Category Archives: Navel gazing

New new year’s resolutions

a hoover

I knew there was something wrong with my new year’s resolutions when I wrote them down, but I wasn’t sure what it was. Now I realise that they were all tasks with a fixed outcome, rather than vague promises to behave differently – a to-do list, not a set of resolutions. Which is fine, except that I’ve done them all, so now I need new ones. This time I will try to make them things I can keep up all year, rather than things I can check off and forget about.

1. I will hoover more. We have lived in this flat since June of last year, and I have hoovered twice. The beloved may have hoovered more times than that, but I suspect you could still count the total number of hooverings on one hand. We have dark carpets, but still.

2. I will blog more. It’s free and I enjoy it, and it makes me think, which I am not always inclined to do otherwise.

3. I will go to the cinema more. I had this one a couple of years ago but I didn’t really keep it up. I am thinking of buying a Cineworld membership, which gives you unlimited cinema visits for £17.99 a month. If I didn’t have to pay each time, except for popcorn and Pepsi (I am not really interested in cinema trips which don’t involve popcorn and Pepsi), I would go and see all the films I thought might be  good, rather than just the ones which feel like cast-iron certainties. I would go and see every new Woody Allen, rather than every second Woody Allen, and I’d see more animated and 3D films. And that would broaden my tastes and turn me into a more interesting person. All for £18 a month!

I think there was going to be a fourth one, but I got over-excited about the cinema one and forgot it, so three it is.

Update: Ben Barden points out on Twitter that unless I set targets for what “more” means in this context, I am doomed to fail. So I have set targets, but I’m not telling you what they are, in case they sound insane or make you think I’m a slattern.


Happy birthday to meeeee

…all right, not to me, but to Glad All Over, which has reached the stately age of four today. My birthday, in case you were wondering, is in August, and I like jewels, boots, detective stories, flowers and kitchen implements. If you can’t wait till August, I believe it’s nearly Valentine’s Day.

Glad All Over sort of started off as a blog about football, but now it’s more or less a blog about nothing, or if you prefer, a blog about everything (except theatre, because I write about that elsewhere, occasionally). I try to write impassioned, well-argued pieces on language and design and travel and food and music, but the posts which get the highest traffic are invariably about baby baboons or a swimming pool I’ve never been to. I’m not sure how I should feel about the fact that, in general, the fewer words a post has, the more views it gets. Perhaps I am more of a visual person.

As it happens, 2011 saw Glad All Over’s highest ever traffic, and 2012 has gotten off to a belter of a start, so thank you ever so much for reading, and if there’s anything in particular you would like me to write about, do please let me know. I will write about everything except for rugby, about which the only thing I can tell you is that it’s a highly technical game played by warriors (© the beloved).


Capturing the moment

I read a piece this morning – I have forgotten where, and it’s too early in the year and too late in the week for me to summon the energy to find out – which was all about how to make sure your photos and videos are backed up safely, so that you can be absolutely sure you’ll never lose them. The author, whoever he was (I remember that he was a he), said that he has “thousands” of photos and videos of his children, and that he would be devastated were he to lose any of those precious memories.

But photos and videos aren’t memories, are they? They’re not even aides-memoires, I don’t think, because once a slice of a memory is sealed up inside a photo, you lose the rest of it. So I think I remember my sixth birthday party, but when I examine the memory, all I can really remember is being in the back garden holding my birthday cake, and that’s because there’s a photo of it. I don’t really remember it at all. Perhaps I would, if there wasn’t a photo, but in the same way you don’t bother remembering anyone’s phone number now that you have them all stored on your mobile phone, if we think that photos are a substitute for the act of remembering something then we might not bother to remember it.

I have been to Cyprus twice, once a year ago and once about ten years ago. I can’t remember exactly when I went the first time, because there isn’t a set on Flickr labelled with the dates of the trip, but I do remember the vivid red of the flowers growing outside our apartment, and the way the swimming pool seemed to melt into the sea (I had never heard of infinity pools then, but I think it was one), and I can still feel, if I try, the slight chill in the air that arrived on our last day and made the locals laugh at us for sunbathing.

But when I think about last year’s trip, which at the time I remember thinking was the nicest holiday I’d ever been on, I just see the photos in my mind’s eye. And the problem with that is that what you decide is a good subject for a photo is not the same as what you independently recall later, because your conscious mind isn’t necessarily the best judge of what will appeal to your unconscious mind. So you get photos of the sunset (I have SO MANY photos of sunsets, and they all look EXACTLY THE SAME), and of each other grinning (DITTO), and of cocktails and feral cats, but you probably miss the groyne covered in barnacles, or the blood-red roof that stands out like a flag against a bright blue sky, and you certainly miss the chill in the air and the taste of kleftiko, unless you put your camera down for five minutes and let yourself be in the moment, rather than frantically trying to record a facsimile of the moment for posterity, when it’s never a substitute for the real thing.

