It's a great pleasure to be living in London again. Yes it's noisy but it's got a vibe that only one other city across the Atlantic could match in my opinion. I went to Parliament this morning, having alighted the bus early due to traffic - a problem compounded by the emergency vehicles desperately trying to wriggle through to reach the foreboding concrete edifice of St Thomas' Hospital. I walked along the riverbank and crossed Westminster Bridge- thankfully tourist free at this time in the morning. I was due at Parliament to attend a working group on Nuclear Energy and the meeting was about New Build in the UK. In all honesty not much of huge interest was covered - I am still at that beginning stage in the job where I am starting to get to grips with the industry jargon and the different processes however there is still that part of me that feigns interest and instead tries to plan my holiday in my head - a much more fulfilling task.
Once the meeting came to an end, my colleague Mikey and I wondered into the House of Lords - a chamber of quite remarkable opulence (and a few sleepy lords) We briefly marveled at the architecture and the fact that we had been able to wonder in without security noticing, that was until the security guard (whose main weapon of terror were her abnormally large bosoms) sternly moved us on. A nice little out of office excursion which almost turned into a trip to the Tower of London!
One thing I am quietly pondering at the moment is the symbolic shift and general upheaval in my life that has occur ed since finishing university. I have moved, started a full-time job and completely broken with the way of life I was accustomed to leading before. Curiously my actual reality is a steady and straightforward existence- which goes in complete contrast to the symbolic and momentous change that has taken place in the last month. It is for this reason that I find myself enclosed in moments of panic in the most mundane of daily tasks. Yesterday whilst choosing yoghurt in Sainsbury's a sudden wave of dreariness and fatigue spread over me and my legs felt all a quiver. I am vaguely aware of the stress associated with picking one's brand of petit filous but on some level I sensed this unease to stem from a much deeper sense of panic - my subconscious telling me that my life has completely changed, therefore alarm bells sound because of the fact that my life is so calm and easy.
Another example is when traveling on the tube, I get hot. It's summer, it is warmer down there than most cattle would care to endure and so I do get ridiculously hot. But I then get nervous that people will notice me sweat. Therefore I sweat more until people notice the intense heat emanating from my body and think I am unwell. It's then that I start to hyperventilate and move towards the doors in the desperate attempt to escape. I sit at a tube station until I cool, I attempt the next tube and I arrive at work late every day. I say that though, but with each day it gets better and I get used to it. Welcome to London.
I don't miss Brighton and this isn't from a lack of sentimentality but rather it was time for me to move on and 4 years of being a student was enough - you can have too much of a good thing. (just wait till I've been in the job for 6 months, I'll be desperate to go back).
I have certain things that I want to do now I don't have the what was omnipresent degree work to do:
I want to cook more and experiment more. Up till now I have been quite successful with my culinary endeavours, however I don't feel I have delved enough into the luxurious, the greedy, the sickly and the explosive. That is what I shall do next.
I want to write more - but not just this old stuff, I want to try and get things published. Must endeavour to make contacts and network (must also endeavour to not make blog sound like Bridget Jones' Diary).
I want to eat healthily, maintain calm composure and sit in the lotus position at all possible times, blah blah blah - you get it.
I could go on, but with the danger of boring you to the point of minor paralysis I will instead stop and go and make something explosive. Thanks for reading. Oh, and please comment!
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
Gin and Titonic
I have just learned: Don't read your posts back. It's just embarrassing. Did I really say that? What was I taking?
I have just had a gin and titonic-yes, titonic. It's ice shaped like the ship that sank - except this one sinks into gin! I have a feeling if the poor people who perished on that doomed vessel had the chance to do it again, but this time in gin, they wouldn't hesitate to jump on board. Jordan Colyer bought me this novelty gift when the gin ladies came to stay in Brighton. It's a yearly tradition as all our birthdays are in June (bar one - but she didn't come this year so I exclude her - for this post only) We went to Carluccio's and made orgasmic noises throughout dinner, and then spent the rest of the evening making belching noises.
