Word Up!

Words are funny things. Why is it that some words make some people totally irrational – cringey, goosebumpy – even occasionally shouty. In my experience it’s usually women, but in all egalitarian fairness, it applies to some men too, sometimes.

I’m not specifically talking about the sweary words, such as that “C” word that allegedly hates women. Or at least makes upper-middle class sexagenarians pull a face like they sucked a lemon. Oddly enough, that’s one of the few words I can think of that sounds better when a British (or Irish) person says it than when an American does… Just doesn’t work in American. It sounds too comedic, and I don’t know why. The other word that (in MY opinion at least) sounds wrong in an American accent is “Aluminium”, The only thing is that that is at least spelled differently in American English than it is in British English. Furthermore (to my shame as a flag-waving Brit), the Americans technically spell “Aluminum” more correctly, as that’s the name that Humphrey Davy gave it (after his brief dalliance with Alumium). However, the USA and Canada are just about the only countries that use that spelling now, so maybe not…

After the above, minor digression, the point I was making was actually intended to regard the use of certain words that evoke a feeling of filth, revulsion or general shudderiness, without TECHNICALLY being “Bad Words”. The most common one I've come across for making people squirm is “Moist”. I have NO clue why such a large number of people (mainly of the female persuasion) go all funny when somebody bemoistens the conversation, but it regularly seems to happen. My personal trigger-word is “Mouthfeel” – makes my boy parts head North to seek inguinal refuge, yet I have no idea why. I once knew someone (my brother’s ex-girlfriend, as a matter of fact), who had a whole dictionary of “Bad Words” that did funny things to her insides. The most prominent of these were “Panties” and (oddly) “Button”.

Why do these words cause gastric somersaults, anyway? They’re only words, and generally not even rude ones. They quite probably evoke some form of emotional response that’s based on a deep-seated kinaesthetic reaction, but I have no idea why.

Also, there’s a second classification of “Bad Words” (third if you count cursing, which should probably, technically be top of the list), in that there are many “manufactured” words and phrases that seem to creep into the language when people want to say something that either the regular lexicon doesn’t cover, or that they feel would be embellished by inventing a new name for an old thing. Normally, what they’re ACTUALLY saying is “I’m a wanker”. Words and phrases that say this loud and proud would be such verbal flatulence as “Blue Sky Thinking”, “Incentivise”, "Knowledgebite", “Predictors of Beaconicity” and (my personal nemesis) “Gifting”. I don’t know why the genesis of such verbally excretal trends causes such dissonance in my soul, but it does and that’s just that.

And that’s all I have to say.

I’d normally try to make some sense of it all, then post some BS moral of the story or “wise” conclusion, but actually, I don’t have the answers, I don’t want the answers, and really, I just want the madness to stop! But just to get me good and riled-up, I welcome anyone’s suggestions of bad words, phrases or even theories on why they rub so many people up the wrong way. Go ahead – if you have something to offer, post a comment! If not, please just assume that I’m a crazy old man with a grudge against some youngsters in hoodies…

I have one more word to type before retiring: Sesquipedalianism. That's all. It sums up my philosophy but does it in a nice, bulky (and a little sexy) package. And it's even a real word that only hates idiots.

Movin' On...

This weekend will be interesting. Maybe. Actually, this weekend will probably be a pain in the vernacular. The reason for this is that we're moving house. Oh, and we haven't finished packing yet.

This is a prime example of planned projects being postponed indefinitely - or at least until it's too late - indefinitely is not an option here as we have to move out by Monday, which is obviously "definite" (if I can say that in this context). It may also be a good juncture to mention that I have had ANOTHER (hare-brained) idea for an additional project that probably won't happen - this week I had what I consider to be a stroke of genius regarding an e-commerce business. I won't go into depth here, just in case it actually stands a chance of coming to fruition, as nobody else seems to have done this (as far as I'm aware), so it would probably be wise for me to keep it schtum at least for now.

All this in addition to work and study (oh yeah - the first of my Year 2 Law assignments is due in just a smidge over a week's time, so THAT should really be my priority - essays don't just write themselves, so there's an inconvenient sixteen hours' commitment that I have to make, in amongst the boxes and the mayhem. I think I might find a moment to obtain a web address or two, though... I'm considering moving this blog onto its own dedicated domain, as well as setting up a couple of other online thingies. Watch this space.

