http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2009/01/more_of_london_from_above_at_n.html
I must recommend the above link for the fantastic photography of London. It is my home city but it is easy to forget what it truly looks like when you are so determinedly hunched into your daily routine.
Jason Hawkes took these photos from a helicopter (which cost a vast amount of money to rent) and flew over the Capital snapping these shots of iconic landmarks. In order to achieve the clarity in such a turbulent machine, he used very slow shutter speeds and has the camera fixed on a specially constructed mount with gyro stabilizers.
Good work Jason!
Thursday, October 8, 2009
My Week So Far...
I am officially bored. Normally I come home after a frenzied day in the office, the booming voices of my dear colleagues still reverberating around in my head. By this point in the day my synapses are close to snap and I just want to chill out on the couch. But this week the office has been eerily calm and at occasional moments so quiet that apart from the mesmeric whir of the computer machines, you would be forgiven for expecting tumbleweed to skip past and then for Clint Eastwood to appear from the Nuclear Library (in my head a Saloon bar) and challenge me to a duel. As you can probably tell I am bored at work as well!
So I arrive home from the unusually peaceful office somewhat hungry for excitement and it is then that I realize just how calm and quiet my house is. Shame.
But that's how I feel this evening. This week did start out a lot worse. On Monday evening after a day of bothersome toothache, I unwittingly chewed on a piece of stale bread and it caused reverberations of nerve pain through my face so acute that I thought I was going to be physically sick.
So I swore almightily and heartily (softened slightly by the hand clamped to my jaw) and lay on the couch with the expression someone adopts when told their £300 00 car has been smashed. Having adopted said expression for over 12 hours, it is safe to say that I have acquired 56 new wrinkles. (a very exact figure you may say but I do lean in close to the mirror and count)
I went to the dentist the following morning and parked my car ever so slightly illegally in Tesco car park - I don't care though, Tesco have enough money and the very slight inner socialist in me feels smug. I went to the dentist where they know me so well by now that I need not present myself, I just sat there grimace
set and gaze aimed at the tv screen (which seems to perpetually broadcast This Morning - I thought Gigantic Bosum, aka Fern Britten had left)
After what seemed an age (and I know it was because my gaze was so fixed and mesmerized to the TV that I looked like an extra from Shaun of the Dead) the dentist finally called me in.
Now I know my dentist to be the most modest man in the world, so I always try to make that extra effort to convey just how much pain I have been in. I record pneumatic drill noises and inform him that that is mere birdsong compared with the pain in my head, I remind him of atomic explosions in the Far East and insist to him that all this is nothing comparable with my throbbing jaw.
With the explanation over and done with he looks at me in his deadpan way, sighs and says 'right I suppose we had better x-ray it then'. (I have by now had so many x-rays that I could provide half the electricity supply for a nuclear power plant)
He tells me there seems to be nothing untoward on the x-ray (it seems to me that there is nothing on it at all, I suggest they invest in new equipment). He then informs me of his pleasure that there is no swelling in the gum - hurrah! my day has been made, he has finally cracked a comment that is less underwhelming than Titanic.
I leave the dentist clutching a bag of antibiotics and mildly confused still about what could be torturing my root-canaled tooth. I then proceed straight to work whereby I attempt to eat in such a way that A: avoids half of my mouth, and B: makes me look cool. It so happens that one of my work colleagues fears I am having a stroke and starts repeating the FAST mantra out loud in the office.
So there chums is just a little insight into my week so far. In other news, today I happened to see a lorry massacre a bunch of flowers and last night I cooked a salmon risotto so immense it could happily have assisted the UN in their world-hunger relief programme. (it was also so thick it would have insulated an Inuit's igloo)
Goodbye for now.
So I arrive home from the unusually peaceful office somewhat hungry for excitement and it is then that I realize just how calm and quiet my house is. Shame.
But that's how I feel this evening. This week did start out a lot worse. On Monday evening after a day of bothersome toothache, I unwittingly chewed on a piece of stale bread and it caused reverberations of nerve pain through my face so acute that I thought I was going to be physically sick.
So I swore almightily and heartily (softened slightly by the hand clamped to my jaw) and lay on the couch with the expression someone adopts when told their £300 00 car has been smashed. Having adopted said expression for over 12 hours, it is safe to say that I have acquired 56 new wrinkles. (a very exact figure you may say but I do lean in close to the mirror and count)
I went to the dentist the following morning and parked my car ever so slightly illegally in Tesco car park - I don't care though, Tesco have enough money and the very slight inner socialist in me feels smug. I went to the dentist where they know me so well by now that I need not present myself, I just sat there grimace
set and gaze aimed at the tv screen (which seems to perpetually broadcast This Morning - I thought Gigantic Bosum, aka Fern Britten had left)
After what seemed an age (and I know it was because my gaze was so fixed and mesmerized to the TV that I looked like an extra from Shaun of the Dead) the dentist finally called me in.
