I'm going on holiday!

Going to Australia for two whirlwind weeks. Should be fun. Had a dream noone remembered me.

Last 2 attempts to blog were killed by a glitch in the matrix so here is shorthand:

Sat - possibility drink was spiked. Got seriously ill at this party.

Fri - catch up with Jeff and Jo from Uni - with respective partners. Great chin wag about the old days. Epiphany reached. More later.

Thurs - dog races, good bonding with OC where I played drunken therapist

Drama on the tiles

On Saturday was at this party with G's friends chatting to some guy when I suddenly rushed to bathroom to be violently ill. Vomited on and off for almost an hour. G was convinced that this guy had spiked my drink. The guy that I was chatting to turned out to be a long time enemy of G's because he got a bit punchy with one of his friends once, but that doesn't necessarily mean he's a drink spiker.

No idea what pushed me over edge but I bypassed tipsy to complete messy vomiting drunk almost instantly and with no warning, which is completely out of character. Pupils were dilated. Heart was racing. I sat on stairs, G stood in the doorway smoking and worried, watching me, trying to keep me awake. This guy left the party, edged past G. Nasty moment where I could see the two of them size each other up, G's obvious dislike for the guy, and this guy looked damn scared and slighlty guilty, shoulders stooped as he scurried off into the night.

Did he spike my drink? Certainly felt as ill as only a few weeks earlier when I had a bad reaction, but perhaps the alcohol abuse of the previous few days had stacked up against me. That has never happened before, and I would drink with the best of them.

Bit of a wake up call. Time to stop the abuse for a while. At least after the wedding.

Beauty drugs

Don't see what the big deal is about Kate Moss and her coke habit. Now they are saying it's rampant throughout all fashion houses. Obviously these drugs make you beautiful. If I learnt any lessons from Blow I learnt that. Sure their lives fall apart, but Kate and Johnny have cheekbones to die for.

Same with the Aussie girl and her stash in Bali. gots to get me some of that.

Plate too full

News from home makes everything seem irrelevant. Lot's going on, but my mind is thousands of kilometres away. Here are the stories anyway.

Firstly, went for third and final interview this morning. Much more gruelling than the other 3. Not sure whether to take it. It's not journalism, it's still tech, work hard hours. Ad for the job featured blood on a page and a boast that employees work the longest hours than any other firm with a 'do you think you can handle it?' Mum said I shouldn't because I've already worked hard (blatantly not true - but gotta love mum's). But it's not journalism!!!

It is one of those strange morning where I stayed in this flat that was like a bland hotel, and got up early for this interview, while the fog was rolling in. There is something comforting, about being up really early, in an unfamiliar environment, dressed in a suit and dealing with strangers asking intimate questions, don't you think? I can't decide whether I want this job and to stay here, or to go home to Aus and my old career.

Secondly, had a messy fight with G on Sat. Not going to air the details, but it was intense and stupid. He is scared of how he feels and he lashed out at me. He chased me to the train station and and made a public - not very English - scene.

So we talked soberly on Sunday and I told him it was too much. I've got a sick mum, a possible new job, old sharking mate getting married, friends much changed, and dealing with some emotional admin. Going home to say goodbye to my mother country for a while, and that's hard. Need time out to think about where I've been, where I'm going. I don't think I will know until I'm home where I belong. He has chilled out and given me some space.

Feel like I'm in some strange limbo land. Just to increase the ambience, it's foggy today.

Music - Elliott Smith. Weight - a healthier 52 kilos but feel dumpy because women are thickening. Wine - delicious Bordeaux from France and lots of it. Oh and Ketamine.

Highlight - OC entertained us all with an impromptu air guitar solo to GnR today.

Stiff upper, quivering lower lip

Some bad news from home has had me staring out the window and wishing for a different skyline. One with the Harbour Bridge. Not long now. Not long now.

Keep thinking about the view from the cabin window as I flew away from Sydney almost a year ago. Face wet with tears because I left everyone - and the ex - behind. Seems a world away, and yet seems like only yesterday. ah... sounds like a corny song lyric.

Sad talking to mum the other day.