One deeply unpleasant thing that has pervaded the current house move for the last six weeks of planning, has been the sheer expense of the undertaking. Now, I'm sure that everyone reading this - be they tenants, home owners or even just living with parents - is aware that when renting a property it's customary to pay a deposit in addition to the first month's rent. So, to begin, there's just over £2500 to stump up, for a one-bedroomed apartment. That, however, is merely the start of the financial haemorrhage.

It has also, in recent years, become increasingly common for a letting agency to charge tenants an administration fee. In my experience, this averages at about £100 for credit checks, paperwork, inventory, etc. A little steep, maybe, but it does cover quite a few things. It's also of rather questionable legality, for various reasons; the agency has already been paid (usually quite handsomely) by the landlord for this kind of stuff, and technically the landlord is their actual client; furthermore, it's also effectively charging someone for the mere privilege of being a consumer, which is HIGHLY dubious... Imagine, for instance, if a supermarket charged you an entry fee, before you even started shopping!

So even in light of the questionable status of such a fee, it was particularly galling that the agency in question decided it would be amusing to charge each of us (i.e. my wife AND me, individually) an administration fee. So £200 + VAT = £240, then... Really?! But surely we're filling in the same form? Oh, and they even emailed that to us for printing out, so their fee doesn't even include printing costs!

One would assume that the madness blissfully stops here. Sadly not. It turns out that the letting agency in question doesn't actually include the inventory fee in their admin charge. Why not? Who knows? This implies that the admin fee is merely to cover finding a template for a contract, plus credit checks - which we all KNOW cost less than £100 - imagine the state of consumer credit and the subsequently ravaged economy if Visa or Mastercard had to pay this for every credit card application. One would also assume that the landlord probably agreed and paid for the contract side of things already, so that £240 was to cover credit checks that cost maybe £10, if we're being generous. Oh, and the inventory fee will be nearly £150. Which in itself is rather shady. Surely, the landlord should just say what they think is in the place, and we should subsequently either agree or disagree with him. Apparently not. It seems that looking inside 4 rooms to see what they contain, then writing this precious information on a sheet of paper, requires a special breed of person - specifically one who is only available via a very expensive company who specialise in employing such rare and insightful experts. Incidentally, one would assume that for the wedge of green that we're forking out for the privilege, said crack team of surveyors would be able to perform their dark magicks on a Sunday morning. Evidently not. So the logistics of the operation developed a whole extra degree of complexity, but I won't go into that side of things.

At this juncture, it can be shown that we've forked out £2900 so far, and still not actually moved in. But it gets better. Our initial contract lasts a year. After this year, if we choose to move out, we have to get the place cleaned professionally. So that'll cost us. At least we don't pay the agency for the privilege. The thing is, that if it isn't clean, this cost comes out of our deposit. Let's just assume that that will go ok.

But WAIT! What's this? Hidden stealthily in the fine print of our contract is an innocuous-looking clause that says something along the lines of "On vacating the premises, the tenants shall be reamed for another £85 for general maintenance and cleaning of the communal areas". Come again? So we have to pay a professional cleaner to clean the apartment or it comes out of our deposit. Any costs covering maintenance of wear-and-tear come out of our deposit. And we have to also pay £85 for cleaning and maintenance? Huh? Isn't that paying twice for the same thing?

Ok. So lets assume that we're unable to foot the charges necessary to amscray. This leaves but one option... We'd have to stay and renew the contract... Guess what? The agency has put another funny in the contract. There's another cheeky little clause nestling in there that says if we renew the contract, they charge us £100 + VAT each to do so. WHY? How can it POSSIBLY amount to another £240 of value to us to be given the same sheet of paper to sign that we've already signed once. These leeches want to charge us an additional quarter grand for them to do nothing at all. I'd almost consider homicide over this. This can't possibly be legal, can it? If only I knew a tame lawyer who I could ask, or maybe even a law student... HOLD THE PHONE! I DO! I'm a law student!

