Thursday, 29 November 2012

I luv life

The most annoying, trite, twatty thing men say on a dating site. Well, one of the most annoying trite, twatty things men say. See also those who specify - actually specify - that they want someone without "any emotional baggage". These are men in their thirties. Surely, if they were ever unfortunate enough to meet a girl with no "emotional baggage" she'd be a vegetable? Or a corpse? Perhaps in a coma? Maybe that's it. Maybe these men would rather go out with a corpse vegetable in a coma than deal with the fact that she may have had emotional reactions to situations in the past.  

Also, maybe the ones who say they are happy with everything and "don't see the point in being upset about anything" would rather go out with a mannequin. Ideally one without any opinions. As an intelligent, cognisant human being, it's not possible to never be upset about anything ever unless you are a psychopath. Or made of jelly. Or are void of all human emotion. Or you're Spock. 

And even he had to master his emotions. 

This is all that is wrong with internet dating in a nutshell. It allows people to create such an elaborate fantasy of the person they want to go out with that they actually demand qualities that are inhuman. And it must be some kind of commentary on the way we live now that it all seems geared to demanding women who say less, think less, emote less and weigh less. 

You should see some of the sights on these sites. Some of the men. Oh good lord. GOOD lord. Let's just say my definition of "athletic and toned" and "attractive" don't match theirs. They can look like Shrek with man boobs but still have absolutely no qualms in stating that they are specifically looking for a lady who is "very attractive", "slim or athletic" and weighs no more than 8.5 stone. Yep, there is a weight category. And OK, so I'm verrrrry sensitive about my weight, it's true. But when a man who looks obese in his profile shots specifies that he will only consider a woman between 7 and 8 stone it makes me angry on many levels. 

I saw one the other day that said he would accept a date from a woman up to 6ft 2 inches in height but her maximum weight had to be no more than 9 stone. 

Obviously I don't know what kind of fantasies women spin on these sites, apart from my own. Which appears to be searching for someone akin to Rochester from Jane Eyre crossed with Lord Byron and Jim Morrison. 

Having glanced accidentally in the mirror at art class and nearly jumping in disgust at my haggard, sick and, frankly, ugly appearance, I guess I'm just as guilty as everyone else. 

Tuesday, 27 November 2012

"Looking for a home for my cat...

"... One year, three months old. Very affectionate and friendly."

This is the first advert I saw on Gumtree while searching for a really reputable looking pimp to hire me just now.

What is wrong with this picture? I'll tell you what's fucking wrong with this picture. There is no excuse in the fucking world to try and get rid of the pet you can no longer be arsed to look after on fucking Gumtree. The cat is not a commodity. It is not something that you can pick up and put down. I don't see any listings for children on there? "Looking for a new home for little Jeremiah. He's house trained and micro chipped. Very affectionate." That, I can almost understand.

Let's leave aside, for a moment, the issue I have with people who take on pets only to dump them when they realise that actually, it's quite expensive, and a bit of a pain in the ass and you have to, you know, give a shit about this animal that YOU undertook to look after. Somebody that I used to know adopted a cat and then fucked off to another country. "But, what about your cat?" I said. "Oh," he said. "They kind of just come with the house don't they?"

No. No they fucking DON'T. Cats that were family pets don't just magically "look after themselves" the instant people can't be bothered.

Here's my second issue. If you have to get rid of your pet for whatever reason - perhaps your new partner is allergic or thinks animals are dirty - don't then take a photo of your pet and put it up on a fucking website for any psycho to take heed of.

What you could do, actually, is take your pet to one of the many, MANY animal charities (Cats Protection, RSPCA, local shelters, Blue Cross, PDSA. There are literally hundreds) who will take your bundle of fur from you with no questions, no charges and no blame. Here the poor abandoned furry thing will be looked after and you (assuming you give any kind of a shit at all) will have the peace of mind that any home they go to will be vetted and its new owners checked out.

If you can't even face that, perhaps because it makes you look like the uncaring douchefuck you are, then leave kitty outside one of those places and the staff will look after her.

I emailed the Gumtree prick and suggested that perhaps it would be kinder to take their beloved pet to an animal rescue charity, rather than just taking some cash off whatever dickhead rocks up after seeing the advert.