Once in a while I forget to take my camera somewhere, and although I love taking photos and I love having photos, I’m sometimes secretly glad that I can forget about keeping a record, and just be where I am for a bit.

The ideal solution, I think, is to live your life as though cameras don’t exist, but have three dedicated photographers recording your every move, so that you end up with a beautifully random set of photos which may or may not tally with your own recollection of events. I managed this on my wedding day, but I haven’t worked out how to make it happen the rest of the time. I’ll keep you posted.


New year’s resolutions for 2012

Looking back at last year’s resolutions, as I traditionally do at this time of year, I discover that I kept all of them, more or less. But it’s less impressive than that sounds, because there were only three and they were all kind of lame, apart from the first one which I am technically still working on, although I am definitely nearly finished.

Anyway, this year has needed no thought at all. I know exactly what I want to do, as well as the order I want to do it in. So without further preamble, my plans for 2012 are these:

1. Get the beloved to show me how to use Audacity.

2. Move Ella‘s two paintings out of the bedroom and into the front room, and hang the mirror we got from my sister over the mantelpiece (note: this will require the assistance of A Man. Not a man, but A Man, or quite possibly A Woman).

3. Hang up the paintings which are currently on the bedroom floor awaiting the removal of Ella’s paintings from the walls.

4. Upgrade to pro membership of the voice artists’ site to which I belong.

5. Throw away all the rusty old kitchen stuff that the previous occupants of our flat left behind, and;

6. Use the resultant cupboard space to reorganise our kitchen storage in such a way that we can find the things we need to use without having to empty whole cupboards at a time.

7. Audition for some voiceover jobs.

Seven is quite ambitious, I know, but only number 7 is anything but routine. It is also the most exciting one, so that’s OK. Oh, and number 8 is to finish writing that bloody story. It only needs about three more days’ work; I just can’t seem to get around to it. But I’m going to use a wedding, a house move and two changes of job as an excuse for not getting as far as I should have in 2011, and say that 2012 will absolutely, positively, without a shadow of a doubt, be the year it happens. Hold me to that, please.

(And in case I don’t make it back here tomorrow, happy new year! 2011 was the funnest year of blogging for me so far, so I hope you enjoyed at least some of it too.)


Postsecret

Do you know Postsecret? You write your secret on a postcard and send it to Frank, who publishes a long list of them every Sunday. It’s funny and sad and scary and always worth reading. Yesterday’s post starts with this secret:

Ever since I found out that my mom had plastic surgery I can't stop wondering what she would change about my body.

I stopped and looked at it for quite a long time, and not just because Marilyn is so gorgeous (though partly that, obviously). I think the message is quite important. If I tell you that I hate my nose, I’m telling you that there’s an acceptable and an unacceptable way for noses to be, and if you’re the kind of person to worry, you may well start to worry about your own nose. So body criticism is an aggressive act, even when it’s directed inwards. I must try to remember that.


Dark glasses

I spent yesterday in a pleasant bank holiday haze, watching tennis and old films and eating scrambled eggs on toast. I was so relaxed that unless you’d been looking closely you might not have known I was awake. “This is how bank holidays should be”, I thought, as I briefly emerged from a doze between sets. “I’ll sleep well tonight.”

So naturally I woke up at 4am in a full-body clench of insomnia and anxiety that came from nowhere and has now dissipated, its only after-effects being a darkening of the circles under the eyes that arrived sometime after university and will never leave. I like to think they add character.

But tired eyes give me an excuse to wear dark glasses when it’s not very sunny, and wearing dark glasses when it’s not very sunny is something I love doing. When I am old I will wear them all the time, even indoors. I don’t remember much about my maternal grandfather but I remember that he wore dark glasses all the time, even indoors, and that it made him look kind of cool and a bit forbidding at the same time. Since that’s a look I aspire to anyway, it all falls into place perfectly.

The other upside to insomnia is that 4am is actually quite a lovely time to be awake at this time of year. The birds were singing and there was no traffic or shouting or loud music to drown them out. The only other sound was the periodic honking of someone’s car alarm, but even that came with a silver lining because it woke up the beloved, and if there’s one thing you want when you’re lying awake in a full-body clench of insomnia and anxiety, it’s company.


Banned words

As of today, I am experimenting with being assured and unambiguous in my writing style. Here is a list of words which are henceforth banned:

Almost

Maybe

Possibly

Probably

Could

Might

If you spot me using any of them or their derivatives, please issue a sharp admonishment.


A small victory

This is me:

Ian Thorpe celebrating a win

I swam TEN LENGTHS today. Actually, I swam four lengths followed by twelve half-lengths, because they closed the deep end of the pool so that some burly men could practise diving with all their clothes on and pretending to rescue each other. They may have been trainee lifeguards, or army cadets, or just burly men who like diving in their clothes. I didn’t ask.

Anyway, I could barely manage two lengths when I started a month ago, so although ten lengths of a 27.5-metre pool is barely a quarter of a kilometre, I am pleased with myself, although you’ll be glad to know that I didn’t actually do a fist pump.

