You may remember that I mentioned the new rule of thumb for finding flatmates – ie, that would I like to have a beer with this person, had resulted in me finding just the right flatmate? Yes, well he was a recent-ish graduate who was looking to move into London. Well I’m not going to talk you through the viewing, but he liked what he saw and wanted to move in. He said that it was just what he was looking for, although there was a slight issue. This was that he wouldn’t be able to move in for two weeks but he paid me a £500 deposit to keep the room. This worked out quite well as the ex flatmate still had a week to go before moving out and so I’d have plenty of time to give the room a clean. The ex-flatmate by the way, you know, the one who was asthmatic and wanted to clean her freshly cleaned room when she moved in? Yes her - as it turns out she didn’t clean her room at all during her two month stay. She didn’t dust, didn’t change her sheets, didn’t vacuum and when you looked at the window sill, you’d be forgiven for thinking that the room had passed through an Icelandic ash cloud.
And then suddenly my first flatmate had gone and I was relieved to come back from work to find the spare room my own again as I threw my overcoat onto the spare bed. The new guy would be moving into the flat in a week’s time. That’s plenty of time to indulge in naked cooking time free of interruption.
So moving day came, and I realised that the flat was less tidy than I thought and so I went through the same backbreaking and sweat ridden cleaning routine that I went through before – well, first impressions and all that, and he didn’t turn up. He texted to say that he’d had to go abroad with work for two weeks but that was he really looking forward to moving in when he got back. Oh well, at least I had a clean flat and wouldn’t have to worry about putting my pants on to make a cup of tea in the morning for the next fortnight.
I took advantage of the two week period and had friends over to stay. I never really had friends stay over before I had a flatmate, but now that the spare room looks rather pretty, it sort of seems rude not to. So much so that I almost began to resent the impending moving in date, which came around in the blink of an eye, and he didn’t turn up. He texted to say that he flew back the day before and was organising stuff and he was sorry to keep me hanging on, but was looking forward to moving in and would pick the key up in the week – he didn’t.
I almost wanted to call him and tell him to fuck off and that I was letting the room to someone else. I spoke to G though who reassured me that he was probably just having a manic time of it, “I’ve been like that before and he did leave you a £500 deposit don’t forget”. Maybe she’s right I thought and maybe I was being slightly harsh, but I wanted reliability though and I had a nagging doubt. In my mind a conversation was playing over and over which went something like “Oh hi, er.. sorry. I’m a bit brassic this month, can I pay you extra next month.”
He texted me to say he’d be over on the Saturday afternoon, but I was out and so suggested that he stopped by in the week. He didn’t reply. By this time I knew that I was going to resent him living with me and resent his ugly girlfriend staying over at weekends, eating off my plates, drinking coffee in my kitchen and generally breathing my air. Ok, I don’t know she’s ugly, but she’s going out with him and he was proving himself to be a dick and she obviously likes going out with a dick, which means she’s ugly. I all but decided that life would be much easier and more pleasurable if he didn’t move in and I gave him back his deposit. There was a problem though – I’d spent his deposit and so any handing back of monies meant dipping into savings as I hadn’t been paid in the new job yet. My phone rang.
“Oh h..hi. it’s Andy. I’m afraid that I’ve had some bad news today. I’ve been made redundant with immediate effect and I won’t be able to move into the flat now.”
I knew it, I fucking knew it.
“You just found out today? Is that why you’ve been unreliable?”
“Er... It’s my boss. He’s gone into meltdown and everyone’s been made redundant. You can keep the deposit if you like”
“Can I? that’s very sweet of you. Do you have any idea how many people I turned away because I said the room was taken? Do you have any idea how stressful it is and...and....”
I wanted to be angry and even slightly nasty. Truth be told though I wasn’t desperately angry. You can’t really fake anger, you have to mean it and I didn’t and so I opted for sarcasm and emotional guilt. I was annoyed at his unreliability but also relieved. The man had paid me £500 to ensure that I live on my own for a month - part of me even felt faintly smug.
