And Wouldn't You Know?

Just had a call from my mother, wishing me a Happy New Year in advance, in case she falls asleep in front of the TV later, or just goes to bed before midnight. Not much going on over there, but she had received a belated Christmas card from my younger cousin, Richard.

Out of the four children between my parents and my uncle's (father's younger brother) family, Richard is the youngest - a year younger than me - then there's a year between my sister and our older cousin, Stewart, with my sister being the eldest of the bunch.

The big news is that Richard now has a baby... approximately a year younger than my niece. Stewart, if I remember correctly, has two.

So now I'm really feeling like the runt of the litter: out of work, no children, and not only unmarried but single...

...I'd make changing all that a New Year's Resolution, but that'd be daft, because it'd take more than a year...

Resolving

So I guess I'm working through some laziness..?

I'd more-or-less decided to do a bit of shopping today - pop over to Uxbridge and/or Harrow, pick up a DVD or two (Scott Pilgrim is out now, after all), possibly WiiFit Plus (with Balance Board) assuming I could find it...

But, in the end, I've stayed indoors all day - not even popping out to restock on fizzy drinks, or empty my bins. Sure, I've done some laundry, but that's about all I've done of any great import. Other than that, I've been bumming about on the internet, burning through my bandwidth, and I decided to watch The Men Who Stare At Goats on DVD.

It had been recommended to me, having missed it in the cinemas, but I really didn't know what to expect from it. I was quite pleasantly surprised by a bizarre, yet subtly-played road movie - the road travelled being both a geographical and a metaphysical transformation. It's one of those comedies that doesn't make you laugh so much as think... its situations being, by turns, strange and harrowing. And, naturally, Kevin Spacey was the bad guy...

Anyway... here we are, approaching the end of 2010. 10 years after the Millenium Bug didn't cripple the world's economy, it has been brought to its knees by the very people who were operating it. London has a mere two years to completely overhaul its transport infrastructure to the point where its hosting of the next Olympics will not be an unmitigated disaster for all concerned. I've been made redundant by one of the UK's largest independent publishers, because they think they can save a few quid running the Production side of their operation from a battery farm in their head office in Norwich, even though they've seen twice before that it doesn't work.

It's looking increasingly likely that I'll be working on a freelance basis for my former boss, who's setting up her own Design company. Whether she's based in Blackheath or elsewhere depends on when the serviced offices in Blackheath become available - the date keeps getting put back.

So what else am I going to do to stop myself going stir crazy?

Well, there's always writing. I've had the germs of several stories - at least two series of novels, potentially - knocking about in my head for far too long... Now I'm going to be alone with my thoughts for a while, perhaps they'll line up and come out in an orderly fashion. Stranger things have happened... but, frankly, the last time I did any significant writing, it was almost an act of retaliation. My 'opponent' has long since faded back into the abyss. The writing group I had joined is effectively gone due to the death of one of its founders, and I haven't even tried to find another. Writing challenges from friends have been roundly ignored, even when I have ideas that fit.

Nevertheless, I shall try.

Other 'New Year's Resolution'-type things include:

• Get a bit more active... even if it's only with WiiFit. I'm four years shy of 40, and am beginning to notice that I'm not as fit as I used to be. There's a park just down the road, and I could do worse than wander down there for a walk every so often.
• Spend less time on the internet... and more time in the real world? Wow... that'd be a step...
• Stop dismissing out of hand anything and everything that I don't believe will work... I should always at least try, until I'm certain. As part of this, I'm actually intending to keep in touch with a few folks from my last job, which I've never really been keen to do in the past. I've always felt that any connection made in an office environment is irrevocably connected to that office environment, and cannot translate to 'The Real World'... I may be wrong in that assessment. That said, I'm generally an excellent judge of character... so while I may be keeping in touch, there will be an element of caution involved with some of them.
• Cut down on the analysing... Several people over the last month or so have mentioned to me that they feel I am constantly 'judging' or 'criticising'. This isn't necessarily true, but I am constantly analysing... and, I suppose, that does sometimes lead to a conclusion being reached, and this conclusion can alter my behaviour in certain circumstances. Not that that's a bad thing.
• If I do end up in another office... I shall fight off the urge to generate a new 'Office Me'. My last few days proved to me that I don't actually need to function on that reduced level, as long as I can concentrate on the work by some other means.
• Write more... whether it's just this blog, or stories, or haiku, or poetry... I'm not fussed. I just want to write.

There may be more...

Embarrasing

Not too long ago, I found I'd had a text message from an ex-colleague. She'd texted pretty much first thing this morning (while I was still asleep) to say she'd turned up at work, but no-one else was there. I failed to notice the flashing light on my phone somehow, until about half past three, having been up and about in the flat and out doing some local food shopping in the interim.

I called her back with the details she had asked for, though it transpired that she'd got in touch with another ex-colleague in the meantime, who'd informed her that she shouldn't be back at the office till next week. Sadly, this was the same colleague who'd got nasty with her at the Christmas Party over her flirtatious behaviour with at least one of the Salespeople. That can't have been a fun conversation...

Not much else to report (so why the hell am I blogging at all?)... Having checked the Uxbridge times for Tron Legacy, it seems it's only showing in the late evening... and I can't say I fancy going out that late, even to see the long-awaited sequel to one of my favourite films from my formative years...

Chillaxin'

By which I mean, now that I'm back home, it's rather cold.

I'd switched the boiler over to minimal operation for the duration of my Christmas Stopover With The Folks, fully expecting it to have flatlined before I returned... But I was lucky - it was still functioning, albeit with just barely enough pressure to keep it going and prevent freezing - and the flat was a balmy nine degrees centigrade.

Switching the heating back to full-time, full-blast, I waited for it to get warm. I got here before noon... and I'm still waiting.

So, Christmas?

Well, it could have been a whole lot worse. I went back to my folks on Christmas Eve, my Grandmother came over for Christmas Day and Boxing Day, and my sister, niece and brother-in-law came over for Boxing Day.

Surprisingly, I only had to tell my Grandmother that I'm no longer gainfully employed once per day... I think, last year, I had to tell her about work at least three times over dinner. None of it sank in or made any sense to her, of course, but not having to repeat myself till I started questioning my own sanity was a bonus. For some reason, she seemed to think that my erstwhile employers should have offered me something else... Then again, I suppose they did. In Norwich. Which is tantamount to not offering me anything.

In any event, it all went smoothly. Presents were gratefully received (not so much in the niece's case - she had Christmas Present Fatigue from her visit to her other grandparents) though I had correctly surmised that the gift I got my sister was not necessarily the best of choices. I'd left my own presents (Being Human series 1 & 2 boxed set, Chuck season 3) at home but, as my mother pointed out, that just saved on wrapping paper. Christmas Dinner was the usual kind of thing with my family, and the remaining turkey and gammon became Boxing Day lunch and dinner, not to mention dinner the following night. Shame it seems almost impossible to get a family-sized turkey (or turkey joint) that doesn't leave so much as leftovers.

Still, the whole experience gave me a neat idea to try, assuming I can still find some M&S Festive Spiced Streaky Bacon...

I'd taken over a few DVDs - in case, y'know, the entertainment on offer from the myriad TV channels was just not up to snuff - and gave my sister and parents the pleasure of seeing Inception. All agreed that it was a fantastic, not to say fantastical movie. We also managed to squeeze in Salt (my second copy of the disc, as the first was flawed and skipped about half a minute about an hour in), Iron Man 2 and Revenge of the Fallen, while still finding time to watch the Doctor Who Christmas Special.

Which was actually bloody good.

I've hated the Christmas Specials, by and large, because they're little more than extended episodes with the flimsiest of plots. The David Tennant/RTD axis was always overblown and underwritten, unless it was to say The Doctor was wonderful, even if he did keep shouting at everyone and banging on about how he was over 900 years old. Matt Smith's Doctor made but a passing reference to his age as he jumped about in time, playing Jacob Marley to Michael Gambon's improbably-named Scrooge. Even the inclusion of another singer in the cast (remember Kylie, in the one set on an interstellar cruise liner?) didn't ruin the story... even if it did seem like an excuse for a musical interlude at the end. Moffat has proven (again) that Who is in safer hands with him than it's ever been... using time travel within his stories, rather than just as a means of getting from story to story, and that it is perfectly possible to make a decent episode out of the Christmas Special. I only once looked at the clock while it was on, and that resulted in me being disappointed that the show would be over so soon.

Still, the trailer for the next series looked awesome.

My sister and her husband were on good form - no signs of any of the strife we've been hearing about, let alone any indication that he might have snubbed our invitation due to the financial bail-out my folks gave him recently. My niece was delightful as ever, though clearly a little overwhelmed by it all. She also had a fine bruise on her right cheek, due to being exceedingly clumsy as she totters around enthusiastically. None the worse for wear, however, and it was nice to see her father actually interact with her once in a while. Weirdly, most of her toys were ignored for the duration of her visit - she favours fridge magnets, the (frequently breakable) contents of my mother's display cabinet, and spools of thread... as they're portable and colourful. She led us all a merry dance, ascertaining the whereabouts of the items she'd swapped from one room to another... though she'd normally be very careful to make a direct swap: Russian Doll Chicken for Spool of Dark Green Thread, leaving the wooden toy in the appropriate slot of my mother's thread box.

