Settled into the new place now (thanks to YellerKat and MizzFlee for helping with the move) and everything is now unpacked and internet access organised. It's been a hellish week of being tossed from pillar to post, but now I can put roots down for the next two months. The new bunch are cool: They laid on a barbeque this evening, and yesterday offered me some pasta bake, so I haven't had to cook anything since I moved in.
Also, for some reason, the presumed fault on my PC monitor (shades of red weren't rendered properly) has corrected itself. A mystery...
Close to four hours on the nudie beach today, and a colour is now starting to materialise (Red. Again!). I left at six, just as two of the police force were coming into my section over some matter or other. Just as well I was off, that could have gotten awkward.
I met Daffy again recently, as I had to give him his socks and cock ring. We met for drinks, and had a bit of a chat, but he reaffirmed in a way I didn't like about how he was in a closed relationship with someone else. I had been dimly aware of this on the night I met him first, but had chosen to psychologically brush it under the carpet. I left after the second drink, not really wanting to talk to him after that.
It's a shame, as I kind of like this guy, and he's the first suitor I've met who I wouldn't mind getting to know a bit more, but there's no point. He's investing in someone else, and being a third party like that isn't my style. He offered to help me with my move, but I was too proud to accept.
*Sniff*
Oh well...
Pride is about 5-6 weeks away, and in order to facilitate my attempt to give up the smokes, I think I'll be staying away from the pubs, and alcohol in general until then. Will I succeed? Oh, why do I even bother asking?
Mind you, 'Flee and Bear have taken off to Spain, so that's one temptation out of the way.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Thursday, June 22, 2006
I'm moving again! Oh fun...
I have found somewhere new to live. Thank fucking Christ.
The only problem is that it's for two months, so I have to start looking for somewhere else to live towards the end of August. The other is that while I have to move out of my current place on Sunday 25th of June, I can't move into my new place until the following Wednesday, so I have to move into temporary university accommodation on Sunday, and then move from there to the new place on Wednesday. The stuff of envy, I'm sure you'll agree.
I met the new flatmates last night and somehow got talked into going to see the England vs. Sweden game in a pub. The flatmates seemed fine anway, which is just as well, as I was utterly disengaged from the game. A goal? Oh is that what happened? I was looking at the floor. Who was it that scored? More beer, anyone?
I went to London on Monday to visit J. We went to see an exhibition, 'Bodies', in the Earls Court museum. Made up of real human bodies and their parts, preserved using some new polymer whatever process, it has attracted some controversy owing to use in parts of the bodies of the victims of murder under the current and previous Chinese regimes, apparently without the consent of their relatives. One of the press releases on this urges people to question not the use of the bodies in the exhibition, but the circumstances under which they were killed. Meh, I suppose they're right, but if that was someone I knew and loved up there, I'd be pretty pissed, to say the least.
The preservation process gave the bodies a somewhat plastic appearance, making them look like mannequins at times. Yet it was pretty much to the forefront of my mind that I was still looking at real dead people. Three things stood out in my mind. The first was the section of the anal canal, and how diminutive it looked. It must be pretty stretchy if it can take a ... oh, you get the picture.
The second was the two pairs of lungs. One pair, that of a healthy person, the other, that of a smoker. 'Leave your cigarettes behind here' urged the sign over a glass box with an opening on top. The box was full of cigarettes cartons, lighters and matches dumped by those who had been affected by what they had seen. I'd found the £17.50 entrance fee rather extortionate, but Joanne pointed out if I did give up, it would be money well spent, which is true.
The third was the unborn child section. Foetuses that had perished before birth were on display. The museum was considerate in that you were warned before you entered this section, and were given an alternative route if you wanted to keep viewing the exhibition, but bypass that section. It was really weird seeing the foetuses at weeks 1-8 of a pregnancy. Halfway through this early stage, you could make out the mouth on the face of the potential baby, curled up into what looked like a smile. At week 9, a dramatic increase in size was observed. I imagine it would be pretty hard for anyone involved in a miscarriage or abortion to look at something like this.
Then there was the placenta, which brought Tom Cruise, unbidden, to mind. We left.
So it's onward ho over the next few days. Tomorrow the packing and cleaning up begin. Joy!
The only problem is that it's for two months, so I have to start looking for somewhere else to live towards the end of August. The other is that while I have to move out of my current place on Sunday 25th of June, I can't move into my new place until the following Wednesday, so I have to move into temporary university accommodation on Sunday, and then move from there to the new place on Wednesday. The stuff of envy, I'm sure you'll agree.