You see, here's a thing I'm going to relate to you because you will find out (most probably yourself deduce) very quickly: the gin ladies are going to hell. We are immoral, scathing, gin tongued horrors. And I LOVE it. Just the other night at a Clapham bar, we discussed mutual acquaintances and their lack of intelligence, we openly laughed at a woman who fell off a stair and we mocked a girl who thinks having constant windswept hair (including indoors) is a look to emulate. The fact she walks into things must surely tell her she should rethink her style.
I am normally a very moral person, and I think deep down so are the other gin ladies. However, being together is a good opportunity to rail against the stupidity of the world and most of the people in it - it's really very therapeutic.
Let me introduce you to the gin ladies:
Jessica Hitch is a gin swilling bitch. She works in Knightsbridge and tries to sell agas to dimwits and rich twits with no sense. She's very good at her job.
Jordan Colyer lowers the tone. She's markedly deaf in one ear so an innocent and chaste drink in Starbucks will quickly turn into a Colyer induced exodus as she discusses the ins and outs of something sexual (and mostly disgusting) all at a voice loud enough to blow the froth of someones latte three tables away.
Kate Mann gets drunk, and quickly so. Once sufficiently sozzled she doesn't hold back. There's no excuse when all the gin ladies are together - you will get an earful if you make the slightest error.
I am Matthew Parker. I don't like incompetence and neither do the other gin ladies, though of course we are ourselves the personification of incompetence; we can't get through a meal without spilling it on ourselves and I can't reach the end of a sentence without spraying an unfortunate person nearby with a good dose of saliva.
So there you are, in all our glory, I give you just a brief introduction to the fairly terrible but fabulous people that are the gin ladies. I thought it best to do so as we make good material for writing, therefore I have a feeling you'll be reading a lot more of our little tales from now on.
Thanks for reading.
I have just had a gin and titonic-yes, titonic. It's ice shaped like the ship that sank - except this one sinks into gin! I have a feeling if the poor people who perished on that doomed vessel had the chance to do it again, but this time in gin, they wouldn't hesitate to jump on board. Jordan Colyer bought me this novelty gift when the gin ladies came to stay in Brighton. It's a yearly tradition as all our birthdays are in June (bar one - but she didn't come this year so I exclude her - for this post only) We went to Carluccio's and made orgasmic noises throughout dinner, and then spent the rest of the evening making belching noises.
You see, here's a thing I'm going to relate to you because you will find out (most probably yourself deduce) very quickly: the gin ladies are going to hell. We are immoral, scathing, gin tongued horrors. And I LOVE it. Just the other night at a Clapham bar, we discussed mutual acquaintances and their lack of intelligence, we openly laughed at a woman who fell off a stair and we mocked a girl who thinks having constant windswept hair (including indoors) is a look to emulate. The fact she walks into things must surely tell her she should rethink her style.
I am normally a very moral person, and I think deep down so are the other gin ladies. However, being together is a good opportunity to rail against the stupidity of the world and most of the people in it - it's really very therapeutic.
Let me introduce you to the gin ladies:
Jessica Hitch is a gin swilling bitch. She works in Knightsbridge and tries to sell agas to dimwits and rich twits with no sense. She's very good at her job.
Jordan Colyer lowers the tone. She's markedly deaf in one ear so an innocent and chaste drink in Starbucks will quickly turn into a Colyer induced exodus as she discusses the ins and outs of something sexual (and mostly disgusting) all at a voice loud enough to blow the froth of someones latte three tables away.
Kate Mann gets drunk, and quickly so. Once sufficiently sozzled she doesn't hold back. There's no excuse when all the gin ladies are together - you will get an earful if you make the slightest error.
I am Matthew Parker. I don't like incompetence and neither do the other gin ladies, though of course we are ourselves the personification of incompetence; we can't get through a meal without spilling it on ourselves and I can't reach the end of a sentence without spraying an unfortunate person nearby with a good dose of saliva.
So there you are, in all our glory, I give you just a brief introduction to the fairly terrible but fabulous people that are the gin ladies. I thought it best to do so as we make good material for writing, therefore I have a feeling you'll be reading a lot more of our little tales from now on.
