Bloomer

Sometimes I wish I wasn't so specific.

Not particular. Specific.

I'm not particular. I'm quite easy going. If I ask for a Coke and you give me a Pepsi, it's no big thing. If our plans change at the last minute, or our usual restaurant table is occupied, I'm perfectly happy. I can change on the fly. I'm not particular at all.

But I am specific. I'm only ever me.

I'm always exactly the way I am. Everything has to be just so. I'm always utterly Paul and nothing but. It's frustrating.

I'd much prefer to be non-specific. I'd love to be general. Many of my favourite things are general. I don't want to be pinned down. I'd rather be a mist. You can't pin down mist.

I yearn to be vague. Defined identity is for squares.

It's not that I don't like myself. I like myself fine. I just wish my self wasn't so clearly delineated. I'd like to be wider variety of person. I want to be painted in broad strokes, but instead I'm printed in jet-black ink.

You know where you are with me. More than that, you know where I am with me. I'm right here. And I'm right him. I might as well be carved out of wood.

I wish I wasn't wood. I'd rather be spores.

***

Yeah, it's Friday. I'm bored and anxious, as usual. I might go and get a sandwich. I already had a baguette, but that was two and a half hours ago. And it was just the baguette. I didn't have any extras.

I'll go and get a sandwich.

...

I used three dots there, rather than three asterisks. It's because, though time has past since my last paragraph, the content of this section is a thematic continuation of the last.

I got a tuna and crunchy vegetable bloomer.

The shop was playing a terrible, terrible song. I don't know what it was. It was one of those modern songs. I've heard it before, but I don't know where. I don't listen to modern music. I'm thirty.

Man, it was terrible.

Maybe it's on an advert. That might explain it. Ugh. I can still hear it through my memory ears.

I think it's a man singing, and there's some other noise.

Whatever happened to proper music? Whatever happened to Emma Bunton?

These are the end times.

%%%

I used three percentage signs there, rather than three asterisks. It's because I wanted to see if the zeroes looked like tiny coffee beans. I'm happy to say that they do.

I could easily repeat this device, typing three of every single symbol on my keyboard, then saying what they look like or what they connote. But I'm not going to do that. Twice is enough.

I took a picture of a really yellow tree yesterday. I'd include the photo here, but I can't access the internet on my phone. It was really yellow, though.

***

Oh man, I thought I'd already finished this. I don't know why. Did I think the yellow tree anecdote was a good closer? It wouldn't fly in Vegas, I can tell you that. People would be asking for their money back.

"Hey buddy," they'd shout. "We didn't come all the way from Hoboken to hear some guy in a SHIRT tell us about some crummy yellow tree."

"Yeah," his wife would say. "I mean, if you had a picture, that would be somethin'. But we don't even get to see the damn thing. How do we even know if it was yellow?"

Then they'd head off to the slots, like the scum they are.

What kind of animal would voluntarily go to Las Vegas? It's the worst place in the world. If one city represents the worst of humanity, it's Las Vegas.

It has the delusion of LA without the beach; the disgusting wealth-fetishisation of Monte Carlo without the attractive women; the lasciviousness of Amsterdam without the weed; and the cultural bankruptcy of Australia without the kangaroos.

"Have you ever even been to Las Vegas, Paul?"

THAT'S NOT THE POINT. THE POINT IS ENDING THE BLOG POST IN CAPS, TO ARTIFICIALLY CREATE A CLIMAX.

###

I'll see you next week.

Iron Will

Tomorrow will be the sixth anniversary of Headscissors. That's my iron anniversary, according to Wikipedia. Next year is wool, which seems like a backwards step.

I'm feeling anxious this afternoon. I put it down to the chocolate and orange sponge pudding I had at lunchtime. It was warm, and came with chocolate custard.

I don't normally do warm desserts. I don't know what compelled me to have one today. Probably an external malevolent force, like a witch or some kind of pang.

All I know is I ate a warm sponge pudding, and now I feel anxious. I've been a fool. I'm going to reform. I believe I can be a better man. I believe a better man is a spongeless man.

Let me tell you a story about a spongeless man. I'm sure you'll find it...

absorbing.

;-)))))))))))))))))))))

The Ballad of a Spongeless Man

***

This isn't a ballad. This isn't even a hilarious meta-ballad where I claim not to be writing one. I wrote the above section yesterday. I fully intended to write a ballad then, for all I know. But I don't feel like it today.