I met the new flatmates last night and somehow got talked into going to see the England vs. Sweden game in a pub. The flatmates seemed fine anway, which is just as well, as I was utterly disengaged from the game. A goal? Oh is that what happened? I was looking at the floor. Who was it that scored? More beer, anyone?
I went to London on Monday to visit J. We went to see an exhibition, 'Bodies', in the Earls Court museum. Made up of real human bodies and their parts, preserved using some new polymer whatever process, it has attracted some controversy owing to use in parts of the bodies of the victims of murder under the current and previous Chinese regimes, apparently without the consent of their relatives. One of the press releases on this urges people to question not the use of the bodies in the exhibition, but the circumstances under which they were killed. Meh, I suppose they're right, but if that was someone I knew and loved up there, I'd be pretty pissed, to say the least.
The preservation process gave the bodies a somewhat plastic appearance, making them look like mannequins at times. Yet it was pretty much to the forefront of my mind that I was still looking at real dead people. Three things stood out in my mind. The first was the section of the anal canal, and how diminutive it looked. It must be pretty stretchy if it can take a ... oh, you get the picture.
The second was the two pairs of lungs. One pair, that of a healthy person, the other, that of a smoker. 'Leave your cigarettes behind here' urged the sign over a glass box with an opening on top. The box was full of cigarettes cartons, lighters and matches dumped by those who had been affected by what they had seen. I'd found the £17.50 entrance fee rather extortionate, but Joanne pointed out if I did give up, it would be money well spent, which is true.
The third was the unborn child section. Foetuses that had perished before birth were on display. The museum was considerate in that you were warned before you entered this section, and were given an alternative route if you wanted to keep viewing the exhibition, but bypass that section. It was really weird seeing the foetuses at weeks 1-8 of a pregnancy. Halfway through this early stage, you could make out the mouth on the face of the potential baby, curled up into what looked like a smile. At week 9, a dramatic increase in size was observed. I imagine it would be pretty hard for anyone involved in a miscarriage or abortion to look at something like this.
Then there was the placenta, which brought Tom Cruise, unbidden, to mind. We left.
So it's onward ho over the next few days. Tomorrow the packing and cleaning up begin. Joy!
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
CJ Haughey, 1925-2006
One of the advantages of living in where I am right now is that while I may have to suffer other people's fever for England in the world cup, I'm pretty much saved from hearing anything about Ireland's progress in the same event (Did we even qualify? Do I even care? Actually not and definitely not, respectively).
The flipside of this is that events of no small consequence can come to pass in Ireland, and only by chance do you find out about them via a third party. Such as it was with the passing of former Taoiseach (Prime Minister, if you're not Irish) Charles Haughey, announced on Tuesday 13th. His funeral, complete with state honours, was the following thursday.
If ever there is one politician who should form a central part of a college course in political psychology, it would have to be him. Course PS203: How to screw a country out of a substantial part of its collective wage packet, yet still command the unwavering loyalty of its majority and get re-elected into power again and again. Independent reading: How to claw your way back into public favour after suffering a disgrace that would see other politicians retire in ignonimy (cf. arms trial in 1970).
It's the brass-necked hypocrisy, more than anything, that has me open-mouthed in wonder. The 1980 speech where he urged the naton to tighten its belts while he was living his lifestyle on money he had basically grabbed from the hands of the Irish, the speech he gave about family values just after returning from Paris, having entertained his mistress there, oh, this goes on and on. But most striking is the manner in which people have been prepared to overlook his misdemeanours, write them off as not as significant as they actually are. Not as significant, I suspect, as they would be if committed by someone else.
This, of course is it. To get down to brass tacks, what did CJ have, something no-one else had, that allowed him to carry it off?
In one of Nuala O Faoláin's articles in the Irish times entitled 'Spirit of the Nation', she wrote:
There is also the fact that at 15, elsewhere wrote about in the same article, he joined the local defence force.
Could this be it? The fact that he was a bit of a bruiser gained him the respect of the man on the street, to the point where that same man might overlook his waywardness as a consequence of someone with a strong personality, an unfortunate side-effect of the achievements in his lifetime. Most other politicians, having come from privileged backgrounds, don't have this quality, and this is probably what set CJ apart.
