"Nobody deserves to die, in a little flat, alone, in a backstreet in Blackpool."
The above is a line I just heard in 999: What's Your Emergency?, which I'm watching as homework (homework is BACK). And I thought it was funny and a bit weird, I mean, why is it worse to die in Blackpool than say, Cornwall? And doesn't everyone die alone, supposedly?
My Grandma passed away today. My Dad's Mum with the super-white hair who fed us Mr Kipling French Fancies and liked crosswords and watching ice-skating and couldn't hear and was a proud atheist who once said to me, 'my religion is Nature.' And if you're going to be all silly and nihilistic about it then maybe 'everyone dies alone', but if anyone doesn't, then she didn't. For months my Dad's brought her lunch every single day, and has barely left her side the last few days from what I can tell. The carers have been amazing, and her friends. I wish I'd seen her more recently, but I feel okay.
I was saying last night, to that kooky Turkish chap I know, that being very very old, i.e. mid-nineties like my Grandma was, might be a bit like being at the very end of a long, long, mega house party. This is an embarrassing analogy and clearly shows that youth is wasted on the young, but anyway, my point was, that at the end of the party, there's nowhere to go really - the party's not going to get better. You're tired and weak and not really enjoying yourself. Most of your pals have passed out upstairs. Staying awake is a huge effort. But you still don't want to go to sleep. Going to sleep means it's all over, and you were having such a lovely time.
And today is very sad, and I'm very sad, but I'm very pleased that my lovely Grandma knew when to leave the party.
On a lighter note - Speaking of parties and the subject of dignified passing, a big congratulations to the Terry Pratchett: Choosing to Die team (which includes ME, in the most minor way possible!) on winning the Best Documentary International EMMY last night! An Emmy! That's big league, Tez'n'co. Bet the bash was mega, too.
I've only been to one awards ceremony, where we also collected Best Doc for Choosing to Die, and which it has to be said was not quite the Emmys. It was called the Learning on Screen Awards, and this extremely unglamorous name combined with the fact that my company sent a Production Assistant (me), a Junior Coordinator and an Accountant to collect an award on behalf of Terry Pratchett should give an idea of quite how low-key it was.
But I did not think it was going to be low-key. I thought ALL awards ceremonies, at least in medialand, had red carpets, evening gowns and melodramatic speeches. Thus I tottered up to the Southbank Centre in heels and a blue sequined dress I'd panic-purchased in my lunch hour, clutching a little humble speech about how thrilled we were and how sorry that Terry couldn't make it, and was extremely miffed to discover that nearly everyone was in jeans, and there was no red carpet and no one was expected to give a speech. So miffed in fact, that I got wasted on the cheap wine and made an inappropriately sexual joke to the scientist Robert Winston, who was presenting the awards. I shan't repeat it here.
Tuesday, 20 November 2012
Monday, 19 November 2012
All sorts of curdling...
Wow. I just found some milk in the fridge that went out of date on October 14th. Very alarmed that I hadn't noticed it until now. My first thoughts, upon spotting the offending carton, was that it was full of wee. My mind struggled for an explanation. Had someone filled a milk carton with wee as part of some kind of jolly stoned experiment, or as a stage in a complex plan to wriggle out of an incriminating drugs test? But no, further investigation showed that it was not wee. It was a whitey-green transparent water in a puffed out carton, with three inches of floaty, chunky matter at its base. Tossing it with horror into the bin, an ungodly odour filled the room. Febreze did not cover it. I had to run out to the communal bins in bare feet and pants, holding the hideous article at arm's length and hoping not to pass any neighbours. Must start paying attention to the fridge.
Anyway, from one vomit-inducing trauma to another - this morning I read an article in the Metro which almost induced a full-blown panic attack. Here it is: http://www.metro.co.uk/news/newsfocus/918145-courage-skill-and-no-holidays-what-it-takes-to-be-a-successful-freelancer
Now, this is of personal relevance to me because after two comfortable years of full-time employment at a documentary production company, blindly wandering in and out of the office at the right times, doing what I'm told in the hours in-between, and then rejoicing when a gaggle of English pounds plops into my account every month, I'm being launched out of the office cannon into the freelance battlefield. This is not, as some thoughtless naysayers have said, "getting fired." My contract has merely been dramatically shortened due to an elective change of role. But I do get to spend my final months frolicking in the playful sandpit that is television development, rather than forcing my hopelessly disorganised brain to be an administrative production assistant, as it had been doing (very badly) beforehand.
