Very Good advice is Very Good because it's right. And I've written it down here because it's something I need to remember.

Is there a cure for cynicism?

'Cos if there is, I need it.

I posted up the rest of my fanfic story and have had great feedback. No, not just great: the feedback I dreamed I'd get but feared I wouldn't.

For a few seconds I was ecstatic. Hurrah! thought I. I am a writer! People love what I've written! Be happy!

And then I thought, yeah, but are they just taking the mickey?

See? I'm like that. Cynical.

Or, just determined not to lead myself down the garden path.

However, I am going to see if I can flog my story. It'd be nice to make a living as a writer...

...no, not just nice. Imagine the pure joy that would fill every moment when I realised - again and again - that I didn't have to go back to the day job. Oh, bliss!

Nirvana/Utopia/Eden all in one.

And look, I've also found the cure for cynicism.

Success!

I stayed awake last night...oh yes!

No, I know it's not exciting. But I'm happy, so who cares?

I also finished my story, the one I've been working on for seemingly ages and which I thought I'd never get to the end of, so it's a double hurrah and a double success.

Hurrah! Hurrah!

....so....tired...

...I'm beginning to think that I'm being hypnotised. Secretly. Through the TV.

Well, it's the only explanation. 

I suppose last night I could blame the fact that I'm currently lurgy-ridden. Just a cold, but last night I was on Day Nurse and although it's not supposed to make you drowsy, it clearly pierced through my armour of coffee and made me sleepy. But Sunday night I fell asleep on the sofa and for no good reason.

I've nothing against falling asleep in the evening. I just don't like how it makes the day much shorter and gives me less time to do the things I enjoy. In the past I've tried to write through this sort of exhaustion - not exhaustion, just sudden and complete sleepiness - but I end up writing with my eyes closed and, eventually, writing while partially asleep. Which can be entertaining.

I don't know how not to be tired in the evenings. I've tried going to bed earlier, but I'm just as tired in the morning. Coffee doesn't work. It's annoying.

On the other hand, last night before I fell asleep I watched my first ever Jon Pertwee Dr Who adventures, 'Spearhead From Space.' I loved it. I felt all nostalgic as I watched it - which is weird, because I hadn't even been born when it first transmitted - and even enjoyed the old-fashioned narrative structure. But mostly I liked Jon Pertwee in the role. More, please!

So yesterday I had a lovely day. I'm not sure why it was so lovely, but it was.

No, really. Everything just sort of clicked together. I slept in until nine o'clock and then spent a happy couple of hours plotting out a story that has been eluding me for a while. During that time I also checked my emails, spent a short period of time online (just enough to do what was needed, but not so long that my head started to go buzzy) and uploaded a pile of classical music to iTunes. Time well used.

Then I walked into town. I didn't mean to, I was going to walk as far as Bank and then Tube it to Tottenham Court Rd. Instead I walked all the way in, making it to Covent Garden in less than an hour. There was a brief chance for frustration - the shops didn't have the Converse trainers I wanted, Forbidden Planet was selling all of its classic Who DVDs for £20 - but I didn't take it. Instead I walked over to Amato's and had brunch.

Brilliant idea! Refreshed and happy, I wandered down Old Compton Street and the rest of the labyrinth that is Soho, until I reached Carnaby Street.

Success! I'd forgotten there was a Converse shop there, and I bought a lovely pair of patchwork hi-tops that I am profoundly in love with right now. Fantastic! Then I went to HMV, where all the classic Who DVDs were just £10 and a friendly man-behind-the-till told me how to get to the hidden commentary track on the new release of 'The Five Doctors.' Wonderful! Thence to Marks & Spencers where I gave in to my geeky self and bought a TARDiS Easter Egg (when you press a button on the side of the box it makes the TARDiS sound. It makes me laugh like a maniac. I love it) and lovely weekend food. Superb! And then homewards, where the Tube didn't give me a nightmare journey. 

Blimey. And then I had a nice time, watching Whose Line, tidying the house (the goodness was briefly interrupted by a silent work rant, but I soon overcame it) and writing. Possibly not as much as I could have written, but I had already done the whole plotting thing earlier that day. And then, to top it all off, I went to DWF to find lots of lovely messages from people who were enjoying my story.

So a good day. No, not merely a good day. A perfect day. Fingers crossed that today can be as good. 

And in other news...

...Andy Murray beat Roger Federer in the first round of the Dubai tournament today.

Woohoo!

I'm a huge tennis fan and I hate this time of year. There are tournaments going on, but they're rarely picked up by TV channels and, when they are on TV, it's usually at weird times. So I don't see much tennis. So I'm extremely pleased to have seen the end of this match and double-pleased because of the outcome.