What struck me in the tributes left on the ireland.com page was the extent to which his supporters were willing to overlook the flaws in his character, write them off as minor, and focus on the 'great things' he did for his country. Any naysayers are dismissed by these people as begrudgers, symptomatic of the Irish tendency to build people up and then tear them down, as if that was a mindset specific to Ireland alone.
There are a two important flaws in this reasoning, though: His achievements, upon examination, weren't that great, and his misdemeanours were many and substantial.
He screwed Ireland for money in the 70's and 80's in a way that no-one else did before or since. upper band tax rates, a 'reward' for people who had managed to maneouvre themselves into a position where they were high earners, were just totally fucking insane, yet he siphoned off his money to the Cayman Islands so that he himself could escape the financial net he had created for everyone else. More than anything else, this demonstrates complete contempt for the country he had under his watch at this time.
He was involved in gun smuggling in the 1970s, at a time that saw the emergence of the IRA in its present form - an important point, considering that the organisation had deteriorated to little more than a collection of thugs at that point - a form that would prevail until it was disbanded. He had the phones of his opposition bugged so that he could anticipate their next move. Physical intimidation was used in the Dáil to quell dissent. His restriction on the sale of condoms, his opposition to divorce and the Anglo-Irish agreement.
Money that was collected with the intent of paying for important surgery for his friend Brian Lenihan, he used on himself. His friend.
Yet I have never seen denial like that which I have seen in his supporters when confronted with all of this.
And now onto the bloody Celtic Tiger. It has been put forward that he laid the foundations for the prosperity that Ireland enjoys today. I have yet to see an expert in economics conclusively prove that this is the truth. Fintan O' Toole put it best once, when he said that just because sunrise follows someone having an early breakfast, it doesn't mean that the person eating that bowl of cereal has caused the sun to rise. It happened independently of the breakfast. The same logic is applicable to Ireland's economic boom.
It may be closer to the truth that he saw it coming, and made preparations for it. Such as the building of the IFSC, for example. Of course the tax incentives used to attract multinational investment over here could well turn out to be a band aid solution: Of the corporations whose incentives have expired, some have withdrawn from the country. It remains to be seen if the rest will do the same.
Of course all of this deflects from the basic unassailable fact that while he was in power, Ireland was in recession, and after he left, Ireland boomed. It always annoys me when politicians try to claim credit for fiscal successes like these, as if a substantial part of it was under their control, when really, it is not.
Then again, if we are to apply the skewed logic, he is therefore responsible for the current mess in Irish hospitals. We got rich, but our healthcare system got shit. Nice trade-off, CJ.
Free travel for the elderly? A free TV license? The cost of these was borne by CIE and RTE, respectively. The reaffirmation of the artist within Gaelic Ireland? The action of someone with thought processes.
Under his leadership, a guy getting hot n' heavy with another guy? Illegal.
Elsewhere in the aforementioned 'Spirit of the Nation' article, O'Faoláin writes that his background makes him seem "an outsider, an anti-establishment figure, permanently challenging, even when he is in power". Bollocks. He bought into something bigger than himself and became corrupted in the process. For a woman of O'Faoláin's insight, I'm surprised at her short-sightedness. She's just like the rest of his supporters in this regard.
Ultimately his position was made available to him by democracy, so it could be argued that he represented all aspects of the nation, that he represented the best and worst of the Irish people. That someone like him can flourish says something about the people who allowed him to flourish, who elected him into power.
Like many a man with talent in no small amounts, he had his moments, but they were too few, relative to what he was capable of, and capability was his middle name. I have no doubt he could have been a great leader, simply, he wasn't. But we got the government we deserved because we voted him back in again and again. We accepted his many warts, when we should have been demanding higher standards of him. This is what exasperates the most.
He's gone now, and it's over to others to do away with the climate he created in politics, if they see fit. Hopefully it'll happen. Indirectly it'll reflect damningly on the the population of Ireland if it doesn't disappear, because it means they'll have sanctioned it, directly or otherwise.
The flipside of this is that events of no small consequence can come to pass in Ireland, and only by chance do you find out about them via a third party. Such as it was with the passing of former Taoiseach (Prime Minister, if you're not Irish) Charles Haughey, announced on Tuesday 13th. His funeral, complete with state honours, was the following thursday.
If ever there is one politician who should form a central part of a college course in political psychology, it would have to be him. Course PS203: How to screw a country out of a substantial part of its collective wage packet, yet still command the unwavering loyalty of its majority and get re-elected into power again and again. Independent reading: How to claw your way back into public favour after suffering a disgrace that would see other politicians retire in ignonimy (cf. arms trial in 1970).
