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It says I have been here for ten years.

Ten..... years.

Well, I'm back, sort of. I picked up a pencil again so I thought I'd upload some crap for old time's sake.
  • Mood: Content
  • Listening to: Rusty Nails - Moderat
I have started a blog chronicling my adventures in Berlin. If you're interested in my progress, or if you're just really, really bored, you can check it here:


It was a decidedly lovely if oppressively hot Thursday morning in the office. The large, tall windows were open but there was no breeze so it was terribly stuffy. The sound of hundreds of fingers efficiently stabbing keyboards at 1,891,248 words a minute was cutting through the thick air.

As I typed at 14 words a minute an email notification raised its head from the bottom right of my desktop to alert me of something very important and serious to do with something very import and serious, I pursed my lips and lowered my eyebrows as it was clearly important and serious. The frantic cacophony of Germanic fingers rattling on keyboards continued unabated until another email alert peeped up over my task bar. As if it could be possible, this one was more important and serious. It read:  


I read on, there were some incomprehensible words that I can only assume were German and referred to something about a very important and serious bomb being found. Thankfully there was an English translation...  

Hi everyone,

because of a bomb that was found at Oberbaumbrücke, we might get evacuated by the police. So please prepare yourself for the worst case, if you hear banging on your door it is the police, so that you can leave the building as fast as possible. We will let you know ASAP if the evacuation will take place.

Your office team

Cool! I already knew the office team were extremely efficient when it came to the timely provision of stationary, it turns out they’re great at crisis management too. Plus, the prospect of spending two hours in the beautiful sun as a result of evacuation was somewhat appealing.

It turns out that a few years ago the allies attempted to hit the Oberbaumbrücke Bridge (the one in the header image of my blog) but narrowly missed. I’m pleased they did, the Oberbaumbrücke Bridge is a truly beautiful one and despite its diminutive size it gives the Golden Gate a run for its money in terms of charm. (Current structure erected in around 1900, it spanned the border of East and West and in the Cold War apparently the Americans and Russians exchanged spies across it, now drunk people urinate there).

As details emerged, I learnt that a bunch of chaps performing maintenance on the bridge came across a dormant 250kg British bomb from WWII that could really do some damage. It had been snoozing in the River Spree for the last 60 odd years. I am reliably informed by the internet that is the equivalent of this man’s weight in high explosives. A scary prospect.

Confronted with this state of panic, two colleagues and I did what any wise and right-thinking people would and decided to head straight towards the centre of the bomb area and evacuation zone for a spot of lunch. We enjoyed a delightful vegan gratin served by a woman whose face was etched with fear. Each shout of ‘ACHTUNG’ from the Police loudhailer visibly filling her with more distress, she was keen for us to leave so she could move her outdoor tables in to safety. We duly bid her farewell although I was concerned she was about to have a heart attack. It is normally a very busy thoroughfare but the street was eerily deserted now, aside from Police shouting through loudhailers.

I felt partly responsible for the disruption and chaos and wondered if I shouldn’t go up and apologise and ask if I could take the bomb as technically it belonged to me. I observed the seven foot tall police officers decked out in armour and grave expressions I decided probably best not to.

I couldn’t really understand the fuss though. Apparently the discovery of benign bombs is common place in Berlin but it always causes a stir. One thing is sure, British engineering isn’t quite up to scratch and our stuff is always faulty so no wonder there are so many duds lying around. I guess we went for quantity instead of quality.

It turns out they dredged the bomb from the river bed and defused it on a boat surrounded by TV crews and cameras. I took the photo below after work on my way to have a lovely evening in Prenzlauer Berg. Once the issue had been resolved public transport resumed to normal precision timing and Berliners got back to important business of wearing hats, cycling and smoking.

It was a good source of entertainment. My German colleagues also took a refreshingly light hearted approach. However it did make me think that it wasn’t so long ago Europe was in such a state of turmoil that it makes the current Middle East situation look like a minor scuffle.

  • Mood: Content
  • Listening to: Rusty Nails - Moderat
I have started a blog chronicling my adventures in Berlin. If you're interested in my progress, or if you're just really, really bored, you can check it here:


Oh hi, I didn't see you there! It's difficult to see you from 1974 which is where I'm sending this funkadelic message from. It's pretty 'far out man'. How's it going over in 2011?!  

I'm not really in 1974 of course. That'd be silly. If I was, it'd be just like my favourite film over here called 'Zurkück in die Zukunft' in which 'wir befinden uns im Jahr 1985 - aber nicht für lange' apparently. I'm talking about Back to the Future, of course. I actually purchased it on DVD weeks ago but still haven't got the stomach to watch it in German. My recent encounter with German Homer emotionally scarred me and has put me off their attempts at dubbing for a good while. Although if I do view 'Zurkück in die Zukunft', perhaps I'll be able to wow German women with my encyclopaedic knowledge of time travel and 1950's trivia. "Eins komma einundzwanzig jiggawatten!". Or, you know, perhaps I'll remain single.

So anyway, it just feels like I am writing this message from 1974 because I'm sitting in my studio flat. Again. It's like a bizarre wormhole that penetrates the very fabric of the space time continuum and leads straight into the seventies. I wish to share with you, if I may, some general details of what it might have been like to live in 1974 and also of the general standard of accommodation.....

I live in a grey concrete box consisting of six or seven floors. I'm fairly sure the architect must have been feeling suicidal when he was working on the plans. It has about as much character as a grave stone with no engraving. Sitting in my room, glancing around at the decor and furnishings, I'm fairly sure that everything is still original, from the woodchip on the walls to the grey streaked tiles on the floor and yellow-tinged electrical outlets. The lampshades are particularly hideous, they look a bit like those cones you put on a dog's head after it has undergone surgery. This could all of course be contemporary cutting-edge German design, but I wouldn't be comfortable making such assertions about the aesthetic sensibilities of my host nation.

The big, metal, jaggedy, pipe-based radiator looks exactly like the ones you used to get in school that had flake paint on. I try not to look at it.

The television cabinet and cupboards which dominate the room are vintage 1974 fare, with a nice (if you're blind) royal blue trim. I could see it being presented as the booby prize on a very early edition of Bullseye. I couldn't have picked finer myself – unless I had consumed an entire bottle of Jägermeister first (which is, admittedly, not too far-fetched a prospect). The TV is new though which means I can subject myself to the horrific torture that is German programming in full technicolour and stereophonic sound. This, I must warn you, is about as much fun as how I imagine completing a mountain stage of the Tour de France on a bike without a saddle but the saddle post remaining would be.

