BLOG 14 Good Job...BAD job....

Good Job... BAD job...

Welcome to my office.

It's a Texolene garden table contemporary in style and is part of a set for 6 complete with wooden parasol. Positioned elegantly on the west side of my substantial patio it overlooks the lawn right down to the apple tree at the base of the garden which currently is heavy with white blossom.

My colleagues at the moment are two rather noisy Magpies, a couple of wood pigeons and a variety of small garden birds who chirp louder than one would imagine their size would permit.

The office ceiling today is a glorious blue sky and is lit by a very bright and warm yellow sun.

Yup... I'm a freelance writer, sitting at my laptop in my suburban garden at 10.37 wondering exactly how it is that my life got so good.

It wasn't always like this.

Approximately 2 months ago thing were very different indeed.

Two months ago I was sitting in an office in central London feeling pretty paranoid.

Three years previously I had been given the rather thankless task of using my verbal and written skills to convince a wider range of punters that they should be committing their tourist dollars to discovering the real Wild West. And NO... before you even think it we are not talking the West Country here... no cream teas and wild and windy moors...we are talking YeeeeeHa Cowboy! Told you it was a thankless task... just how many English people do you know who want to go play rhinestone cowboy?

When I arrived at the firm I was a real cheerleader for the cause. I thought the product was fresh, I thought the product was timely. I brought to it my notable contacts and many years of experience in raising the profile of the funky and obscure. I threw myself in the deep end and took on EVERYTHING. The company assured me it was behind me and safe in this knowledge I forged ahead. And yes, I ha a lot of success. -except for one thing... no one at the company seemed to care.

I had no boss other than a near invisible blonde bombshell who would saunter into the office once a quarter in a variety of too tight red suits and chat up the men. On her way out she'd nod at me or say she'd read my last report and get back to me... but she never did. Occasionally to cover her tracks of neglect she'd set up a high powered meeting in which we would discuss future plans... that never came to fruition. I spent a lot of time doing reports and analysing figures, making relationships with suppliers and tourist boards, exhibiting at shows... all with no idea of what the long term prognosis of the product was. I felt cut adrift from the real business of the company - I watched my colleagues launch products and be bathed in glory for weeks...but when I did product launch...not one member of senior management turned up. I watched my budgets slashed and my targets increase... and it dawned on me I had been set up to fail.

My confidence dropped below sea level and I couldn't trust my own judgement anymore. I spent a great deal of time in as highly productive state of paralysis staring at the treetops out of the window. I began to develop nausea as soon as I arrived at my desk every morning.

I hated the sound of the ringing phone...sometimes pretending I could not recognise my phones distinct staccato bleep and letting it ring out to the office at large. I'd put mu phone on busy as soon as the incoming call had safely been picked up by someone else, then stare at the message sent to me by e-mail as I tried to find ways to avoid returning the call - hoping the caller had left an e-mail address so I could drop them a non committal mailer back rather than talk to them. I became convinced everyone was listening to my telephone calls and commenting on my lack of ability. I became lost in the silent world of the keyboard. : The only sound I was awaiting was the sound of the other shoe dropping.

You see, a horrendous job is like a chronic illness - it affects everything in your life. If work is a pool then the rest of your life is a sponge. If all is going well then the sponge is nourished by the pool, if work stops then the sponge dries up a little. But if it bad the pool is toxic and your world soaks in the poison from the pool. You can't go out with your friends, you can't hang with your family, you can't even go on holiday without a constant low-grade sense of dread: WORK. It taints everything. Before long you have become that person... "The person who is always bitching about their job"... and no one wants to be around you. Worst still you can't just leave because the paranoia that everyone thinks you are lousy at your job makes you cling to the rock face...convinced you can't move.

And then one snowy morning in February out of the blue... it ended.

Totally unaware of the purpose of the meeting I had been called to (I thought I was to get a bollicking for taking a snow-day when London ground to a halt)... they told me it was no longer economically viable for me to continue and they were giving me severance pay..blah blah.
They even said the magic words... "It's not you...it's us"

And so two months later here I am. The sun is shining. Bees buzz around in the bluebells I had never noticed grow in the borders of my pretty garden. I can hear nothing but bird conversing in the trees and a few wood pigeons are using my wall as a dating agency.

Full time paid work looks some time away, being that we are in the grips of a global recession - but I don't mind. After I had my novel published some 5 years ago I always promised to write more - but work got in the way... there was never enough time! I know that there are those who view freelance writing as a grovelling netherworld which earns one only slightly more respect than an escort constantly soliciting to be paid for what should be free! I know that people regard writing as a skill that is simply an extension of talking - that it is something ANY idiot can do given enough paper... I know that there are those who think I have lost professional credibility by not commuting to an office and having an employer per say. But I don't care.

I am no longer an employee. But I don't have a sadistic or persecuting manager either. I don’t have colleagues sharpening knives ready to plunge into my back. I don't drone on and on about office politics, or a good idea underfunded, poorly executed or totally ignored. I don't come over queasy with the anticipation of the horrors to come when I reach for my first morning coffee. I don't walk ten minutes to the lunch spot, spend ten minutes queuing, ten minutes tetchily awaiting its preparation and presentation only to have to bolt it in ten minutes so that I can get back in ten minutes. I don't live only from 5.30pm on a Friday night to 12 midnight Sunday morning either.

I have a skill that allows me to keep busy from home, doing something I love in the place I chose to live in... a place I have come to appreciate more and more having spent more time actually in it and around it.

So... welcome to my office. It's mid-morning and I am relaxed and happy. And once I've finished today’s pieces... I'm meeting my sister at the V&A to take in the exhibition of hats... and have a long and leisurely lunch.... my new boss said it was OK.

Blog 13 FAIRY Story

21 April
Fairy Story
Once upon a time there was a girl who had a lot of stuff in common with another fairy tale character.

Sleeping Beauty?
No... She was an insomniac!

Thumbelina?
No.. she was above average height.

Cinderella?
No... lack of step-sisters, wicked step mother and kitchen servitude!

Princess and the Pea?
NO!... look I'm gonna have t tell you or we'll be here all day!

She had a lot in common with The Ugly Duckling... in a world of white swans there she was bobbing around on the same pond with feathers all stubby and brown. It was unsightly... it let the pond down... BIG TIME.

So.. as is tradition in fairy tale land, UD (as we shall call her) went off on an adventure... cause face facts NOTHING was working out or her on the pond.
The adventure was to get accepted to a magical kingdom called University. It was oft said of this magical kingdom that pond eyesore such as UD could in the three years away from the pond, blossom and return home triumphant having worked out the kinks with their awkward and unseemly presentation or if all else fails at least found the purpose for their existence and return able to contribute something to the pond rather than just sore eyes.