Thanks for reading.
Monday, June 29, 2009
I am writing from the comfort of my bedroom after having finally sorted out the broadband wireless router thingy that father was supposed to set up years ago. It is the hottest day of the year (32 degrees and rising) and I have spent most of it on the phone to India slowly melting and getting further frustrated by the fact that, I am sorry, but I really can't understand a word they're saying. What is more infuriating is that at the end of the call, my helper's supervisor asked me if my needs had been met and whether I had understood everything that had been said to me. I was just too polite to say "NO! I understood nothing and am slightly concerned that I may have inadvertently ordered six routers and an ipod!". I kept schtoom.
As for the rest of moving back to London, it seems to have been fairly plain-sailing.
That aside, the main news story of the moment is Michael Jackson. It's an interesting time as what intrigues me when such famous person dies are the reactions of the public. Newspapers have been adamant that this is not the new 'Diana' yet there are similarities to be drawn: the mass outpouring of emotion and the curious congregation of people; coming together solely to express their feelings and draw comfort from others. On the day Jackson died hundreds gathered outside the hospital where they had tried in vain to resuscitate him. The crowd saw nothing and were essentially doing nothing except standing outside a building, yet it illustrated an important part of the collective mourning process- to come together and draw comfort from others. Yesterday in Trafalgar Square I read the messages that had been scrawled on the wall of the National Gallery giving condolences to Jackson's passing. A couple of days ago hundreds had gathered in the same square for an impromptu sing along. A flash mob had also been called in Liverpool Street where hundreds danced to his music in the street.
So what his death has shown is not just how much admiration Jackson inspired for his musical talent but also the collective display and public reaction when someone important dies. Ultimately we seem to focus on the positive of the deceased and put aside the negatives. Whether or not these child-abuse allegations will tarnish his legacy is yet to be seen but he is already back at the top of the British album charts, which suggests that people are appreciating the music and talent more than his eccentric and controversial private life.
Personally I was a huge Jacko fan as a child. Dangerous was the first CD I ever bought. I had videos of concerts, interviews and Jackson documentaries. I had books charting his rise to solo success from the Jackson 5 and I even had a T-shirt which I remember wearing on a primary school trip (and gaining the respect from many classmates). Most importantly I had and still have all the CDs. Last week when I was doing my clear out I set the Jackson CDs aside, making sure that I held on to them. This was a good four days before he died but he was still an important symbol of my childhood. While I sorted the rest of my stuff I put Thriller on and sang along - it's timeless even today.
Now on a more selfish note, I am considering keeping the concert ticket I have instead of claiming the refund, then selling it for more on ebay! the beginnings of a new entrepreneur? possibly most probably not.
As for the rest of moving back to London, it seems to have been fairly plain-sailing.
That aside, the main news story of the moment is Michael Jackson. It's an interesting time as what intrigues me when such famous person dies are the reactions of the public. Newspapers have been adamant that this is not the new 'Diana' yet there are similarities to be drawn: the mass outpouring of emotion and the curious congregation of people; coming together solely to express their feelings and draw comfort from others. On the day Jackson died hundreds gathered outside the hospital where they had tried in vain to resuscitate him. The crowd saw nothing and were essentially doing nothing except standing outside a building, yet it illustrated an important part of the collective mourning process- to come together and draw comfort from others. Yesterday in Trafalgar Square I read the messages that had been scrawled on the wall of the National Gallery giving condolences to Jackson's passing. A couple of days ago hundreds had gathered in the same square for an impromptu sing along. A flash mob had also been called in Liverpool Street where hundreds danced to his music in the street.
So what his death has shown is not just how much admiration Jackson inspired for his musical talent but also the collective display and public reaction when someone important dies. Ultimately we seem to focus on the positive of the deceased and put aside the negatives. Whether or not these child-abuse allegations will tarnish his legacy is yet to be seen but he is already back at the top of the British album charts, which suggests that people are appreciating the music and talent more than his eccentric and controversial private life.