To my surprise, upon my arrival a few weeks ago it appeared I was being stationed at a branch of the British Embassy. The manager's office is clearly signed 'Home Office'. I thought perhaps the coalition government might actually be functionoing and there was a strategic Lib Dem instigated u-turn to embrace the EU. Perhaps Theresa May might be helping administer my accommodation. I was wrong. The building manager is actually large, aging and growing a moustache (come to think of it, that's not entirely dissimilar to Theresa May).

I quite like the building manager though. Despite his slightly creepy, almost sinister manner, unnerving enthusiasm for organisation and efficiency (and passion for scarily immaculate/camp dungarees) he managed to get my surname wrong. This is good because I don't like my surname anyway. Consequently outside my door, underneath my door buzzer (which, incidentally, it's possible hasn't been used since 1974, until by me in a moment of inexplicable drunken confusion a couple of weeks ago) it says 'Edmonda'. I actually prefer 'Edmonda' to my real name so I'm considering changing it. I like to think it adda certain mysteriousa Italian quality to me. Perhaps I'll start unbuttoning the top six buttons of my shirt. Along with the name change I'd also have to buy a shirt.  

The rent is around €500 a month, warm. In Berlin 'warm' means it's bills all in, or it's over 6c. I don't even have to pay for he hideous pictures on the walls, which is good because I'm not sure if they're from 1974 or FROM HELL, or maybe from both and painted by the devil while he was on some bad acid, as I hear was the way at the time.

When I start looking for a new place I should be able to get somewhere nicer for €500 that doesn't have hideous artwork, and also has like, y'know, a bedroom. This would mean I wouldn't have to eat, sleep, type, work, relax, stare, read and cook in what is essentially the same room (that has woodchip walls). Despite rising property prices in this part of Berlin (due to annoying twats like me) it's still much cheaper than the shoe boxes that are available on the outskirts of London. And this location is brilliant, far and away the best aspect. However, the chances of me successfully finding a new place any time soon are looking slim, much like the female population of Berlin (must be the all the cycling as one friend pointed out, and yes they have saddles). Thing is, I can't successfully purchase a ham and cheese bagel so embracing the complexities of property renting in a country that has an innate love of bureaucracy might be a bit over ambitious at this stage.  


I do have a balcony! Furthermore, I can fit a chair on the balcony. Even furthermore, which is now considerably further than before, it gets the sun from noon till 7pm assuming it is sunny. This is possibly the second best aspect of the property and affords me the chance to dramatically accelerate the ageing of my skin and chances of contracting melanoma (since I've been in Berlin I've been continuing my quest for the complete set; lung, liver and skin. It's good to have goals).

By the way, the third best aspect of the flat is the shower. It appears they made good showers in 1974. However, there's a rather unfortunate issue with my lavatory. About 30 seconds after each flush, from deep with in the bowels (pun intended) of the building, the pipes heave and omit a sound reminiscent in both tonality and volume to that of a fog horn belonging to an oceangoing cruiseliner. I have consigned myself to the realisation that my neighbours are now keenly aware of each and every time I happen use the facilities.

In the basement of the building where the Home Office is located, you encounter not ministerial offices and public servants as one may expect, but a door that leads to this weird and creepy network of wooden corridors. It's dank and dark. Spiders skitter across the floor like shadows, the cobwebs and particles of dust that hang in the putrid air are only illuminated by a shard of light that is projected from a tiny window next to the ceiling at the other end of the room. It is silent. There are rows of wooden doors each with large a lock. It must be used for storage of resident's possessions. Either that or for locking kittens and children in until they die of starvation and the kittens feed on the bodies of the dead children to stay alive until they then die as well and are then turned into schnitzel.

I'm beginning to go off schnitzel.

Next to the dungeon full of rotting child and kitten corpses is the 'Wash Room'. This is a communal and unisex space where residents can shower and bathe naked together in one large, brightly lit facility. It's not really. I made that up. It's actually where the washing machines are located. All two of them. They are also from 1974 and remind me of something the Russians might have put a monkey in and fired into space. I don't like them. The washing machines I mean, I don't have anything against the Russians. But I do hate the tumble drier, of which mercifully there is only one. It strikes the living fear of almighty god into my very soul.

The other thing that strikes the living fear of almighty god into my very soul is interacting with intimidatingly good looking women. Thus, I haven't spoken to the girl that lives two doors down, and I don't like that I'm actually starting to sound like a stalker now so I will begin to wrap this blog up.

I am concerned you may have mistakenly arrived at the conclusion that I don't like living in an out-dated, poorly decorated, soulless, box-like, cold-war building that resembles a cheap hotel and lacks any discernable character, and that the fact that every time I open my fridge my whole bedroom smells of Camembert and sweetcorn might be too much to bear...... but actually, it's cool. It's not bad. I can see myself here for another couple of months. The location is great and it's so nice being able to walk to work. I'm willing to overlook the rotting children and kitten corpses in the basement just for that.

Keir Edmonda.
  • Mood: Content
  • Listening to: Rusty Nails - Moderat
I have started a blog chronicling my adventures in Berlin. If you're interested in my progress, or if you're just really, really bored, you can check it here:


When I had found out I'd got a job in Berlin I started furiously Googling to get more information about the city and the Berlin way of life. I read Wikipedia and all the rest of it, but I wanted to know what life in Berlin would really be like for an outsider; the nitty gritty of day-to-day life. In one of my deeper Google searches I stumbled across a terribly presented blog written around 2007 by some American bloke who had spent a summer in Berlin.

I can't even find the link now, but I read it all at the time. He blogged about mundane and everyday stuff and he wrote in a matter of fact style. It took me two sittings of about two hours to read through all his posts, I guess he wrote it for his family and friends back home at the time. It was well written and conveyed the sense of a friendly city, with an open attitude in which lots of fun and new experiences could be had. It filled me with assurance and hope.

I'm keeping this blog in the hope that one day there will be someone in the position I was in back in February, and they'll stumble across it and despite all my failed attempts at humour and smart arse comments this blog will be as useful and insightful to them as the American dude's blog was to me. That's assuming I like it in Berlin of course.