It's the brass-necked hypocrisy, more than anything, that has me open-mouthed in wonder. The 1980 speech where he urged the naton to tighten its belts while he was living his lifestyle on money he had basically grabbed from the hands of the Irish, the speech he gave about family values just after returning from Paris, having entertained his mistress there, oh, this goes on and on. But most striking is the manner in which people have been prepared to overlook his misdemeanours, write them off as not as significant as they actually are. Not as significant, I suspect, as they would be if committed by someone else.
This, of course is it. To get down to brass tacks, what did CJ have, something no-one else had, that allowed him to carry it off?
In one of Nuala O Faoláin's articles in the Irish times entitled 'Spirit of the Nation', she wrote:
The first of the Irelands Mr Haughey commands is the Northside, which is not just Dublin's northside but everywhere people live in streets and kids go to big, tough schools. He knows all that from the inside - playing football, robbing orchards, taking the bike out to Portmarnock for a swim. He was something of an exception in being very clever - first in Dublin for a scholarship - and very bookish. He haunted Marino Library. But not that much of an exception. His personal friends - still Northsiders - a motor trade businessman, a supreme court judge, an auctioneer - would all have been the same kind of boy, reared in modest circumstances, but with the brains to transform them.
There is also the fact that at 15, elsewhere wrote about in the same article, he joined the local defence force.
Could this be it? The fact that he was a bit of a bruiser gained him the respect of the man on the street, to the point where that same man might overlook his waywardness as a consequence of someone with a strong personality, an unfortunate side-effect of the achievements in his lifetime. Most other politicians, having come from privileged backgrounds, don't have this quality, and this is probably what set CJ apart.
What struck me in the tributes left on the ireland.com page was the extent to which his supporters were willing to overlook the flaws in his character, write them off as minor, and focus on the 'great things' he did for his country. Any naysayers are dismissed by these people as begrudgers, symptomatic of the Irish tendency to build people up and then tear them down, as if that was a mindset specific to Ireland alone.
There are a two important flaws in this reasoning, though: His achievements, upon examination, weren't that great, and his misdemeanours were many and substantial.
He screwed Ireland for money in the 70's and 80's in a way that no-one else did before or since. upper band tax rates, a 'reward' for people who had managed to maneouvre themselves into a position where they were high earners, were just totally fucking insane, yet he siphoned off his money to the Cayman Islands so that he himself could escape the financial net he had created for everyone else. More than anything else, this demonstrates complete contempt for the country he had under his watch at this time.
He was involved in gun smuggling in the 1970s, at a time that saw the emergence of the IRA in its present form - an important point, considering that the organisation had deteriorated to little more than a collection of thugs at that point - a form that would prevail until it was disbanded. He had the phones of his opposition bugged so that he could anticipate their next move. Physical intimidation was used in the Dáil to quell dissent. His restriction on the sale of condoms, his opposition to divorce and the Anglo-Irish agreement.
Money that was collected with the intent of paying for important surgery for his friend Brian Lenihan, he used on himself. His friend.
Yet I have never seen denial like that which I have seen in his supporters when confronted with all of this.
And now onto the bloody Celtic Tiger. It has been put forward that he laid the foundations for the prosperity that Ireland enjoys today. I have yet to see an expert in economics conclusively prove that this is the truth. Fintan O' Toole put it best once, when he said that just because sunrise follows someone having an early breakfast, it doesn't mean that the person eating that bowl of cereal has caused the sun to rise. It happened independently of the breakfast. The same logic is applicable to Ireland's economic boom.
It may be closer to the truth that he saw it coming, and made preparations for it. Such as the building of the IFSC, for example. Of course the tax incentives used to attract multinational investment over here could well turn out to be a band aid solution: Of the corporations whose incentives have expired, some have withdrawn from the country. It remains to be seen if the rest will do the same.
Of course all of this deflects from the basic unassailable fact that while he was in power, Ireland was in recession, and after he left, Ireland boomed. It always annoys me when politicians try to claim credit for fiscal successes like these, as if a substantial part of it was under their control, when really, it is not.
Then again, if we are to apply the skewed logic, he is therefore responsible for the current mess in Irish hospitals. We got rich, but our healthcare system got shit. Nice trade-off, CJ.
