November 2003

November 28th, 2003. Bugger

I've just lost my job.

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November 27th, 2003. Meta

Once again, I've spent the entire past couple of days thinking "ooh, I should blog that," and now when I'm sat at a computer that's not at work, where I can type what I like without worrying about The Boss looking over my shoulder, I can't remember anything.

Something that was in the news, maybe? There was a good news item in The Guardian yesterday, but I can't find it on their site. In Tenessee, a chap was being inducted into the KKK. All the other members were feeling a bit celebratory, and one of them fired a gun into the air. Gravity being what it is, the bullet went up and came straight back down again; it hit one of the others, and gave him a rather nasty head injury. The bloke who fired it is going to be charged, apparently. Or maybe he already has been - I can't quite remember.

One plan I did have, in fact, was to take an unexpected search request - one a week, maybe - and write a nice long entry about it. Like I did before with the Panacea Society or the Famous Five porn, but on a more regular basis. My daily life is hardly interesting enough to write about, so it might give you all a bit more to read. The most exciting thing to happen to me in my everyday life is when someone I don't know says hello to me when they pass in the street (it happened again yesterday, I think with the same man. Maybe I should have admitted I had no idea who he is). Oh, and going to work meetings where everything I've worked on for the past couple of months gets pulled apart and I get told to do it again in a completely different way. Grrrr.

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November 24th, 2003. I bet you could see it coming

Having looked at the poster for Roxette The Psychic again at the weekend (see below for more details), I realised that I'd been blanking out a lot of the best bits. Roxette, you see, is used as a vessel by the Archangels Raphael, Michael, Gabriel and Uriel. Many hear voices, but only Roxette receives messages via "ALL of the LIGHT".

(which made me think: I'm going to visit my parents. So I'll be able to reread my Susan Cooper books, like I do every year. See, it's not all bad at Christmas.)

(I did mean, last Christmas, to start off the new, coming-soon Flat At The Top Of The Stairs Review Section by writing a comparison of Susan Cooper and JK Rowling. Somehow, it never got off the ground - I must have been distracted by a mince pie. The Review Section will come along next year. Maybe.)

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November 22nd, 2003. Just needs batteries!

Regular readers will know that I often like to plug things my friends are involved in, as well as random psychics, and, frankly, anyone who hands me an interesting-looking flyer in the street (cf: just about everything on the site in August). For a while, I've been planning to advertise the play that W's currently rehearsing for: The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui at the Citizens Theatre, in Glasgow.

There's not much point, though. It doesn't need a plug here, because it's sold out already (and the run hasn't even started yet). It sold out even before getting a rather favourable preview notice in today's Guardian Guide. I didn't manage to get a ticket myself, in fact. I'm sure it'll be very good.

(W came over last weekend, as he's up. We went to the City Café and Centraal, met up with Rick, and had lots of stimulating intellectual discussions that I can't remember right now. No, really. It's good to see both of them again.)

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November 20th, 2003. Insert Swedish song title here

Now, like you, I always thought that Roxette was an early-90s Swedish rock group with an interesting line in dodgy haicuts. It turns out, though, that we were wrong. Roxette is a woman who can bring us messages from the dead, and she's coming to Edinburgh.

I saw her poster in the Rose Street Sainsbury's. It has her picture: she's very soft-focus. She's gone down a storm in Germany and Mexico, apparently. She knows an awful lot about holistic therapies, and she can bring us true and accurate messages from the Other Side. Wow! If you're fed up with having to put up with mere true messages from the dead, now you can have accurate ones as well! If you're interested, she'll be at Freemasons Hall on the 6th and 7th of December.

You might think I'm being a cynic here, but for all I know Roxette's skills might be entirely genuine. All I know about her is what I can remember from her poster. Having said that, I've always been very tempted to learn how to become a fake psychic. I'm sure it can't be too hard. "I've got some spirits here who want to talk to you. Do you know anyone who has passed over recently? No? No, all these spirits passed on some time ago. Did you know an Alan? A Dave? A Bob? Yes, that's right, Bob's here to talk to you. Bob says he's very happy where he is now, and not to worry about him. Was Bob a relative of some kind? No? Oh, your pet budgie? Well, on the other side, you see, everything becomes clear and we can understand everything our pets are saying to us. Bob says he has a lovely time on the other side, you know. He flies about in trees, and has lots and lots of cuttlefish and millet to eat." My problem is, though, I'm too honest. I'd end up going: "No! No! Don't believe any of it! It's not real! I'm making it all up!"

