status anxiety

Delving

2009-10-29T20:18:00.002Z

By the time I was nineteen years old, I'd lost all of my grandparents. I never knew my paternal grandfather, and can barely remember my mother's father either, who died when I was just four, a year after my own father had died.

I saw my two grandmothers regularly: one lived in West London in a 1930s block of flats, the other a stone's throw from the sea, near Bognor Regis in Sussex. Both had many stories to tell, but like most youngsters, I didn't think to really listen.

I lost my mother, my only remaining parent, when I was just twenty-seven. As I moved into my thirties, a time when I began to indulge in much philosophical introspection (the fact that I started blogging at thirty-one is no coincidence) I began to ponder my own history and wonder where I'd come from, but unfortunately had no-one to ask.

In the past few months, I have been inspired by re-runs on satellite channels of this, and with the help of the wealth of resources now available on the Internet (for a nominal fee and in some cases, free), I've been delving around in censuses and putting together my own family tree. Luckily, my grandparents were all old enough to appear on the 1911 census as children, so I was able to find out their parents' names, their siblings, where they lived, and the occupation of the father.

In my family, there have been booksellers, shopkeepers, wood labourers, police constables, mercantile clerks and station masters.

They have lived in Clerkenwell, Camberwell, Bethnal Green, Hoxton (before it was trendy), Stepney, Kent, Surrey, Hampshire, Devon, and Sussex. With the wonder of the Interwebs (most notably, Google Street View for the London addresses), I have even managed to glimpse some of the houses my ancestors lived in - where they have not been replaced by 1950s blocks of flats.

There are numerous Eleanors, Claras, Ediths, Thomases and Georges. One of my great, great grandfathers had a wife called Amelia, a daughter called Amelia and a servant called, yes you've guessed it, Amelia. Another had two sons called John, both alive on the same census.

One of my great grandfathers was one of nine siblings, and grew up just a few miles from where I now live. My paternal grandfather grew up in Sidcup and went to school in Chislehurst - a stone's throw from where I lived briefly with Big, back in 2004. His mother was born in Mottingham - one stop prior to where I used to get off the train from the city during those dark (but mercifully short) days of commuting.

It is all quite, quite fascinating.

Provisions

2009-08-29T20:29:00.004+01:00

Our garden has provided us with:

Gooseberries
Blackcurrants
Redcurrants
Blueberries
Courgettes
Tomatoes
Potatoes
Lettuces
Butternut squash
Apples
Raspberries
Strawberries

The cat has attempted to provide us with:

moths
butterflies
worms
birds
slugs (which attached themselves to her fluffy haunches)
a lack of sleep, due to night time meanderings on the bed
surly, nonchalant behaviour
general ungratefulness
rare moments of utter adoration
seemingly endless amusement

Work has provided me with:

a salary
disillusionment
hatred
despair
exhaustion
cynicism
an overwhelming urge to run for the hills

My sister has provided me with:

a small, perfectly formed niece (to add to my collection)

The municipal recycling centre (or "dump" as it used to be known) has provided us with:

Two filing cabinets
A blind, which miraculously fits the bathroom window as if it were made to measure
Two chrome effect radiator drying racks
A marble lazy susan (used mostly as a Scrabble turntable)
A bird bath
Two large pieces of fabulous "retro" fabric
Some pint glasses

That about covers it, for now.

Orthographic despair

2009-08-03T22:19:00.004+01:00

A couple of roads I pass fairly regularly seem to be having an identity crisis since the council has decided to renew the signs so that they now boast the qualifier "City of Southampton". As if we didn't know.

At one end of one of the roads in question, the sign reads "LANDGUARD ROAD" (the name by which I've always known the road). At the other end, it reads "LANGUARD ROAD". Similarly, the next road up is "HOWARD ROAD" at one end, and "HOWARDS ROAD" at the other.

Where one road has lost a "D" at one end, the other has gained a spurious "S" at the other.

The confusion offered up by the city council has unfortunately spread, like swine flu, to a nearby bus stop. One route displayed on the timetable shows the stop as "Landguard Road", another route shows "Languard Road". On the same sign. On the same piece of paper. By the same bus operator.

To top it all off, I am helpfully advised by a temporary, yellow diversion sign that I should find an alternative route to the "city center".

Where will it end, that's what I ask myself.

Knowing

2009-05-31T19:30:00.005+01:00

Wandering through town, trying to find something to wear for the wedding of the year. Something which doesn't make me want to cry should I happen to catch my reflection unawares.

Dresses are tricky on me. Waists are too high, skirts flare out just at the point where it's most unflattering, hems are too short. After many weekends of traipsing dejectedly in search of the non-existent "dress-that-looks-good-on-me", I have finally decreed that I shall wear trousers to this god-forsaken wedding. I very rarely wear anything untrouserlike, so why should I be different at a wedding? And let's face it, my legs are best just left lurking inside a trusty trouser leg rather than parading around on public display.

So, trousers it is, and of those I have many - but I'll need a nice top.

As I scour the same shops as before, this time looking for tops, not dresses, I decide to take a break for a browse around the bookshop. I very rarely buy new books, my brain quickly becoming bewildered by "l'embarras du choix" offered up by the high street bookstores. I prefer to get my books from charity shops, secure in the knowledge that I will have much less choice, a lower ticket price and the smugness of reuse. But on the odd occasion, I'll pop in to see what catches my eye.