Not that I dislike Roger Federer. I just grew very bored watching him win (seemingly everything) over the last few years. Having a new Grand Slam winner this year already has made the tennis world a far more exciting place, and having Andy Murray beat Fed (again, and so well) makes it even happier and shinier.

Hurrah!

Not that I think Andy Murray's going to win Wimbledon this year. I like watching his game very much, but I'm not about to bandwagon him. But a few more wins like this and I'll be very happy.

Oh, and in other news: I'm very addicted to Dr Who Forum over at Outpost Gallifrey. I've posted up bits of fanfic and had positive reviews (finally! an audience!) and now I can't stop going over to check for replies to my posts. I've been an avid internet user for 10 years now, and up until I registered at DWF I've been a persistent lurker. But now...God help me, now I can't stop spouting irrelevant rubbish about various Dr Who episodes. Blimey.

Oh, but it's fun!

so...what?

Yesterday was another shocking day, the latest variation on a theme of 'work is hell'. Yes, I can occasionally descend into hyperbole, but yesterday was truly one of those awful days where everything cascades into shocking perspective and you realise that you've killed time for the last few years.

Actually killed time. It's such a cheap cliche, hides such a terrible truth.

Anyway, yesterday is long gone (and has soppy happy ending besides) so I'm not going to waste further time on it.

This evening I went with a friend to a talk at her church. I'd said I'd go then immediately regretted it but the friend is a good one and I was happy to hang out with her. It turned out to be a very nice evening and I'm glad I went: the food was good, the setting was lovely and the company excellent. I met new people who I'll be happy to meet with again. It was good.

So far I haven't mentioned the religion part of it... and it's here that I start to get confused. Hence the post title. Because the only wrong note in the whole lovely evening was the religion.

Now, I grew up attending my local C of E church - Sunday school, choir - and had a brief fling with Evangelism. Throughout my twenties I considered myself pagan, though I thought seriously about Quakerism. Then, I started to read about Judaism. 

I've come to a comfortable place with my religious belief, or lack thereof. I'm no atheist, and I have complete belief in *God*, though ask me what I mean by this and you'll still be listening to my bimblings forty-five minutes later. I know what I don't mean by it, and I've got a good idea what I do, but everything I think is contradictory ...so I don't know what to do with it.

When I start to think of wedding my spirituality to religion, I start to have real trouble. Part of me wants to be religious, but I don't believe the framework, the theology. I just don't see how it can be right and I don't see how anybody else can see that it is right. I'm talking specifically about all this heaven and hell stuff, about original sin. I think all of this is nonsense, and I'm sad when it makes God into some kind of horrendous creature incapable of even the same amount of empathy, compassion and understanding as your average human.

But this evening I had an idea that the church I went to might offer that other aspect of religion: community. That this would be a good place to come and hang out and build a community. I'm half-tempted to go back...but then the whole religion thing stands between me and them.

So..what?

Fallow Field?

It would be very cool if I could explain the blogless 3 days by writing a report of a whirlwind weekend spent doing cool stuff: maybe something to do with the Oscars, maybe something to do with a secret NASA project, maybe something to do with Mount Everest. 

Sadly, I am not able to report on any of those things. The blogless 3 days have come about because I've been a big lazy blob.

I'm a little cross at myself, though: on Saturday morning I had a flow of creativity and was buzzing with excitement about the piece of fanfic I'm writing at the moment. I could see exactly where it was all going - or thought I did - and had a ton of great ideas. I stopped mid-flow to go shopping and didn't worry about it, because normally when I stop mid-flow I get straight back into it when I go back to the text.

It didn't happen this time, though. And so I've barely done any writing over the last few days. I'm hoping it's my brain having a necessary fallow period, and not the texts in question revealing themselves to be hollow men. 

And half-term is over. I've been depressed that it was coming to an end since last Wednesday, so you can probably imagine how rotten I felt on Sunday. And yesterday.

Today isn't much better. So there's a good chance I haven't been writing because of my misery about work. Which is rubbish, because writing is the way of tucking all that pesky reality to one side and focussing on the infinitely more satisfying world of fiction.

Yeah.

Yawn

*rubs eyes*

Blimey, I'm tired today. It's 5:30 pm and I'm struggling to stay awake. One cup of tea hasn't quite done it. I'll try a second.

No reason why I'm so tired. Yesterday was very nice, thank you very much. The National Portrait Gallery was fun - although Joe Orton was nowhere in sight, grrr - and then my friend and I went for a burger at Hamburger Union (which was very nice) and then for cocktails at Bar 5 in Waterstone's Piccadilly. That was very nice, too, since I discovered Hazelnut Martinis. 

