shoegazer

Another life

2008-04-29T16:15:00.004+01:00

I've been in a state of barely suppressed excitement, almost glee, this past month and a half, because in about three days I'll be performing in a musical at the Old Vic.I used to do a lot of theatre back in college (university) and I even put my pen to paper and wrote and directed a short play as part of our theatre festival. Since turning into a corporate drone, I've become one of those bores who "coulda been a somebody" had I not sold my dreams for a steady paycheck. Now, given the chance to perform on one of the most historical stages in the world, the mind reels.

As with many things I have Van to thank for this - she suggested I put my name forward for the open auditions. I can't stress how low my expectations were when I first walked into that audition room and saw professional and semi-pro actors all stretching and flexing, preparing for what turned out to be a DANCE audition. F*ck me! I wanted to slink quietly away.

But somehow, I got the callback, and passed that one as well, and, two months later, here we are... tech rehearsals for Branded at the Old Vic.

50 people in plastic... just your typical Wednesday afternoon...

I wish I started blogging about this AGES ago. As it is, it's been a whole month of juggling work and rehearsals, getting to meet some fabulous people (and wrestling with stage management), and quietly telling my friends about how this corporate drone got to live a piece of the dream.

We're not unreasonable

2007-12-10T12:03:00.000+00:00

Van's out of town this week and I (foolishly) failed to make the appropriate social preparations. The last time I was out of town for a week she filled her entire calendar with parties, dinners and movies with friends.

Me? I stayed home the whole weekend recuperating from fever and flu and watching Shrek the Third.

The silver lining on all of this was threefold:

I made further headway on Nassim Nicholas Taleb's The Black Swan, the most arrogant, irritating and mind blowing book I've read in recent memory. On which, more later.
I discovered the brilliant, and certainly somewhat insane, Jonathan Coulton, who is the songwriter I wish I became and the musician I certainly would never have become. I obtained some of his tracks (the first time I recall willingly shelling out $5 for downloaded music) for a Christmas CD to give to friends.
I managed to get my USB Guitar cable to work, being inspired by said somewhat insane musician to write a song about... well, something.

The JoCo thing was somewhat random - Facebook Slayers was down and the creators linked to the Re: Your Brains video (above): instant win!

I’d like to help you Tom, in any way I can
I sure appreciate the way you’re working with me
I’m not a monster Tom, well, technically I am
I guess I am...

2007-11-27T18:00:00.000+00:00

Van and I watched the RSC production of King Lear at the New London Theatre. While I had high hopes for Gandalf in this one, I walked out of the theatre slightly disappointed with his performance. Perhaps this was only because Sylvester McCoy's Fool really did outshine Ian McKellen's overwrought Lear.

Van thought the Cordelia (Romola Garai) was shrill and annoying; I only thought she might have had a back problem as she kept stooping in a perverse and certainly unhealthy way.

Shakespeare being what it is, there were moments of brilliance in a sea of confusion; whatever Trevor Nunn was trying for in this eighteenth century pistol whippin' Lear, I just couldn't see it.

The seventh circle

2007-11-26T12:52:00.000+00:00

I've always believed that "Hell is other people", while trite, is true to some extent: nothing makes me suffer more than the company of people who I despise (or despise me). Being alone in an inhospitable environment will do less harm to you than being forced to share breathing space with others who view you as an annoyance or (far more likely) a threat.

I've been enduring my own version of Dante's Inferno this morning: I am blogging from the waiting room of the French Embassy visa section, about 35 places away from my number being called. I've had to put myself through this a number of times before but it never gets any easier.

What is wrong with the visa system, the innate xenophobic tendencies of the west, and the sheer bloody inconvenience of it all; I could spend pages and pages on all of this. Suffice it to say, this will be the last visit in a long, long while. And it IS a day off work. Small mercies.

2007-11-20T14:44:00.000+00:00

At a time when there isn't anything to give you confidence beyond yourself - you live in the "empire of the self" - then it is inevitable that you will seek those like you, because it will give you a sense of collective purpose. It will give you a sense of collective security.