Personally I was a huge Jacko fan as a child. Dangerous was the first CD I ever bought. I had videos of concerts, interviews and Jackson documentaries. I had books charting his rise to solo success from the Jackson 5 and I even had a T-shirt which I remember wearing on a primary school trip (and gaining the respect from many classmates). Most importantly I had and still have all the CDs. Last week when I was doing my clear out I set the Jackson CDs aside, making sure that I held on to them. This was a good four days before he died but he was still an important symbol of my childhood. While I sorted the rest of my stuff I put Thriller on and sang along - it's timeless even today.
Now on a more selfish note, I am considering keeping the concert ticket I have instead of claiming the refund, then selling it for more on ebay! the beginnings of a new entrepreneur? possibly most probably not.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Brighton to London
Good lord I haven't written in a while! The excuse? I've been finishing my degree thank you very much - it was hell. But now that's all over, I must wait anxiously for the results. I don't want to know.
So, what's new? Well, my life was put completely on hold while that degree shizzle was taken care of. I just about managed to hop it to Sainsbury's occasionally- this would be my revision break treat. How sad your life becomes when it's that regimented; a trip to Sainsbury's means you're oohing over the asparagus. I just kept myself going in the vain hope of that brief interlude of fanciful frolics that would no doubt follow the exam slog. Oh dear how wrong I was. I have three words: 'Wandsworth Town' and 'Dump'. After having detonated a bomb in my room yesterday whilst clearing out, I drove down to the Dump today with my million and one bags of various growing up detritus and a smug expression which conveyed how proud I was to be letting go of so much crap. I arrived and quickly understood that the men who work at the dump have nothing better to do but send hapless drivers off to the wrong receptacle and giggle quietly whilst observing the puzzled expressions of a person trying to put cardboard in a container that clearly says 'garden cuttings'. I reversed back to where the man had directed me and he informed me "nah mate, you wanna go here" pointing to the container next to him and not the one at the far end which he had clearly pointed out before. After this irritating encounter I left only to find myself quietly whimpering in the one way system of Wandsworth Town - a horrible area at the best of times, even the brewery moved out. Anyway, whilst driving home I got hooted at by a 'white van man' for attempting to change lane even though I did indicate like a good driver should and edged carefully into the lane so as to leave no ambiguity as to my actions. TIT.
So there, that's me back in London. It's hot and sunny - which will be lovely until I have to go to work next week on the Tube.
Does it seem like I'm moaning a lot in this post? Well if you think so I suggest you attempt some car manoeuvres on that roundabout with that enormous, useless boomerang in the middle of it which serves as the centre piece for Wandsworth architecture - then you'll understand!
I must go now. I am meeting Jordan Colyer for dinner at a local Clapham restaurant, the Pepper Tree. It's brilliant there - delicious Pad Thai for a fiver and you get nice Tiger beer. All these good and cheap restaurants are what I have been most excited about coming to London!
I will keep the posts coming from now on. I start work at the Nuclear Industry Association next week and I am sure there will be lots of anecdotes to relate...
Watch this space.
`
So, what's new? Well, my life was put completely on hold while that degree shizzle was taken care of. I just about managed to hop it to Sainsbury's occasionally- this would be my revision break treat. How sad your life becomes when it's that regimented; a trip to Sainsbury's means you're oohing over the asparagus. I just kept myself going in the vain hope of that brief interlude of fanciful frolics that would no doubt follow the exam slog. Oh dear how wrong I was. I have three words: 'Wandsworth Town' and 'Dump'. After having detonated a bomb in my room yesterday whilst clearing out, I drove down to the Dump today with my million and one bags of various growing up detritus and a smug expression which conveyed how proud I was to be letting go of so much crap. I arrived and quickly understood that the men who work at the dump have nothing better to do but send hapless drivers off to the wrong receptacle and giggle quietly whilst observing the puzzled expressions of a person trying to put cardboard in a container that clearly says 'garden cuttings'. I reversed back to where the man had directed me and he informed me "nah mate, you wanna go here" pointing to the container next to him and not the one at the far end which he had clearly pointed out before. After this irritating encounter I left only to find myself quietly whimpering in the one way system of Wandsworth Town - a horrible area at the best of times, even the brewery moved out. Anyway, whilst driving home I got hooted at by a 'white van man' for attempting to change lane even though I did indicate like a good driver should and edged carefully into the lane so as to leave no ambiguity as to my actions. TIT.