It wasn't a late night, by any stretch. But I'm v. tired. 

Yawn.

Geekdom is a terrible thing...

...just signed up at the Doctor Who Forum at Outpost Gallifrey. A quick scan over the series 4 threads have sent me into a state of squealing over-excitement. I don't even know when the series returns (late March! early April!) but I can't wait. I. Can't. Wait.

Yes. It's time for the shameful truth to out. I am a proud Doctor Who geek. I am also a fangurl of anything Joss Whedon. I love Supernatural. I get embarrasingly passionate when discussing Battlestar Galactica. (Of all those things, Doctor Who comes first. Just to be clear!)

I am a geek and a fangurl and I'm proud of it.

I've never been to a convention of any kind, though. Clearly I need to put more effort into it.

Yes, I'm in a better mood today. Haven't written yet (Dr Who Forums! Beliefnet! I've been in a lurking mood) but that's next. Dreamed of blogging though - in my dream I had about thirty blogs, each set up for a different part of my life, but I couldn't remember which one was which. And it would be like that in real life, as well. 

Right. I'm off to do some writing and then it's to the National Portrait Gallery to say hello to Joe and Emily. 

We're All Going To Hell, part 2

Somehow I've managed to walk myself into a lousy mood.

The day started out okay. It was super-misty outside which gave my apartment a pleasant feeling of being wrapped in cotton-wool. I'd dreamed of work - a nightmare, of course - but I managed to forget the feeling of it while doing the whole early morning routine. 

After that I wrote, did a quick read through of the story so far, decided I liked it, then played a bit of Sims 2. It was a rationed amount, though, so I didn't feel all fluffy-headed when I finished.

'Ah,' I thought.  'A good morning so far! And now I will walk to Tate Modern and Do Some More Culture, before settling in the cafe and having a nice (albeit expensive) cup of coffee; while I'm there, I'll finish a bit of Dr Who fan fiction that I'm enjoying writing.'

Except, on the walk I began to think about work, and when I began to think about work, I began to rant. Work is manageable only when I'm there; outside of it, I gain a bit of unwanted perspective. 

But because I refuse to write or think about work while it's still half-term, I stopped my silent ranting and arrived at the Tate Modern. Mistake.

It's full of rubbish. It's full of absolute shit. No, wait, that's not entirely true. There were a few paintings by Matisse and Picasso that I looked at and enjoyed. Everything else...

...look, I know it's a cliche to complain about modern art. It doesn't make it any less true. I expect to enjoy art on a number of levels: intellectually, technically, emotionally. Modern art throws everything it has at the first of those levels and completely ignores the rest. Sorry to be explicit, but it is, (in some cases literally) wank. Masturbatory art produced by people who have never grown beyond their teenage solipsism. They think that angst is the sole emotion worth any kind of notice and produce everything from that place. It's terrible. It's like reading a diary entry from a teenage journal: it no doubt means a lot to the writer, but means absolutely nothing at all to anybody else. 

Of course the modern artist knows that, which is every piece in the Tate Modern is displayed with a thesis-long explanation of what the art 'means.' Presumably, if they shout loud enough and use long enough words, people will take them seriously. And if that still doesn't work, they'll try and shock the observer: cos, you know, they're like so anti-establishment.

Blurgh. It was rubbish. I felt more and more depressed as I walked around, that all those centuries of human aesthetic accomplishment could come to this. I wasn't ranting then, by the way, that came later. I felt depressed because I felt nothing: it was all emptiness on canvas.

I know it's deeply unfashionable to talk about souls nowadays (in case you're inching towards the whole religion business) but when I think about art (whether that be painting, sculpture, drama or writing) I think of spirit. I think of humanity, in all its precarious dignity, trying to find beauty amongst the savage reality of survival. Yes, beauty: a word as disdained, nowadays, as soul. 

I didn't do my writing; I didn't have the coffee. I just had - still have, in fact - that feeling you get when you know you've lost three hours of your life that you're never getting back (no, I didn't spend three hours at the Tate. How would that be even possible? It was about twenty minutes walking around the whole gallery, and the rest of the time was spent on the walk there and back. I slowed down on the way home.)

Oh well. I'm meeting a friend at the National Portrait Gallery tomorrow. I haven't been there in ages, so I'll be sure to see if they still have the famous Joe Orton photo hanging someplace. And tomorrow I'm going to make sure that shiny happy mode is reinstated. 

Too much Sims 2...

