Adam's Apple

Top Spam

When a translating programme can assist in sending me spam like this...why should I bother writing my own blog....

Good evening my name is Marinel and I'm from Turkmenia. 

It's heavy to be solitary, and even more tight to find out that with the same vexation is, one who could be nearby to you, have a mate who could get at, to give advice.

Or it may be more than a lover. The identity who opens his bosom and that I will be made-up to give more than their quick. 

I am a plain girl, and I do not need something more, as soon as communication. 

I will not say that all intercorr will end. As I have said, that friendship begins something more. Hi there my name is Marinel. I am very beautiful lass from Turkmenistan. I am virile, In this scroll I don't desiderate to pen you it is a lot of to keep a small riddle. 

But if you want acquaintance then we will get acquainted a little closer. for now I send you the photo that you had a small idea of me. I very much ask you you don't ask from me a photo in a naked look, I am the decent girl and I don't give such photos. 

Hi from it is far!

err... Bye from it is near. (She lost me at virile)

Shapeshifting

We often learn about the homeless that "they didn't choose this".
Mostly that's true. Although I've met a few who prefer to spend their housing money on Lambrini and Frosty Jacks than rent.
You get so much more booze for your money and it makes the underneath of the railway arches so much more welcoming.
But the reality may be that many individually-made choices led to today. Why is that any different? Why do people count that as "not a choice".

Life isn't black-and-white.
We don't think X because of Y. We think X because of A to W.

If you get as far as V with some bad choices, you're probably going to get as far as X. And feel sad and sorry for your misfortune.
That is still choice. That is still free will. A rather optimistic or ignorant lack of vision perhaps. A denial of your own weaknesses most probably. But that is still choice. It's still freedom.

An accident doesn't happen just because it's an accident. It happens because as of a series of several dozen processes that haven't been managed well enough to create a set of circumstances that prevent it.
Not all of those are outside of personal control. Most, maybe. But not all. So we nudge and flex and barge our way either through or around them or blaze an entirely new trail.

I've had people tell me that life is a struggle. Of course it is. Why amongst all of the animal kingdom would our species be exempt from that? When you imagine another life, would you like to take on that of the wildebeest, the housefly, the Mayfair millionaire businessman.  And if it is the businessman you think you prefer, are you just thinking of the endless champagne parties, hobnobbing with Bobby Davro, or the 5am starts, three divorces, endless tax bills, leaky roof, disgruntled staff, cocaine exposé in the local paper and terrible gout.
You're not thinking it through.  You're cherry picking. Stoppit.

We are born into circumstances. Better than many by living in the UK, unless you can think of a country you would rather have been born in.
If we want to change your circumstances, or, and this is important, even maintain them the way they are, your job is to struggle to do so.
Or don't bother.

But don't tell me life is a struggle unless you know where the struggle is.
Is it inside?
Or is it outside?
Inside you?
Or external circumstances?

Either way, it is inside you because the world isn't coming to get you.
The world isn't coming to get you because it doesn't care. It doesn't care about you. You are not relevant to it, just perhaps to a small number of individuals within it, each with their own struggle.

No, the struggle is with yourself. 

So what are you waiting for. Your dues?  Grow up!
Use the Force, Skywalker.

Do or don't do. There is no try.
The force is within you.
It's a tale as old as... well, 1977.

It isn't useful to your struggle to think of life as a struggle.
Rather, life is a gift.
It is just struggle-shaped.

Expert Tease

What would you rather be?

A connoisseur or an aficionado?

One sells more of a sniffy sense of discrimination, possibly conjuring
up images of the higher echelons of society. But then it does have a
French origin, albeit from a Latin root. Not the nice Latin with the
samba rhythms. The mean one that killed the Romans.

Alternatively, the other displays a decent knowledge base but enhanced
by a more artistic tone of expression - by genuinely loving it.
Expression through affection. (From a Latin root via the Spanish,
since you ask).

It is the difference between devoted and being authoritative.

A specialist with a Ph.D. as opposed to a a specialist through kinship.

It's a different hierarchical approach. Master and slave versus crowd logic.

I prefer crown logic as I can't bring myself to use the putrid word
'teamwork'. I will, for the purists point out that there is no T, A or
M in connoisseur. And there's no T,E or M in aficionado. And if you
feel better informed for that, then send me a cheque for £200 as I
have a spare ticket for an Expo for Entrepreneurs and a bottle of
Snake Oil that I would like to sell you.

Of course you may grow to love the things you are close to. Look at
any council estate. I think this may be how the arranged marriages of
some communities worked in the past, at least if my knowledge of
Fiddler on the Roof is anything to go by.

