Isolation

Interesting, interesting interesting. I arrived back in a grey infused London to get on with work that needs to be done for next week. "Very productive of you." Some might say. "That's commitment!" Others may bellow. Yet as I have done this I am aware that I am possibly the most stupid person on the planet. Yes in theory it all sounds jolly wonderful to be back in a place where I can put on my 'thinking' hat and create wonderful essays with the greatest of ease.

The reality is somewhat divorced from such a romantic notion. Instead I am lazily typing the odd word underneath the title, before quickly logging onto youtube to watch how far little Asian people will go for a family car or a life time supply of tinned octopus testicles. Things are not going to plan. And to make things worse I have a neighbour who hasn't gone home, even though I pray every night that he does. It must be because he's about as popular at home as he is in the flat. Anyway, whenever I get hungry which usually happens two or three times a day, I have to bravely sneak my way to my own kitchen and make something quickly and quietly. Otherwise I'll be caught in a web of boring convosation and the desire to stab myself in the eye with a fork just so I have an excuse to leave.

This is why I'm updating my wee blog. It's something fun and allows my fingers to move the quickest they have done for hours. Go fingers go! Bless 'em.

Whenever I get bored my brain seems to morph into 'life plan' mode. I start questioning things and planning my future. I set goals, ambitions and have even been known to draw up business plans for an idea that would hopefully make me millions. I'm sure I'm not alone in saying that I often need the added pressure of a deadline before I actually get up and do it. That's not to say I leave things till the last minute, but I can't do it weeks in advance otherwise I end up tweaking it so much I end up with a Shakespearean novel.

Also when loneliness hits me I tend to spend more time talking to people on MSN and facebook I really wouldn't otherwise bother with. I was talking to one person today and our only connection was that he worked with one of my friends in a fruit and veg shop three years ago. Somehow he interpreted this as a sign we should be blood brothers and talk till the cows come home. And what is so depressing is that I found myself being drawn into it only because I wanted to take my mind off HBO and avant garde film. I then snapped back to my regular mental state and told him I had to take a phone call before quickly deleting and blocking him so he can never darken my virtual door again.

Ok. Well, it's coming up to seven and I fear I may have to go on another stealthy mission to the kitchen. After which I have a date with iPlayer and 4OD. (Don't tell either of them, they'd just get jealous)

A touch of insomnia

There I was. Lying in bed for two and a half hours unable to fall asleep. It's now two in the morning and after typing "help I can't sleep" into google, I came across an article saying if you haven't fallen asleep within thirty minutes of getting into bed, it's best to get up and do something. And since I have been somewhat rejecting my blog recently I thought I'd update this and see whether or not my eyes will become heavy, and I'll fall into a contented slumber.

I think the problem comes from being unable to switch off my mind. For some reason the most mundane and stupid things seem to take on an overly important role in my head. I'll give you an example. I recently bought a mango. I love mangos, they have to be my most favorite fruit. And after having one today I still had one left for tommorow. I had minor difficulties peeling the mango with a knife, so whilst trying to fall asleep suddenly my mind went, "Use a vegetable peeler!" My mind then got very excited about the prospect of applying the peeler to the mango it seemed to want to bath in its own ingenius glory all night. It just wouldn't shut up. (I am aware I'm refering to my mind as a seperate entity, but I swear at times it is.)

Then another problem arose. I suddenly thought how nice it would be to start running again. So I set my alarm for 6:30 and closed my eyes. Suddenly my consious was being polluted with thoughts of what route to take, which t-shirt would be most suitable, where did I put my shorts? I then couldn't escape it. Ahhhhhh! Why oh why is it impossible to shut it up?!? I'm tempted to take some flu medicine that would make a bull on viagra collapse in his tracks. But if I do that, I'll pretty tired for the rest of the day after. Getting irritable and snappy at people and lamp posts. I also remembered that if I was to go for a run, I would need to charge my shuffle. So I plugged in the shuffle to find the music on it had gone. (Presumebly from being powerless for months on end) So I ended up compiling a new playlist.

The other night I remembered that I needed to go to sainsburys. I then compiled a list. Added to it. Remembered things I'd forgotten on my last trip. Then priced it up. Why? What on earth was the point of that? I then started to get edgy about forgetting what it was I wanted to get so I made a list. That's right a list. I just became a pensioner. Had I written it on the back of a cut out cereal packet I would have jumped out the window, but as it was in electronic form I can put off wearing bache for a little while longer.

Well so far still not tired. Yet I am finding that the keys are harder to hit accuratly.

In Search Of Heat.