I am also writing it for myself, partly because I am self-obsessed but also because writing is a hobby I enjoy that doesn't involve debaucherous behaviour.
  • Mood: Content
  • Listening to: Rusty Nails - Moderat
The bear. Much maligned, feared and admired in equal measure. Have a think about the bear. There are many variants. There is the solitary Polar Bear, stalking the icy wilderness of the Artic, using its cunning and brute force to kill helpless seals and eat their young. The imposing Grizzly Bear, dominating the northern forests of Continental America, using its cunning and brute force to kill helpless Canadians and eat their sandwiches. (There is another type of large hairy bear that likes to feast on a different kind of meat, but this is a family site so I won't go into that). Let us also not forget a personal favourite of mine, Snuggles the Bear (srsly wtf, that is so.... creepy) which helps stop staticy cling on clothes while also adding freshness. And of course, last but not least there is the ever-reliable Teddy Bear, mainly found living under duvets around the world, providing comfort, friendship and reassurance to millions. (If you didn't own a teddy when you were young and instead had a blanket or something, you were either one of those weird kids or your parents were poor).

So, we can't deny the mighty bear's importance to human civilisation, the tumble drying process and large hairy homosexuals. Could it be that the bear is the most utilitarian, adaptable, majestic and charismatic beast to ever grace God's Earth? Friends, I am beginning to think that this is the case.

Now did you know that some cultures emblazon their flags with the bear. Proudly flying the beast high above their cities and rooftops as a representation of their dignity and pride. As I discovered on a recent six month stay there, one such flag is that of California.


California. A state of America which I once thought was a bit shit, but have now come to realise is surely one of the best places in the world to live (let's face it though people, NorCal pwns SoCal) represents itself with the bear. So with my wonderful experience of life in California and its bear themed flag, I decided I must live in another place that has a similar flag paying homage to the all powerful beast.

The only problem is I live in London, our flags depict things like lions that we stole from other countries centuries ago, oh, and roses. Neither of those appeal to me much. So.... where to base my life?

But fear not! On a recent trip to continental Europe I made a wonderful discovery! There is another such flag! One that flies above the rooftops of a city, proudly displaying a bear in all its glory - bristling with teeth and claws... and a slightly weird tongue.


Friends, this is the flag that represents the great German city of Berlin. And so there it was! That was it! This is where I will have to move and live. I am not actually joking when I say the glorious site of the iconic Berlin flag had a positive bearing on my decision to up sticks and relocate.

And so..... it is again time to say good bye and Auf Wiedersehen to London, sorry old friend but it is time I moved on to live under the wonderful image of the bear once more.

Note to reader: I don't actually give a shit about bears, I just got offered a really cool job in Berlin. I'll tell you about it later, wish me luck and see you on the other side.
  • Mood: Sentimental
  • Listening to: Kashmir - Trespassers
  • Reading: Night by Elie Wiesel (amazing)
  • Watching: Advert after advert
  • Playing: FIFA 2010 World Cup
  • Eating: Expensive health food
  • Drinking: Vite-a-min waderrr!
According to the calendar in my system tray it’s been over two weeks since I moved from my home in London to San Francisco. Really? According to my brain, I can’t tell if it has been two days or two years. It’s flown by and yet it seems like an age.

Work asked me to move out here for six months so here I am. Before my departure I was a bag of nerves. I’m one of life’s worriers. Although I knew a big change would be good for me, I mainly focussed on all the bad shit that could (and in my head most certainly would) happen. I need to stop doing that (I never will).

So my intention was to write a series of really witty accounts about my encounters with American people and culture. That will have to wait. I’ve experienced far too many things in the past two weeks to do that. This journal is more of a scatter gun approach to clear the way so here is some stuff I’ve learnt:

The gap between the rich and the poor in San Francisco is far greater than that spanned by any bridge. (And the bridges are deceptively vast in a fascinating yet understated fashion).

Accommodation is bloody expensive. SF is bloody expensive. (But I’ve found myself a flat. Or what’s known as a stoodio apartment. It’s slap bang in town. I love it so much.)

Brainy geeks live in the Bay Area.

You’re not going to learn how to play poker when you’re drunk in a wine cellar.

Baseball really is a ridiculously All American family day out. I blagged me some free tickets from a random barmaid for a SF Giants game. It was cool. We (the Giants) won against the Colorado Whatevers. A big fat guy hit the ball in the water, the Americans went crazy. (It’s still rounders with beer.)

Hotels make you go crazy after a while if you're not on holiday.

You can’t live without toast.

They put a lot of effort into public transport in SF but the Tube still beats it by miles. At least now I know how visitors to London feel when confronted by a Tube map (I still swear the Tube is easier).

The BBC really is good. So far I only miss BBC TV (and Marmite.)  

Whole Foods is good but fucking expensive. Still, they sell me Finn Crisp so who cares, I'm four packs deep already.

Americans spit on the street quite a lot.

Big blocks are big.  

If you sleep on the beach when it’s windy and the ocean is roaring, you will wake up with a lot of sand in your ears. (So THAT’S why that guy had his hood up.)

I’ve discovered I’m unbeatable at soccer computer games in this country. I have made friends with the guy that runs the bar over the street. He likes FIFA on the Xbox. He hooked it up to his TV’s so we could play in the bar. The Americans all said how good they were.  I was worried. I beat them all.... with the USA.

Getting up at 6.45 needn’t be depressing.

Buying a drink from a very camp barman can literally turn into a song and dance.

I have the best t-shirt tan ever (or worst depending on your outlook). Depending on what t-shirts I wear it’s disturbingly visible. My arms have stopped peeling now and I am blond. Win.

An epic run along the bay is a run like no other. Flanked by skyscrapers and sea, washed in orange sun and covered in goosebumps. It's good for the soul but not good for tendons.

So I think that concludes my first journal from NorCal. It would seem SF is a great place. Was all that worry back in London worth it? Not so far. It’s going well.

:thumbsup: This week I recommend:
1. Squishy sidewalks
2. Bridges
3. Furnishings
4. Pale ales

:thumbsdown: This week I do not recommend:
1. American coins and Tenderloins
2. Wearing headphones
3. Not double bagging
  • Mood: Eager
  • Listening to: The Whitest Boy Alive
  • Drinking: 2 litres
As you may have read in my previous journal entry, I might be spending a few months working in America soon. A prospect which excites me greatly and one which got all the more real given my recent visit to the US Embassy (which proved to be somewhat eventful).

A bit of context for you before I start, in order to work in the US for as little as a few months even at the same company; along with a mountain of paperwork asking questions like 'Are you, or have you ever been, a terrorist?' (I answered no to that one btw) you need to visit the US Embassy to be bestowed a serial number, stand in line, have your fingerprints taken, your passport confiscated and your head shaved. (I made that last one up). That all sounds like pretty everyday stuff in the 'Land of the Free' but as this does involve America... it wasn't straight forward.

