I've got The Twitch.
That's Twitter Itch to the uneducated.
Find me. Somehow. If you can figure it out. Coz I can't.
Also, coming soon: 2011, A London L'Odysey. But you will have to wait until 2011. Possibly 2012 for it to be complete.
Monday 29 November 2010
Friday 26 November 2010
Friday 12 November 2010
Thursday 11 November 2010
There's a reason why its called the Emerald Isle
I had to post this, it sums up the West of Ireland weather for me, and the attitude towards the weather. "There's a chance it might rain, it might not, but I wouldn't get your hopes up". And I sincerely hope they are using heavy irony for the "highs" of the week.
Updated: 6:00 PM GMT on November 10, 2010
Thursday
Chance of Rain. Partly Cloudy. High: 8 °C . Wind WSW 46 km/h . 30% chance of precipitation (water equivalent of 2.57 mm).
Thursday Night
Chance of Rain. Partly Cloudy. Low: 4 °C . Wind West 54 km/h . 30% chance of precipitation (water equivalent of 0.44 mm).
Friday
Chance of Rain. Scattered Clouds. High: 8 °C . Wind WSW 28 km/h . 30% chance of precipitation (water equivalent of 0.33 mm).
Friday Night
Chance of Rain. Scattered Clouds. Low: 2 °C . Wind SW 18 km/h . 30% chance of precipitation (water equivalent of 1.62 mm). Windchill: 0 °C .
Saturday
Chance of Rain. Scattered Clouds. High: 6 °C . Wind SSW 32 km/h . 30% chance of precipitation (water equivalent of 1.56 mm).
Saturday Night
Chance of Rain. Scattered Clouds. Low: 2 °C . Wind South 25 km/h . 30% chance of precipitation (water equivalent of 0.96 mm). Windchill: 0 °C .
Sunday
Clear. High: 7 °C . Wind NNW 10 km/h .
Sunday Night
Chance of Rain. Scattered Clouds. Low: 0 °C . Wind NNW 10 km/h . 20% chance of precipitation (trace amounts).
Monday
Chance of Rain. Partly Cloudy. High: 6 °C . Wind SSW 28 km/h . 20% chance of precipitation (trace amounts).
Monday Night
Scattered Clouds. Low: 1 °C . Wind SSW 21 km/h . Windchill: -2 °C .
Tuesday
Chance of Rain. Partly Cloudy. High: 9 °C . Wind South 32 km/h . 20% chance of precipitation (trace amounts).
Tuesday Night
Chance of Rain. Overcast. Low: 5 °C . Wind SE 28 km/h . 40% chance of precipitation (water equivalent of 9.30 mm)
Updated: 6:00 PM GMT on November 10, 2010
Thursday
Chance of Rain. Partly Cloudy. High: 8 °C . Wind WSW 46 km/h . 30% chance of precipitation (water equivalent of 2.57 mm).
Thursday Night
Chance of Rain. Partly Cloudy. Low: 4 °C . Wind West 54 km/h . 30% chance of precipitation (water equivalent of 0.44 mm).
Friday
Chance of Rain. Scattered Clouds. High: 8 °C . Wind WSW 28 km/h . 30% chance of precipitation (water equivalent of 0.33 mm).
Friday Night
Chance of Rain. Scattered Clouds. Low: 2 °C . Wind SW 18 km/h . 30% chance of precipitation (water equivalent of 1.62 mm). Windchill: 0 °C .
Saturday
Chance of Rain. Scattered Clouds. High: 6 °C . Wind SSW 32 km/h . 30% chance of precipitation (water equivalent of 1.56 mm).
Saturday Night
Chance of Rain. Scattered Clouds. Low: 2 °C . Wind South 25 km/h . 30% chance of precipitation (water equivalent of 0.96 mm). Windchill: 0 °C .
Sunday
Clear. High: 7 °C . Wind NNW 10 km/h .
Sunday Night
Chance of Rain. Scattered Clouds. Low: 0 °C . Wind NNW 10 km/h . 20% chance of precipitation (trace amounts).
Monday
Chance of Rain. Partly Cloudy. High: 6 °C . Wind SSW 28 km/h . 20% chance of precipitation (trace amounts).
Monday Night
Scattered Clouds. Low: 1 °C . Wind SSW 21 km/h . Windchill: -2 °C .
Tuesday
Chance of Rain. Partly Cloudy. High: 9 °C . Wind South 32 km/h . 20% chance of precipitation (trace amounts).
Tuesday Night
Chance of Rain. Overcast. Low: 5 °C . Wind SE 28 km/h . 40% chance of precipitation (water equivalent of 9.30 mm)
Tuesday 9 November 2010
Monday 8 November 2010
A rose by any other name.....
You may find yourself wondering why I am in fact called Calamity Jane, or CJ for short. You may find yourself wondering, what the hell is she on about, I have never heard her being called that before.
We here at Misadventure land, would like to set the record straight, would like to put it out there, the reason why I am called Calamity Jane, or CJ for short. It has nothing to do with Calamity Jane herself, even though if you ask people, there's a faint whiff of resemblance between us. Maybe its the hair....
But this is what makes me me, a quick (ish) round up of events that have led to the spawnation of CJ:
Tripping over my feet. Not someone elses, but my own actual feet.
Smashing my head on the jamb of the toilet door in 4th class, resulting in stitches.
And some time off school. And a Galaxy Ripple.
Smushing my ankle after jumping off a wall about 2 feet high.
Smushing my other ankle after wearing high shoes to school and falling down the steps.
Breaking all the cups in our house.
Ditto the plates.
Walking into several lamposts.
Being hit over the head with a newspaper by a very angry, very strange man.
Major spillages on the cream carpet.
Kicking a bottle of water on the street only for it to land on the windscreen of someone's car. While they were in it.
Thumping an old lady's leg as I thought it was my brother's leg. Twice. In the same tent. On the same day.
Throwing a bottle of water at a passerby on the street. Purely by accident.
Falling down the stairs banjaxing the heel of my shoe.
Falling down the stairs with a cup of tea ending up all over the walls.
Breaking a wine glass just by looking at it.
Thinking it was a great idea to throw my arm into a sink just as Daddy Howligan was pouring out boiling water. Aged 3. I should have known what lay ahead!
Scalding my hand with boiling water fresh from the kettle. Aged 25.
Upturning a bottle of cider on myself down by the Spanish Arch.
Spilling a champange cocktail at the Electric Picnic before I even had a sip.
Getting another one and spilling it before it was set down.
Setting my mattress on fire. Thought it was a good idea at the time.