Today, the chocolate and orange sponge pudding is but a memory. Also, I don't really know what the a "ballad" is. I think it's a type of duck.

It's not a palindrome, but it's better than a palindrome. It's almost symmetrical.

ballad

It's a lovely word to look at.

***

I wrote the above section on Tuesday. I wrote the section above that on Monday. Today is Thursday.

I refuse to abandon this post. I've put too much effort into it already.

It means that my iron anniversary was actually two days ago. My rosette is obsolete already. And rusty.

I didn't have a sponge today, and I still don't feel comfortable writing a ballad.

It's useful to be able to document my sponge consumption in increments. It's useful.

I used my new power drill yesterday (Wednesday). It was only for putting up a bathroom cabinet, but I already feel like more of a man than I did on Tuesday (ballad) or Monday (sponge).

I can't drive or fight or drink lots of alcohol, but I can drill holes in walls. I'm a real man.

It might seem sexist to suggest that there's something innately masculine about drilling, phallic symbolism notwithstanding. And it is. Women are allowed to drill. And, for all I know, it might make them feel like more of a woman. I think it's what that Shania Twain song is about.

But I felt more like a man, because I was already going down that path. I'm on the man track, so ended up further down the masculine continuum.

Not that you can't switch tracks. I would hate for anyone to think I was being transphobic. It's possible that drilling might make a girl feel more like a man, and a boy more like a woman. Drilling affects different people in different ways. We should be prescriptive when it comes to power tools, unless we're prescribing a certain drill-bit for a specific type of wall.

*sigh*

It's really hard trying to follow a thought through to its conclusion when I'm constantly concerned with political correctness.

Let's just say that drilling made me feel like less of a failure in life. There. Failure is gender-neutral.

I drilled holes and it made me feel better about my comic collection. That's it. I'm not trying to oppress anyone here.

Except for walls. I'm oppressing them. If you're a wall, my drilling adventure was a fucking bloodbath.

I'm not wallist, but I am willing to dismember them in order to mount cabinets. If that makes me a fascist, then you'd better lock me up and throw away the chuck key.

Six years...

Six years is a long time to have been doing this.

Has anyone done a joke about a palindrome being where people race Michael Palins?

Yes, they probably have.

I'm old.

That's the lesson here. It's the common thread.

Sponge puddings, ballads, drills, iron.

Only old people like these things.

Young people like Frubes, diss tracks, lasers, plastic.

It wasn't like this in 2007. What's happened to me?

I look down at my hands and they're all lined and withered there are four of them.

Hang on, that's a zebra carcass... I wondered why my hands had a mane.

I'd better post this, or I'll have to come back in a few days and judge past self. I'm young compared to that guy. He will be ancient.

Youth is wasted on the young. And oldness is wasted on the old. It falls on deaf ears.

Everything is wasted on everything else. It's a fundamental force, like gravity.

The only thing you can do is ignore it. Make something of yourself. Turn a safari exhumation into a profitable hoof depot.

Don't do what I did (or did not) do.

You don't want to wake up in six years' time, wondering "when was the last time I had a sponge pudding", and not even bothering with a question mark.

Holiday 2013 – Days Nine, Ten, Eleven & Twelve & a bit of Thirteen

I'm back in England now. Why would I want to write about my holiday? I was wearing shorts, for Pete's sake! I packed eight pairs of socks and didn't wear any of them. It was a different world.

And now I need to cast my mind back to day NINE?! The number is meaningless. I'm sure I was still alive on day nine, but I wasn't the same person I am now. I'm wearing socks today. To not wear socks is unthinkable.

But I can't abide a tale half-told. I can't stop my holiday account at day eight. It would be improper. And would confuse future-me. He'd wonder where the time went.

So here it is. Day nine was, what, Saturday? I was probably wearing shorts and wishing I could trim my moustache. But you can't take scissors on a plane or buy them once you arrive. Bin Laden deserved to die, if only for that.

Here are some things.

We went to a place called Göcek. It's one of those yacht places. You know, with, like, a wet bit where the boats go, and then a dryer bit where there are shops and cafes and mooring posts and people staring at yachts? A yacht place.

(Do you know what the sad thing about this story is? It happened on Day Eight. But I'm so confused, I'm writing about it here.)