So is this legal? Hmmm. It IS, technically, if we sign the contract to renew it. However, what if we refuse to sign, and simply stay put. Ah. Well here we see some small glimmer of hope. It seems that at least for now, if we merely do nothing when out contract runs out, legally it will simply regress to a rolling monthly contract, wherein the landlord (or an agent acting on their behalf) is required to give us two months' notice to get us to move out. Heheheheh... Finally, the law comes to the aid of the weak and opressed. I, for one, can't WAIT until they ask us to sign the renewal. I love to see the worshippers of Mammon getting annoyed. Wonder if their heads will explode when they realise that they won't get £200 + VAT for doing sweet FA, and that if they also wish to continue to get their percentage from the landlord, they either have to let us stay or actually put some time and effort into serving notice and finding a new tenant.

Still... I think the total cost to us for this ill-advised endeavour remains £3000 for this weekend's jollities, and who knows what BS they'll fabricate when we move out, in order to take an additional bite out of the deposit, over and above the contracted £85 "cleaning-and-maintenance-again" charge.

Easy come, easy go...

A mixed bag.

Life has been a curate’s egg, of late (note that if you’ve clicked the link, I actually mean "a mixed bag", rather than "some good parts but ruined as a net effect") – I hesitate to bang on about my broken instrument again, but that was a real kick in the fork… I’ve been so run off my feet that I haven’t managed to blog for a few days, which is annoying in that yet another thing that I’m attempting to do is threatening to fly south for the winter, but as you can see (if you’re reading this), I’ve dragged myself with weary determination to my keyboard. Well… Technically, I dragged my keyboard to myself with weary determination – I’m currently using a laptop (which, amusingly, if you like this kind of thing, is the same word, but pronounced “lappee-toppee” in Brazilian Portuguese).

But I digress.

Naturally, given the clerically ovoid nature of my recent life, there have also been uppers. I have discovered that I can fix the MC-808 for £50, which (all things considered) is rather better than I was expecting. Also trying to focus on the silver linings, my lack of spare moments meant that I blissfully (if a little inconveniently) missed out on the weekly worship at the Temple of Katona, and was forced, instead to pick everything up elsewhere. Maybe it cost more, but at least I didn’t feel dirty.

Furthermore, the law studies proceed apace, and I've even learned a couple of useful little factlets, which I’ll divulge in a future blog post that I'm planning to write on legal issues (nothing heavy, BTW – just some genuinely interesting things that I feel even the non-legally-inclined may ingest with murmurs of “REALLY?” or “Well I never!”).

Additionally, I had a curiously rewarding moment at work. To give some context, when I was first starting out as an IT “professional”, I worked as a programmer, prior to gravitating into support and finally deployment and packaging. It was actually a fairly rewarding aspect of the industry for me, as it was a pretty good combination of problem-solving and creativity. It also turned a previously pretty average smoking habit into a 40-a-day chain smoking Problem (and the capitalised “P” was intentional)! As it turns out, ADD can be useful – at least, my variety; I have a great capacity to “hyper-focus” on one single aspect of certain things, and programming is one of them. Unfortunately, I then lose track of literally everything else – time, hunger, etc. – and if I happen to be a smoker and the packet is on hand, the addiction just kinda drives itself in the background… Glad I quit…

But I digress.

Anywho, my professional life finally “came full circle” this week, when occasion demanded an application (or suite thereof, actually) to perform a bunch of processing on hundreds of computers simultaneously, report back to a central point, and then process the whole. Unfortunately (without boring anyone with the minutiae), such software did not exist. More unfortunately, nobody else in my office knows how to write code, and even more unfortunately, they CERTAINLY weren’t gonna pay the full shebang for a bespoke application, given the relatively low-priority requirement for the end result. So it fell to me.

For the first time in over 14 years, I wrote a set of applications, to integrate with a bunch of Windows scripting and registry commands (that I last used 6-7 years back), based on support knowledge that I built up 2-4 years ago, extracting data from in-house-repackaged software (currently mastering…) and all to be orchestrated by the central deployment server that I seem to be in charge of (what I’ve done for the last year and a bit). Unusually, 5 distinct stages of my career all came together in one blaze of glory (apologies for hideously overstating it, here) and it actually worked! Go figure.

And then I realised that I'm pretty much the only person I know who can do EXACTLY what I did there. It’s a weird feeling when you recognise that moment.

