Three years ago this week I went for the day:

geneva motorshow
Originally uploaded by ALBOWIEB

I lose my travel card. Again.

It was the very height of rush hour at London Bridge, thousands of commuters giving it the bum's rush at the ticket barriers. There's a slow inevitability to getting off your train and out of the station - you try and point yourself in a certain direction, but you're going wherever the crowd wills you. You're carried along on a surge of clackety heels and pointy umbrellas, arms useless, legs flailing.

On this particular day we were moving towards the exits with unusual relish, perhaps they were having a coffee morning in the City. I got to the ticket barrier and did my thing - I always maintain that I'm amused by simple things, and ticket barriers are one such thing. I feel discriminated against by the transport providers of London that the ticket always has to be put in on your right hand side - I'm left handed, it slows me down - but I gain some small sense of fun out what is ordinarily a dull transaction by seeing how quickly I can get through. In my head it's like an F1 pitstop - feed in the ticket, pull it out of the other side, quicken through as the gates open.

This time was an average visit, not my quickest, but I didn't fall over. What confused me was getting an orange ticket out of the slot - my travel card is white, one doesn't expect these things to change colour during such a simple transaction. I thought perhaps I had dropped my ticket, picked up the wrong one from somewhere, been mugged for my monthly I'd just bought in return for a piffling day ticket, or something similar. I was getting upset, quite panicked - I've already lost one ticket this year and been told (I think quite unjustifiably) in no uncertain terms that I can only get one replacement ticket in a 12-month period. Shysters.

I make my way to the back of the crowd from whence I came, forlornly scanning the floor. I don't quite understand what is going on. I am anxious, shaken - I still have £90 to go on this card which I really don't have to spare. I'm running late, I can't see my card anywhere. I look up, I see a man in an orange jacket opening up the gate and waving around a small white piece of card that looks suspiciously like my own travel card. I trot over, grab it off him and give a short foreign man his week's pass that I have been clutching for the past what can only be a minute.

I am still shaken, but I have not lost my travel card. Life goes on.

P.S. Happy birthday, Mum.

I go to a Shakespeare play.

I won tickets in the House Magazine to go and watch a Shakespeare play. Ordinarily that would be like winning vitamins, or a trip to the toilet roll factory (although I do wonder whether they really have little Labradors running round those places checking the texture strength and length of freshly-made loo paper), but as I outlined in a previous post, this play stars one Michelle Gomez.

Known for Green Wing and apparently having starred in a number of other reputable productions all of which are in the programme and none of which spring to my mind quite readily, Michelle starred in perhaps my favourite ever advert – the Heat magazine advert. You know, the one where she goes into the doctors – “excuse me, where’s your copy of Heat magazine, please?” “Do you have an appointment?” “Do I look ill?” Amusing, you’ll no doubt agree.

But yes – Shakespeare. What a miserable, misogynistic, callous old shit. Who knew? There was hardly a likeable character in the whole thing (that’s not to get confused with something along the lines of ‘the actors were all totally crap’ – they weren’t), and it was really quite sad. There was a lot of humping and nutting and slapping, it was like a blockbuster for the stage. Speaking of the stage, that was excellent too. I’ve been weaned on a diet of papier mache school play sets, so the big lorry reversing on stage was mighty impressive - down to the exhaust fumes. What impressed me most about Michelle was that she has range. I don’t know about everyone else but at least I’ll remember her for two things now.

As for the play itself, I don’t know if anyone has ever tried to turn domestic abuse into comedy since, but Will had the chutzpah to try. I suppose I could give him that.

I have blogger's block.

Blogger’s block – it sounds like virtual Lego, or some sort of awful condition brought on by too much sitting around on an office chair. Shudder. But this week, due to a lack of inspiration or amusing activity in a life that would be seen as extraordinarily dull even by the standards of say, Alistair Darling - I shall mostly be using four matter-of-fact sentences as illustration.

In a slightly off-topic but still largely relevant to the overall structure of my post kind of way, Cliff always says what I’m thinking before I think what to say, and he always does it an infinitely more original and interesting way. He kind of makes me sick, really. I’m not keen on people who are better at stuff than me. That’s a lot of people, I could give myself an ulcer with all this worry - then I’d have to go and see some talented 22-year-old doctor and vomit on their shoes. I should really be more gracious. There are many things I ask God for – patience, humility, lots of cash – I’m going to add good grace and less envy to my long list.

