Sunday, 18 February 2007
the long one
Firstly, let me take this opportunity to apologise for my last but one entry which detailed, with particular emphasis on the note of personal tragedy, the theft of my blackberry and the double breakdown of my elderly estate car. Drivel, drivel, moo moo, don't I have the worst fate ever. You will be pleased to hear I got over it. I am fit, I'm having fun, and it turns out I might also be pretty fast. Ah, and also late. More on this will follow.
Thursday, 15 February 2007
So I've chosen to lay a small amount of my inner dialogue out for all to see. Not exactly baring my soul but certainly something. And I've chosen a theme - running. There's something pleasantly purposeful and finite about it.
This facebook / myspace phenomenon is a whole different kettle of fish. Firstly, is it likely to ever end? Will my retirement be spent as a slave to my wall comments and photo tags? Secondly, it is almost a full time job. I would estimate that my productivity rate has dropped to about 15% in the last 48 hours. Thirdly, it renders you incapable of self-respect. I have shamelessly poked around people's profiles, hunted for boys I fancied aged 11 (Ben Davies, I know you're out there somewhere) and spent quite a while pondering how to politely remove undesireables from my friendship group (you're only as cool as the people you poke, you realise).
In social terms, I have survived that early glut of over-enthused poking, I have contemplated and changed my picture at least twice (head shot or full length? looking good or showing off? oh, what to choose!) and I have experienced the tabloid jouro's joy at unravelling telltale strands of people's lives, unbeknown to them (having checked first whether people can tell if I view their profile). And now I'm starting to rest on my laurels and enjoy this social / anti-social / downright invasive (delete as appropriate) interNetworking tool.
This facebook / myspace phenomenon is a whole different kettle of fish. Firstly, is it likely to ever end? Will my retirement be spent as a slave to my wall comments and photo tags? Secondly, it is almost a full time job. I would estimate that my productivity rate has dropped to about 15% in the last 48 hours. Thirdly, it renders you incapable of self-respect. I have shamelessly poked around people's profiles, hunted for boys I fancied aged 11 (Ben Davies, I know you're out there somewhere) and spent quite a while pondering how to politely remove undesireables from my friendship group (you're only as cool as the people you poke, you realise).
In social terms, I have survived that early glut of over-enthused poking, I have contemplated and changed my picture at least twice (head shot or full length? looking good or showing off? oh, what to choose!) and I have experienced the tabloid jouro's joy at unravelling telltale strands of people's lives, unbeknown to them (having checked first whether people can tell if I view their profile). And now I'm starting to rest on my laurels and enjoy this social / anti-social / downright invasive (delete as appropriate) interNetworking tool.
Sunday, 11 February 2007
excuses, excuses...
I haven't been running for about ten days. There has just been no time. But now Sunday is drawing to a close and as I sit, waiting for my work to be done, a beer in one hand and my blackberry in the other, I reckon I can smell the approach of normality.
Born out of captivity like a racist in a reality show, my inner runner will emerge to strike a note of fear in the hearts of fellow marathonites.
Or so I hope. As it stands, I'd just rather like to go to bed. But writing this is at least more entertaining than match of the day (no matter how small the keypad).
Perhaps I should take this chance to fill you in on the Worst 24 Hours Ever, Nearly. Friday was the only evening in about ten days that I could actually relax, have a drink and switch off the next day. The week was manic, Friday unbelieveably so, and Sunday (today) has so far been about fourteen hours worth of work. As will tomorrow be. So you geddit- friday / saturday, this little jessie needs some FUN.
Friday, leave work 8 pm, arrive cargo 8.30, blackberry nicked 8.45. This is BAD. ALL info and contacts for BAFTAs on sunday on it, everyone has that number and that number only for problems with interviews / footage etc etc. Spend hour or so searching people / floor / bushes for discarded phone (?? Illogical, I know) then go home and have A Good Cry. 3.30 a.m. Cargo people call me - they've found my crackberry! Hoorah! Jump for the sky. Only way of getting it before 1pm saturday however is by going then and there. So I arrive at the cargo afterparty (east end trendies, fruit beers and musicians, man) in my pyjamas. Only to find it aint my blackberry.
Pink stripey pjs and hair like Worzel Gummidge on a bad day, I crawled around the floor for a while looking for it and eventually gave up and got a taxi home, sticky and dejected.
Saturday a.m. was spent sourcing, replacing and synchronising bits of telecommunicationware, Saturday p.m. and night was split between the inside lane of the north circular and the hard shoulder of the M40 (I broke down TWICE), Sunday has been spent working like a Polish cleaning lady on speed and now it's 2 a.m. MONDAY and I'm really looking forward to bed so I can get up and get back to work at 7 a.m. Don't ask me how the running's going.
Born out of captivity like a racist in a reality show, my inner runner will emerge to strike a note of fear in the hearts of fellow marathonites.
Or so I hope. As it stands, I'd just rather like to go to bed. But writing this is at least more entertaining than match of the day (no matter how small the keypad).
Perhaps I should take this chance to fill you in on the Worst 24 Hours Ever, Nearly. Friday was the only evening in about ten days that I could actually relax, have a drink and switch off the next day. The week was manic, Friday unbelieveably so, and Sunday (today) has so far been about fourteen hours worth of work. As will tomorrow be. So you geddit- friday / saturday, this little jessie needs some FUN.
Friday, leave work 8 pm, arrive cargo 8.30, blackberry nicked 8.45. This is BAD. ALL info and contacts for BAFTAs on sunday on it, everyone has that number and that number only for problems with interviews / footage etc etc. Spend hour or so searching people / floor / bushes for discarded phone (?? Illogical, I know) then go home and have A Good Cry. 3.30 a.m. Cargo people call me - they've found my crackberry! Hoorah! Jump for the sky. Only way of getting it before 1pm saturday however is by going then and there. So I arrive at the cargo afterparty (east end trendies, fruit beers and musicians, man) in my pyjamas. Only to find it aint my blackberry.
Pink stripey pjs and hair like Worzel Gummidge on a bad day, I crawled around the floor for a while looking for it and eventually gave up and got a taxi home, sticky and dejected.
Saturday a.m. was spent sourcing, replacing and synchronising bits of telecommunicationware, Saturday p.m. and night was split between the inside lane of the north circular and the hard shoulder of the M40 (I broke down TWICE), Sunday has been spent working like a Polish cleaning lady on speed and now it's 2 a.m. MONDAY and I'm really looking forward to bed so I can get up and get back to work at 7 a.m. Don't ask me how the running's going.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