Will I get another flatmate? Perhaps, but for the moment I am enjoying the fact that I am working again and have discovered a new found love for enjoying the uninterrupted space of my own little castle.
Saturday, 4 December 2010
Saturday, 13 November 2010
The Interview
Hmm.. Blue or red perhaps, I thought as I held up two ties against my collar in front of the mirror. I settled on one which was a fairly conservative mix of both against a white shirt and a navy 3 piece suit. I had done my prep and was relaxed and ready to go. I was now in a pragmatic frame of mind regarding interviews. Experience had taught me not to get ahead of myself.
Things were different a month earlier. Then I had had three interviews in one week and I’d submitted an application for a job which was the permanent version of a role I did as a contractor two years earlier. The job was mine surely. I knew a lot of the people there and I knew the processes and everything that it involved. It must just be a shoe-in mustn’t it? I was feeling optimistic that one of the interviews was bound to come through and go my way. So much so in fact that I had decided to buy some new shirts and was making plans for when I started one of the roles. I’m cringing even as I type at the naivety of it. One by one the phone calls came in. “I’m sorry, but they thought you lacked experience of x and y”, “They liked you but they really want someone who’s a certified practitioner of blah”, “They thought you lacked knowledge of certain particular stuff”. I couldn’t believe it, as I walked in the rain and ended the third call. I was almost home and would check my emails and boil a kettle. I consoled myself that at least I still had the shoe-in role which would be just a matter of getting through the interview. This would be quite straight forward, I thought seeing as I’d already done the job.
I made a cup of tea and logged into my email. A response came in regarding my application just as I was scrolling through the latest updates from job sites. “Thank you for your recent application. Unfortunately on this occasion blah blah...”. The possibility of not even being called for an interview hadn’t entered my mind. I was devastated and furious and slightly numb at the unfairness of it. I paced the lounge and berated myself for being so stupidly over optimistic and complacent. I started to feel sorry for myself, before literally slapping myself across the face and going for a run. However low I felt, I was not going to cry – I had done that on red letter day.
Red letter day was a month or so before and came in the form of a tax demand. At that time I was nervous of hearing the clatter of the letter box in case it was someone demanding money. I opened the envelope to discover the letter with ‘DEMAND’ in red and 10 days to pay it. I couldn’t. I didn’t have the money. I was frightened and panicked and couldn’t think straight. In my mind I would lose my house and be declared bankrupt. I visited a friend to talk and ended up blubbing on her shoulder.
Going back to the interview though, I was feeling relaxed as I headed out of the tube station and walked towards the shiny new offices ahead of me. The recruitment agent phoned me just before I entered the building to make sure everything was ok and that I knew where the place was – apparently someone had got lost the day before. I reassured her that I was fine and she told me she’d phone the moment she had feedback. I finished the call and went in.
An hour later I was sitting on a tube train on my way home. I was reasonably content with how I performed. I didn’t think there was anything I could or would have answered differently or any alternative questions I would have asked. It felt as if it could have gone either way and I didn’t have a clue as to which way that was. If I didn’t get it then I would take it on the chin and move on. One thing this whole period had given me is a thicker skin. Tomorrow would be another day.
I stood on the platform waiting for a tube connection as my phone rang. A train pulled into the station as I answered. People got on board and the train pulled out again, leaving me alone on the platform as I ended the call. I took a deep breath and looked at my phone and sobbed.
They loved me and wanted me to start on Monday.