I really haven't thought about how I will attempt being a freelance researcher. I figured I would go about it the same way I went about getting my first running jobs - sending a few amusingly self-deprecating but very enthusiastic emails to interesting-sounding companies, then wearing my 'lucky jacket' to interviews. But as a runner, all you really need to be is enthusiastic, and willing to take it up the arse from bossy media types. As a freelancer, you're selling a specific skill that is enough of a learned commodity to be worth paying a substantial amount of money for. And I'm not entirely sure I have enough faith in my skillset, which is essentially 'Googling, brain-storming and penning vaguely-amusing bits of copy' to pedal it pushily around the industry. Plus, it sounds like a lot of effort. Also, NO HOLIDAYS? What fresh hell?? I thought freelancing would be nearly ALL holidays! A couple of weeks of work here and there, sandwiched between thick slices of relaxing 'down time' to hone my Googling skills and fight off competing offers of work from C4 and the Beeb.
In reality, it's hard enough finding work in this current climate without having to KEEP finding little jobs over and over again. The job-seeking "pool" is no longer a peaceful ocean through which one swims relatively undisturbed, with one's hard-earned qualifications and glowing character on full display for savvy employers to admire before snaring you on their dangling hook. No, it rather resembles this insane swimming pool in China, where every garish rubber ring represents a degree or course that you foolishly thought would make you stand out.
Ho hum. I'm sure it will be okay and I won't end up in prison for accidental tax evation, or have to get a job in Greggs on Deptford High Street.
Anyway, from one vomit-inducing trauma to another - this morning I read an article in the Metro which almost induced a full-blown panic attack. Here it is: http://www.metro.co.uk/news/newsfocus/918145-courage-skill-and-no-holidays-what-it-takes-to-be-a-successful-freelancer
Now, this is of personal relevance to me because after two comfortable years of full-time employment at a documentary production company, blindly wandering in and out of the office at the right times, doing what I'm told in the hours in-between, and then rejoicing when a gaggle of English pounds plops into my account every month, I'm being launched out of the office cannon into the freelance battlefield. This is not, as some thoughtless naysayers have said, "getting fired." My contract has merely been dramatically shortened due to an elective change of role. But I do get to spend my final months frolicking in the playful sandpit that is television development, rather than forcing my hopelessly disorganised brain to be an administrative production assistant, as it had been doing (very badly) beforehand.
I really haven't thought about how I will attempt being a freelance researcher. I figured I would go about it the same way I went about getting my first running jobs - sending a few amusingly self-deprecating but very enthusiastic emails to interesting-sounding companies, then wearing my 'lucky jacket' to interviews. But as a runner, all you really need to be is enthusiastic, and willing to take it up the arse from bossy media types. As a freelancer, you're selling a specific skill that is enough of a learned commodity to be worth paying a substantial amount of money for. And I'm not entirely sure I have enough faith in my skillset, which is essentially 'Googling, brain-storming and penning vaguely-amusing bits of copy' to pedal it pushily around the industry. Plus, it sounds like a lot of effort. Also, NO HOLIDAYS? What fresh hell?? I thought freelancing would be nearly ALL holidays! A couple of weeks of work here and there, sandwiched between thick slices of relaxing 'down time' to hone my Googling skills and fight off competing offers of work from C4 and the Beeb.
In reality, it's hard enough finding work in this current climate without having to KEEP finding little jobs over and over again. The job-seeking "pool" is no longer a peaceful ocean through which one swims relatively undisturbed, with one's hard-earned qualifications and glowing character on full display for savvy employers to admire before snaring you on their dangling hook. No, it rather resembles this insane swimming pool in China, where every garish rubber ring represents a degree or course that you foolishly thought would make you stand out.
Ho hum. I'm sure it will be okay and I won't end up in prison for accidental tax evation, or have to get a job in Greggs on Deptford High Street.
From the depths of my disease-ridden duvet...
I have begun this blog for the following reason: it is my third day off sick from work with a mega-lurgy, and I figured there must be something more productive I could do from under the duvet than groan, attempt to stream Come Dine With Me on my sticky 2007 laptop, and pretend to be a baby polar bear in a floating icy cave, cast out to sea on a tide of global warming. I'm not so sure it's going to be much more productive than any of them, but at least I'm marginally less depressed about the state of things.
Ugh. Just a quick bit of moaning first. This lurgy has been a sadistic pick-and-mix of unpleasant and debilitating symptoms, namely one that I suspect to be life-threatening dysentery but which my thoughtful on-off other half says has rendered me "a human poo turret that would be very useful on the front line." Thank you, poppet. You wouldn't be laughing so much if it was YOU trying to sleep on the toilet at 4am, crying. This was my night:
Anyway, before I start dissecting current affairs and offering invaluable advice on a myriad of practical issues (stop reading now if that's what you're after. Seriously.) I'll explicate the naming choices I have made for my exciting new blog that no one will read. Obviously I lay staring into space thinking of these names for at least half an hour, so I should be able to explain them.
1). The Cardboard Tube.