And that's exactly what the internet is about - "If you like this book, others before you have bought these books..." And it works to create those little circles. All those little radio stations which tell you, "If you played this, other people have played this..."

- The Register's interview with Adam Curtis

2007-11-19T13:38:00.000+00:00

The spirit, free to work without plan, follows its own instinct; guided by natural line, by the secret opening, the hidden space, my cleaver finds its own way…

Then I withdraw the blade, I stand still and let the joy of the work sink in. I clean the blade and put it away.

- Quotations from Chuang Tzu, (3:2, pp. 64-67)

When friends leave

2007-04-03T22:18:00.000+01:00

Oli's back from his three week sojourn to the far east (Cambodia, Vietnam and Indonesia). I haven't seen him yet but Van's just had dinner. Unfortunately, he may be away for even longer; Oli just found out his law firm won't renew his working visa.

Every time it happens I tell myself we'll only make friends with people who stay. We stopped going to the student gigs, stopped trying to make connections with the one-year postgrads and the short term expats. Selfish, true. But we keep trying to stave away that familiar feeling of loss. Can't blame us for trying.

Anyway, never mind. If he finishes his law degree his firm will hire him back. Oli reckons he'll only be away for a year or so. Coincidentally, Anj is back for a week in London, staying at our place with her boyfriend Liam while we drive off for our Easter holiday. I suppose distances are never too great, and days never too long. They'll all come back to London.

the most addictive show on TV. And I'm too tired to watch it.

2007-03-27T22:16:00.000+01:00

Yes, it's Life on Mars, where Detective Inspector Sam Tyler is trapped / in a coma / going insane in 1973, surrounded by a misogynistic and overadrenalined Manchester police force. If there is one show which demonstrates the sheer addictiveness and quirkiness of British TV, this has to be the one.

Wikipedia argues that British TV has more freedom, thanks to the TV license, to take risks with storyline, characterization and general weirdness. I don't believe it, but it's hard to argue with results like this. Episode 5 followed a botched investigation, a young girl's murder and the (completely believable) forced confession from a teenage hoodlum. What's great is how the events were reconstructed - in his "coma" state, Sam was given an overdose of some drug which caused him to hallucinate and pick up memories from Gene Hunt and crew back in 1972. It sounds absolutely bat shit - and it is, brilliantly so.

"Is it DCI Hunt? ... is he kicking a nonce?"

Best line of the night: "Excuse me, Mrs. Woman?"

Passing time

2007-03-26T00:16:00.000+01:00

...another week begins. I put Van on the last train back to London and wanted to wave at her from the station platform, but a pillar was in the way. We spent an enjoyable weekend walking the walls of Chester. The sun was out and it made our weekend that much more enjoyable: long bouts of coffee punctuated by bookstore browsing, walking, the occasional meal, and just enjoying each other's company. I never enjoyed the town as much as I did these past couple of days.

view from the Clock Tower by harrymoon

Now I'm passing time, watching emo remix videos of Avatar: The Last Airbender on YouTube; wishing that the third Book (Fire) would finally air; that I was home watching all the previous episodes with Van, with a big cup of coffee and maybe some eclairs; and that I wasn't here, waiting for another week to begin.

Weekend at my place...

2007-03-23T20:52:00.000+00:00

...up in Chester, that is. Van and I took the train up tonight and had a lovely hot dinner and watched the gray skies of London literally roll away.

Am finding myself spending less and less time in London. Plus ça change... it wasn't too long ago that I was out in the sticks in Basingstoke wishing I could spend more time in the capital. Only this time, I'm actually kind of enjoying my time with the HBOS project.

At least I can finally show Van the flat and walk the walls of Chester. I'm sure we'll find some other things to do as well.

Gaming at its finest

2007-03-22T11:50:00.000+00:00

In a first ever occurrence for Jeopardy! (a show far older than even me), three contestants walked off with $16,000 each in a three-way tie.