I still haven't seen Tron Legacy, despite the fact that my parents have (using my tickets!) and apparently enjoyed it immensely... the 3D effect, according to my mother, is incredibly real... Strange, for such an unreal world...

Perhaps I shall correct this oversight tomorrow - there is, after all, an IMAX screen in Uxbridge, and I could certainly do with getting out and about, having been indoors for about 4 days on the trot. Mind you, I have more of that to look forward to... Unless I find some gainful employment in an office.

I Haz A Nyoo Fridge

Probably a good thing that I set my alarm, really... When I got up, I had just enough time to get dressed and empty out my old fridge before the delivery people arrived to collect it and install the new one.

There was a bit of a struggle getting it in, not least because of all the stairs getting up to the flat, but also because of the size of the gap it had to squeeze into. While I had measured between the end of the counter and the start of the skirting board, and found the space sufficient, I hadn't taken the radiator into account, and it was that which caused the best part of the problem.

Still, in it went and in leiu of a switch on the wall (God only knows why there are two sockets back there, but no switch) the refrigerator was set off, and I was instructed to leave it a couple of hours before using it.

That should have given me just enough time to finish wrapping Christmas presents, do the gosh-darned washing up, and then pack my bags before I toddle off to my parents' place for a few days... but you know what I'm like.

I had to dash out and get some more wrapping paper - my mother's gift is rather large, so I didn't have quite as much paper as I needed. Then I distracted myself with other little tasks... and, of course, the interwebs...

I'm starting to wonder if I need Office Me more at home than I do at work...

A Stragely Relaxing Day

I'd like to say something dramatic, like "you know what this feels like? The end of Braveheart, where Mel Gibson's William Wallace is crying out 'FREEEEEDOOOOOOM!' while someone pulls his guts out...", but it's actually been rather anticlimactic.

I didn't even wake up feeling as though a great weight had been lifted. It's just... like the weekend started early... or I'm on holiday.

Sure, I sent out a great, long farewell email yesterday, which said everything I really felt the need to say (no, nothing nasty) and did a great deal of hugging (still riding high on the wave of smug self-satisfaction after scamming a kiss out of the only decent Sales Manager in the place) as I accepted compliments from all corners on the eloquence of my email.

I've even vowed to keep in touch with some of them - one, a recent hire, is a Trekkie, very sharp, and extremely witty; another offered to attempt to match-make for me when she learned I'm single - and several I'll be connecting to via LinkedIn, if nothing else.

Today, as is fairly typical, I've been starting to feel a little unwell - probably just the return of a cold, rather than having anything to do with the resurgence of Swine Flu.

I popped out early today to Smyths, having learned that the first wave of Hasbro's Reveal The Shield subline of TransFormers has hit the shelves... Picked up Jazz and Tracks, both of which are awesome. I passed for the time being on Fallback, the predicted repaint of Revenge of the Fallen Brawn... but it is such a good mold, I will probably pick it up eventually.

What I haven't done is wrap any of the bloody presents... so that'll be my first project tomorrow, after receiving my new fridge. Then I'm off to my parents' for Christmas... and probably staying longer than I'd expected, going by the weather reports...

Insomnia

Currently having another of my sleepless periods - not expecting it to last long, but who knows? - following a press day which, given the circumstances, could have been significantly worse.

As I suspected, I was on my own till the early afternoon, as my boss had wisely played it safe and stayed indoors till it looked as though the roads were in a fit state for travel. By the time she arrived, everything was proceeding nicely, apart from one or two hiccups.

The Copy Controller working on today's magazine had been distracted at various points in the day by her attempts to train a new recruit who, it seems, is just not shaping up. There was also a point where there was altogether too much chatter between her and a Salesman with aggravating Britpop hair and a somewhat arrogant swagger to everything he does. I politely interrupted that and reminded her that, if she wasn't too busy reminiscing about getting a Fireman's Lift at the Christmas Party, I was sure there was a magazine to put out.

And, oh God, the Christmas Party.

I tried to hear as little as possible about it... And everything I did hear served to remind me why I loathe Christmas Parties with the folks I work with. Excessive alcohol consumption, ill-judged advances and, in the case of one of the Designers, further evidence that he's going nuts: confronting the aforementioned Copy Controller over her dalliances because "I like you... You should be going out with me!"

I'm still obsessing somewhat over the Publishing Director's message in my card... Not least because several folks at work can't believe she'd be "so unprofessional" as to write something like that. I should just let it go, because she's just spiteful and pathetic (and she went off on holiday today, leaving a message to the remaining Sales staff that they can leave early on Christmas Eve if they hit their targets), and it really shouldn't bother me. I mean, really, it only bothers me because I cannot believe she can be so small minded and spiteful about the Production Department that has made the titles she inherited among the best in London. Or maybe that's just my nostalgia talking.

At the end of the day, having completed the magazine, there was a touching and tearful farewell between the Property Manager, my boss and me, in which I scammed a kiss with the line "If I promise no tongues, do I get a kiss?". Not remotely smooth, but very me.

It's rare that I find my opinion of someone in the workplace changing so dramatically as my opinion of her. When she first started, I absolutely loathed her, as she seemed to be duplicating the mannerisms of a manager I didn't like much. When she moved into Property she became a very large thorn in my side for quite some time. I'm sure I've written some very choice things about her in this very blog. But then, when the Property team moved in right behind me, I saw and heard the way she dealt with her clients and her team, saw the passion she had for making it all work smoothly, and realised that - annoying as she could be - I absolutely loved her. Not romantically, that would be weird. She and I swim in very different oceans. In a relatively short time, she had changed the way I looked at her and thought of her so profoundly and earned more respect than almost any other colleague in my entire career so far. I'm very glad to have been invited to monthly get-togethers between her and my boss (and probably others I shall live to regret), as I'm sure I would miss her terribly otherwise.

One of her team proffered a goodbye earlier in the day, while I was busy... and I believe I gave her quite short shrift. She is a prime example of my first impressions being too optimistic.

I think there are only a couple of other goodbyes I'm keen to make... and maybe a couple of 'stay in touch'-type farewells. Then it's just a case of writing some recommendations for my already-departed colleagues.

Winter Wonderland

So. Snow. Lots of snow.

Today has been reasonably warm and mostly clear-ish skied, but there is the suspicion of more snow tomorrow. My boss has decided not to drive back into town tonight, so I may be on my own for a while in the morning.

Of course, when I say "on my own", there will be at least two Copy Controllers, and the Editorial Designers will be doing the honours with the ads, so it'll be essentially business as usual for the last week of the year.

Meanwhile, I popped over to my folks earlier, to drop of my tickets for Tron Legacy, showing at the Waterloo IMAX tomorrow. Hopefully they'll be able to get there... Having missed it myself yesterday due to the weather, I certainly hope they enjoy it.

Just for giggles, here are some cellphone snaps of my old stomping ground in the snow:

Quite lovely, really... Shame it's all such a pest...

The Beginning of the End of the Beginning

And so my official time with my employer of the last 5 or so years drew to a close yesterday, with the Christmas Party, which was retrospectively decided to also be a big, happy send-off for Production when everyone but the Publishing Director decided that's what it should be.

I have decided to go in as a freelancer for three days next week, to put out the last three magazines, one each day. I wrote a short, but heartfelt email to my boss's boss explaining my decision in the circumstances, sending it first to my boss for a quick check.

She cried, and sent it on.

My boss's boss replied that she had a lump in her throat.

My boss proceeded to email it to several other folks around the company, including the Finance Director for the Group and a couple of the Magazine Managers. The Manager of my last magazine cried over it. I may yet print it out and stick it up in the kitchen before I go.

My Thursday magazine actually went reasonably smoothly... Quite a few fillers in at the end, but we avoided any messing around with the flatplan and, barring about 6 pages with minor problems I had to fix on Friday morning, it all went to press perfectly by about 7pm.

The Christmas do was predictably awful. In so many ways, the journey to the venue was vastly more entertaining than the party. My boss had two passengers other than me: one to drop off home, the other to bring with us to the do. The latter ended up using her Duke of Edinburgh's Gold Award skills to direct us to the venue with the use of little more than a poorly-scaled map with barely any detail. In so many ways, it's a shame we found the place.

The venue was incredible (in a good way) with beautiful views over London, from Alexandra Palace to London City Airport and a little way beyond into the city centre, taking in Blackheath along the way. The food was diabolical - pathetically, insultingly small portions in tiny bowls, brought round on trays at irregular intervals. The PixPod photo booth was well used throughout the evening, with at least one of the property team disrobing... even though she knew the photos would be available to download from the PixPod website this evening. The bar service was surly but, considering the member of staff who represented us when the venue was booked, I'm not surprised they took a dim view of the rest of us when we turned up. Not only were the drinks tokens of limited use (soft drinks, beers, or 'house spirits' only) but the bar closed entirely at 4.45 (a full 15 minutes before we had been told to expect).