Judging by the age of the cat these assholes are trying to palm off like an old pair of shoes, I'd guess that they got her as a fluffy kitten and then got bored with her as she got older and just went about doing her cat thing. Cats are discerning pets. And they don't just dole out affection on tap like some kind of blow up animal doll. If you get a cat purely because YOU want affection, rather than you want to make sure the animal has a nice life, then you're a douche.

I really hope this kitteh ends up with someone better than her first family. Someone who perhaps will stick with her until, oh, I dunno, the end of her life?

I hate people.

Saturday, 24 November 2012

I hate Tolkien

Over the years it seems Tolkien had to defend his writing against those who said the interminable Lord of the Rings was an allegory for anything from World War II to Catholicism. Which it clearly is, by the way. The religious bit rather than the war bit. He had his own horrendous experiences during the Great War before inflicting it on an unsuspecting world. He actually served at the Somme before being rather marvellously invalided out and spending the rest of it holed up in Blighty writing endless shite about elves. Or orcs. Or whatever they're called.

Apparently he never expected his work to become popular. I can see why. It's not a popular position to take clearly, as The Lord of the Rings trilogy has been voted Britain's favouritist ever ever book a couple of times now. It topped a poll of the nation's favourite book. This boggles my mind. Not that people like it at all - I get that other people have different opinions to me (I mean, they're wrong, obviously, but they are allowed to have their opinion) but for so MANY to cite it as their favourite book leads me to believe that most of those polled haven't actually read it but have some vague idea that it's intellectual-ish yet still sort of cool because all forms of nerdery are in.

Tolkein is hailed as the grandfather of the fantasy genre. Yep. He started it. And his first effort - The Hobbit - was discovered by accident by a publisher who decided to give it a whirl. Next thing you know people are gagging for stories about dragons, rings and hairy-footed midgets.

He's one of those writers who insists you become utterly immersed in the world he spent 10 years creating. You can't casually read Tolkien. You have to concentrate. You have to try and remember all the interlinking and back stories and details. And more than that, you have to care. All well and good if it wasn't so fucking boring.

I first came across Tolkien at school. I was 10. Our teacher used to read The Hobbit to us every week after swimming. I have next to no memories of school or my childhood but I remember the desperate boredom of these sessions in detail. I remember trying to stay awake while a cacophony of bewilderingly dull characters with ridiculous names bimbled around for aeons.

Many years later and being dragged to the cinema by my ex to watch the final Lord of the Rings film brought all those feelings rushing back. Three times I got up under the mistaken belief that it must have ended by now, only to realise that there was yet another scene of hobbits clinking tankers in fucking Hobbiton to endure.

And now they are making three more films of The Hobbit. Why only three? Why not split it into 12? 20? Squeeze 50 episodes out of it? Why not have it going on for fucking EVER?

I'm reading Titus Groan at the moment. Again. If you want a fantasy world that'll immerse you and won't treat you like a rather boring child, then you should read Mervyn Peake. What wouldn't I give to have someone somewhere put the money, time and effort into making films worthy of the world he created? Never going to happen is it? Not while the massive franchises crash on. And on. And on. And on.

Wednesday, 21 November 2012

Stop. Grammar time.

For someone as perennially single as me, you'd think I can't afford to be picky, right? At my advanced age I should just take whatever's on offer. Beggars can't be choosers and all of that. Wrong. This beggar is well fussy.

Back in the day, I couldn't measure potential mates on the basis of their ability to distinguish between your and you're or their propensity to call me 'hun' or say LOL. These things didn't exist. Life was so much easier then. I met my long long long term ex at a train station. I offered him a cigarette. The rest, as they say, is history. I didn't get the chance to measure his grammatical prowess. Although he was reading L'Etranger, which was intriguing and sexy and made me think that he would never call me 'hun'. And, to be fair, he didn't. Although I never did see him pick up another Camus during the next eight years.

I don't mind friends calling me 'hun', I should add, although I do find it odd. If it was the short form of honey, it would be 'hon'. So why hun? It just always makes me think of World War 1 and their helmets. I can't help it. I seem to recall my iPhone used to think that too and would autocap it. Because so many people need to send urgent text messages discussing the Hun on a daily basis, natch.

Obviously this comes up a lot more with online dating, emails, texts and IM. I can be having some amusing and potentially charming banter with a fellow who looks pretty fit and then he'll do it. He'll drop the 'h' bomb. And follow it up with a LOL or two. And, before I know it, I've gone from wondering what he'd be like in bed to wondering what it'd be like to punch him in the face with a dictionary.