"The first time I met you was on our wedding day. I was scared. I was
shy. I was nervous. So was I". (I know. It's great, isn't it?)

And for more purist and less humanimate pursuits, it is massively in
your own interests to offer up your time and brain space to love
something that people may be looking up to you for guidance. Your ego
will love you more.

"For 25 years my bed is his. If that's not love, what is?"

I think it's 'aficionado' all the way. Nail your colours to the mast
and surrender the cold hard soulless bias of the English 'expert' to a
little continental over-expression.

You learn to love what you're exposed to.
What do they say about loving the one you're with?

"Then you love me.
I suppose I do.

And I suppose I love you too".

Turn Again

They tell us that people shouldn’t claim to be anything that they are not.

But how much should they claim to be something that they actually are. In other words, how much should they promote, self advertise.
Push, even. Bend the truth. Exaggerate their CV. Play down why their first marriage failed when advertising what a great life partner they’d now make.
It is presentation.
Spin.

Plenty of people, women in particular, say they value the truth above all things.
They don’t.
This is just a well-worn coquettish ‘survey response’ which likely reflects reflection upon periods of questionable judgement - some with permanent consequences. But at least that shows growth. The entertainment world is full of those who tell us they made the same mistakes all their adult life and then they make a confessional interview at the age of 70 about how they wish they’d done it all differently.
Really?
Really??
They didn’t wish it at any of the thousands of moments before now. At least not hard enough for it to change their actions, outlook or decisions. Apparently.
It is possible they are stupid but more likely they made choices that served them at the time. Or they are stupid. And if so what are they now? Not stupid? Plenty of people get stupider the older they get and don’t have the flexibility to reach around it.

No.
What women actually value is flowers. Notes. Holidays. A bit of a laugh once in a while.
And these things are just presentation and spin.
That’s why it sells.
Even a lottery ticket has an element of fun and danger. And maybe he won’t come home drunk tonight again.
If you genuinely value something highly, surely you learn to recognise it.
It is so for any skill such as a language or a magician learning tricks. If it isn’t instinctive, then just give yourself ten years.

I think I’ve spoken before on this blog about the death of integrity. Or at least its value in society. I’m not blazing any new trail here. The politicians and business leaders, the outsourcing companies and local councillors, the naive teachers, minor celebrities and scoutmasters. Nothing new. Just more.

What people value is a performance.
We might as well be honest about it.
When busily nuanced there is sufficient texture to pin any personal ideals and fake idols onto a good performance it. You can read allsorts into Shakespeare that a first glance would not have thought possible. Add a few fart gags and a good central performance and you might come out of the theatre thinking you like Shakespeare. Even love him! Bigging him to others who know he is crap.

For the rest of the human race still looking to learn this truth, there is sadly little advantage to a long dedicated slog over the appeal of a few party tricks.
The endless fun of jokes you’ve told a thousand times before. A present that went so went down so well you bought ten of them.
A romantic poem you wrote when you were 17 then recycled shamelessly changing only the name.
Spin.
Tricks.

That’s where the party is so why not cross the road?
Or is that just what chickens do?

Chin up, chest out and finish with a song.

I have long struggled with the concept of sensitivity. Who has it and
who doesn't. It is a cornerstone of empathy which is a mud that I
spend most of my life wading around in.

Let's park the psychopaths/sociopaths for now so we can have a clear
run at this.

I'm willing to believe that everybody is sensitive underneath,
although increasingly I find that less true than I did. When you can
only judge people on their actions, and the actions don't appear to
indicate internal sensitivity then it can be a struggle to detect
signs of.

I think I'm closer to believing that everybody thinks they are
sensitive. You can put 'thinks' in italics if you like.

But the importance of other people in this analysis is crucial. They
need to know how sensitive you are, and where the wiggle room is,
which means they need some working concept of what sensitivity really
is.

How can you decide how sensitive somebody else is? How is that really possible?

I think I may have the whole concept wrong.
Because I expect people who are sensitive to act in a sensitive manner.
And it may well be that that is an error.

They may wear their sensitivity purely as self-indulgence. They may
torture themselves with it but not allow it to emerge in any of their
actions. Ever.
I'm wondering now if I hadn't allowed for that possibility.

That doesn't make them good people of course.

Sensitivity by definition is internal. If it doesn't make you do good
things, it is not something to be worn with pride.

So is sensitivity a good quality?

I am not sure.

It is used generally as a sympathetic comment about mutual friends. It
might describe the soul of a poet. But it's frequently prefixed by the
word "over" and a hyphen. It is frequently pejorative. At worst it
could be a precursor of genuine mental turmoil.