Trojan horse, par for course

This week I received

1. A job offering from a company with questionable corporate social values - stuffed bear cubs and PR for the Tories.
2. An oyster travel card.
3. Some bottles of wine from France.
4. A laugh from office crush (OC) who I actually refer to as such for matter of simplicity - even though we sorted out our position as good friends a while ago. Now I see him as a bit of a muppet.
5. A proposition from a drunk guy with obscenely pink buttocks - paraded proudly for the masses.
6. A kiss from my old friends about to leave the country for a while - why do all the cool ones leave?
7. A character assasination from the ex - who questions the way I felt about him because I've tried to move on. If I hadn't moved on, would things be any different? Nope. It's hard to learn how to unlove someone, how to pick up pieces. I could imagine sharing my life with this guy, and he didn't want the same thing. That cut.
8. An accusation from current beau, which led to an ultimatum, a scene at a train station, a discussion in the rain, a few tense moments in front of his friend and my friend as we tried to carry on like everything was fine. Until he walked out on me at the bar, leaving me with his friends.
9. A 2am phone call from the above.
10. An apology (with caveats).

and I'm about to receive - all my belongings in a plastic bag, another heavy discussion and maybe some understanding.

Indie-rock geek slaughter

Onion at its classic best again. "I haven't seen this much senseless hipster carnage since the Great Sebadoh Fire Of '93."

Pontification

George was back last night with tales of gorging on rich French foods, gazing at Vermeer and other fine art, and playing loads of sport in a Chateaux on the south of France. Jealous? Absolutely. Seems he did miss me, and it wasn't just the booty. Chatting for a while I was reminded of the things I like about him. He talks about art. He knows what defenestrate means. He knows what a collective of priests is called (a pontification). He got chucked out of Oxford. It's a good story, so I let him tell it again.

Made some joke about all those Parisienne women, and he said 'The one thing you can do is trust me. When I say I do really like you, I do really like you. I did really miss you. And you're about to go away for like 9 years!'

For some strange reason my dear mate Iain thought it would be a good idea to send me some photos of my ex. Words fail me. Why? Why would you do that? It wasn't meant in any bad way, just innocent. Still, that's the photo of the one person in my home town that doesn't miss me or care if I come back or not.

Others do though, and that's nice. Looking forward to heading back. People keep asking if I would think about staying - John, Claire, Tim, Lisa, Philip, Dad, etc... It's going to be amazing to see them and hard saying goodbye all over again.

Avalanche of pressure

"It is impossible to paint an accurate picture of [my] reactions as I sat in that tiny cell, the floor carpeted with cards and envelopes, generated through Amnesty's efforts... I knew that I was not alone... Maybe you just sent one card - but all these cards are like little drops of water that combine to create an avalanche of pressure."

Chris Anyanwu, Nigerian editor, sentenced to 15 years in prison but released after three, having been adopted as a prisoner of conscience by Amnesty International.

Interview. Dead bears.

Went for an interview yesterday at PR firm. Not sure how I feel about it. I applied for an executive role but they called me in for writer role to match my editorial experience and skills. It seems to be the same gig as here - but longer hours and less money. Heard it's a bit of a sausage factory in both senses - lots of work, lots of men. There is a more creative side to it where you are involved in client pitches, liaise with clients, 'value-add' to account team. I imagine they wheel out the writers Hannibal Lector style to all prospective clients.

Lovely office. In Millbank, next to Tate Britain on the Thames. Views over the London Eye and all the bridges even to St. Pauls.

But they had a stuffed bear in the lobby. A real bear and only a cub at that. Speaks volumes on the company's values and ethics.

Adding to that list

Didn't get the Broadcast gig.

But on the positive:
1. The sun has come out.
2. The music scene has shifted from Hip Hop to Brit Pop.
3. I went to lunch with lovely office guy where I shook and stumbled and talked about stupid things because I was nervous. Nervous because he was looking at me. Looking at me with his eyes.

He said he wants someone to look after him. Gulp. Is that a line? If it is, it's a pretty shit line. Like Homer, all he can offer is utter dependancy. Why does that appeal to me in some sick way? Because at least he needs more than sex.

Things that depress me today

Here are the things that are getting me blue today.

1. The weather
2. The cricket results
3. Dwindling solvency
4. Never-ending head cold
5. PMS
6. Ever-widening booty
7. Messages from G about missing said booty
8. Ex's blog
9. New hair cut
10. WORK WORK WORK

But cute office crush said he likes my new hair, and that makes all the difference.

Game Over

Realised from reading yesterday's blog that I'm at the stage where I'm sabotaging any potential relationship because I'm scared of getting hurt again. G is lovely, really. Our first real interesting discussion is when I told him that if you can't be emotionally independent and strong then you won't be able to survive. And he said that's interesting because it is reflected in my attitude to life. But it's fundamentally wrong. People need people. He's right on both counts.

I'm scared of intimacy with him. He keeps trying to get beneath the surface and I keep locking him out.

It's time to end it.

He's back tomorrow. Best end it before I go away.