I mean, what's wrong with me? Since when did the misuse of apostrophes rule someone out as a nice, fun, sexy, kind person? But it's just annoying. Because it's lazy. It's not difficult to learn a simple rule, such as your/you're. It really isn't. It's just as easy to type 'ha ha' as LOL. Substituting 'z' for 's' randomly - why? Even if he's got a Doctorate from Oxford, the minute he types LOL he's instantly relegated in my mind to a lazy, fatuous oik who has probably never really read a book.

The overuse of exclamation marks and question marks also puts a dampener on my libido. There's just no need.

And then if I ever make it to a date or even, gasp, a second date, the need to be cuddling up to me and the wish to sleep in my bed puts the kibosh on the whole thing right there and then. I don't like sharing my bed. With anyone. Not my best friends, not drunk people who really need somewhere to sleep, not boys. I just. Don't. Like. It.

Helena Bonham-Carter and Tim Burton have separate bedrooms in adjoining houses. THAT'S what I'm looking for. I have no wish to be woken up with that poking into the small of my back every morning. I don't like morning sex until every party involved has brushed their teeth and, ideally, had a shower. And given me approx three hours of 'alone' time in which to wake up properly.

I don't like going to sleep in a tangle of sweaty limbs, no matter how good it was. Because as soon as the post-coital glow has gone I don't want to be touched and pawed at. I don't want to be squeezed and groped. A nice cuddle, a quick cigarette and then separate beds for a restful, luxurious, stretch filled kip.

So, in short, I'm looking for someone who knows the difference between there and their, never calls me 'hun' and if he absolutely feels he has to, at least spells it 'hon', and would be happy never to sleep in the same bed as me.


Friday, 16 November 2012

When does it start feeling like Christmas?

You know on the ever-changing Facebook where they target adverts at you and helpfully give you more and more suggested pages to 'like'? It's shit isn't it? It's annoying, irritating and, frankly, insulting sometimes. I've had a few suggestions to like something called I just feel like Facebook doesn't really listen to me, you know? I thought we had something special. I talk and I talk and I talk and I thought Facebook understood me.

Yesterday there was some link to Sainsbury's. I think it was Sainsbury's. Some bloody supermarket anyway. I can't actually imagine why anyone would bother 'liking' a Sainsbury's page. How much can you like Sainsbury's anyway? Presumably it's for the chance to get 10p off something at some point. I personally don't like brands befriending me. It's weird. It upsets the balance of them working hard and constantly to find new and better ways to rip me off. I don't want them to then pretend to be my friend. It's icky.

This Sainsbury's link had a poll. The question was: When does it start feeling like Christmas? There were a few options. I can't remember what they were. But there were also a lot of comments, so, being the unemployed timewaster I so clearly am, I had a wee look down them.

Almost overwhelmingly there were various iterations of: "It feels like Christmas to me when I see the Coca Cola lorry advert." Often accompanied by LOL or some kind of emoticon. I hate emoticons. And I hate internetspeak unless it's coming from the point of view of a LOLcat. I just don't get it. It makes me cringe. Especially now that it's morphed so there's actually 'in joke' versions to show other geeks that you don't actually speak like this and your aware of its utter shitness but you're one step ahead of everyone else. Things like roflcopter. I don't even get it. I don't want to get it. Use words. With letters.

Back to the Coca Cola lorry advert. I mean what in the living fuck are these people on about? It doesn't feel like Christmas until I see a fucking advert for Coca COLA? That's Coca Cola, sponsors of the Berlin (more commonly known as the Nazi) Olympics in 1936? Coca Cola who have had to pay out at least $200 million to victims of human rights abuse in Colombia, for which it was liable? Coca Cola who have been held responsible for at least 179 human rights violations and nine murders? Coca Cola who are systematically bleeding wells dry in the Third World? Coca Cola who use over 290 billion litres of water every year to make their shitty drink, which they plunder from countries where people are dying every single day from starvation and thirst? That Coca Cola? I guess nothing says "Let's celebrate the birth of a mythical figure" like feeling some kind of weird, manipulated emotional connection to a brand that wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire?

But just because their advertising is amazeballs and they, by the way, invented Father Christmas. I know this because we are told ad nauseam. Until the '30s Father Christmas in his red hat and obese
body didn't exist. It was more about St Nicholas and rather nice European folk tales before then. But fuck that shit. We don't want tales of satsumas in stockings and home made presents. We want sticky drinks of dubious origin. We want shiny things. We want decorations. We want to spend MONEY.