Things were different a month earlier. Then I had had three interviews in one week and I’d submitted an application for a job which was the permanent version of a role I did as a contractor two years earlier. The job was mine surely. I knew a lot of the people there and I knew the processes and everything that it involved. It must just be a shoe-in mustn’t it? I was feeling optimistic that one of the interviews was bound to come through and go my way. So much so in fact that I had decided to buy some new shirts and was making plans for when I started one of the roles. I’m cringing even as I type at the naivety of it. One by one the phone calls came in. “I’m sorry, but they thought you lacked experience of x and y”, “They liked you but they really want someone who’s a certified practitioner of blah”, “They thought you lacked knowledge of certain particular stuff”. I couldn’t believe it, as I walked in the rain and ended the third call. I was almost home and would check my emails and boil a kettle. I consoled myself that at least I still had the shoe-in role which would be just a matter of getting through the interview. This would be quite straight forward, I thought seeing as I’d already done the job.
I made a cup of tea and logged into my email. A response came in regarding my application just as I was scrolling through the latest updates from job sites. “Thank you for your recent application. Unfortunately on this occasion blah blah...”. The possibility of not even being called for an interview hadn’t entered my mind. I was devastated and furious and slightly numb at the unfairness of it. I paced the lounge and berated myself for being so stupidly over optimistic and complacent. I started to feel sorry for myself, before literally slapping myself across the face and going for a run. However low I felt, I was not going to cry – I had done that on red letter day.
Red letter day was a month or so before and came in the form of a tax demand. At that time I was nervous of hearing the clatter of the letter box in case it was someone demanding money. I opened the envelope to discover the letter with ‘DEMAND’ in red and 10 days to pay it. I couldn’t. I didn’t have the money. I was frightened and panicked and couldn’t think straight. In my mind I would lose my house and be declared bankrupt. I visited a friend to talk and ended up blubbing on her shoulder.
Going back to the interview though, I was feeling relaxed as I headed out of the tube station and walked towards the shiny new offices ahead of me. The recruitment agent phoned me just before I entered the building to make sure everything was ok and that I knew where the place was – apparently someone had got lost the day before. I reassured her that I was fine and she told me she’d phone the moment she had feedback. I finished the call and went in.
An hour later I was sitting on a tube train on my way home. I was reasonably content with how I performed. I didn’t think there was anything I could or would have answered differently or any alternative questions I would have asked. It felt as if it could have gone either way and I didn’t have a clue as to which way that was. If I didn’t get it then I would take it on the chin and move on. One thing this whole period had given me is a thicker skin. Tomorrow would be another day.
I stood on the platform waiting for a tube connection as my phone rang. A train pulled into the station as I answered. People got on board and the train pulled out again, leaving me alone on the platform as I ended the call. I took a deep breath and looked at my phone and sobbed.
They loved me and wanted me to start on Monday.
Monday, 8 November 2010
The Flatmate Part 2
I knew that there was a chance that she might move out. She had told me that she had holiday to take in November and wouldn’t want to pay a month’s rent when she’d only be here for two weeks of the month. However, I thought, or hoped at least that she’d change her mind after she’d moved in and it was plain that we were getting on quite well. I had let my optimism run away with me though which is why it felt like a shock when she told me she was moving out.
I spoke to a friend recently who told me that the moment one of her employees decides to resign, that she hates them almost immediately. They may have been a great employee, but the employer now just feels a sense of disloyalty and rightly or wrongly hears the message that “I would rather work for someone else”. The employer is also faced with the embuggerance of having to find a new employee and so in their mind they are faced with a double negative of hassle and rejection.
In my case, the hassle element was also spiked with a ladle full of fear – an irrational fear that I wouldn’t find another flatmate as good as her. That I would be faced with an army of no shows and po-faced spinsters dragging their miserable fingers along work surfaces for inspection. I must have inadvertently conveyed all of this in my look, as the flatmate spent the rest of the evening in her room. Well, almost the rest of the evening.
She popped her head around the door about 20 or so minutes later. “It’s not you, you know, you’ve been great.” Oh my god, not that old chestnut! If I hadn’t felt rejected before, then I certainly felt like I was now being dumped – and in my own house as well!
With the end of all relationships though, there is a time for reflection. I spoke to a friend of mine last week who broke up with her ex boyfriend last year. She had met him for lunch recently and couldn’t believe how different he seemed now that she was no longer going out with him. “He’s just so fucking annoying. I can’t believe I didn’t see it at the time” she said.