I had every intention of writing something intelligent today, something thoughtful, perhaps philosphical. If nothing else, I was going to write something petty. 

Pettiness is important, I think. A quick browse around the notable blogroll on the front page of blogspot introduced me to a whole range of people doing profound and noble things. Sacrificing their wellbeing and safety for other people, for example, or trying to spread hope into regions of the world currently consumed by suffering.

Thank goodness for people like me, who maintain the balance of the universe by spending their days doing nothing of such charity. I've managed to waste the day admirably. I did write - 2000 words before lunch, now there's an accomplishment - but the rest of the day has been swallowed up by clearing out my cupboards, watching tennis (albeith WTA, bah) and playing Sims 2. 

Don't worry! The time has not been entirely wasted, and I've been reading a few things recently which suggest that writers need time where their minds are left to lie fallow. That's my excuse for Sims 2. But then I've come online with the intention of writing something intelligent and all I can think of is getting back to Bon Voyage and getting my latest simmie through uni. 

Something serious amongst all the pettiness. Another teenager has hanged themselves in Bridgend. There's a lot of talk about suicide cults and social networking sites; certain parts of the media are winding themselves up into a fine dander about it, too. I'm not sure that there is some kind of Bebo-based pact, though it is strange that all the teenagers have hanged themselves. What's worrying - not worrying, chilling - is that right now another teenager might be thinking that since everybody else is, maybe they will...

No, it's not a pleasant thought and it's not supposed to be. Apparently there's some kind of suicide prevention squad currently descending on Bridgend. I'm not sure these well-meaning practitioners can accomplish too much, though. Surely the point of teenage conformist behaviour is that it is oblivious to the efforts of any adult?

How horrible, to be talking about suicide as a form of conformist behaviour. I sincerely hope that these deaths are unrelated, and I sincerely hope that there won't be any more names added to the list.

Frosty Monday Mornings...

...there should be a song about them, because they're excellent. No, really. I live 18 floors up and my lounge faces west: my view is the London skyline. I can see St Paul's Cathedral. The Gherkin. Lloyds of London. Southwark Cathedral. The London Eye. On a clear day I can see Alexander Palace. 

And on a frosty day like today, all those buildings look better. 

Oh yes, I'm in a good mood! Of course I am (see yesterday for a list of reasons, of which the most important one is the last one). There's nothing like a frosty Monday morning which is also the first day of half-term to make you feel pretty darned good.

Hamlet yesterday was superb. So good was it, in fact, that I am encouraged to Do Culture far more often. I wanted to go see David Tennant's Hamlet, but Stratford's far and I can't drive. And it would cost an eyewatering amount of money to book a hotel overnight. I might want to Do Culture, but I don't want to bankrupt myself to do it. I read somewhere that it's coming to London at Christmas, but if I want tickets I'm going to have to buy a subscription to the RSC: oh, yes. It's the only way to see any RSC production: by the time regular plebs are allowed to buy tickets, they're all gone, snapped up by the subscribers. So rather than complain about the privileged who can afford £36 a year, I'm going to become one.

But! This is starting to sound bitter. Back to what matters: which is, that I heartily recommend The Factory's Hamlet to everybody and anybody. It was excellent. The initial sighting of the ghost was rugby-themed (the actors take props from the audience as they're going along); a pineapple became a means of communication; Ophelia used a camera during her 'rosemary, that's for remembrance' speech; the final duel was fought using slinkies. The theatre was used fantastically also: the stage area was used for two acts, but so was the bar, the outside courtyard and, most atmospherically, a dusty area underneath the railway arches. The actors appeared behind the audience, in the audience; they climbed walls and hung off railings. All of this should have been gimmicky, perhaps detract from the piece. But it didn't. Not once. 

The actors did a sterling job to maintain the energy of the play. Hamlet especially - Alex somebody, I'll have to check his name because he deserves the plaudits - was Hamlet all the way through. Even though two characters were playing tennis behind him during the famous 'To Be Or Not To Be' speech, he never once lost the emotion. He was excellent, all the actors were, and I'll be going to see it again.

It was inspiring. Humbling, too, because Shakespeare is such a writer - the writer - and if I were feeling less happy I'd wonder why anybody else bothers to write. Why I bother to write. But it was such fun, and the actors seemed to be having such fun. It reminded me that people don't just Do Art so that they can make a profit; they do it to enjoy the process. They do it to create. 

Hurray! A potential Double Entendre. Always a good start to the week.

No, I'm not a natural blogger...

...but you guessed that already.

But! Look over there --> today I'm going to be positive. Indeed. I will be both Shiny & Happy today.