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November 19th, 2003. Feet? Ball? Eh?

I think I managed to shock The Boss today. He was discussing his arrangements later, to meet a friend to watch The Match. "What match?" I asked.

I mean, I had no idea that tonight (apparently) Scotland's most important football match for 25 years is going to be on. I don't really care. I wouldn't care if it was England playing, either. When pushed, I vaguely remembered that it had been mentioned on Today at some horrible time this morning when I was still half-asleep in bed.

It's not as if The Boss is a stereotypical football supporter - he isn't at all. You'd have no idea, to look at him. Even so, I shocked him by not knowing what was going on. I mean, it's just 22 men kicking a ball about the place - not some big battle for national pride. Maybe I need to go and read some sociology books.

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November 17th, 2003. The Voice

One night last week, I was sat at home relaxing in front of the telly; watching a Channel 4 documentary about Ancient Egypt - a dramatised reconstruction of everyday life in the Egyptian Army as they invaded Syria several thousand years ago. The programme had the usual type of narrator you expect to hear on that sort of show: deep, serious, gravel-voiced.

As it was getting near the end of the show, I flipped channels to BBC2, who were showing another archaeological documentary, about the Minoan Civilisation. Also, with a deep, serious, gravel-voiced ... in fact, it was the same narrator. Flip back. Flip forward. Yes, the same man, narrating two archaeology-reconstruction shows at the same time. I realise you do tend to hear the same deep, serious, etc. people narrating things quite a lot, but even so.

(The man's name, incidentally, is Bernard Hill. I assume he gets quite a lot of work sounding deep, serious, and so on.)

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November 15th, 2003. What I did at the hospital

I was unusually nervous going to the doctor's this time. Before, I've always been nervous because, hey, it's the doctor. Just going was a big, nervewracking thing for me. This time, though, I was nervous because I hadn't done anything. I hadn't followed any of her advice - I'd been meaning to, but for one reason and another hadn't managed to do anything.

I'm aware that a lot of you will have no idea what I'm talking about here, and a recap will help explain things a bit better anyway. If you don't know what I'm talking about, follow the archive links.

As I told the doctor, I haven't been getting on very well with my parents for the past year. Since I told them all this, in fact, which was at last Christmas, whilst I was visiting them. They both said lots of things, most of which were so ridiculous I couldn't even think of a reply. One of the things, though, was: "Promise us you won't do anything for at least a year". By that time, I assume, they were expecting me to have Seen The Light, settled down in a nice, normal, heterosexual relationship, and presumably got engaged and started going to church into the bargain. Understandably, none of that has happened. So, sometime over Christmas, I have to sit down with my parents and say:

• You said: "wait a year".
• It's now a year later.
• I think it was entirely reasonable for you to suggest postponing any treatment for a limited time. That time, though, is now up.
• I definitely don't think it's reasonable for you to suggest postponing anything for an indefinite period. That includes you saying "if you've waited one year you can wait another."
• That also includes you saying "wait until we're both dead" (which they have done), because that could easily be for forty years or more.
• My situation is not going to change.
• I know my own mind much better than you know it. If I say: "I've wanted this since before puberty," replying: "No, you haven't!" is not a useful answer.
• My consultant is reputable, well-respected, and has not brainwashed me. Neither have I been brainwashed by "things I've read on the internet". I'm doing this for me, not because other people are pushing me.
• I've respected your views for the past year. Now, you have to respect mine.
• Oh, and by the way, I'm bisexual. Yes, really. Yes, definitely.

As the doctor said, they probably won't like any of this, but until I do something like this they're never going to take me seriously.

I'm not sure how this is going to end. It's possible that they will cut me off completely. My dad, certainly, is extremely stubborn - as is everyone in his family - and if he decides to ignore me then that will be that.

Christmas must be coming soon - the ferris wheel has already started to go up on Princes Street. There's not long to wait before I have to visit them again.