In all seriousness, it would be too easy to look at me and mistake me for some perfect and talented young chap who takes the world in his stride – not necessarily true. Being this nice takes a toll on the nervous system. They say Facebook and overwork cause dementia now – it’s true, I read it on the news. I was wondering whether they have thought about please and thank you. I see plenty of people around London you’d think it would kill to say please or thank you. Now there’s a PhD for those crazed scientists - stick that in your pipette and smoke it.

I get a breath of fresh air.

SO, I spent the weekend in the middle of nowhere – actually, in the middle of nowhere quite close to Brighton. We were on a study weekend for the programme I’m on, learning lots of stuff and spending lots of time together having fun and that. It was amazing to step out of the bus and breath fresh air unobscured by pollutants and particles and smog and yuck, so be able to walk on something green, to feel the earth move around under your feet. In London it’s all concrete and dull and grey – to remember that there’s a whole palette of colour out there, that the sea is still there and hasn’t dried up in my absence, now that was a gift from someone.

We went to Beachy Head for a walk – I could sympathise with the many suiciders, it took so long to get there and when we did the stupid cafe in the stupid car park didn’t have any ice cream. Now that ruined my day. It was amazing to walk along the cliff tops; I reminded myself how much I enjoy that expanse of open space, of wondering what’s on the other side. There was always something romantic about the sea when you were a kid, that supreme excitement of seeing it that first time when you were driving on holiday. Goodness knows why I like living by the sea – I hate swimming in it, I didn’t often walk next to it. I like knowing that the ocean is there, it’s a constant. There’s something unnerving about being in the city, you don’t know what’s after the next block, let alone for the next 40 miles.

There was a certain dread coming back to London – it remains a coquettish place, a bit of a tease. I find myself liking something of it one moment and the next it throws me a curveball. I don’t rightly know what a curveball is and I can’t even catch, but it feels like an apposite phrase here. Putting it frankly I don’t really like the place, but I can hang on until July. After then? Who knows.

Content not found.

I had a bit of an early night last night, but it doesn't really appear to have done the trick. I've been out five nights in a row, which isn't advisable - it started with Twestival last Thursday. I have been on twitter since last October, it sounded like quite a fun idea for people to meet up and say hello - perhaps I missed the point, didn't get it or didn't enter into the spirit of the thing, but I thought it was a bit crap.

What was promised to be a cool alternative event turned out to be lots of meedja and internet types chatting really loudly in a makeshift nightclub. Still, it raised lots of money for charity. The one surefire way of redeeming anything - the Government could probably have got away with Iraq a lot easier if they'd donated 5p to charity from the proceeds of every cluster-bomb.

Monday I went to the cinema in Mile End with some my fellow interns - £3 for a ticket is worth the 17-hour round trip to get there, we went to see Slumdog Millionaire. It's directed by Danny Boyle, who vies with Bridget Jones for the title of best Bangor graduate. It's quite a good film - people would have you believe it's a Full Monty-esque budget British-made rom-com. It's really not.

Next week I'm going to see one of the first budget British-made rom-coms the world ever saw: I won tickets in House Mag (the official magazine of the Houses of Parliament) to go and see Taming of the Shrew at the Novello theatre. I will of course be unable to not blog about it - what I'm most excited about it the fact that the lead actress is Michelle Gomez, who played Sue White in Green Wing. I feel a bit sorry for her, because time her name is mentioned it is followed by 'who played Sue White in Green Wing'. How do you shake them apples off?

Anyway, must dash.

Happy Valentine's day!

I like my Saturdays, these are my relaxing days, where I can legitimately shun society and just watch DVDs and such. Today I have watched two and a half discs of West Wing, an Adam Sandler film and Jimmy Carr in concert. Actually quite a busy day's work when I think about it. I'm even prolific when it comes to sod all.

Lovefilm very kindly included a little DVD-sized flyer as they quite often do, usually advertising some offer I'm not going to get round to taking up, or a thing that gives me bonus stuff if I recommend a friend (hey, it's Saturday night and I'm watching a film from an online rental service, do I have any?). This time it was an advert from Haagen-Dazs with a tub of ice-cream and the slogan "Every spoonful brings you closer. Happy Valentine's day!"

To what, I ask myself - a heart attack, an actual girl? Are you simply trying to rub it in, Haagen-Dazs? Even if provoking me into depression does work you heartless gits, I'm going to buy Ben and Jerry's to spite you.

Just so's you know.

In which I am famous and on the Guardian website.

The second time I only ever...