And there, on the shelf, adjacent to the entrance, is something which immediately piques my interest.

I grasp it and read the blurb inside the cover:

... de Botton skillfully raises the big questions we all tend to ask of our work. What should I do with my life? How can I combine earning money with attaining fulfilment?...

I smirk. It is almost as if this book were written just for me. I make a mental note to buy it when it comes out in paperback.

In the meantime, I continue my quest for a wedding outfit, finally finding a blue silk tunic and miraculously matching blue shoes. I am interrupted by a text message from a friend:

Can I have your postal address? I have a present. W x

I duly provide the information, and continue on my way.

Three days later

I receive a jiffy bag.

I open the jiffy bag.

Inside the jiffy bag is this:

Inside the book is this:

*

I love my friends.

* inscription reads: "may the pleasures outweigh the sorrows"

Irritation

2009-05-23T20:26:00.002+01:00

Context: I am talking to my colleague. He is 27 years old, born and bred in the Midlands and university educated

Him: "Where's Torquay?"
Me: "Devon"

[pause]

Him: "Where's Devon?"
Me: [silent incredulity]

Him:"I can't believe it, they didn't pay me when I had one day off sick last month!"

Me:"Yeah, I had that too. That's because you're still in your six month probation period. It's all in your contract - the company won't pay you sick pay in your first six months. They would have told you that on your first day too. Of course, after a certain number of days, you'd get statutory sick pay"

Him: "That's not fair, I can't help being ill!"

Me: "That's not the point - you're in your probationary period - it's like having a temporary contract. It's fairly standard practice in a company like this."

Him: "Well, I've never had that before. I lost a day's pay!"

Me: "Hmmm, one day out of a month's salary - it's not exactly going to leave you on the breadline. To put your experience in a bit of perspective, a couple of years ago I was seriously ill and had 10 weeks on statutory sick pay, because I was in my probationary period. That was pretty hard financially"

[pause]

Him: "At least you got paid. I didn't get anything!"
Me: [silent incredulity]

Me: [noticing a packet of paracetamol on his desk] "Are you okay? You got a headache?"
Him: "Oh, I had flu earlier today. It's gone now..."
Me: [silent incredulity]

I've always been a pretty mild-mannered, laid-back person at work. I am lucky enough to work with bright, highly intelligent people, who mostly share my cynicism and frustration at the corporate world and the games we play within it, but who get on with it, because someone is paying them a decent salary to do so.

My newest colleague, however, is trying my patience to the extreme. Countless mind-numbingly stupid pronouncements like the ones cited above, married with fidgety behaviour, a naivety I have never experienced in someone of his age and background, mood swings hitherto unknown in the male of the species, erratic and melodramatic behaviour (he was once found sitting down in the lift), body language reminiscent of a sulky teenager, appalling standards of work (the fact that a program compiles does not mean that you have "finished" it!), an astonishing lack of numeracy (for a computer science graduate), and a constant need for reassurance (very hard to give, under the circumstances) makes him by far the most high-maintenance programmer I have ever had to work with.

And it's not just me who feels this way - most of our lunchtime conversations will involve an account of his latest demented outburst. At least he provides us with entertainment.

Whilst I usually settle for passive-aggression in the workplace, venting my frustrations once I'm away from those concerned, with this moronic excuse for a colleague, I have been driven to snap at him on a number of occasions. Big has now banned me from talking about him at home, because he is too angry on my behalf and powerless to take any action.

Perhaps the most irritating fact is that his probation period has now been and gone. An opportunity missed. And so, for the foreseeable, I must sit behind this idiot, clenching myself in silent incredulity and resisting the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him.

I hate how he makes me feel.

Still here

2009-03-28T21:01:00.005Z

Yes. Still around.

Still a little too round, actually, despite all my best efforts to whittle away the curves with a combination of running, swimming, skipping, and carrying out strange-looking manoeuvres on a so-called lateral stepper (one of my impulse buys, used three or four times in, well, a good couple of months). Nothing, it seems, will take me back to how I was "before WG". But I will not stop trying. My running pal and I, we call ourselves the "special needs" runners. Me, with my drug-induced anaemia, making it much more of a struggle than it used to be, she with her epilepsy, whose seizures can leave her out of action for weeks at a time if they lead to injury. Together, we stumble round Southampton common slowly but surely. Together, we stick our fingers up at our stupid illnesses and, albeit somewhat unathletically, just get on with it.

In work news, following on from this, I proved myself to be far too good at my job and was promoted after six months in the role. When I say promoted, I mean that my manager "strongly encouraged me" to apply for a senior role which had become vacant. Slightly bewildered, I re-did the same aptitude tests that I'd done six months previously and was interviewed by the same interviewers who had interviewed me six months previously. (Is no-one simply promoted any more?)

As a result of my new-found seniority, I have found myself being sucked into the mindset of "caring about work", which always puts me in a curious position. On one hand, I know that my job is essentially pointless in the grand scheme of things. On the other, I am a girly swot, eager to please and desperate to do a good job. And so I excel in the corporate workplace, having senior users fighting over who gets to use me on their ever-so-important projects. And I get paid a little more, which always helps. While inside, I just wonder what it's all for.

