The date is the 29th of February, but you knew that already; it's posted right at the top of this thing. Right up there, in the blue bit, above the white bit. This date is a significant date in that it only comes into existence every four years or so because the Earth position and movement in the grand vastness of space is weird like that. In return, people born on this date get to deal with the dilemma of lying to themselves most years when they try to celebrate their birthday on either the 28th of February or the 1st of March, yet deep down inside they feel neglected and insignificant and unimportant. No matter though, there's over seven billion of us, we're all insignificant and unimportant.
On a lighter (if more narcissistic) note, this lot of words apparently mark the 100th time I've put something here. That's right folks: it's the 100th-post-anniversary-super-happy-spectacular-phenomenon-o-rama! What's more is that this comes about as we approach March, which is exactly the month three years ago that this navy blue mess o' crap spawned into the matrix and started displaying words in this fashion. That means I've created approximately thirty-three or so rambles like this per annum, or to put it another way, that's a lot of time wasted when I could've been poking a slug with a highlighter or shoving twigs into a postbox or singing to plants to encourage them to grow. I mean seriously, have you read any of the earlier things on this? I have, they're shite. Seriously, don't even bother looking at them. They'll take up far too much time and that violin ain't gonna learn itself. But I suppose that, considering I'm taking a course in how to write to a somewhat decent standard that's better than most, learning to write in a style that feels somewhat natural and comfortable and "finding my voice" has definitely come through on here. Then again, that's the way things go in my head. You don't have to agree with it, just accept the fact that I'm writing this and that's what I think.
Anyway, before I run off to find a party hat which I won't wear and pretend to get a cake of some kind, I need to decide on which birthday this thing should actually celebrate, no matter how mundane and pointless the celebration may be. Is this H.A.'s 3rd anniversary or milestone 100th? And in an amalgamation of multiple rare occurrences happening all at once such as this, I find myself facing a 29th of February-style birthday-related conundrum.
But fuck conundrums, this should be a happy occasion, not a philosophical study. So to mark the occasion of three infrequent events coming together, I've thrown in a fourth and redecorated the place a little bit. Yes, it still looks blue and white, but that top title bit doesn't look like it's been scribbled by a sherbet-stuffed 7-year-old with ADHD anymore. Slightly more pleasing on the eye, n'est-ce pas? Plus I got bored and wanted a wee change. Shut up! It's my blog and I can do what I want with it. Just be glad it's a rare and special occasion.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go outside and pretend there's a full solar eclipse happening.
Wednesday 29 February 2012
Wednesday 22 February 2012
Sport For The Socially Reclusive
Think of a sporting event. Got one? Well then bloody think of one like I told you to!
Right, got one now? Good.
It's football, isn't it? Or basketball. Or rugby. Or cricket. Or anything that's played on a field by a team of considerable size.
How about if I told you to think of a sport you might find at the Olympics. You're thinking of running, aren't you? Well bloody think of an Olympic sport like I told you to!
Right, it's a running event, isn't it? Or swimming. Or boxing. Or table tennis. Or gymnastics. Or Dream Platform. Why does nobody ever think of archery any more?
Considering the popularity of role playing games set in medieval times with dragons and mages and collecting logs to trade for a lump of iron (or some shite like that), you'd think more people would be into going über-retro and shooting arrows from bits of wood and taut string. Then again, the kind of people who venture into such role playing worlds aren't exactly the sporty types; hence the majority of sporting focus coming from those who couldn't concentrate on a classroom whiteboard for long enough without bursting into flames, but easily managed to cause physical injury by means of kicking a spherical bit of leather into somebody's (my) face as hard as their swinging leg would let them. (School was a bad time for me, you know, socially.)
So I call out to you, nerds and geeks, bully victims and introverts, wallflowers and nobodies, let us claim the world of sport from the big kids who pushed us around and from the sex addicted footballers as well. Let us rise up and take aim at a tiny target some variable yet considerable distance away from us. Let us not be bombarded with coverage of men running around a field shouting racial insults at each other. Let us reinvent sport for the socially reclusive, with more focus towards accuracy, dexterity and occasionally a bit of blind luck because we're oh so sensitive like that we take it to heart when we lose but try our best not to show it. Let us compete one on one in all kinds of events. One does not just have to try archery. We also offer snooker, darts, tennis, pub quiz, ludo, judo, snap, even Wii Bowling.
Come on, you numpties! Get off World of Warcraft or whatever (WoWoW) and do it for real rather than for role!
Right, got one now? Good.
It's football, isn't it? Or basketball. Or rugby. Or cricket. Or anything that's played on a field by a team of considerable size.