Setting a sand dune on fire by mistake. Ran away quickly after that. But don't worry, Ballina's answer to the Beverly Hills 90210 boys came striding across the sand with glistening wet skin from their 24 mile swim off the coast to douse the flames with water.
Slicing the side of my hand open on a broken mirror. Only to be admonished for bleeding all over the wooden floor. Big no no apparently.
Vomiting in a friends house. In the hall. Beside the bin. His parents were behind me.
Smashing my head on the doorway when swinging back around too quickly at work. I have learned my lesson about dramatic exits/entrances. It will end in disaster.
Sending an email tearing someone to shreds, straight to their inbox.
Hitting my head with the Lat Pull Down at the gym.
Spilling my shopping all over the No. 200, then complaining loudly and sarcasticaly that everyone was so kind as to help. Turned around to see someone helping me.
Dropping 5 Red Bull and Vodka's in a row.
Throwing a cigarrette butt out the window only for it to blow back to the back seat and proceed to set fire to some documents.
Throwing a cigarrette butt by mistake whilst pointing at something and having it lodge itself in my cardigan.
Cutting my own hair. 'nuff said.
Running a marathon with little or no training or basic understanding of the human body.
Jumping over a fence of barbed wire after being chased by 15 angry young bulls and getting caught in the wire.
Getting thunked in the head by our "pet" goat Molly. Goats do not like to be annoyed by 3 year olds it seems.
My big toe being stood on by the fat cow (she was literally a cow) Suzy, then her changing position and standing on my other big toe. My nails have never been right since.
Teaching myself to swim in about 4 inches of water in the little stream close to my home. Hard to float when only your stomach is covered.
Tramping through flood ridden fields with wellies, school uniform, and dog in tow.
Losing a shoe in the river beside a friends house.
Punching myself in the neck/face/stomach whilst exercising. Tae Bo is not for beginners.
Attempting to make vanilla ice-cream. With cream, vanilla essence, and a freezer.
Leaving the hair straightener on and covering it with my scarf, seemed so sensible that morning.
Burning my forehead with an iron in an attempt to straighten my hair the old fashioned way.
Burning my eye lid with a curling tongs.
Burning my wrists with an iron (which is funny coz I very rarely iron) prompting a concerned work colleague to ask me if I was ok, was I self harming.
Standing on a fully loaded hair straightener and having 180 degrees of heat clamp down on my foot.
And speaking of feet (nice segue there Laura) running drunkenly up the South Wimbledon Tube escalator and slicing the bottom of my toe along with most of the bottom of my foot on the metal. It bled. I cried.
Getting someone's toothpick lodged in the main vein of my foot. It spread. It bled. I hurt.
Getting stung by some mysterious insect on my arm. It spread.
We here at Misadventure land, would like to set the record straight, would like to put it out there, the reason why I am called Calamity Jane, or CJ for short. It has nothing to do with Calamity Jane herself, even though if you ask people, there's a faint whiff of resemblance between us. Maybe its the hair....
But this is what makes me me, a quick (ish) round up of events that have led to the spawnation of CJ:
Tripping over my feet. Not someone elses, but my own actual feet.
Smashing my head on the jamb of the toilet door in 4th class, resulting in stitches.
And some time off school. And a Galaxy Ripple.
Smushing my ankle after jumping off a wall about 2 feet high.
Smushing my other ankle after wearing high shoes to school and falling down the steps.
Breaking all the cups in our house.
Ditto the plates.
Walking into several lamposts.
Being hit over the head with a newspaper by a very angry, very strange man.
Major spillages on the cream carpet.
Kicking a bottle of water on the street only for it to land on the windscreen of someone's car. While they were in it.
Thumping an old lady's leg as I thought it was my brother's leg. Twice. In the same tent. On the same day.
Throwing a bottle of water at a passerby on the street. Purely by accident.
Falling down the stairs banjaxing the heel of my shoe.
Falling down the stairs with a cup of tea ending up all over the walls.
Breaking a wine glass just by looking at it.
Thinking it was a great idea to throw my arm into a sink just as Daddy Howligan was pouring out boiling water. Aged 3. I should have known what lay ahead!
Scalding my hand with boiling water fresh from the kettle. Aged 25.
Upturning a bottle of cider on myself down by the Spanish Arch.
Spilling a champange cocktail at the Electric Picnic before I even had a sip.
Getting another one and spilling it before it was set down.
Setting my mattress on fire. Thought it was a good idea at the time.
Setting a sand dune on fire by mistake. Ran away quickly after that. But don't worry, Ballina's answer to the Beverly Hills 90210 boys came striding across the sand with glistening wet skin from their 24 mile swim off the coast to douse the flames with water.
Slicing the side of my hand open on a broken mirror. Only to be admonished for bleeding all over the wooden floor. Big no no apparently.
Vomiting in a friends house. In the hall. Beside the bin. His parents were behind me.
Smashing my head on the doorway when swinging back around too quickly at work. I have learned my lesson about dramatic exits/entrances. It will end in disaster.
Sending an email tearing someone to shreds, straight to their inbox.
Hitting my head with the Lat Pull Down at the gym.
Spilling my shopping all over the No. 200, then complaining loudly and sarcasticaly that everyone was so kind as to help. Turned around to see someone helping me.
Dropping 5 Red Bull and Vodka's in a row.
Throwing a cigarrette butt out the window only for it to blow back to the back seat and proceed to set fire to some documents.
Throwing a cigarrette butt by mistake whilst pointing at something and having it lodge itself in my cardigan.
Cutting my own hair. 'nuff said.
Running a marathon with little or no training or basic understanding of the human body.
Jumping over a fence of barbed wire after being chased by 15 angry young bulls and getting caught in the wire.
Getting thunked in the head by our "pet" goat Molly. Goats do not like to be annoyed by 3 year olds it seems.
My big toe being stood on by the fat cow (she was literally a cow) Suzy, then her changing position and standing on my other big toe. My nails have never been right since.
Teaching myself to swim in about 4 inches of water in the little stream close to my home. Hard to float when only your stomach is covered.
Tramping through flood ridden fields with wellies, school uniform, and dog in tow.
Losing a shoe in the river beside a friends house.
Punching myself in the neck/face/stomach whilst exercising. Tae Bo is not for beginners.
Attempting to make vanilla ice-cream. With cream, vanilla essence, and a freezer.
Leaving the hair straightener on and covering it with my scarf, seemed so sensible that morning.
Burning my forehead with an iron in an attempt to straighten my hair the old fashioned way.
Burning my eye lid with a curling tongs.
Burning my wrists with an iron (which is funny coz I very rarely iron) prompting a concerned work colleague to ask me if I was ok, was I self harming.
Standing on a fully loaded hair straightener and having 180 degrees of heat clamp down on my foot.