Highlights? Well, I was paid plenty of compliments by those I've worked closely with, both Production and Sales (not so much from Editorial, but they were mostly idiots) for my choice of clothing (I fuckin' rock a waistcoat) and, while six people didn't get a Secret Santa gift, my boss and I were singled out for special presentations (a bottle of Morgan's Spiced Rum, in my case) before a particularly trite and vaguely insulting speech from our Publishing Director. I also managed to con one of the bar staff into making me a Calfornia Root Beer (Galliano, Kahlua, Coke - try it) on the company tab by offering to pay for it. Lows include the aforementioned speech, the whole PixPod thing, and the Karaoke - apart from my boss putting everyone else to shame with a groundshaking a capella rendition of Amazing Grace, which had Group Editor raving that she should go on Britain's Got Talent.

These are such small people, with such small lives.

The Property Sales Manager hinted darkly that we'd share some time together in the PixPod, but that didn't happen... Perhaps it was my warning that, if she intended to kiss me again (as she had during the week), that she should not go anywhere near my neck unless she meant it.

I was also criticised as being judgemental - in a good way (with caveats) by one of my designers who told me I could be a Critic, but he couldn't decide what kind, and in a bad way by one of the girls in Sales, still smarting that I called her 'Miss Woodhouse' in an email, despite my assurances that I was referring to her as Jane Austin's matchmaker, not as a posh, self-absorbed halfwit.

It has been said before that I have an "observe, record, assess" approach to people, and it's not something I make any effort to deny... I'll even add that it gets worse for attractive girls, for whom the attitude is closer to "Yes, I can see you're good looking... what do you do for an encore?"

In any event, I left around 5.30, while everyone else was filtering off downstairs to the larger main bar. Sloping off back to the car park via the DLR, driving off to the Southbank Centre to pick up two tickets for Tron Legacy at IMAX, which will be going to my parents at the earliest opportunity. From thence, back home. When I read the leaving card signed by many of the folks in attendance, I found a rather sad little note written by the Publishing Director: "Adios, Beardy. It's been fun. See you... Out the door". Now, I'd imagine she'd been planning that all week, and just couldn't think of an alternative on the day... because I was clean-shaven for the party.

And, really, 'Beardy' was the best she could come up with? She couldn't simply have used my name, and avoided sounding like a complete twat?

There had been some snow yesterday, but nothing serious... but late in the morning today, it started coming down again... so we went from this:
   To this: within the space of a few hours.
And, while the snow appears to have stopped for now, with precious little gritting (again!) it has prevented me from getting to Uxbridge to see Tron Legacy and, rather more seriously, given my boss a near-death experience with a jack-knifing articulated truck on the motorway... She's back home now, but understandably shaken.

Goddamnit!

I don't know what it is, but there have been curious things going on ever since the weekend's stunning coincidence. Mainly, work has been - if I may be curt - utter shit, but there have been silver linings.

The smallest of my magazines has been a harrowing experience. First everything got put back by the snow, then we had flooding in the office over the weekend, causing further delays as the maintenance crews cleaned up and made safe as much of the office as they could. The magazines got pushed back another two days, meaning the smallest was supposed to go out today... but my next magazine - my largest - could not be put back due to advertiser requirements, so that's supposed to go out tomorrow.

Normally I have a clear three days between their press days.

And I need them.

Initially, my boss suggested I palm off the initial stages of my largest magazine on my counterpart, who leaves on Friday, along with everyone else, and had already done his last magazine for his term of service. On the way home last night, I realised it'd be far better if he took out the smallest, not least because it would be easier, and I was less concerned about it going terribly wrong.

Of course, when this was proposed to him, he looked quite cheerful - this was the magazine he'd first started working on, 11 years ago... what better way to round off his term of service with the company, than to put out one last issue of his first ever magazine?

So I concentrated on my behemoth.

Part way through the day, the Property Salesperson I utterly loathe (as she is lazy, spiteful, condescending and entirely thoughtless) finally noticed that she'd made a mistake with one of her bookings. She had offered a client three pages, but booked only two. Of course, in her world, she had booked three pages, because that's what was agreed in her email exchanges with the client. In my world she had not only booked just two pages, but she had failed to check the flatplan to ensure her bookings were correct. And it's not as if there was a shortage of flatplan printouts for her to check. The Property section was full. No space for an additional page.

Naturally, she wanted to rearrange more than half the magazine - moving pages from Lifestyle into Property - to accommodate the extra page, and couldn't see why it was a problem to take two - granted, otherwise unused - pages from the front of the magazine and put them right near the back... despite the fact that a good chunk of the magazine had already been output and made ready to send to the Printers.

And that's just part of the problem. They see a flatplan, and think it's easy to shift a couple of pages from here to there. It's on a computer, innit? It's a five minute job. They don't realise that some of the pages in between will need - at the very least - changes to the folios because they've moved forward by however many pages.

So she kicked up a fuss, speaking to our esteemed Publishing Director who, in part due to her twisted little power play interference in the Property team, immediately sided with the Property Rep, and demanded that everything move to accommodate. She'd caught her mistake, and wanted it fixed now, her way. Even when a serviceable 'plan b' was mooted, nothing was good enough except completely ruining my half-day's work.

So my boss kicked up a fuss in return, bumping it even higher up the food chain, and pulling our trump card: They could stick their freelance work, because we hadn't offered to return for two, then three days next week to output the last two magazines because of the money. Hurt our professional pride by acting like we are obligated to deal with other people's shit two days before we're thrown out, and we would not be inclined to return.

Publishing Director is absolutely not happy that our argument carried far more weight.

It is quite clear to all those higher up the food chain that they are thoroughly fucked if we do not turn up for work on Monday. Clear to PD, too, she just chooses not to accept it.

While I was at work, I decided that I didn't want to do the freelance work anyway. What was the point? To give them another three days in which to try to piss all over us? No, thank you.

And yet now, tapping away at my keyboard at home before I retire for the night, the stupid old romantic in me wants my own silver lining... Because, if I do go in next week, my last magazine will be the one that, essentially, got me my job there, 11 years ago. They'd just bought the title, and needed extra staff. The ad in the newspaper might as well have been asking for me by name. I happily accepted a £2k pay cut and lower rank, because I knew I could do the job better than anyone else they might interview.

I hate to say it (no, seriously, I really hate to say it) but I probably owe it to myself to put out that last issue...

Serendipity

Strange how things that happen in precisely the wrong way can end up being somehow beneficial.

My sister, my old mate Paul and I were headed uptown to Kings Cross for a Mediaeval Baebes gig at St Pancras Church. My sister had bought the tickets, but hadn't researched the location particularly well so, when we set out, all we had to rely upon was a printed Google map of the area, which wasn't exactly detailed.

Nevertheless, my sister knew which way to head and had, for some time, thought that the gig was at another similarly-named church in the opposite direction, the route to which she was familiar with also. So, when we got to St Pancras Church and found in a state of disrepair - scaffolding all over one end - and with signs pointing to a Crypt Gallery, we suspected we had arrived at the wrong church.

A middle-aged couple started looking at the messageboard on the fence and, putting two and two together, my sister asked them if they were looking for the Mediaeval Baebes gig - they seemed the type, after all. When they answered vaguely in the affirmative, and showed her a ticket of sorts, my sister concluded that we must have all arrived at the wrong church, and proceeded to lead us to St Pancras Old Church, back past the station in the opposite direction. Thankfully, we'd left early enough to get there with time to spare.

This couple had come into town from quite a way away - 5 hours travel to Kings Cross - and were here to see their daughter perform. So far, so plausible - the Baebes had run one of their singing workshops during the day, and my sister had told us to expect a performance by the students at the end of the evening. Hell, for all we knew, these two were the parents of one of the Baebes, let alone one of the amateurs from the workshop.

And so, when we arrived and lead them to their daughter - who looked uncannily like a young Katharine Blake (although with darker hair) - the girl was utterly grateful to us, as her parents might never have found the right place had they not happened upon us. We took our leave, found some seats, and prepared ourselves for the evening.

What followed, in short, was not a Mediaeval Baebes gig.

There was group of a cappella singers, male and female, performing a range of folk and gospel songs (including Down To The River To Pray from O Brother, Where Art Thou?), one half of a duet (the other half had called in sick that morning) who had gamely stepped up to perform solo, reading poetry and singing (one song only which, she said, she performed "completely wrong" with 'her friend the harmonium'). She was endearingly quirky in dress and manner, reading from a notebook that kept shedding its loose leaves as she squirmed nervously in front of the audience. "Like all poets," she explained toward the end, "I used to be a waitress... and I wasn't any good at that either..." I honestly kind of wished there was more from her, because she was so damned cute, and clearly terrified of performing alone. She was followed, however, by more from the a cappella group (they had a name, but I'm damned if I can remember it now... despite it being a funny (as in deliberately amusing) name) and three or four songs from a slightly whiny Irish singer, who'd been involved in fixing up the Church (and others like it, he said) for concerts just like this one.