How about if I told you to think of a sport you might find at the Olympics. You're thinking of running, aren't you? Well bloody think of an Olympic sport like I told you to!
Right, it's a running event, isn't it? Or swimming. Or boxing. Or table tennis. Or gymnastics. Or Dream Platform. Why does nobody ever think of archery any more?
Considering the popularity of role playing games set in medieval times with dragons and mages and collecting logs to trade for a lump of iron (or some shite like that), you'd think more people would be into going über-retro and shooting arrows from bits of wood and taut string. Then again, the kind of people who venture into such role playing worlds aren't exactly the sporty types; hence the majority of sporting focus coming from those who couldn't concentrate on a classroom whiteboard for long enough without bursting into flames, but easily managed to cause physical injury by means of kicking a spherical bit of leather into somebody's (my) face as hard as their swinging leg would let them. (School was a bad time for me, you know, socially.)
So I call out to you, nerds and geeks, bully victims and introverts, wallflowers and nobodies, let us claim the world of sport from the big kids who pushed us around and from the sex addicted footballers as well. Let us rise up and take aim at a tiny target some variable yet considerable distance away from us. Let us not be bombarded with coverage of men running around a field shouting racial insults at each other. Let us reinvent sport for the socially reclusive, with more focus towards accuracy, dexterity and occasionally a bit of blind luck because we're oh so sensitive like that we take it to heart when we lose but try our best not to show it. Let us compete one on one in all kinds of events. One does not just have to try archery. We also offer snooker, darts, tennis, pub quiz, ludo, judo, snap, even Wii Bowling.
Come on, you numpties! Get off World of Warcraft or whatever (WoWoW) and do it for real rather than for role!
The preceding ramble was motivated by the following sentence:
I competed in a University archery tournament at the weekend and did alright, but loads of people beat me in the end.
Wednesday 15 February 2012
How A PlayStation Ruined My Life
Imagine, if you will, the Christmas period of 1998. Then imagine a house in the north-west of England. Then an overly sensitive nine-year-old boy with a head of ginger hair and a life of cultural flânerie before him. If your imaginationoscope isn't functioning properly, please regard those opening three sentences as scene-setting for the forthcoming tale.
The last present I got on the 1998 edition of Christmas Day was a joint one, to be shared between me and my older sister. But to keep you, dear reader, hooked to this 'ere thing, I'm gonna leave that for a moment and tell you that a typical childhood Christmas back in my first house followed somewhat of a formula.
The day would begin, like many other Christmas Days across the world, at 5am. The two excited children would mercilessly jump on the bed of their parents whom, I now realise with the benefit of hindsight, had probably managed to get to sleep some two hours earlier once all the presents were wrapped and carefully placed. In our old living room we had a three-piece suite (which I now realise is not a 3p sweet); my stack of Christmas presents would adorn the armchair nearest the door, the window and the television, while the stack belonging to my sister was stationed at the other armchair on the furthest side of the room. I naturally assumed that this was because she was older than me and, thus, had to walk further to get her presents as a general rule-of-thumb. Once the wrapping paper destruction ceremony was finished and it had just started to get light outside, breakfast was on the cards. But screw breakfast, the next significant event on the Christmas agenda was dinner, strategically placed around 3pm so we wouldn't have to watch The Queen (probably). Having the biggest house out of several close-by relatives, our place became the one where most of the close family would come for dinner. And if they couldn't manage dinner, they could at least show up later to sit around and watch the EastEnders Christmas special where three or four characters get killed off in a bout of ironic festive cheer. But before the sitting-around-the-TV portion of the night, the evening allowed for family members who weren't around at the crack of dawn to exchange gifts of good will and alcohol. It was at this second gifting period of the day in 1998 that my father sprung forth with an additional surprise. May I refer you back to the aforementioned shared present with my sister.
This moment was especially odd, not least for the fact that my sister was sat in "my half" of the living room while I was sat in "her half". Between us sat a large box on the floor. It could've been absolutely anything, but whatever it was, it was rare enough, or expensive enough, for us to have to share. Naturally, being nine-years-old, the concept of monetary cost did not occur to me. Anyway, I don't know why I'm stalling here because in actual fact, I didn't have the time to analyse the contents of the mystery box since my sister had taken it upon herself to rip open the festive paper on her side. With an audience of family members anticipating two things - the revelation of the gift and the reaction of the kids - I proceeded to do the same. I blame my overly sensitive, technology fearing, cotton-wool child mentality for filling me with such horror at the sight of a brand new Sony PlayStation. And I mean one of the original ones; the big fucking grey behemoth boxes.