So ever hopeful, UD packed her belongings and set off on her adventure. New starts meant a make over as far as she could tell... she had been a devotee of an American magazine which instructed its pubescent readers of a dress code for such an adventure. Plaid shirts, corduroy slacks, knitted waist-coats, and on days when corduroy slack would not do.. A-line skirts worn with knee high stocks and mary-jane shoes. Quite clearly the magazine got this look which they called 'the preppy' from some subterranean department of hell... but UD was not to know this... for such was the horror of her appearance during her pubescent years... even she was aware that it was a tough call to expect an ensemble of clothing to rectify the damage .

There were many many UD's at university.

It was most unlike school. School took in a large catchment from the local pond... irrespective of cerebral activity. In fact cerebral activity did not worry the administrators of the school for the first three years. By the time it did rise to be a matter of some concern to them, the pupils had formed a hierarchy of their own... based on physical appearance. Thus the most popular pupils were the ones whom nature had blessed with features fair and lovely. It was they who unofficially governed the school, deeming who may walk in the shadow of beauty and who may linger silently and alone in the shade. School was much like being on the pond for UD...she did not fit in.

However, freedom from inclusion in all the social events and general school hub-bub, gave UD plenty of time to spend on her studies. However, the fourth and fifth year of school were all about passing examinations. This did not bother the fair and beautiful, many of whom were promised great things in the job market which would be open to them once the fifth year at school had passed. It seemed the job market was run rather like school... the fair and the lovely would always find a door open to them. So UD kept her unsightly head in her books....

With all that time focusing on her school work, UD sailed through these test and was invited to remain at school for a further two years in order to take more examinations with a view to going to University. UD had no idea what University was, but as it meant that she would not have to compete with the fair and lovely in the jobs market...she accepted the offer to stay on at school. She did so as a diversion... but never had a diversion paid of so well.. as the University offered her a place.

As we said the first thing that UD noticed at University was that the balance between the fair and lovely and those less blessed with beauty seemed to have changed dramatically. Although there were a few of the fair and lovely around, the majority of residents of the kingdom of University were not so blessed... and better still no one seemed to care.. everyone was more interested in the contents of ones mind. If one of the fair and lovely could not answer the question posed or argue for or against a point raised...their power melted away.

UD felt right at home.

Whilst University was a delightful reprieve from the ravages puberty had forced upon her, UD had a secret wish in her heart. She had noticed that University had students who were both blessed with cerebral skills and the appearance of being fair and lovely. Instead of resenting the unfairness of this, she secretly wished to be one of them. If truth be told UD really could have done with having just one special someone that she could share her innermost thoughts with. It was lovely to be surrounded by people who appreciated her mind but she wanted to be special to just one person. This more than anything motivated her secret wish... for she had noticed that boys at University just like boys at school, gravitated to the fair and lovely.

Of course... three years is a long time. Three years can take one to the end of the path of adolescence and into the first bloom of womanhood. Of course UD was far to busy with her studies to notice this.

She made a friend with a cerebral, but fair and lovely young man called Krisopher. Krisopher came from a land far far away, and took great exception to UD's wardrobe. In Krisopher’s land, knowledge of how to put together an outfit came as second nature. He insisted that UD sell him all her tragic clothing and take the money to go and buy some clothing that had something he called style. Of course UD had no idea what this was, so they spent many happy months assembling a new wardrobe for her. Krisopher also took exception to her grooming and patiently spent many hours showing UD how to make the most of her first bloom of womanhood. He was a rather complex individual, one moment able to argue the origins of radio (claiming Macaroni’s patent to be plagiarism), and the next being able to wittily reduce a room to tears (with his raconteur skills). They all but moved into each others accommodations and were inseparable. It became hard for anyone to speak UD's name without using Krisopher’s right along side it. Kristopher was able to be her best friend, her tutor, her stylist and love interest all rolled into one.

Except... for a love interest... there was precious little loving going on!

UD had absolutely no intention of keeping any of her virtues, and made it quite clear to Krisopher and many occasion that if he felt so moved he could have first dibs!. A statement that only forced Krisopher into brotherly cuddles during which he told her she was 'priceless'.

During the last few days of the final year at University, the unexpected happened.

UD got another suitor.

Andrew was almost as fair and lovely as Kristopher But there were some differences UD could not help but notice. He not a witty as Krisopher, his interest in UD's presentation was certainly ardent, but he had no interest in the mechanics of how this came to be. UD has slightly bewildered as to what on earth to do with him. He was ever present.. but any suggestions to go and do something...like shopping, or maybe go for a manicure or waxing was met with derision on his part. What on earth did he want from her?

UD was given little option but to have it out with Andrew. Andrew was quite shocked and angry that she felt that he was somehow competition for Krisopher. He laughed cruelly in her face. When he saw that she was genuinely upset, he asked he if she had any idea why Krisopher often wore T-shirts emblazoned with the legend "Good As You... and proud". UD informed Andrew it was to symbolise that he was both Cerebral and Fair and Lovely... that he had a foot in both camps and was proud of this. Andrew melted at such innocence and gently informed her that Good As You is popularly acronymied as GAY. Homosexual. Never likely to be remotely interested in deflowering what was patiently obvious to Andrew as a bud that had come into bloom.

UD felt a rush of many emotions as the truth of the matter of Krisopher's sexuality sunk in. The most foremost emotion was rage. This of course worked well for Andrew as she insisted he deflower her right there and then - a task he took to with some enthusiasm and no questions asked. UD refused to ever talk to Krisopher again.

University came to an end.

UD returned to her pond.

The years had not been too kind to the fair and lovely that she had left behind... many of whom were worn out looking after a brood of their own. Once more UD did not fit in...despite her recent deflowering, UD had enough education to know how not to have a brood until she was ready...so she did not fit in with the residents of the pond. However, UD's education meant a lot of people from the job market over on the big pond were interested in her.

UD started work, but before long she had a visit from Andrew. He was very keen that they move to the big pond together. This seemed to make perfect sense so UD once more packed her belongings (this time she instinctively knew what was right and needed no help from American magazines!).. and Andrew and her moved to the big pond.


A whole decade went by. Both UD and Andrew had done very well for themselves and had one of the nicest nests on the big pond. Although they moved in a large circle of friends who had similar background, UD had gathered around herself a smaller circle of male friends. As all these men to man were Gay, she felt Andrew would not feel threatened by them. However Andrew did feel deeply annoyed that she had a void he could not fill, so solved the problem by leaving the boyfriend role open to all comers as he was OUT OF THERE!.

UD was alone again. Her small inner circle picked her up, dusted her down and got her back out there again.

Within months along came Vinny. He was nothing like Andrew. For a start he had never been to university, being one of the fair and lovely he was snapped up by the local job market before he even finished school. Vinny was interested in anything that glittered - gold or otherwise. He found her inner circle non threatening and got along with them very well though he clearly could not be one of them. Actually as he had no brood of his own, but was very keen to start one with UD...which was timely as her biological clock had begun to tick loudly.

They did not hurry. UD was badly burned by the Andrew experience and Vinny had a whole heap of complicated relationship past debris to clear up... in fact it took three years. Just as the three years had past... Vinny and UD started a brood of their own... so Vinny moved into the nest on the big pond. UD stopped working in the big pond and was very happy, she had her brood and she had Vinny.