Everyone has vastly diverse sets of skills and occasionally uses several of them at once. Some people, such as neurosurgeons, are among very few (or are sometimes even the only person) who can do the single thing that they do on a daily basis. Equally, the actual end result of this project was not particularly special or exciting. However, being as I am, in a career where lots of people can do what I do in each of my areas of expertise, it’s genuinely unusual to have a moment where I don’t know anyone else who has the precise combination needed to do what was required at the time.

Everyone will naturally have one particular combination of skills that is either rare or unique… And I have no doubt there are others who also have this particular combination, but I don’t know them. Not that this makes me particularly special – just curiously and fortuitously in exactly the right place at the right time to do something that would normally have involved several people. Weird, really. And I’ll probably never need to do that again.

The programming made me a bit nostalgic (still hate computers, though). It also made me tremble uncontrollably and need the little boys’ room repeatedly. It turns out that in the absence of an active smoking habit, lots of coffee performs the same function as lots of cigarettes.

One step forward, two steps back.

This will be a short blog, because I'm tetchy.

Yesterday proved something important to me. Firstly, I discovered that I AM capable of pulling my finger out, putting everything else to one side (momentarily), and actually getting some work done on a new track.

My satisfaction and feelings of personal accomplishment were short-lived, however, as yesterday also proved something else – namely that sometimes the universe is just out to remind you that you’re not actually in charge of your own destiny – merely an enthusiastic contributor… This became evident when the heart of my musical setup – my beloved Roland MC-808 turned out to have a serious fault.

Unfortunately, the serious fault was not immediately obvious, thereby making the ultimate impact all the more galling. Specifically, everything was working fine – I use this box to write all of my drum tracks, instrument lines (except guitar, which I play live) and so on – it sequences the individual parts, including effects and other incidental sounds, and plays them all back. In short, if it ain’t vocals or guitar, it does it. Except, it seems, it does not save any of the work I produce. Bugger.

I finally committed a decent number of hours to writing a good start to what was shaping up to be a very promising piece of industrial techno and couldn’t frickin’ save it. The “Save” button is the only part of a very clever, very expensive piece of kit that does not work. What a waste of an evening.

The thing is this - putting aside the disheartening waste of creative juices, the MC-808 is still on a guarantee (although I believe it’s refund only, but hey…) – sadly, I bought it from a company in France. So it’ll cost me a packet to send it back for checking over, and I may not even get it back. Ok, I may get the purchase money back, but I got a great deal on it, so if I have to find another, I’ll probably have to cough up a load more money. Bugger.

I could get it repaired, but I haven’t the foggiest idea what that’s likely to cost. Bet it’s more than I can spare at the moment… Bugger.

So anyway – I did manage to get some of my law course studied, so I haven’t entirely wasted the last couple of days, but CRAP. I think I may actually hate lots of technology after all – the computers seem to have got some company on “the list”.

Maybe I should become an author or an actor… Or a boutique cheese manufacturer. I like cheese.

The fashion issue...

Today was spent being taught further intricacies of trade floor telephony. The guy doing the teaching was particularly distracting, due to looking and sounding very similar to Nigel Planer - Neil from “The Young Ones”, if you didn’t realise… If you don’t know “The Young Ones”, I probably can’t help you much, but look it up on YouTube – you’ll probably find something appropriate.

This was an unusual similarity, given that Nigel Planer is known for playing a hippie with characteristically long hair, whereas the trainer was comically bald – not merely hairless, but with a bald “dome” surrounded by a proud ruff of immaculately pruned hair – conjuring an overall effect that was reminiscent of an ostrich egg laid in a thrush’s nest.

This led me to the arguably inevitable conclusion of “WTF?” - or an internalised, and rather more eloquent equivalent, at least. Aside from the obvious consideration that he should really have been wearing a 2 foot wig, I also arrived at the rather more practical thought that he’d have been better off just losing the lot and pretending it was 100% by choice, rather than 50% fate and 50% deliberate.

I do sometimes wonder what neuron fails to fire in some people’s brains and leads them to feel that it’s a good idea to create such a disastrous impression. I mean – we all wear things that maybe don’t suit us, and even sometimes make a deliberate statement that is more zero than hero. My wife likes to describe such spectacular sartorial ejecta in womenswear as “Man-Repelling” – borrowed from a blog that she follows quite religiously – although I feel that we don’t need to be so gender-specific when identifying fashion whoopsies.