The cat continues to delight us. Not a day goes by when we don't laugh at her deranged antics. Now that she spends time outdoors, she has started to bring us the inevitable "presents". So far, a butterfly, an enormous moth and a number of worms have been presented to us, patted about a bit, generally tortured or sometimes eaten. She oscillates between utter aloofness and absolute adoration, depending on whether or not the recipient of her attention (or lack thereof) is holding in their hand one of these (or might do so in the near future).

Her latest obsession is the kitchen sink, which she will peer at, fascinated, for hours on end, listening, eyes wide, to the gurgling of the waste and lapping up any stray droplets of water. Like most cats, she refuses to drink from her dedicated bowl, preferring to take her water in virtually any other context.

My hair is shoulder-length and schizophrenic - curly at the back, barely wavy at the front, so I am back on the straighteners again in a desperate attempt to give it some uniformity. Like my body, I fear I will never have the pre-WG hair back.

And despite that background malaise, that continuing status anxiety, life is good. Big is here. My friends are here. We are healthy and happy. Thank you for asking.

A journey

2009-01-27T21:02:00.007Z

The precocious boy is talking loudly (and precociously) to his father (?) in the seat behind me. I manage to zone most of it out and concentrate on my book, but am distracted when I hear him suggesting to his father that they "do some French". This should be interesting. Having two seats to myself, I shuffle forwards so that my ear is conveniently located between the two seats, maximising my eavesdropping opportunity.

Most of the French exercises they do are correct to my trained ear (bar a few dodgy pronunciations), but I notice the father fluffing the position of the negative when constructing a sentence with a reflexive verb in the perfect tense.

Later, as we approach Clapham Junction, I move towards the front of the train. Time is tight - there is a slim hope that I will make my connection at King's Cross, but only if I minimise the amount of platform I have to walk along once I get to Waterloo.

I choose my exit point, and am joined in the "vestibule" by a woman. She presses the "open" button on the toilet beside us, and the door glides across to reveal a man having a wee. We both avert our eyes and stifle a snigger. The man, now re-buttoned, emerges and checks the door. Somewhat bewildered, he directs his explanation to us: "It just came open...". My conspirator and I shrug innocently, and he makes his exit.

I smile. "He must have forgotten to press the "Lock" button," I suggest, to salve her conscience. We share our opinions of new-fangled toilet door devices, agreeing that a mechanical lock is infinitely preferable to the possibility of a door sliding open whilst one is "otherwise engaged".

I ask her if she knows what's happening with the tube at Waterloo. I had a feeling there was some restriction about which exits were usable, but couldn't remember the details. She looks at me blankly. "I haven't been up here for years, I've no idea!". I ask her which way she's going. "St Pancras. I'm visiting my grandmother in Bedfordshire. I've no idea how to get there, though..." Since I'm going to King's Cross and know exactly which way to go, I tell her to follow me.

I guide her down the escalators through the throng of the Friday evening rush hour (she stands on the left - I hastily usher her over to the right) . "Head for the Bakerloo line - it's an easy change at Oxford Circus...". Old habits die hard.

We make our way onto the platform, and I stomp purposefully to the opposite end, away from the entrance, where there are fewer people. Old habits die hard.

The Bakerloo line is fairly empty, but we're in for a treat on the Victoria line at Oxford Circus. I've barely time to go all nostalgic at the destination of our train ("Walthamstow, my Walthamstow!") before we are crammed together into an altogether less airy vestibule than that offered by South West Trains. I have just enough space to peer down at my watch, concerned.

"Do you think you'll make the train?" she asks, knowing how little time I have. "Nah..." She, on the other hand, will arrive with time to spare.

As we leave the tube and head for the mainline, it's 17:43. My train leaves King's Cross at 17:45. Once we've negotiated the barriers and gone our separate ways, I emerge onto the concourse, looking hopefully at the departure board. First train on the board: 17:50 to Peterborough.

My train has departed... but, as I discover when checking my phone and finding several missed calls from when I was deep underground, the friend I'm meeting there has not. We get some supplies from M&S Simply Food and pile onto the 18:15 instead. Our weekend has begun.

The same. Only different.

2009-01-27T20:24:00.004Z

2006:

2009:

Apparently, I now have curly hair. Who knew?

2009-01-14T21:50:00.002Z

I stuck a note on the printer.

I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t one of those passive-aggressive notes "politely" informing the reader to cease and desist from whatever potential minor contravention was envisaged.

It was a helpful note.

I sit opposite the printer. I see the comings and goings of the users of the printer. I hear the bleeps and see the lights of the printer when the printer is unhappy. I see the frustrated user grappling with the drawers of the printer, tutting with exasperation when their document fails to emerge from the jaws of the printer.

Having worked as a secretary on several occasions in my murky past, I have built up a good rapport with printers. I know how to touch them, how to coax them, how to load them up and press their buttons. Where others slam the doors and jab angrily at the control panel, I calmly remove the paper jams, replace the cartridges and summon the friendly whirr of a happy printer with my gentle machinations.

So, sitting as I do opposite the printer, I often step in to help when I hear the bleeps that signal frayed tempers and concertina’d documents. Even though I rarely print anything out - existing in a largely paperless world, apart from my manuscript book where I scribble my ideas in pencil. This generally involve words with arrows pointing at other words, weird doodles and half-arsed to-do lists (the other day, I wrote "Need to " but then obviously became distracted and never found out what I "needed to" do...).