The internets is a wonderfully interactive place in which people can talk to each other and vice versa, an amazing feat considering the worldwide collapse of communication in 1989. I hear the Chinese aren’t doing too badly at it, hampered only by the fact that they insist on whispering to each other. I’m not surprised that they would choose to whisper – can you imagine 1,330,044,544 people even talking to each other quietly? It would be a deafening roar. That number a ‘July 2008 est’ by the CIA. (I like that inbetween overthrowing violent dictators through nefarious means they take some time to make you more knowledgeable about your holiday destination) Quite a precise estimate, to get it down to the last 544th people – those satellites are getting quite precise. Actually, I imagine it’s the job George Bush got given by Mr Cheney – could you count a billion people in two terms? He thought he was doing ‘Where’s Wally?’.

But anyway – my mother helpfully raised a few extra points to add to my ‘the only time I ever…’ thing that Cliff challenged me to do the other day. (Or week. Time really does speed up as you get older.) Firstly the only time I cut my hair and lied about it. Now, this does look bad, but it happened some considerable time ago and basically begins with me trimming my fringe badly with a pair of scissors when I get home from a trip to the barbers. It ends with my mum dragging me back to the barbers to chew up the manager in the most spectacular fashion and spitting him out. Actually, it ends with me admitting that I lied in the car on the way home and us never going back to that place ever again. Sorry hair men.

The only time I worked in Aylesbury – I worked in Aylesbury for a grand total of 5 days, fundraising for St. John Ambulance via a bizarre German company that takes a cut of direct debit donations. It was a horrific job – we were five strangers put in a house to pound the streets knocking on doors and persuade people to sign up to give money regularly through pejorative soliloquys we practised regularly. I couldn’t cope with it – we were promised a percentage of what we earned and I’m just not wired like that. I do of course appreciate money a lot, but it’s a means and not the end. I could quite easily forego many things in the pursuit of happyness. At any rate, I begged my mum to pick me up after 5 days because it was quite frankly crap. I think I washed dishes for the rest of that summer.

The third one my sainted mum raised was the one about driving through a bollard. That was a painful one – there are these concrete bollards at Bangor University where I used to park my scooter when I was at the odd lecture, and one day I got my aim all wrong and managed to stop my scooter with my leg between it and the bollard. It was really quite painful. I was working at Matalan at the time and left after the eight hour shift I was just on my way to – I limped around the whole time and no-one asked me if I was alright. That was a whole week’s work, my second shortest job after my five days above. They were a bunch of shysters up there; it constantly astounds me they’re still in business, but anyway – moving on…

…and the last one is the only time I ever taught my sister to say something to Grandma (who is German, incidentally, otherwise this one is just a little bit strange) in German. Oh, nice alliteration there. I can’t remember this one very well, but I suspect I told her to say something along the lines of ‘ich bin doof’, which translates nicely as ‘I am stupid’. Funny.

The only time I ever...

Cliff set me the mini-challenge of writing about ‘the only time I ever…’ – a surprisingly tough one. Not least because doing something once and not doing it again doesn’t necessarily stick in the mind. Now getting dressed – I do that every day, I’m sure I could write a book on that. I line up my shoes at night so they’re facing the door, saves me a few seconds when I wake up. That’s what I’m talking about. Some nights I can’t sleep because I haven’t decided what I’m going to wear the next day. Fridays are the worst – it’s business casual, so jacket and tie isn’t necessary, but shirt is. I don’t need to wear my smartest shoes but probably need smart trousers. And preferably a jumper because it does get cold. Scarf? Check. Which coat? I have eight in London. Possibly excessive, but it’s part of a charming repertoire.

The only time I ever? There was one I time had these two pairs of shoes I’d bought in different colours because I really liked them. I thought I’d try wearing odd shoes one day to see if anyone noticed. Everyone noticed. I remember the only time I ever went to a restaurant on my own – it was in Budapest when I was on holiday there the other year. My last holiday, in fact. I went into one restaurant and stood waiting for around ten minutes whilst waiters bustled past and ignored me. I went to another place and had the most delicious veal schnitzel I’ve ever had (which reminds me – it’s one more thing to add to the ‘only time I ever’ pile) sat at a telephone table next to the kitchen doors. I went to fast food places for the rest of the time; sitting on your own with a book isn’t frowned upon in those.

Wrapping up.

What horrific precipitation. I believe by the morning I shall require some sort of sea-faring vessel to get me to work. There are these ridiculous big yellow boat buses that drive around on the land and then drive into the Thames - without you having to get out and move into, like, a proper boat! It would be useful to have one of those. Think of the traffic you could avoid if all you had to do was aim for the river. Do the congestion charge cameras point down there? I think I've found a loophole in the system.