It got me thinking. Just over a week ago I had been walking through the City and noticed that Stephen Fry’s new autobiography, The Fry Chronicles, (which I am loving) was on discount at Waterstones. I bought it and put it on the coffee table when I got home as I checked my emails. The flatmate got back from work shortly afterwards and sat on the sofa.
Flatmate - Oh, have you bought yourself a book?
Me - Yeah, it’s Stephen Fry’s latest autobiography.
Flatmate – (munching on crisps) Who’s that? Some politician?
Me – it’s Stephen Fry, the comedian. You know.. Fry and Laurie? Blackadder? QI?
Flatmate – What are they?
Me – (thinking, What the fuck!!??)
Me – You seriously haven’t heard of Stephen Fry or any of those programmes?
Flatmate – No, they must be pretty old.
And with that she went to her room to finish her crisps, leaving me incredulous at the conversation we had just had. This wasn’t to be a one off though. A couple of days later we were watching the evening news as the story broke concerning Lady Ga Ga giving her ‘Prime Rib’ speech in protest at the US policy towards gays in the military. “Because I’m gay, I don’t get to enjoy the greatest cut of meat that my country has to offer.” She said.
Flatmate – Is Lady Ga Ga gay then?
Me – It would seem so.
Flatmate – Oh. Why did she decide to be gay?
Me – (rolls eyes) It’s a new LA thing. That’s why she wore a meat dress last week.
Flatmate – Really?
Me – Absolutely, Madonna came out last week too and she wore a meat trouser suit yesterday at a press conference – didn’t you see it?
Flatmate – No, I didn’t buy a paper yesterday.
Me – Oh well, I hear that Topshop are reproducing it and using Heston Blumenthal as a consultant in case you get bored wearing it.
Flatmate – Really?
Me – No.
When I first decided to get myself a flatmate and rent the spare room, it was done out of necessity. I decided that it was the wise thing to do, given the fact that I was out of work. With no job offer in sight I had to consider how I was going to pay the mortgage. I was concerned and anxious and even more so because the advert I placed, initially at least, did not yield the responses I had hoped for. So when the first person who showed interest said, “I’d like to take the room” I bit her hand off all the way down to her ankle. It’s been an interesting experience but ideally I want someone who has an outside chance of being a mate as well as a flatmate.
I re-advertised. This time however London’s student community being back at university has resulted in many more people looking for places to live and responses have been very good this time. I’d like to say that I now have a screening process of sorts. “Would I like to have a beer with this person?” is the new rule of thumb and having used it, I think I may now just have found the right person.
I spoke to a friend recently who told me that the moment one of her employees decides to resign, that she hates them almost immediately. They may have been a great employee, but the employer now just feels a sense of disloyalty and rightly or wrongly hears the message that “I would rather work for someone else”. The employer is also faced with the embuggerance of having to find a new employee and so in their mind they are faced with a double negative of hassle and rejection.
In my case, the hassle element was also spiked with a ladle full of fear – an irrational fear that I wouldn’t find another flatmate as good as her. That I would be faced with an army of no shows and po-faced spinsters dragging their miserable fingers along work surfaces for inspection. I must have inadvertently conveyed all of this in my look, as the flatmate spent the rest of the evening in her room. Well, almost the rest of the evening.
She popped her head around the door about 20 or so minutes later. “It’s not you, you know, you’ve been great.” Oh my god, not that old chestnut! If I hadn’t felt rejected before, then I certainly felt like I was now being dumped – and in my own house as well!
With the end of all relationships though, there is a time for reflection. I spoke to a friend of mine last week who broke up with her ex boyfriend last year. She had met him for lunch recently and couldn’t believe how different he seemed now that she was no longer going out with him. “He’s just so fucking annoying. I can’t believe I didn’t see it at the time” she said.