I would notice the hard-copy fanatics replenishing the paper. This would involve marching off to the opposite end of the office, bringing back one lonely packet of paper, putting half the packet in the printer, and leaving the remainder on top of the cupboard opposite the printer. The cupboard which overlooks my desk. A few hours later, this scene would repeat itself, just with a different user (whoever happened to approach the printer at its moment of need).

Knowing of the director’s penchant for a tidy office (woe betide anyone who leaves a coat on the back of a chair, let alone a half empty packet of paper on a cupboard), I took it upon myself to implement a system. Being a system implementer by trade, I felt qualified to do so. I went to the other end of the office, and picked up several packets of paper – as many as I could carry without contravening Health and Safety regulations. I piled these packets of paper quite neatly, in the (mostly empty) cupboard opposite the printer.

And then I stuck a note on the printer. Large, Arial font, nice and clear, neatly stuck on with backward-looped sellotape.

There should be paper in the cupboard behind you.
If not, you’ll have to take a walk...

Helpful, informative – and a little bit cheeky. Appropriate, I thought, for an IT department.

For several days, I was able to witness the beautiful efficacy of my system. The user would approach the printer, realise it had run out of paper and then turn toward me in a neat pirouette, open the cupboard and find a ready supply of paper. The supply of paper in the cupboard was maintained. My note was working.

Then one day, inexplicably, the note was gone. My colleagues and I speculated at some length on its disappearance, wondering whether a bin audit might reveal the culprit. But then Christmas came, and all was forgotten.

I noted, with some satisfaction, that the memory of my note lived on, as I witnessed further printer users turning instinctively to the cupboard for the paper supply. Evidently, others’ memories were not so efficient, as the departmental email today confirmed:

Please note that paper is kept in the cupboard opposite the printers. Please do not leave half-empty packets of paper on the cupboard tops.

There would have been no need for the email if they'd just kept my note...

(hello!)

In which I polish my medal

2008-07-31T21:41:00.005+01:00

"Did I tell you about the two further occurrences?" he asks me. He tends to operate in one of two modes, enigmatic or smarmy and slightly inappropriate. Today, he has chosen enigmatic.

Once again, my manager has chosen to start a conversation in the middle, rather than at the more traditional beginning. Call me old fash.

"Um, occurrences of what?" I enquire, brows raised in anticipation.

"Of people giving me good feedback about you"

"Ah!" I become slightly embarrassed. "Really? Who was it this time?"

"I, from [other department]. And E, from [my team]. They both said how impressed they were with the work you've done with them."

"Oh... well thanks for letting me know!"

These were to add to my growing collection of plaudits: the original one from N, the large bag of Minstrels from M (I like that sort), the verbal thanks from T and the most recent thank you email from A which was sent to my manager and forwarded to me. Plus, one of my functional design documents was heralded as an example to a new member of staff of how a functional design document should be.

I may have moaned about working at [insert original company name], but it seems that they taught me my trade very well.

And so it turns out that I might be a little bit great.
(At my job, that is. Wouldn't want to get over-excited...)

Simpleton

2008-07-17T18:10:00.002+01:00

I admire it from the window.

"Look, Big, just look at it!"

With the sun beating down and a gentle breeze, it really is in its element. I smile a slightly smug smile, proud of my handiwork.

It had taken me a while to get around to it, I admit. I am not keen on drilling holes in masonry – the noise is unbearable and having had mishaps in the past, I tend to procrastinate when I know that future drilling is required. But that weekend, I had finally climbed the ladder, drill in hand, hammer action engaged, and finished the job.

At our last house, we’d had a free-standing model – no drilling required, but the results are not so satisfactory. The clustering makes the process take longer, and both of us being tall, there is always the risk of inadvertently clubbing oneself with the contraption which, like many domestic items of its kind, is built for those of a more average height. Such dangers with the new one are rare and, with its easily-stowed-away-when-not-in-use design, not of major concern.

Once, whilst enjoying a pub lunch with friends, a man whom we’d assumed to be the resident nutter approached us somewhat angrily, claiming with some conviction: "The evil is in the complexity!" and throwing what looked like a tarot card onto our table. Whilst at the time we’d laughed it off, I still remember that phrase and can’t help thinking he might have been onto something.

Simplicity. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Simplicity is what I strive for.

Which is why, when I look out of the back door at my freshly washed clothes and bed linen, pegged to our new, retractable washing line which I'd just affixed to the exterior wall, propped up with the clothes prop, blowing in the wind, basking in the sun, I feel a little glow.

The glow of simplicity.

Hitch

2008-07-11T19:00:00.004+01:00

The envelope was hand-delivered over the weekend. As I came downstairs, Big was reading it and he handed it over wordlessly.

Damn. We thought we'd got away with it...

Not having been in Southampton at the appropriate time, and not being particularly close to them, we hadn't been included originally and neither had we expected to be. Everyone else had assumed, however, that we had - being part of the same social circle. Kept mentioning it and we kept having to tell them that no, were weren't part of it. But we were okay with it - secretly, rather pleased because it all seemed like a bit of a chore.

Maybe someone thought they were doing us a favour, and mentioned it to them. Or maybe, through seeing us out and about, they themselves suddenly felt guilty about it. Took "pity" on us when there was no need.

Either way, there we were with the envelope and we weren't sure what to do.

"Why don't we go to Manchester that weekend instead? That would give us an excuse"

I screwed up my nose. "K is coming down on Friday night - I said I'd go out for dinner with her, haven't seen her for ages. I'd rather go to Manchester over a long weekend - it's too far to go on Saturday and come back on Sunday...". He rolled his eyes.