So there, that's me back in London. It's hot and sunny - which will be lovely until I have to go to work next week on the Tube.
Does it seem like I'm moaning a lot in this post? Well if you think so I suggest you attempt some car manoeuvres on that roundabout with that enormous, useless boomerang in the middle of it which serves as the centre piece for Wandsworth architecture - then you'll understand!
I must go now. I am meeting Jordan Colyer for dinner at a local Clapham restaurant, the Pepper Tree. It's brilliant there - delicious Pad Thai for a fiver and you get nice Tiger beer. All these good and cheap restaurants are what I have been most excited about coming to London!
I will keep the posts coming from now on. I start work at the Nuclear Industry Association next week and I am sure there will be lots of anecdotes to relate...
Watch this space.
`
Friday, February 27, 2009
Sea and Spring
It's the end of another week and Spring is in the air. I sat in a friend's house this afternoon which has huge sache windows that look out over the sea. On a day like today it was mesmerising, and therefore impossible for me to avert my gaze away and pay attention to my friend!
I sometimes forget that Brighton is by the sea (of course the cackle of seagulls serves as a constant reminder) but my house is a good 20 minutes from the seafront and the mundane routine of daily life stops a lot of spontaneous sea trips. So seeing it today on a sun filled and beautiful evening was special and most of all calming. It set the mood for a bit of Spanish interpretation with two of my friends from class. We attempted a discussion on Politics which somehow frayed into a discussion on the strength of men's hands...which was just as absurd even when in context.
My friend has a little dog. He's very cute and, err, furry. I'm not good on dog breeds but he's definitely one of those furry ones. He was happily bounding about the flat very excited by the presence of two women but for some reason he was terrified of me. Peri told me that puppies are often scared of men because they're taller and have deep voices. I'm sure the fact that I am 4 days unshaven doesn't prohibit the 'ghoul' factor either. Peri, puppy's mummy, has a very funny book of different dog clothes that you can knit for them - having seen it I am inspired by future visions of canine catwalks. Some of the bling displayed in this book was daring and could quite possibly constitute cruelty to animals. What about the glittery pullover or the H+M style Alsatian slip? Well, personally the red dog poncho was my favourite as well as what I can only describe as the 'Poodle Puff'.
I have the house to myself which is a rare thing when you share with three others. No, I am not prancing around naked with Chaka Khan on. I am 'chillaxing' as the kids say these days. It's been a busy week and it's so nice just to chill out for a while and collect your thoughts. It's very possible when there's a lot going on to lose yourself slightly. You need to stop and remember who you are sometimes. It's usually in the pub but tonight I will read a book I WANT TO READ! that will be the best thing about graduating; reading all those books I've been meaning to read which are conveniently holding up my bed at the moment.
I can't get my head around Brighton sometimes. It is a great place, full of creativity, good live music and colourful people but at the same time, well, it can be a bit seedy. It's a funny place because it's a wealthy part of the country where the people who work commute up to London every day leaving behind a city where a 'no hurry' atmosphere takes hold. If you walk through the Laines on a weekday it's full of people wondering around with seemingly nothing to do. It's full of art students who can afford to be idle or shopkeepers smoking outside their stores which are themselves often brilliant but frankly, I don't see how they survive in an area where the rent must be extortionate.
Go down to the seafront and it really is a cheeky kiss-me-quick affair - the kind you only get in England. It's full of drugs, sex and students, Brighton. It's full of skinny-jean wearing indies, dredded eco warriors, boho mummies, old drag queens and Katie Price. A very unusual combination for such a small place! What a town...