At the halfway point, my sister decided to look for the couple we'd brought with us, to ascertain whether or not we were even in the right place...

...And we were not. There had been a huge misunderstanding over the nature of the gig they were going to and, while the woman suspected we were coming along to the wrong place, she didn't like to question my sister's certainty of purpose.

So off we jolly well trotted, back to St Pancras Church, which still seemed to be derelict and unoccupied... until we turned the next corner, and found loads of stereotypical Baebes fans milling around outside the entrance, smoking during the mid-point break in their set. We dashed in, grabbed some merchandise, then took our seats for the remainder of the evening.

It was a good gig... but not their best. The range of voices wasn't as wide as they used to have, and much of the playfulness and cheeky banter was absent. At one point, I felt something crawling on my neck, and flicked off some small, dark, unknowable thing onto the floor, only to start worrying that it'd just climb up my leg.

A whole host of civilians did, indeed, take to the stage for one of the last songs of the evening which, in many ways, made the experience all the more disappointing.

My sister had been saying since we left the other concert that, should we feel in any way disappointed, she would refund us the £17 for the tickets... by neither my old mate nor I felt hard done by...

...And, for my part, I wondered if perhaps we (I?) should have remained at the other concert after all.

Visitation of a Different Kind

Here's a weird one. I've had a house guest during this inclement weather. To cut a long story short, we were sharing the bed most nights but, on Tuesday night, unable to sleep, I took myself to the sofa.

I wasn't able to sleep any better there than I had been in my own bed, but it was a little quieter. Gradually, I felt myself getting to the point where I might just about fall asleep... and then, just as I thought I was gone, I had a visitor.

Naturally, I assumed it was my guest. She sat down on the floor next to me and, holding my hand, asked what was wrong. I came out with some reply that I don't remember and was probably barely comprehensible at the time and, after a few moments, she departed.

Sometime later, again on the cusp of sleep, I heard my guest call out "Are you alright?", then start padding around the flat. Eventually, she made her way into the lounge, knelt down next to me and, stroking my face, asked "why you sleep on sofa?"

Again, I mumbled a response, wondering all the while why she felt the need to come back and ask that when she'd already popped in earlier.

Imagine my surprise, the following morning, when I asked her how many times she'd come into the lounge, and she quite emphatically stated that she'd only been in the once, recounting in great detail the sequence of events that led her there.

And that's not all... because that's the second time I've experienced something like that. About seven or so years ago, when I was living with my folks, I woke up in the middle of the night to find a distinctly female form sitting in the bed, silhouetted in the moonlight through my blinds, watching me. Having registered her presence - and apparently quite comfortable with it - I closed my eyes to go back to sleep. Then it hit me that someone was in my room, sitting on my bed, so I promptly woke up again... and no-one was there.

This more recent experience suddenly became all the more disquieting because, on both occasions, the presence was somehow familiar and thereby nonthreatening. And this time it actually enquired after my wellbeing. And now, instinct tells me it was the same presence - similar build, similar hair length... though I never quite saw a face.

But, hey, maybe I was asleep after all, and it was just a dream.

Still weird, though.

And, Once Again, London is Crippled by Snow

Except, just for a change, it wasn't. At least, not in my neck of the woods. In fact, most of London north of the Thames got away quite lightly - sure, people grumbled, but there was no particular disruption, either to trains or roads. South London wasn't so lucky... and the further south you tried to get, the worse it became.

As of now, it looks as though the snowy patch is over (for now)... and the Silent Hill fog lifted from my neighbourhood after lunch, leaving it looking as though we've just had a big rainstorm.

It's surprising how little effect the inclement weather had on work - almost everyone got in, almost all of them had little or no difficulty getting into work or home again... but those who were affected were very adversely affected. Even so, the Powers That Be decided to put back all our magazines by two days... triggering a huge battle between my boss and the guy who will be running Production from Norwich, as the last two of our magazines were pushed back till after our last day. Norwich's Lord of Production reckoned this would hammer our Termination Bonus (originally called a 'Loyalty Bonus', as it was for everyone who stayed to the end, only later developing miscellaneous caveats). My boss didn't like this, naturally, and so spoke to her boss, our local Publishing Director, and PD's boss, all of whom reckoned Lord of Production had no say in this.

He also, apparently, wanted the bonus paid in January, rather than on our last day... but there might be certain difficulties with that, considering our P45s would already have been returned. The uncharitable might suggest that he's trying to avoid paying the bonus...

In other news, one of my colleagues in Sales decided she wants to play Matchmaker for me. I'm not convinced it'll happen, but apparently this is 'something she does'. The story goes that, watching me walk past, she blurted out "he's quite cute... is he married?" and it all went a bit Jane Austin from there.

Another of my colleagues has decided to subscribe to one of my other blogs, pertaining to food. It's written in my usual style - not taking anything too seriously - and documents both successes and failures in the kitchen. I may have to hit her up for some recipes... not least her fairy cakes...

Not Much of a Collection

So... Collectormania London, eh? Where did it go wrong?

Well... the entrance was via Pizza Express at Olympia. Up the stairs, though a massively empty room in which the tickets were sold, then through the doors into... what looked very much like a completely empty industrial lockup.

Empty, that is, apart from the first row of 'star' guests... evidently not thought of highly enough to actually be inside the main show area.

Beyond this tragic scene was possible the most poorly laid out retail area, boxed in by some of the most weirdly-placed stage areas, and even more blocks of star guests basically crammed into whatever spare corners they could find. I was vaguely amused to see that Mercedes McNab was "unable to attend due to ill health", because she was in the crap horror movie I saw last night, Vipers, in which she was eaten by a pack of snakes. I wonder if the 'ill health' was brought about by the appearance of this film on television the weekend she was attending the show...

There was a 'Japanese Culture Area' which could politely be described as 'sparse', or more accurately described as basically nonexistent beyond the sign, and a robe hanging on a partition.

The retail area was pretty dull - for me - but fairly standard Collectormania guff - lots of autographs, photos, posters, cards, DVDs (some of which looked pretty darned dodgy). Only a couple of stalls were selling TransFormers, and those were a good £5 over average retail, so I elected to save my money until these later waves hit the UK shelves.

I did buy a Christmas present for my mother, and one for my companion... and a purple, cat-shaped neck rest for myself. Other than that, I suspect my companion bought more than me - mostly from Genki Gear, who complained about being lost in the back of the hall, to the point where it seemed that no-one was coming to their stall and, in fact, the poor folks allotted the space behind their stall packed up an left the show yesterday. We didn't even feel the need for a second turn around the place. I doubt we spent much more than an hour there before leaving, rather disappointed with the whole thing.

I dropped in on my folks for dinner - an Iceland three-bird-roast, which was pretty tasty - and much chattering, and picked up a few nicknacks before heading home by bus, thanks to the engineering works (not even the tube strike, which started this evening!)

I really shouldn't be up this late, considering I need to be getting up for work in just over five hours... but I'm not exactly tired right now... That said, I'm only still up because I decided to watch another shit horror movie featuring snakes, Anacondas: The Hunt for the Blood Orchid, which was on straight after Beowulf. What is this, Serpent Movie Weekend?

Not A Snow Day So Far

Had a very strange experience this morning: I woke up at about 7.30am having had a dream where I was woken up by my computer going 'bong' (as in 'standard Windows error bong'), went into the lounge to check it out - because I surely switched it off before bed last night - only to find it had been stolen. Just the computer, monitor and keyboard, nothing else in the entire lounge, let alone the rest of the flat.

Leaving the lounge, I noticed my front door was ajar... So I opened it fully, and found a team of three guys disassembling various ill-gotten gains from all the flats, my computer included. The one closest to my front door warned me off: it was their stuff now, and I didn't want to risk trying to take it from them, did I?

But they were unarmed... and he was the only one who was not completely distracted by their deconstructions... So I slipped back into the flat and called the police.

Waking up from that I knew in my head that I had not really been burgled... And I had no trouble going back to sleep for another hour or so... but, having lived here now for, what, a year and a half at least?.. Having lived here for that long without incident, and having only once before been woken up by the sound of a slamming door (which turned out to be downstairs) why on Earth would my subconscious throw up the image of burglary?

No sign of the threatened snow so far today... Though I must admit that, when I first saw the light creeping in past my curtains this morning, it seemed so bright and white for this time of year that I assumed I'd been completely snowed in overnight. Not so - only a very thin layer of cloud in the sky, so it's undoubtedly cold outside, but the weather reports are now suggesting a 'chance of snow' from Tuesday.

So I'm waiting to hear from the friend with whom I may be heading to Collectormania London... depending on whether or not she's been snowed in where she is...

Activity

After this morning's mopey angst-fest of a posting, I've started taking Kalms again. Remarkably good results, so far...