It got me thinking. Just over a week ago I had been walking through the City and noticed that Stephen Fry’s new autobiography, The Fry Chronicles, (which I am loving) was on discount at Waterstones. I bought it and put it on the coffee table when I got home as I checked my emails. The flatmate got back from work shortly afterwards and sat on the sofa.
Flatmate - Oh, have you bought yourself a book?
Me - Yeah, it’s Stephen Fry’s latest autobiography.
Flatmate – (munching on crisps) Who’s that? Some politician?
Me – it’s Stephen Fry, the comedian. You know.. Fry and Laurie? Blackadder? QI?
Flatmate – What are they?
Me – (thinking, What the fuck!!??)
Me – You seriously haven’t heard of Stephen Fry or any of those programmes?
Flatmate – No, they must be pretty old.
And with that she went to her room to finish her crisps, leaving me incredulous at the conversation we had just had. This wasn’t to be a one off though. A couple of days later we were watching the evening news as the story broke concerning Lady Ga Ga giving her ‘Prime Rib’ speech in protest at the US policy towards gays in the military. “Because I’m gay, I don’t get to enjoy the greatest cut of meat that my country has to offer.” She said.
Flatmate – Is Lady Ga Ga gay then?
Me – It would seem so.
Flatmate – Oh. Why did she decide to be gay?
Me – (rolls eyes) It’s a new LA thing. That’s why she wore a meat dress last week.
Flatmate – Really?
Me – Absolutely, Madonna came out last week too and she wore a meat trouser suit yesterday at a press conference – didn’t you see it?
Flatmate – No, I didn’t buy a paper yesterday.
Me – Oh well, I hear that Topshop are reproducing it and using Heston Blumenthal as a consultant in case you get bored wearing it.
Flatmate – Really?
Me – No.
When I first decided to get myself a flatmate and rent the spare room, it was done out of necessity. I decided that it was the wise thing to do, given the fact that I was out of work. With no job offer in sight I had to consider how I was going to pay the mortgage. I was concerned and anxious and even more so because the advert I placed, initially at least, did not yield the responses I had hoped for. So when the first person who showed interest said, “I’d like to take the room” I bit her hand off all the way down to her ankle. It’s been an interesting experience but ideally I want someone who has an outside chance of being a mate as well as a flatmate.
I re-advertised. This time however London’s student community being back at university has resulted in many more people looking for places to live and responses have been very good this time. I’d like to say that I now have a screening process of sorts. “Would I like to have a beer with this person?” is the new rule of thumb and having used it, I think I may now just have found the right person.
Wednesday, 20 October 2010
The Flatmate
I started to write this little update a few weeks ago but then I sat on it after I was interrupted by the subject matter at hand – namely my flatmate. Yes I have a flatmate and not the one I expected to be won over by my amateur impression of an all knowing landlord. She hardly said a word as I showed her around the flat, just nodding her head and with the occasional "uh huh" as I showed her each room. Her vocabulary didn't increase as I pointed out the local amenities from the balcony. So when she nodded again and said "Ok, well I’ll call you and let you know", I assumed that it was a dead sale. "I'm never going to hear from you again, am I!?" I wanted to say, which is why I was surprised to answer her telephone call later that night. "Hi, I liked your place, is it ok to move in next week?" I took a deep breath. It was an intense weight lifted. The pressure of not working and wondering where the next mortgage payment is coming from now greatly relieved – at least for the moment.
The day for her to move in came around very quickly. I wanted to create a good first impression and so decided to clean the flat from top to bottom, and that’s before I even started on moving my things out of the spare room.
I have never before been so thorough when cleaning. My mother and my ex girlfriend especially would be proud and in the case of my ex, would more likely have been slightly put out that I was never this thorough in the past. I opened windows and dusted and vacuumed and moved furniture and climbed over furniture and lifted furniture and cleaned under furniture and sweated and ached and coughed and sneezed – the price for not being thorough in the past.