I miss the ex. At least I always knew what made him tick. Although he's a virtual stranger nowadays. I keep thinking about this way he used to throw his arms around me and hug me from behind when I wasn't expecting it. The way his little beard felt on my neck.

I lost my faith in the summertime
Cos it dont stop raining
The sky all day is as black as night
But I'm not complaining

I begged my doctor for one more line
He said son, words fail me
It aint no place to be killin' time
I guess I'm just lazy

I dont mind
As long as theres a bed beneath the stars that shine
I'll be fine
If you give me a minute
A man's got a limit
I can't get a life if my heart's not in it

¿Donde Se Fueron?

A little hung over and a little surly this morning. Haven't been arsed to blog. Hung over.

Went to some crapola Latino club last night with Mad dog. That place is latino by name only. They played Justin Timberlake for chrissake. Those girls didn't know how to make a mojito - and why don't they tell us that London pubs all serve double shots. On my arse after only 3 'flavoured cocktails'.

Everyone asked after G. Has it got to the stage that we're considered partners in crime? I don't want to be seen as a half. I don't like it when people look past me to the door: 'Where's G?'

He's in France. With other friends. Organised before we met. Yes, there are girls there. No, I don't know them. No, I'm not suspicious (If I was, I wouldn't tell you, Blake).

I don't know. Foul mood. Everyone says G is so great. The boys love him. King: 'You're on to a good wicket there'. Mad dog: 'He's so nice. The nicest guy I've seen you with' (that being 2 guys, one he never spoke to).

Yes, yes. He's nice. But none of them witnessed the conversation killer on the plane to Turkey where he 'fessed the biggest regret about his last relationship was that she was into girls but he never got to have a 3some. "So, are you into girls?" Just asks real casual while we're on a plane with hundreds of strangers and we're about to spend a whole week together. Wonders why I fall into icy sulk and pretend to sleep. First of all, the timing couldn't be worse. Later he apologised. Said it was the withdrawals from tobacco.

Maybe I'm just being bitchy because I'm hung over. I always hold such grudges about these things from moons ago. Probably because he sent me a crude text message while away. I'm a 'notice my mind, notice my heart' type person. He hasn't got passed the booty. Guess there is nothing wrong with being interested in that only, but it is wrong to fool yourself into thinking the attraction is anything more than that. And that's what he seems to be doing. I don't know how to manage expectations. His or mine.

Bah, I'm being a bitch. Need some more sleep.

Actually - come to think of it - I sent a txt msg to cute work guy last night. And he replied! Don't remember the conversation. Think I told him I was at a horrible place and hoped he was drunk somewhere. Do remember being happy that he replied! No, I don't want anything more than friendship with office crush guy now, because even if i was single, I see his many faults. But I would treasure having a cool friend right now.

Oh-It's the anniversary of Sept 11. Four years ago I was counting stars lucky that I didn't get that trip to New York after all. Two years ago I was in San Francisco for conference. I was going out with a gorgeous guy and missing him like crazy. There was a bomb scare in the convention centre. I was scared I'd never see him again. Seems this bomb scare and missing him stuff is not such unfamiliar territory.

London Underground

Paniccy feelings on the train this morning when guard announces that we are travelling slowly due to 'fires and fire alarms on the London to Waterloo line'. First thought 'Fuck, not again'. And the fear that surged through me was incredible. A msg on my phone, colleague's train stranded next to a field due to 'signalling problems in London Underground'. Fluttery heart as I dragged myself to the Tube.

On the day of the bombings the reason for the delay was 'a stalled escalator at Kings X'. That does not make sense. Went to Kings X the other day. Ground Zero. If you didn't know any better it would just be another beautiful old building covered in scaffolding.

Got a call from George last night. Nice that he called from his holiday. And here I was thinking that he wouldn't miss me - just because that's happened before.

Sick

Argh, I'm so fucking sick today. Damn. My throat is just way, way lumpy. Why am I at work?

Soon I will be so lobotomized I'll start writing shit like this:
http://office.microsoft.com/en-us/assistance/HA010789831033.aspx

Reaching higher ground

I lose count of how many people get in my way in London. Slow-moving, soft-brained people. As a result, I am late to the train, late to work, and late to bed. So to those who plan on lolling and lunging directly into my path tomorrow, I submit to you this memorandum: I don't care what it takes - buy sportier shoes, eat more vegetables, hitch up your pants - just get out of my way.

Same with those that take all the jobs. Turtle people that barge into the best jobs, and then fail to work.

Yesterday I stayed home sick with lumpy glands and a cough, hence the blog make-over.