And so we have been invited (at the last minute - as an afterthought? After someone else dropped out?) to yet another wedding. It's that time in our life when everyone around us is planning the flowers, booking the venue and choosing the dress. Or moaning about planning the flowers, booking the venue or choosing the dress. Or wittering endlessly about planning the flowers, booking the venue or choosing the dress. Or becoming stressed about planning the flowers, booking the venue or choosing the dress. Or failing to believe the cost of the flowers, the venue or the dress.

I must admit that marriage was "considered" very early on in my relationship with Big. When I say "considered", I mean that he proposed and I accepted. True. And apart from Big and me, no-one else knows this. You are indeed privileged, gentle reader.

However, the more weddings we went to (and being in our mid-thirties, there are plenty going on), the more we realised that we just didn't want it for ourselves. Certainly not in the form we'd experienced and perhaps not in any form at all. The idea of being the centre of attention for a day fills me with horror. The idea of having friends and family spend a fortune on travel, outfits and accommodation just for the "pleasure" of watching me prance around in a pretty frock for a few hours is just bizarre. And as for the idea of expecting a gift, vouchers or whatever alternative schemes people come up with, just because we've decided to sign a piece of paper, is weird beyond belief.

And so we carry on, me being me, him being him, fine on our own, but better together.

For all these reasons and more, we were perfectly okay with not going to this wedding.

And then we got invited.

There's probably still time to hastily arrange a "prior" engagement...

(Am I evil?)

Oh dear

2008-07-01T18:17:00.002+01:00

It's hard to know where to start with this one.

Suffice it to say, if you're going to give your sandwich shop a foreign name, do check the spelling, grammar and capitalisation with someone who knows the language before you go to the signwriters.

A rude awakening

2008-06-25T18:31:00.003+01:00

Confusion reigns, as is often the case in my dreams. Anxiety too. The details vary, but the sense of malaise is always the same. I could be missing a bus, a train, a plane. I might have lost my purse, my bag, my marbles. My legs, arms or hands don't seem to work, or work so sluggishly as to be at best frustrating, at worst, useless. Whatever I'm trying to do in my dreams - and it's usually vitally important - is being hampered by bad luck, physical shortcomings or bizarre logistical problems. I call these my anxiety dreams.

It is during one such mind muddle that I am suddenly aware of the duvet being ripped off me, my real (not dream) body exposed to the cool morning air in a most unexpected fashion. I manage a whimper, the pathetic-ness of which surprises even me. I furrow my brow and whine at the culprit beside me:

"You pulled the duvet off me!"

His look is one of utter bewilderment. As usual, when waking, he has little idea of what he's doing.

"S-sorry, I thought I was... I thought I was pulling it off myself..." he tails off, aware of how absurd his explanation is. He bundles me up again in the duvet and gathers my embundled self into his arms.

"I'm sorry, love" and he makes his exit. It must be time to get up.

I settle back down for a snooze, but before I have a chance to rest my head on the pillow, I am aware of the bedroom door creaking open, the padding of soft feet on the wooden floorboards and a tiny squeak. The cat, released from her downstairs incarceration, is ready for her morning cuddle.

Any plans I may have had for a snooze are now obliterated, as she jumps lightly and nimbly onto the bed and starts frantically kneading my chest (which I have taken care to cover with the duvet) and tickling my already pollen-ridden nose with her fluffy face. After a few minutes of sitting down, lying down, gazing adoringly, standing up, kneading and turning round (repeat, ad nauseam), she leaps over to the opposite corner of the bed, where she looks expectantly from me to the closed window blind.

Her work is done. I am now truly, indisputably awake. I drag my reluctant self from my horizontal position, grab my dressing gown and raise the blind just high enough for her to sit on the windowsill and survey her domain.

I shuffle sulkily downstairs and make a cup of tea. My day, like it or not, has begun.

On the buses

2008-06-13T21:13:00.004+01:00

I walk to the bus stop.

At the end of my road, the man with clippity-cloppity shoes and the close-fitting, slightly shiny suit approaches from the left, just as he did the day before. I am just ahead of him as I turn right towards the station, but am aware of his noisy footfalls just behind me - too close for comfort. Inevitably, I will cross the road to allow him to walk at his, slightly faster, pace.

As I turn left, up the hill, I note that he has now forged ahead. He has an air of confidence about him as he strides along, head held high. I suspect he is a lawyer.

At the top of the hill, I cross the busy junction and enter the park, near the modern statue. From this point on, I can see the road ahead running perpendicular to my trajectory. I have several minutes to contemplate the potential buses I could miss as they come from right to left in my field of vision - still a little too far away to run for. I curse my perfect eyesight, which allows me to notice such distant occurrences.

I approach the war memorial and the gaggle of schoolgirls who loiter there, smoking, chatting, flirting with the boys. The other day, as I walked past, I heard one saying: "I like your top." I'd assumed she was talking to her friend, but turned around to find that she was looking at me. "I like your top," she says again. Her tone of voice has the natural surliness of a teenager, and I'm not sure whether to take her comment at face value. I give her the benefit of the doubt. "Thanks," I smile, and continue on my way.

The long-haired guy is there, at the bus stop, as usual, with his lanky ponytail and laptop bag. Bound to work in IT. Bound to be a heavy metal fan. (I feel qualified to judge on both counts, since I am in the former category and I live with the latter). His attempt at business casual extends to substituting shabby, black trousers for his no-doubt habitual jeans.