Free travel for the elderly? A free TV license? The cost of these was borne by CIE and RTE, respectively. The reaffirmation of the artist within Gaelic Ireland? The action of someone with thought processes.
Under his leadership, a guy getting hot n' heavy with another guy? Illegal.
Elsewhere in the aforementioned 'Spirit of the Nation' article, O'Faoláin writes that his background makes him seem "an outsider, an anti-establishment figure, permanently challenging, even when he is in power". Bollocks. He bought into something bigger than himself and became corrupted in the process. For a woman of O'Faoláin's insight, I'm surprised at her short-sightedness. She's just like the rest of his supporters in this regard.
Ultimately his position was made available to him by democracy, so it could be argued that he represented all aspects of the nation, that he represented the best and worst of the Irish people. That someone like him can flourish says something about the people who allowed him to flourish, who elected him into power.
Like many a man with talent in no small amounts, he had his moments, but they were too few, relative to what he was capable of, and capability was his middle name. I have no doubt he could have been a great leader, simply, he wasn't. But we got the government we deserved because we voted him back in again and again. We accepted his many warts, when we should have been demanding higher standards of him. This is what exasperates the most.
He's gone now, and it's over to others to do away with the climate he created in politics, if they see fit. Hopefully it'll happen. Indirectly it'll reflect damningly on the the population of Ireland if it doesn't disappear, because it means they'll have sanctioned it, directly or otherwise.
Friday, June 16, 2006
The Da Vinci Code
Two things about it that were good.
- Jean Reno's hotness (not his acting, as he was an autopilot all the way through).
- The scenery/locations.
Two things that weren't so good.
- It stuck rigidly to the book, with one or two exceptions of artistic license. Because of this, I knew exactly what was going to happen at almost any given moment.
- The flashbacks sucked.
One thing I've noticed about this phenomenon is that more and more people are coming out of the woodwork and criticising it, and recent coverage of the Cannes film festival featured a selection of critics turning their noses up at the whole thing. If ever there an example was needed of a frustrated bridesmaid, it has to be a film critic, and it does nothing except increase my resolve to see the film even more. Have a go at making your own films boys, and try not to speak out on others. The sound of jealousy getting caught in your throat can be heard by all.
Incidentally, Sofia Ford Coppola's new film, Marie Antoinette, is coming out next year, and she's done the same with it as she's done with The Virgin Suicides and Lost in Translation in terms of the soundtrack. This time, it's the New Romantics that are spicing up the background a bit. Should be interesting. Incidentally, a selection of critics showed their appreciation for that one by booing. Very mature, ye of little consequence.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Likes cuddles. And Daffy.
The last few days have been interesting.
On Friday night I was bored. I stayed in, foregoing my usual rendez-vous with the Bitches of BN2, only to get itchy feet at about 12:30am Saturday morning. Where in Brighton, I hear you ask, can you get drink in a bar at this time, without having to pay an entrance fee? The Bulldog, we cry!
So down I went,on my own. Got a drink and surveyed the eye candy. 'Anvil', a sort of kink-themed night, was just finishing up in another club, so soon the Bully was enjoying (well, I was enjoying, but I digress) an influx of men big n'beefy. After talking to a few of them, including two ex-entanglements of mine, I settled on a big burly cuddly dude. It led nowhere. Then I spotted another tanned and rugged specimen and swooped. That led to my place.
The journey home was a bit fun, in a smartarsery kind of way. He moaned constantly, but kind of jokingly, about the walk, and said that if we had gone to his, we'd be there by now. I hotly denied this and told him to shut up and keep moving. He then wanted to know what I intended to do when we got back to mine. I told him I was expecting to get into his knickers. He shrugged, not explicitly ruling it out as a possibility, but declared that when we got there, he would expect a nice cup of tea.
He got a nice strong cup of tea. The rest followed in due course.
In the course of the night, or should I say early morning, I learned two things about him that still make me smile. 'I love cuddles', he proclaimed at one stage (We cuddled at this point). I asked him about the tattoo of a bear paw on his ass. He told me that when he was younger, about 15 years old, he got a tattoo of Daffy Duck on his ass. In due course, he thought the best thing to do would be to cover it up. So step forward, paw of the bear.
This made me laugh to myself at work later that day, while on the checkout, serving customers. I now have him stored in my phone as Daffy. It's just as well: He left his cock-ring and his socks behind him, under my bed.