Applied for many jobs, cold calling city editors, only to be blocked by PAs with guard-dogs. Couldn't sleep and couldn't read, so I turned on the television, unleashing a parade of idiocy. An endless stream of big-teethed women and shouting men making over houses, careers, and abdomens. Cooing over trouser hangers and iron cleaners. Absurdly fit and tanned people torturing obesity sufferers with tazers (well, no, but it's believable). Americans being American and English wearing tweed and solving gruesome murders in Somerset.

Got a call from major PR firm about one of my applications. Not suitable for the role that I applied for, but another role better suited to my skills and editorial experience blah blah blah. Agree to meet for interview on Monday, but after words like 'liaise with clients' (noone but PR says 'liaise') and 'value-add to account team' ('value-add', puh-leeease!!!) were thrown my way with no clear job description, I asked them to send me some info. Long and short of it, it's exactly the job I'm doing now. Yep, that's right, case study writing. Is that the only 'value-add' that this city thinks I can offer? Regretting turning down CNet now - for what? My pride?

Post-relationship administration is very tiring. Your stuff, my stuff, black tops, lost photos. I even had an ex print photos of a holiday we took together, then pop all the photos of me in an envelope and charge a mutual friend to with the task to deliver them to me with the message 'he has no use for these anymore. What would he want with them?'.

That reminds me, must get ex to burn a CD of the photos from farewell night.

After a quick email to thank him for dropping off my things, I completed another masochistic blog check. Lately, it seems I have reached a higher ground of sorts. It's lonely up here, on higher ground. I can see middle ground from here. The place we never seem to reach. Can also see the high tide mark of our passion, where it reached its peak before washing away, leaving this detritus of mascara, black T-shirts, guitars and photos to divvy up.

Fark I hate colds.

Heartbreaking work of Staggering Genius

Over the weekend my life was delivered in a box to my sisters. Claire romantically called it the 'box of broken dreams'. Actually it's only 'odds and ends'. Same difference, right?

I've been dealing with the break-up now four months. It still hits me hard sometimes. At the centre of the pain is dissonance: He was distant, unsupportive at times and cynical towards others. But I miss him sometimes. He writes a blog that my masochistic self sometimes checks. The enigmatic comments make no sense to me, and of course make no reference to me. His life is different now. Who is he? Who the fuck is he?

Hey, we've all got to find ourselves, I suppose.

Learnt a new term today: ChickLit. I thought it was some kind of food, from the Deep South. Nope, it's Sex+ Single Girl+ City literature. So I guess I'm both the target market and a bit of a chicklitter. How awful! Just think that Bridget and Carrie are over and the whole genre is stale. I don't want to be immortalised, warts and all. It's like shopping at Evans, eating ice cream, watching Desparate Housewive, reading Vogue. What about books about the emotional constipation of men instead? Football, beer, danky strip clubs and going bald.

I have always been more into absurd lit. That's why I've decided to rekindle my love of Dave Eggers. His fiction:
http://www.haggis-on-whey.com/books.php?b=gg_mirrors

http://www.salon.com/books/eggers/

http://www.haggis-on-whey.com/index.php

And he started his own pirate store:

http://www.826valencia.org/store/

After a day of job hunting, between coughing fits, (I even applied for a gig at Al Jazeera) I hope that someone pens me a rejection letter as witty as this:

From: Dave Eggers
To: Mary Porter
Subject: Re: Volunteer Application

Dear Ms. Porter,
Thank you for applying for a volunteer position at 826 Valencia. Unfortunately, upon review of your application and some discussion with associates in the kitchen of a woman who has seventeen great-grandchildren, we learned some details of your past opinions that were, to say the very least, unsettling. To wit:

- In September of 1992, your Honors English teacher (now a friend of mine) confiscated a notebook from you, upon which was written "Moby Dick Sucks."

- In July of 2001, on an extremely obscure McSweeney's-fan message board which, at its height, boasted 6 members, all of whom were shut-ins, you stated the following: "I love Dave's writing, but his public persona is beginning to distract me from it. He should shut his big fat mouth and get back to that book about whales he keeps promising us."

- In May of 2002, you went on a date with Todd Pruzan, a very decent human being, and never returned his phone calls.

A person's character is shown by his or her actions. Through these actions, you have shown that you are a cynical, pessimistic person who seeks to tear down other writers and we at 826 Valencia would be doing our students a great disservice if we allowed an insincere, un-genuine, ironic teacher to guide them. Feel free to stop by for all your pirate supply needs, however.

Sincerely As Always,
Dave Eggers

Rights

Do you have a visa that provides you with a right to live and work in the
UK?
Please note that a Working Holiday Visa does not satisfy these
requirements.