Technically speaking the US Embassy is US soil. This little patch of the United States nestles among the shiny Audi R8's, luxury hotels with extravagantly austere exteriors, and self-important wankers with expensive suits in the Audi R8's that own the luxury hotels with extravagantly austere exteriors that can be found in London's prestigious Mayfair district. The Embassy is surrounded by a load of car-bomb-proof barriers and is patrolled by smiling English policeman joking about the Spurs vs. Portsmouth game while stroking their Heckler and Koch MP5 sub-machine guns. (Portsmouth won by the way.)

For the appointment in the Embassy it is prohibited to take a phone, Blackberry, laptop, MP3 player, key fob, sense of humour or any other electrical equipment or source of fun. To underline this there was even a sign that showed a phone with a line through it, a laptop with a line through it, a pistol with a line through it, and a cartoon bomb (the type you might expect from an 8-bit arcade game) with a line through it. Nintendo's Bomberman would be shit out of luck. Feeling suitably reassured, once I had replaced my belt and got through the airport style security I was given my serial number and asked to wait in a huge room full of other people with serial numbers and no phones. There we all sat (about 200 of us) staring at screens in the middle of the huge room waiting for our serial number. The drones who had their number called scurried down a corridor to the 'Windows'. People stared, children screamed, everyone missed their phones. It was a bit like shopping at Argos but without the cheap garden furniture.

As I was sitting with the other drones watching and listening as the serial numbers hypnotically ticked by, I saw a flurry of outside activity from the corner of my eye. Security officers with Heckler and Koch MP5 sub-machine guns were no longer talking about football and instead were running around, police tape was going up and sirens were on. Had the Axis of Evil infiltrated western defences once again?! Was I watching a TERROR PLOT unfold before my very eyes? It wasn't long before an announcement came over the PA system in the Embassy, asking everyone to move away from the windows. Soon after, we were ushered down a stairwell (that means stairway in American) into another compartment of the Embassy behind what was reassuringly called 'ballistic glass' by our ever hospitable American hosts. Soon after, the threat was deemed too great even for ballistic glass, so we were then moved down yet another level into the basement which we discovered also happens to house a...... movie theatre (that means cinema in American). Well, this is America, I suppose.

Just as I wondered if they were going to be kind enough to circulate some popcorn and show 'Kick Ass' on the big screen, the situation became increasingly bizarre when I noticed I was next to Richard Keys and Andy Gray from Sky Sports TV, and not far away Max from UK teen soap opera Hollyoaks was loitering by the exit.

Suddenly the Public Address system crackled into life again, instantly putting a stop to the dull murmur of speculation from the other drones. This time a more urgent and commanding voice rang out. Sounding like it belonged to a chap who had just got back from the Kandahar Province in Afghanistan it announced: "THIS IS MARINE ONE. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. UNIDENTIFIED PACKAGE OUTSIDE EMBASSY."

It was at this point I realised three things: We might be here for a while, they weren't going to show a film and I really missed my Blackberry.

After about half an hour, the scary sounding Marine said everyone could get back on with their day and we all traipsed upstairs again to assume our positions drooling at the screens like a group of post-lobotomy patients on a day trip. There were about 25 of the 'Windows' sporadically plucking subjects from the crowd by what appeared to be a random pattern of selection. I saw the serial numbers before and after me had been summoned. I even saw Andy Gray from Sky Sports TV fame disappear down the corridor. I began to wonder what was wrong.

After about an hour and a half of this my mind turned to what they'd ask me. There had been some probing questions in the forms I had to fill in previously. I noticed the serial number before me had been gone for a long time. Over half an hour. That's quite a grilling, I thought. As I began to descend into my familiar pit of worry I noticed that the American Consulate Official operating from Window 21 seemed particularly impatient. Each time Window 21 summoned someone, they didn't do it just once, they made the message loop and loop 'N242 to Window 21! N242 to Window 21! N242 to Window 21! N242 to Window 21! N242 to Window 21' until the hapless N242 had either gone to the window or had been shot for cowardice. I imagined that whoever was operating Window 21 was a stern-faced, officious, pernickety middle aged woman who has nothing better to do than make the lives of honest, hard-working non-US citizens hell. Then my number got called. It was Window 21.

This was the moment I had been waiting for. I strode towards Window 21. In my head I rehearsed my answers to their questions. There was no way this jobsworth was going to stand in my way. When I got to Window 21 I was greeted by a stern-faced, officious, pernickety middle aged woman. Bugger. I was primed waiting for her first question. She engaged me with an icy stare and in a soulless and monotone voice she asked about my career history. As I snapped back with a direct answer I impressed myself with how deep my voice sounded and how articulately I delivered my answer, making me feel quite proud. There's no way this bitch is getting the better of me I thought.

After I had delivered my answer there was a stalemate. She typed some stuff on her keyboard. I braced myself for the next volley of questions. Then she smiled and approved the visa request. '....Oh', I thought. She thanked me for my time, explained the procedure and politely pointed me to the exit while warmly wishing me a good day. At this point I suddenly became less articulate. Confused and taken aback I delivered a few mumbled 'thanks' and 'sorry's before clumsily making my way to the door.  

If that experience is anything to go by, the next few months should prove to be pretty interesting. Only in America.

:thumbsup: This week I recommend:
1. Pressed apple juice with elderflower
2. Spotify
3. Belfast

:thumbsdown: This week I do not recommend:
1. Wordiness
  • Mood: Eager
  • Listening to: The Whitest Boy Alive
  • Drinking: 2 litres
It's a happy coincidence I like sourdough because I'm heading to San Francisco for six months. They like sourdough there. Well they like that and rainbows, world peace, and social media.

I'm heading there on a work secondment. Somewhat out of left field as they might say at the AT&T Park. You never know how life is going to shakedown (not literally while I'm there I hope), do you? That said, I feel oddly like this event has been heading my way for a long time. Now that it's going to happen I thought I'd be more scared than I am. I've observed myself being instantly comfortable with the potential of this change and that has really pleased me. It's scary but it's not unwelcome; I've been in the same office/flat/life for the last six+ years and what this presents is a big-arse change that I am in great need of. What I make of it is up to me. As people wish me well I suddenly realise how many nice people I know too.

I've been to SF before on a couple of occasions. Of all the cities in the world it's already poignant to me. I've had some of the best and worst times of my life there already. Now I have the markers, I aim to have some in-between times. Suffice to say, along with my suitcases I'll carry some life experience with me this time and I plan to use that as much as the contents of my luggage.

An opportunity it surely is. I get to pick my apartment. I know the job inside out. The people I'll work with are good. I plan to work my arse off while I'm there. Oh, and I get to run somewhere new. I can't wait to run around the bay.