My sister, in a fit of eleven-year-old-at-Christmas-time-ism, screamed 'Wow!' much to the delight of our audience. My reaction was somewhat more stoic. My face displayed a look of shock and awe, my mouth followed suit and let out a mimicking 'wow', but my brain screamed at itself and wanted this beast of technological devilry to stay as far away from me as possible. It's quite probable that, if past lives exist, I could've easily been Amish at some point before my current bash at existence.
Anyway, the Winter period passed and I'd learned to tolerate the PlayStation, even enjoy its presence from time to time, just as long as it was accompanied with the appropriate software; namely the two games we got given along with it for Christmas:
However, in order to play the games, first one had to navigate the startup screens and it was the first of these screens which literally meant that I could not physically sleep in the same room as a Sony PlayStation for a good few years. For the uninitiated, the console started up with a fade from black to white. Soon after, an orange square would appear, tilted to make what idiotic children (like myself at this time) would call a diamond, then the words "SONY COMPUTER ENTERTAINMENT" would appear, emblazoned in navy blue. All the while, the accompanying sound was a terrifying declining buzz, like a thousand alien ships slowly touching down on the planet's surface in perfect synchronisation. If you think that doesn't sound at all terrifying, watch this with the mindset that you are a sensitive nine-year-old who probably gets scared by goldfish if they look just the tiniest bit weird.
After watching that slice of technological history, you might have noticed that particular startup went on for considerably longer than it normally would. And that was what I'd have nightmares about. The worst part was when it lingered. Imagine, if you still have the mental capacity to imagine, the first startup screen as the 25-stone bouncer to a fantastic club where you know you'll have a good time and all your troubles will melt away. That menacing, unforgiving, static screen coupled with the deteriorating, extra-terrestrial musical sting was the main stumbling block between me and blissful interactivity. If I had to sleep in the same room as a Sony PlayStation hooked up to a television in the dead of night, my paranoid, innocent, too-sensitive-for-its-own-good mind could see visions of me, lying there, comfortably drifting off to the land of nod only to be interrupted by the infernal machine spontaneously turning itself and, by extension, the TV on and filling up the pitch blackness of the room with the ominous glow of pure white and the booming, zooming buzz of SONY COMPUTER ENTERTAINMENT. Me, in this exceptionally hypothetical situation, would be too afraid to move from my bed to switch off the machine manually in case I, somehow, angered it. Instead, my eyes would be locked into a staring match with the orange square, willing it to blink and give way to either total blackness once again or any other screen that wasn't that damned white startup monstrosity, which, in my head, it never would. The buzz would disappear into quietness and leave a perpetual static gift from SONY in its wake. I'd often wondered whether I'd need psychological help but I suppose that might've involved me having to point out where, on the anatomically correct doll, it was that Sony touched me and I'd have to spend afternoons lying on a maroon leather couch recounting tales of how a PlayStation ruined my life.
But the PlayStation opened the floodgates for me and years later, after I'd gotten over myself, I can comfortably say I became and am now a fully converted technophile, although I don't like to use that word since any idea with the suffix "-phile" or "-philia" produces strictly sexual connotations in my head and I don't like to think of myself as one who has sexual contact with machines. Technology and interactivity now dominate my life, which is not so great considering there are other things in life to work towards and appreciate, like the beauty of a sunrise, the smell of daffodils in the spring air and the assignments I need to get on with to pass this degree. I can't be doing too badly though; I managed to get the word "flânerie" in the first paragraph of this which, if I hadn't had to read certain essays by German philosopher Walter Benjamin in which he speaks highly of the poetry of Charles Baudelaire, probably would not have featured in this thing otherwise.
Needless to say, though, I can now comfortably sleep (alone in my bed, mind) with a desktop computer, laptop, iPod, telephone, TV, PS2 and Wii all sharing the same room and without the fear that any of them will rise forth in the middle of the night and eat me, which I suppose is more than I can say for the humble PS1 way back when.
Come to think of it, that slowly opening, mouth-like lid probably had something to do with it too.
The last present I got on the 1998 edition of Christmas Day was a joint one, to be shared between me and my older sister. But to keep you, dear reader, hooked to this 'ere thing, I'm gonna leave that for a moment and tell you that a typical childhood Christmas back in my first house followed somewhat of a formula.
