I think life is just a series of delays, or waiting for the next thing to happen. For example, this morning, whilst totally engrossed in my music and book, i looked up and noticed i was on the charing cross branch of the northern line, not the city branch – and of course, the waterloo and city line was not running this morning due to signal failure. There are few things we can do to really reduce the delays, or increase the rate at which things happen. We can cleverly try and choose which queue we stand in, but as yesterday lunchtime showed, just because the queue is shorter, you can never fortell that the man infront is going to drop his yoghurt all over his shoes, which in turn led to the checkout girl ringing her bell – but it was broken. This led to the checkout girl shouting across to Maura to ring her bell, which she did, and the supervisor turned up. Maura sent the supervisor over to the dairy desert soaked checkout where she simply stood aghast apologising to the man that he had yoghurt all down his shoes. Don’t apologise! Get a tissue! the man had an ex-yoghurt and a sandwich.. nothing else – there was no-one else in the queue, just me watching the entire fiasco, whilst every other line of people moved as swiftly as you could say “mop of the f**king mess, and let me buy my sushi!”. I kept looking back over my shoulder to the other line, should i swap queues, should i stay in line, ever reaching the convergence of two points of “i’ve been in this line for too long” and “surely the mess must be cleaned up by now” in the same way as you do with taxi ranks, but decided to stick fast – break out my flask of tea and sandwiches, sit on my portable deckchair and wait for the gauche bufoon to wipe himself down and move on. i’m still here in M&S now.. they’ve run out of kitchen roll and can’t find a mop. i wonder if anyone will notice that i’m missing.
A card! A card! My Kingdom for a.. oh, no, hold on.. i got one! I knew it, there is a beautiful blonde out there who thinks i’m lovely, and its totally reciprocated.. aint love grand ;)
Happy Valentines Weekend! Of course, i’m old bitter and single, so i totally disagree with the whole concept (unless someone sends me an anonymous SMS from a timezone about 5 hours ahead of GMT.. hmm.. i wonder who that could be, la la la ;)
But enough of that, the main news of the weekend was of course the event which ground London to a total standstill over the weekend, a million and a half people walking around the streets of the capital – is this what London will be like once the congestion charge starts? Empty roads, heaving pavements? I think i might start cycling to places. And, in the midst of these hoardes of protestors, with their plaquards of ‘Peas in Iraq’, ‘Make Gloves not War’ (it was cold out), and general ‘Dont Attack’ messages, whilst one News24 reporter stood talking to the studio, it was good to see two men still standing near picadilly telling the crowds that a Golf Sale was taking place around the corner.
I’ve just started two sentences using grammatically terrible methods, so I’ll round up for now, letting you know that I’ve concluded a Sisyphian task in clearing out my email inbox, and it feels really quite good. Next, my desktop (which mainly consists of moving most files to the ‘Crap2Sort’ folder) and then my bedroom. The greatest thing is i’m not procrastinating.. just filling time on this dull dull Sunday afternoon. See, theres a reason not to have wonderful friday night and saturday’s ;) Sisyphus also fulfills a great deal of other contextually relevant metaphors this weekend.. he’s a bit of a dude really.
“The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”
This little Sisyphus is very happy.
Having a blog is a funny old thing. On one hand, it is a kind of journal where you can express your feelings and concerns. On the other hand, it is available to 600 million people, so where do you draw the line with personal thought? You have to write in a style which would amuse and entertain your supposed audience, whilst keeping that personal touch. You can’t say too much without fear of offending at least one person, and you can’t say too little without seeming like you have no substance. See, you visit the site and think that these sparkling literary gems are just provided for your entertainment, but the tears and pain of finding suitable content is a constant burden to bloggers – i’ve walked many a mile in search of suitable snatches to upload. So spare a thought for the blogger, and in the mean time, i’ve decided to keep all personal thought safely locked away in my chapter one folder.
Definition of Irony?
Catherine Zeta-Jones-Douglas (or whatever she is called these days, CJD?) on the front cover of Hello! magazine in the same week that she sues them over their 2000 Wedding photos. I would put an image of the happy couple here, but i don’t dare.
I’m bloody knackered. I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes open frankly. Which is odd, i didn’t get home that late last night, from the timestamp on the last sms i received (always a very good method of working things out), i guess i fell asleep around 1.30am but I woke up and getting out of bed was the last thing on my mind. I think i dragged myself out of bed at 8.45, at precisely the time that Slim wanted to use the bathroom (as usual). I think we may need timeslots in the bathroom, he needs to be in work before me, so he should get up before me. The thing is, no matter what time i get up, whether it be early or late, i’ll always manage to coincide with his same idea. Maybe its like when girls live together their period’s often synchronise, perhaps with blokes its shower times.
I’ve done my foot in too. As you know, I do like my urban walking, but my shoes are crap – totally crap. No support, and i walked a good 5-6Km on Saturday before going out to do a little South Bank pub crawl (more walking) and woke up on Sunday morning unable to walk barefoot without cringing. I didn’t even know you could pull something in your instep. So as a result, i think i’ll be visiting Niketown to find some suitable footwear this evening. Either that or going home straight to bed. I think i need a holiday actually. I was meant to be going to Australia this month but that has been called off due to a number of reasons, and I think my holiday plans, after discussing the work that we have coming into the studio over the next few months, maybe the sum total of the odd friday here and there. Who knows, maybe when i’ve learnt to drive (HAHAHAAAA!) I’ll be able to drive around the country in a red open top car with Bridget at my side. Rowr.