And speaking of feet (nice segue there Laura) running drunkenly up the South Wimbledon Tube escalator and slicing the bottom of my toe along with most of the bottom of my foot on the metal. It bled. I cried.
Getting someone's toothpick lodged in the main vein of my foot. It spread. It bled. I hurt.
Getting stung by some mysterious insect on my arm. It spread.
Skipping out of mass of a Sunday and holding my mother's hand. Only to look up and realise that she wasn't my mother. And she didn't want me to hold her hand.
I'm sure dear reader, that there is more to come, but for now, enjoy x
Friday 5 November 2010
The Human Spirit....
Maxine Balboa Tolan returns for the fight of her life. One women's struggle to get to the pub she loves. Contains strong language, scenes of a sexual nature that some viewers may find offensive, partial nudity, excessive violence, and love.
Mission: Impossible
Day 1.
Day 1 wasn't so bad. Had a stash of ciggies from the day before, lunch was comprised of a left over dinner that a friend had cooked the night before. T'was delish. Transport to and from the gym was lovingly provided by my legs. And keeping phone costs to a minimum, I have used Facebook as a method of communication.
Day 2.
So far so good. It's raining, and my already fuzz dilemma hair wouldn't be too impressed with having to go outside in the drizzle, so lunch will be something pilfered from the kitchen at work. Ciggies.....damn, didn't factor those in. May need to pop out at lunch. However, the real test will be tomorrow. How to look good, get drunk, and have a massive night out on £25.
Spend so far: £0.00
Day 3.
This is where the fun starts. In fact, it started on Day 2, needing to buy lunch, feed my nicotine addiction,and also get some dinner for the night. Spending came to £12, which in the grand scheme of things, is not bad at all. And somehow, and I don't know how.... I managed to go out with £30, and come home with £17. How you may ask? I don't know I will answer. It is one of those great mysteries of the universe, will forever be unexplained, and the day that you are cosying up in your cardboard box with a cup-a-soup and yesterdays Mirror wrapped around you for extra padding and warmth, you will always remember that night. It may have had something to do with the fact we bought items of the alcoholic persuasion in the shop to drink before hand. Or it may have had something to do with the fact that we didn't get a taxi. Or it could be because for a change in this wonderful but almost crippingly expensive City, we didn't have to pay to get in somwehere. Amazing what a bit of leg can do for you..... Kidding.
Anyway!
Total spent between Friday's shenanigans and Saturday's debauchery:
Ciggies: £3.60
Vodka & Mixer: £9.99
Oyster card top up: £5.00
Drinks at The Tramshed Tooting: £15.00 (apparently!)
Drumroll please: £33.59 for a night out, plus food etc
Day what seems like 906:
Two words. Not good.
Total spend: More than I have. Where is Eddie Hobbs when you need him
Day who cares any more:
Phone bill with the cough cough lovely people at 3: £54.91
Money set aside by me for phone bill: £70.00
Money for me to now play with: £15.09
How many R's in Kerrrrrching :-)
Day blah blah blah:
Am currently just keeping my head above water and still in double digits. Not for long I fear, but it's also 7 days to P-Day. Sure I gave it a go, like.
Day 1 wasn't so bad. Had a stash of ciggies from the day before, lunch was comprised of a left over dinner that a friend had cooked the night before. T'was delish. Transport to and from the gym was lovingly provided by my legs. And keeping phone costs to a minimum, I have used Facebook as a method of communication.
Day 2.
So far so good. It's raining, and my already fuzz dilemma hair wouldn't be too impressed with having to go outside in the drizzle, so lunch will be something pilfered from the kitchen at work. Ciggies.....damn, didn't factor those in. May need to pop out at lunch. However, the real test will be tomorrow. How to look good, get drunk, and have a massive night out on £25.
Spend so far: £0.00
Day 3.
This is where the fun starts. In fact, it started on Day 2, needing to buy lunch, feed my nicotine addiction,and also get some dinner for the night. Spending came to £12, which in the grand scheme of things, is not bad at all. And somehow, and I don't know how.... I managed to go out with £30, and come home with £17. How you may ask? I don't know I will answer. It is one of those great mysteries of the universe, will forever be unexplained, and the day that you are cosying up in your cardboard box with a cup-a-soup and yesterdays Mirror wrapped around you for extra padding and warmth, you will always remember that night. It may have had something to do with the fact we bought items of the alcoholic persuasion in the shop to drink before hand. Or it may have had something to do with the fact that we didn't get a taxi. Or it could be because for a change in this wonderful but almost crippingly expensive City, we didn't have to pay to get in somwehere. Amazing what a bit of leg can do for you..... Kidding.
Anyway!
Total spent between Friday's shenanigans and Saturday's debauchery:
Ciggies: £3.60
Vodka & Mixer: £9.99
Oyster card top up: £5.00
Drinks at The Tramshed Tooting: £15.00 (apparently!)
Drumroll please: £33.59 for a night out, plus food etc
Day what seems like 906:
Two words. Not good.
Total spend: More than I have. Where is Eddie Hobbs when you need him
Day who cares any more:
Phone bill with the cough cough lovely people at 3: £54.91
Money set aside by me for phone bill: £70.00
Money for me to now play with: £15.09
How many R's in Kerrrrrching :-)
Day blah blah blah:
Am currently just keeping my head above water and still in double digits. Not for long I fear, but it's also 7 days to P-Day. Sure I gave it a go, like.
Thursday 4 November 2010
Dire Straits
Your Mission, should you choose to accept it: Is to survive in London on a limited budget until 25th November, from here on in known as P-Day, as a smoker, drinker, eater, gym bunny, phone user, and complete not one, but two nights out on less money than your average ticket for one plus popcorn and drink in the cinema.
Laura Howley, this is your, Mission:Impossible.
Laura Howley, this is your, Mission:Impossible.
Monday 4 October 2010
X Factor Shocker
It's the ultimate water cooler fodder, are you Camp Katie, or are you Camp Gamu???
In my personal humble opinion, I am very much Camp Gamu. For starters, the girl can sing, which in a singing competition, I feel it rates high up there on the list of pre-requisites. Secondly, Gamu has a natural quirkiness to her, something which cannot be feigned through parasol carrying, false eye lash wearing wackiness. And thirdly, everyone I know supported Gamu. She is a loveable character, and yes, I would pick up the phone and vote for her.
Katie has divided opinion since she appeared on the show a number of weeks ago. Not my opinion, as I took against her from the moment I saw her, but other people's. Can we get a re-wind for a moment? From her very first audition, something was amiss. She couldn't even make it through her first audition without making mistakes. When in doubt, bring on the crocodile tears and some attitiude and it seems you can be a star! She messed up the judges' houses, big style. Even Wil.I.Am commented on the fact that she really messed up. Yet somehow, the Nation's Sweetheart has decided to put through someone with marginally less talent than herself, sacrificing a great natural talent in place of "an opinion divider".