While I'm not doing that, I hope to post some of my experiences of San Franciscan life in what'll hopefully be a witty, well observed and humorous manner.

PS- If you're in the Bay Area, I want to see you.

:thumbsup: This week I recommend:
1. Barbells
2. Goat
3. Playing Juventus

:thumbsdown: This week I do not recommend:
1. My knee this time
2. Firefox (get with Chrome if you haven't already).

This journal isn't funny. At all.

Thu Jul 30, 2009, 5:15 AM
  • Mood: Remorse
  • Listening to: Keyboard tapping
  • Drinking: 2 litres
(This journal entry isn't mirrored, because.... well it's a bit shit really)

You know how I normally like to write funny journals about pooh in swimming pools or spilling tuna salad on my jeans, well this one is less funny. On my way home from work yesterday I saw a guy face plant (badly) from his bike.

Part of my journey home from the office involves a walk up a really steep hill. If you're coming the other way on a bike it's possible to reach 30 to 40 miles per hour if you're feeling brave..... or stupid (yes, I've done it).

The road is always pretty busy, especially around the time I was walking up it. Office workers and South Africans are scurrying home to their ready-meals and biltong.

As I marched up the hill I happened to glance over the collection of passing cars and for a split second I snatched a glimpse of a cyclist's head. It was only the shortest of split-second glances before he was obscured by a passing red van, it was more like a freeze frame. He was wearing a helmet and looked fine for all intents and purposes, but as soon as the image flashed across my brain I instantly knew something was wrong about the snapshot, maybe it was his position or the angle his head was at, or maybe it was even his expression. I can't really remember because it all happened so quick.

But I did sense something was wrong and as soon as I passed the red van, the next thing I saw was people running towards the other side of the road covering their mouths and holding their heads in disbelief. Men, women, South Africans. I couldn't see the cyclist. Every time I looked around I saw another person approaching with a look of total concern and raw shock on their face. It's not every day you see people forget themselves like that and when you do it’s chilling. It's a bit like when a football player goes down seriously injured and straight away players from both teams just stop and forget their rivalry because they know something is up. Everyone was staring and goosebumps were starting to spread down my back. I decided to myself I wouldn't look because not only is it rude to stare but people were freaking out so badly I didn't necessarily want to see what was behind the cars.

Of course I looked.

By now the traffic was stationary and drivers were jumping out of their cars running towards the guy on the ground. On the opposite curb at least three people in the crowd were already on their mobile phones (presumably) calling the emergency services.

As my aggressively fast charge lost pace and turned into a tentative stride, the scene slowly revealed itself. The guy was face down on the road. His face was squashed against the tarmac. His body was concertinaed up behind his head. His limbs were contorted and his arms folder under him. His face was very red. He certainly wasn't moving. I couldn't see his bike for a few seconds. It turned out to be on my side of the road about seven or eight meters from him.

As I walked passed the scene gawping my heart rate shot up and my breathing became shallow. A couple of guys had stepped forward to take control of the situation. I had a lot of respect for them at that moment. No one was touching the cyclist of course. Over Mazy Star's dreamy voice on my headphones I could hear them shouting ‘CAN YOU HEAR ME?’ in the guy’s ear. There was no response.

I carried on walking so I don’t know what happened to him. I hope he is OK and he was just knocked out. It made me think how lucky I was to be able to go home and have my ready meal.

:thumbsup: This week I recommend:
1. My new desk baby! (Journal to follow)
2. Plants
3. Tall buildings
:thumbsdown: This week I do not recommend:
1. Hip joints
2. Prawns

No, it's not OK to poo in the pool.

Fri Jul 17, 2009, 11:53 AM
  • Mood: Remorse
  • Listening to: Engineers
  • Reading: PR Nightmares
  • Eating: The biscuit, slowly.
  • Drinking: Pool water, urgh!!!!! URGH!
(This journal entry isn't mirrored, because.... well it's a bit shit really)

So I went for a swim this afternoon. No running for me just at the moment. I had a minor knee injury for the last couple of months that was stopping me from running frequently. That fixed itself and now it's my hip. As a result of a few epic 12 mile runs in the space of a few days it bloody hurts whenever I put pressure on my right leg. So I went to the swimming pool instead.  

No prizes for guessing who was at the swimming pool when I got there. Yup, everyone's favourite weird and obsessed old age pensioner, Staring Dad. He was staring at me as usual. Non stop. Thing is though, I couldn't keep a straight face. Every time I turned at the end of the pool next to where he was standing I thought about my last journal entry and I just started cracking up, I did try and swim with my head facing the other way so he couldn't see me laughing but I think I may have offended Staring Dad. He left the pool early this week.

I do hate the pool as you'll know if you read my last journal. My hatred for it was compounded as I was rinsing off the rancid film of chlorine in the public shower after an hour's solid swimming and I heard what are possibly the most dreaded words one could hear at that precise moment, which are, and I quote:

'No, it's not OK to poo in the pool!'</i>

As if in a horror film I turned my head in slow motion as the water bounced off my oh noes :ohnoes: expression and saw a little girl getting berated by her mother. The little girl in question had clearly squeezed one out into the water while I was merrily avoiding Staring Dad, oblivious to the other obstacles lurking in the pool that I should have been avoiding. God I hate swimming pools.

I do like swimming though. Just not in pools. I recently returned from a wonderful week in Finland, otherwise known as the Motherland. I swam everyday in complete peace and tranquility, there's nothing like swimming in a Finnish lake, being the only person for miles, the water like glass stretching out before you under an epic sky, the golden midnight sun peaking over the trees........ and the only shit floating around in the water belongs to fish and not humans.


:thumbsup: This week I recommend:
1. Grabbing bull's horns
2. 2003
3. The biscuit
:thumbsdown: This week I do not recommend:
1. Grass
2. Dinosaurs
3. Great danes

Staring Dad Stares

Sat Jun 13, 2009, 8:32 AM
  • Mood: Remorse
  • Listening to: Ryan Adams
  • Reading: The Keir Appreciation Thread
  • Drinking: Pool water, urgh
(This journal entry isn't mirrored, because.... well it's a bit shit really)

When I can't go running I go swimming. I don't like swimming as much as running because let's face it, swimming is a bit boring. All you do is go up and down, up and down, up and down. My stroke isn't great either. I do the breast stroke, but I don't do it particularly well and I don't go that quick. I hate not being good at something but in this case I've learnt to accept it, swallow my pride and stick with it. I am a determined swimmer though, what I lack in technique I make up for in stamina. When I go (1-3 times a week) I swim all-out for an hour, only briefly resting to stretch my neck (which really begins to hurt) after thirty minutes. Aside from that 45 seconds respite half way through, I don't stop. I often want to stop, but no matter how strong the urge is, I don't. As my arm muscles burn and I get a nostril full of water I think of anything I can to take my mind off the fact I want to stop. I focus unflinchingly on the clock, breaking the hour down into fractions and counting as the various milestones I've set tick by. I end up passionately hating the clock so then I focus on my technique and try and swim more efficiently. That rarely bears fruit so I study the water as it breaks and dances in front of my nose. Then I think of nothing for a bit. If none of that works I think to myself 'I could be in the office in a really shit meeting right now, and instead I'm getting fit in a pool and it's on my own terms' then ask myself where I'd rather be. That always works and I don't stop.