I don’t mean to drop names, but as i was out for a meal last night, Lena Headey asked me for the ashtray from our table. It wasn’t until later that i turned around a little and saw she was sitting opposite Jerome Flynn that i took back the ashtray for her lack of taste. Besides, i needed it to put the olive stones in.
And in the week that Channel 4 launches a show which attempts to find the next opera star (Op-Idol anyone?) I’m starting to think that in the recent wake of shows such as Pop Stars, Fame Acadamy and Crimewatch, maybe using television based auditions are the way forward. We’re looking for a Junior Developer and Designer to join our team at work at the moment, and frankly the traditional interview process is somewhat dull. So, I’ve arranged for a camera crew, 20,000 potential developers of the future and PJ and Duncan to host the whole thing. I have a feeling in six months time I’ll have a number one single, the next ‘Cheeky Girls’ style failure and notority.
And finally, last month’s most bizarre searches that found results on my website:
“ballerina or rightness or convene or contradict or declined”
“celebs with beards”
“home remidies for hair”
“kate lawler weight gain”
I believe you all know about Millennium Chicken opposite our flat (and next to the circle if you want better bearings). Well, after a couple of pints last night, Slim and I meandered into MC for food a plenty having eaten nothing more than toast for S(to the)L(to the)I(to the)M and fruit bread for me. Upon ordering my healthy and hearty 99p triple decker burger, someone returned into the shop lifted up the bun from his previously purchased burger and said “look at that. no sauce”. Now, for those of you who have not visited MC, let me explain. Its not the Ivy, its not Conran, it doesn’t have Michelin rating, it probably doesn’t even have approval from the Health and Safety department of Lambeth Council, but here was someone complaining that his 79p burger wasn’t quite adequately stocked with condiments. He had actually *left* the shop, and returned some minutes later. ITS A 79P BURGER! did it really warrant such a return journey? he should have been happy it didn’t rupture his stomach or dissolve his lower intestine.
So, I’m weaning myself off actimel – and this morning i had a glass of milk instead. probably around about a half pint – which contains all the calcium of a bottle of actimel (hmm.. reverse marketing) – and my mum always told me that milk was a meal in itself – so actually i’m having breakfast. eventually, i might get around to adding cereal, toast and orange juice to make the milk part of this nutritous breakfast (insert picture of happy family eating said items). the downside of drinking milk in the morning is that it always makes me want cookies too, and i feel about 12. that said however, i usually feel about 12 anyway and i’m always disappointed when i wake up and my lunchbox isn’t sitting ready on the side in the kitchen. perhaps its time to grow up.
I think I’m jinxed. You may remember that i visited Brighton a few weeks ago on the day that the West Pier collapsed without any knowledge of the incident, and Kirsty and I simply wondering how long that had been like that. Well, to further the illusion of death following in my shadow, last night for the Chinese New Year’s Eve celebrations, Cai Guo-Qiang was commissioned to create a firework spectacular around the Tate Modern and Myloonium Bridge. Hundreds of earnest Londoners eager to see ‘Ye Gong Hao Long’, in light of not having New Years’ fireworks for the past few years, edged along the bridges and banksides to watch the 1 minute ‘explosion’. “ooooooh! oh. that it?” we cried, in such as way that we weren’t really sure as to whether it had failed miserably, or we’re just too demanding as citizens of the capital. Anyway, we left and crossed the bridge back to the south side of the river, and whilst walking infront of the Tate Modern building, and upon looking up towards the main tower at the front, we noticed flames hanging from the roof. Hmm. I wonder if that’s still meant to be burning. Soon enough a crowd had gathered around watching these flames, and then gasped as the flames dropped to one of the balconies. Perhaps they went out when they landed. Perhaps not, as the window frame caught alight.
You’ll be thankful to know that some cheery soul came out with a fire extinguisher and put the blaze out before the country’s largest collection of modern art was destroyed by the dragon which had failed to impress just minutes earlier, to the ripple of applause from the audience below. We decided to move on, and perhaps enjoy some Jasmine Tea and a fortune cookie in the Tate Cafe, but upon arrival, the fire alarms sounded (some 10 minutes too late) and everyone was evacuated. We decided it was best to leave before anything else caught on fire.
And if that was not enough, today, during a partners meeting at work, halfway through the scheduled proceedings, a fire alarm on the 3rd floor of our builing went off. As ‘not very healthy or safely’ officer, i jumped to my feet and wandered upstairs to battle the blaze, but could see no signs of the dragon which I presumed was seeking revenge for the previous nights failure in catching prey. No flames to speak off, but none the less, upon resetting the alarm, it sounded again, and we thought it best for all parties to call out the fire brigade. Of course, anyone who is in london this weekend will know that there is another fire union strike, meaning that it was time for the police, army and navy to turn up, green goddesses and all, and wander into the building with axes to try and break down the door. We’d long since evac’d the computers from the building and buggered off to the pub. It turns out there was no fire, probably just mischevious elves playing with matches. I’m waiting for the third fire to happen to make the old adage that bad things come in threes. Cigarette anyone?