From the sounds of it, the frontrunner in the game could have done what legions of others have done and bid $1 above his nearest competitor. That way, being relatively certain of his Final Jeopardy! answer, he would come out on top. Instead he gamed the system and rather than one person winning $16,001, three people got a total of $48,000.

A rematch has been scheduled but obviously they can't pull the same trick twice or else the show organizers will have a long hard look at their tactics.

Mister Brown strikes again

2007-03-21T14:49:00.000+00:00

Here in the UK, Mister Gordon Brown is a man who lives next to Mister Tony Blair and plays with the money of everyone in the UK (except his own). Every year he sets something called a budget which tells us how much more money the government tries to claw from our wages and daily life. Every year Mister Chancellor pats himself on the back for a job well done and scolds us for trying to hide money from the tax man. Bad, bad, Mister Brown.

Kansulay revisited

2007-03-20T23:59:00.001+00:00

I am re-reading James Hamilton-Paterson's excellent dissection of Philippine culture and the Marcoses, America's Boy (Unusually for Amazon.com, the reviews on this book are equally thoughtful and well-written). I'm sure I've written this before, but his pen is sympathetic and his descriptions of rural life in the Philippines ring true. Being a city boy myself, I only really absorbed a lot of probinsya influences when I started dating Van. Manila really is an imperium in imperio, a kingdom unto itself. Hamilton-Paterson spent years in the isolation of an anonymous Luzon village he calls Kansulay. His descriptions of the primitive standards of living entangled with the unbelievably complex social waters are completely believable and compelling. Van and I fell in love with this book the first time we read it; now it's like a comforting reminder of home.

* * *

Unfortunately, with all the traveling round we plan to do this year, it's looking less and less likely that I'll come home before Christmas. It's strange knowing this is the longest I've ever been away. I always say this, but I feel as though the connections to who I am are growing stronger and weaker at the same time. Like the henna tattoo I got from Dubai, sometimes it feels like I've washed away a part of me, a skin of superficial attachment to an idea of home that, maybe, I left a very long time ago. Not the happiest thought, is it?

1001 Arabian Nights: The Night Watchman's Tale

2007-03-19T23:25:00.000+00:00

This is a strange one, because this post covers three nights and three different venues. I thought the nightlife deserved a bit of a mention because otherwise I would just tack on "...and we went clubbing" at the end of what are already pretty long winded posts.

The Skyview Bar, Burj al Arab

...yikes.

First, the most disappointing and tacky one of them all, the Skyview only merits a mention because it is the little projecting structure that sits at the very top of the Burj hotel. We were allowed entry to the "seven star hotel" and, to be honest, I was completely disappointed. A billionaire's idea of luxury, perhaps. Definitely not understated, the hotel was covered in dark marble and gold, with neon lights cascading and a musical fountain in the center courtyard. Up the elevator to the Skyview, and it was more of the same. We couldn't even look out at the water that night (there were few lights, and the floor to ceiling glass was reflective and threw back only reflections of our fellow poseurs). We swigged our overpriced chocolate martini and got out off there double quick.

The Apartment, Jumeirah Beach Hotel

This was the venue for the company drinks, right after the company meeting day. I came late thanks to my dalliance with the Skyview, and was dismayed to find a cover charge even though we had booked the VIP room. Luckily I was able to blag my way past the clipboard lady from Tondo, and into... a mass exodus of consultants. Turns out plenty of our number decided that sweaty, crowded teenagers pulsating to (not very good) R&B and hiphop was Just Not Their Thing. I left with the crowd, and came back here after we were kicked out at closing by the fat bouncer at 360. Had enough time for a couple of drinks and a smoke, then, amazingly, got kicked out at 3 by the same fat bouncer. Serendipity, Randel and I agreed. Rather pleasingly, he recognized us from earlier. The Apartment was meant to be one of Dubai's hottest night spots. To be honest, it wasn't as bad as they said it was, but inside I could have been in any anonymous club in central London. I'm sure the old BBC crowd would have loved it - shame about the closing time.