Another example of a similar fail when sweepingly and prejudicially writing off an entire subsection of the population – who in my defence are often genuinely obsessive and self-aggrandising – is cyclists. As a non-driver myself, I’m probably on shaky ground by targeting my natural allies, but REALLY? What makes anyone decide that it’s a good idea to package up their – ahem! – “package” into some hideously deformed, spandex moose-knuckle of such throbbing obviousness that it looks like it was caused by repeated assaults from an electrified saddle whilst cycling over cobbles? Worse still is an almost equally common partiality for radioactively neon colour schemes in which to perform such genital strangulation. The overall effect is one of pain, lunacy and revulsion that in a bygone era would have been peculiar to Bedlam. And sadly, it’s usually men that choose to do this – the specific half of the population that definitely don’t suit this look.

…And breathe…

Actually, I'm hardly a fashionista (or should that be fashionisto?) myself... Anywho. I failed, yet again, to produce any musical offerings. I learned some law, but not as much as I would have liked. I did, however, write a blog post. See above.

A new year and a new tutor group..!

Ok. So today was the first day of a training course for work. Woo-hoo.

I spent most of the day trying to crowbar the mystical inner workings of a market-leading Voice-Over-IP solution for Trade Floors into my head. I think I mostly succeeded in at least some of my task, given that there was no room left over for any useful thoughts by 5pm. At least they gave me free sandwiches – a bargain, considering that my employer allegedly paid in excess of £4,500 for this to happen to me.

Unfortunately it was also the day of the first of my tutorials for Year Two of my Law degree. This was technically preferable to the expensive telephone hand-holding, but sadly came immediately after it, and as a consequence, my already slightly-faulty brain just farted and went to sleep. Metaphorically. In fact, I just sat there and absorbed very little.

One great moment did arise from the tutorial, however. As is often the custom when such gatherings commence, we did a quick verbal Mexican wave of describing who we were, what we do for a living, did we do the previous (kinda fundamental but non-compulsory) module (i.e. my Year One)?, and why do we want to study law in the first place?

As one might expect, the round robin went (bob-bob-bobbing?) round the room, with most people doing some reasonably taxing but ultimately unfulfilling job, mostly having done the introductory module and mostly either hoping to become a solicitor, barrister or somehow incorporate a deeper understanding of the law into their daily grind. However, not quite everyone fit this profile.

For reasons known only to my brain, the one fact that DID leave the tutorial, FIRMLY lodged in my memory went something like this:

A particularly sullen-looking young guy (I estimated about 20-22) was galvanised into enthusiasm when the robin rounded on him. He neglected to give his name (unless he was being particularly modern and edgy by simply not having one), and claimed (and I quote – I actually have this memorised, by the way…): “I don’t do nuffink now. I didn’t do [course title of previous module omitted to provide SOME anonymity]. I want to be a judge so I can change the law, innit. Cos the law, like… It’s bad, right?”

Pure genius. The tutor, to her credit, did not bat an eyelid. She merely suggested that maybe he was on the wrong course, as judges don’t change the law, and that maybe he should be striving towards becoming an MP. She then went on to explain statutes, statutory interpretation and judicial precedent, which, had The Man With No Name actually studied the (considerably lower-cost) foundation module, he would have known already. Oddly, he then spent the rest of the session lolling about in his chair and sighing loudly. He failed to take notes.

Sadly I made no music today. I thought about it but 9 hours of solid learning left me mentally broken, although curiously positive about the comedic potential for future electoral candidates…

An Introduction...

So… Welcome to my Permanent Mid-Life Crisis. Not really sure how I should be starting this, but I don’t want to get to the title just yet – that really needs the context of an understanding of who I am, what I am, what I do, what I don’t and so on. But it’ll make sense (beyond the obvious) within a few paragraphs.