Apparently, the rich and famous go there. Our tour guide said that sometime in the late 90s, Sting and Dustin Hoffman visited there. In the same yacht.

I don't get yachts.

I'm not totally immune to the allure of a millionaire's lifestyle. I can see why people would like luxury cars and mansions, and why they'd like to have a diamond-encrusted George Foreman Grill.

But yachts are stupid. How can a tiny boat be luxurious? It's just a bobbing caravan. Get over yourself, Hoffman.

If you chose to get on a boat, you have abdicated all authority anyway. You can drown at a moment's notice. Every seaman is nothing but Neptune's bitch. A rich movie star on a boat is just shark food in an expensive suit.

If I was a millionaire, I wouldn't want to be robbed of my dignity. I'd stay on land at all times. People can look up to you if you're on land. Nobody looks up to boat people.

Stick with what brung you to the dance. If you're rich, you made your fortune on land. Stay there.

Unless you're Daryl Hannah. She has one fin in each camp, and a stupidly-spelled name.

When we were in Göcek we had tall frozen lemonades, with lots of fruit. They were the most refreshing drinks. Mmm. I'd like one right now.

Also, earlier on the same day (EIGHT - NOT EVEN NINE), we went to a treetop cafe in the mountains. We had Turkish tea and saw dragonflies and horses. But that's not what I'm going to write about, because I'm not a square.

We'd walked down some rocky stairs to photograph a waterfall or a unicorn or something, when our tour group started moving on. We went to join them, but an old woman was coming down the stairs, blocking our way. She was having difficulty making the descent. Her family was helping her. She had a walking stick. She was taking ages.

If this was a more interesting story, we might have found ourselves cut adrift from the rest of our group, forced to climb through the mountains and find our own way home. But that didn't happen. We just waited.

When we got to the top of the stairs, one of the Turkish cafe staff (who had been watching our predicament) said to me in perfect English, "one day, we will all be old."

He was right. It was a nice thing to say. He obviously understood the situation and didn't want us to feel angry or annoyed at the woman. He recognised that she was only human, and our having to wait a few extra seconds wouldn't make much difference. There but for the grace of God, go us.

We agreed with him. One day, we will all be old. He was right. We shared a moment of human empathy that crossed national boundaries. At that moment, we were united by our appreciation of the fragility of life.

Then he said, "one day, we will all be dead".

Now, I thought this was one sentence too far. It's true of course. We will all be dead. And it seems like a continuation of his previous thought. It's an understanding and wise statement. But it didn't really apply.

The slow woman was old, but she wasn't dead. Empathising about her age was warm and humanistic. Empathising about her death seemed premature.

"One day, we will all be old" is a beautiful and melancholy piece of language.

"One day, we will all be dead" sounds like a threat.

Of course, I agreed, and hurried off. I'd gone from moved to unsettled in about five seconds.

But the cafe worker was right. Because, as we looked back over the beautiful scenery and watched the river flow down the rocks, much as the the river of time does flow, we saw, through the dappled sunlight and the vivid forest flowers, that the old woman had fallen down the stairs and died.

One day, we will all die. He was right. It was an appropriate thing to say. As I looked at her corpse and her broken walking stick, I thought: "that will be me one day".

He winked.

Some of that story isn't true. You can decide for yourself.

Anyway, where was I...?

Oh yes. Day nine.

Nothing.

Day ten. Nothing. Some swimming, I guess.

Day eleven. We came home.

The journey was long. Our bus to the airport left at 10pm. Our flight was at 2am. Our bus on the way back was at 5:05am GMT, which would be 7:05 TMT (Turkish Man Time). We got home at about 6:30am GMT, then had to go out again.

It was not unexhausting.

The flight was strange. People were sleeping, but I was not. I couldn't get comfortable, even though there were lots of spare seats, as it wasn't a full plane.

My arm kept... being there. Humans should evolve retractable limbs. I've said it before, and I'll say it again.

Humans should evolve retractable limbs.

There was an eerie light everywhere. My fatigued brain started playing tricks on me. The clouds looked like the sea. There was a thin blue line of dawn on the horizon that never grew, because we were flying away from it. It couldn't catch us, but was shaking its fist.

The soundtrack of my delirium was this short song by Adam Buxton (of Adam and Joe fame). It's about nettles:



This song played in my head about five thousand hundred million times.

Nettles - also like the band The Police...