360, Jumeirah Beach

Ahh, 360. The vibe was Ibiza's, the view was 100% Dubai. A golf cart takes you across a slender ribbon of concrete to the entrance queue. Flash your best smile at security (or grab a random partner if it's couple's night), and waltz right in. Inside you'll find extremely danceable tunes pumping from the mezzanine, couches and bean bags to welcome your tired ass and buckets of champagne. Of course, the omnipresent shisha pipes are there as well. You can either sit and chill or take your chances at the upper level bar; either way you'll be glad you ditched the tired pretentiousness of the other clubs. I know we were. Over the course of our stay I managed to come to 360 three nights in a row (sad but true - I failed to score a bean bag on any of those nights). Each time all I had to do was look out over the water back to the lights of Jumeirah, lift my glass, and be thankful I was there.

the view from the upper bar @ 360

Almost as good as being there, was walking home. Invariably we'd stay until fat bouncers asked us to leave, then we would take the slow way home; the sea on either side of us, yachts and lights and luxury, and we were there, in the center of it all, slightly drunk and footsore. Nights like this, well.

* * *

regular service re-commences tomorrow. Dubai can wait; I've had enough travelogging for now.

1001 Arabian Nights: the Adrenalin Junkie's Tale

2007-03-16T08:31:00.000+00:00

I stumbled home at some time past 3. It was generally accepted that missing the 9:15am start time for the next day's conference was the kiss of death for any consultant's prospects. Thankfully, the two alarms and the hotel wake up call I set proved to be (just) enough. I staggered out of bed and into the shower at 5 to 9, jumped into the nearest pair of trousers and ran to the conference venue.

There were many, many casualties. Some managed to sneak their way in during the half time coffee break. Those who didn't were named and shamed at the end of the half day affair by Dora, a fierce firebrand of a lady who had put the whole trip together. The conference itself was interesting, full of announcements and presentations that would change quite a bit about the company's direction. I can't say more than that, obviously, but even the hung over amongst us were paying attention.

The view of the hotel, from the hotel.

At lunch, many of us flinched at the sunlight, but still managed to wolf down quite the treats at the buffet. It was then time to retire until 4pm, when the company-sponsored safari would begin. I found myself a nice beach towel in the shape of a beach chair, and sat in that and read Reggie Nadelson and drank iced tea by the growing shadow of the Tower of Araby. People like me, conference rats, would walk by and say hi. I was in a perfect environment to reflect on life, my career, my future with the company. So instead I slept.

* * *

At 4pm Zahir, the nice man from Arabian Adventures, came to take us to the Dubai Desert Conservation Area in a nice 4x4 Toyota, to do some very unsafe things at high speed over the rolling dunes. The area was not quite the deep Sahara – you could even get decent cellphone reception – but it was as close as we would get to the real thing. Zahir took us over ridges, plunged us down steep tracts of soft sand, and bounced over the hard compressed wakes of the other 4x4s. It was all too much for Andy P, and while we got some fresh air I took photos of the others launching themselves into obscene angles at the dunes.

Scarier than it looks.

Our 4pm start was because others had gone earlier to try a bit of dune driving. I deeply regretted not having the international license to join in, but nevermind. We rejoined the main group at the bottom of a very steep dune indeed. The second life and limb activity involved strapping yourself to a board and sliding down this dune at high speed. It sounds easy – especially as we had done some snowboarding just the day before – but it was nothing of the sort. Combrink, one of our Tech Ops guys, broke a collarbone going down. That sobered up the atmosphere, though not really by much (less catcalls, same number of incriminating photos). I learned later he was airlifted to the best hospital in the city and subsequently flown back to London.

* * *

We piled back into our Toyotas and drove to a “sunset watching area” with cushions and champagne and salted nuts. I made small talk with the Filipino waiters and drank and watched the sun fade into the distant haze.

That done, we were taken to another reserved area (I get it, the desert is big enough, but why have all this driving about? Why have a “not really important but let’s just drive you here to look at the camels area”?) where the evening program would be. I managed to catch a 5-minute camel ride before catching dinner and getting a henna tattoo done (a crappy one of a scorpion, my star sign).