Why the change in heart? I went over to www.thesecret.tv and watched their morning affirmation video. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, I was genuinely moved.

No, really.

Because today is a good day. It's a Sunday, which is a day I like. That's good. Adding to the goodness, this evening I'm going to see Hamlet at the Southwark Playhouse, as acted by The Factory. It sounds funky - the audience supply the props and which actor plays each role - but most importantly it means I'm Doing Culture, which is something I haven't done for a long time.

Goodness doubled.

Goodness continues: tomorrow is Monday, which is usually a Very Bad Thing. But tomorrow's Monday is different. It's half-term. This is a Very Superb Thing. 

Woohoo! No work for a week. Genius.

Goodness quadrupled. 

And then I've woken up and switched on the computer - but not the TV - and I'm writing right now and there's a pretty good chance (say 100%) that I'm going to open my current writing project and work on that. 

Goodness octrupled.

So. I'm shiny and happy. 

About bloody time.

Edit: I can't help myself. One minor niggle. Why isn't there a new Jeremy Clarkson column in today's Sunday Times? He can't be having a day off. It's not as if he's got a real job and needs a holiday.

We're All Going To Hell

Yesterday I went shopping. Since the truth is banal, pretend I was off to Louis Vuitton to bag one of their latest.

As I walked up a shiny Whitechapel street, I passed a man lying - apparently unconscious, probably asleep, possibly dead - on a set of steps. A can of cider was next to him.

Terrible, eh? It was a cold day, too. I thought - briefly - hey, I should do something. What, though? What should I do? 

What anybody nowadays would do. I carried on walking. Didn't check for a pulse, didn't slap him around his cheeks to see if I could wake him up, didn't kick him in the ribs and check for money. Just walked on.

Yeah.

About 10 steps later, I thought about what I was doing. All that stuff they taught me in primary school about helping out, about being the Good Samaritan, prodded my conscience. I was doing something Really Bad.

But it would be fine! Because walking towards me was a young man, all smiley and competent. He clearly wasn't a misanthrope. He'd have his conscience screwed into the sticking place. He'd Do Something.

Damn right he did something. He walked past. So did the next three people who passed the body: the jogger, the young girl, the Nun*. They all kept going.

There you go. The modern world. Of course nobody stopped. We all saw the can of booze, we all made the judgement. Plus, this is the modern world. This is modern London. Sure, I could stop to help the fallen, but I'd probably end up with a knife in my ribs as a thank you. Or I'd get sued. Find out I'd contravened some council directive about only approved First Aiders getting involved with the unconscious and the pathetic. Yeah, yeah. There are lots of reasons why I didn't do anything but the main one was that I couldn't be bothered. I wanted to do my shopping, wanted to get home. Just had the DVD boxset of Life On Mars delivered, see, and I wanted to watch that.

Things to do.

I did wonder, when I walked home, what I'd find. Would this poor bastard still be lying on the step? Would the rats have found him? Would somebody have finally done something?

In case you're wondering - or care - he was alive. Alive and well, in fact: he wasn't on the step anymore. He was standing outside the newsagents, eating a Ginsters cheese and onion pasty.

Happy ending. Good.

PS: Today I'm doing sympathy. Poor Britney.

*Of course the Nun didn't really just walk past. She spat on him, too, and kicked the guy in the ribs.

It's Always A Good Day

...when it starts with vomit on your bed. Two piles. Nice.

This post was going to be an opportunity to kvetch about Ricky Gervais and the sheer awfulness of celebrities who insist on telling us poor non-famous mites that it truly, really, awfully, sucks to be famous. Yes, I saw the Extras christmas special/end of series, and I'm truly grateful for what it taught me and the rest of us ordinary drones.

Yes, thanks to Extras, we can at least be grateful that we're not being snubbed at The Ivy by the latest reality celebrity to be excreted out of our TV sets and onto the front page of Heat. We might be in daily hell, screaming through from 8-til-5 at the sheer futility of what we're being forced to do in order to pay our rent, but at least we're not having to repeat the same stupid catchphrase day in and day out...

...yeah, right. Were we supposed to laugh? Was this supposed to be some kind of refreshing honesty? A celebrity saying that the whole media circus is bullshit...is this irony?

Trouble is, I'm sick to death of celebrities trying to tell us that, actually, fame is really, really difficult. No, being famous doesn't suck. In the scheme of things, it's a pretty good deal. Paparazzi everywhere? You can afford the restraining order: but you won't get one, because then where's the publicity?

Yuck. I can't even be bothered to complain about this anymore. I've got some vomit to clear up.