And now Coca Cola don't even have to use some kind of friendly face in their advertising. They have managed to get people hooked on a false feeling of nostalgia and excitement (for what they're not quite sure but they definitely want to spend a LOT of money. And quite fancy a coke actually, come to think of it...) at the sight of a lorry. A fucking delivery lorry. With Coca Cola in it. A lorry that says Happy Holidays. Which, by the way, up until about five years ago, wouldn't even have meant anything to anyone in this country, used, as we were, to crazy phrases like Merry Christmas.

If you must "feel like Christmas" how about conjuring up some goodwill based on something a bit less shit, eh? I have no idea what Christmas is meant to "feel like" by the way. Seems to me it's a cynical manipulation and exploitation of everyone's entirely natural general sense of nostalgia and  the promise of filling that gaping black maw of despair you've carefully buried under layers of consumables and tinsel for so long now.

Still, I really really fancy a diet Coke right now.

Wednesday, 14 November 2012

The answer to all my problems?

I don't make any secret of the fact that I'm on a dating site. I don't find it especially embarrassing or strange. I met my ex-boyfriend online. And I quickly discovered that, much like buying clothes over the interwebs, you only realise the flaws when it arrives at your home and is unwrapped. Then you may well find that the material is cheap and it doesn't actually fit. Sadly, there are no refunds but you can always throw them away.

I signed up again when I moved to York as I thought it would be an excellent way to widen my pool of friends, if nothing else. And, yes, I am still the type who has a tiny thought in the back of my mind that one day my (dark, sexy, brooding, hilarious) prince will come and take me away from all of this. Yes, I still have a small flicker of the fantasy, even though real life boys and relationships have firmly shown me over and over again THAT IS NOT GOING TO HAPPEN and the most you can hope for is someone who will refrain from sticking his nether regions in other women's lady parts either "by accident" or because "I was drunk, it doesn't count" or "you're not a size 8".

Disappointingly I haven't met anyone from the site who I would like to do the beast with two backs with. Or even a tiny beast with a half hearted hump.

I have been emailed by quite a few promisingly good looking types who then turn out to be only "sort of single", "on a break", illiterate or just plain mental.  These days it's become more of a website to check out of morbid fascination. The emails I get range from the bizarre to the offensive, with some normal-ish ones in between.

Just yesterday, in fact, I got an email from a 57 year old man that simply said: "Are you horny?"

These kinds of emails actually make me throw up a little in my mouth. Obviously these men are mailshotting lots of ladies in the hope that one, poor, sad, desperate one will presumably say: "Why, yes, old, ugly man. I am horny. Would you like to have some kind of sexual conversation over Skype? Excellent."

I like to think they just randomly select women to send these kinds of mails to, and that it isn't anything in my profile that's just crying out for a letchy old fucker to send me disgusting emails.

Also yesterday, I also had a text from a guy that I was talking to a while back, as it had become apparent that, although very good looking, he was in fact semi-literate, thick as pigshit and arrogant as fuck. A winning combination. I stopped texting him probably around three months ago, after I became bored with trying to figure out his textspeak missives. But suddenly, out of the blue: "Still wanna. mt. Hudd-fld,"

I think Ben from Huddersfield was under the mistaken belief that I have been crouched desperately by my phone for the last two months just waiting for that moment where he would ask me to come to Huddersfield. I also think that he's now pretty clear that wasn't, in fact, the case.

And then, while at art class, I had another mail. It was from Leedsguy761. It simply said: "I run an escort agency in Leeds. You would make £150 an hour. Interested?"


Sunday, 11 November 2012

All we can do is adapt while we're still here...

We watched a lot of shit TV tonight. I made my mum watch The X Factor. I'm pretty depressed and it seemed to be the right kind of thing to suit my mood. But it was too much, even for me. In fact, I think it may have snapped me out of the depths of my absolute despair by giving me the realisation that, shit as things undoubtedly are, my life is too good and too short to spend it watching various eye-bleedingly boring children churn out ear-bleedingly awful covers of superior artist's songs. A guy with the eyes of a cow, the teeth of a tramp and the musical interpretation of an accordionist did something terrible to an Adele track. And I snapped.