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November 14th, 2003. Movement

One of the rubbish things about not being allowed to blog at work is that there are so many things that I forget to blog about. I read something, think I should mention it here, but by the time I get to a computer that's out of The Boss's reach I've completely forgotten what it is. And, hence, no blog entries since Tuesday even though I'm sure there were lots of things I wanted to mention.

(And, also, I read less of other people's blogs, which means I can't usually link to other people's interesting entries because by the time I get round to finding them you've all read them all already and there's no point. But anyway.)

Wednesday was my fourth trip to the hospital, to see the consultant. It was brief but friendly; not as scary as I usually imagine. It felt like the first visit to her where I've felt all serious and grown-up, rather than like a little kid being talked to by the big frightening doctor. I told her that I actually want to make some changes to my life fairly soon, and she said I need to be firm and confident and do what I have to do.

(more to come soon, I promise. I will tell you what the doctor said at the weekend; my cafe credit is about to run out.)

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November 11th, 2003. Critical

Went to see The Matrix: Revolutions at the weekend, and have to say that I wasn't that impressed. In summary: it's a wee bit of people in fetish gear getting beaten up, followed by far too much of people in tatty pullovers fighting off H R Giger-esque robots. It felt too long, badly structured, and with an awkward ending; but on the other hand, it does have the Best Film Evil Laugh Ever.

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November 10th, 2003. Saturday afternoon

Waiting to meet people at the cinema, I sit in the window of Starbucks, watching the world walk past and wondering why I paid £2.50 for a too-sweet cup of tea. I keep count of the people nearly hit by cars trying to cross Lothian Road. I watch the people sat on the top deck of the 28 bus. Everyone is in their winter raincoats, hats and hoods. Short old women jab floral umbrellas at everyone they pass. A man in nondescript clothes texts whilst crossing Bread Street and trips over the kerb. I wonder if anyone would notice if I nicked the café mug, and wonder how some women can still have an inch of midriff bare in Noember. I see Ben walk past my window, and dash to the door to hail him like a taxi.

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November 8th, 2003. Unofficial

(beware: rant ahead)

There can't be much worse for office morale, if you ask me, than management hypocrisy. If people all work in similar office-type conditions, why should the management's rules for the staff not apply to themselves, too?

One hypothetical example: it's fair enough to say that staff have to be at their desks on-time in the morning, and all have to stick to the same agreed office hours. It's understandable why, if you're a few minutes late in the morning, the personnel manager sends you an email asking you to explain - although if you ask me, there are better ways to do it. I think, though, that you should be free to feel a little miffed if the said personnel manager is rarely at her desk at the same time that you have to be there in the mornings, and frequently doesn't appear until an hour later. No doubt he or she would defend themselves by saying that they work later to compensate; but it's hardly fair that the management can make up or bend their own rules to their own circumstances, when their underlings have to stick to strict procedures when it comes to things like that.

(this is a purely hypothetical example, of course, and I wouldn't want anyone to think otherwise)

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November 5th, 2003. Poker Night

For a while now, my friends have been promising to teach me how to play poker. Tonight, they tried.

It's a good thing we weren't playing for money, because I didn't do very well. I did very badly, in fact, which is only what you would expect. Sometimes I played overcautiously, allowing myself to be easily bluffed past. Other timnes, I gambled so wildly that everybody spotted my 'bluffs' straight away. I wasn't watching the other players. I wasn't trying to second-guess their thoughts, or work out what cards they might be holding. In short, I was rubbish.

It didn't help that I had only the vaguest idea which hands beat which, or what was going on in general. Or, for that matter, tyhat I could barely shuffle the cards when it was my turn to deal. At the end of each hand I'd turn my cards over, and try not to look too clueless; sometimes I did even win a hand. When I did win, I usually had to be told by someone else.

I was with friends, so losing didn't matter. I sat back to enjoy myself, letting all the jargon wash over me. "I really missed the flop," they would say, or "I didn't like that river." They did sometimes try to explain what it all meant, but few of the terms stuck in my head. I watched the others practise their casino-like shuffles, and listened to the high-pitched chinks of the plastic chips, wondering how my friends could instantly pick up a stack of four or five chips without ever having to count them. I tried not to give away any expressions when I looked at my cards, but only managed to look like I was trying hard not to give anything away. I dreamed of being in a sophisticated gambling den, in a glamorous evening dress; but the best thing about a poker night in the kitchen of a Bruntsfield flat is that being bad at it doesn't matter if you're not using real money. Fifty-thousand points down, I decided it was time for bed.