That I can get my teeth into it and beat a challenge is probably the part of swimming I enjoy most. The part of swimming I enjoy the least is definitely...... the pool. It's my local public pool. It's 30 metres long (take me about 45 seconds to do a length) and it's pretty grim. There's no windows and the artificial lighting makes it pretty dinghy. The room has a low ceiling and the walls are close; the acoustics are ear piercingly unpleasant. I also suffer what I've termed 'lane rage'. I like to swim in the middle of the pool, right by a roped off lane. I go straight back and forth and cover the same space over and over so it's pretty clear that's my space. I'm unassuming and don't ask for that much, just a space that's a metre or so wide and 30 meters long. If someone so much as looks at my little stretch of water I get angry. If they have the gall to rest at the end of the pool to where I AM CLEARLY SWIMMING, I end up wrestling with my lane rage and trying to remain calm. I channel that anger into my next length.

On top of the lane rage, the experience is made more unpleasant by the fact the pool is run by the local authority, so more often than not there's swimming lessons going on for local kids going on. This means the water is choppy and the air is full of a cacophony of children's shrieking competing with teachers shouting 'DON'T RUN'. Hardly conducive to a relaxing swimming experience.

Then you have the other swimmers that, like me, aren't learning (or rather - aren't being taught). The people that have, for whatever reason, decided to take time out of their day to swim up and down, up and down, up and down in a poorly lit, echoey room; sharing chemically water full of god knows what bodily discharge faintly masked by a thin but sharp layer of chlorine. You get some super fit people who swim like fish and cut through the piss and chlorine like a BMW in the inside lane of a motorway, leaving you in their wake trundling along in the slow lane. However, I've noticed most swimmers are of advancing years, say 40+, and don't go as quick. Now that I go regularly I've started to recognise a few faces. There's Hairy Back man. He's about 45 and of middle eastern descent.  He's overweight with no hair on his head but A LOT on his back. It's like he's wearing a cashmere sweater in the pool. I feel a bit sorry for him but then I think he probably came to terms with his hairy back a long time ago. If he's married, maybe his wife doesn't mind, I think. Then there's Oriental Lady, she's probably about the same age as Hairy Back man, if not a bit older. She swims so slowly sometimes I think she's swimming backwards, but she is very delicate and graceful and has a distinctly demure air about her.

Then..... then there's Staring Dad. Staring Dad could also be known as Staring Granddad depending on your age. I'd say he's in his mid to late sixties, he looks pretty much like you'd expect: balding, grey, slightly gaunt face, sagging skin on his body; overall he cuts an unassuming figure. Whenever I turn up at the pool Staring Dad is there in the water, bobbing and resting at the end. He occasionally does a couple of lengths but most of the time he bobs and rests. But one thing he definitely does, the whole time, is stare. At me. Every time I look up Staring Dad is staring at me. And when I'm not looking at him, I can feel his stare boring into the side of my head. Sometimes at the end of one length and start of another I happen to turn just next to him, and there he is intently staring at me. Not blinking, just staring. His facial expression doesn't change: he always looks like he's about to ask a question but he never does, a bit like someone pressed pause on a video just as he was about to start speaking. Sometimes I call his bluff and stare back to see if it'll invoke a reaction. It never does and he just stares back. I've tried raising my eyebrows by way of blokey 'hello' but I'm met with the same fixed, slightly apologetic and perplexed stare. On one occasion I happened to be doing my turn next to him and I swear he said something, but I couldn't quite hear over the shrieking kids and yelling teachers. I met his stare and waited for him to say it again but he didn't, he just stared and I shook my head and swam off. I still haven't worked out why he is staring. At first I thought perhaps he is impressed by my unflinching determination and Olympic levels of stamina(!) but then as another swimmer cut passed me like a fish I realised I'm not that gifted. I wonder if perhaps I remind him of himself when he was younger, and he looks on fondly at my comparative youthfulness and virility. Who knows. I'm reluctant to say hello and commit to the inevitable doctrine of social etiquette that would result. I think I'll just let him stare.

:thumbsup: This week I recommend:
1. French people
2. Marmite and Finn Crisp - it works!
3. Trainers
4. Raspberries

:thumbsdown: This week I do not recommend:
1. My knee

  • Mood: Remorse
  • Listening to: my heart, breathing and footsteps
  • Reading: E3 reaction
  • Eating: Complex carbohydrates
(This journal entry isn't mirrored, because.... well it's a bit shit really)

It's been a fair while since my last journal entry, about eight months in fact. When I think of this period it feels more like eight years. It's been an eventful and tiring time. I'm subsequently relieved to learn that one term of the human condition is buoyancy, accordingly I can report that I'm still bobbing along and I don't have any grey hair yet (save a couple on my chin).

It's not that I haven't been here. Far from it. I have been lurking around dA, occasionally commenting or :+fav:ing some of the art and photography that has caught my eye. It's so great to see how deviantART grows.

At this point some annoying people would call me sad: but deviantART really is like my online home. Over the last seven years it has developed into my base camp at the foot of the internet mountain. When ever and where ever I happen to open a browser (a concerningly frequent habit) I inevitably gravitate back here, the opportunity to do so in more and more exotic locations has swollen in conjunction with the growing wave of technological advancement; I can be found browsing dA while waiting for the bus, sitting in an airport lounge or on the bog taking a dump (yes really, I've done that).

Safe to say then, whether I like it or not (and I side with NOT here) I'm very much a creature of habit. To my mind this is very bad. To counter this I have discovered my character does have a strong point after all (a-ha! found it!) - and that's an iron will. It was this iron will (more like an iron-incased-granite-and-covered-in-barbed-wire will) which helped me kick my smoking habit again (20 a day for about 15 years, gross). After that experience you might think I'd be done with habits, but oddly the success of kicking one habit has in turn opened the door to the recent acquisition of another to which my habit-forming brain has well and truly surrendered itself like a cheap tart on a first date. Coincidentally, it's a habit which feeds on and needs that strong will of mine to live and thrive. It's the habit of running.