So I’ll start with a broad definition of myself. I like very big words, and the construction of pointlessly over-complex sentences from them. I thirst for new knowledge. I’m British, love tea, beer, bangers and mash, fish and chips, curry and all other such clichés. I’m 38 (for now), I work in IT (until I can get out of it), I used to be a chef in the American Midwest. I was a DJ for several years. I study law in my spare time, write music in my other spare time, read books in my other, other spare time (I’m a BIG fan of Sir Terry Pratchett – particularly his Discworld books, but I also have a casual but active fascination with science, so enjoy such gems as Stephen Hawking et al). In any other, other, other spare time, I’m trying to learn Brazilian Portuguese. This may seem a random addition to my list of stuff, but it makes more sense if you happen to be aware that my wife is Brazilian; and although she speaks English fluently, for me to learn her native language would both show willing and would hypothetically make communication with her family easier. At least, that’s the theory… In practice, it turns out that teaching yourself a whole language from a book is quite difficult, particularly if you’re trying to get it sorted in a spare hour here and there, in under three months.

I went to university some 20 years ago and it was GREAT. I loved nearly every minute of it. Unfortunately, I didn’t do so well in the academic stakes. In fact, I dropped out because I kept getting bad grades. This came as something of a surprise at the time, as I’d previously scored pretty good results in high school, and (without blowing my trumpet TOO loud), I’m not stupid. Maybe not a genius, but certainly capable of doing better than I did. The thing is, I was trying, although I also knew I could try harder. I also wanted to try harder, and believe it or not, tried to try harder. These may sound like excuses – and to an extent may even be so – but it’ll make a little more sense very shortly.

I also always wanted to be a musician. I have sufficient ability to achieve this (although I’d never claim to be a virtuoso – I’m just more than capable of producing some of the crap that has surfaced in the charts over the last 3 decades) – I taught myself guitar and keyboards and have been playing these for 25-30 years, I can read music, I know basic theory and sing fairly well. The thing is (and this is something that only relatively recently became apparent to me), I have significant difficulty in remembering a whole track, and also find it quite difficult to set aside the time to write music. I never knew why I wasn’t doing better here, and put it down to simply not knowing the right people or something like that. This may have been a factor, but it wasn’t the REASON why I didn’t do better.

So I spent my twenties and thirties working in IT. I HATE computers with a fiery vengeance. I’m just good at them. I adapt, absorb and learn new stuff really fast and there’s very little that I can’t work out if I get my hands on a PC. This is not arrogance – it’s just true – I’m crap at lots of other stuff, but this at least, I’m good at. The irony is that I was studying computers at university (for at least the majority of my time there – I also did Psychology). It was there that I discovered my deep dislike of IT. Which is even more ironic, as I taught myself to program a computer at 7 years old, when I wanted to play games and couldn’t afford to buy them. My parents had to ban me from the family computer for extended periods to control my obvious obsession with it. Go figure. Buggered if I know what’s really going on with me.

I have several very good friends, but I can rub many people up the wrong way (in an entirely social way) quite soon after meeting them, because I tend to talk about myself too much and fail to show interest in anyone else. However, this isn’t deliberate – I just find it very difficult to remember to ask people about themselves. I want to know, and I want to ask – I just fail to remember to. When people have known me for a while, they just get used to this side of me and (hopefully) don’t mind it too much – although it helps if they happen to be people who volunteer information easily themselves. In any event, I value the friends I have, and continue to strive to show interest in them! Note that in this blog I will be shamelessly talking about myself because that’s the whole point; in conversation, I strive (and often fail) to do so rather less.

It struck me a few years ago, as my first marriage was falling apart, that there may be a fundamental issue that has led to the many tiny problems that seem to plague my life – very few things are significant unless viewed as a whole. Admittedly, there have been a few big disasters – university, my failure to get a driving license, a continued struggle to pay bills on time (despite earning enough money and being willing to pay up), a difficulty in getting a decent job, despite a definite ability in the area, problems with communicating effectively with some people, which at least partially contributed to my divorce, and so on.

It turned out that I have an Attention Deficit Disorder. I say “AN” ADD, because there are many aspects and angles to this, and I fit some of these but not others. A telling moment was when I did an AD/HD screening test and my score was off the charts. Bizarrely, a friend of mine who I would have described as the most classically, obviously attention deficit person I knew, actually scored as perfectly normal. Evidently he’s just internally “busy” or something! However, without going into depth, ADD has contributed (and continues to contribute) to a LOT of different screw-ups and stumblings in my life.