Now Gamu......she can sing! Her first ever audtion, even though marred by controversy with the "AutoTune Gate" scandal of 2010, was still possibly one of the best auditions we have seen. She sang the song in her own unimitable style, going so far as to change the words and make it her own, but with no crocodile tears and no arrogant attitude. Just a sweet funny girl with an old fashioned ability to sing! Yes she has been sidelined. In favour of Katie. Indeed.
This has fuelled speculation of there being a wild card section to the show. Simon Cowell has been reported to be seen leaving the house of one half of gay twosome Diva Fever, with the grapevine rife with rumours of a fourth wild card contestant being brough to the show for each of the judges' category.
Here's hoping. Both Katie and early bookies favourite Cher have now buckled under the pressure 3 times between them. They will be shown for their true colours in the live finals, where they will face people with actual talent.
Bring it!
In my personal humble opinion, I am very much Camp Gamu. For starters, the girl can sing, which in a singing competition, I feel it rates high up there on the list of pre-requisites. Secondly, Gamu has a natural quirkiness to her, something which cannot be feigned through parasol carrying, false eye lash wearing wackiness. And thirdly, everyone I know supported Gamu. She is a loveable character, and yes, I would pick up the phone and vote for her.
Katie has divided opinion since she appeared on the show a number of weeks ago. Not my opinion, as I took against her from the moment I saw her, but other people's. Can we get a re-wind for a moment? From her very first audition, something was amiss. She couldn't even make it through her first audition without making mistakes. When in doubt, bring on the crocodile tears and some attitiude and it seems you can be a star! She messed up the judges' houses, big style. Even Wil.I.Am commented on the fact that she really messed up. Yet somehow, the Nation's Sweetheart has decided to put through someone with marginally less talent than herself, sacrificing a great natural talent in place of "an opinion divider".
Now Gamu......she can sing! Her first ever audtion, even though marred by controversy with the "AutoTune Gate" scandal of 2010, was still possibly one of the best auditions we have seen. She sang the song in her own unimitable style, going so far as to change the words and make it her own, but with no crocodile tears and no arrogant attitude. Just a sweet funny girl with an old fashioned ability to sing! Yes she has been sidelined. In favour of Katie. Indeed.
This has fuelled speculation of there being a wild card section to the show. Simon Cowell has been reported to be seen leaving the house of one half of gay twosome Diva Fever, with the grapevine rife with rumours of a fourth wild card contestant being brough to the show for each of the judges' category.
Here's hoping. Both Katie and early bookies favourite Cher have now buckled under the pressure 3 times between them. They will be shown for their true colours in the live finals, where they will face people with actual talent.
Bring it!
Revenge....how do you like it
In retaliation to comments made, I've decided to put my knowledge of all things useless, strange, wonderful and everything in between to good use. I'm here to present myself as Google in human form. Think of me as your personal fountain of knowledge. Or a summisation of A Brief History of Time. Or depending what your literary preferences are, Dear Deirdre.
So, if you have any questions you would like answering, from obscure musical references,'to the moon landing, from adverts, to World War 2 and anything else in-between, please comment me and I shall endeavour to answer you in my unique way. Next time your fingers get the Google itch, why not try www.laurahowley.blogspot.com
So, if you have any questions you would like answering, from obscure musical references,'to the moon landing, from adverts, to World War 2 and anything else in-between, please comment me and I shall endeavour to answer you in my unique way. Next time your fingers get the Google itch, why not try www.laurahowley.blogspot.com
Monday 13 September 2010
This is My City
Looking out my bedroom window in an attempt to freeze myself to sleep, I was hit by a very sudden rush of wowness (legit word) Its like the first time you realise that you are in love with something or someone, and it hits you at warp speed, you feel you cannot breathe until you get the love statement out of your mouth.
It was night time, and the distant lights were twinkling away in the dark at me. It gave me goose pimples (and not just because the window was open) I feel so much adoration for the ultimate city that never sleeps, like mothers experience when they see their newborns for the first time. I love how it is a city of huge contrasts, from the filthy rich in their mansions in Notting Hill, to the dirt poor in their high rises in Peckham, from the beautiful,tree lined suburban, environmental havens, to the polluted, graffiti and litter lined avenues, privileged people falling out of clubs and casinos in Knightsbridge, to the homeless lying under a blanket at an ATM just down the road. From posh Wimbledon where it's almost essential to fit in, to Camden, where literally, anything goes. Its a paradox in itself, its a city where not just two, but too many worlds have collided and it has created this sprawling metropolis where me and 13 million other people call home.
It's the city that I love, where I feel I truly belong. To misquote Mr Sinatra Senior, If I can make anywhere, I can make it here. And I fully believe that. No matter who you are, where you come from, what your belief system may be, you will find a little corner for yourself in London. True, the City can leave you chewed up and spat out, but it can also embrace you and make you feel part of a community. If you rebel against London, what it stands for, who it is, the vast crowds going here there and everywhere all day long, the traffic, the noise, the craziness, then I think this is when problems start. If you accept that, and jump in feet first to the ensuing bedlam, then I think you will be just fine.
I'm not that naive to think that the City doesn't have its problems. Of course it does. Crime against people and property is rampant. There is corruption, there is abject poverty, there is obscene disregard for life, there is pollution. But in order to survive here, you have to overlook those things and see the good in London. Wander down a street on Saturday morning, and you will no doubt stumble upon a street market, with Cockney's crowing at you to sample their goods. You may be hungover, clutching your water and life saving tea like its keeping your blood flowing, but it will always put a smile on your face. You go to a park on a sunny day, and you will be tripping over yourself and your maxi skirt with mini festivals and random music events. You can turn the corner and find the love of your life. You go down Oxford Street at Christmas, and I defy you not to turn into a child in awe of all the lights, festiveness and decorations. Being driven down there one Christmas, I had my nose pressed up to the window for the entire journey like a dog itching to get out of the car.
It's a city where in one single Tube journey, you can fall in love and have your heart broken. Its a city, where at any one time, people are dying, being born, getting married, splitting up, having a rough day, having the best day of their lives, meeting strangers who will become life long friends, meeting strangers you hope to see again, but possibly never will. Its a city full of promises and of hope and I feel that every time I step out onto the street.