I suspect, though, that there is something about him that marks him out as someone who is not really suitable for anything other than a bit of fun. His insistence that I 'be discreet', for one. I think I might have to investigate that a little if I meet him again.
On Sunday evening after work, I met an interesting Greek man. His blog can be found here.
Yes, I'm a believer in keeping more than one iron in the fire.
On Friday night I was bored. I stayed in, foregoing my usual rendez-vous with the Bitches of BN2, only to get itchy feet at about 12:30am Saturday morning. Where in Brighton, I hear you ask, can you get drink in a bar at this time, without having to pay an entrance fee? The Bulldog, we cry!
So down I went,on my own. Got a drink and surveyed the eye candy. 'Anvil', a sort of kink-themed night, was just finishing up in another club, so soon the Bully was enjoying (well, I was enjoying, but I digress) an influx of men big n'beefy. After talking to a few of them, including two ex-entanglements of mine, I settled on a big burly cuddly dude. It led nowhere. Then I spotted another tanned and rugged specimen and swooped. That led to my place.
The journey home was a bit fun, in a smartarsery kind of way. He moaned constantly, but kind of jokingly, about the walk, and said that if we had gone to his, we'd be there by now. I hotly denied this and told him to shut up and keep moving. He then wanted to know what I intended to do when we got back to mine. I told him I was expecting to get into his knickers. He shrugged, not explicitly ruling it out as a possibility, but declared that when we got there, he would expect a nice cup of tea.
He got a nice strong cup of tea. The rest followed in due course.
In the course of the night, or should I say early morning, I learned two things about him that still make me smile. 'I love cuddles', he proclaimed at one stage (We cuddled at this point). I asked him about the tattoo of a bear paw on his ass. He told me that when he was younger, about 15 years old, he got a tattoo of Daffy Duck on his ass. In due course, he thought the best thing to do would be to cover it up. So step forward, paw of the bear.
This made me laugh to myself at work later that day, while on the checkout, serving customers. I now have him stored in my phone as Daffy. It's just as well: He left his cock-ring and his socks behind him, under my bed.
I suspect, though, that there is something about him that marks him out as someone who is not really suitable for anything other than a bit of fun. His insistence that I 'be discreet', for one. I think I might have to investigate that a little if I meet him again.
On Sunday evening after work, I met an interesting Greek man. His blog can be found here.
Yes, I'm a believer in keeping more than one iron in the fire.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Moving out
I have just over two weeks left to find somewhere else to live.
Over the last few days, the others in my flat are moving out one by one. I've noticed that certain things of mine seem to be departing with them. A blue mug of mine vanished round about the time of the departure of one of the lads, and I came home from work tonight to find that the (admittedly free) TV guide that I donated to the communal area, had the tv times for tomorrow and monday ripped out. Errmm.....
At least the ones that are left until last are amongst the nicer of the lot.
In any case, I think I'll be stashing my kitchen utensils in my room between now and my departure.
Over the last few days, the others in my flat are moving out one by one. I've noticed that certain things of mine seem to be departing with them. A blue mug of mine vanished round about the time of the departure of one of the lads, and I came home from work tonight to find that the (admittedly free) TV guide that I donated to the communal area, had the tv times for tomorrow and monday ripped out. Errmm.....
At least the ones that are left until last are amongst the nicer of the lot.
In any case, I think I'll be stashing my kitchen utensils in my room between now and my departure.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Thank FUCK!
The exams are over now. It's been a car-crash week and I'm relishing being able to breath again.
It looks like I'll be staying here for the summer, at this moment in time. House hunting starts tomorrow. Or maybe the day after. And then the job hunting. I still have the supermarket job, but after 8 hours behind a cash register today, I was reminded of how boring it was.
Like I had forgotten! Bah!
It looks like I'll be staying here for the summer, at this moment in time. House hunting starts tomorrow. Or maybe the day after. And then the job hunting. I still have the supermarket job, but after 8 hours behind a cash register today, I was reminded of how boring it was.
Like I had forgotten! Bah!
Saturday, June 03, 2006
This blog as a graph
Unlike BN2 Beeyatches, which seems to have a somewhat nuclear structure, mine is an entity more diffuse, with arms outstretched. I'm so original.
Do your own, and add it to the Flickr group here.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Announcement
As and from today, The Friday Thing, weekly satirical e-newsletter par excellence, is free to those who may wish to subscribe to it.
If you have a brain, you owe it to yourself to get on it.
If you have a brain, you owe it to yourself to get on it.
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