There was a child sleeping across the seats in front of us. I was worried that my stupid non-retractable arms and knees would be disturbing her, so I was semi-frozen in shaky discomfort like a shit statue.

Lucy got some sleep, lying across the seats next to me. She had a shawl draped across her, which took on an odd luminescence in the artificial night light. The shawl rose and fell, and seemed to me to be undulating like a wedding-white jellyfish.

Nettles! Nettles!

Eventually, we landed in that land of my forefathers: Gatwick.

I slept on the coach on the way home, leaning against nothing, my slumbering head flopping around like a melon on a weak spring. I retained verticality by biting the inside of my mouth at regular intervals. It was relaxing.

By this point it was technically day thirteen, but who's counting?

This holiday journal has never been a systematic catalogue of events. It's more of a series of impressions, bound together by hyphens. If you want to give a sense of an experience, there's no point in trying to replicate it. You have to just say things like "you know how sometimes it's all a bit fleeeuuurrrgg?".

AND PEOPLE SAY YES I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN.

Oh - also we had a big bread that was like a steam-whale. That was day twelve, but who's counting?

I can't believe it's all over. It was so interminable and so brief, like a mayfly opera.

Time to put away the shorts.

Time to put on all the socks.

Time to post photos to Facebook to tell the people - who, unlike you, dear reader, are not my real friends - that we had a well good time and look at my muddy torso and don't you wish you were here? Don't you wish you were there? Don't you wish you were me?

And the Facebook people will be all like "yes, I do wish I was here/there/you. *like*".

But you, dear reader, are my real friends. And you know in your heart of hearts, that whether you're there or here is nether here nor there. The only thing you're sure of - from reading this very blog - is that you'll never wish you were me.

Would that you were.

Would that you would.

XXX Candles

I'm much thirtier than I was yesterday.

Yesterday, I listened to aggressive experimental dubcorepunkhop music. Today, I listen to a mid-tempo guitar ballad from an MFI ad.

Yesterday, I snorted a line of ketamine off a skateboard. Today, I collapsed halfway through a ploughman's.

Yesterday, I listened to Radio 1Xtra. Today, I write to complain about the station's lack of 'e'.

Yesterday, I wore skinny jeans and an ironic T-shirt. Today, I wear chinos and the same T-shirt in earnest.

Yesterday, Michael Gove. Today, Michael Give. 

Yesterday, I tattooed a Frank Ocean gif Tumblr URL onto a holographic coin. Today, I scratch my neck and agree with a racist.

Yesterday, I resented the police. Today, I carve my mashed potato into the shape of a truncheon.

Things are different now.

This is what it's like.

This is what it's like.

This is what it's like.

(It's my birthday. I'm not sure if that was clear.)

***

Seriously though, things are super!

I love this time of year. I love this time of day. I love this time of blog.

("The sarcastic time?")

That's the one!

Seriously though, things are serious.

***

Is this really the end of the blog post? I couldn't think of anything else to write?

Maybe I should end on a joke.

What do you call a reindeer with an STD?

Blitzen.

It's seasonal - that's what I like about it. If it doesn't seem to make any sense, then... well... You obviously don't know Blitzen.

Happy Hanukkah, everybody.

Ups and Downs

My neck hurts.

Here's some hilarious topical material:

Sandra: Ooooooooooo!

Man Dressed As Skeleton: Oooooooooo!

Mark Clattenburg: Oooooooooooo?

Lord October: Well. Hasn't this been fun?

I have no interest in anything anyone has to say about that.

***

As I get older, I'm becoming more and more less convinced.


Oh right. I forgot I was writing this. I forgot some time after "convinced", and remembered just before "Oh right". That's how my brain works.

The best thing about getting old is that it legitimises my permanent state of fatigue. In your twenties, it is a concern. In your thirties, it's par for the course. I'm looking forward to that. All of my inadequacies will become expected. It will be brave for me to even get out of bed every morning.

So, on the frequent occasions when I don't get out of bed, I'll have no reason to chastise myself.

I'm happy to salute the flag of reduced expectations, even if it's not as big as I'd hoped and my arms are too tired to salute above waist-height.

It's nearly lunchtime. I'll eat seven hard-boiled eggs and a tea bag. By the time I'm back, I'll be in tip-top shape, and ready to tell you all about how I lost my lustre, where I found it, and why I decided I was better off without it.