It's corollary of course is to be "insensitive".

It seems to me that this is usually used as an articulate insult to
avoid calling somebody a prick. Unless you call them an insensitive
prick of course. In which case you get more bang for your buck. As a
term of disparagement, it probably refers to quotable occasions rather
than a chronic ruthless daily insensitivity from our protagnosist.
Most people wouldn't be commenting on somebody like that because,
other than the most long-suffering of allies, they probably wouldn't
be having them in their lives in any capacity.

If you think they are an insensitive dick 24/7 then that maybe part of
a "character". Their character may be one of a comic foil. The amusing
grump. But to call them insensitive is stupid. And judgemental. In a
bad way. In a wrong way. The fault is in you and it is one of
unkindness.

It reminds me of the television sitcom One Foot in the Grave, where
Victor Meldrew is accused by somebody of being the most insensitive
man ever (or something).

I remember hearing this line of thinking.. 'Yes, obviously, And…'

But Victor Meldrew's wife responds with defensive words to the effect
of "You're missing the point. Victor is the most sensitive man I have
ever known".

I've always thought that was a very touching and rather brilliant
line. His miserable persona becomes a quality. At least if you
consider sensitivity a positive quality. You should. It entertained
millions year after year in that programme alone, without me even
needing to mention Basil Fawlty.

That line has stuck with me. But then it's a David Renwick script
(Jonathan Creek, amongst other credits).

It was unexpected and very sentimental.

But I started writing this messy essay because I've found a new angle
today, based on a random comment on the radio.

I began to wonder if I was confusing sensitivity with sentimentality.

Now I'm on record as being a sucker for a good dollop of 80s style
sentimentality. A happy ending. The bad guys getting theirs. A few
punch-the-air moments. And finish in slow motion with a pop song.

I haven't fully thought this through but I think to do sensitivity
well, you need some sentimentality. It might well be one of the good
parts of sensitivity. What we learnt in maths at school as a "subset".
In Venn diagram terms the circle within the circle.

But oh no….the term sentimentality is used largely in a negative way
as well. The dictionary definitions refer to " tenderness, sadness,
or nostalgia, typically in an exaggerated and self-indulgent way". And
it's a word loved by critical movie reviewers to express their
distaste nay disgust.

While we are on the subject of sensitivity, the dictionary definitions
don't support my way of thinking that it is about looking at the
aspects of the world in an artistic, abstract, inclusive way . Rather
they refer more urgently to "feelings liable to be offended or hurt".

Liable to be offended. Liable to be hurt. That's what sensitivity apparently is.
It seems a rather limited use of a word that describes our senses.

And so common a word. So universal a concept. One we really should be
understanding by now.

I think I probably do have it all wrong.
I suspect I may not be the only one.

Funny? In my dreams...

I had a dream last night. I have already left it a couple of hours so I can't remember how it began but it was a kind of garden party with access to an inside kitchen area. 

I'd taken off my shoes to enjoy the sunny afternoon and the party/picnic was drawing to a close. I can see shadows of half a dozen people in the garden area. The garden sloped up on the left and on the right lower side was the kitchen area.

I went inside to look for my shoes. 

Steven Moffat was there.

'Have you seen my shoes anywhere?' I think I probably asked.

'Maybe you went alfresco?' either he replied or I said some version of).

'You probably wrote that, didn't you?' (referring to the 1980s TV series Alfresco)

He smiled.

I'd made Steven Moffat smile.

I either did or didn't find my shoes and as I was leaving the kitchen area checked back over my shoulder

He was still smiling. 

Jackpot!

And in the background, John Sessions was leaning probably over a sink, washing a cup or cleaning his boots or something, and he was laughing to himself over my brilliant line as well (I assume). Either that... or he had my shoes.

So there we go. That was my dream.

And err...no.....   

Neither have I.

Twenty Fifteen Going on Sixteen

If I ever think I'm beginning to understand the world, I remind myself that they cast Shia Labeouf as Indiana Jones's son.

Shia. LaBoeuf.

Indiana Jones!

I know.. I know

The Train Don't Stop Here

I have just spent part of New Year's Eve writing a resignation letter. It is a gesture  - kind of surplus to requirements because in 12 weeks time the job I do has been outsourced to one of the biggest companies in the outsourcing world - Capita.

And I'll share a bit more about other joys I am thinking about. I don't like to... but what the hell. It once was Christmas.

I had a best friend of 20 years who has just spent 365 days, more actually, not bothering to contact me. I took him to a Frank Skinner concert. We had a great time. Last I heard of him. 