And eight years went by.

There was no trouble in paradise, no signposts, no writing in blood on the walls.... nothing. Vinny decided he'd like to start another brood somewhere else with someone else... but to do this he needed the money from the nest on the big pond. UD tried to make him see reason - to sell the nest would leave her and the brood homeless.... but Vinny wanted the money and insisted on the sale.

So UD sold the nest that she and Andrew had bought on the Big Pond and gave a large amount of money to Vinny.

But UD and her brood still had her inner circle. They picked her up (again), they dusted her off (again) and got her out there (again).

But this time UD did not find a man to replace Vinny. She found herself.

She looked in the mirror and there were no stubby brown feathers. Apparently they hadn't been there since university! She thought back to university and how shabbily she had treated Krisopher and felt ashamed. She Googled his name and found he was doing well for himself in the land far far away. She sent him an e-mail apologising. He e-mailed back. .... He said to her... pity you didn't know back then that another word for Gay is Fairy. Fairy's will always look after their princesses... now stop wasting time e-mailing apologies and go have a fabulous life!

So she did.

And like all fag-hags...she lived happily ever after.

THE END

BLOG 12 : SEX and the chitty

One of our most treasured myths is that sex.. in the normal play... is free.

My dear friend Jonny Bristol said as much to me only earlier this afternoon. We were talking about the recession...(oh isn't it great to be able to say that word at last... don't know about you but the words 'credit crunch' make me think of Breakfast cereal rather than global economy)... and anyway, Jonny says, he is finding that in his circle people are a lot more perky about the prospect of horizontal jogging as it is the last free activity left in these penny pinching times.
But then Jonny Bristol resides in the West Country (as did I many moons ago) and it is not for lack of interest in other activities that the comely maidens and gents of those westward counties find hay rolling such a temptation.. but the distinct lack of them! Put quite simply down in the western corner of these sceptred isles.. there is bugger all else to do, recession or no!

Here in the metropolis, things are somewhat different... diversion is something that we need not struggle for.London did not get nor retain its title as the worlds most exciting capital, by being mundane. We have the arts, ballet, opera, galleries by the yard and of course we also have on tap the highest level of commercial theatre in the English -speaking world. We're not stuck for a few restaurants, bars and clubs across our thirty two boroughs... and we are quite a host for live music and sporting events. Our river frontage has iconic status - instantly recognisable ...dotted as it is with architecture loved, hated, debated or simply endured for hundreds and hundreds of years. Our public open spaces the envy of the world (think Green Chain Walk, Russell Square Gardens, Victoria Park, Greenwich Park to name but a few). Oh yes London, unlike its provincial cousins, does not have a problem entertaining its folk.. as Mr Johnson famously wrote..."“when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life”. We Londoners do not take intimacy as a save-all from tedium. And we CERTAINLY could not do so as an exercise in cost cutting. Sex... in London at least is possibly the most expensive thing you could do!

When I lived in Devon, the only requirement to a night of passion were scrumpy...a lethal infusion of cider that was guaranteed to get even a catholic novitiate in the mood... and access to somewhere secluded. I kid you not... if someone smiled at you the right way in town all that was required to take it further was the will (or at least the will to consume enough scrumpy to think you had the will) and a place. The place could be anything... barns were great..hence the popularity of the term 'a roll in the hay'... but otherwise a surprising amount of ingenuity came to play! Personal grooming involved not smelling bad, and having a fashionable haircut. Personal style involved wearing what everyone else did. Drink we have covered but food....well to be honest culinary treats involved going to Porky's and getting a burger and chips on the way home (if he REALLY liked you). Yes... back in that time and at that geography... Sex REALLY WAS a cheap diversion! And, lucky, lucky Johnny Bristol still has access to this.

Oh never a truer word said than when my father muttered "Time and Geography have not been on my side"... though he was moaning about missing an eclipse, I will stretch the quote to cover my point... in 2009 in London...sex is bloody expensive!

Lets leave out the modern minefield of actually being able to meet someone with whom sex is even the vaguest of possibilities... lets just take this from the point where numbers have been exchanged and further contact has been arranged.

So you have a place arranged to meet. Can't go straight for a meal or an activity ..new etiquette insists you meet for a pre-date snack/drinks first... as heaven forbid you sit in a restaurant stone cold sober or actually hungry! So you booked the pre-date venue, then secured the main event venue... but if the first venue is say a after work 7pm meet and the table (say you are going for that meal) is booked for 8-8.30... even if things go well you would be out of there for 11pm at a crawl! What if you got on... you'll HAVE to go on... you need either a late night drinking venue or a dance floor. Even if you split the cost 50/50... this is NOT going to be the cheapest night of the year.... you better pray that there is only ONE cab ride home. (more of THAT later!)

Then there is the personal grooming... it's not enough to just not smell of pigs trotters. There are all sorts of body parts that must be filed, shaped and in many cases have their natural colour disguised. Gone are the days when a man could have the grit from a days work beneath his nails or a woman could have nails that didn't end in a 1/4 inch of glossy white paint! One may not smell of anything you may have naturally come across in your day.. before leaving to meet a potential sex partner one must dowse all body parts with water and a variety of chemical solutions. Quite a lot of the chemical solutions involve your hair...ones to make it clean in shiny and a whole heap to sculpt, mould or hold. And on the subject of hair.. it ain't just the stuff on top of your head! One must remove stray hairs (gentlemen too... it is now no longer acceptable for either gender to sport the uni-brow look). Things must be shaved and clipped and shaped... and no I do not mean just a gentleman’s' beard... ladies too. Have you been watching TV lately... seen the Veet ad that likens 'lady hair' to topiary? It's not the fact that every bush that the ladies pass in their travel neaten themselves up... it's the closing line "What ever your Style" Yep... something new to worry about, it used to be enough to keep it neat but now you must have a STYLE??! But face fact do you want sex or not...for this is NOT the hurdle you want to fall at..personal grooming has been categorised entry level stuff .


Okay we are groomed and we have places scheduled in to provide the back drop. So now you have to find an outfit. Oh yes... this will be something you have NOT been seen in before, but something that does not look too new so you can say convincingly ' what this old thing' - cause heaven forbid you get caught trying too hard! This outfit must set the scene of what is to come... you are fearless, your are imaginative, you are what must be had NOW. It's a lot to ask a mute concoction of fabric and thread to shout... but that is fashion darling. So a quick jaunt to the shops is called for. But do bear in mind that not only has this outfit got to be a la mode...it must also look good in TWO venues...always with the nagging thought that if you go on to go dancing afterwards...that'll be THREE venues! You can say vintage as much as you like...clothes that suggest that they will also look good on the bedroom floor are seldom found in your local branch of Scope.