***

I'm back, and boy am I.

Sorry to keep you hanging on the whole "lustre" story. To sum up: I lost it whilst queueing for a bus festival, I found it taped to the inside of my right thigh, and I decided I was better off without it because it sounds all Gallic. I'd rather have luster.

***

People like writers who resent having to write.

That's why I'm so popular.

I'm annoyed at having to do this, even though I don't have to do it. Pretty much nobody will be reading this, and anyone who is will be actively wanting me to stop.

Writers need to hate writing. They should also hate reading, if possible.

A good writer hates first, and writes second. They should also hate what they've written.

I'm a pretty skilled writer. I'm now at the stage where I can hate what I'm writing as I'm writing it. It's almost simultaneous. I also hate my formatting, but there's more of a lag with that.

I have to be finely honed when it comes to hating my writing, because it can be difficult to make out specific hatred against a background of continual negativity. It's like static: it's always there, but you can learn to tune it out.

You wouldn't want to hate the wrong thing in the confusion.

I could represent my country at Precision Hatred. I can hate a Tory mosquito from six hundred yards, even if it's during an episode of Jeremy Kyle. You can't teach that.

I'm just going to scan what I've written so far, and check that I hate it all.

Yep.

I'm going to slam my foot in a door!

***

OK. I need to salvage something from this. It's not acceptable in its current condition.

What I'll do, right, is not post this now, but will leave it as a draft. Then, later on, when I'm in a better state of mind, I'll come back to it, finishing it off with a flourish of such beauty and pathos that we'll all become monks.

I'll see you then.

***

The rain is falling. It is always falling. By the time it rises again, it will no longer be rain. It will be something else.

It can only return to the sky as vapour - only the vaguest recollection of its previous self. What was once a proud and sturdy raindrop is now a shimmering residue. It is back, but it is not back. It is rain, but it is not rain. It is home. But it can never be home.

We are like the raindrop. We must forever fall. Our only ascent is through our memories: melancholy, intangible, familiar, inconsequential.

To remember is to turn our lives to vapour, to feel the moistness of the past on our cheek, to realise our oneness with the past and future, without ever quenching our thirst.

We are caught in an ever-fading cycle, looking to grasp the solidity of the self, but eternally destined to fall.

***

See? It's now over a day since that opening disaster.

I feel a lot better now. It's funny what ten hours of sleep will do for you. And some tea. And some sandwiches.

The rain is falling. That's where I got the idea. I got it from the sky.

I'm starting my novel tomorrow. I still haven't the foggiest (another sky idea) notion of what it will be about. Other people seem to have a clear idea. They have planned this for months.

I have no characters, no settings, no plot, no premise. But that's how I roll. Unprepared is the harvest that yields the worthiest wheat.

You see? I didn't plan that harvest thing. It just happened. And it was beautiful.

I'll just throw myself in tomorrow. Sink or swim. Fish or cut bait. Shit or get off the pot. (Of those, I'm instinctively draw towards sink, cut bait, and get off the pot, but my plans may change)

Whilst I have no idea what my novel will be about, I've decided what it won't be about. This is my via negativa. Rule out what it is not, and you will have ruled in what it is is.

The following things will not feature in my novel:

• vampires
• werewolves
• zombies
• aliens
• the FBI
• extra-marital affairs
• first-person narration
• lots of adverbs
• haunted hice
• a character who is basically me, or any other Charlie Kaufman bullshit
• the word "bullshit"
• Turks
• any deus ex machinis
• bullet-pointed lists
• self-referential lists
• a link to the various other self-referential lists I've done in the past
• Latin
• Americans
• cigars
• sex scenes
• a scene where two characters are fighting and fall into a giant vat of stew
• Star Wars

By following these guidelines, I have quite a narrow remit. That will make things easier.

By the way, I reserve the right to include any of the above if things get difficult.

I'm supposed to write 50,000 words in thirty days. It's very possible that I won't be able to do that without at least some Turkish content.

***

This has been extremely encouraging. I've already written 532 words in this blog post today. If I include that whiny stuff I did yesterday, it's over a thousand!

Word counts are easy. You can throw down words as easily as the man with a diamond allergy throws down a playing card.

I think I'll have NO TROUBLE WRITING A NOVEL WHATSOEVER.