The day would begin, like many other Christmas Days across the world, at 5am. The two excited children would mercilessly jump on the bed of their parents whom, I now realise with the benefit of hindsight, had probably managed to get to sleep some two hours earlier once all the presents were wrapped and carefully placed. In our old living room we had a three-piece suite (which I now realise is not a 3p sweet); my stack of Christmas presents would adorn the armchair nearest the door, the window and the television, while the stack belonging to my sister was stationed at the other armchair on the furthest side of the room. I naturally assumed that this was because she was older than me and, thus, had to walk further to get her presents as a general rule-of-thumb. Once the wrapping paper destruction ceremony was finished and it had just started to get light outside, breakfast was on the cards. But screw breakfast, the next significant event on the Christmas agenda was dinner, strategically placed around 3pm so we wouldn't have to watch The Queen (probably). Having the biggest house out of several close-by relatives, our place became the one where most of the close family would come for dinner. And if they couldn't manage dinner, they could at least show up later to sit around and watch the EastEnders Christmas special where three or four characters get killed off in a bout of ironic festive cheer. But before the sitting-around-the-TV portion of the night, the evening allowed for family members who weren't around at the crack of dawn to exchange gifts of good will and alcohol. It was at this second gifting period of the day in 1998 that my father sprung forth with an additional surprise. May I refer you back to the aforementioned shared present with my sister.
This moment was especially odd, not least for the fact that my sister was sat in "my half" of the living room while I was sat in "her half". Between us sat a large box on the floor. It could've been absolutely anything, but whatever it was, it was rare enough, or expensive enough, for us to have to share. Naturally, being nine-years-old, the concept of monetary cost did not occur to me. Anyway, I don't know why I'm stalling here because in actual fact, I didn't have the time to analyse the contents of the mystery box since my sister had taken it upon herself to rip open the festive paper on her side. With an audience of family members anticipating two things - the revelation of the gift and the reaction of the kids - I proceeded to do the same. I blame my overly sensitive, technology fearing, cotton-wool child mentality for filling me with such horror at the sight of a brand new Sony PlayStation. And I mean one of the original ones; the big fucking grey behemoth boxes.
My sister, in a fit of eleven-year-old-at-Christmas-time-ism, screamed 'Wow!' much to the delight of our audience. My reaction was somewhat more stoic. My face displayed a look of shock and awe, my mouth followed suit and let out a mimicking 'wow', but my brain screamed at itself and wanted this beast of technological devilry to stay as far away from me as possible. It's quite probable that, if past lives exist, I could've easily been Amish at some point before my current bash at existence.
Anyway, the Winter period passed and I'd learned to tolerate the PlayStation, even enjoy its presence from time to time, just as long as it was accompanied with the appropriate software; namely the two games we got given along with it for Christmas:
Tomb Raider 3 which was really only good for the training level set in Lara Croft's mansion because you could trick the slow butler into the walk-in freezer and lock him in there (which, quite frankly, for a couple of pre-teens, is nothing short of hilarious). However, that's as far as our adventures with that game ever went. Nothing can describe the horror of the first main level set in India where you inexplicably start atop a giant slope and begin to slide down it, not realising you need to time a jump over some spikes, thus treating you to a painful death groan and the haunting image of a triangular woman crumpled in a heap with red spots flying outwards. What's more frightening is the idea that she'd never be able to get back to the house to free her butler.
Crash Bandicoot 3: Warped was a lot more child-friendly, if a little repetitive. Then again, I only mean repetitive in the fact that venturing beyond level five became something of a taboo. Very quickly, a formula for the game had been established. Play level three first (where you ride a tiger cub along the Great Wall of China), level five second (where you're on a jet ski) and then, if you're feeling particularly daring, try level one (where you run around avoiding men trying to slice you in half and giant frogs that, I now realise, actually try to molest you against your will... but in a cartoony way so it's okay for kids really). Levels two and four were no-go zones, however, due to how fucking terrifying it was to navigate an underwater maze in scuba diving gear and later run away from a giant triceratops who was perpetually breaking the fourth wall.
However, in order to play the games, first one had to navigate the startup screens and it was the first of these screens which literally meant that I could not physically sleep in the same room as a Sony PlayStation for a good few years. For the uninitiated, the console started up with a fade from black to white. Soon after, an orange square would appear, tilted to make what idiotic children (like myself at this time) would call a diamond, then the words "SONY COMPUTER ENTERTAINMENT" would appear, emblazoned in navy blue. All the while, the accompanying sound was a terrifying declining buzz, like a thousand alien ships slowly touching down on the planet's surface in perfect synchronisation. If you think that doesn't sound at all terrifying, watch this with the mindset that you are a sensitive nine-year-old who probably gets scared by goldfish if they look just the tiniest bit weird.