I realised fairly early on that I had discussed with a friend the idea of popping down to Collectormania London, running at Olympia 2 this weekend. She'd forgotten as well but, assuming we're not all snowed in tomorrow, we may pop down then.

Of course, that means I have to reschedule popping over to my parents for the afternoon/evening, rather than lunch. Thankfully, since I'd be relying on buses to get there and home again, the impending Tube strike will have no effect on that plan.

So, what have I been doing with my 'today'?

Well, probably not a massive amount, in the grand scheme of things... But I did, on a whim, decide to finally bake the Betty Crocker brownie mix... with a couple of added ingredients. Of course, I didn't already have these 'in stock', so to speak, so I had to pop out into the cold and go on a hunt for some specific confectioneries. In this regard, I'm actually lucky enough to have an old style Confectioner on a corner down the road - shelves full of jars of sweets priced by the quarter, and everything!

Not being entirely certain of the name of the product I was hoping to find, I was glad to see exactly what I was after the moment I walked in the door. Except it wasn't quite exactly what I was after... Pop Rocks, yes... but not Cola flavour. I asked the girl at the counter if she knew whether they stocked any flavour other than Cola, and she replied in the negative so, having wiped out with the strongest contender, I picked out a Plan B (chocolate coated toffee bits) and went on my way to the Supermarkets. Tesco let me down completely (though I did pick up a copy of Total Film with a TRON Legacy mousemat as the cover-mounted freebie - adding further warm fuzziness to the ongoing geeky joygasm of expectation), Iceland had part of what I was after and Sainsbury's filled in the most significant gap in my nefarious plan.

The thought I'd had, you see, was that I could add something like Pop Rocks to the cake mixture prior to baking, and thereby and an element of surprise to the brownies. Going by the piece I've tried, it's barely noticeable, if at all - the stuff was popping like crazy as soon as it made contact with the moist brownie mixture - but I still have 24 pieces to take with me into work on Monday... Someone might get lucky. The mixture was also topped off with the 'Volcanic Popping Candy' Terry's Chocolate Orange, just to see how that turned out.

Well, turns out it adds at least five minutes to the cooking time... But I got there in the end.

There's still a frankly awesome pile of washing up to do... Not least from Friday night's efforts to make Sushi in my own kitchen, but I think I've cleared up the worst of it (or, at least prepared the way).

Fairly soon, I shall be settling down to watch a crappy horror movie about genetically engineered, man eating snakes... Crappy horror movies are cool... sometimes...

Fuzzy Philosophy

So there's this mistake. Perhaps it's (the) one you habitually make, but it's obviously a mistake. You haven't made the mistake yet, but you recognise its shape and its texture. You know how it's a mistake, you know why it's a mistake, and you have a shrewd idea of the state you'll be in when it all goes so terribly wrong, which it surely will.

Everything about this mistake sets those Divers Alarums a-ringin'.

And yet right at the back of your mind, this little voice starts nagging with "What If..?". What if you're wrong? What if those little differences you're so casually glossing over would make all the difference? What if what you're seeing as a mistake is only the tiniest, most insignificant fragment of the whole? What if you take a different tack from the start? What if you're big enough, old enough and ugly enough to handle it differently, so it wouldn't turn out the same?

But then, the more you think about it, the more alarm bells you hear, the more certain you become that that correct response is to keep the hell away. It's neither what you want, nor what you need.

And yet you just can't stop thinking about it - beyond even those nagging "What If..?" questions - because the mistake has a certain allure. Mistakes can be fixed, after all.

So why would you make this mistake anyway? Because you like the way she looks at you? Because your heart skips a beat when she smiles? Because it might actually be fun, if only for a while? Because the whole thing inflicts upon you such a dreadful, intense feeling of déjà vu, it very nearly turns your stomach, but you're stupidly optimistic enough to think it could be different, if only...

Ridiculous.

It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn*.

So you find (or put) yourself in a position where you feel you have to make a choice, once and for all, just for the sake of your sanity. And the choice is, as far as you see it, to set yourself up to be hurt by making the mistake, or to walk away from the mistake and live with those nagging "What If..?" questions for a while.

And then, since the choice itself terrifies you, you procrastinate... which ends up just amplifying everything.

But then, soon enough, the choice is made for you, by someone else... Who sees things differently... Perhaps they don't see the same problems. Perhaps they don't give a damn. Perhaps it just doesn't matter, or that's how it was supposed to happen.

Hateful and sickening as the choice was, it hurts when it is taken away.

(* And, yes, I did that thing... I quoted Shakespeare. Deal with it.)

The End Is Nigh

The funny thing about the sure knowledge that, in about three weeks, I'm losing the magazines I've worked on for about 11 years, is that I care less every day.

Take today: The manager of the magazine I'm putting to bed on Wednesday was still talking about adding 8 pages to the magazine because she so far off her target, and being pressured by her higher-ups to get more money into this issue (Publishing Director, in point of fact, put out an email today, insisting that we need to make £21.5 thousand pounds per day in advertising revenue... and we're on the last two magazines of this month). I pointed out to her that, as long as we still have more than 10 pages unsold, it's far more likely that we'll be dropping 8 pages to avoid running a mass of filler ads.

She wasn't happy.

But let's be realistic. We're now basically a day and a half from press and virtually nothing has been sold over the last week. How are they going to fill more than 10 pages in a fraction of the time they've already spent selling very little? And what little they have sold has been promised ridiculous positions in the magazine. We have a section of the magazine with only one page of supporting Editorial which, by default, should be on a righthand page. Into this section, four whole ads have been sold... three of which are half page vertical ads... and all of those have been promised an Outside Righthand Page position.

This means that the section requires 6 pages of the magazine, of which one is Editorial, three are taken by the ORhP ads... and the rest is empty space. I pointed this out to the magazine manager, and asked her how much more she's likely to sell into that section.

Surprisingly, she didn't respond.

And therein lies the problem. They just want to bury their heads in the sand and carry on selling at last-minute-desperation rates, promising the client whatever it takes to get them in, thus weakening their position still further for next month.

A few of the Salespeople have told me that they're going to miss me once I'm gone... and I have invariably replied "Yes, you are," the subtext of which being "you have absolutely no idea how much you're going to miss me, because you have no idea how often I personally pull your fat out of the fire by coming up with the solution to the stupid situations you create."

I'm not even sure whether they mean it on a personal level or a purely work level... I'm happy to assume the latter, because I try to be as impersonal as possible in the office. If any of them do believe they mean it on a personal level, I may have to quote an Accountant I knew through Work Experience in high school: "What was that? I'm a nice person, am I? I'm obviously not doing my job properly, then!"

After Wednesday, two of my Designers lose their magazines... Only one of my counterpart's... and that, frankly, would be a good thing were it not for the fact that it means he'll be doing nothing but ads, and he's shit.

We had a meeting in the boardroom to discuss this change to workflow, and the proposed, combined Christmas Party/Celebration of Production in mid-December - the question being 'did we want that to be our only leaving do', since it transpires that some of the Salesfolk feel we're getting a raw deal, and deserve something specific to us, so we can be properly celebrated. One was so sorrowful that, having announced that everyone she liked was leaving (apart from two from her own team and, frankly, several others), she had to go home, still crying.

I wonder if it's occurred to her that - if she wanted - she could quite easily keep in touch with all those 'friends' who are leaving?

Personally, I am hoping to avoid the Christmas Party at all costs... Aiming to say well ahead of time the few Goodbyes I feel the need to say. In fact, when I learned in today's meeting that our esteemed Publishing Director has insisted that this year's last magazine goes to press the day before our last day, my immediate response, in front of the whole department, was "Oh, fuck her..."

I mean, it's not altruism on her part - I doubt she knows the meaning of the word, let alone having any familiarity with the concept - because she didn't see the need to celebrate Production in any way until her boss decided it was a great idea. And, let's face it, if I finish my last magazine the day before, what reason would I have for coming in on that last day? The party?

Fuck off.

As far as I'm concerned, my obligations to that company are concluded when I send the last magazine of the year to press.

In other news, I picked up the Wii 'reimagining' (I'm getting so bored with that phrase) of the N64 classic GoldenEye, along with Soul Calibur Legends. The former serves as evidence that I am utterly shit at first-person shooters (making GoldenEye the ideal choice, should I ever wish to record a Let's Play for posterity), the latter that I'm a sucker for rubbish slash-'em-up games featuring scantily clad female characters (Castlevania Legends, anyone?).

But seriously: Ivy? Even before I learned she was supposed to be English, she was scarily hot... Now I've heard that plummy accent, I am utterly besotted.

Good Show, Joe

Though I have no wish to repeat my comments about G.I.JOE: The Rise of Cobra, it's worth mentioning that I finally managed to watch it again today, having picked it up on DVD several weeks ago... and it's still a far better movie than Revenge of the Fallen.