What's the point of thinking about people when they never think of you? You're just a concession, a punctuation and eventually you feel almost an irrelevance. Then you are an irritation, an embarrassment. When you're the only person making an effort, a note, a card, a text, an anything... you just end up feeling cheap.

I thought that was what Christmas was for. To redress one or two of those things.

I would say that people don't change. But of course they do. Either that or I made a miscalculation for 20 years. And that's perfectly possible too. Not everybody was raised on 80s schmaltz and believed it, like I did.

Sometimes I write about stuff here. But lately I haven't really done that either. Just haven't had anything to really say.

And now I need my car repairing from a collision. 

And between Christmas and New Year I received a letter awarding me 3 points and a fine for speeding at 39 in a 30.

The same day, despite my best efforts I was emailed news of failing to get a role (not a job exactly) that I had a strong connection (I thought) with something I spent 10 years doing. I can't get past a rigid application system even when I know the person awarding the role. 

I work broadly in a profession that used to believe in qualifications.  I could show you some. Good ones. No rubbish. But that was yesteryear. It ain't now.

Quality cannot be outsourced and experience cannot be duplicated. So my qualities are embarrassing to the system. That's if you even believe I have them. And there's no reason why you should. My best friend of 20 years didn't. Not enough to make me worth talking to anyway. Not worth a text. Maybe I should have kept it more light and breezy. I just assumed I was in safe company. I was wrong.

How much do you stick to 'who you are' when the 'who you are' is no longer required?

Nobody likes a moaner. 

And take my advice, if you find yourself thinking this way, don't put on Spotify and allow a sad song to slip past you. At least you can rely on the radio for a cheery furniture ad.
Oh, and I have a wisdom tooth that has called 'time'.

On the other hand....

Actually, I quite like a moaner. They've usually got a point. They make interesting conversation. If they do it like I do it then they are quite chippy, enthused and at least partially informed. They are realistic, observant and cynically comic people usually much more fun than rose-spectacled and over-liberal folk - the sort of types who are so judgemental that they actually call other people judgemental!!! To their face!! You can't get any more judgemental than that!

And moaners have more vision and insight, they are honest and you can usually break them into a smile or have a bloody good laugh trying. In fact, I bloody love a moaner me.

And I'm not unhappy with 'who I am' and I don't intend to be during 2015. I have never claimed to be perfect. That's for others to correctly detect.

And in the time it has taken to write this, another dozen FMEs have e-mailed their resignations. That's not solidarity by the way as our group does not roll that way. It's just a mutual recognition of an inevitable tide. 

Tides aren't personal. They just feel that way because you put your person into what you do. Me more than most. There isn't a stunt I won't pull or a trick I won't play, a play I won't make or a lever I won't age, if I'm trying to instill a positive change in someone whose fingers are scraping the dust and lint at the bottom of an empty hessian bag of missing options.

And when I start linking one or two words together like that..colourful like...I sometimes write them down. 

Although I've not written my blog, I've written 30,000 words towards a book, which (I assume) will be in the same style, unless Katie Price's ghost writer becomes available. I didn't know even she was dead but then I've not been keeping up with the news.

And when I wrote my New Year's Eve resignation letter and copied it to colleagues on the e-mail, I made an admittedly thin joke (but then nobody else bothered at all).

"Dear Colleagues,

I have sent my letter. I wasn't clear on the Inspector's rank so I just said "Dear Mate".

A gold watch arrived via DPL within the hour. 

Who says we don't have 24/7 policing?"

It drew in a couple of jokey responders who still remembered to have a sense of humour.

And I'm getting my car repaired next week. The insurance and no claims protection will basically cover it and it will be a minor inconvenience.

And when I was telling my hairdresser this morning about my speeding, she said she'd been done in exactly the same place doing 35 mph in a 30 over Christmas as well. At least, I got an extra 4 mph out of my crime. And due to the passage of time they are the only points I have, and I might be able to get out of those if I go on a tea and biscuit morning.

And parts of the role I do could feasibly resurface in some sort of new capacity for a short time, but in the meantime I will have more time off. And I'm not short of projects. I will retweak my targets. They are going to become clearer. Louder. Screamier. More interesting. They are going to be faster and edgier. And if they're not, you can kick my arse in 12 months time when I will still be writing this blog.

End of year messages don't have to be twee and predictable.

Stick this one in your pipe and smoke it... errr, dear friends.

And if you are looking for a resolution, take mine... Always starts your sentences with And.

##

I'm trying to be brief and say this is 140 characters or less, but I
have just visited a police station where the officers were bagging and
labelling a stash of cannabis as evidence.

Hashtag that.