Neuromantik

I'm killing this journal. I never bloody post in it, and I only use it for the Friends page. For various reasons, I want to keep a journal again, so I'll be starting a new one.

Knowing the archives of this one exist make me squirm every time I think about adding to it, so I'll just start afresh. If anyone wants to know the new ID, leave me a comment ^_^

For those that take an interest in such things, Radio 4 broadcast a documentary on 2000AD this morning. Listen again at bbc.co.uk (it's called Futureshock! and I'm too inept and diseased to actually craft an html link). Scrotnig!

After misguidedly watching half an episode of 'Honey We're Killing The Kids,' Jonathan and I have been enlightened. It transpires that the worst thing that could ever possibly happen to one's children - ever, no really, ever (except possibly for terrorists) - is that they might a) look their age and b) be fat(!).

Jonathan and I become somewhat disgruntled. When we saw two apparently rational parents gaze enraptured at the photoshopped projection of their kids aged 40 - after the intervention of TV Soter* and therefore thinner than the nightmare future otherwise predicted - we were overcome with laughter as Telly Dad cheerfully equated being physically fit with being happy and successful. Telly Mum nearly cried tears of joy.

Enchanted by the 'fat people fare worse' idea (myself and my First Class Honours degree rather resent that, by the way), I took it to the internet.

I hope this will surprise you.

Google does not return any accurate results for the search terms 'fat professionals', or 'fat doctors' (in the UK - the rest of the Web offers up a couple of tidbits). Try 'successful fat people' - I dare you.

The #1 result is "...even highly successful fat people are losing time and energy because of the internal drama that comes with being fat..." (courtesy of managementcraft.typepad.com), followed by "yet I wonder if fat people can ever approach being or doing their best work while fat?" (allbusiness.sfgate.com). After this, all I seem to be left with is page after page relating to successful fat loss.

OK, it's official: even the internet doesn't believe fat people can ever amount to anything. Do I shoot myself now, or just wait until I drown in my own chins?

*Soter=Saviour. Cf 'Zeus Soter'

I have tickets for Orestes (performed by the Shared Experience Theatre Company) at the Tricycle Theatre in Kilburn. It means travelling to the opposite corner of London, more or less, so it had better be worth it.

I also have a dental appointment :).

I'm too scared to call the hairdresser and book my free (raffle prize) cut and colour session at Daniel Galvin. I'm scared they'll know, without even seeing me, that I have Bad Hair.

I'm sitting here reading translations of the Corpus Hermeticum (and the Emerald Tablet), and I can call it work! I love this course!

It's my birthday (Yes, there will be a lot of exclamation marks in this post (and parentheses))! When I get home I will play with the two sabres purchased for me by the wonderful Jon (I'm debating whether they need restoring or not... well, they unquestionably need it... I'm debating whether I'm capable of doing it), and enjoy the foot-spa presented by the equally wonderful but possibly less agressive Paul. Swords! For now, I will continue to ride the endorphin wave induced by three hours of Pre-socratic Philosophy seminars!

Wheeee!

Oh, and The History Boys is a superb film. I never made it to the NT production, so I can't compare the two, but it is by just about any measure a brilliant film. It's rare for me to still be thinking about a film a whole 24hours after watching it: my memory's about a tenth that long. The soundtrack's not too shabby either.

Friday the 13th is not a good day to start essays. Just for the record. If anyone reading this has any experience of writing postgrad level literature essays, do get in touch. I'm sure it's not as difficult as I'm trying to make it. I don't know whether to be delighted or frustrated that after an afternoon of 'brainstorming' I've produced something very much like an article submitted to the HSCP forty-some years ago. I'm on the right lines, I'm just not being very original. Do I need to be? I said I'd be using this journal to whine. I warned you.

Tonight I'll be working THE ENTIRE NIGHT on the door at Electric Dreams, because Daniel has thoughtlessly chosen this week to go to Ibiza. I'm not jealous, honest. I do wish Paul would get his passport processed so we can go on holiday.

I wonder whether it's acceptable to disappear tomorrow and spend the day in the library, emerging in time for my pre-birthday birthday celebration in the evening? It's what I'd like to do, just to salve my conscience.

What the hell, I'm back.