It stands up to repeat viewings better (at least, I wasn't finding bigger and better plot holes), it's characters have more character and it's generally better put together... and yet, next summer, we are expecting TransFormers: Dark of the Moon - third and hopefully last of Michael Bay's efforts, and yet the second in Hasbro's 'other' franchise still has only a rumour of a greenlight.

Meanwhile, tuning into another episode from the current series of Merlin, I continue to be disappointed. I caught one at my folks' place a few weeks ago, and at least enjoyed the fact that Katie McGrath's wardrobe and makeup as Morgana are far more interesting now she's officially Evil... this week, even that was a let down.

This evening, I started watching Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger, mainly for Ray Harryhausen's awesome works of stop-motion art, only to end up getting distracted by the wonders of Fan Film Follies and, more specifically, Street Fighter High. SFH: The Musical looks awesome, featuring some brilliant costumes (by actual US Cosplayers), some excellent comedy song rewrites (Juri singing Dhalsim a version of Lady Gaga's Bad Romance? Ryu aping Heath Ledger in Ten Things I Hate About You by serenading Chun Li from the football stadium stalls, while Cammy practices a cheerleading routine featuing Faith No More's Be Aggressive? Seriously, dude, what's not to like?) and plenty of in-jokes. Hell, the whole thing is a brilliant in-joke. Two episodes so far, but definitely one to keep an eye on.

Out of persistence, more than anything, I'm currently watching Blade: The Series... it's still really dull and lacking any real direction or sense of threat from either the 'good' guys or the bad. Shame, really...

You Know You're On The Mend When...

...You actually get a good night's sleep for the first time in about three days.

...You no longer look like you could play the part of a cadaver on CSI without any makeup (if only you could stop the shivering).

Seriously, I've never been a bronze god (contrary to the opinions of some old friends), but I was pale to the point of translucency only a day or two ago. Now I'm back to my normal, natural warm pinkish complexion. What a difference it makes to sleep well!

Now I have to start eating properly again... and I'm going to start quite slowly. Since I've barely eaten since Tuesday, stuffing my face is probably not the best move right now. Made myself a fried egg sandwich earlier, and shall be having something salmon for lunch.

Speaking of which... it's kinda lunchtime now... why the hell am I blogging?

Following The Application of 'More Cowbell'

I refer, of course, to the Saturday Night Live spoof of Behind The Music, featuring Blue Oyster Cult... in which Legendary Music Producer Bruce Dickinson (played by Christopher Walken) exclaims "Guess what? I've got a fever! And the only prescription... Is more cowbell!"

Yesterday, I thought I might be fit for work today but, this morning, I saw different. I didn't feel terrible, but it was quite clear that going out into the cold, catching the tube, and spending 8 hours in the office would not be a clever move.

Right now, I'm feeling fairly good... still getting the occasional coughing fit, but my head has mostly cleared up and all the aches have gone. Apart from those caused by all the coughing, of course. Even my nose seems to be clearing up.

My appetite still isn't back to normal, though... I tried eating yesterday, and couldn't finish. Same deal, so far, for lunch today.

In my more active moments since yesterday, I've played a bit of Spiderman: Shattered Dimensions, finally completing the first level, and moving on to the choice between alternate realities. Noir seems pretty cool, its emphasis being on stealth in a way no other Spiderman could ever manage. Haven't tried the others yet, but too much of that sort of thing is still making my head spin at the moment. The only bits I'm not liking - apart from all the web-swinging - are the first-person dust-ups with the bosses. I'm not convinced that they add a great deal to the proceedings, other than a close-up view of your enemy's mug as you batter it...

I truly hate being ill. Sure, it's a welcome break from the office, which is sick in its own special way, but I can't really do anything. I've got stacks of washing up to do, the flat seriously needs vacuuming and a massive tidy-up, but I'm being even more lazy than usual...

Fuzzier Logic Than Usual

I'm at home, unwell. Mostly just a sore throat that, for once, seems unconnected to excess stomach acid. There is also an element of fever, though... And quite a bad one, if I'm any judge.

Last night, I started feeling really, really cold. I put the heating on full-time, and went to bed fully clothed, including a thick jumper. Under my not-inconsiderable duvet, I was still shivering. Come 6am this morning, I awoke with a throbbing head, and still pretty chilly, so I shuffled into the kitchen to prepare myself a Lemsip. One the way back, I picked up my cellphone, for to text my boss the glad tidings that I was heading back to bed, hoping to feel better later. She replied quickly, instructing me to stay home, and so I went to sleep.

I dreamed that I was Christmas shopping for a friend in a department store, and needed the assistance of one of the staff on a concession. She didn't seem keen on helping - fussing around the till for a good long while before finally asking me how many pages I needed. I pointed out that this was not the appropriate measure for the products I was after, but said I was aiming to buy two or three. Tapping me on the wrist, she said any and all would probably be fine for someone of my skin tone, and that I should probably just look at the displays. It was at this point that I woke up, and said - out loud, to my empty bedroom - that the intended recipient of this gift has a skin tone nothing like mine.

Then I realised where I was.

And that I was soaking wet. Don't you just love it when a fever breaks? Yuck.

Firing off a 'progress report' text to my boss, I opined "...This better fucking not be flu", but I am certain enough that it's not... After all, I'm up and about now and, aside from a still-pounding head (hello, paracetamol) and a rough throat, I'm not feeling too bad.

I did go back to sleep for another couple of hours, and had another bizarre dream where I was visiting the Dentist. A brief check of my teeth revealed that the only problem was the tooth in which I recently had an abscess. Without any anaesthetic, or so much as a by-your-leave, the Dentist pushed at it till it just popped out. So far gone was this tooth that there was no blood at all (unusual for my tooth dreams) - the gum was entirely healed over beneath a tooth that was barely making contact with the gum. Only that wasn't all that was wrong in my mouth - closing my jaw, I found a painful point and, with the Dentist holding me tightly the way one would when comforting a crying child, I fished around in my gob and found a clump of... something squishy and kind of noodle-like, only red. Extracting myself from the Dentist, I went home to look into my mouth in a mirror, and found that four veins had decided to sprout out of the back of my mouth and along the inside of my cheek, and just grow outward, joining together part-way, until they stopped. I tried to show them to a member of my family, but they seemed more interested in the television. I figured I could probably cut them out quite safely, so I started fishing around for knives or scissors... but woke up just as I was heading to the bathroom to perform this minor surgery, and my first thought was to head to the bathroom to cut these weird tendrils out of my mouth.

After realising that things were still not quite right, I fell asleep again, this time dreaming of a guy who'd been genetically altered to be able to transform his body for different purposes. He was testing himself by turning into a kind of fish-man while swimming in a system of underground caves... And he was mightily displeased, considering all the painful experiments he'd been through, to find a whole cave full of mermaids and fish-men who were all completely natural... and exhibited the myriad variations in appearance that is common to all humans.

I had no trouble separating dream from reality when I awoke from that one, as I'd merely been a spectator.

Gave myself a quick brunch of tinned fruit salad, but I suspect I'll have to venture outside to get something proper and more substancial for lunch. Certainly feeling better, but still not well... and getting chilly again, so perhaps it's time to put the jumper back on... but I'm also considering the merits of a shower...

Legacy Technology

Being a child of the 70s and 80s, it should come as no surprise that I was fascinated by TRON. There was a film that showed us life inside computers… Some characters even had computer-y names (the ill-fated sidekick, RAM, and of course TRON himself, the name being a contraction of the command ‘TRace ON’). Sure it was hokey, naïve and two-dimensional… but, to a youngster like myself, it all seemed plausible that, while we play our videogames, little ‘people’ inside the computer are actually experiencing these games from the inside, living and dying by our hands. It was the world's first true glimpse of the Digital... and is still seen as a milestone and an impressive, iconic feat of comparatively limited technology, even 28 years later.

And so it came to pass that, 28 years later, there would be a sequel, TRON Legacy.

But could it be that 28 years is too long a wait? At first glance, the movie looks awesome. Those same digital environments refined, upgraded, texture-mapped... The glowing costumes are more impressively rendered, the light cycles are smoother, almost organic, yet seemingly made of glass... The clunky helmets are absent... The girls are sexier...

And it's going to be in IMAX 3D.

Consider this:
Over the course of those intervening years, technology in every aspect of our life has taken a massive leap forward. In videogames alone, we have environments far in advance of those portrayed in TRON. The average home computer could create something with more detail than anything seen in TRON. There was even a 2003  videogame 'sequel', cleverly named TRON 2.0, which ably demonstrated that a videogame could upgrade every visual aspect of the original movie.

The world of the Digital has been redefined almost daily. The internet has created an environment infinitely larger and more complex than anything the Master Control Program could have envisaged... and a kids TV series called ReBoot examined and explored that environment in impressive detail for its time. Anime, like Ghost In The Shell or Serial Experiments: Lain have further reinterpreted Online, and The Matrix showed us a Virtual Reality so real, it fooled and enslaved the population of the planet.