Heat! Glorious heat! Finally I have spent the most wisely invested £30 in my life. It comes in a little plastic box and warms every nook and cranny of my student accommodation. For the majority of people my student room is something they will never see, so let me describe its third world likeness. There are draughts, and by draughts I mean ones that manage to deplete the whole room of any shred of heat. The one radiator that I can call my own is timed. Timed it would seem to the perfect “irritation level”. When a button is pressed it slowly gathers momentum, and after 15 minutes or so it becomes warm. But at 20 minutes it switches itself off again. Losing all its heat within less than three minutes. So if you forget to press the button within this time space your back to square one. Presumably this function is to be green and save the polar bears and all that jazz. This, I think, is a good thing. I like polar bears, they’re cute. But the weather in London these past few days has been biblically cold. Wind that would cut through bone given half the chance, and ice replacing most of the pavements. So to rectify this predicament I marched out into the outside freezer in search of a fan heater, without a green conscience.

Where does one go for such a gizmo? Well, there’s only one answer. Argos. The land of everything you never knew you needed until you did. Shopping there is a somewhat depression thing. For those of you who haven’t had the misery of using one of its stores, there are no items of the shelves. Oh no, that would be too simple. Instead you plough threw a grubby urine stained catalogue in search of what you want. Then when you’ve found something that closely resembles your desires you input the catalogue number on a little computer panel to see if there are any in stock. I did just this and got the message “Sorry, this product isn’t in stock.” “Ok” I thought. I’ll try another one. “Sorry, this product isn’t in stock.” Hmmmm. I repeated this for every single heating device. Nope. Not one. Regardless of how much money I was going to through at them, they didn’t have anything! I leave as a disgruntled human being in search for another one of these ‘digit input metropolis’s’. Three tube stops later I found one. The first thing I noticed about this store was the smell of those already inside. Unphased by this I repeated the same process as I did in the previous store. I can’t believe it. Same message for everything. “Sorry not in stock.” I was suddenly struck by the idea, what if I wasn’t a twenty year old male, in peak physical fitness....What if instead I was a little 80 year old woman with arthritis called Dorothy? After walking enough distance to cause my bones to turn to dust, providing I didn’t slip on any ice, I’d be going home empty handed and with a louder creak in my knee caps. This simply isn’t fair. How stupid have you got to be not to sell things your customers want?

Walking back in more of a huff than before I come across a small independent electronic store. The sort filled with cheap plastic Korean imitations of cheap plastic Chinese products. Well, given my situation I wasn’t really in a position to complain if the heater I ended up with had a possibility of spitting out molten parts of its innards at me. There they were. A pile of boxed fan heaters all over priced and under speced. With reluctance I walk in slow motion to the till with one and hand him my credit card.

Having had it now for only a day I couldn’t be more pleased. I’m warm within seconds without a hint of anything from within being spat out at me. Yet even now, all warm and toasty with mamma cass on the hi-fi, I can’t help but wonder about all those poor Dorothy’s. If they haven’t found one after a log search, chances are they’re going to go to sleep cold. And that’s a thought that doesn’t sit well with me. So pull your finger out Argos! Replenish your frankly laughable stocks of heaters because you’re killing our Dorothy’s.

Being late and other peoples imposed commitments

Now this will either hit home with you or you will be one of those people who don’t share my resentment towards people who are late, because you most probably are such a person. Being late is a sin. It is the most impolite and rudest thing to do. Then to make it worse is turn up after your agreed time and act like it’s no big deal. If you are such a sort, do you know what you’re saying about the other person? That their time is not important. Their very being and other commitments are obsolete. You are basically looked upon with the same sense of human warmth as child molester.

Why be late? I don’t understand it. In order to not be late you leave early. You don’t agree to meet at nine, then get up at nine and say you’ll be there in half an hour. Or talk about your “bitch of a hangover.” Tough! We’ve all felt like we’ve been thrown at deaths door by two of satins heavy handed minions, but that’s no excuse. It’s self inflicted. The only excuse that harvests no negative feelings is death. Death for you, death for a person you love or on the way. That I can say, “Ok, fine. I’ll just order another Americano and blueberry muffin so the trip isn’t a complete waste of time.”

Another thing which some people do is ask a favour of you. And generally, unless their Adolf Hitler or George Bush, you agree because you’re a ‘nice’ person. You want to be helpful. But then, after some time, the favour hangs over your head like a constipated vulture. You wait for the person to come, but they fail to appear. It gets drawn out, and now it becomes an inconvenience. Let me give you an example. An acquaintance wants to play a CD in my hi-fi (no sexual innuendo), and I’m now sat watching black adder waiting for this so and so to turn up with his disk of relief and sod off again. Thing is, he asked 4 hours ago and I want to open a bottle of wine, have a glass, watch the rest of black adder and relax. But I can’t because I know any second this person with the human sensitivity of a carrot, will appear at my door.