After watching that slice of technological history, you might have noticed that particular startup went on for considerably longer than it normally would. And that was what I'd have nightmares about. The worst part was when it lingered. Imagine, if you still have the mental capacity to imagine, the first startup screen as the 25-stone bouncer to a fantastic club where you know you'll have a good time and all your troubles will melt away. That menacing, unforgiving, static screen coupled with the deteriorating, extra-terrestrial musical sting was the main stumbling block between me and blissful interactivity. If I had to sleep in the same room as a Sony PlayStation hooked up to a television in the dead of night, my paranoid, innocent, too-sensitive-for-its-own-good mind could see visions of me, lying there, comfortably drifting off to the land of nod only to be interrupted by the infernal machine spontaneously turning itself and, by extension, the TV on and filling up the pitch blackness of the room with the ominous glow of pure white and the booming, zooming buzz of SONY COMPUTER ENTERTAINMENT. Me, in this exceptionally hypothetical situation, would be too afraid to move from my bed to switch off the machine manually in case I, somehow, angered it. Instead, my eyes would be locked into a staring match with the orange square, willing it to blink and give way to either total blackness once again or any other screen that wasn't that damned white startup monstrosity, which, in my head, it never would. The buzz would disappear into quietness and leave a perpetual static gift from SONY in its wake. I'd often wondered whether I'd need psychological help but I suppose that might've involved me having to point out where, on the anatomically correct doll, it was that Sony touched me and I'd have to spend afternoons lying on a maroon leather couch recounting tales of how a PlayStation ruined my life.
But the PlayStation opened the floodgates for me and years later, after I'd gotten over myself, I can comfortably say I became and am now a fully converted technophile, although I don't like to use that word since any idea with the suffix "-phile" or "-philia" produces strictly sexual connotations in my head and I don't like to think of myself as one who has sexual contact with machines. Technology and interactivity now dominate my life, which is not so great considering there are other things in life to work towards and appreciate, like the beauty of a sunrise, the smell of daffodils in the spring air and the assignments I need to get on with to pass this degree. I can't be doing too badly though; I managed to get the word "flânerie" in the first paragraph of this which, if I hadn't had to read certain essays by German philosopher Walter Benjamin in which he speaks highly of the poetry of Charles Baudelaire, probably would not have featured in this thing otherwise.
Needless to say, though, I can now comfortably sleep (alone in my bed, mind) with a desktop computer, laptop, iPod, telephone, TV, PS2 and Wii all sharing the same room and without the fear that any of them will rise forth in the middle of the night and eat me, which I suppose is more than I can say for the humble PS1 way back when.
Come to think of it, that slowly opening, mouth-like lid probably had something to do with it too.
Wednesday 8 February 2012
Where Science Steps In
The world's finally started paying attention to the obscure theories I keep locked up in my silent mind. Well I say "theories", plural, but specifically all I'm noticing right now is one theory, singular. In case you hadn't noticed (or in case you're not currently in the UK which, this being the Internet, you're probably not), it's cold. It's very very cold. Colder than it should be for the beginning of February. So much so that I've finally resorted to leaning against radiators which refuse to go higher than 17°C and wearing four layers of clothing just to keep my body temperature feeling somewhat normal.
So my theory? Yes, I shall reveal. For the last few years I've not been able to shake the feeling that the typical seasons of the year are disobeying the timeframes that we as a humankind have imposed unto them and are shifting about of their own free will. Of course, this is the point in the ramble where science steps in and goes "Hey, I'm Science" and delivers a lecture containing long jargonistic words, possibly in the dulcet Mancunian tones of Professor Brian Cox. Unfortunately my brain doesn't possess enough accurate scientific knowledge to fully explain the situation so I'm afraid you'll just have to settle for a pseudo-scientific explanation of what I think, in my little head, what's happening here. Observe:
Earth spins round and round and round in unknowable large vacuous space along an invisible line around giant star we humans call "Sun", except there is no line, we made that up. We pretended there's a line that Earth follows like a track all the way around Sun and we called it "orbit" because if we didn't we couldn't teach children in schools about the way space works or something. Anyway, Earth completes one lap of this invisible, imaginary track every 365 or so days give or take a few hours or something, but for the sake of mathematics we just stick to whole numbers like 365 and every so often make up for all those extra hours with an extra day in February thus confusing people born on the 29th of February as to when they can celebrate their birthday. Basically, because we simpleton humans can only function using whole numbers when it comes to how we experience time, a notion which we invented, our approximations are never accurate in accordance with the amount of time it actually takes for stuff to move around in space. I could go on about how days are actually only about 23 hours, 56 minutes and 4 seconds long but fear that might explode your mind if it wasn't already dribbling out of your ears right now. Anyway, because the actuality of stuff happening in the universe doesn't conform to our exact specifications, the timings of things can be slightly off. Based on that principle, my thoughts shift towards how the traditional seasons of the year are, themselves, shifting into different points on the calendars what we made.