Videogames have become vastly more complex than any of the gladiatorial challenges shown in TRON - how can the monochromatic landscapes of Legacy hope to represent anything of World of Warcraft, or The Sims? Light cycles may be cool, but why play a fancy upgrade to Snake, when you can play the latest immersive first-person game on XBox, PS3 or Wii?

So, much as I am looking forward to TRON Legacy, I have to wonder how relevant it will be to today's audiences. Will someone who has never seen the original understand its landscapes and its rules? I have to wonder why it was even attempted after such a long time, and why Kevin Flynn's world of the Digital is such a small upgrade on the original.

I guess it kinda boils down to "Do we really need a sequel to TRON?"

But I'm looking forward to it. Honest.

An Open Invitation

Popped out to see Let Me In this last weekend. It's the US remake of Let The Right One In, a Swedish movie about a boy who befriends the vampire girl who moves in next door. I managed to miss the original though, on the strength of this one - and despite its flaws - I may pick up the DVD for comparison.

It's very well done, perfectly cast - Chloe Grace Moretz is one to watch in the future, I suspect - and really rather gory. Plenty of blood gets splashed about, but you do at least get the impression that young Abby is ingesting some of it, unlike the messy undead horde in 30 Days of Night.

I do have gripes, however... It's uncomfortable to watch at times, particularly when it becomes apparent that there is a certain amoral quality to it all, despite the kids being, in theory, old enough to discern right from wrong. Such concerns are quickly dismissed, though, when Owen phones his father to ask if people can be evil, and the father immediately assumes this question is the result of another lecture from Owen's ultra-religious mother. It's also quite obvious that Abby, who has been "12 years old for a really long time" has been having a particular kind of relationship with the man everyone in the film assumes is her father... at least until Owen finds old photographs of them. But seeing her loving touches on a supposedly older man is not the really creepy part. The really creepy part is that there's no indication of Abby's true age... only that she has a predilection for 12 year old boys...

And there are far too many unanswered questions... not least what happens to Owen's mother. The last we see of her, she's either sleeping or dead... but neither are confirmed. The very open ending just left me wondering why Owen chose that path, considering he could have had no idea how it would work, but he'd seen exactly how it would end.

And then, being really picky, I suspect the folks who did the CGI took Ms. Moretz's measurements before filming commenced... and before a growth spurt in the young actress - the fast-moving, animalistic version of Abby seems to be a couple of inches shorter and a fair bit skinnier. It moves well enough, but it doesn't reflect young Chloe's appearances as Abby.

The rest of my weekend was a bit of a bust, frankly. Saturday was mostly wasted, though I did get some photography done of my most recent acquisitions. I stayed up to watch Blade (TV series, not movie, and exhibiting even less impressive 'vampire action' in comparison to Let Me In) and Dark Blue... though neither are particularly inspiring... Just typical, generic American telly.

Before the movie on Sunday, my old mate Paul and I had lunch in the Uxbridge Pizza Hut (just for a change), though it did eat into our proposed browsing/shopping time. Despite assuring our unusually well-spoken waitress that I could tackle a whole large Stuffed Crust Pepperoni Feast, I had to ask for a doggie bag... only to throw it away shortly thereafter, because I couldn't take it into the cinema. Shame... as her suggestion of having the remains for breakfast ("That's what I do!") seemed so very tempting...

On the way back, we passed a gathering horde of zombies at the gates of the shopping centre, awaiting the arrival of some celebrity or other, to light the Christmas Lights. How joyous.

I watched Star Trek: The Motion Picture in the evening, and was stunned by the repetitious homoerotic undertones in Kirk's pleas to his former crew. That, Bill Shatner's terrible acting... and the ponderous story... In many ways, it's probably one of the finest Star Trek stories ever filmed... but the initial flypast of the rebuilt Enterprise went on far too long, and any sense of urgency the story might have had was lost the moment James Tiberius Kirk took command of the starship named Enterprise.

Concerned and Disappointed

After the usual, tiresome, train strike journey into work (perhaps not quite so tiresome as usual, and I was only about half an hour late), my boss asked me if I'd read our Publishing Director's email...

I hadn't even started Outlook at that point, so I slid over to her desk and read over her shoulder.

It seems our esteemed leader (well, not ours, as such... she rules the roost over Sales, not Production) has taken exception to some comments I made to a colleague in Norwich, about the need for further training in Selling For The Web for our zombie hordes. Granted, I pulled no punches (well, not many... I could have been more direct in my complaint), but for her to claim the complaint should have been made to her leaves me incredulous.

Had I the impression, even for a moment, that she gave a single, miniscule damn, or intended to take any action about any of the concerns raised by Production thusfar, I might be more inclined to raise concerns with her. What's sad is that she's trying to paint herself as wounded by a situation she created herself, by deliberately sidelining and abusing a Production Department that's in the process of being phased out, not because it's a poorly run department that consistently underperforms, but because the higher-ups believe they can save money.

Just over 6 weeks to go, and I'll be out...

Really must talk to the pension people.

Weighty Issues

Popped back to my GP this morning for a follow-up visit on my little stomach/throat problem. Since the course of medication completed on Friday, I've been ending the days feeling hints of acid in my throat but, thankfully, nothing serious so far, and it's back to normal by the following morning.

I related this to my GP for the day - who had introduced herself as some kind of Registrar (which sounded terribly impressive, though I have no real clue what it meant) and was very heavily pregnant - and, after reading the notes from my previous visit, she asked if I'd gained or lost weight during the last month. I had to admit I had no idea - my scales decided to stop working recently - so she asked me to take off my shoes and weigh myself on her conveniently located scales. I had estimated my weight, based in my last known measurement, as somewhere in the region of 11st 3lbs. Her scales read in kilograms, and apparently I'm about 75 of them. One quick web-based conversion from Metric to Imperial, and she announced "Yes, that's right, eleven stone three pounds... Oh, hang on... no... eleven stone eleven point three."

"Eek," was my strangled response.

So somehow I've gained about half a stone, though there's no visible sign of this extra weight. Thankfully.

That said, I ain't going to be buying any more skinny-fit shirts anytime soon, just to be safe.

After a quick probing of my belly, just below my ribcage ("No pain?") she printed me out a prescription for a helicobacter breath test, to be cashed in after no less than two weeks (to ensure there's no lingering traces of the medication, which would interfere with the test) if symptoms return... Meaning the next stage is checking to see if I do have an ulcer.

This really is just like an episode of House, but spread out over several months, rather than conveniently trimmed and accelerated to last no more than an hour (including ad breaks).

I headed straight into work, for a day that was mostly quite dull... but for the inane and increasingly stupid banter from the Property team behind me (in particular, their blustering, blundering, giggling new recruit, who reminds me far too much of someone I have no desire to recall), and the inadvisable and increasingly random position requests on some of the ads booked to my Friday magazine.

Oh, and the silly bint who had no idea what she was booking into the magazine when she cold-called a car insurance provider: "I don't know what insurance is... I have a boyfriend for that... He's old... He's, like, thirty... He takes care of me" - sorry, sunshine, but if he deals with all your real-life stuff for you, he's not 'taking care of you', he's keeping you as one would keep a pet. And, speaking as a 36 year old, whose boss is a very girlish 52, 30 ain't old (unless you work in porn, where any woman over the age of 25 can be described as a 'Cougar' whenever it suits the Director).

She just had to rub salt in the wound, by saying "My dad's only 41... You could be my dad!"

Making light of the remark, temporarily, my boss reminded me "You've always wanted kids". "Yeah," I spat, "That's one rumour I'm gonna deny."

I'm guessing she's either late teens or early 20s... and if her father is that young now, it explains a whole hell of a lot about her. As my boss put it so succinctly, "That one only opens her mouth to put her foot in it."

Caught up on The Event this evening... it's still holding my interest for the moment, but I do wish it'd hurry up and get to the point. Mildly sinister aliens who clearly have an agenda that they do not wish to discuss... but is it malevolent? The reimagining of V suffers similarly, even though it appears on the surface to be progressing more rapidly, and we already know the Visitors ain't here for our benefit... After casually mentioning "The Bliss" last week, we were treated this week to a demonstration: Morena Baccarin decending into some kind of milky bath (nakedness implied), telepathically spouting meaningless rubbish to Visitors around the globe (one, apparently, a Tibetan monk) about how all they need is her.

I can't say I'd refuse naked Morena Baccarin... But I digress...

Hmm... naked Morena Baccarin...

Ahem.

Ending for tonight on a random note, one of our advertisers recently misquoted Mr William Butler Yeats, with the line "maybe the marriage bed brings despair, for each imagined image brings and finds another image there" (the actual line, from Solomon and the Witch can be found on the Wandering Minstrels blog if you're interested)... but I feel he missed the point of the line... it's not our self-image that gets broken down in the bride-bed, it's our illusions about our 'loved one'. We silly humans have a tendency to see only what we want to see in those we feel attracted to but, eventually, those illusions will be dashed on the unsympathetic rocks of reality.