It's now 9.15 - I'm going to have that bath and read this book. Thanks for reading and have a nice weekend.
I sometimes forget that Brighton is by the sea (of course the cackle of seagulls serves as a constant reminder) but my house is a good 20 minutes from the seafront and the mundane routine of daily life stops a lot of spontaneous sea trips. So seeing it today on a sun filled and beautiful evening was special and most of all calming. It set the mood for a bit of Spanish interpretation with two of my friends from class. We attempted a discussion on Politics which somehow frayed into a discussion on the strength of men's hands...which was just as absurd even when in context.
My friend has a little dog. He's very cute and, err, furry. I'm not good on dog breeds but he's definitely one of those furry ones. He was happily bounding about the flat very excited by the presence of two women but for some reason he was terrified of me. Peri told me that puppies are often scared of men because they're taller and have deep voices. I'm sure the fact that I am 4 days unshaven doesn't prohibit the 'ghoul' factor either. Peri, puppy's mummy, has a very funny book of different dog clothes that you can knit for them - having seen it I am inspired by future visions of canine catwalks. Some of the bling displayed in this book was daring and could quite possibly constitute cruelty to animals. What about the glittery pullover or the H+M style Alsatian slip? Well, personally the red dog poncho was my favourite as well as what I can only describe as the 'Poodle Puff'.
I have the house to myself which is a rare thing when you share with three others. No, I am not prancing around naked with Chaka Khan on. I am 'chillaxing' as the kids say these days. It's been a busy week and it's so nice just to chill out for a while and collect your thoughts. It's very possible when there's a lot going on to lose yourself slightly. You need to stop and remember who you are sometimes. It's usually in the pub but tonight I will read a book I WANT TO READ! that will be the best thing about graduating; reading all those books I've been meaning to read which are conveniently holding up my bed at the moment.
I can't get my head around Brighton sometimes. It is a great place, full of creativity, good live music and colourful people but at the same time, well, it can be a bit seedy. It's a funny place because it's a wealthy part of the country where the people who work commute up to London every day leaving behind a city where a 'no hurry' atmosphere takes hold. If you walk through the Laines on a weekday it's full of people wondering around with seemingly nothing to do. It's full of art students who can afford to be idle or shopkeepers smoking outside their stores which are themselves often brilliant but frankly, I don't see how they survive in an area where the rent must be extortionate.
Go down to the seafront and it really is a cheeky kiss-me-quick affair - the kind you only get in England. It's full of drugs, sex and students, Brighton. It's full of skinny-jean wearing indies, dredded eco warriors, boho mummies, old drag queens and Katie Price. A very unusual combination for such a small place! What a town...
It's now 9.15 - I'm going to have that bath and read this book. Thanks for reading and have a nice weekend.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
General Musings
Oh dear, I have just realised that I haven't posted anything on here for over three weeks. I would have excuses but I really don't think there are any. The "I'm about to graduate" excuse has been sufficiently exhausted; I was using it to get out of yoga classes, parking tickets and, strangely, uni work. I still somehow find time to eat out though...
My house smells and I hate my landlord. I am almost certain he won't be reading this so I don't mind what I say. Who would become a landlord anyway? I always have them in mind as old men with a sagging gut, white string vest, questionable personal hygiene and as a compulsive smoker/liar/general vagrant. Of course in reality that hasn't been my experience of them. My first landlady was a woman of the manor from leafy Surrey. She was old and ever so slightly batty in the blue-blooded upper-class sense. She would present herself unannounced, usually in our bedrooms and usually whilst we were still occupying our beds, with the general greeting of 'cooeeey!'. At the time we lived with a French girl, Anne-Sophie, and our landlady, Mrs Todd, would tell her in a slow and patronizing manner to, I quote: "in your best English, call Matthew and tell him I am tending the garden." Anne Sophie would then yell "Maaaatttt" from the bottom of the stairs sending the seagulls into a frenzy.
I suppose my next landlord will be my father. He keeps assuring me that he's already rented out my room and I laugh half nervously in response - hopefully his humour is as sarcastic as I take it to be.