I'd noticed that typically we northern-hemisphere dwellers experience the Winter period beginning in December, before it reaches its peak in January and finally dwindles over the course of February. By this logic, and designating each of the four seasons to a block of three months over the course of the year, Spring has taken charge of the March-April-May period, Summer; June-July-August, and Autumn (or "Fall" for non-English people which, quite frankly, is a stupid name for a season... Autumn sounds vaguely mystical and deep whereas Fall is what expensive ornaments do when knocked off mantelpieces) reigns over the September-October-November portion of our Gregorian method of counting. However, over the last few years, Summer has strayed from the path and normally takes until late July to reach us now. Still, to make up for its lost time, it likes to stick around until September now, meaning that Autumn doesn't get a look in until October and wants to stay to see Christmas and maybe (if its parents let it stay up late enough) New Year too. Winter doesn't come along until January now, but even then it merely begins as a mild breeze before the peak of the big freeze hits around February, i.e. now.
According to this preposterous, non-factual deduction of mine, we're now experiencing Winter later (or much much earlier if you like to approach your calendar from a strictly linear viewpoint) and by my reasoning, we're doomed to experience more minus-numbers, climbing gas bills and ponders of whether it's actually going to snow or not until mid-March, which would be fantastic if it wasn't for all the assignment deadlines I'm currently facing and not doing due to low morale, lack of food and being frozen in the same spot for twenty-two hours a day.
For goodness sake, I've only got 1 hour, 56 minutes and 4 seconds to get stuff done now.
So my theory? Yes, I shall reveal. For the last few years I've not been able to shake the feeling that the typical seasons of the year are disobeying the timeframes that we as a humankind have imposed unto them and are shifting about of their own free will. Of course, this is the point in the ramble where science steps in and goes "Hey, I'm Science" and delivers a lecture containing long jargonistic words, possibly in the dulcet Mancunian tones of Professor Brian Cox. Unfortunately my brain doesn't possess enough accurate scientific knowledge to fully explain the situation so I'm afraid you'll just have to settle for a pseudo-scientific explanation of what I think, in my little head, what's happening here. Observe:
Earth spins round and round and round in unknowable large vacuous space along an invisible line around giant star we humans call "Sun", except there is no line, we made that up. We pretended there's a line that Earth follows like a track all the way around Sun and we called it "orbit" because if we didn't we couldn't teach children in schools about the way space works or something. Anyway, Earth completes one lap of this invisible, imaginary track every 365 or so days give or take a few hours or something, but for the sake of mathematics we just stick to whole numbers like 365 and every so often make up for all those extra hours with an extra day in February thus confusing people born on the 29th of February as to when they can celebrate their birthday. Basically, because we simpleton humans can only function using whole numbers when it comes to how we experience time, a notion which we invented, our approximations are never accurate in accordance with the amount of time it actually takes for stuff to move around in space. I could go on about how days are actually only about 23 hours, 56 minutes and 4 seconds long but fear that might explode your mind if it wasn't already dribbling out of your ears right now. Anyway, because the actuality of stuff happening in the universe doesn't conform to our exact specifications, the timings of things can be slightly off. Based on that principle, my thoughts shift towards how the traditional seasons of the year are, themselves, shifting into different points on the calendars what we made.
I'd noticed that typically we northern-hemisphere dwellers experience the Winter period beginning in December, before it reaches its peak in January and finally dwindles over the course of February. By this logic, and designating each of the four seasons to a block of three months over the course of the year, Spring has taken charge of the March-April-May period, Summer; June-July-August, and Autumn (or "Fall" for non-English people which, quite frankly, is a stupid name for a season... Autumn sounds vaguely mystical and deep whereas Fall is what expensive ornaments do when knocked off mantelpieces) reigns over the September-October-November portion of our Gregorian method of counting. However, over the last few years, Summer has strayed from the path and normally takes until late July to reach us now. Still, to make up for its lost time, it likes to stick around until September now, meaning that Autumn doesn't get a look in until October and wants to stay to see Christmas and maybe (if its parents let it stay up late enough) New Year too. Winter doesn't come along until January now, but even then it merely begins as a mild breeze before the peak of the big freeze hits around February, i.e. now.
According to this preposterous, non-factual deduction of mine, we're now experiencing Winter later (or much much earlier if you like to approach your calendar from a strictly linear viewpoint) and by my reasoning, we're doomed to experience more minus-numbers, climbing gas bills and ponders of whether it's actually going to snow or not until mid-March, which would be fantastic if it wasn't for all the assignment deadlines I'm currently facing and not doing due to low morale, lack of food and being frozen in the same spot for twenty-two hours a day.