London, to me, is a piece of fabric. Each person, immigrant, born here, moved here from a different part of the UK is a little piece of string that adds to the tapestry of City life. It smells exotic and spicy and like home cooking all at once. It feels lush in parts, like a luxurious silk, but some corners feel like mohair, itching away at your skin. It has different colours, but somehow it all works together. There 's hatred, but there's also a whole lot of love around, if you just know where to look.
And I'm hopelessly in love.
Monday 23 August 2010
Only in London
So there I was, walking down the street to my temporary home of Avonmore Road in Kensington, when I spot a man jangling change around to feed into the ever hungry mouth of a parking metre. Nothing strange there.
He was stocky (read: quite heavy) greying (read: fully grey, I am being generous here) wearing a non-descript navy fleece and navy comfy tracksuit bottoms. Again, nothing untoward there.
Until I looked down to his feet....
And in place of the scuffed off-white trainers I thought I was going to find, in their place, was a pair of pretty nasty, pleather, pointy-toed, knee-length stiletto boots.
Now, for you that know me, I am pretty much a live and let live person. If you want to wear your hair back-combed to the hilt, then please, be my guest!
Yoo want to team those shredded tights with a dead-tree green Arran jumper, then don't let me stand in your way.
But when you see a guy who could possibly be your dad walking away in broad daylight from a parking metre wearing normalish clothes topped off with knee-high stiletto boots. you have to wonder......What the fur?
p.s. Fair play to him though, he managed to negotiate the footpath to road drop which has taken down many's a lady in her heels, walk sprightly enough across the cobble stoned road to his car, and then head off up the street.
I wonder does he take them off for driving...
He was stocky (read: quite heavy) greying (read: fully grey, I am being generous here) wearing a non-descript navy fleece and navy comfy tracksuit bottoms. Again, nothing untoward there.
Until I looked down to his feet....
And in place of the scuffed off-white trainers I thought I was going to find, in their place, was a pair of pretty nasty, pleather, pointy-toed, knee-length stiletto boots.
Now, for you that know me, I am pretty much a live and let live person. If you want to wear your hair back-combed to the hilt, then please, be my guest!
Yoo want to team those shredded tights with a dead-tree green Arran jumper, then don't let me stand in your way.
But when you see a guy who could possibly be your dad walking away in broad daylight from a parking metre wearing normalish clothes topped off with knee-high stiletto boots. you have to wonder......What the fur?
p.s. Fair play to him though, he managed to negotiate the footpath to road drop which has taken down many's a lady in her heels, walk sprightly enough across the cobble stoned road to his car, and then head off up the street.
I wonder does he take them off for driving...
Monday 21 June 2010
Dedicated Follower of Fashion....
In some cases. In mine? No thanks, I'm fine for fashion.
Don't get my wrong, I love clothes, I really do. They can make you feel happy, sexy, confident, assured, noticed. They can make you look slimmer, taller, more tanned, curvier and bustier. However, I think there is a very big difference between the clothes you love and your style, and fashion.
I'm not deliberately trying to be unique and different (you either are or you aren't, it's not something that can be created) but I will not have shops/magazines/friends/trends dictate to me what I should and shouldn't wear. All of my clothes were bought because I went "Oooh, I like that, it looks pretty ok on me" and they went on my debit card. The majority of them make me feel good, and when you feel good, hot damn looking good will follow. Even if you are wearing a black bin bag, if you are happy with it, it shows!
I am an avid reader of all the high street glossy magazines. I know they're tripe, but I love them! A bit like Home and Away, but I'm ok with it. I love reading the interviews, reading the crude lies so obviously made up about people, even quickly glancing through the beauty and fashion pages. But I do not spend my time pouring over this week's must have dress, this cannot-live-without clutch bag or impossibly expensive but would sell my soul and remortgage my house to get shoes. It's just not me. There are even these pages set up in which readers can ask where a certain celeb managed to get hold of a top, jumper, necklace. But it begs the question, why would you want to dress exactly like everyone else? What has happened to complete individuality? Does everybody want to look the same? I have some clothes that I don't think anyone else has. And if I do see someone else wearing it, I will (and have done) gone to speak to them and laugh about how good a taste we have. If I see something pretty in a magazine, I say wow, that's quite beautiful, but I will not scour the earth for it.
Maybe it's not fashion I have a problem with. Maybe it's being so dedicated to trends and wanting to be seen as cool and having the latest thing that I have a problem with. I like when people are themselves, good, bad, or indifferent. Who says you have to have an iPad to be a great person? Who needs that heart shaped locket that Fearne Cotton was seen sporting two weeks ago to have a fun personality? Do people think that if they buy the latest things to impress others that they will make new friends? It's the adult equivalent to buying sweets in national school to get someone to hang around with you at break times.
Much and all as most of us like to be seen to be on trend and conforming, we must face up to the fact that we are really all different. We are all unique. Dressing like Kate Moss will not make you look like Kate Moss. If I dressed in half the stuff she is so fantastically able to pull off, I would look like I slept rough for a year. That bed head thing she does so well? I look like I need to go have a good wash. The panda eyed eyeliner look? Looks like I haven't cleaned my face since the night before. But I'm ok with it. I have my own style and my own look.
Maybe it's time to really celebrate that fact, buck the trends, do what we can to be true to ourselves. I like being me. So should you.
p.s. £400 for a pair of shoes???? Ha!
Don't get my wrong, I love clothes, I really do. They can make you feel happy, sexy, confident, assured, noticed. They can make you look slimmer, taller, more tanned, curvier and bustier. However, I think there is a very big difference between the clothes you love and your style, and fashion.
I'm not deliberately trying to be unique and different (you either are or you aren't, it's not something that can be created) but I will not have shops/magazines/friends/trends dictate to me what I should and shouldn't wear. All of my clothes were bought because I went "Oooh, I like that, it looks pretty ok on me" and they went on my debit card. The majority of them make me feel good, and when you feel good, hot damn looking good will follow. Even if you are wearing a black bin bag, if you are happy with it, it shows!
I am an avid reader of all the high street glossy magazines. I know they're tripe, but I love them! A bit like Home and Away, but I'm ok with it. I love reading the interviews, reading the crude lies so obviously made up about people, even quickly glancing through the beauty and fashion pages. But I do not spend my time pouring over this week's must have dress, this cannot-live-without clutch bag or impossibly expensive but would sell my soul and remortgage my house to get shoes. It's just not me. There are even these pages set up in which readers can ask where a certain celeb managed to get hold of a top, jumper, necklace. But it begs the question, why would you want to dress exactly like everyone else? What has happened to complete individuality? Does everybody want to look the same? I have some clothes that I don't think anyone else has. And if I do see someone else wearing it, I will (and have done) gone to speak to them and laugh about how good a taste we have. If I see something pretty in a magazine, I say wow, that's quite beautiful, but I will not scour the earth for it.