The thing is – I’m perfectly normal. It’s not something that’s obvious, I didn’t even suspect it myself until a single particularly cutting comment, made in the heat of an argument reverberated in my head and made me wonder if there was a single problem that caused many tiny effects. The comment in question hurt, and I didn’t know why. It shouldn’t have hurt so much, but it was fundamentally wrong, and yet so obviously seemed to be the case. The comment was: “You aren’t interested in other people – you only ever think about yourself”. This was unfair, untrue, and the person who said it should have known this. But I knew they meant it and I realised that I was actually giving that impression. I just didn’t know why.

Many people say “Oh, I do that” or “Everyone is like that” about issues such as forgetfulness or an inability to multi-task, or even a failure to remember to ask someone about their day. People DO do that. But not in the impressively disastrous way that I do it always, and with everything. And yet I constantly think, analyse and discuss everything with myself. Everyone has an inner monologue, but my personal narrative is like Walter Mitty on steroids – it’s like I’m reading my own story out in my head as I do anything. In fact, it’s like someone else has taken control of my inner voice and won’t shut up.

I have no intention of dwelling much more on the ADD thing – it just is how it is. And it’s the reason for the title of my blog. A common theme in my life has been that my inability to concentrate on any one thing for long enough has led to a lot of things turning out less than perfectly. In fact, very little went quite according to plan, and basically meant that I’ve had a low-level mid-life crisis since I was 18 years old. There’s no sign that this state of affairs will be letting up anytime soon, so I might as well focus on the funny side of it. Or at least the tragically ironic stuff. Even if you, the reader, have no intention of reading further, the point is that I will, because I’ll probably need a record of some of this stuff to keep me on track (or just provide a few laughs). Also, it may be cathartic. I suspect this now I know that catharsis doesn’t involve the insertion of a small tube anywhere private or sensitive.

A more interesting upshot of my personal situation is that I have a LOT of projects and ambitions. At time of writing, I have a full-time job, I study law, I write music, I read MANY books, I’m building a guitar, I’m learning Portuguese, I’m writing two books, I cook (enthusiastically and for fun – not just to survive), I want to run a restaurant, I interpret dreams, I want to run an organic cider farm/orchard, I’d like to make cheeses, I want to get a degree in theoretical physics, I’m constantly learning new IT skills (I won’t go into depth here, but I mean big, significant things – new disciplines, not just new software), I’d like to be an archaeologist, and many, many other smaller things. In addition, I continue to plan for and add new projects to my repertoire, beyond what’s actually possible to achieve. This means that I have a stack of half-finished stuff that I feel depressed about. People also notice that I’m constantly making plans and having big ideas, and going nowhere with them. Oh look – I just started a blog. Fingers crossed…

So I’ve made a decision. Well - a couple of decisions. Well… several, interconnected decisions, really.

I want a career change. This much has been apparent to me for nearly 20 years – before my career even began, in fact. That’s a mid-life crisis in action, right there... I want a degree. I know I can get one – I’m smart enough to manage it and now I know why I had problems the first time around, I can compensate for them and hopefully be considerably more successful. To make this point, I scored 81% overall for the first year of my law degree. Rather better than the fail, followed by re-sit and grudging pass that I managed in my first year of my first attempt at higher education. I also want to gig. I want to write some decent music, play it live, maybe sell some online (or even on CD) and see how far I can go with that. What I DON’T want is to keep doing what I’m doing, in some (contradictorily, and mixed-metaphorically) stagnating downward spiral. I will actually achieve something that I want to achieve, and I’ll write about it. Maybe it’ll be interesting. Maybe it’ll provide some exposure. Maybe it’ll guide me inexorably towards my destiny. Maybe it’ll be cathartic.

Maybe I’ll stop talking about it and get on with it.

Watch this space, as I begin the second year of my degree and the first year that I SERIOUSLY try to build a musical career (albeit part-time, unless it makes a decent income), as well as the first year that I blog. I plan to talk about my personal stuff and comment on the world around me as I notice things that interest me. At least if I get distracted by some passing squirrel, it might make for interesting commentary, thus injecting some levity to ease the potential further destruction of my hopes and dreams.