At least, that has been my experience... Both directly (all too frequently, I find I like people more before I get to know them) and indirectly (far too many people never bothered to find the real me beyond their fantasy, or what little they saw of me based on such bizarre things as my dress sense... and those that did frequently tried to deny or ignore it, because their version of me was better... even though it really wasn't).

Honestly, for creatures who so deeply crave true companionship, we have developed such complex ways to prevent it ever happening.

A Modest Haul

So, yes, the London Expo. On a Sunday, for a change.

It all got off to a rather slow start, thanks to traffic, but my usual partner in crime and I got there in the end. And, as seems to be the case every time we head to one of these things on a Sunday, it was a vastly more civilised affair than the Saturdays tend to be.

So here's the thing, London Expo: I can see you're trying. I can see that you're changing things around, improving the layouts, actually using more of the hall, rather than cordoning off half of it so the place seems more densely packed with cool stuff. I can see that you're altering the ratio of "what's on show" to "what's on sale" every time... but you're still not quite getting it right.

I really appreciated that the walkways were far wider than they have been, and that the retail section was basically clubbed together along the front, so that the tenderhearted newbie can stay near the exit while they shop and, perchance, explore the heady worlds of videogames, tabletop RPGs, CCGs, anime, cosplay, and celebrity guests. The programme was well formatted, rather than the frequently jumbled efforts of the past.

Perhaps, though, there should have been a bit more on the retail side? There was just barely enough variety, but really not the quantity or quality that I would expect from an end-of-year show. The usual suspects were there - Gundam Nation, Genki Gear, Retro GT, the folks with all the swords - and a good few stalls had a selection of TransFormers in their miscellany. TokyoToys seem to occupy more floorspace every time they appear, but they do have plenty to offer.

The cosplay was a mixed bag, as it always is... Some of the costumes are excellent, others would benefit from a little more time and attention... Some of the cosplayers could do with learning to sew their own costumes, rather than making do with the off-the-rack stuff.

Celebrities were there, and panels were being run throughout the day for the likes of Eureka and Warehouse 13... and the stages were placed logically enough that - hopefully - the impact of the queues was not as heavy and intrusive as the last time I tried to get into one of the panels at a London Expo.

But, let's face it, I was there for the retail element and, while there wasn't a great deal of particular interest to me, I did get some TransFormers - Human Alliance Jazz, Deluxe-sized Darkmount, Elita-1 and Hailstorm - a couple of Genki T-shirts (one for my baby niece), and an artbook for Capcom's Monster Hunter games, from Otaku Publishing (putting in a very rare but very welcome appearance). Quite a modest haul, by my standards, and I was genuinely tempted by the repainted/remolded Armada Unicron and Cybertron Primus, both very reasonably priced on one stall (£120 and £100, respectively, if I remember correctly), but I do have the originals of both... and I didn't have the cash on me.

Or the space at home, frankly.

Still, it was good fun... quieter than a Saturday, with much more room to walk around and browse property... Maybe Sunday is the better day, on average... but I do always wonder what I missed out on buying on the preceding day/days.

2 Rounds of Shopping, 2 Lunches out, 2 Home-Cooked Meals

My sister came down from Swindon on Friday, and we met up for lunch and shopping in Covent Garden. The reasoning behind this decidedly odd choice of locale was that StoneGinger Designs have a stall there three days a week. My sister had happened upon them and was intrigued by the prospect of a bespoke carving as a birthday present for our mother. It seemed like a good idea to me, too, so we decided to go halves on a large carving.

Our first port of call, though, since we were meeting at lunchtime, was a restaurant called Maxwell's, right near the station. It seems to have opened quite recently, as they were handing out flyers last time I was in the area. We were seated immediately, and service was actually very swift, considering we had arrived around 1.30, and the place was already busy. By the time we left, however, there was a long queue outside. The food was excellent, and we had a brilliant waiter who clearly knew what he was talking about, enough to joke with my sister about the way a swordfish would be served, and make recommendations on the desserts.

Bellies full, our search for the sculptor's stall began... and, since we hadn't exactly confirmed the precise whereabouts of the stall, we ended up pottering about entirely the wrong market before stumbling upon the right one inside the central structure of Covent Garden. Around this time, I realised I'd forgotten the bag I'd brought with me, containing six cookies for my sister to take back to our folks, and a bottle of Mojito mix my boss had bought me. I dashed back to the restaurant (I had put the bag down by my feet under the table) and announced to the waitress at the door that I'd had lunch there a short while ago, and stupidly left a shopping bag under the table. She asked me what kind of bag it was and, upon confirmation that it was a reusable plastic supermarket shopping bag, she retrieved it from behind the front desk. Phew.

I dashed back to the stall, and initially thought my sister had wandered off but, thankfully, she had just been obscured by other, taller folks until I got in close.

When we first arrived at the stall, we had both been struck by a particular carving - a 50cm tall hanging carving of a blue dragon - possibly water-based, because it seemed to have fins rather than wings or legs. Since it was within our price range, we snapped it up, and considered ourselves very lucky that there was a dragon on show at all - while my sister had dropped the sculptor an email requesting to see any dragon-type carvings in our price range, the email had not been received. The sculptor said she'd have to have words with her email provider, since she pays for that service...

After that, the main reason for our shopping trip fulfilled, we set about browsing, first in Covent Garden, then into Seven Dials (my sister commenting at one point that it was like walking through Diagon Alley... it took me a minute or two to guess that she was making a Harry Potter reference) and on to Forbidden Planet. The Tron Legacy toys were pretty cool... but their selection of TransFormers was exactly what I'd expect to see in any toyshop. We had a quick spin in the book/comic/DVD section downstairs, before my sister realised it was getting late, and that we should probably head home.

So late was it, that I figured I should follow her to our parents' house, rather than attempting to get home and deposit our mother's birthday present before joining them all for dinner. I sneakily hung up the shopping bag underneath my raincoat, so as not to draw attention.

And since we didn't buy any wrapping or Christmas presents, as had been the original plan, we popped over to Brent Cross yesterday. Again, we had lunch first - Pizza Hut, where I was somewhat disappointed by the alleged blue cheese and portobello mushroom pizza and the fact that we had three different waiters during the course of our meal. Just like the Friday, the queues were longer by the time we left - some were already quite long when we first arrived, though Pizza Hut's was nonexistant until we'd nearly finished out meal.

The shopping itself was only mildly successful. I picked up a couple of DVDs that might become Christmas presents if nothing better turns up. My sister got some wrapping paper, and we saw a few things we might buy as Christmas presents, but most likely closer to the time - now is a little bit too early if we buy clothes, and it turns out our mother doesn't like them.

I had another dinner at my folks' place, collected up a few nicknacks, then headed back home. I may be going to the London Expo today... Just waiting on confirmation from the friend who's doing the driving...

Spooky

Work was, frankly, a bit crap today. In theory, it should have been a simple case of tidying up the remaining ads on a magazine that was virtually finished yesterday.

In theory.

In actual fact, the magazine wasn't finished till after 5.30 because of numerous instances of copy going missing, late-sold clients not being chased by their reps, and far too many piddling little changes to the overcomplicated sales features.

I was sat around doing more or less nothing for a good chunk of the day, which had the usual effect of driving me stir-crazy. I even tried getting up to date on my magazine backups, only to find one of our idiotic Temps has regularly been saving ASCII-encoded EPS files, despite having been provided notes on how to save them properly. I'd swear he was doing it deliberately. The upshot is that a magazine that might take up three quarters of a DVD in an average month now requires 2 DVDs, or a huge amount of time spent resaving the ASCII-encoded images as something vaguely sensible.

We did have a visit from the JobCentre Plus today, for those of us being made redundant in December... it was reasonably informative, if rather poorly presented by a woman who initially seemed put out that there were fewer folks in the presentation than she had been expecting (largely down to absences due to illness or skiving), and who came 'prepared' with hand written 'notes' from which she basically read her entire presentation. The Job Centre, we were told, has improved immeasureably since any of us were last in there... Except that the 'improvements' sounded more like costcutting. Gone are the job boards (from which I gingerly plucked my very first job, at the tender age of 19), replaced by internet-enabled consoles with job listings (very much a case of po-tay-to, high-tech-po-tah-to, if you ask me). Gone are the queues, allegedly... but all because you are required to call to book an appointment, rather than just turning up. And if you do just turn up, you're directed to a phone, through which you can... call to book an appointment.

I came out of the presentation wondering why anyone would bother with the JobCentre Plus. If you have the whole of the interwebs available to you, why jump through their hoops?

After work, I popped uptown with a friend to sample the delights of the Ghost Bus Tour (go on, say it quickly). Initially worried that it would commence very late due to terrible uptown traffic, we found the experience interesting and engaging... if a little unsophisticated. It was probably better than the similar, on-foot tour I did in Edinburgh many years ago, but largely because of the clever setting (aboard a London Necrobus), the performance of the conductor and the Ring-influenced look of the Health & Safety inspector, who caused merry hell at crucial points of the journey. The mock seance at the end might not be to everyone's taste, but it was a fun experience from start to finish.