Maybe it's not fashion I have a problem with. Maybe it's being so dedicated to trends and wanting to be seen as cool and having the latest thing that I have a problem with. I like when people are themselves, good, bad, or indifferent. Who says you have to have an iPad to be a great person? Who needs that heart shaped locket that Fearne Cotton was seen sporting two weeks ago to have a fun personality? Do people think that if they buy the latest things to impress others that they will make new friends? It's the adult equivalent to buying sweets in national school to get someone to hang around with you at break times.
Much and all as most of us like to be seen to be on trend and conforming, we must face up to the fact that we are really all different. We are all unique. Dressing like Kate Moss will not make you look like Kate Moss. If I dressed in half the stuff she is so fantastically able to pull off, I would look like I slept rough for a year. That bed head thing she does so well? I look like I need to go have a good wash. The panda eyed eyeliner look? Looks like I haven't cleaned my face since the night before. But I'm ok with it. I have my own style and my own look.
Maybe it's time to really celebrate that fact, buck the trends, do what we can to be true to ourselves. I like being me. So should you.
p.s. £400 for a pair of shoes???? Ha!
Friday 9 April 2010
What's everyone's beef with pigeons? Seriously?
"Oooh they carry diseases" - Really? Really!? Like what! How many people have been killed by an altercation with a pigeon?? How many people have died from a pigeon bite?? Exactly.
"Oooh they're rats with wings" - Eh...how'd ya reckon that then?
"Oooh they poo everywhere" - So do all birds, its just that pigeons are more open about it. Crows do it, but I suppose people don't like them either. But hey, pretty little Robin Red Breast over there smirking in the corner does it too, its just that they're little things and you can't notice really when little things do littler things. Babies do it all the time!! But do you hear me complaining? (not yet, that will be another post :-) )
What is a pigeon but a dove in a fancy jacket? A dove from the wrong side of the tracks? The birds I bet doves wish they couold be? You know, they go out at night, rough up people at bus stops, get in your way and give you aggro by flying in your face when you cross them, hang around dustbins. Whereas your average dove, in my opinion would love nothing better than to break free from the restraints of being the snow white, cleaner than clean bird of peace. I bet they see pigeons scowling around up to no good, and wish they could cut loose just for one night and live a little.
I like pigeons. I think they have a place in the world that is rightfully theirs. And yes, they may carry some form of disease or whatever, but given the chance, I would rather be locked in a room with a wee pigeon than a dirty rat any day of the week.
"Oooh they carry diseases" - Really? Really!? Like what! How many people have been killed by an altercation with a pigeon?? How many people have died from a pigeon bite?? Exactly.
"Oooh they're rats with wings" - Eh...how'd ya reckon that then?
"Oooh they poo everywhere" - So do all birds, its just that pigeons are more open about it. Crows do it, but I suppose people don't like them either. But hey, pretty little Robin Red Breast over there smirking in the corner does it too, its just that they're little things and you can't notice really when little things do littler things. Babies do it all the time!! But do you hear me complaining? (not yet, that will be another post :-) )
What is a pigeon but a dove in a fancy jacket? A dove from the wrong side of the tracks? The birds I bet doves wish they couold be? You know, they go out at night, rough up people at bus stops, get in your way and give you aggro by flying in your face when you cross them, hang around dustbins. Whereas your average dove, in my opinion would love nothing better than to break free from the restraints of being the snow white, cleaner than clean bird of peace. I bet they see pigeons scowling around up to no good, and wish they could cut loose just for one night and live a little.
I like pigeons. I think they have a place in the world that is rightfully theirs. And yes, they may carry some form of disease or whatever, but given the chance, I would rather be locked in a room with a wee pigeon than a dirty rat any day of the week.
Monday 22 March 2010
Parents eh?
What is it about parents that the older we get, the more they drive us mental?? Speak to anyone you know about being at home with parents and family, and generally 90% of your peers will agree that Family Time, can be Stress Time.
Most people I know find the whole going home to Ma and Pa thing, a pain, costly, tiring and draining. For some lucky few, its always a great visit when you see them, no arguments, no stress and generally a hassle free time. But for us not so lucky few, it can cause a stress like no other.
I have been living away from home since the uber-mature age of 18, living by my own rules, in my own houses and doing my own thing. And you know that once you make the leap of faith and fly the coop, everything changes. You being at your family home can never be the same as it was growing up. The dynamics of it all are completley different. Its oddly enough, no longer really your home. Its the house that you go to every so often, but you can't exactly go home for the weekend and lounge in front of the telly demanding cups of tea. Or hibernating in your bedroom for whole Saturdays, demanding cups of tea. Oh no, now you have to actually engage your parents in conversation more taxing than "No, I don't want carrots". Now you have to tell them whats happening in your life. Almost treat them like your peers, or people you live with in your flat share. They're real people now, not just Mam and Dad.
I have a penchant for opening the fridge when I am bored. Perhaps on the off chance that something exciting might have been secretly put in there when I wasn't looking and I can now eat it or look at it. I root around in cupboards for no reason, just to happen upon something of interest. I do this in my own house, just for the craic. However, if I eye up the fridge on one of my excursions to the kitchen, before my brain even sends the message to my hand that I want to open the fridge door, I am greeted with the suspicious question of "What are you looking for in there". Its almost like one of those horror/thriller moments from films. You quietly stalk your way down the darkened hall way in the middle of the night. You are creeping around, no lights on but the flashes of lightning from the thunder storm outside guide your way. The audience can see the shadow of a figure in the kitchen, staring at you, but you haven't noticed it yet. Your just about the reach the gleaming white handle of the fridge, you take one last look over your shoulder to make sure you haven't been followed, and when you turn around, the flashes light up the face of your Mum standing in front of the fridge asking "What are you looking for in there", Freddie Kruger hat and stripey jumper optional.
They ask you what your doing all the time, even though you are doing what you would normally do in your own house, just....ya know, stuff! I like to potter about. Its my thing. My National Sport if you will. We all have one, and my area of expertise is Pottering. And I do that a lot in my own house. I think of things, and mooch around and in and out of doors and rooms and just generally being seen around the house. But its something that I get in trouble for at home. I'm always questioned on what I'm doing. Always. And its something as hassle free and unsuspicious as pottering, but its viewed with some kind of witchcraftery wariness by my parents. Ha, yeah, as if she can be doing something as innocent and walking around for no reason. To quote the Tom Waits weird-fest song "Whats she building in there....." is what creeps into their heads.
If I so much as stand up from the table in the kitchen, I am asked to stick on the kettle and make tea. Even when I am leaving the room, "Just stick on the kettle there".