The tall guy loiters anxiously, never stopping to sit on the insubstantial and rather uncomfortable looking bench within the shelter. Sometimes, I join him in the shade - the bus shelter being in direct sunlight, uncomfortable on warm mornings.

On the bus now, I notice the short, smiling, balding man, whose trousers are too short. An underwriter, perhaps. Or an actuary. He gets on half-way up the road, by the common. I hear him speaking to a friend - his car is out of action, which is why he's taking the bus. He grins happily for the entire journey. The novelty of taking the bus has not yet worn off.

Already on the bus is the young guy with red-dyed hair and quirky dress sense, who works at the same place as me. Customer services call centre. And he is there again, at the bus stop for the journey home. Another bus stop you can see for several tantalising minutes as you approach it via the large expanse of the supermarket car park. The long-haired, ponytail man is also there, as is the Louis Theroux lookalike whom I sometimes see.

The short, smiling, balding man just makes it onto the bus in time and soon we are heading back into town again. The huge, muscular, unlikely looking jogger is in his usual place, his black skin glistening with sweat, clutching two water bottles which look frosted, as if they'd been put in the freezer beforehand.

As we arrive back in the City Centre, I consider getting another bus home, but my ticket only allows me to take the blue buses. Countless white buses are going in my direction, but the blues are fewer and further between and yes, I can just see the other bus stop - a blue one has just pulled away.

I walk. I need the exercise.

I arrive home to Big, and the cat who now belongs to us. The cat inevitably does something amusing, and I smile and have a cup of tea.

2008-05-30T18:16:00.002+01:00

Stuff.

Like working (impressing), running (progressing), swimming (buoying), socialising (enjoying), sleeping (snoring), Facebooking (boring), laughing (guffawing) and living, for heaven's sake, living.

And NOT blogging.

Ah well.

A year of bad hair days

2008-05-21T22:42:00.004+01:00

2008-04-26T19:39:00.003+01:00

You were beautiful.

"Don't look at me!" you muttered to the staff outside the main room. But how could they not?

I heard the "ahhh" as the assembled guests in the room saw first the two little nieces, holding hands, dressed in pink, then you, luminous, arm in arm with our brother, in loco parentis. Then me, following behind, barely able to look up, only once to find Big with my eyes and return his smiling, gentle wink, but trembling, clutching the bouquet.

I remember only fragments of the ceremony, mostly being occupied with the effort it took to remain composed as poignant words were spoken with shaking voices. We in the front row independently and silently resolved not to look at each other, though we could sense the struggle in the others as we gulped back the tears. I heard your name - your full name, your middle name, our mother's name. A reminder of the gaping hole. I remember our brother-in-law delivering his reading with less gusto than is normal for him. His voice faltered, his eyes glistened - we sympathised.

The ceremony over with, we relaxed a little, but we knew there was more to come. Later, the heartfelt speech from your new husband and his toast to "absent friends" was another catalyst for our eyes to fill and our lips to tremble.

Because we'd been saying for some time that your wedding would be a "blub-fest". The first wedding in our family without mum. Yet another wedding without dad - the dad that you and I can barely remember. The three grandchildren they would never know, though perhaps they see them, perhaps they watch over them.

I wonder how many of your guests knew that just five days before your wedding, you had gone back to the clinic for the results of the biopsy. I wonder how many of them knew that a few weeks before that, you'd found that lump. I wonder how many of them knew that, although the biopsy had suggested that the lump was benign, the doctor was still concerned and booked you in to have it removed, a few days after you return from your honeymoon.

I suppose our bad genes were not content with giving you a rare, congenital heart condition, necessitating bypass surgery at the age of 21 and lifelong medication. I suppose they didn't think that the loss of both parents to cancer by the time you were 28 was sufficient. I guess they reckoned that a younger sister diagnosed with a rare, lifelong, auto-immune disease at the age of 34 and treated with chemotherapy wasn't quite enough for them.

Sometimes, I want to scream: "FOR FUCK'S SAKE, JUST LEAVE US ALONE!"

To whom, to what? I don't know. Whoever or whatever it is that has cursed the health of our family, please, just leave us alone.

Through it all, though, you smiled, you laughed, you danced.

You shone like a star, my sister.

You were beautiful.

Let's get persona-l

2008-04-05T16:50:00.003+01:00

She is a loudmouth. Her voice carries more than you'd think it would. She hiccoughs, sneezes, belches without stifling it, like a man. She cackles like a witch - deep and throaty. Dirty.

She swears. On a Gordon Ramsay scale, she's small fry, but she cusses and curses more than you'd think, from what little you know of her.

She is tall. She undoubtedly has a physical presence. She looks confident - almost intimidating - but there is an inner awkwardness perceptible to the more observant. She is incredibly clumsy - always flailing her arms as she walks and bashing them on walls, radiators, door handles, grazing her knuckles as she goes.

She is incredibly opinionated. In the privacy of her own home, she rants and raves and argues the toss about education, politics, the environment, society, claiming to have an answer to all the wrongs. Outside of her home, she is rarely drawn into any serious debate, doubting her ability to express her view articulately, stifling her thoughts, silently simmering.

She is an appalling gossip. Incredibly observant and intuitive, she can spot the seed of gossip almost before it happens. She can bitch for England (or for any other country that may require her services).