Now I know my dentist to be the most modest man in the world, so I always try to make that extra effort to convey just how much pain I have been in. I record pneumatic drill noises and inform him that that is mere birdsong compared with the pain in my head, I remind him of atomic explosions in the Far East and insist to him that all this is nothing comparable with my throbbing jaw.
With the explanation over and done with he looks at me in his deadpan way, sighs and says 'right I suppose we had better x-ray it then'. (I have by now had so many x-rays that I could provide half the electricity supply for a nuclear power plant)
He tells me there seems to be nothing untoward on the x-ray (it seems to me that there is nothing on it at all, I suggest they invest in new equipment). He then informs me of his pleasure that there is no swelling in the gum - hurrah! my day has been made, he has finally cracked a comment that is less underwhelming than Titanic.
I leave the dentist clutching a bag of antibiotics and mildly confused still about what could be torturing my root-canaled tooth. I then proceed straight to work whereby I attempt to eat in such a way that A: avoids half of my mouth, and B: makes me look cool. It so happens that one of my work colleagues fears I am having a stroke and starts repeating the FAST mantra out loud in the office.
So there chums is just a little insight into my week so far. In other news, today I happened to see a lorry massacre a bunch of flowers and last night I cooked a salmon risotto so immense it could happily have assisted the UN in their world-hunger relief programme. (it was also so thick it would have insulated an Inuit's igloo)
Goodbye for now.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
There is something nagging...
Do you ever have that feeling that beneath the surface, under that thick layer that acts as your buffer to the world, there is something nagging at you? It gnaws subconsciously like a small itch - you always know it is there and it is hard to ignore. I have had that feeling for about two weeks now. I do think of myself as self-aware and I wonder if perhaps other people experience similar feelings constantly but choose (consciously or sub-consciously) to ignore it. It is simply a feeling that something is not right...
The funny thing about life is that it is often impossible to rationally explain away the feelings we experience. I like to sit and muse on them, and then prescribe rational causes in the hope that it will make everything better - for example, I have sat recently and said to myself 'you have just left university, your life has changed, you have started a new job, you have left your friend base in Brighton and have not yet re-established that work/friend balance that is the key to sanity in your new life"...blah blah blah...Presto! I have solved the problem, now what? not so fast. Once these feelings have been given a good dose of rationale, the brain still likes to lay out its cognitive complexities - put simply: the irrational will always win out. I can stand there when my heart is pounding and wonder 'why am I anxious?' and I can confidently conclude that there is no problem, but then I realize that I have to just let it be - eventually the irrational mind will catch up.
So, having said all this, it is in fact true to say that on face value life is swell at the moment. I am on Jury Service. Here you would expect me to be able to relate many interesting anecdotes about the whole process, including the intimate insight that I must be gaining into the court system. Unfortunately, I have spent the first 2 and a bit days sitting in an airport-style waiting lounge where time seems to stop completely and everything in the vicinity dulls into the same grey never-ending pallour.
On the first day I arrived at 9.00am to be shown a DVD with all the information we required on court procedure and an explanation of the civic importance of jury service. I then sat. And waited. I read my book, played tetris 400 times, read Time Out from cover to cover, had lunch, and continued to sit.
Eventually at 3.30 my name was called! I hurried to a register call and was escorted down with 18 others to a court room. Inside we found a modern court and lots of bewigged individuals. The court clerk then read out 12 names randomly from the jury list and unfortunately I was not one of them. I was sent back upstairs where I was told I could leave.
The following day was much the same, except that when my name was called, it was simply to be told I could go home. (This was 5 hours after I had arrived.) On Friday I arrived at 10.15 am. I was told I could leave at 10.40am. I look on the bright side -it was a sunny day and I was free for the whole afternoon to play!
Despite my above explanation of what must seem like jaw-slackening boredom, Jury Service is very interesting. It is unique in that you are put together with a comprehensive and wide-ranging selection of society - people from all walks of life in one room, speaking to people they would perhaps never speak to normally. And oh my do they speak! forget the famous eye-averted etiquette of the London Underground -everyone's blabbing away here and in a way that reaffirms in one's mind that the majority of people are sane and pleasant individuals.
I do however hope that next week I am assigned to a trial because there is only so much sitting around I can contentedly take before I start to sway back and forth with a demented fixed gaze. Watch this space.