I am starting operation BBC today. I shouldn't be on here actually, I should be frantically thinking of personal attributes that would make me stand out from the crowd on an application form. It's all for work experience but obviously, being the Beeb, is outrageously competitive.
I saw a great looking work experience advertised yesterday for Channel 4, but it's only available to people from ethnic minorities. Clearly they have a quota to fill. What if I told them I'm a left-handed homosexual? no? well, what about 'I am from Clapham' -people from Clapham are certainly a minority, and a special one at that. OK, OK.
On a more serious note, if there are any broadcast journalists or media people reading this, what should I do? The whole process is lengthy and somewhat circular to say the least (I keep ending up at the same place). You're perhaps thinking I have ceased to make sense, probably owing to the ungodly hour that I woke up. I can't really think of anything else to say now. I just had a break from writing to eat soup and talk to Eva. Now I have broken the trail of thought. The day is getting on and I should get on with it too. I will write here more often from now on, there's a part of me that felt I should only write when there is something important or interesting to say but just any writing is practising a style n'est ce pas?
Thanks for reading.
PS: Eva, my housemate, says the interesting things to say are: "Eva is going running, Eva is going to the bathroom, Eva is taking a shower" for anyone wanting to keep track of her exciting and suspense-filled blog, you can find it lost somewhere in cyberspace.
My house smells and I hate my landlord. I am almost certain he won't be reading this so I don't mind what I say. Who would become a landlord anyway? I always have them in mind as old men with a sagging gut, white string vest, questionable personal hygiene and as a compulsive smoker/liar/general vagrant. Of course in reality that hasn't been my experience of them. My first landlady was a woman of the manor from leafy Surrey. She was old and ever so slightly batty in the blue-blooded upper-class sense. She would present herself unannounced, usually in our bedrooms and usually whilst we were still occupying our beds, with the general greeting of 'cooeeey!'. At the time we lived with a French girl, Anne-Sophie, and our landlady, Mrs Todd, would tell her in a slow and patronizing manner to, I quote: "in your best English, call Matthew and tell him I am tending the garden." Anne Sophie would then yell "Maaaatttt" from the bottom of the stairs sending the seagulls into a frenzy.
I suppose my next landlord will be my father. He keeps assuring me that he's already rented out my room and I laugh half nervously in response - hopefully his humour is as sarcastic as I take it to be.
I am starting operation BBC today. I shouldn't be on here actually, I should be frantically thinking of personal attributes that would make me stand out from the crowd on an application form. It's all for work experience but obviously, being the Beeb, is outrageously competitive.
I saw a great looking work experience advertised yesterday for Channel 4, but it's only available to people from ethnic minorities. Clearly they have a quota to fill. What if I told them I'm a left-handed homosexual? no? well, what about 'I am from Clapham' -people from Clapham are certainly a minority, and a special one at that. OK, OK.
On a more serious note, if there are any broadcast journalists or media people reading this, what should I do? The whole process is lengthy and somewhat circular to say the least (I keep ending up at the same place). You're perhaps thinking I have ceased to make sense, probably owing to the ungodly hour that I woke up. I can't really think of anything else to say now. I just had a break from writing to eat soup and talk to Eva. Now I have broken the trail of thought. The day is getting on and I should get on with it too. I will write here more often from now on, there's a part of me that felt I should only write when there is something important or interesting to say but just any writing is practising a style n'est ce pas?
Thanks for reading.
PS: Eva, my housemate, says the interesting things to say are: "Eva is going running, Eva is going to the bathroom, Eva is taking a shower" for anyone wanting to keep track of her exciting and suspense-filled blog, you can find it lost somewhere in cyberspace.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
SNOW!
Oh my we're having a cold winter. For those of you that haven't been living in 'Arctic Britain' for the last few months will do well to know that it has been the coldest winter since 1995. Ooh la la I hear you say. Yes, take pity on us for us Brits do find it hard to cope with any form of adverse weather. Take for example this Monday, February 2nd, which turned out to be a very surreal day indeed.