I gave my mum the remote and told her to go for her life. This is usually dangerous territory as it ends up with endless episodes of something called The Mentalist. Which isn't nearly as amusing as I thought it was going to be.

And we came across a film. "It's set in Glasgow or something," said ma. I saw it's called Perfect Sense. And then I saw it has Ewan McGregor in it. Sold. This is what we shall watch. I'd watch bleeding anything with him in it. Even a really tediously self indulgent series about him riding round the world with his posho chum.

Perfect Sense is a slow burning pre-apocalyptic film. And it blew my mind. It came out in 2011, the same year as Melancholia, another beautifully shot pre-apocalyptic film. These are far more terrifying than post-apocalyptic. The gathering sense of doom and dread escalates until it's almost unbearable in both films. And I've had a look at the reviews and they are similar: split between people who think the films are boring and that 'nothing happens' and people who have their minds blown apart and feel like they've genuinely watched something profound.

No prizes for guessing which way I went.

It's at its core a love story. Ewan McGregor is a chef, Eva Green is a scientist. They meet. They shag. You see Eva's tits. Eventually they start to fall in love. And while they do, a weird epidemic starts spreading around the world. A profound and intense period of grief and depression, accompanied by much wailing and gnashing of teeth, is followed by the loss of the sense of smell.

So what? I thought. That's actually not that bad. I imagined living without a sense of smell. It would be annoying, but it would be OK. I know people like that already. People adapt quickly and move on.

We follow the entire story through the eyes of Ewan and Eva, accompanied by her rather Bladerunner-esque voiceovers.

Next to go is taste, just after another intense emotional outpouring.

People adapt and move on. The relationship intensifies. As long as people have each other, there is no real cause for alarm. People go back to work. Ewan's restaurant starts to devise different kinds of dishes, based on looks and texture, rather than taste.

Weeks pass. Life, as someone keeps cropping up and saying, goes on.

As with Melancholia, where you already know the world is going to end and spend the film in almost unbearable anticipation of the moment when it happens, you can see clearly what will happen in Perfect Sense. You begin ticking senses off on your fingers. And waiting.

Next is hearing. And when the characters go deaf, you go deaf. There is complete silence for many minutes as you watch the characters desperately start to adapt to even this. After this you never hear a character speak. There is just the rather beautiful soundtrack and occasional voiceovers. Just before the deafness came intense anger, leading Ewan to be pretty beastly to Eva, leaving our lovers estranged.

And just before the sense of sight goes, an intense period of happiness floods everyone, along with the wish to reconnect with loved ones. The film's final scene is Ewan and Eva finding each other again, just as their sight fades to black. Wisely the story stops there, leaving your agitated and affected mind imagining the chaos that would ensue, with everyone in the world profoundly deaf, blind, mute, scrambling around for food, trying to adapt.

The last sense to go will be touch.

I'm glad the film stopped where it did as I'm not sure I could have handled that, outside of vague pictures in my mind.

In the same way as Melancholia it leaves loads of intense and mixed feelings, about the nature of humanity, about the adaptability of our species, about the instinct to survive and, ultimately, how we have no control over our destiny. All we can do is adapt while we're still here.

Saturday, 10 November 2012

"Tomorrow we begin a new tomorrow"

"I believe in an America where millions of Americans believe in an America that's the America millions of Americans believe in. That's the America I love."

Mitt Romney ladies and gentlemen.

The man who looked, for a few scary days, very much like he could have been President of what is still the most powerful nation on earth.

Mitt is, let's face it, an unmitigated twat. He's in favour of renewable energy as long as it doesn't cost anything; he wanted to give employers the power to decide whether female employees can get free contraceptives on their health insurance; he emotionally declared that he had seen Martin Luther King Jr marching with his father George Romney. He was later forced to admit that, in fact, he hadn't. He had meant it 'figuratively'. After he looked up 'figuratively' in a dictionary.

He wanted mosques to be wiretapped and foreign students to be placed under surveillance to improve domestic intelligence. Yes, really. He opposed Obama's first bill as President in 2008 --
that of equal pay for women. Romney hates pornography but is a card-carrying member of the National Rifle Association with the fiery passion of a crazy religious right wing fucknugget.

He hates unions. He hates porn. He hates women. He supported 'abstinence' education. This is where children get no sex education apart from being told not to do it. Yeah, that works Mitt. That's an excellent idea.