The funny thing about life is that it is often impossible to rationally explain away the feelings we experience. I like to sit and muse on them, and then prescribe rational causes in the hope that it will make everything better - for example, I have sat recently and said to myself 'you have just left university, your life has changed, you have started a new job, you have left your friend base in Brighton and have not yet re-established that work/friend balance that is the key to sanity in your new life"...blah blah blah...Presto! I have solved the problem, now what? not so fast. Once these feelings have been given a good dose of rationale, the brain still likes to lay out its cognitive complexities - put simply: the irrational will always win out. I can stand there when my heart is pounding and wonder 'why am I anxious?' and I can confidently conclude that there is no problem, but then I realize that I have to just let it be - eventually the irrational mind will catch up.
So, having said all this, it is in fact true to say that on face value life is swell at the moment. I am on Jury Service. Here you would expect me to be able to relate many interesting anecdotes about the whole process, including the intimate insight that I must be gaining into the court system. Unfortunately, I have spent the first 2 and a bit days sitting in an airport-style waiting lounge where time seems to stop completely and everything in the vicinity dulls into the same grey never-ending pallour.
On the first day I arrived at 9.00am to be shown a DVD with all the information we required on court procedure and an explanation of the civic importance of jury service. I then sat. And waited. I read my book, played tetris 400 times, read Time Out from cover to cover, had lunch, and continued to sit.
Eventually at 3.30 my name was called! I hurried to a register call and was escorted down with 18 others to a court room. Inside we found a modern court and lots of bewigged individuals. The court clerk then read out 12 names randomly from the jury list and unfortunately I was not one of them. I was sent back upstairs where I was told I could leave.
The following day was much the same, except that when my name was called, it was simply to be told I could go home. (This was 5 hours after I had arrived.) On Friday I arrived at 10.15 am. I was told I could leave at 10.40am. I look on the bright side -it was a sunny day and I was free for the whole afternoon to play!
Despite my above explanation of what must seem like jaw-slackening boredom, Jury Service is very interesting. It is unique in that you are put together with a comprehensive and wide-ranging selection of society - people from all walks of life in one room, speaking to people they would perhaps never speak to normally. And oh my do they speak! forget the famous eye-averted etiquette of the London Underground -everyone's blabbing away here and in a way that reaffirms in one's mind that the majority of people are sane and pleasant individuals.
I do however hope that next week I am assigned to a trial because there is only so much sitting around I can contentedly take before I start to sway back and forth with a demented fixed gaze. Watch this space.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Monday evening, an average day at work - except I narrowly avoided being consumed by a giant pelican in St James Park at lunch. A more intensely zombified Monday than the usual head-lolling stupor, I got up this morning to take Marc to Clapham Junction at 6.00AM - for a 23 year old who is still trying desperately to come to grips with non-student hours, I consider that a remarkable achievement.
So as I sit at my desk quietly astonished that my head is still balancing after 16 hours on the go, I put finger to keypad and try to heave up something interesting from my bleary whirl of thoughts. Spent Saturday enjoying what could be one of the last great sunny outdoor days. Now it's blowy and decidedly hostile out there. I have already started to make some nice comforting autumn food - cauliflower cheese with a generous sprinkle of nutmeg kept me cosy on Saturday. But defiantly I cling still to summer -I went to McDonalds (a place you won't find me often) and bought chocolate ice cream and sat on the King's Road slurping away to the sunset (and a fit topless builder...) and as my mind trails off into a moment of glazed wonder, I recollect myself and give a little jig - water is needed.
I have sat here for 3 minutes now thinking of something else to write. I have come to the conclusion that I am indeed very tired and that writing something is better than writing nothing. I am going to stagger the two feet or so that makes up the walk to my bed, I will climb in and gratefully become oblivious to that mad world for another night. Oh I can't wait. Good Night.
So as I sit at my desk quietly astonished that my head is still balancing after 16 hours on the go, I put finger to keypad and try to heave up something interesting from my bleary whirl of thoughts. Spent Saturday enjoying what could be one of the last great sunny outdoor days. Now it's blowy and decidedly hostile out there. I have already started to make some nice comforting autumn food - cauliflower cheese with a generous sprinkle of nutmeg kept me cosy on Saturday. But defiantly I cling still to summer -I went to McDonalds (a place you won't find me often) and bought chocolate ice cream and sat on the King's Road slurping away to the sunset (and a fit topless builder...) and as my mind trails off into a moment of glazed wonder, I recollect myself and give a little jig - water is needed.
I have sat here for 3 minutes now thinking of something else to write. I have come to the conclusion that I am indeed very tired and that writing something is better than writing nothing. I am going to stagger the two feet or so that makes up the walk to my bed, I will climb in and gratefully become oblivious to that mad world for another night. Oh I can't wait. Good Night.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Can't Teach an Old Dog New Tricks, But You Can Try.
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!
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!
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.
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