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?
Monday, 29 November 2010
Sunday, 28 November 2010
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...
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...
Saturday, 27 November 2010
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...
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.)
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.)
Monday, 22 November 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, 13 November 2010
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...
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?
...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?
Friday, 12 November 2010
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...
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...
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
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...
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...
Monday, 8 November 2010
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
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.
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.
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