Post sunset, pre-shisha.

We tucked into yet another buffet (good one this time – lamb with rice ftw), watched a belly dancer drag fat consultants onto the stage, and sat around smoking shisha and watching the stars. Although the lights were on the whole time, I cupped my hands and watched for shooting stars. I spotted two before realizing I had lost my camera in all my wanders round the desert. I managed to find it wedged under one of the shisha cushions, so All Was Well.

It was very quiet outside the camp. The desert seemed as romantic and eerie as all the desert literature promised it would be. Too bad it was all a bit - artificial and soulless. After close to 800 words, I still have an ocean of them inside, so... to be continued.

1001 Arabian Nights - The Cigar-smoker's Tale

2007-03-14T18:59:00.000+00:00

Note: I'll never be able to blog my entire Dubai stay. Past travelogues have shown that I usually fizzle out at day 3, after an excited binge of photo posting and commentary. Fingers crossed though...

* * *

Things never seem good after a 7 hour flight. After some confusion with phones getting lost and people randomly leaving behind bags, we were out of Dubai airport and into a coach which crawled into the traffic. On the horizon we evenntually saw the outlines of the Burj al Arab come into view, and then our own hotel - the Jumeirah Beach. Looking like a frozen wave facing the sea. We had arrived early which meant bags on the patio and breakfast in the back. Only the patio was an enormous star shaped verandah overlooking the beachfront; and breakfast was at a restaurant that served over 140 dishes and ranged from Sushi to stew, smoked salmon to cereal.

We had to leg it to catch the next shuttle to the Mall of the Emirates, so that we could make our 12pm snow boarding discovery lesson on the artificial ski slope. What I discovered about snowboarding: turning around is very hard. Removing your board when you've face planted is very hard. Everything else was quite easy. Lunch followed, a brief stroll round the mall then it was back to the hotel to (finally) check in.

The view from the 20th floor. 360 is the little round building at the top. Yeah baby.

What can I say - the rooms were fantastic. All sea-facing, all huge (though the low ceilings made them a bit less so), opulent and very comfortable. The biggest kick for me was being 20 floors up and watching the tiny people move about on the beach and pool area. After a brief swim, a drink, and a game of dama with Randel, we all retired for a rest before dinner on the North Beach. Our outdoor buffet had welcome cocktails, was lit by torchlight, and featured a Pinoy band.

Oh yes, the entire hotel was nearly 100% staffed by Filipinos. It was nice to see their pleasantly surprised reactions when I met them with a "kumusta?" and to chat with them about Dubai. But more on this later. I sat at a table with the HR girls and with Andy B. (who was determined to out eat me at the buffet table) and shivered in my inadequate beach wear against the wind.

Sand, sea and Seventies music - a recipe for disaster.

By the end of dinner we had red wined and rum and coked sufficiently to warm us against the chill. By this time, as well, Steve T and the other senior managers had thrown away all semblance of shame and danced to old AC/DC and Pink Floyd standards the band was playing. A few of us sat on cushions and smoked cigars (Jamie magically produced them just as the night was winding down). Someone jokingly suggested we proceed to a club. I thought longingly of my warm bed, and was on my way there when I was intercepted by Lyna and others who hijacked me onto a waiting golf cart that whisked us out to 360.

360 was - is - a club which deserves a post of its very own. (And will get one, I promise) The Dubai experience had only just begun, and already I'd done more in one day than I have in weeks.

to be continued.

Nothing today, everything tomorrow.

2007-03-06T15:41:00.000+00:00

There is an excellent piece by the Guardian on the craziness that is Dubai. It reads a bit like the fictional metropolises of the mind by William Gibson, a blend of insane ambition and forced labor, or like Neal Stephenson's quasi-independent republics in The Diamond Age. I'm more and more intrigued with each passing day.