Okay its 7pm. London has the disadvantage of having millions of restaurants serving thousands of dishes from around the world. Unlike living a small town where you HAVE to take your date to the local pub as there is nowhere else... London forces you to choose. However, given this imported etiquette of pre-date drinks there are now many restaurants that also have a full service bar. You've ordered cocktails downed a couple whilst getting chatter going with your dining partner. You go through for dinner. Now then... quandary....save cost by NOT having starter... but ending meal sooner then having to buy expensive drinks after meal... no defo have all three courses and definitely share the wine... but more in their glass than yours. However... entrees do not come with veg and you can't be seen to just wolf down a steak on its own.... there are a thousand financial hurdles during the course of the meal... you just have to accept that the restaurant has you by the topiaries! THEY know you need their ambiance to set the scene to make that bedroom action happen. And they know you are horney enough to stump up.

If the dancing didn't happen because the body language was screaming my place or yours.....you still don't save too much cash as your next big expense is the cab. Trouble with London is that nothing is exactly on your doorstep.. residential has in most cases remained not the same criteria as commercial property. Thus a good bar club or restaurant would not be located in a residential area. If you live north of the river... you know you will not be seeing any change from twenty quid. If you live south of the river you know we are talking trust fund money. A wise move is to book a hotel in town for the night as it cost the same as a cab to south London... BUT.. find me a date who doesn't find the whole 'they had a hotel booked and it was the FIRST DATE!' thing a major turn off. Despite the fact you couldn't have anything more planned than a date... the whole thing is supposed to feel spontaneous... so it really comes back to the oldest question... my place...or yours.

So... you and your amore crash through the door of your pad. Yup distinct lack of barns in London, and besides you HAVE to have your own place or access to something that passes as your own place. Elderly parents waiting up and asking if you 'had a nice evening dear' are really NOT the route to passion. Is it just me... but it seems only in movies does the living room get by-passed! There is the ritual of the checking out the cd/dvd collection whilst drinking a 'night cap'. Okay not of the ovaltine variety...and yes the alcohol injection just before the bedroom is always a good plan.... but this means if it's happening in your place.. you've topped up your liquor cabinet to include some stuff you don't normally drink....just in case.

Finally! You are in the bedroom. The pennies spent on some fabulous new underwear/lingerie at this point proving rather a satisfying investment... the quids on a nice sized container of latex friends even more so.

So let’s look at the chitty shall we? To get to this point on Thursday night in London.... in hard cash?... Let’s see... personal grooming, manicure, date outfit, lingerie/underwear, condoms, cocktails, meal, wine, cab, extras in the drinks cabinet..... Shall I tell you?

Put it this way... you would have rented a small flat in Chelsea for 8 nights. Not really something you wanna do whilst we are in the grips of recession and we are all claiming to draw the horns in. Unfortunately we forget about that the moment we get the horn.
Yup... the sex was definitely free.... but it cost ya...just the same!

BLOG 11: Avoiding Bad News

03 April
BLOG 11: Avoiding bad news

Is it just me?

When I know there is bad news a-coming I tuck, roll, dive, slither like Catherine Zeta Jones in Entrapment... anything other than have the inevitable contact with the source of what I suspect to be unpleasant.

Of course such action (and I convince myself this is not inaction... I do not remind us of Ms Zeta Jones lightly, for this trait of mine takes a mind boggling amount of effort), such action is ultimately doomed as the rule of the universe seems to be face your fear or your fear will come and face you.

I have recently been reminded of this by two current situations.

Firstly my best friend whom I have known some thirty plus years has sent me an e-mail which has the words sad news in the title... I have an inkling of what this may be about and I know it is important to read it and get back to her... and yet I wish to prolong the moment where I don't actually know for sure what the e-mail contains... so it sits unread whilst I write this blog. (Tuck, roll, dive slither). I associate the word sad with bereavement..as my longest standing relationship with a woman outside my nuclear family I suspect if she is bereaved then so am I, as our early lives were so intertwined that I love hers as if they were my own. But if the e-mail contains what I suspect, I will have to be there for her and I need a moment to prepare myself. But why am I stalling? - Its been more than a moment, the mail arrived yesterday... I know what I have to do.

Secondly as you all know I have been made redundant from my job, so never before has money been such an issue. I have a friend (and I use that word under advisement) who borrowed 1500 pounds from me back in the day. Having repeatedly asked about it's return for the past couple of years and recently begged her to return it given the dramatic change in my personal circumstances, I have to face facts that she has shafted me and has decided never return the funds. I have to now take serious action to get my money back. But again I ask - why I am I stalling? It is obviously the time to bring in the big guns... I know what I have to do.

The honest truth is these are two situations I find unpalatable. The first situation of course says more about my character than the friend in question... The second says volumes about the character of the person I thought was a friend than myself. But either way the person who is most accountable to me is me.. so what is with the stalling tactics?

We all know having watched an episode or two of Jeremy Kyle (who am I kidding... like about a zillion episodes of Jeremy Kyle, for what is more comforting than seeing the occupants of scottish sink estates and southern caravan parks scream and threaten each other on national telly) that leaving matters to fester is not the path to resolution. We must take action. Unopened letters cause debt, unreturned phone calls cause rejection, unspoken issues cause suspicion ...untaken action causes nothing but problems.

Come into my hallway....

My letter rack contains what once were called brown envelopes (these days of course they are white, but sensibly have the logos of the senders on the outside so I know it's you Thames Water, RBS, Southern Electric!)... beautifully filed in my IKEA rack...unopened as yet. My phone co-ordinates beautifully with the letter rack... but the red message light blinks beguilingly, as it has done since yesterday... I will listen to them, but not yet. My mobile lives in the bowels of my handbag... I am sure I will look at it during the course of the day. And I will... for you cannot avoid these thing forever, one must deal with the contact the outside world forces upon one.

And before you condemn me... look at YOUR e-mail inbox... up to date is it? Facebook friend requests.. answered ... or ignored for now? Have you bought the present for that wedding yet? Is Aunty Bee's Birthday card in the post now? What about that promotion at work you were gonna go for... is YOUR hat in the ring yet?

Thought so.

We like to think we are in control of our lives don't we. We think that choosing NOT to act is a real choice. And yet we hear the distant echo of the mantra that silence (for that is what no action is) gives consent to the action of others. History is full of actions taken because it was believed the majority were silent because they had nothing to say. Non-action is the antipathy of control.

Or to put it more bluntly....it is clear that the discussion never had, the actions never taken, the assumptions arrived at with little substance lead only to a seat on Jeremy Kyle to the titillation of the nation! But tell me... why does it feel like you are taking action when you say to yourself "Actually ... no!... not now...later".

So... I stall no longer. I will now go and open that Sad News e-mail... I can kid myself no longer that just because I haven't looked, it didn't happen. I will follow this with sending in the big guns to collect my 1500 pounds as I can kid myself no longer that she intends to return it.

But I ask again... why did it feel empowering to shift the moment when I had to deal with these issues to an unfixed point that just wasn't right now?

Why of all deceptions does this one feel the most real?




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BLOG 10: Alert the Fashion Police!