He vociferously opposed any new gun measures and made it clear that, should he be elected, he wouldn't change a thing as it might annoy lawful gun owners. He wanted to build a fence along the entire 2,600 mile border between Mexico and the US, equipped with armed guards and enough technology to electrocute those motherfuckers.

My whole life there have been morons in the White House. The earliest I remember was Reagan and then Bush Snr, Bush Jnr... growing up I thought that it was the law that American Presidents had to be half wits. Whenever Hollywood created a President, he was intelligent, erudite, stylish, fair minded, liberal... and yet reality gave us various incarnations of the moronic Bush family.

I genuinely never expected a President like Obama to ever be elected. He's intelligent, erudite, stylish, fair minded, liberal. He's pro-choice, supports same sex marriage, wants to strengthen social security and education, end the war in Iraq, finish the campaign in Afghanistan and stop Iran going mental with nuclear armaments. He's not a religious nutter. He can kill flies like a ninja and can do all of the potentially embarrassing President things while still seeming cool. He is way more than America deserves. And he's kind of hot.

And I know that a) I have about as much political understanding as Fatman and b) I'm not American but it is important to me and I did a little jig of joy when I heard Obama was in for another four years.

Obviously, any political stance is emotive and difficult to intelligently argue, because everyone thinks they're right. The crazy ass right wingers who really, truly thought Romney would be their next President no doubt think they're completely right in hating poor people and not wanting everyone to have equal rights. 

But here's the thing. They're not. They're utterly wrong. There is no justification for pro-life, misogynistic policies, no justification for treating immigrants like shit, no justification in being openly racist and no justification in backtracking, lying and agreeing with whoever is nearest to you at any given moment. There's no justification behind assuming people who earn $250,000 are of 'middle income' and proudly declaring you're "not going to bother" with anyone poorer than that. There is no justification in being such an out of touch, bigoted old fool and expect to run America. Although I suppose, in his defence, he'd seen many of a similar ilk end up in the White House. 

Thank fuck that, despite a late push in the media for Romney, just enough Americans realised his utter fuckwittage in time and voted for the best hope they have. And let's face it, whatever Obama can or cannot achieve (while being blocked by the Republican knobrots in the Senate) he is a man who will never ever say anything as inane as this: 

"I'm not familiar precisely with exactly what I said, but I stand by what I said. Whatever it was."

Bye bye Mitt. It's been no pleasure whatsoever.

Tuesday, 6 November 2012

Straddling past and present..

I only put the word straddling into my title so I could put it in the keywords and hence get a lot more hits on the offchance that it's a blog full of porn. That's an actual true fact. I need a boost.

Anyway, I've had a right shitty couple of months of it. A rancid crapfest of bad luck trickling through my life, gathering pace until it a veritable flood of excrement seems to be forever lapping at my feet. Wading through it is increasingly fraught with moments of actual full on nihilism and the need to just lie down until it stops. The utter pointlessness of any kind of endeavour haunts my consciousness like the aftermath of a bad trip.

And then something nice happens. Like I speak to a friend, a real friend, on the phone. Or I make some new ones. Or I'm asked whether I'd like to work from the One&Other office, which is almost entirely staffed with lovely people. Almost.

Forming bonds with new people is hard. And it's even harder when you're at a low ebb. This year has been freaking weird. I made a move that I never thought I would make. Moving away from my safe but dull haven. If anyone asked me whether it would be a good idea to take a punt on a job and move their life across country to a place where they know no one at all, I would probably say no. It's not a good idea. Particularly if you're single, 36, neurotic and, um, complicated. It's hard. It's lonely. And there will be many, many times when it seems the worst idea you've ever had.

I struggle to remember why I was so keen to leave Leamington. I have a terrible way of romanticising the past. It's part of the reason why I cling on so hard. To bad relationships. To friends who talk a lot but don't actually follow through. To boys who are just awful. To things that have happened in the past and hurt me, and I just cannot, cannot, shake off.

So I spend a lot of time living in the past, wishing I was back somewhere else. When actually, of course, it wasn't that ace in the first place. If I was having the best time ever in Leamington, I wouldn't have moved heaven and earth to leave. I wouldn't have taken a chance on a job that turned out to be rather more than a disappointment. I wouldn't have found myself where I am. In York. Living in a beautiful flat that could be taken away from me at any time. Alone but starting to make friends. Unemployed but hopefully not for long.

Half a step in the past and half a step trying to push forward to a better future.