29 June 2007

The thing about this blog

We all know the secret joy of diary blogging.

When I say that this is me, but at the same time its not, my regular blog friends will understand completely.

I wouldn't wander around naked in the supermarket; that's behaviour for behind closed doors. Similarly I wouldn't swear like a trooper, joke about sex or voice my more strident (if passing) opinions in the physical world - those are intensely liberating delights I've discovered here, that will remain here, in blogdom.

If I already had a job, this wouldn't be an issue. I am just rather concerned that if you combine the right name and geographical info, this blog can be found by anyone looking to find me, and whilst one might not Google one's existing colleagues, a potential newbie is fair game.

Lets just say that most of the content here is NOT what I would use as interview material.

Working from home (as I have done, on and off for a good few years) can, in some cases, be a right royal cop-out, by which I mean that the primary luxury of such an arrangement can also be the main drawback.

See, you get set up, and then someone contracts you (very clearly and specifically) to adopt a responsibility or complete a piece of work.

You get the (clearly defined) work.
You do the work.
You send it back.

Obviously you can have several clients/contractors and there's often some face to face contact in there, then the rather pleasant matter of payment and even warm, positive feedback, but essentially things are decorous, plain, clean, professional. Constantly.

I miss the mess of working for an organisation, of working with, beside, or in spite of the team. I miss other people's bad hair days and I miss being visible during my own. I find I am more creative and more inclined to develop as a person in a less predictable environment.

I miss the whole social melee, not to mention the externally enforced routine that forbids me to 'just do a little bit more' at eleven o'clock at night (the curse of all self-motivated self-employed). There are some cases (and mine is one) where working for oneself isn't particularly fair on the children.

So I am looking for a job. This may take some time as I have very narrow and specific requirements, but that just means its even more important to bury the blog, because every chance counts.

I'll be in here cataloguing my posts, reorganising, and removing incriminating details before deciding whether to download the lot and wipe this site clean, or whether I have made this bland enough to escape a half hearted name search.

In one respect I am lucky - most of my namesakes are either scientists or porn stars. I can see the attraction in both vocations. Its just that none of them live here.

Grief this is going to be hard - blogging is more than an addiction; its a community, a life. Giving up isn't like moving town either - you'll all still be there.


Oh, and hugs. xxx

26 June 2007

Oh dear, was I shouting?




By the way their own site says that Barry Scott is a fictional character. Presumably that means there's no disability here and some jerk actually instructed an actor to shout like a fucking moron? Go figure.

Seen Too Much Daytime TV

13 June 2007

Unlucky, Donald.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know; but I'm not really here.

You didn't see me, right?

Its just that I have a fly up my nose, literally, and when one's cranial cavities are hard at work decomposing the invading forces, well then, gee, it always helps to share.

So there I was, pottering around just outside the front door, waiting for the workmen to turn up when I turned into the path of something large and black that was heading for the bay tree and/or rosemary bush, directly behind me.

Please, remind me for next time; if a flying insect of any variety should happen to do the whole bastard kamikaze thing, top speed, into one's right nostril, it really, really, REALLY helps not to gasp.

I resisted the urge to squirt water up there after it, for fear of flushing the entire carcass along toward my throat.

Big mistake.

I tried and tried to blow my nose hard enough to shift my unwanted visitor, but he is wedged somewhere above the roof of my mouth, round the corner and out of the draft, so no luck.

So now the builders are here, and I am wandering around, painfully conscious that a battle is going on - my defences are hard at work trying to subdue something with a large exoskeleton, which is probably still very much alive and thrashing about a bit, like Donald Pleasance in Fantastic Voyage.

Every so often I feel the twanging nasal pain normally reserved for those who accidentally sniff up chlorinated water at the swimming baths, then find myself rushing to find somewhere to discretely spit mucous. I had no idea my body contained so much readily available water.

I can't help it, I aim for the sink bowl and not the plug hole, because I simply must have an opportunity (however brief) to establish whether the whole demolition process has begun. I mean, you see those damn winged things land in a bucket or a puddle, and they can survive for hours. Days, maybe.

I feel the need to go spit, again, but shall do so in the full and totally smug knowledge that now I have shared.

Lucky me, lucky you......