She is an inverted snob at times. A snob at others.

She is "a million different people from one day to the next".

Do you think you know her?

She is me. The me (most of) you don't see. The me who writes, presses publish, gets up, walks away from the screen and becomes a real, three-dimensional, multi-faceted, multi-talented and multi-flawed human being.

Not just anxious. Much, much more.

inspired by this

Hair today

2008-04-01T21:27:00.004+01:00

I've had a few double-takes. A few lingering looks that say "hold on there, missus!". A few "amusing" comments. A few awkward silences, where you can feel the weight of the stares. But mostly raised eyebrows and surprised smiles.

I'd been waiting for this moment for months, putting up with things in that stoic way that I'd learned from my mother. Irritatingly, it was only when the situation became significantly more bearable that I was able to go ahead with the "cure" - or at least, the partial remedy. When I was most desperate for the change, it simply wasn't possible to effect it.

But last Friday, my time came.

It was rather more painful than I'd expected, not only during, but just after. At first, I found it hard to sleep at night and woke up sullen. The tearfulness would continue all day.

Tearfulness, because it wasn't everything I'd hoped for. My expectations were, I fear, a little too high. I'd wanted them to give me back everything I'd lost, but they could only work with what they had. And what they had was not a lot.

Tearfulness, too, because I wondered if this was all just too ungrateful, too vain. Shouldn't I be pleased that everything seems to be okay on the inside?

I suppose that partly, I did it for my sister. Had I not been asked to be her bridesmaid, I wonder whether I would have gone through with it. But with the assurance of photos that will be looked at for years to come, I just wanted to look a bit more like me.

Just a bit.

You see, I paid someone to painstakingly braid the lower sections of my hair into tight cornrows. I paid someone to sew, with an alarmingly large needle, woven sections of real, human hair onto the braids. Human hair so well matched to my own, that it even contains the same odds flecks of grey.

I got some new hair. And though it's so clearly a mullet, I am growing to like it.

Girly swot

2008-03-26T19:48:00.005Z

"Did J tell you what N said about you?" my Manager asked me, quite out of the blue and rather enigmatically, as is his "style".

"Um... no..." I furrowed, slightly concerned. "Wh-what did he say?"

He gave a wry smile.

"I'll forward you the email," and with that, he scuttled back to his "pod".

When his email appeared in my inbox, the subject line was simply "Anx". My hand was trembling slightly and I could feel a prickly heat rising to my cheeks as I moused over the bold lettering, gearing up for the double-click.

I'd had a meeting with N (a senior manager in the user community) the day before, to discuss requirements for a system I'm designing singlehandedly. With only a sketchy, verbal brief from J (my immediate superior), lots of delving around an unknown system and only a couple of weeks in the job, I'd spent some considerable time preparing prototype screen shots and made sure to put my "listening hat" on for the meeting. As a newbie, I wanted to make sure I got it right.

After a productive discussion with N and his colleague, I'd come away from the meeting with a clear idea of how to proceed, and translated this into a detailed requirements spec.

Eager to please - sometimes pathetically so - I was especially curious to find out what N had thought.

I took a deep breath, and double-clicked it open.

-----------------
From: Manager
To: Anx
Subject: Anx

Well done!

-----------------
From: J
To: Manager
Subject: Anx

For your info, I spoke to N this morning who made comments like "Where did you get Anx from?" "I'm well impressed" "I think you've taken on a good one there".

So it looks like she's making a good start!

J

Whilst recognising my eternal, internal desire for a life less corporate, it is nice to know that I can still do my day job, and do it well.

Would that the crow flew

2008-03-19T18:54:00.003Z

I live about four miles away from my office, as the crow flies.

If there were a crow big enough to support my not-insubstantial weight, hitching a ride to work would be quick and efficient - if a little unusual in transport terms. Alas, we do not live in such a world where stygian, carrion-eatering harbingers of doom provide green transport for us eco-wannabe commuters. More's the pity.

Our offices were built at a time when "out of town" and "good road links" were perceived as positive factors. On a business park, two miles from the nearest station, nowhere near town, local shops or anything remotely useful, we are stranded in our own little corporate universe.

"Good road links" are all well and good, but when whoever planned the building in the first place grossly underestimated the required parking capacity, you end up as we do: sharing one space between three employees. Others risk the wrath of the local residents, parking on the surrounding housing estate. None too pleased with the influx of corporate drones clogging up their streets, some residents have resorted to vandalism in an attempt to deter the clamouring commuters.

Recognising the severity of the problem, the company provides a secure, monitored "park and ride" facility nearby, with a regular, chartered bus service in the mornings and evenings to ferry the bleary-eyed commuters from car to office, office to car. A reasonable solution, though many would rather run the risk of punctured tyres or scratched bodywork than be separated from their precious cars.

Then there's the traffic. You'd have thought, wouldn't you, that since I'm travelling out of the city, I would not have to contend with traffic. I thought it too, but I was wrong. Even given my "secret knowledge of backroads" of Southampton, I still always manage to stumble upon a bottleneck somewhere along the way. In fact, it takes me around the same amount of time to drive those four miles as it used to take me to drive the twenty from [town in the West Country where I lived] to [town in the West Country where I worked].

Having been spoiled at previous jobs by being able to walk to work, I find it most uncivilised having to drive. Not to mention unhealthy, carbon-footprinty and stressful, especially on those days when I park in the "park and ride" and have to co-ordinate my time of arrival with the regular (yet not as frequent as one would like) bus service.