For those of you not in the know, the fools at KCL let me enrol for an MA. Well I'll show them. I suspect, though I couldn't say for sure, that this means I'll be needing an outlet for all the whining and frustration this is likely to provoke. So far it's actually been a lot of fun... but no-one's asked me to do any work yet. I'm damn sure I'll be needing an excuse to sit in the library pretending to be doing some work. Just like I am now.

I currently have a job, a boyfriend, a home, and a fulfilling course of study. Watch this space to chart the progress of my self-destructive urges on this apparently happy state of affairs. Smart money's on the job being the first one down the pan, but we shall see.

So, how's everyone else?

In addition, it's my birthday on the 16th. Everyone look excited!

Yesterday was weird, today was crap.

I was awoken by Orange cutting me off for the sake of #10, and then my card wouldn't authorise paymnet over the phone... I spent my first hour awake rushing around trying to confirm that I still had some money (I have) and trying to convince Orange that they wanted to take my money (they have). They've now graciously permitted me incoming calls again, but I still don't have outgoing. This is particularly off-pissing since my mother gets cut off just about every month, and she's never had incoming calls suspended. NEVER.

In short: I hate Orange, and when this contract expires, I'm going to PAYG with another company. My phone number will change and it will take me months to transfer all the numbers from my old phone, and it will be lengthy and tiresome. In other news, the scars from my DIY nose-removal operation are healing up fine.

It's a good thing I _did_ get incoming calls turned back on, because I just had a call from a nice recruitment consultant lady, who's made an appointment with me for tomorrow, regarding temporary work in museums!

And yesterday's funny little job man does exist, if only on the internet, because he answered my email! Yay!

And all my fears about no-one wanting to supervise my dissertation have been washed away by the announcement that it's all been delayed because KCL is appointing more new staff than is entirely good for it, so no-one quite knows who'll be supervising what next year. I am a good person. I am. I am.

I have redefined strange. On Friday, I was called for a job interview to take place tonight at 6.30, in London Bridge. I was given a charming Welshman's cell-phone number, "in case there are any problems." I set out briskly, confidently, at 5.30 tonight, fresh faced, suited and booted, more-or-less sober despite this afternoon's picnic (which, as it happens, was most enjoyable; a jolly decent bunch of chaps). I arrived, unexhausted, at 6.20, at the address. Which seemed deathly quiet. I was pretty much expecting this, as aforementioned charming Welshman had informed me that he was going to be all alone there supervising some sort of IT man.

My pressure upon the doorbell elicited no response. Indeed, I began to suspect that the doorbell was not even connected. Continued application of fingertip confirmed this. A point of concern was only reached when even knocking on the dusty glass panes of the front door produced no result. At this point I was devastatingly confident that I had, upon my person, neither the gentleman's contact number nor the scrap of paper which could confirm the address at which I was expected. Feeling exceedngly clever, I realised that what I did have was the telephone number from which I had been called on Friday afternoon.

There was no answer. There was not even an answering machine. Still, my spirit of curiosity remained strong. I squinted through the letterbox.

No light. No sound. No doors. The stairs had a metal gate across them, preventing access to the first floor. The ground floor corridor contained bulging binbags, torn mattresses and other soft furnishings and very little else except copious quantities of dust. What I am attempting to convey to you, gentle Reader, is that this office building was at the very least unoccupied, and I find myself sorely tempted to apply the term 'derelict.'

Reader, I went home.

By the time I got here, I'd discovered that I did have the address (which I had read and remembered correctly), and the Welshman's phone number (which my cellphone won't connect to, but that's not exactly Fortean, considering its general health), but now to no avail.

Perhaps the most disappointing part of the experience is that this company now seem disorganised, or even downright weird enough, that I'd actually quite like to work for them.

Uni officially over. I am now 2/3 of the way through this degree, and the future looks less and less bright by the minute. It's probably just today ;).

"Revenge of the Sith" is easily the best of this trilogy, and I am very glad that PAul took a sick day to come and see it, even if it did mean I got not revision done.

I'm still relying on the Purple Turtle money to pay all my bills for this month... so I fully expect ED to be cancelled that night... I'm also hoping it'll pay for my Gotham ticket... but I could probably do that by running a book on which of the advertised bands will really be playing :D.

I put my new curtains up last night. I'm no longer woken by the sun streaming in through my bare window, but the sun through off-yellow curtains (but no rainbow on the wall). In response, the net curtain fell down.

I love the Dresden Dolls more with every passing minute.