The best idea is probably just pretend I’m not in. When the knock comes I become a mute. But why should I live my life like this to appease someone I don’t particularly like anyway. I’ve just thought of another thing. I wish some people would just get the hint that no one likes them.

Oh the joys of Christmas

Like me you’re probably pondering on what to get those you love for Christmas. I’ve personally spent the past three days thinking about this and have yet to come up with an answer. At first I thought perhaps I should get a coffee maker for one member of my immediate family. But this has become somewhat of a recurring event, as because of my bad eye or her copious consumption of coffee, they only tend to last a year. Now this is fine, the circle of life continues for coffee makers, but I fear it may be somewhat of a letdown for my poor mother, who is probably already clearing the side to make way for a present she expects is coming. I could in all fairness head down to the body shop, pick up a couple of those bags that smell of the French country side and be done with it. Simple. But I’m a stickler for gifts that have thought poured into them like caramel into a chocolate cup. I want what I give to my family to bring a smile to their faces and know just how much time and effort I poured over each and every one of them. Now I know what you’re thinking. “It’s not all about the presents”, “Stop being so commercial”. True, but the pure matter of fact is, I’m not taken in by all the commercial nonsense. But it’s that one time of year where you can choose to be with the one’s you love, and share in that warm fuzzy feeling that the whole nation is contented. So to show how much those around mean to you, you need to give an appropriate gift. And I’m back to the same problem I had three days ago.

To see if it made the challenge any easier I pretended I had won the lottery in order to see if the confinements of money had anything to do with over coming this new adversary. My answer in short. No. I could buy them a Cartier watch for every day of the week and clothing made out of baby seal cheeks, but it wouldn’t be anything they would really want. There is no thought in such gifts. Only higher home insurance and the threat of not getting on with vegetarians.

Like most of us I’ll end up in London searching the floors of Selfridges trying to find that one diamond in the ruff. It’s probably there. Right now. Sat on the shelf with the word ‘Perfect’ floating majestically over it. But will I find it in the biggest department store in London? You can bet you soft and fragile bits I won’t. Or if I do it’ll be the last one in the shop and I’ll have to wrestle some American tourist who’s already bought half the shop in a desperate effort to piss off the check in desk at Heathrow airport when they go home.

All I would ask of anyone who is going to get a gift for someone this Christmas is to put some thought into it. This is truly an example of quality and not quantity.

Good luck!

Here goes nothing.

Here we go. Blog number one. The truth of the matter is that I’m probably only going to be writing this for myself. A sort of self reflection or a method of venting my frustrations and opinions. Or perhaps one person will read it and consider it mildly more entertaining than Saturday night television.

Quite often in life you meet people. Some you like, some you hate and all those in-between, and that’s fine. That’s life. The difficulty comes when you don’t like someone, but they don’t do anything that is particularly hate worthy. These are often the people who you hate to be cornered with at a party, for fear they will talk about their favourite type of post box or go through a list of what is and what isn’t classified as a nut. (By the way, in case you were wondering it’s quite a few.) I had the misfortune to be cornered by such a person today in the hallway. I tried to look bored by fiddling with my key, looking up at the ceiling and staring at him without reaction to any of his convocation. The mistake I made was presuming he was as emotionally switched on as me. Whereas I can sense if a person is uncomfortable, he seems oblivious to the civil war breaking out in my head and carries on talking about a subject matter he probably knows I a) don’t care about, and b) I politically stand against. But wait, it gets worse. Afterwards I beat myself up that I dislike this person because of what he stands for and for being a complete bore. Your right, it’s a little cruel, but surely it’s crueler on his side, inflicting his inconsequential life stories on me?

The subject, in case you were wondering or cared, not that it matters because I’m going to tell you anyway, was the army. Yes, I know we need one blah blah blah, but I take objection to the mentality of the majority of people I have met who have serviced and find the armies moral codes questionable at best. For example, part of the skull shattering convocation was about twelve and thirteen year olds handling live weapons. Oh but wait it gets better. Some of these little cherubs of death have aspects of them which make them special, such as ADD. Oh wonderful! I can’t help but think the army’s main purpose it to provide a mother like figure to control their lives. Not to get too Freudian on your hidden cheeks, but quite often people who are attracted to the army are those who require the need to be told what to do. Making decisions for themselves is uncomfortable. I presume this will either offend or seem accurate by my one reader. Anyhow, that’s probably enough from me for now.