Walking home, I could see fires in Holyrood Park. Burning hard at the foot of Salisbury Crags, they looked too wild and uncontrolled to be bonfires. The side of the mountain glowed orange with fire and smoke, as I came back again to my warm, cosy bed.

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November 5th, 2003. Knowing the people involved

News stories become completely different if you know the people involved. You can start to imagine how they might have reacted at the tme. You start to get a fuller picture.

The first thing I noticed about this news story, about a teenager stabbed to death in his school, was the name of the school's headmaster. Seven or eight years ago, when I was about to leave school, he was my chemistry teacher. I hate to think what the past couple of days must have been like for him: having to deal with the police, the paramedics, the media, and worst of all, the families involved. I don't care nealry as much about the families themselves, because I have no idea who they are; but I can see in my minds eye how the headmaster might be reacting.

In my final year at school, a recently-expelled fifth-year was suddenly seen lurking in the grounds, with a baseball bat or a carving knife or some other fearsome weapon. My chemistry teacher had been the one who expelled him, and I remember watching him barricading himself and ourselves inside the science building, then patrolling its corridors waving a heavy piece of chemistry equipment as if it was his own baseball bat, with a steely, determined look in his eye. Maybe that's how he's feeling today: deseiged and surrounded, but determined to get everything back to normal again.

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November 5th, 2003. From the moment I opened my eyes

My bed is so lovely and warm on a winter's morning. As soon as I open my eyes, I look at the clock and work out, to the minute, how long I can stay without moving before I really have to get up. It's just warm enough - not too hot, but nice and cosy. My morning routine is timed down to the minute - stagger out of bed, let the cat in, make myself presentable and put on lots of warm clothes. Twenty-three minutes, and then I can leave the house.

The walk to work today was through deep, deep piles of wind-blown leaves, brought down by last night's gales. I was tempted to run through them all kicking them about like a little kid; sadly, I restrained myself. I'm not sure why I bothered making myself look presentable, because the wind has really messed up my hair.

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November 4th, 2003. Ordinary Day

I wasn't sure whether to mention this before hand or not. I was tempted to keep you all in the dark - those of you who don't already know about it yourselves, of course. Tomorrow is supposed to be just an ordinary day like any other on my blog, you see, and I wasn't sure if mentioning this beforehand might spoil it.

But anyway. Tomorrow is Radio Scotland's Blogday. Various Scotland-based bloggers are going to blog about their everyday lives, and it will be stitched together into a radio documentary. There's a list of the other participants here, and they are all very good reads. Especially tomorrow, I imagine. It'll be interesting to see what comes out of it all.

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November 2nd, 2003. Search results (again)

Well, I don't do this too often...

• birds of the world are here!
• cute kitten - Awwww!
• root vegetable crisps online: I do remember finding the site of a root vegetable crisp manufacturer once. Unfortunately, I didn't feel like buying a dozen cases of them - I'd have eaten them within the week, and become very fat.
• what happened to honey on the sinister list: As far as I know, she still runs it, although in a rather hands-off way.
• bengali fish curry recipes: here's Tara's version.
• honesty in marketing - I'm not sure you'll find that anywhere.
• guilty clothes morningside road edinburgh: Ooh, I know where that is. I walk past it on my way to work. It's at the north end of the road, near Holy Corner and Luca's café.
• orgasm cake recipe: "I don't like this cake very much. It tastes strange - far too salty. What's your secret ingredient?"

(and lots of other people who probably didn't find what they were looking for)

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November 1st, 2003. Happy new month

Last night was the grand Glendinning Hallowe'en Party. I'm not hung over, honest. I am, on the other hand, very very sleepy. However, I was woken up this morning by incredibly painful cramp in my left leg, and have been limping ever since. For some reason, I can only walk around without pain if I'm wearing heels right now.

I vaguely remember that Owen persuaded me to join him and Ben in taking part in this year's NaNoWriMo. I think I said yes, too. Oh well. I should go and get on with it - but I think I'll probably just phone my dad (he's 51 today) and then go back to bed.

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