What? I'm sorry, Wannadoo, but that is exactly what a Working Holiday Visa does. So employers are not going to interview anyone working on a visa. What chance do I have of getting a job? Nada. Zilch.

And this is after 15 pages of online form filling out. I spend hours on these forms and send them off never to hear anything again. Hey, I'm employable, people!

Autistic or commitophobic?

Sigh, Mimi in NY is really spot on with her blog on The Autistic Male. Definitely have known one or two of these:

One must realize that The Commitment Phobe's fears center around the unattractive allure of a possible future life with his current partner spawning brats and passing over on a life of gay, carefree fucking with whatever vagina he encounters along life's fruitful path. The Autistic Male does not think in that great a depth. His is a primal and irrational fear, born out of instinctual and coded male behavior. ... It is a hidden psychological action he himself could not verbally identify. Reflex responses are highly repressed, so that in contrast to other forms of male, The Autistic Male simply... does not respond. ... The female's long and well practised speech detailing her plans for imminent marriage, the fusion of all assets and the production of two or more gurgling, mewing brats, will encounter little more than a polite cough, gaze fixed to the ceiling.

Sadly though, I've started to notice these traits in myself. Am I becoming a man? I certainly understand the simple workings of the male mind. Lately I have been fearful of being witness to sudden displays of emotional expression.

The weekend was a nice break. A day shopping with Steph. Her and Ry are moving in together. A big move. Went to see Crash. What a crap movie. Can Hollywood stop making films that tell Americans how to think. It's about race, gun laws, and stoopid LA. Every now and then actors step in to The Valley and do some kinda 'what it's like on the streets' type film.

Sunday nice long bike ride around Richmond Park, past all the pretty deer. Funny to have deer so close to my doorstop. Funnier still that I went the wrong way to get there and rode about 3kms, crossing the rail lines 3 times, only to find a shortcut on the way home through the public footpath. I live only 500m from this damn park!

Monday - oh wow, overnight it's winter. foggy, rains and floods. Yesterday 29.

But Ballmer has threatened to "f****** kill Google". Microsoft tries on ill-fitting rockstar image.

Peggy Lee is Kitty-cute

Of late I have grown increasingly nervous of hearing something uttered by the boy. As Martin Amis describes it: "Three words: A verb flanked by two personal pronouns."

Likely to drop the tea cup.

Folies Bergere

It occurs to me that I miss George. This is where I imagine he is on his first night in Paris. Can't believe an Englishman has never been to France!

Doubly devastating on the ground

Where is my mind?



Saw The Pixies last night. Oh oh oh, they really are the best band to me. For Claire it's The Cure. Coldplay makes George emotional (and me angry and a bit gassy).

For me it's always been about The Pixies. Oh Black Francis, Kim Deal, Joey Santiago and the drummer... what's his name Wikipedia?... Dave Lovering. Oh how I love you!

The Pixies are a pop rock band that sound entirely different from every other pop rock band that came before them. My opinion is that it is because of a variety of musical loves that includes The Carpenters, Leonard Cohen, Johnny Cash, The Clash, gothy shoegazer prettyboy sounds, and Spanish mariachi. Glossy clean guitars, punk energy, vocal humor, brilliant melodics. A musical melting pot, A bizarre crossbreeding experiment of pop sensibilities, art-rock conceptualism, punk and nasty guitar riffs.

Joey did a pretty awesome solo in Vamos, unplugging his guitar and feedbacking with his cable and other connectors while playing with his drumstick.

One night upon my motorcycle through the desert sped
And smashed my body so that all my friends thought I was dead
My sister held me close and whispered to my bleeding head
"You are the son of a mother fucker"

Can you imagine going to a Coldplay concert? Chris's whingeing voice orrating on the evils of corporate sponsorship. Gwynney handing out wholemeal muffins. T-shirts on sale that don't exploit the children of Bolivia. All very admirable, and hey I admit that I like some of their music too, but who wants to hear preaching? Where is the passion?

My first British stadium venue too, the Alexandra Palace. Huge. Of course I still love the ol' Enmore because it's a more intimate a setting, but the Palace was impressive.





Had to share this beauty with you. President Bush on Katrina. Doubly devastating! Super devastating! Devastating to the power of infinty! Infinity plus one!

The president spent 35 minutes looking out the window as the aircraft passed over Louisiana and Mississippi and clearly saw the damaged roof of the New Orleans Superdome and the city's flooded neighborhoods.
Air Force One flew about 2,500 feet over New Orleans and about 1,700 feet over Mississippi.
"It's devastating. It's got to be doubly devastating on the ground," Bush said.