26 March
Blog 10: ALERT THE FASHION POLICE: No Boots and No tights... IN MARCH!
Hey ho... it's March! It's also Northern Europe... so there is no warmth in the sun (well there was a mini heatwave last week but get real all that happened was that we carried our jackets rather than wear them for a few days!). We are not yet ready to scrape our winter wardrobes in favour of the lighter clothes of spring... it's MARCH... still winter to us... and our legs and feet need protection from the cold.

My winter ensemble has always been my favourite... I like the fact the weather allows for the boots. I LOVE my boots... somehow a boot gives leg confidence a mere shoe or sandal could only dream of... suddenly walking in killer heels is a doddle, but above all it's the wardrobe flexibility that makes the boot king.! I have the ankle ones that give a long leg with trousers, I have the knee high ones that look cute with a feminine skirt.. and there are the I even have the thigh highs that somehow give the perfect excuse to shorten my skirt length to giddy heights... helped out by the fact my legs are encased in tights... well... it's not like flashing bare skin is it!

And on that subject...all holla the tights...friend to every woman! (Conversely enemy of every man.. due to the fact they can't get them off... all that nostalgia for stockings is just an excuse ..most men are too young to remember stockings being worn routinely!) I have fine denier tights that give that 1940's stockinged leg look, I have heavy denier tights in bold block colours, I have crazy patterned numbers, cunning opaque numbers, suggestively lacey numbers... and some confidence giving 'if only my legs were this perfect' tights that are fabulous with a short flippy skirt.

And it's March.. the last month of boots and tights, and the weather is encouragingly overcast, windy, drizzly, and PERFECT for tights and boots!

We are months away from short sleeves and bare legs so what is going on with me... WHERE are my tights... WHERE are my boots??

Well they are the latest victim of Captain Credit Crunch!

Yes I was made redundant from my central London job in February....but just because I was made redundant doesn't mean I have to slip into sweatpants and wear my hair in a scrunchy and sit in front of the telly! Besides...daytime TV is FULL of make-over shows... I had no idea there were so many! I knew we were in the age of Gok.. and even the age of the less revered Trinny and Suzannah... but believe me EVERY other programme in the day time is hammering home the message that we must know the value of self image to us... you have to feel good about yourself to be able to project who you really are to others. It's about marketing yourself.

And of course marketing yourself to others is what us redundant folk do... we spend all day trying to convince people that we are what they need. Hard to do that if you catch sight of Waynetta Slobb in the hallway mirror!

And so I never depart from my morning routine. I have a shower. I spend 1/2 an hour with the GHD's. I do my make up... (so have got the no-make-up make up look down now!)... I choose a few tops for my trade mark layered tops look... then I slither into my jeans... and TRAINERS!

Six weeks ago whilst gainfully employed...I teetered into work in a variety of ensembles...from micro mini's with patterned tights and high heeled boots , to culottes with opaques and knee high boots to oxford bags with ankle boots Monday to Thursday. And come Dress Down Friday... and even then my killer heels accompanied my jeans.

It was the norm in town. I enjoyed the chats with other women... 'where did you get that'... "love the way you wear that!'. Half the thrill of putting on an outfit for work was what the other girls had to say about it. I admit it.. I had been known to make unessential trips to other floors if I felt that outfit was really working for me that day!

Yup... captain credit crunch has taken away my stage! Being made redundant has a lot of issues, but I wasn't anticipating this one...I never knew it before but work was my catwalk!!!

Try as I might, the uniform for the unemployed is a much more casual affair....heels and hosiery not required.

It's been six weeks now, and I leave the house every day... to keep sane believe me you find an outdoor task daily ... and there is no one between the hours of 10 and 5 in tights and boots! I see the commuters pass my house... I see the females of the species in opaque tights and little skirts... I hear the sound of heels on asphalt... and I sigh. I hear and see this only till 9am, and don't again till those same boots come home again. From the last fading click click clack running for the 9.01 to London I enter the land of the purposeful walking shoe and denim clad legs...... there is no need for the non-working to slip into anything less functional.

I had no idea that tights and heels were the remit of the working woman only! No one click click clacks during the daytime in suburbia. No one shows a multi-coloured ankle let alone thigh. Its a whole new uniform! We the recently unemployed have standards for sure. We cannot let our standards slip - it is important we look good so we can feel good whilst fighting the good fight to get back into the work place. The code is clear: Make up - Yes. Groomed - certainly. Well turned out - absolutely. But heels and nylons?... NO!... to wear these in suburbia has a whole load of unpleasant implications abut how you are making ends meet! So unless you are rushing for the 9.01....you need a damned good excuse to slip on those babies no matter HOW good they make you feel.

My only hope is one of my nine hundred and four CV's will produce an interview before spring. Oh... the clothing opportunities such an event will bring! To stand again on the platform with the high heeled and hosiery wearing again! To be one of them again even just for an hour... to be able to be surrounded by inspiration from other women! To walk into an office and pass an admiring eye over a pair of Carvela's or a colleague-to-be's Wosleys... oh interview PLEASE come before the flip flop returns!

For all the things that would motivate one back into the work place who knew mourning for a 3 inch Miss Sixty heel or a pair of patterned Charnos would have a part to play?!

BLOG 9: Beginning, Middles and Ends

15 March
Beginnings, Middles and Ends

Beginnings are scary, Endings are nearly always sad, and the good bit lies in the middle. That's what I was told as a child about life.

I was told to expect that starting anything new would scare me. This panned out to be true. I was told that the end of most things is sad. This also panned out to be true. I was also told that the joy of life would most likely be found in the bit that lies between what is new and what has ended.. also true.

I love the middle of anything. Once the fear of starting something new has subsided, I seem to hit cruise control and the best of me comes out. I am so unbelievably crap at starting over. It seems I can never choose and I am never chosen. Beginnings allude me.

Starting something for me generates one thousand lists of pros and cons which I half arssedly play with forever. I audition situations and possible outcomes for ever, until time runs out then I am forced into plumping for what ever is the only option available at that time... which often is not quite the one I should have gone for. I do wish I would get chosen... but as I said I never am and I am as bad at choosing options so eventually I just drift into a situation and have to get on with it.

But once I have learnt the ropes of whatever situation I now find myself in... a kind of magic happens. It's like the unexpected yummy centre of an apparently hard boiled sweet... its a reward for sticking with what seemed unlikely.

I have managed to be remarkably good at jobs that I had no predisposition for but had to take as bills needed paying. I have managed to be an outstanding girlfriend to men I was at first totally unattracted to. It is the same situation with friends - so many of the people I am closest to now are not the people whose friendship I actively courted. The beginnings of all these situations were scary. They were unknown, I had to find resources within myself to deal with them. I had to find resources I never knew I had... but once that was over, I was in the middle.

And once you are in the middle - you have a opportunity to shine, to love and be loved, to smile and laugh and return the favour - which is the best part of all. There is no drama in the middle. The middle is not the stuff of stories... in movies the middle is often sped-through with a montage of images to a backing track.. (you never hear what is said in middle, you just see people looking happy).