But the worst thing of all about going home is something that a good friend pointed out to me a while ago. As soon as you step foot inside the front door of your home house, you instantly regress back to your place in the family. My sister is the oldest: strong willed, was made do things I was never asked to do, would look after us if Mum had to do things, be the second in command. My bro is the classic middle child (I hope you don't mind me saying) slightly detached from the rest of us, does his own thing, and likes attention. I'm the youngest, the baby bear. I'm crafty, have learned from older siblings mistakes, some might say a wee bit spoiled, but I say I just get what I want with minimum fuss, a bit of a charmer by times. And as soon as we go home, that's who we become. We slip straight into our roles with minimum fuss, that its like we were never away. Mum and Dad become parents again, and have to de-fuse our petty sister-brother-sister arguments (you know the ones) and sometimes become quite strict.
But you know, despite all the stress of travelling all the way home, being given out to for slight things (leaving a glass of water in the sitting room at night, big no no apparently!) going back in time to being 8, to have to eat whats on your dinner plate, to have to keep your room tidy, and have to ask Mum for a tenner because you spent all yours on booze the night before, you secretly love being at home and looked after.
And they like the chance to be needed again.
Most people I know find the whole going home to Ma and Pa thing, a pain, costly, tiring and draining. For some lucky few, its always a great visit when you see them, no arguments, no stress and generally a hassle free time. But for us not so lucky few, it can cause a stress like no other.
I have been living away from home since the uber-mature age of 18, living by my own rules, in my own houses and doing my own thing. And you know that once you make the leap of faith and fly the coop, everything changes. You being at your family home can never be the same as it was growing up. The dynamics of it all are completley different. Its oddly enough, no longer really your home. Its the house that you go to every so often, but you can't exactly go home for the weekend and lounge in front of the telly demanding cups of tea. Or hibernating in your bedroom for whole Saturdays, demanding cups of tea. Oh no, now you have to actually engage your parents in conversation more taxing than "No, I don't want carrots". Now you have to tell them whats happening in your life. Almost treat them like your peers, or people you live with in your flat share. They're real people now, not just Mam and Dad.
I have a penchant for opening the fridge when I am bored. Perhaps on the off chance that something exciting might have been secretly put in there when I wasn't looking and I can now eat it or look at it. I root around in cupboards for no reason, just to happen upon something of interest. I do this in my own house, just for the craic. However, if I eye up the fridge on one of my excursions to the kitchen, before my brain even sends the message to my hand that I want to open the fridge door, I am greeted with the suspicious question of "What are you looking for in there". Its almost like one of those horror/thriller moments from films. You quietly stalk your way down the darkened hall way in the middle of the night. You are creeping around, no lights on but the flashes of lightning from the thunder storm outside guide your way. The audience can see the shadow of a figure in the kitchen, staring at you, but you haven't noticed it yet. Your just about the reach the gleaming white handle of the fridge, you take one last look over your shoulder to make sure you haven't been followed, and when you turn around, the flashes light up the face of your Mum standing in front of the fridge asking "What are you looking for in there", Freddie Kruger hat and stripey jumper optional.
They ask you what your doing all the time, even though you are doing what you would normally do in your own house, just....ya know, stuff! I like to potter about. Its my thing. My National Sport if you will. We all have one, and my area of expertise is Pottering. And I do that a lot in my own house. I think of things, and mooch around and in and out of doors and rooms and just generally being seen around the house. But its something that I get in trouble for at home. I'm always questioned on what I'm doing. Always. And its something as hassle free and unsuspicious as pottering, but its viewed with some kind of witchcraftery wariness by my parents. Ha, yeah, as if she can be doing something as innocent and walking around for no reason. To quote the Tom Waits weird-fest song "Whats she building in there....." is what creeps into their heads.
If I so much as stand up from the table in the kitchen, I am asked to stick on the kettle and make tea. Even when I am leaving the room, "Just stick on the kettle there".
But the worst thing of all about going home is something that a good friend pointed out to me a while ago. As soon as you step foot inside the front door of your home house, you instantly regress back to your place in the family. My sister is the oldest: strong willed, was made do things I was never asked to do, would look after us if Mum had to do things, be the second in command. My bro is the classic middle child (I hope you don't mind me saying) slightly detached from the rest of us, does his own thing, and likes attention. I'm the youngest, the baby bear. I'm crafty, have learned from older siblings mistakes, some might say a wee bit spoiled, but I say I just get what I want with minimum fuss, a bit of a charmer by times. And as soon as we go home, that's who we become. We slip straight into our roles with minimum fuss, that its like we were never away. Mum and Dad become parents again, and have to de-fuse our petty sister-brother-sister arguments (you know the ones) and sometimes become quite strict.
But you know, despite all the stress of travelling all the way home, being given out to for slight things (leaving a glass of water in the sitting room at night, big no no apparently!) going back in time to being 8, to have to eat whats on your dinner plate, to have to keep your room tidy, and have to ask Mum for a tenner because you spent all yours on booze the night before, you secretly love being at home and looked after.
And they like the chance to be needed again.
Sunday 21 February 2010
The day the music died
It was a Sunday afternoon in the spring of 2010. Me and iPod had had a brief but life changing relationship in the few weeks that we had been together. We met just the day before Christmas, she was polished and well dressed in a sleek black case. Stunning was the word I would use to describe her. Instantly I was hooked.
I didn't do much work the day I met her. I was too busy gliding my hands over her silky body that seemed to understand and every touch I gave her was a command to do something. For those first few glorious weeks, we were inseparable. She came with me to work, was glued to my side doing housework, walks to the shop hand in hand, and when it came time to get some beauty sleep, there she was, recharging her batteries beside me as I recharged mine. It was true love. I brought her home at Christmas to meet the family. Of course she charmed them all, what with her touch screen capabilities and instantaneous music powers, she had us all charmed and under her spell in no time. The whole plane journey home we reminisced about our holiday, the ups and the downs of the festive period. I was proud to have her on my arm, with the stolen glances she got from passers by. She was mine! I had even been given the wonderful present of a docking station for her, which took pride of place in my room. Instead of her being wedged into my back pocket while I pottered around the room, she was there on display for all to see and hear.
But then, on the night of 21st February 2010, disaster struck. What had started with a mild splutter of a few of my precious tracks missing from my music collection, quickly developed into an almost coma state, of one album remaining. She was slipping away from me before my very eyes, and I was powerless to do anything. Nothing worked. I charged her constantly, spoke loving words to her. Went through the five stages of grief even.
Denial: that some things were missing, and that by the end of the day, most of my music was gone. It wasn't happening. Not to me. Not to us.