For goodness sake, I've only got 1 hour, 56 minutes and 4 seconds to get stuff done now.
Wednesday 1 February 2012
Adventures In Mundanity
Once again, I've plundered the hypothetical depths of the overdraft. This adventure into nothingness comes courtesy of the humble property-owning agency from whom I sought shelter in exchange for money I'll be paying back for the rest of my life and possibly an extra seven years after my own personal oblivion.
The situation plays out thus: in order for me to live in this house for another year (and when I say "year" I use the term loosely to mean "Academic year" which everyone knows is just a fancy way of saying "seven months"), our friendly neighbourhood owners have requested a deposit that's not really a deposit since it's non-returnable. Think of it as more insurance to keep my name, my life and several Earthly possessions (that is to say all of them) shackled unto this place and not have it flogged on to other students looking for some kind of shelter. Naturally, myself and fellow tennants were given prior notice that this would need to be paid, but no prior notice of a "deadline date" as it were. Cue Saturday morning where the wee letter sits on the wee mat at the front door and says we have until Monday to meet their insurance demands. Okay, that sounds a lot more dramatic than it actually should be, but the point I'm attempting to get across (rather lazily) is that given just two days notice, I'm now fresh out of money and will to live.
For the record, when queried on the short notice, it turns out a bit of bad luck, honest human error and a mischievious pixie (probably) were to blame for not giving us (or any other student renting property from them) the appropriate notice, so I can't chastise them too much for it. I'm not badmouthing the company I let this room from, just having a good ol' moan and gripe at an undesirable situation. Translation: if you're reading this and happen to be affiliated with my homeowners, PLEASE DON'T KICK ME OUT!!!
Anyway, with the loan company's money all gone, I'm now burying myself comfortably into the bank's lovely little safety net. Comfortable, yes, but worrying also. If I stay here too long, I fear mesh patterns embedding themselves into my skin and tattooing me with "I don't have my own money, I'm living off other means, I'm scum, berate me!" It is because of this, I've had to, for the first time in over three years, go out to find a job. Now me, sweet innocent me, has been trundling along in fairy-head mode where everything is fine and dandy, things will definitely work out the way I imagine them with no problems or complications at all and life will float on by with the greatest of ease and calm and splendour on the song of a bluebird and cool summer breeze. In case you weren't sure, that laboured metaphor was supposed to tell you that after working for the three years in the same retail outlet, my familiarity and experience within the store would grant me easy, if not instant access to a different branch of the same store chain. After all, they like me so much back home, how could I possibly fail?
I enter; copies of CV in bag, confidence in my head, certainty in my heart, a pocketful of dreams and Paramore (or something) on the iPod. Nothing can bring me down! My luck continues, the first staff member of this particular branch that I come across is a young woman, a friendly looking young woman, dressed in what I know to be the uniform blouse of one in a supervisory position in this particular store chain. I approach.
"Excuse me? Hi. I wonder if you could tell me if you currently have any part-time job vacancies?"
Almost instantly my polite and smiley, confidence driven question is answered: "No."
Aha, a stumbling block. One might have expected such a thing. No matter.
"Could I hand you a CV just in case anything opens up?" I offer, knowing that upon viewing, she'll realise that I would be more than capable to fill the space left by the next victim of a brutal sacking. Again, my discoursal adversary greets my humble polite offer with a syllable: "No."
It's a weird kind of exchange. The answers to my queries are negative, but they're accompanied with a smile; the kind of smile one must always maintain in the retail business, else risk execution. Alas, the optimism-house sort of smile paired up the rejection of my employment query seemed to mock me. This woman was mocking me. This woman stood there and went "nyeh-nyeh-neh-nyeh-nyeh", stuck her thumb to her nose, wiggled the rest of her fingers in front of her face, blew a raspberry at me with just the right amount of spit-flecks and essentially said "I have a job and you don't! This is my job, you can't have it, it's mine! So nyehh" all with a simple smile.
Somewhere in the deepest recesses of my brain, I had anticipated this, or an event similar, in which I might require multiple copies of a CV. It just meant that, rather than cast the majority aside after my place was definitely secured in my first choice of employment, I would have to wander the town and offer my part-time retail services elsewhere. But as it happens, nobody wanted me. I don't think it was anything personal, nobody wanted anyone! Eventually, a whole three places felt some kind of sympathy and took a specially printed sheet of A4 off me with the vague promise of keeping my words in their offices, you know, "just in case anything opens up."
