Shooting The Dead . . .

So I spent my weekend rejuvenating my romance with Brighton. We walked, we talked, we drank coffee together and ate a lot of cake (I felt ill for days). I got very wet and a little bit drunk on cocktails. I realised why not having a car sucks even in Brighton (it costs a fortune in taxi fare to arrive anywhere dry).

I also discovered this: BRITAIN's Biggest Photo Biennial - BRIGHTON PHOTO BIENNIAL.

I had to see this. I had to add this to my falling in love all over again and what did I get? An exhibition of graphic exhibit of Dead People. Yes. I know. What the hell do you do with that experience?
There I was minding my own business, wandering into a disused church/art space with my friend to discuss in an artistic manner the lighting in whatever pleasant, symbolic shoot of rural France was about to greet us and instead . . . someone has been motivated by the lack of the portrayal of death in the coverage of the Iraq War to actually seek out gruesome, disturbing shots of very dead/hideously disfigurered.dismembered people and stick them on a massive banner.
I am not a lover of horror films. I do not have an appreciation of gore but I was strangely compelled to (at a distance) stare at death. A very real, already passed, nothing-I-can-do-about-it death. And it sickened me. There is a very good reason why that stuff I have seen is NOT on the news.

Pickle, you would have been very upset. But perhaps we would have talked about it and discussed it’s usefulness as a demonstration of reality. Perhaps not. We may have cried together.

This experience has reinforced my total belief that if there was any kind of disaster/war/outbreak of zombies that I would be one of those people who very insignificantly and gruesomely dies at the beginning of the film for effect.

Only a few weeks ago Rob asked me how I’d get from Calfornia to Hawaii if there was no one left on earth, it was my only chance of survival and I only had one month to do it in. Initially my response was simple enough; I’d sail. I can’t fly a plane obviously and I don’t fancy my chances swimming (I have a very serious fear of sharks). I gave myself a 50% chance of living.

Then I did some research. Was I mad? Have I really no idea how difficult it would be to navigate that? Let alone survive the weather? Please see the links to the left and read about some people who tried (Ican’t be held responsible for how unattractive they are). I have reconsidered my options and I now give myself a 0% chance of survival and therefore decided that should this occurance ever arise I would stay on land and wait for my inevitable death in style. There’s be no one to stop me moving into a very nice hotel and sleeping in a different room everynight for a month would there?

Oh and by the way, looks like G might be working in Qatar. Joy.

Mailing Dead People . . .

It has come to Friday again. I am looking back on my week. Not bad really. Yesterday was pretty awful, but I’ve only drunk two half bottles of wine this week, which by comparison to other weeks recently, is pretty good.

I have just come out of a training course about suppressing data. The science (or not) of making sure you never mail dead people, never contact Mr Grumpy from Slough and never ring up Mrs. My-Baby-Died flogging Early Learning Centre products. Couple this experience with the program I watched last night on “The Credit Crunch” and you have my current mind set. Almost, accept for the gradual acceptance that perhaps the only way to escape the consequences of my actions, and moreover the consequences of our actions as a larger social community, is to declare myself dead. To disappear. Fade Out.

More on the finer details of this plan later . . .

I am looking forward to a weekend of having a visitor in Brighton which is when I love this city the most. You cannot help but become complacent about living in Brighton. It just isn’t possible to go to the Pier, or walk on the beach, or fall in love with the lanes every weekend. Occasionally great things happen like the discovery of the Choocy Woccy Doo Dah Café (which could kill a full grown man in under an hour), but mostly you go to the same places and do the same things. Let’s face it, when you have to take you dry cleaning in every week the city is bound to get less glamorous. But when people come to visit!! It’s a glorious discovery all over again. You see it all from the poor deprived perspective of a stranger. Someone who has not known what it means to be a native. You re-discover. You grow.

Also I am planning to try out my pastry making skills with a nifty steak pie and some ratatouille for next week’s lunches. This is the extent of my domesticity. I have given up cleaning on the basis that the cats trashed the sofa’s that Paul so diligently applied soap to, and that I actually discovered some kind of worm in the bottom of the shower. I believe it resists the application of bleach. Gross.

So items for consideration this Friday evening are; How To Be Dead Without Dying, Can You Shower In A Plastic Suit And Still Get Clean and Pastry: When Should You Say No.

I’m sure my feline audience will by thrilled.

Half a day in the life of . . .

I thought maybe it was about time for a short description of my working day. I know that even now after over a year that you have no idea what I’m doing here.

I’ll take today as a typical example (although Tuesday’s are quite special) and walk you through it.

08:00 – Henry arrives at 51 to collect me
08:00 – 09:04 – He drives me to work mostly discussing odd topics such as horror films, who’s friend did what, the most recent argument either he or I have had with our respective partners, my most recent theory of political terrorism at work, etc.
09:06 – Swipe into work. Yes. Swipe. I am tagged.
09:15 – Computer finally wakes up. Eat bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes (the type of cereal varies, or most likely I eat biscuits).
09:30 – Check all emails that I didn’t read yesterday. Realise something important was supposed to happen. Worry about it.
10:00 – Emma arrives (although on Tuesday she doesn’t because she’s in London)
10:10 – Make Emma a cup of coffee (but not on Tuesdays)
10:30 – By now I am into full report mode, or I’m checking a file or I’m writing a brief, or I’m discussing a job with someone - or all of the above at once.
11:00 – Make coffee for me. Have proper coffee in my drawer – process takes time and dedication. At the moment it's French Continental Blend. It's slightly bitter.
12:00 – Start report for Status Call, get updates on status of various jobs running, fill in template.
13:00 – Dial into call. Wait.
13:05 – Everyone who is supposed to be on call is in another meeting. Hang up.
13:10 – 14:30 – Load checking program and check that data received is correct. Raise quote, deal with queries from suppliers, book in meetings, file list orders, and print labels.

That's my day so far.
I have a list of ten things to do. They include creating two LOL's (List of Lists), sending some extracts, discussing a suppression file and outputting some returns files.

Discussions have arisen in the office about there being too much stuff on my desk. I believe that you once had a similar problem? I don’t appreciate it. My dying creativity needs an outlet. It’s a small, malnourished whelp that gets no sunlight.

I will write to you. I promise.