Anger: At the fact that it was happening, how could she do this to me? We were so happy!! Why did it have to happen now!
Bargaining: That I would happily take her to the shop, get her fixed and vowed to get a sleek pleather case with a clear screen so I could still touch her. I would eat my veggies, go to mass, pray, be nicer...
Depression: I fell deeper into a cycle of depression that all hope was lost, that I was never going to meet something like her again, that nothing could compare to the way I had been feeling. That life would never be the same.
Acceptance: That these things happen. That people had told me it had happened to them and that they were eventually OK, that things got better.
I was at my wits end. Was hoping for one more day with her, just one more chance to retrieve the data I had lost. It was a long shot, but in a burst of inspiration, I had an idea. My light bulb lit up. I had, somewhere, my music collection burned onto Cd's to enjoy, so I had to find them, borrow a laptop, connect it all up, and hope for the best. The equivalent of iPod life-support.
And then it happened....she began to Sync up. My music, my data, my life with iPod flashed before my eyes on the screen in front of me. She was coming back to life. She was going to be OK. Whoops and hollers and tears of joy and high-fives of even greater joy were shared in place of the commiserations of my sister.
We were going to be OK...
I didn't do much work the day I met her. I was too busy gliding my hands over her silky body that seemed to understand and every touch I gave her was a command to do something. For those first few glorious weeks, we were inseparable. She came with me to work, was glued to my side doing housework, walks to the shop hand in hand, and when it came time to get some beauty sleep, there she was, recharging her batteries beside me as I recharged mine. It was true love. I brought her home at Christmas to meet the family. Of course she charmed them all, what with her touch screen capabilities and instantaneous music powers, she had us all charmed and under her spell in no time. The whole plane journey home we reminisced about our holiday, the ups and the downs of the festive period. I was proud to have her on my arm, with the stolen glances she got from passers by. She was mine! I had even been given the wonderful present of a docking station for her, which took pride of place in my room. Instead of her being wedged into my back pocket while I pottered around the room, she was there on display for all to see and hear.
But then, on the night of 21st February 2010, disaster struck. What had started with a mild splutter of a few of my precious tracks missing from my music collection, quickly developed into an almost coma state, of one album remaining. She was slipping away from me before my very eyes, and I was powerless to do anything. Nothing worked. I charged her constantly, spoke loving words to her. Went through the five stages of grief even.
Denial: that some things were missing, and that by the end of the day, most of my music was gone. It wasn't happening. Not to me. Not to us.
Anger: At the fact that it was happening, how could she do this to me? We were so happy!! Why did it have to happen now!
Bargaining: That I would happily take her to the shop, get her fixed and vowed to get a sleek pleather case with a clear screen so I could still touch her. I would eat my veggies, go to mass, pray, be nicer...
Depression: I fell deeper into a cycle of depression that all hope was lost, that I was never going to meet something like her again, that nothing could compare to the way I had been feeling. That life would never be the same.
Acceptance: That these things happen. That people had told me it had happened to them and that they were eventually OK, that things got better.
I was at my wits end. Was hoping for one more day with her, just one more chance to retrieve the data I had lost. It was a long shot, but in a burst of inspiration, I had an idea. My light bulb lit up. I had, somewhere, my music collection burned onto Cd's to enjoy, so I had to find them, borrow a laptop, connect it all up, and hope for the best. The equivalent of iPod life-support.
And then it happened....she began to Sync up. My music, my data, my life with iPod flashed before my eyes on the screen in front of me. She was coming back to life. She was going to be OK. Whoops and hollers and tears of joy and high-fives of even greater joy were shared in place of the commiserations of my sister.
We were going to be OK...
10 Steps to Looking busy at work, when you're secretly doing nothing
Here are some hints and tips I have picked up along the way, tactics used by both myself and other tricks of the trade gathered from observing former work colleagues.
Step 1: Stare intensely at the computer screen with pedantic and serious look on your face. Put some energy into it, people will back off when they see the look of sheer concentration. Pen chewing optional.
Step 2: Keep your desk littered with random pieces of paper for you to shuffle around at regular intervals. Paper shuffling gives the impression of important work to do. If you have mastered the concentrated intense look from Step 1, please add to the mix for added effect.
Step 3: Walk around the office looking like you are on a mission. Holding a pen/piece of paper/documents which will show you colleagues that you are a person of merit in the office and have important work to do.
Step 3: Offer to make tea for your work mates. This will make your team mates think that you are a really good guy whilst giving you the time to arse about eating biscuits and reading the paper.
Step 4: Stare off into the distance every so often, as if you are collecting your thoughts or thinking about the mountain of work you have to do, and how best of prioritise it.
Step 5: Repeat Step 3.
Step 6: Sigh, huff and puff audibly as if you are stressed out with the workload you have.
Step 7: Have Skysports.com/Heatworld.com/Solitaire open on your desktop, along with several work related emails, to enable you to flick back and over between when you hear the footsteps of your boss in the hall.
Step 8: Randomly bash the keys on your keyboard to give the impression that you are typing.
Step 9: Come in at Stupid O'Clock so that your boss thinks you are really hard working and dedicated to your job. He doesn't have to know that you are only in to use the free internet.
Step 10: Take up smoking/invent a bladder problem etc No one questions it.
Step 1: Stare intensely at the computer screen with pedantic and serious look on your face. Put some energy into it, people will back off when they see the look of sheer concentration. Pen chewing optional.
Step 2: Keep your desk littered with random pieces of paper for you to shuffle around at regular intervals. Paper shuffling gives the impression of important work to do. If you have mastered the concentrated intense look from Step 1, please add to the mix for added effect.
Step 3: Walk around the office looking like you are on a mission. Holding a pen/piece of paper/documents which will show you colleagues that you are a person of merit in the office and have important work to do.
Step 3: Offer to make tea for your work mates. This will make your team mates think that you are a really good guy whilst giving you the time to arse about eating biscuits and reading the paper.
Step 4: Stare off into the distance every so often, as if you are collecting your thoughts or thinking about the mountain of work you have to do, and how best of prioritise it.
Step 5: Repeat Step 3.
Step 6: Sigh, huff and puff audibly as if you are stressed out with the workload you have.
Step 7: Have Skysports.com/Heatworld.com/Solitaire open on your desktop, along with several work related emails, to enable you to flick back and over between when you hear the footsteps of your boss in the hall.
Step 8: Randomly bash the keys on your keyboard to give the impression that you are typing.
Step 9: Come in at Stupid O'Clock so that your boss thinks you are really hard working and dedicated to your job. He doesn't have to know that you are only in to use the free internet.
Step 10: Take up smoking/invent a bladder problem etc No one questions it.
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