But we never seem to stay in the middle for long. Before we know it we are facing the thing I fear most... the bit that is nearly always sad.. An ending.

There is a finality about things ending. It means no going back... Game Over.

It is not just the loss of the middle that has generated in me a fear of endings... for what else does an ending lead to if not the scary world of the something new... but worse ending also by nature have to be a climax...which is just soooooooo exhausting.

Endings have to climatic by nature... something always dies... be it a person or a situation. There has to be a bereavement of sorts, followed by some kind of wake.

It is such a performance piece! It demands large gestures and actions of finality..closed doors, buried boxes and the like.

However, There is at least some luck in my geography... I don't HAVE to do endings. I live in Europe! Here the local preference has always been to just drift out of situations and leave a gap in a window so that we may crawl back in later...if the opportunity arises. Of course historically this is not good.. never having dealt with situations to the point of finality means that England , France and Germany have spent the better part of 10 centuries beating the crap out of each other with each war being the last... till the next one. BUT over all the system is ideal for people like me who sometimes can simply not be asked with participating the drama ending anything usually demands.

Then of course the happy clappy Americans just HAD to go and change that... suddenly the word CLOSURE entered our language.

We are all now supposed to work hard on endings... things need CLOSURE now .No more messy European fade to grey with a shrug.. nope CLOSURE, everything must have a finality about it. Everything must be born at the beginning, live in the middle and die at the end. CLOSURE. Then and only then are you free to move on.

There is no escape... it is now expected that we must deal with the ends of things and once this exhausting process is over somehow have the strength to deal with the beginnings of things.

I have no idea how one is supposed to do this, for instance when I recently lost my job to redundancy the demand for closure was high... the last time I got made redundant I just went out the door same day. But now they make you go back to your desk and everyone was asking... how are you gonna put this to rest?. Like I should have a plan sorted when the whole damn thing was news to me! All I was thinking was heck I have to start on a new beginning (and I hate beginning), but there were all these people asking me about closure on the old situation. So I gave closure the only way I know how.. I had a party. We celebrated the redundancy like a irish wake and much drinking, dancing and talking-bollix took place till a ludicrous hour of the morning.

I am not sure if that is what is meant by closure but people have stopped asking me about the demise of my job now - so it worked for me! Thing is I am crap at closure, I have no idea how you do it, however as it is the middle where life (the good bit) actually happens, I guess you just have to keep going till you get to the middle.

It's a good idea to remember that when you end up back at a beginning. AGAIN.


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BLOG 8: The Great Unwashed, Gold Taps and Marble Bathrooms

13 March
BLOG EIGHT: The great unwashed, gold taps and marble bathrooms
a Ha! we are in the grips of a global recession! Don't I know it... last Friday 13th (And yes it is now the 2nd of the three Friday 13th's we have this year) I was told by my company that my job 'had been selected to be removed from the structure'... which is HR speak for you have just been made redundant.

So after over 2 decades of being continuously employed... I am now unemployed.

I am now one of the great unwashed. (Though I supposed due to the advent of indoor plumbing for all... even us unemployed folk can afford a bath)

I have to admit joining the great swath of unemployed folk has not been as traumatic as I at first assumed. The first few days were spent cleaning the house to the standard that only a dedicated housewife can achieve... tops of doors, the inside rim of windows (oh come on if you work who has the time to open windows and clean the seal between the frames), and all those curious places that you never really bother with, the s-bend out the back of the loo, the insides of lampshades, the skirting board behind the units etc etc. But there comes a point when you've hoovered the mattresses more than once in a week that you realise you are sliding into obsession.

Trauma comes in many forms... OCD as a reaction to redundancy seems to be mine!

So I needed to get on with doing something that got me out of the (very shiny) house... and didn't cost me any money. So what better than taking on the benefits system. Lots of appointments in municipal buildings, and lots of purposeful form filling between appointments... PLUS... this exercise would surely generate some much needed income whilst I await one of my CV's to hit home with my whomever my next employer will be.

Having never even claimed a discount on council tax - this was virgin territory. Luckily I have a great friend who managed to compile a list of where to start.. they pay you to be at home, they cover your rent, they pay for your kid, they even let you off council tax.. all you have to do is fill in the forms . After all I'd paid tax all these years.. it was due me! Redundancy was less of a problem and more of a winning lottery ticket, people are always saying they'd be better off on the dole than working...after all we are always reading stories of people on benefits living in the lap of luxury whilst we poor wage monkeys are out there grafting. Well I am a wage monkey NO MORE!

And if these tales are true, I may be one of the great unwashed now but I will be able to claim enough to get gold taps and a marble bathroom...all I have to do is ask!

First port of call was the Job Centre (or Job Centre Plus as it is now trendily and pointlessly called). First a two hour marathon phone call with a nice scottish lady who wanted to know everything about me and phrased each question in 8 different ways at eight different points to see if she could trip me up! (And your date of birth is?; ah so you born on? How old were you on the day your son was born? Your birthday is? What was the month and year and day of your birth? etc etc). Hence why her 'few simple questions ' took two hours! Satisfied that I really was born when I said I was (like my NHS no and Passport No did not reveal the same information... surely she has a computer her end) She made an appointment for me to see her live local colleague the following Friday... and could I please bring .... proof of my Date Of Birth etc etc. (WHEN will these government departments learn to cross reference).

The Job Centre Plus is very different from the old grey labour exchange of my youth! For a start it is orange and purple and pink! When you arrive you are met by 'hostesses'. HONESTLY!!! I thought I was in a restaurant... Two girls in pink sweatshirts (emblazoned with the legend JOBCENTREPLUS... Can I Help? )were holding clip boards and checking your name is down on the 'guest' list! If your name is down you are in. (EVER WONDERED WHY there are always people loitering outside a job centre?.... if you are early you are not allowed in(!).. you are politely asked to pop back (like when your table is ready???).... but you are unemployed..WHERE are you going to go?

So your name is down and you are told which floor to go to.

On arrival on your floor, you are met by what I can only describe as a bouncer who checks you are on HIS list then ushers you to a pink, a purple or an orange IKEA sofa and informs you you will be called by your case worker as soon as they are available. To amuse yourselves in the mean time please avail yourself of the machines and magazines.

Now in case you think you are in Vegas, I hasten to add the orange, pink and purple touch screen machines are not slots, but an intranet version of the job centres website. You simply tap in your desired job and it prints out on a piece of shiny loo roll.. Job Title, Location, Wage, Closing Date and Description... even details of how and where to apply. Bloody different from the hand written cards on boards they had many yonks ago!

Then the Magazines... I came a cross a high production spec little number called INSPIRE... that takes you through the life affirming stories of wasters just like you who have been in the same boat as you but have got off their butts and secured dazzling positions like warehousemen or class room assistants and have freed themselves from the shackles of the benefits system. The magazine would not look out of place with any of the cheaper women's weeklies... loads of bright colours, big photographs and heart warming TRUE stories. Inspire is FULL of handy little hints like... 'Don't be scared to apply for a job, you may have just what the employer is looking for'... or 'It's great working cause you get to meet loads of new people and earning money is such a help!'. Revealing stuff... HOW did they come up with that!