I'm trying to double-bluff Fate. It never works. ;-)

:-(

8-O=

Hmm...

None of these emoticons are properly capturing my Fate-challenge. I need something a bit more expressive.

That's better.

Flow

Time has begun to move more quickly.

In genuinely has. It's not like one of those situations on a workday afternoon when someone (usually me) says "Man, hasn't today gone slowly?". As though my subjective experience of time will be shared by the person I'm talking to. If we do agree about the speed of the day, it's only coincidence.

It's pretty much always the slow days I remark on. Colleagues sometimes say to me "Wow, is that really the time? Today has just flown by!". And I agree out of politeness, because for me it has been a crawl through zero-g treacle. You may have been aboard the flying day, but I was left behind, inhaling the exhaust fumes.

This isn't like one of those things. Time actually is moving more quickly.

I can prove it.

Yesterday, I got into the shower. Physically. (I metaphorically got into showers in the late 90s; the fad having been brought to prominence by Gus Van Sant's Psycho remake. I've been a fan ever since.)

Just as I turned the water on, I realised that it had only seemed like seconds since I'd last had a shower. It hadn't - it had been a whole day. But my previous shower seemed so recent that I became confused and accidentally swallowed a soap.

Had any time passed between the two showers? Had I experienced the intervening day's worth of activity? I wasn't sure. I wasn't aware of anything being amiss during the day, but that shower made me think I'd been in suspended animation.

Could my mind be playing tricks on me? Or could I be playing tricks on my mind?

How can one differentiate between real experience and memory? Had my consciousness been static for 23 hours and 40 minutes (give or take)? Was my consciousness only awakened by a stream of hot running water?

But it's not just the shower. Weekends are coming faster. It's Friday today. But it was Monday, like, yesterday. I'm sure of it. I haven't lived for a whole week. Before I know it, it will be Monday again. Time is speeding up. I'm being buffeted on its [specific rafting terminology].

It's already August. August 2012. About three weeks ago, it was 2011. Last year, it was four years ago. Five years ago was the whole Bay of Pigs brouhaha.

At first, I thought it must be subjective. I thought it was like the "Man, hasn't today gone slowly?" scenario. After all, wouldn't other people have noticed?

A watched pot does boil. I thought I'd just been watching my pot too closely, and subsequently underestimating the water temperature.

But I found definitive proof.

It's been ages since we last filled up a bin bag. It used to happen more often. But now it is happening less often.

Why? Because time is moving more quickly. There's less time to use things and create waste. There's not as much garbage time as there used to be. It's the only explanation.

(Unless our recycling regiment has improved - those items are stored in a plastic box and dealt with on a different schedule. That's another explanation.)

So, time is moving more quickly. It will be the end of the world soon. The flow of time is increasing exponentially. Quick! Someone build a dam!

I'm going to alert the authorities by tweeting a link to this blog and hoping one of them (the authorities) follows me. The chances are slim, but dot dot dot.

Actually, now that I think about it, I'm probably just getting old. I'm on the downward slope, and things move more quickly here.

When you're a child, a week is a year. When you're a teenager, a week is six months. When you're thirty, a year is a week. When you're fifty, they've brought in some new metric/decimal year system and you find the whole thing confusing.

When you're old, you're weak for a year. When you're dead, you can't see your watch calendar, because your family ignored your EXPLICIT INSTRUCTIONS to put a night-light in your coffin.

It reminds me of that song about the passing of time. I forget which one, but I think it used a leaf metaphor.

I started writing this blog post a second ago. I didn't have time for a proofread.

Development

This may be controversial, but I believe all Panamanians are liars.

Ask them. They'll say they are not liars, proving my point.

***

I don't know, man...

It's been a strange couple of decades for me. I just haven't had much stability. Moving from school (primary) to school (secondary), from college (sixth form) to college (Mansfield), living in a wide variety of different buildings, being a wide variety of different heights.

I can't tell you how many pairs of shoes I've owned since the 80s, but it must be over a dozen.

I should bring an end to this erratic lifestyle. I'm nearly thirty. It's time to settle down. I'll settle down at thirty.

No more frivolous age changes. No more increasing my age by a year on an annual basis. No more following the latest trends and fashions for incremental ageing. I need to make a choice and stick with it. Thirty will be where I lay my hat and build my house on a non-sand foundation. I'll stick my flag in the earth and move forward never more.