So I spend much of my time working out ways of getting to work which do not involve driving...

Yes, admittedly, the most logical solution is so clearly to cycle. In fact, I'd rather like to. Helpfully, there are off-road cycle lanes along much of the route and showers available at work. But there is one rather big problem with that. One rather big problem who goes by the name of Big. Those of you more recent readers are probably not aware that, when Big was 13 years old, his dad was killed in a cycling accident, while cycling to work in Manchester. For his own peace of mind, he has respectfully asked me not to cycle to work, and I have respectfully agreed. And there is nothing more to be said about that.

There are two buses which stop a short walk from the office building. However, in order to take either of these buses, I must walk for almost a mile from my home to the bus stop. It takes me fifty minutes, door to door, to travel those four miles by bus.

I live just five minutes' walk from the Central train station. There are frequent services which can get me to the station nearest to the office building in less than ten minutes, but I am still a two-mile walk away from the office itself. With no useful bus service from the station, again, we're talking about a fifty minute journey door to door.

As preposterous as it may sound, I have even considered running to work. Four miles used to be a short run in my long-distance repertoire. Not nowadays, of course (although I am run-walking again with my old Southampton running pal, who is just returning from injury).

Walking. Four miles. Morning and night. That's just crazy talk, isn't it? Yep.

Car sharing - yes. I have even identified someone who lives just up the road from me. After his initial excitement at the thought of halving his fuel bills and being able to park on site two days out of every three, he has gone all non-committal on me.

These factors, together with my inherent laziness, mean that, despite my strong feelings on the subject, I find myself guiltily bundling myself and my MP3 player into the car each morning, alone.

But, readers, I have a plan.

I will approach the staff council. I will ask them to consider a "train and ride" scheme, providing chartered bus services to and from the two stations in the area. I will ask them to provide a car-sharing forum on the intranet, so that those who wish to pool their resources can find other, like-minded individuals.

And then I will find out whether there is anyone else out of the 700-odd who work in that building who gives a damn.

Supporting...

2008-03-11T19:14:00.001Z

"Hey, Dr. Jones, no time for blog"

2008-02-28T19:23:00.002Z

It appears to be that time of the year again. In my case, of course, it can happen at any time of the year, but that it happens is an inevitable truth.

Once again, it's time to stop this nonsense. For how long, we just don't know. A couple of days (if a suitably bloggable event arises), a couple of months, maybe even forever, though if past experience is anything to go by, that option seems unlikely.

I'll keep it brief.

My new job is making me use my brain. This is, of course, A Good Thing (to use the title case which seems de rigueur in such situations). This means that, when I get home from work, there is not much brain left.

Although I could probably continue to churn out the odd snippet once a week, I just don't have time to read blogs. And to me, writing without reading in the world of Blog is... well, it's just not right. It might be okay for those famous bloggers, whose fascination with their fabulous selves leaves no time to consider the mundane lives of anyone else, but for blogging pondlife such as myself, it's Just Not On.

And so, I shall retreat into the shadows,leaving only my Facebook friends to discover my fate...

Good evening to you, one and all.

2008-02-20T20:03:00.004Z

Special Agent:Amber A.k.a:"Bam-Bam"
Age:2
Sex:Female
Appearance:Small, fluffy, tortoiseshell, large white feet
Special Abilities: Jumping into boxes, hiding under beds, endearing self to human subjects.

Cover Story: Your owner has gone on an extended holiday. You must be temporarily housed with other humans for your own welfare.

Mission Summary: Study the humans in their home environment, collect data and submit report of lifestyle, behaviours, food and hygiene.

Details:
Your duties have two main purposes. Firstly, to engage the humans in order to gain their trust and admiration. Humans are generally weak-minded and will inevitably respond to your charms. Secondly, to collect data on their habitat and behaviours. Duties include, but are not restricted to, the following:

Patrol the room
Peer into the fireplace, going up on hindlegs to better inspect the chimney if necessary
Rub lips against cardboard box on floor to detect its chemical make up. If humans become suspicious, jump into box, looking slightly bewildered and making scratching noises. The humans will probably laugh at this, and continue about their business
Inspect plant pot - try to ascertain the function of the plant in the humans' life. Beware: the plant may try to attack you by brushing you with its fronds. If this occurs - run like the wind!
Jump up on back of sofa and stare out of the window
Use scratching post with intense concentration and with ears pinned back. This is preferable to using other pieces of human furniture - you may lose their trust if you use, for example, the sofa
Jump onto suede beanbag, examine its strange squidginess. This can be an alarming experience if you are not used to it
Beware of any sudden movements/slight noises/passing cars/someone sneezing and run for your life if required.
Jump onto humans and settle down to snuggle, patting them on their face if they dare to stop stroking you. This is part of the endearment process - they will not be able to imagine life without you.
Drink from the humans' water glass on the side table. This is the only way to ensure that the water you drink is safe
Attempt to gain a sample of any foods the humans are eating, by mewling pathetically and looking up at them adoringly
If the humans attempt to shut you downstairs at night, attempt to burrow your way through the carpet using your claws. The humans might shout at you when they come down in the morning, but do not let this deter you - remember, you must study their nocturnal behaviour!

I wish you luck on your mission, Special Agent Amber. Do not let us down.