Then you get called over to a desk (yes it may be orange, or pink or purple... you don't get to choose so this bit is like being in Vegas...I made a bet with myself that I'd get purple... and just like Vegas I lost... I got Orange). You then get to talk to someone who talks to you in the quiet breathy tones you probably last heard if you've ever been concussed and a nurse is talking to you. I got the distinct impression my case worker thought I was very simple and needed to be patronised and smiled at often. SCARILY OFTEN.

Anyway, interview over (yep exactly the same interview I had on the phone) I got given a little booklet (clearly made by the same people who publish INSPIRE) which is full of handy hints like... look for work, apply for jobs, go to interviews... ground breaking stuff you could have NEVER thought of all by yourself!. They also give you a little book called LOOKING FOR WORK which has 5 columns in it that you must fill in . Your 'home work is checked fortnightly by your case worker so PLEASE be neat!
Here are the columns...
What I Did * Date * What happened * What I will Do Next * When
I joke not! They are VERY serious about the Looking for work book...if yo don't fill it in they won't even consider you for benefits... you MUST write as follows:

What I Did * Date * What happened * What I will Do Next * When
Looked in Paper 28/02/09 Saw an advert for a job I can do Sent my CV and cover letter 28/02/09

Yep... I know... don't even say it.

Anyway that is it for the pink, purple and orange softly spoken paradise of the Job Centre Plus. (Till homework checking time anyway as they make you diarise a new appointment before letting you leave). They said they'd send me a letter though to let me know my entitlements... things do move rather slowly... but not to worry I'm in the system now.

Then it was time to go visit the wonderful town hall to register for entry to the world of Council Tax benefit and Housing Benefit

Now this is more like it... as grey and as miserable as your circumstances...don't know about your council but mine does not find handing out benefits a colourful proposition.

We start of course with the ubiquitous telephone interview... again about as long as a double lunch break, at the end of which you will be told that they will send you a 10 page A4 booklet to complete, once complete please go to the town hall with as many pieces of ID that you would need to apply for the CIA. I needed to bring the following:


Driving Licence
Birth/Marriage/Divorce Certificate
NI number card
Euro Medical Card with NHS number on it
Cheque book and Credit Cards
bank Statements
Any benefit books
Notification award letter for Universal Child benefit
Life assurance/insurance policy details
P60/P45 or letter from inland revenue
2 recent consecutive wage slips
Proof of rent including tenancy agreement
Proof of any income of dependant children (ie the childs savings)

I have just wasted 2 hrs on the phone now I have to transfer all the same information to a massive booklet that is coming at some point... and I have to purchase a WHEELBARROW to drag a load of ID to the town hall.

On arrival at the grim grey town hall....the entrance door had the comforting statement sellotaped to it:


THERE IS A RECESSION. THIS MEANS WAITING TIMES TO BE SEEN WILL BE A MINIMUM OF 2HOURS. PLEASE ENSURE SMALL CHILDREN ARE UNDER CONTROL AND THAT YOU ARE PREPARED TO WAIT AND LISTEN FOR YOUR NUMBER TO BE CALLED OUT. WE THANK YOU NOT TO TAKE YOUR FRUSTRATIONS OUT ON OUR STAFF.

Oh yippee! this will be fun.

No hostesses this time... just a big bloke in a security uniform ... he gives you a number and says.. sit over there and points vaguely to what looks like the waiting room for the only doctor on earth during the plague. He says my number will appear on the dot matrix board on the wall and I should go to the collection point that comes up at the same time. i meekly go sit.

There are a lot of grubby children running about with no visible owners let alone controllers. Everyone seems to be just ignoring them.. so I do likewise. However, not once in the many hours I was in there did one of those children be approached by an adult... maybe they came with the room? One thing for sure, unlike the happy clappy treatment the labour exchange has got, claiming off the council has been organised to make you feel ashamed of yourself. Everyone is sitting miserably looking down at their feet and shuffling to find comfort in the chairs designed to displace your spine. Occasionally someone glances up at the dot matrix board, but quickly returns to studying their footware.

I watch the system such as it is... it is rather like being in Argos. 'Case 4102 to collection point 5b' flashes up on the screen. A tired looking woman gets up and walks towards a booth which has 5B stuck on the security glass. 5B like all the other booths has one chair on the non council worker side. The council worker on the otherside indicates that the woman should put her paperwork and ID into the tray that slides under the glass... rather like the old fashioned banks used to have before they became customer friendly again. Clearly the council as learn not to be friends with it's non tax paying residents.

It only took three hours (of which 75% was waiting time), but having established at length that I have lost my job due to redundancy rather than fecklessness, the council say they will get back to me about whether or not I have qualified to get some assistance with my housing and release from having to pay a couple of hundred pounds in council tax until I find a job. After all that ... things are as unresolved as before I filled in the 10 page booklet and transported a hundredweight of paperwork over to the town hall... BUT at least I am in the system.

Next was the delightful world of tax credits.

This was bizarre... HM revenue and Customs don't like to meet you. They want you to complete a book (they call it a 6 part claim form but I know a book when I see one)... then a succession of weird people ring you up on your land line and ask you to answer 'security questions'... hello... YOU rang ME?????. Then they write to you and say... due to your recent unemployment you are not working so you are not currently paying tax so you have no credits.

Emmmmmmmmmmmm. No shit Sherlock.

However they did ring me back ...a nice young man told me they have decided that Child tax credit can be looked into.... and they'll get back to me. And they did... a nice lady rang to ask me the same questions the nice man who rang asked me. She said she'd get back to me... but I'm in the system now.

Yep that phrase again... I'm in the system now of Business Link, Learning for Work,...oh and Options and Choices to name but a few... these noble organisations all offer support and funding to the great unwashed... just fill in a form, attend an interview... and they'll get back to you.

And everyone is getting back to me.

So ... it's Friday 13th Again.

Since I got my redundancy notice this day last month, I 've gained a clean house, I've been smiled at (a Lot) by soft spoken people who have changed the Labour Exchange into a cafe/club, I have communed by sign language through bullet proof glass at the council, I have spoken to HM revenue and Customs at lot who have subsequently written to me to tell me I have lost my job. I have joined all the back to work schemes. None of these exercises have got me any closer to state assistance in my time of need.

How does anyone get anything other than phone calls, forms to fill in, and a bad back from hours waiting to be seen in municipal offices!

I am beginning to wonder if the stories of the great unwashed living so well on benefits that they have gold taps in marble bathrooms is not just a big old fairy tale after all!