Finally it was done. Everything that needed packing was packed, everything moved, everything cleaned and polished. The whole flat was gleaming and pristine in a way that it hadn’t been since... well since before I bought the place anyway. I’ve never been so proud of my hard work or more satisfied at having a bad back.
And then she arrived, with a big smile and a “Hiiii”. I popped into the kitchen for a well earned cup of tea and to get out of her way as she moved her things in. I had just put the mug to my lips as she joined me in the kitchen. “Hi, do you have a mop at all?” “A mop? No I don’t actually. Why?”. “Oh it’s ok, I’m just a bit asthmatic and I wanted to give the room a bit of a clean.”
She has been a perfect flatmate though. A perfectly benign flatmate actually. As the weeks have passed she has been very easy to get on with. She doesn’t make any noise – she just comes home and checks her emails and watches television and that’s it. She doesn’t eat apart from cheese and crackers which means that the only person messing up my pots, my pans and my kitchen, is me. She visits family every other weekend which allows me to take full advantage of having the place to myself. All in all it has worked out very well and has given me the space to concentrate on looking for work and free my mind from a certain degree of worry. I will admit that’s it’s also been pleasant to sit at home on an evening and have someone to talk about the day with who is easygoing and quite pleasant company.
Then one night just over a week ago I was sitting on my sofa with a cup of tea. I had just sent off another CV and was watching the evening news, feeling reasonably satisfied at having had a productive day. She popped her head around the door of the lounge. “Hi” she said.”You know my rent’s due tomorrow?” “Uh huh” I said with one eye on the news . “Well I just thought I’d let you know that I’m giving you a month’s notice and I’m moving out”.
The day for her to move in came around very quickly. I wanted to create a good first impression and so decided to clean the flat from top to bottom, and that’s before I even started on moving my things out of the spare room.
I have never before been so thorough when cleaning. My mother and my ex girlfriend especially would be proud and in the case of my ex, would more likely have been slightly put out that I was never this thorough in the past. I opened windows and dusted and vacuumed and moved furniture and climbed over furniture and lifted furniture and cleaned under furniture and sweated and ached and coughed and sneezed – the price for not being thorough in the past.
Finally it was done. Everything that needed packing was packed, everything moved, everything cleaned and polished. The whole flat was gleaming and pristine in a way that it hadn’t been since... well since before I bought the place anyway. I’ve never been so proud of my hard work or more satisfied at having a bad back.
And then she arrived, with a big smile and a “Hiiii”. I popped into the kitchen for a well earned cup of tea and to get out of her way as she moved her things in. I had just put the mug to my lips as she joined me in the kitchen. “Hi, do you have a mop at all?” “A mop? No I don’t actually. Why?”. “Oh it’s ok, I’m just a bit asthmatic and I wanted to give the room a bit of a clean.”
She has been a perfect flatmate though. A perfectly benign flatmate actually. As the weeks have passed she has been very easy to get on with. She doesn’t make any noise – she just comes home and checks her emails and watches television and that’s it. She doesn’t eat apart from cheese and crackers which means that the only person messing up my pots, my pans and my kitchen, is me. She visits family every other weekend which allows me to take full advantage of having the place to myself. All in all it has worked out very well and has given me the space to concentrate on looking for work and free my mind from a certain degree of worry. I will admit that’s it’s also been pleasant to sit at home on an evening and have someone to talk about the day with who is easygoing and quite pleasant company.
Then one night just over a week ago I was sitting on my sofa with a cup of tea. I had just sent off another CV and was watching the evening news, feeling reasonably satisfied at having had a productive day. She popped her head around the door of the lounge. “Hi” she said.”You know my rent’s due tomorrow?” “Uh huh” I said with one eye on the news . “Well I just thought I’d let you know that I’m giving you a month’s notice and I’m moving out”.