..."Mushroom City", Ravi Piyush, a plumply content dealer in the Gold Souk, said to me. "Nothing today, everything tomorrow." The World Bank reckons that the reconstruction of Iraq is going to cost $53bn. Here, along the strip of footballer-friendly sand that stretches 25 miles or so along the shores of the Persian Gulf, there is, at a rough estimate, about $100bn worth of projects either underway or planned for the near future. That is a numbing figure, ungraspable. It is the equivalent of every single dollar invested in the United States from abroad last year; almost twice the foreign investment in China.
- Boom Town, the Guardian

I'm the one on the right, waving.

On a less positive note, I just HAD to catch a cold on the day before the big trip. Bleah. I hope the desert air (or at least a snotful of the dry sand) will cure this.

Lunatics and lunar eclipses

2007-03-05T11:55:00.000+00:00

It's Monday in the office, and all everyone can talk about is the big company conference in Dubai on the beach. We all fly out on Wednesday; it's good to have something to look forward to; even better to have a week cut in half because of it.

Last friday was Karaoke night with the support folks. Anne J of support is, in Pinoy parlance, a belter. She and her (non-work) friend blasted out some Lady Marmalade duets and a few other numbers while the rest of us gamely did our bit and sang along with the usual anthems (Bohemian Rhapsody, et al).

photo by garyturner (flickr)

Over the weekend Van, Oli, Shine and I had dinner at a Burmese resto in Edgware Road with Andrew and Yusi's crew. After the last tapioca pudding and diet coke we staggered out in time to see the lunar eclipse starting with just the slightest hint of a shadow on the bottom edge of the full moon. By the time we bought the booze at London Bridge and headed over to Andrew's new flat, people finally managed to look up and notice it stealing halfway over the surface. It was a great night for it; the air was absolutely clear (by London standards) and the clouds didn't block the view at all.

Everyone but me drank wine; after a week of on-and-off inebriation I stuck to some peculiarly strong M&S gin and tonics. We laughed (appropriately enough) like lunatics, told stories to ward off the dark, and generally held vigil. Finally the last of the shadow disappeared; we had saved the world once again, and headed off for a well-deserved sleep.

2007-03-02T16:44:00.000+00:00

Yeah, I probably am.

Dead on a thursdzzzzzz....

2007-03-01T09:27:00.000+00:00

My body feels as though it's swimming in liquid sugar. Everything takes forever, even typing these words onto the keyboard. My brain is probably decomposing from the lack of carbohydrate energy. Yep, it's official: I'm in "diet crash".

After I measured myself and my stomach turned out a shocking 4 inches wider than my waist size, Van challenged me to give up rice and simple carbs for Lent. How hard could that be, I thought. Turns out, very.

I haven't backslided so far; I've replaced my rice intake with veg, lowered my overall calories, and have run or hit the pool every day this week since Monday. My beer belly isn't responding yet, but assuming I can keep this up until Dubai next week, then maybe there will be some positive results. Right now, I just have to power through this and keep up my exercise and zzZZZzzzzzzz.......

It must be film week.

2007-02-28T08:56:00.000+00:00

Last night at the flat Mareike and I hosted a French film night. Her film of choice was L'Auberge Espagnole, about an economics student's Erasmus year in Barcelona. While I'm sure legions of European students out there on their year abroad will find much that resonates in the story of Xavier and his flatmates, in the end it was just another male American Pie-style comedy. The protagonist gets to have an affair with a MILF, shares a room with a lesbian hottie and... well, does a whole lot of philosophizing in between. Oh, and has Audrey Tatou for a girlfriend back in Paris. Sounds just like your typical student abroad.

We are all, how do you say, "living in a dream world". Non?

Anyhoo, it isn't French night until someone brings cheese. And wine. And dear god, there's now a ton of extra cheese and wine of all descriptions hanging round in our flat. It's a shame I'm on a diet this week. And next. And... all of Lent, actually. Oh well.

OFW news - mostly good

2007-02-27T13:15:00.000+00:00

A Pinay nanny who saved her employer's children from a garage fire was rewarded with a $25,000 gift for the education of her own child, the Inquirer reports. The consulate in NY found out about her heroic deed when her employers, a Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Wood, accompanied her to replace her passport which was lost in the blaze.