I'm quite excited about tomorrow because I get to wear a coat I bought in the Christmas sales two years ago and never actually got round to wearing because buttons fell off as soon as I got it out of the bag. It's quite a chic trench coat, and thankfully either they're back in fashion or they never went out, as I spotted over someone's shoulder in a freesheet the other afternoon. I've always thought that I could work the Columbo look - "now, just one maw thing..." - in fact, I'd be a great detective. Apart from the threats of violence, I wouldn't cope with those well at all.

Mange of the mind.

There's this funny thing about snow - it covers over a multitude of sins whilst it's there, but then it fades slowly to a mange-like patchwork covering that shows off precisely the worst facets of whatever is underneath. It's gorgeous, then it's ugly. You have this burst of excitement, the thrill of it all, and it turns to oppression and drudgery before you can say slushy mess.

There's talk of more snow coming, but I say winter - you've had your fun. No more now, I've had it. I don't like wearing my boots with my smart trousers because I look like a hod-carrier going to a court appearance. Well, from the ankles down. What I mean to say is that grippy footwear is not stylish and ruins the line of my cheap suit. I'm impressed with how I can work a cheap suit - I have two suits from Primark now which cost me about £40 each. I could criticise slave labour, but I'd look a lot less sharp whilst I was doing so.

I'm less impressed with my blogging efforts in recent weeks, times gone by. I feel zapped, like I'm lacking imagination and inspiration. I've been ranting on twitter when I've needed to - and despite initial thoughts of how daunting a 140-character blog post might be, I actually think twitter is the lazy option. I have a thought, I write it down and then it's there - with a blog post you need structure, words, a cohesive form and a mildly coherent narrative across the whole thing. Look at the flow - I started moaning about snow and now I'm waxing on a writer's malaise.

If you can think of anything for me to blog about, be my guest - I should enjoy the challenge. Meantime I shall I pound the streets of London with my trusty notepad tucked inside my trusty satchel, cheap suit bristling in the breeze and I shall be ready, lest inspiration strike.

Lego trains.

Just as a brief aside, I can show you what I've been up to whilst clicking the refresh link on various transport-related websites that caved in like French prisoners-of-war - having googled 'southern trains' to try and find any possible back door into even a pseudo-related website that may have been able to give me outdated information that was probably inaccurate anyway, I found the Southern California Lego Train Club. It seems they have an upcoming show which I am disappointed that I shall miss, but it seems that there are problems afoot judging by the poll on their main page - just how is the club going to handle the end of 9V trains? This is Southern California, so instead of getting to blame the damn EU it's probably Arnie's fault. Git.

I am eager to discover how this crisis situation is going to be resolved. I shall report back soon.

It has snown.

Weather has happened this morning, or more specifically a 'weather event' as the Met Office would tell you. In fact, welcome to one of the few websites left on the internet today - by virtue of being read by four people on a weekly basis (I have stats) I am now in a position to provide leadership for the country in this time of acute distress. It actually quite flabbergasted me that so many train operators' websites, and indeed the National Rail monstrosity, were not available. Quite why you would provide a service that collapses like an Icelandic bank as soon as someone might have cause to actually use it is beyond me.

When I lived in Germany a couple of years ago we had about three months where there was a metre of perma-snow - it was miserable, but life went on. The trains and the buses kept going, people put snowchains on their tyres because they were prepared for these eventualities. In fact the teachers in the school I worked at used to go cross-country skiing in their lunchbreaks. Germans are made of an entirely different Stoffe. I have a theory that these occasions (weather events) are some passive aggressive protest at the fact that we have fewer bank holidays than those on le continent. "Sorry boss, can't come in today - weather." Everyone will have found a way to muddle in by tomorrow, the schools will be open again and the bus drivers back to their truculent selves.

So enjoy all of this whilst you can, dear readers, this fart in the national conscious, this downward blip on the flowchart of life - they don't come along very often.

Dawn was breaking, now it's fixed.

It's a quiet time of year, this post-Christmas middle of the winter failed resolutions slump. I seem to get more emails from Amazon than anyone else lately, even the vi8gra missives have slowed to a trickle. I found this website that tells you what the sunrise and sunset is every day in whatever location you're at. It's heartening to see that dawn is a minute earlier tomorrow morning, that each day is two minutes longer than the last. I find the doom-laden descent to the shortest day in the twentysomethingth of December perfectly depressing, but it's more positive after that - a light at the end of the tunnel, if you will.