Basically, in almost 1,000 words, I just told you how I'm failing to make an independent living at the moment, but since many people are doing that these days I don't see how my adventures in mundanity are any more significant. Let's take you for example. If you've made it this far, you've just read all this. Your life must be even worse.
Just something to think about.
The situation plays out thus: in order for me to live in this house for another year (and when I say "year" I use the term loosely to mean "Academic year" which everyone knows is just a fancy way of saying "seven months"), our friendly neighbourhood owners have requested a deposit that's not really a deposit since it's non-returnable. Think of it as more insurance to keep my name, my life and several Earthly possessions (that is to say all of them) shackled unto this place and not have it flogged on to other students looking for some kind of shelter. Naturally, myself and fellow tennants were given prior notice that this would need to be paid, but no prior notice of a "deadline date" as it were. Cue Saturday morning where the wee letter sits on the wee mat at the front door and says we have until Monday to meet their insurance demands. Okay, that sounds a lot more dramatic than it actually should be, but the point I'm attempting to get across (rather lazily) is that given just two days notice, I'm now fresh out of money and will to live.
For the record, when queried on the short notice, it turns out a bit of bad luck, honest human error and a mischievious pixie (probably) were to blame for not giving us (or any other student renting property from them) the appropriate notice, so I can't chastise them too much for it. I'm not badmouthing the company I let this room from, just having a good ol' moan and gripe at an undesirable situation. Translation: if you're reading this and happen to be affiliated with my homeowners, PLEASE DON'T KICK ME OUT!!!
Anyway, with the loan company's money all gone, I'm now burying myself comfortably into the bank's lovely little safety net. Comfortable, yes, but worrying also. If I stay here too long, I fear mesh patterns embedding themselves into my skin and tattooing me with "I don't have my own money, I'm living off other means, I'm scum, berate me!" It is because of this, I've had to, for the first time in over three years, go out to find a job. Now me, sweet innocent me, has been trundling along in fairy-head mode where everything is fine and dandy, things will definitely work out the way I imagine them with no problems or complications at all and life will float on by with the greatest of ease and calm and splendour on the song of a bluebird and cool summer breeze. In case you weren't sure, that laboured metaphor was supposed to tell you that after working for the three years in the same retail outlet, my familiarity and experience within the store would grant me easy, if not instant access to a different branch of the same store chain. After all, they like me so much back home, how could I possibly fail?
I enter; copies of CV in bag, confidence in my head, certainty in my heart, a pocketful of dreams and Paramore (or something) on the iPod. Nothing can bring me down! My luck continues, the first staff member of this particular branch that I come across is a young woman, a friendly looking young woman, dressed in what I know to be the uniform blouse of one in a supervisory position in this particular store chain. I approach.
"Excuse me? Hi. I wonder if you could tell me if you currently have any part-time job vacancies?"
Almost instantly my polite and smiley, confidence driven question is answered: "No."
Aha, a stumbling block. One might have expected such a thing. No matter.
"Could I hand you a CV just in case anything opens up?" I offer, knowing that upon viewing, she'll realise that I would be more than capable to fill the space left by the next victim of a brutal sacking. Again, my discoursal adversary greets my humble polite offer with a syllable: "No."
It's a weird kind of exchange. The answers to my queries are negative, but they're accompanied with a smile; the kind of smile one must always maintain in the retail business, else risk execution. Alas, the optimism-house sort of smile paired up the rejection of my employment query seemed to mock me. This woman was mocking me. This woman stood there and went "nyeh-nyeh-neh-nyeh-nyeh", stuck her thumb to her nose, wiggled the rest of her fingers in front of her face, blew a raspberry at me with just the right amount of spit-flecks and essentially said "I have a job and you don't! This is my job, you can't have it, it's mine! So nyehh" all with a simple smile.
Somewhere in the deepest recesses of my brain, I had anticipated this, or an event similar, in which I might require multiple copies of a CV. It just meant that, rather than cast the majority aside after my place was definitely secured in my first choice of employment, I would have to wander the town and offer my part-time retail services elsewhere. But as it happens, nobody wanted me. I don't think it was anything personal, nobody wanted anyone! Eventually, a whole three places felt some kind of sympathy and took a specially printed sheet of A4 off me with the vague promise of keeping my words in their offices, you know, "just in case anything opens up."
Basically, in almost 1,000 words, I just told you how I'm failing to make an independent living at the moment, but since many people are doing that these days I don't see how my adventures in mundanity are any more significant. Let's take you for example. If you've made it this far, you've just read all this. Your life must be even worse.
Just something to think about.
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