The Woods acknowledged her heroism and her quick thinking, saying they would be “forever grateful” to her. “The $25,000 was not a reward but was meant for the education of Hazel’s son. She took care of our most precious possession -- our children,” they said.

Rebong also reported that Reposo, 30, had worked as a nanny since November 2003. Though a Business Management graduate of the University of Negros Occidental-Recolectos, Reposo left the country for her five-year-old son’s sake to work in Bermuda together with her parents and two siblings.

In other news, apparently the Philippine government is enforcing a minimum $400 monthly wage for all new contracts approved by the Overseas Employment Agency (POEA). Predictably, the recruiters who send most of our OFWs abroad complained it would hit our competitiveness as an exporter of labor, and would also distort semi skilled salaries in the Gulf States.

While I certainly agree with the enforcement of a $400 wage (not very much when you factor in living and traveling costs), the recruiters do have a point - most people who leave the country do so because of the opportunities, regardless of rules. Certainly someone offered $350 a month to drive a truck through Iraq, when facing zero employment prospects at home won't let a little thing like a POEA exit permit stop him. I just hope this doesn't mean that more people will be driven underground into the grey and black markets, where the scum of the earth do prey on vulnerable people (maids and nannies especially).

Still, things are looking up. Someday we will come home, and live like Kings. He says, typing from a business park in a country town in the back water of England.

Re-adaptation

2007-02-26T23:33:00.000+00:00

FADE IN:
INT. AN APARTMENT IN CHESTER - NEARLY MIDNIGHT

CLOSE on a leather sofa as SHOEGAZER types into his laptop. We see the BLOGGER screen as he struggles to put words to the page.

SHOEGAZER (v/o)

Adaptation

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

The Orchid Thief

SHOEGAZER flips to another tab, screencuts a piece of the movie poster for his blog. The action, instinctive, only takes seconds. He pauses, unsure what else to say. If there is anything else to say. He thinks about Van, her bemusement when she eventually reads this; unless of course she watches the film first.

SHOEGAZER (v/o)

He stops, afraid he's said too much.

The clock reads 11:33 PM. He decides this is enough. Yes. This is good enough.

Why people lunch at their desks in London

2007-02-23T14:14:00.000+00:00

So, my work mates and I decided to meet up at 1230 at the Moorgate Pizza Express on London Wall for lunch. When I booked the Bookings Man said "Pizza Express Moorgate". When I asked him if it was on London wall, he said, "Yes, we are on London wall."

Q: Which one of the following did we end up in?

A) is Pizza Express, Barbican London Wall.
C) is Pizza Express, London Wall Finsbury Park. Which I THOUGHT I had booked.
B) is Pizza Express, Moorgate London Wall. Which is actually FARTHER from Moorgate than C).

Which, since we work about 100m east of C), meant we had to leg it to the restaurant, shove our way to the front of the queue to get Reservations Girl to show us our table, order our starters, wines and mains in a single breath, then wait over half an hour for said starters and mains to materialize, get aggro from Reservations Girl because Bookings Man misspelled my name, and apparently another table for 6 had turned up, and NO you stupid cow, we did not steal their reservations; eat in about two point five seconds and then leg it back to the office.

Why are there so many damned Pizza Expresses anyway? They are the Starbucks of Pizza places, apparently opening in bursts of five at a time, so that tourists and the terminally uncool can get Dough Balls with their £10 Merlot.

/rant. Next time we'll order some pizza in and eat it in the server room. That'll show them.

MQExceptionBufferOverload

2007-02-22T09:57:00.000+00:00

Am now battling through a maze of XA and document production logs, MQAccessViolations and just general technical confusation. I am sorely tempted to escape to my flat for lunch. Being 5 minutes walk away from work lets me duck back into the flat for a lunch break, watch some trashy TV and still be back in under an hour. Alas, the demands of user testing come first.

Hence I've got about ten screens open and can't really blogg except in short, 30 second bursts. Maybe later on the train I can kick back with a G&T and watch the hills roll by. But not now.