I say habit, it's slowly turning into more of a dependence. As I was in the toilet earlier today (sorry for the second toilet reference here) I caught myself daydreaming and fearing the potential loss of my ability to run, in my imagination this happened through some terrible injury somewhere in the mists of my future and meant I would be deprived of the pleasure I now gain from propelling myself at pace by sticking one foot in front of the other (yes, worry is another habit of mine). For me, this was a sure sign that running really is now something that's very important in my life (I think I'll save the explanation as to why for another journal).

I've always enjoyed running. It's a bit weird when you think about it. What is it about running? It's one of the most simple things a human can do and currently accepted knowledge would suggest we've been doing it out of necessity or pleasure for about 200,000 years. Although I'm knocking on I haven't been doing it that long, but I used to win the cross-country, middle and long distance events at school. I enjoyed the running more than the winning (but my iron will dictated that I HAD to win). That all went out the window when I discovered the dubious pleasures offered by various socially acceptable (and some less so) drugs. So after a decade of not running, it's been over the last couple of years, specifically the last few months, that I've really stepped up my level of running.

This evening after a pretty crap day in the office I completed what nearly equates to a half marathon. I fucking flew, I passed countless runners, I even overtook people on bikes, I got quicker as I went.

It makes my knee sore but my mood and spirit soar - perhaps if you run you'll know what I mean - I hope so. Maybe habit isn't always bad after all, eh :)

Anyway, hi, I hope you're well.

:thumbsup: This week I recommend:
1. 1980's Alan Partridge running shorts
2. Bats

:thumbsdown: This week I do not recommend:
1. Posh people
2. Going commando
3. Toasters

  • Mood: Remorse
  • Listening to: Meeeee!
(This journal entry isn't mirrored, because.... well it's a bit shit really)

As Chuck's cousin Marvin once said in Back to the Future part I....


Like trance? Like epicness? Like songs that nearly crush my new 2.6 ghz quad core PC with 4 gig of RAM? I've spent the last 24 hours working on this baby. Here it is kids. Get comfy, it really kicks at 4 minutes in.

More to come!

:keiross: the keiross theory :keiross:

:pointr: Listen here! :pointl:
:pointr: download :pointl:


:thumbsup: This week I recommend:
1. Recovery
2. New PC + week off
3. Desktop person

:thumbsdown: This week I do not recommend:
1. Sleeping
2. Eating
3. Showering
4. Cleaning

I'm still standing... sort of.

Wed Oct 1, 2008, 4:11 AM
  • Mood: Yearning
  • Listening to: Above and Beyond
(This journal entry isn't mirrored, because.... well it's a bit shit really)

Publicly speaking, this is a futile and imprudent exercise in indulgence but I'll do it anyway. In fact I promised myself I wouldn't post this and I'll probably regret it. You see, I hate those overly personal journal entries. You know the ones where someone vomits out their deeply serious and personal shit. I could write a journal entry that would shock, worry and move you. But I won't. But believe me when I say it has been a tumultuous last week for me. Sometimes hellish, sometimes heavenly but I'm OK - just. There are somethings that just don't belong on the internet and besides I won't bore you with the details yet, maybe in months to come.

What I will say is, when I was standing under the splendor of the huge, arcing, state of the art roof at Terminal 5 trying to think of something deeply profound and heartfelt to say, all I could think of was....... 'thank you'....... heh, and there was me thinking I had a way with words.

But I tell you what, I never ever meant it as much as I did right then.


:thumbsup: This week I recommend:
1. Just Juice bottles

:thumbsdown: This week I do not recommend:
1. You wouldn't believe me if I told you

:new: This week I really recommend:
1. New baby has arrived


Sat Sep 6, 2008, 4:25 AM
  • Mood: Eager
  • Listening to: Above and Beyond
(This journal entry isn't mirrored, because.... well it's a bit shit really)

Coming soon.....

Antec NSK 6000 black and silver case
Tagan TG-500W Ultra-Quiet Modular PSU
Asus Prk-E
Quad Core Q9300 2.5 GHz 1333PSB 6MB
Syc the Ninja II 12cm Heatpipe Cooler
4GB DDR2 800 RAM
Nvidea EN8400GS Silent 256MB
80GB Serial AYA 7200RPM 8MB Cache
320GB Serial ATA 7200RPM 16MB Cache
DVD-RW Dual Later DVD +R 18x
Steinberg Cubase Studio 4
Rokit KRK RP5's
Hosa 2mm dual balaned lead - CSS202
Windows XP Pro
EMU 0404


That is all.

:thumbsup: This week I recommend:
1. Seat 188 Row NN Block H7
2. Back dating

:thumbsdown: This week I do not recommend:
1. Man flu
2. English 'Summer'

Orange Squash in London

Sat Jun 14, 2008, 8:59 AM
  • Mood: Unhappy
  • Listening to: Above and Beyond
  • Watching: Euro 2008
(This journal entry isn't mirrored, because.... well it's a bit shit really)

It's been a while since my last journal entry so I thought I'd share some random ramblings.

Work has been keeping me out of trouble (just about) and I've been really busy with the resulting ups and downs. The company I work for is making a ton of redundancies at the moment, it's a process which has been on going for quite a while. When the changes were announced and a new exec team was put in place, I made sure I emailed the CEO and secured my position ( :D ) so I'm OK Jack, but as anyone who has worked at a company that is cutting back will know, the entire process is an uphill struggle for all concerned. A lot of really good friends, some of whom I've known for five years and more are going. That said I'm in a great position, helping with recruiting an entire community department and part of my job is flying around the globe telling our studios how to do their shit so it's not all bad.

In other news I was out in Soho in London last night for a friend's 25th birthday. It happened to be on the same night as the Holland v France game in Euro 2008.

Before the tournament kicked off I decided to adopt Holland as my team in England's absence. As I made my way to the bar in Soho last night London was awash with Orange and smiles as a million and one Dutch fans came out of the woodwork. I watched the orange squash in a Dutch pub in China Town and it reminded me just why I love London so much, it's a melting pot of all nationalities and cultures and anything goes. We might be shit at football, but we have one of the best capital cities in the world!

Hope things are well at your end.

:thumbsup: This week I recommend:
1. Bosses going on holiday
2. Foam masks
3. New shoes! Oh!

:thumbsdown: This week I do not recommend:
1. The fucker who stole my nice jacket (that I got from the US and looked good in) and Bose headphones (that cost a bomb).
2. Yes, that fucktard.
3. I wish cancer on him and his family. Bastard.

