Archive for August, 2006
Today was my last day at the office until next Wednesday. I’d love to say I was off somewhere sunny, or even off to Reading Festival, but unfortunately I will be up to my neck in tile adhesive and grout as Bathroom™ – Phase III gets up and running.
When I return to the office I’ll only have one day in Savoy Hill House then it’s off to a new studio in über-trendy Bermondsey Street. When I was a nipper, and even fairly recently, before I actually worked in Central London I was convinced it would be fantastic. Like living in a film. Shops, bars, rubbing shoulders with major tourist attractions every day. Of course the truth is expensive shops full of tourists, expensive, tourist-filled bars and rubbing shoulders with tourists every minute of the day. The nice view on the way into work really isn’t worth the hassle.
I went out yesterday lunchtime and took some picsof the Savoy area of London to make sure I had a record of my short time there. I got nothing but hassle from tourists.
August 24th, 2006
I don’t read many blogs so my opinion is no doubt worthless, but Daily Defamation is easily my favourite. I may start to be more insulting in my posts in honour of them. People need to know the truth.
August 15th, 2006
So, tonight I spend the first night in my marital bed without my marital wife since our marital happening three months ago, as she’s off to visit her parents (and steal their tile-cutter).
From an early age I enjoyed spending time on my own, but the older I get the more I find I get a bit lost when left to my own devices. I procrastinate on a grand scale, eat badly, sink into a hole on the sofa in front of MTV2 and shirk as many of my tasks as possible. I have lots to do. Weddings to edit, albums to design, filing, tidying, DIY, but will I have acheived anything noteworthy come her return towards the end of the week? Only time will tell.
Drinks with ex-University friends tomorrow night will put a serious dent in my ability to succeed. The last one ended with me helping home a serious casualty, turning a blind eye to her projectile-vomiting from the cab window in the middle of Whitehall. Let’s hope I feel better than I did on Saturday morning after my first drinks with new work.
Mental note: don’t drink 6 pints of Guinness on an empty stomach after a beer-free period of a month or more.
August 7th, 2006
Tonight at a wedding (as a guest for once) I was faced with this comment from a very drunk guy from Berwick I’ve just met for the first time, leaning across at me with brandy swilling around his glass, eyes half-closed. I, meanwhile, was sobriety personified as designated driver and using the opportunity to bulk up the folio.
Do I look like a man that likes to party? I seriously doubt it. Even in it’s loosest sense, partying is something I’ve always steered clear of. Firstly, I don’t like dancing, and partying and dancing seem to go hand in hand. Partying in the sense that he meant (dropping some pills, snorting a line and no doubt dancing like a tit to atrocious music in a dingy shithole of a nightclub) is something I’d give my right arm, leg and ear to avoid. Don’t get me wrong, I like a drink, but in the comfort of a cosy pub, with some good conversation, and preferably a bag of crisps to pick at.
Maybe I’m old at heart, or maybe I’m just no fun, but I’m sure it’s apparent upon meeting/seeing me. I’m going to excuse this guy because he was obviously one more sip of VSOP from serious alcohol poisoning. Party on.
August 5th, 2006
It’s been 5 months since my last post. Since then I have got a new Mac, bought an expensive suit, become a married man, visited Iceland again, destroyed my Sony phone by sitting on it, got a new Motorola phone, changed my job, turned 31, changed job again, got hooked on yet another series of Big Brother, fitted a bath and made fresh steps towards The Plan.
The blog had to come off my site because I feared it may hinder my job-hunting. It contains some quite forthright opinions on such matters as posters in train stations and I couldn’t let these, or my droolings over the band Clutch, stop me escaping ‘the Carnaby Street job’. Things got so bad that I just quit the job anyway thinking I could wander into a life of freelance-plenty. I would only have to work 2 weeks of the year to earn 4 times the average UK salary. I could stagger in and out of various companies without a care in the world counting the minutes to my next holiday.
Of course what actually happened was that I ended up with no money after a week of no work and took the first crappy full-time position I was offered. This was well-paid, but involved working in a proper office, in a proper office block, with lots of people who thought dressing down for Friday was wearing a jumper over their shirt and tie. It couldn’t last. Luckily I was saved from corporate hell by Or Media, a little company in Covent Garden. Four weeks in and it feels like home.
Home on the other hand feels like some sort of external storage area for Screwfix.com. Intent on escaping from the ‘Well and our increasingly infuriating noisy neighbours, we have begun a redevelopment that we should have started three years ago when we moved here.
Sevenoaks is calling.
August 2nd, 2006