Having woken up early to a call of nature I happened to glimpse out the window. What greeted me was a spectacle of pure pristine white stuff blanketing the houses of Brighton. I switched on the radio to a media frenzied with reports of school closures, buses out of operation and all trains cancelled. This jolly seaside town had become well and truly cut off from the world.
It was upon this realisation that something odd happened to me. I, like many other millions in England, became 6 years old again. I ran around excitedly as text messages began to flood in - invitations to come out and play.
A little later, armed with what can only be described as a human-sized flying-saucer shaped dish, my companions and I trudged across Brighton receiving comments of admiration from passersby to our somewhat eccentric slay. We even stopped to let some children have a go, but they were less than impressed.
It was a day when people who weren't stuck on the M25 could take an impromptu break and really make contact with that inner-child, perhaps long locked away but never truly forgotten.
Of course, this being Britain, there were those who moaned. One particular gentleman on the radio told how London buses were kept going through the darkest days of the Blitz, but on this day bus drivers were seen engaging in snowball fights. People inevitaby harked back to that Blitz spirit and told of courageous people daring to leave their houses and venture into 8 inches of snow. What a glorious day therefore, when Britain once again triumphed in the face of adversity!
Of course, the truth is it didn't. In fact we quickly became an international laughing stock. A German news programme gave a dour but playful report on how Britain fell to its knees showing closed Tube stations and no doubt commenting on how peculiar it was that in Britain it seemed to snow underground as well . The Canadians thought it all downright hillarious-what strange people we are, a Polish friend exclaimed "You don't know what heavy snow is" and generally a lot of fun was had at our expense.
But do we care? I think not because for the most part I saw people really enjoying themselves on Monday. Children were in their element (I include myself and my friends in this because for the day, we were children.)
Much in the spirit of Mods and Rockers, snowball fights broke out across Brighton, but this time they were friendly. The noise of traffic died away and all that was to heard across the city was the noise of people having fun.
So that was a day when Britain stopped working, but hey, it was some much needed fun considering the un-fun times we're living in.
Having woken up early to a call of nature I happened to glimpse out the window. What greeted me was a spectacle of pure pristine white stuff blanketing the houses of Brighton. I switched on the radio to a media frenzied with reports of school closures, buses out of operation and all trains cancelled. This jolly seaside town had become well and truly cut off from the world.
It was upon this realisation that something odd happened to me. I, like many other millions in England, became 6 years old again. I ran around excitedly as text messages began to flood in - invitations to come out and play.
A little later, armed with what can only be described as a human-sized flying-saucer shaped dish, my companions and I trudged across Brighton receiving comments of admiration from passersby to our somewhat eccentric slay. We even stopped to let some children have a go, but they were less than impressed.
It was a day when people who weren't stuck on the M25 could take an impromptu break and really make contact with that inner-child, perhaps long locked away but never truly forgotten.
Of course, this being Britain, there were those who moaned. One particular gentleman on the radio told how London buses were kept going through the darkest days of the Blitz, but on this day bus drivers were seen engaging in snowball fights. People inevitaby harked back to that Blitz spirit and told of courageous people daring to leave their houses and venture into 8 inches of snow. What a glorious day therefore, when Britain once again triumphed in the face of adversity!
Of course, the truth is it didn't. In fact we quickly became an international laughing stock. A German news programme gave a dour but playful report on how Britain fell to its knees showing closed Tube stations and no doubt commenting on how peculiar it was that in Britain it seemed to snow underground as well . The Canadians thought it all downright hillarious-what strange people we are, a Polish friend exclaimed "You don't know what heavy snow is" and generally a lot of fun was had at our expense.
But do we care? I think not because for the most part I saw people really enjoying themselves on Monday. Children were in their element (I include myself and my friends in this because for the day, we were children.)
Much in the spirit of Mods and Rockers, snowball fights broke out across Brighton, but this time they were friendly. The noise of traffic died away and all that was to heard across the city was the noise of people having fun.
So that was a day when Britain stopped working, but hey, it was some much needed fun considering the un-fun times we're living in.
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