Unless I get bored. Which might happen. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. But only once. Unless I get bored.

I don't know, man...

It's like the man says: "It's like the man says".

It would be different if I had a calling. Not better, but different.

Imagine if I'd always been obsessed with becoming a darkroom.

That would give me a goal to work towards. I'd spend time excavating my torso, installing one of those red light bulbs, considering ways to contain developing fluid without poisoning myself. That kind of project would make me excited to get up in the morning.

Would I develop photographs in myself, or would that duty fall on others? Would the prominence of digital photography make equipment more expensive and harder to come by? Would a life spent as a darkroom mean that I would have to stay relatively still, reducing the time I had for actual photography?

I wouldn't have been so aimless in my education and employment. I'd know exactly which courses to take (photography, human structural engineering, marketing). I could have done an internship at a photography studio, or gain experience in some other similar project (such as a woman who has decided to transform one of her legs into a greenhouse).

I'd know who I was. I'd know where I needed to be, and what steps should be taken to get there.

[Side note: I just spoke to Lucy about the possibility of becoming a darkroom. Her response: "It would be difficult. It is quite dark in the human body, but there isn't much room." Always the comedian, she is.]

You see these Olympic athletes, and they've known what they wanted to do since they were five years old, and have worked towards achieving that goal ever since. Direction. Discipline. Courage in the face of adversity.

There is no human darkroom Olympics, as far as I'm away, but the comparison is still apt.

But of course, there are drawbacks to having that kind of focus. You can lose sight of other options. You may be trapped within a narrow channel of purpose. What if you want to change your mind? What if you're two weeks away from the Olympic long jump finals and you realise you would rather jump shorter distances?

And, by the same token, my darkroom ambition could be similarly restrictive. I might decide half way through the process that I no longer want to be a darkroom. Someone could have almost finished wiring up the electrics in my rib cage, and I might decide that I'd rather be a professional skateboarder.

That would throw a spanner in the works.

Maybe I'm better of being vague and ephemeral. I can change my mind at any point. That freedom may leave me feeling aimless, but at least I have options.

I won't take any of those options, but I still have them. Not taking options is an option that's open to me.

And it doesn't mean I can never be a darkroom. Perhaps one day I will be. When I'm retired, I'll have all the time in the world for that kind of stuff.

I'll be respected when I'm old (after forty years of being thirty).

"Look," my grandchildren will say. "That's my granddad. The awesomest skateboarding darkroom who ever snikeblommed".

(The word "snikeblommed" is future slang, the meaning of which won't be known until Easter 2019.)

I don't know, man...

and there's nothing wrong with that.

The Post With The Most

April is the cruellest month.

And she's also the cruellest member of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cast - she used to pull Splinter's tail :-(

For my last post, I had a list of topics to write about. This time, I've decided to go old-school and make it up as I go along. This method has led to many classics - so many that to list any examples would be an affront to Jesus.

Huh. I was sure 'affront' was only spelled with one 'f'. I must be going CRAZY.

In the old days, being 'old-school' was just known as 'school'. There were no old schools in the old days (or as they were called then: 'days').

I'm sure all the old-timers (or 'timers') used to sit around in their old-fashioned (or: 'fashioned') clothes, thinking about all the tales that their non-existent ancestors had told (or: 't').

Everything was new then, back in the day.

In the days, there was no 'back in the day'. There was nothing before then. If anything, it was 'later in the day' that was thought of, wistfully, with forward nostalgia for the familiar events of the future.

Everything must have seemed so new and terrifying.

We're jaded now.

A plum? Yeah, yeah.

Richard Clayderman? Seen it all before...

Some legs? Same old, same old...

That's why amnesiacs have it easy.

***

LINDON: You know your 5-a-day?

FRANCES: Yeah.

LINDON: It's a big con. The government is lying to you.

FRANCES: To me?

LINDON: Yeah. Well, not just you. Everyone.

FRANCES: Oh no. Oh no.

LINDON: Oh yes.

FRANCES: I need to sit down. Or lie down. Or lean against something.

LINDON: You know how many portions of fruit you need each day?

FRANCES: No.

LINDON: No, neither do I. But 5 doesn't seem plausible.

FRANCES: You're right. Now that I think about it. You're right.

LINDON: You know how many fruits/vegetables I eat each day?

FRANCES: No.

LINDON: S.

FRANCES: S?