Holiday Snaps

Sat May 3, 2008, 9:20 AM
  • Mood: Wow!
(This journal entry isn't mirrored, because.... well it's a bit shit really)

Well. I'm back from the most amazing holiday with mascaraxglass again. I got back earlier this week, but I've been crazy busy with stuff at work. I got a promotion just before I went away, so the holiday was perfectly timed to recharge  and prepare for the craziness to which I've returned. It wasn't until I was in the quick check-out aisle in Marks & Spencer's on Tuesday lunchtime with a cheese sandwich in my hand that reality slapped me round the face.

The trip itself was just amazing. I'd been to San Diego once before, but to really appreciate what California has to offer, you have to do a road trip.

We set off from San Diego where mascaraxglass graduated college with flying colours. We spent some time with her family and college friends before setting off up the coast on the 101. We stopped off in L.A. where we stayed in Hollywood (mental), met Fella and some familiar faces, went to a concert, spoke to weirdos and shopped. Then we headed to SF taking such towns as Santa Barbara (truly lovely), Monterey (sea lions are deranged), Santa Cruz (great place, went to a Rilo Kiley gig) before reaching our destination in the Bay.

Highway 1 is an awesome way to get there (especially in a 4 litre Mustang 8-) ) - a winding coastal road flanked by the open Pacific on one side and towering, dramatic mountains on the other. It was difficult to read the signs that read CAUTION 35MPH as Jess pushed 50 and they zoomed past in a blur :D Thankfully I lived to see my 30th birthday which occurred on our trip up the coast too.

Once we arrived in SF we saw the sights, I did an afternoon's work at the US office, we shopped, met Jess' hero, met switchbladeserenade, went to a Giants baseball game - and basically had an amazing time. Win.

I'm forgetting a load of stuff and they say a picture paints a thousand words, so rather than continuing to bore you all with a 33,000 word account of the trip, here are some of our snaps!


:thumbsup: This week I recommend:
1. Foam fingers
2. Garlic fries
3. Driving
4. My new mug

:thumbsdown: This week I do not recommend:
1. Boris Johnson (I apologise on behalf of London)

  • Mood: Eager
(This journal entry isn't mirrored, because.... well it's a bit shit really)



:thumbsup: This week I recommend:
1. Promotions!
2. Booking
3. Pass the parcel

:thumbsdown: This week I do not recommend:
1. My bank balance

Hairy Skunk Balls

Wed Apr 2, 2008, 3:54 PM
  • Mood: Eager
(This journal entry isn't mirrored, because.... well it's a bit shit really)

Regular readers of my journal will know that I live with two old mates in a messy flat in a leafy suburb of South London. The rent is reasonable and despite the constant mess it's great to live with two good friends who, for the purposes of this journal, I'll refer to as 'Roomy A' and 'Roomy B'.

Some of you may remember my story of Roomy B's shocking and underhand use of my shower gel and toothpaste and the subsequent Post-It note I left in my tub of Clover margarine (that resulted in some of you labeling me as ' passive aggressive', remind me to leave you a note to tell you to stfu ;p ). What I haven't told you is that Roomy A and Roomy B are big fans of smoking. And I don't mean cigarettes. I mean the green, the ganja, the joint, weed, draw, spliff, zoot, marrabis, pot, wacky backy, the hairy skunk balls.

This has been their main hobby for... I'd say the last ten to fifteen years. This helps explain their general listlessness and liberal attitude to cleaning, and my resulting passive aggressive behaviour. Anyway, this particular account focuses on one reason why I think they should take up... I don't know.... a hobby like knitting instead.

Roomy B got back in from work at about 11pm as he does. I said hello and we had a chat about some stuff (some of which you'll read about in my next journal entry). Then his phone rang, it was Roomy A. Roomy A was at work (they do night shifts which suits their lifestyle: Sunlight? Bad. People? Bad.). A conversation ensued and I heard Roomy B speaking to Roomy A, saying something like this:

'Is it the mains gas?.... Do you need me to do something?....... Are you OK?....... Is someone coming?.....'

Roomy A never calls Roomy B. They generally try and avoid any form of communication unless it's completely necessary. So what could it be about? It must have been something important to make Roomy A pick up his phone and call in the first place.

Well, it turns out that it was something so urgent that Roomy A had..... forgotten what it was. How many times have you gone to the effort to make a call, when you never normally make a call, only to forget why you made the call? Somewhere between Roomy A's thought process 'I better make a call about that' and the action of searching the contact list on his phone and pressing the green button, Roomy A's brain had forgotten what it was that made him make the call.

The subsequent conversation was Roomies A and B trying to deduce what the phone call was about and failing. Slowly. I thought that was fucking hilarious and Roomy B and I shared a laugh about it.

Perhaps Roomy A originally made the phone call to warn Roomy B about the effects sustained and excessive weed smoking can have on short term memory. Or perhaps not.

:thumbsup: This week I recommend:
1. lolcats
2. Central heating
3. Shoes

:thumbsdown: This week I do not recommend:
1. Holding the door
2. The number 14

:heart: Two weeks tomorrow :flowerpot:


Fri Mar 21, 2008, 4:24 AM
  • Mood: Tired
  • Listening to: the central heating slowly killing me
  • Watching: The American Princess
  • Drinking: Fresh Coffee
(This journal entry isn't mirrored, because.... well it's a bit shit really)

I changed my avatar! The lovely, talented and filthy (take a look at her previous journal entry titles) snowmask has made me the bestest avatar evah!

I've made around 70 avatars for people since I've been at dA - but this is the first time anyone has made one for me! :happycry:

Normally I wouldn't change my avatar, but because snowmask's little naked dudes cover all bases (technically excellent, cute, hideous, funny) I had to have one!

Thank you snowmask :blowkiss:


In other news - after over a week of showering at work and wearing two pairs of trousers at home, central heating and hot water have finally returned to my flat. The old boiler and water tank (which were about as old as me) finally gave up the ghost so we've got a new one that has a digital display that lights up light blue when you toggle the temperatures. It's space age!

That's not all! I also got myself a new desk for my computer! I love it! It has room for my speakers, PC tower, mixing desk, compressor, Emu Proteus aaaaand amp.

:thumbsup: This week I recommend:
1. lolcats
2. Never being knowingly undersold
3. Clean window ledges
4. Being out of touch, being out of time and you'll be singing that all day now :P

:thumbsdown: This week I do not recommend:
1. The subcontinents answer to The Chucklebrothers
2. Black baths

:heart: April