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BLOG 7: Talking about Cabdrivers and Hairdressers

10 March
BLOG SEVEN: Talking about Cab drivers and hairdressers...
Oh jeeez! Don't ya just love the way we as humans can't take bad news? It's like we hit overload and say no more!! Bring on the skateboarding duck (or whatever the human interest story is that makes us go Awwwwwww).
Take today's news....We are in the grips of a global recession. Over 3.2 million will be unemployed by Xmas. Three security personnel have been killed in Northern Ireland in the last couple of days.
Msn have fantastic News pages and have great writers dedicated to digging further into these issues... so that we can at a finger tip gain the most up to date information to ensure we can live informed lives.
But what have been MSN's most popular New's hits... Some bird threw green custard over Mandelson, Chris Brown has a domestic with his bird, and as a nation we love cheese and onion crisps. Yep I suppose the custard bird had a serious political point somewhere but we just like the HUMILIATION of a pompous politician, and yes domestic violence is terrible.. but we adore watching the SCANDAL, and who doesn't marvel at the switch from ready salted to cheese and onion then???
Thing is bad news is not something that we wish to immerse ourselves in... no matter how beneficial knowledge of the times we live in could be... what we want is stuff we can talk to our hairdressers and cab drivers about.
Yep whilst pinned in the back of black cab, door locked and that sliding partition never closed... you know what is coming... a load of right wing diatribe about how if HE ran the world it would be a better (though I have oft observed less tolerant place)... and it's many many miles to my most south easterly of Lundin overspills! How much easier it is to encourage a cabbie to talk of less complicated matters such as...Mandleson's date with a bowl of green custard..."So... did you catch ol' mandy on the news.. that gal did him good and proper with the green custard!... came out of his suit a treat though... twenty mins later there weren't a trace... awww though it was funny the LOOK on his face when she slung it over him ... brought him down a pegg or two..." A preferable monologue to 'If I ran the world I'd round them all up and Hang the Bastards".
And don't start me on the need to talk to hairdressers. In the same way that a cabbie can NEVER close the partition and just drive... two seconds in the salon chair and some nosey cow wants to know ALL my personal details. Hairdressers have an unnatural need to know your holiday details. For a long while I thought hairdressers were in the employ of burglars such was their insistence of knowing the exact moment you were to leave the country and for how long! However a quick aside to ...Chris Brown's domestic situation and we have "Awww did you see that he beat up his girlfriend... And I liked his 'No Air' too, oh well won't be hearing that on the radio no more... mind you thought she was a bit out of his league though...that's what you get for settling for less...what was she thinking dating a chubby guy that wears too many jumpers"... and I can guarantee you can get a full head of highlights without having to reveal exactly when your house will be empty for a fortnight.
We don't need the news of what is really happening in our little planet so that we can live informed lives. WHO NEEDS TO LIVE AN INFORMED LIFE!!!??? We live to glean the kind of information shown on MSN New's top hits, so that we can discuss it with intimidating service providers!
Global recession, the rise in unemployment, the undermining of the NI peace accord??? who the hell would you discuss THAT with anyway!
I'd love to say I have deep meaningful discussions with my fellow adults but I really don't... I for one am MUCH more interested in the fact the nation has turned it's back on the simply salted crisp in favour of those with the essence of cheese and an onion.
I find this more telling about Britain in the noughties than the politics of the day... maybe that's what we need... more fake flavouring and a whole lot less simplicity!
This to me totally explains the nations obsession with Katie Price, adding wheel trims to production cars and treating Boris Johnson as a serious politician.
Maybe there are more answers in our trivia gathering habits than it first appears? It's a thought!
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BLOG 5 ..Any original ideas for a movie

23 January
BLOG FIVE: Any original idea for a movie?..
okay... has anyone noticed that all films seems to be based on REAL life... at least if it wants an award...
Lately we've had The Queen (Mirran as HM and Sheen as Blair)..Ray (Foxx as Ray Charles).. Last King of Scotland (Whittaker as Idi Admin).. Dub-Uh (Brolin as George W Bush)..need I say more? Have you looked at what is out right now?....Sheens at it again playing David Frost in Frost V Nixon... Sean Penn's being Harvey Milk in Milk... Benico del Toro is doing Che Guevara.. it's bio pic after bio-pic lately and worst still... and everyone is screaming OSCAR!

Not that any of these films don't deserve the acclaim... I for one can't wait to see Milk... BUT... wouldn't it be lovely if writers wrote stories, actors acted them and a whole made up world was captured on film?

I think the thing that is most frightening is this bio-pic trend now has the likes of faded action hero Jean Claude Van Damme starring in a bio-pic about himself.. come 30th January we will be treated to JCVD.. a french bio-pic about how the actor became washed up! Worse still the papers are full of reviews about what a great actor Van Damme is in this movie... hold up...JCVD is playing JCVD in a movie called JVCD... can anyone spot what I can... WHERE is the acting???

Or am I missing something? Maybe I don't understand movies. Which would be a huge pity as I love them some much.

I fell in love with Movies when BBC just kept on showing films cause they couldn't fill the schedule. I got immersed in some cracking stories.. a runaway heiress falls in love with a reporter who is chasing her across America (It happened one night) A Zany girl causes a zoology professor to lose a dinosaur bone and a pet leopard all in one evening (Bringing up baby) a dowdy housewife gets the boot from her hubby so works her way up to become the owner of a chain of restaurants (Mildred Pierce) Arab Princess gets out of marriage to Nomad prince by claiming the omens predict a swift death of her 1st husband (Road to Morocco)... okay some of that may be down to some amazing movie stars (Claudette Colbert, Clark Gable, Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant, Joan Crawford, Bob Hope, Bing Crosby and Dorothy Lamour)... but these actors were greatly assisted by the fact that great writers sat down thought up a plot, and wrote something down for them to perform. The characters had to be INVENTED, by the skill of the writers imagination and the performance the actor gave. Movies for me should be about invention. That's what I fell in love with.

But that love affair now seems tarnished. All we get these days are true-life movies where actors just pretend to be someone in the public eye. Seems all a bit second rate to me - i wonder when the hollywood writers strike was on HOW it effected anything... go to the movies now it's like watching impersonations... just re-enact something that ACTUALLY happened and copy the mannerisms of the people who did it.

I want fantasy from my movies... I want to escape into another world for 90 minutes. Although bio-pics have been a feature of the big screen since its inception I'm not all that sure that the big screen is the now right place to examine our current world... TV does that so much better. For example wasn't Frost V Nixon televised in the FIRST place?

With the silver screen, I want a story that I don't know the ending of... I want to be engaged by the action on the screen instead of thinking.. "Oooh she never walked like that".

Come on ...a little imagination please... we have good writers out there . Doesn't any one want to make up a story anymore? Doesn't any one want to dig into the human condition and write about it? Doesn't any body want to read those words and act it out? Maybe that's the problem... maybe no one wants to do that anymore.

Well I'm taking no excuses....even animated features have to have writers...Ratatouille was written by Brad Bird and he got nominated for an oscar. I'd just like a fresh story please. I'm a little in need of some entertainment and i think the cinemas SHOULD be the place to get some.

That's it really... just a little whinge... can we stop the bio-pics now!

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