You know. The tube that remains when all the toilet paper has been used. I think there are two types of people in the world - people who will resourcefully use the cardboard tube as a loo roll alternative, and people who will buy more loo roll before theirs runs out, or be organised enough to have wipes/tissues in their bag (NB: this is for weeing situations only. The poor tube just isn't really equipped for poo. Trust me. And yes, this is the second time I've mentioned poo in this blog. No, it won't be the last.) Anyway, to be honest I think the blog is aimed at cardboard tube people. The C-Tubers. It's ESPECIALLY aimed at people who would sacrifice their pants to sort out a no-loo-roll poo situation (oops, number two reference number three. I blame the dysentery).
Hmm. I think I devote too much mental energy to hypothetical toilet situations. More on this later.
2). How To Be An Egg
I'm obsessed with eggs and have been for many years. Not even being viciously egged at the age of 13 by two terrifying, egg-wielding girls whilst I tried to run away, crying and holding my cumbersome saxophone case, has put me off their majesty and wonder. It is not just for their superpowered nutritional benefits (although I did once eat 9 eggs in one day, during that weird Summer I did the Atkins diet) but for their immense mystical symbolism and general comedy value. I mean... egg!! EGG!! It's quite hard to explain actually. But I've told that bloke that I hang around with a lot that if we ever got married, I'm going to roll down the aisle in a giant egg and then hatch out of it at the altar. Like that thing Lady Gaga did, but even more ridiculous and embarrassing. The yolk's on ME. Anyway, I don't know how to be an egg, at least not in a literal sense, but I firmly believe that everyone should figure out their own life philosophy, and mine is Eggism. I'm not 100% on the exact paramaters of this ground-breaking ideology as yet, but I'm working on it. For example, I Photoshopped my face onto an egg!
*********
But, in theory at least, the blog won't consist entirely of poo- and egg-based subject matter. It will also ramble about the many struggles faced by myself and my generation (I'm in that early-twenties, massive-student-debt bracket, balking at headlines like this: http://www.metro.co.uk/news/878903-500-queue-for-just-20-sales-assistant-jobs-at-new-poundland-store) to become functioning, competent members of society, in the face of numerous adversities - namely laziness and minor drinking problems. Right, back to CDWM.
Ugh. Just a quick bit of moaning first. This lurgy has been a sadistic pick-and-mix of unpleasant and debilitating symptoms, namely one that I suspect to be life-threatening dysentery but which my thoughtful on-off other half says has rendered me "a human poo turret that would be very useful on the front line." Thank you, poppet. You wouldn't be laughing so much if it was YOU trying to sleep on the toilet at 4am, crying. This was my night:
Anyway, before I start dissecting current affairs and offering invaluable advice on a myriad of practical issues (stop reading now if that's what you're after. Seriously.) I'll explicate the naming choices I have made for my exciting new blog that no one will read. Obviously I lay staring into space thinking of these names for at least half an hour, so I should be able to explain them.
1). The Cardboard Tube.
You know. The tube that remains when all the toilet paper has been used. I think there are two types of people in the world - people who will resourcefully use the cardboard tube as a loo roll alternative, and people who will buy more loo roll before theirs runs out, or be organised enough to have wipes/tissues in their bag (NB: this is for weeing situations only. The poor tube just isn't really equipped for poo. Trust me. And yes, this is the second time I've mentioned poo in this blog. No, it won't be the last.) Anyway, to be honest I think the blog is aimed at cardboard tube people. The C-Tubers. It's ESPECIALLY aimed at people who would sacrifice their pants to sort out a no-loo-roll poo situation (oops, number two reference number three. I blame the dysentery).
Hmm. I think I devote too much mental energy to hypothetical toilet situations. More on this later.
2). How To Be An Egg
I'm obsessed with eggs and have been for many years. Not even being viciously egged at the age of 13 by two terrifying, egg-wielding girls whilst I tried to run away, crying and holding my cumbersome saxophone case, has put me off their majesty and wonder. It is not just for their superpowered nutritional benefits (although I did once eat 9 eggs in one day, during that weird Summer I did the Atkins diet) but for their immense mystical symbolism and general comedy value. I mean... egg!! EGG!! It's quite hard to explain actually. But I've told that bloke that I hang around with a lot that if we ever got married, I'm going to roll down the aisle in a giant egg and then hatch out of it at the altar. Like that thing Lady Gaga did, but even more ridiculous and embarrassing. The yolk's on ME. Anyway, I don't know how to be an egg, at least not in a literal sense, but I firmly believe that everyone should figure out their own life philosophy, and mine is Eggism. I'm not 100% on the exact paramaters of this ground-breaking ideology as yet, but I'm working on it. For example, I Photoshopped my face onto an egg!
*********
But, in theory at least, the blog won't consist entirely of poo- and egg-based subject matter. It will also ramble about the many struggles faced by myself and my generation (I'm in that early-twenties, massive-student-debt bracket, balking at headlines like this: http://www.metro.co.uk/news/878903-500-queue-for-just-20-sales-assistant-jobs-at-new-poundland-store) to become functioning, competent members of society, in the face of numerous adversities - namely laziness and minor drinking problems. Right, back to CDWM.
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