Weirdly, in just four weeks of swimming I have become noticeably (to me and the beloved, possibly not to anyone else) more svelte around the middle, too, so although I never intended to change my eating habits as part of my new healthier 2011, I now have the added benefit that I don’t even feel bad about the two croissants I had for breakfast, or the giant bowl of pasta I plan to eat shortly.

Interestingly, if you Google for pictures of Ian Thorpe, one of the first results is this one:

Ian Thorpe posing naked

Which wasn’t appropriate for my purposes, but I felt like I should share it with you anyway.


You dreamed about the same creep I did!*

Me and my brother and sister have a game. It’s called In… what… waaaay” in honour of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, although it doesn’t really deserve a name of its own, because it’s just “guess the movie I’m quoting”. But we’ve seen all of the same movies, so it’s more fun to play than it would be with random strangers.

Anyway, there are some films, Ferris among them, which almost aren’t worth using any more because we all know them so well, which means that if you can come up with a line from one of those films which the other two don’t immediately recognise, you are definitely the winner of that round.

In a separate development, I am really enjoying my new job. Really enjoying it. Put those two facts together and maybe it’s not that strange that last night I dreamed that my actual job was coming up with movie quotes for people to guess. As the alarm went off at seven o’clock this morning, I was gleefully reciting the line “that’s the bedroom…but nothing ever happened in there”* and waiting to see who’d guess it first. I can’t remember who was doing the guessing, but – as when we play it for real – it was all very jolly and uncompetitive.

I’m pleased that my brain chose to associate my new job with playing “In… what… waaaay”. I think it bodes well.

Some of my dreams are interesting and many are definitively not. The most interesting dream I’ve ever had, which I can still conjure up perfectly vividly even though I dreamed it in 1992, is a story for another day. The second-most interesting dream was a nightmare which still sends shivers down my spine, although it’s one of those nightmares which don’t sound scary at all when you describe them. I’ve never been able to interpret either of them in a way that made sense, so perhaps I will write about them here one day and see if someone else can do better.

In general, though, I’m not a very cryptic dreamer: most of what I dream about is a perfectly transparent reference to whatever I’ve mostly been thinking about that day. Here are three examples:

1. When I’d been at the Guardian about eighteen months, I was asked to take on a much more technical job than I’d ever done before. It was still project management, but it involved knowing about servers and back-end systems and other things I didn’t really understand. These were projects on which the website would literally stand or fall. In the days before I started, I dreamed that we were all riding in a giant bus, which was being driven jointly by our Chief Technical Officer and our Systems Administrator.  At a crucial moment,  they asked me to come forward and drive the bus. As I took over the steering wheel, I swerved it violently to one side and crashed the bus into the verge.

2. A couple of years later, I was helping  to run a survey of people’s favourite films by collecting lots of data and sending it to a friend, who was mashing it up and turning it into something interesting. Midway through, I dreamed that the friend in question was a private detective (in the dream he was also Sherlock Holmes, and I was Watson) and he’d called me into his office to help with an assignment. “I need you to gather some information”, he said. “I need you to go out and find every example you can of the anthromorphisation of letterboxes in nineteenth-century English literature.”

(I guess my subconscious added a flourish of its own there.)

3. Shortly after the beloved and I became engaged, I dreamed that we were in a large room full of people we knew, eating a meal. Our table was at one end of the room and we were facing out towards everybody else. Our chairs were eight or nine feet tall, and we’d had to climb ladders to reach them. As the meal ended I looked down and realised that the ladders had been removed, and we had to stay in the chairs, with everybody looking at us.

No need for Freud’s help in interpreting any of those, I don’t think.

(On the other hand, the period in my life when I had the liveliest and most colourful dreams was while I was reading On The Interpretation Of Dreams before I went to sleep every night, which is an activity I strongly recommend if you can’t afford hallucinogens.)

*They’re both easy, but please go ahead and guess the source of each quote in the comments. It will make me very happy.


New year’s resolutions for 2011

Phew, it feels good to ditch that red and green Christmas design and get back to the clean lines and no-nonsense layout of Kubrick. At some point over the weekend I might even do the same to the flat, metaphorically, although today I’m quite enjoying our cosy little tree.

Looking back at last year’s resolutions I am delighted to discover that one of them was to get the boiler fixed, which I did, at great expense and accompanied by a hefty dose of pain. I can’t remember now whether we got it fixed because it broke or just because we knew it needed fixing, but either way it’s a mission accomplished. I also did some good things that I wasn’t expecting to do, like leaving a job without another one to go to, learning how to make sausage rolls, and getting engaged.

But there are still things I need to do. Here are some of them.

  1. I will keep up with my writing course and actually finish the story I’ve been working on for the last year. It’s already the longest thing I’ve ever written, so it would be a shame to ditch it now.
  2. I will not become Bridezilla.
  3. I will find a better form of exercise than bloody Pilates.

Is three enough? I think three is enough.


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