LINDON: That's right: S.

FRANCES: But that's not a number. Is it?

LINDON: You've always been sharp-eyed. That's why your glasses keep getting scratched. It's not a number. But what does it look like?

FRANCES: A snake? Handcuffs?

LINDON: 5. It looks like a 5.

FRANCES: Right.

LINDON: I'm beating the system. I don't have 5-a-day. I have S-a-day.

FRANCES: Right.

LINDON: Pretty clever.

FRANCES: Yeah. Really clever. But...

LINDON: What?

FRANCES: Well, what does it entail? Like, practically, how do you eat S fruits and vegetables?

LINDON: I make my own smoothies.

FRANCES: But S... well, it isn't really a quantity.

LINDON: I put in frozen fruit to make it colder. And yoghurt.

FRANCES: But... so... how many fruit and vegetables have you had today?

LINDON: 4 or S. Give or take.

END OF SKETCH

***

I'm almost too productive sometimes.

[pretend you don't know me]

Jack Kirby is cool.

***

I'm writing this out of a sense of duty. To stop myself getting bored, I'll just do this in short bursts.

***

Mondays, eh? Hey? Mondays?

***

I watched the film Kramer vs Kramer last night. Then I watched a documentary about the film Kramer vs Kramer. Those two things are connected. They were on the same DVD. As was the theatrical trailer for Hook.

I didn't watch that though.

***

I've been given something complicated to do at work. I don't understand it. I basically said as much - twice - but the subsequent explanations have been just as baffling. I can't ask again. You can't claim ignorance three times.

Once is understandable, twice is shameful but permitted.

Three times makes you an actual idiot.

So now I have no option but to take my own life.

***

I don't know where I'm going to take my own life. I'll probably take it to the Cotswolds. Or a pylon factory. You know: for a treat.

***

I'm looking round the room for things to write about. There's a wall, but people don't always find walls interesting.

Hey, there's another wall.

And another.

And another.

Or is it all one big wall?

Curved walls are one big wall. How many degrees must the corner angle be to constitute a new wall?

People don't always find walls interesting.

WALLS!

***

I'm getting older.

The rich get richer and the poor get poorer. And the old get older.

The young get older.

The rich get older.

The poor get younger (they can't afford a forward progression through linear time, or balsamic vinegar).

I'm getting old. And vinegar.

***

This is a funny video. It can shoulder the burden.



***

I'm flagging now. Like a female assistant referee. Or a pirate. Or a man with flags for hands trying to swat bees.

This whole enterprise has been to the benefit of no-one and the detriment of all.

Quickly - I will save us with a picture!

***

Did that work? No?

How about this?

Many Happy Returns

I suppose I should write about my birthday.

I'm not doing anything special. In fact, I'm at my desk, at work, and it feels just like any other day (except I've been decorating Christmas trees). But still, I am 25.

25 years.

It seems like a pretty long time. 25 is really the first of the landmark birthdays to be a negative one. 18 is fine, it means you can legally drink. 21 is a coming of age thing. 25, though. You're grown-up then. At 25, I could be on Friends (the first series).

I think your prime decade is probably 25-35. After that it's essentially downhill. And I haven't really got as much going on in my life/career/experience as I'd like. By now, I should have toured with a punk band or invented a cylindrical waffle or made my first million. At this rate of income, I'm not going to make my first million until I'm around 100. And that's if I don't spend any of it, which seems unlikely. The chance of me resisting ordering a Domino's pizza for the next 75 years isn't high.

I'm not crazy about birthdays. I think the mother should receive gifts on the anniversary of their child's birth instead. They did all the hard work. Except my mum had a Caesarean Section - lazy.

My disinterest in my birthday is made worse by the memory of how excited I used to be at this time of year. I couldn't sleep. Birthday then Christmas! Brilliant! But now I feel cynical and old.

25.

To be honest, my age doesn't really bother me. But lack of achievment is. I think the coming year will be a big one. I'll be sending off writing everywhere and trying to find some calling. In a year's time, if I'm still writing this blog, I'll be able to see how far I've come.

And I'll realise that I'm still an office temp with delusions of grandeur, and I'll pierce my temple with a stapler.

Oh well, at least Lucy's made me a spectacular cake!

(That's made a cake for me, rather than making me into one. Although, rest assured, if I were a cake, I would be fucking spectacular.)