Thursday, 16 September 2010
Waxing Lyrical
I never used to listen to song lyrics. It sounds silly doesn’t it, but if something sounded nice and it stuck in my head then that seemed to be enough. I had a conversation with my brother earlier this year about this very subject. He couldn’t believe that I didn't really put a huge amount of emphasis on lyrics and urged me to listen to them a lot more.
This I did and oddly enough, or obviously enough you may think, the way I looked at some songs had totally changed. For example, I used to assume that Sting's Every Breath You Take, was written about his new born child. It sounds nice when thought of in those terms doesn't it. Well I have since discovered that the song is actually about a stalker. Now listen to it again and tell me how nice it sounds.
Well a couple of nights ago I was playing around on You Tube before going to sleep and looked up different pieces of music that I hadn't heard in years. The beauty of You Tube is that half the people who post music tracks and videos, also seem to feel compelled to post the lyrics. I’ve no idea why, but to be honest I am not complaining.
I listened to the music and took in the lyrics. The result was that I had to listen to them again and again. The music becoming more resonant, the lyrics having more meaning than ever before, mainly because I hadn't really listened to them in the past, not in any meaningful sense anyway. What they did however was to take me back to memories of people, relationships, loves and places from a different time. Admittedly, with rose tinted spectacles, but the memories and the emotions they evoked were vivid. I even had to wipe a tear at one point.
I started writing. The words and the music creating clarity in my mind as my fingers hit the keyboard. Word followed word without a break. I smiled as I typed, the music playing in the background making me recount a fondness for the past and a passion for certain times. There were no pauses, no silences, no gaps between typing sentences as the words seems to flow effortlessly. It was as if I was on autopilot as I spilled everything I wanted to say on to the electronic page.
It was very late as I sat up in bed typing away, but I had to finish. I was just about there. A few more sentences and I would have it and be able to tell the tale I wanted to tell. I wasn't really looking at the keyboard as I typed and suddenly I hit three keys at once.
Restore, Minimize, flashed the tab. Fuck, what have I done, I thought. But there was nothing I could do. The screen had frozen. Nothing would move, save for the mouse arrow, not that it was highlighting anything of course. I tried clicking on a couple of icons - nothing. The internet is not responding, flashed the pop-up before the screen faded and the internet restarted. I searched and scoured but it was no good. Every word that I had put into the laptop, uninterrupted, had now gone. I hadn’t saved any of it. In the next few moments, my reaction to what was unfolding on the screen in front of me could and may for all I know, have woken up the neighbours.
I tried re-writing, but it was no good. The moment had gone. It may come back, who knows, but that's for another day. For now you'll just have to wonder at what you might have been reading now instead of this.
C’est la vie...
This I did and oddly enough, or obviously enough you may think, the way I looked at some songs had totally changed. For example, I used to assume that Sting's Every Breath You Take, was written about his new born child. It sounds nice when thought of in those terms doesn't it. Well I have since discovered that the song is actually about a stalker. Now listen to it again and tell me how nice it sounds.
Well a couple of nights ago I was playing around on You Tube before going to sleep and looked up different pieces of music that I hadn't heard in years. The beauty of You Tube is that half the people who post music tracks and videos, also seem to feel compelled to post the lyrics. I’ve no idea why, but to be honest I am not complaining.
I listened to the music and took in the lyrics. The result was that I had to listen to them again and again. The music becoming more resonant, the lyrics having more meaning than ever before, mainly because I hadn't really listened to them in the past, not in any meaningful sense anyway. What they did however was to take me back to memories of people, relationships, loves and places from a different time. Admittedly, with rose tinted spectacles, but the memories and the emotions they evoked were vivid. I even had to wipe a tear at one point.
I started writing. The words and the music creating clarity in my mind as my fingers hit the keyboard. Word followed word without a break. I smiled as I typed, the music playing in the background making me recount a fondness for the past and a passion for certain times. There were no pauses, no silences, no gaps between typing sentences as the words seems to flow effortlessly. It was as if I was on autopilot as I spilled everything I wanted to say on to the electronic page.
It was very late as I sat up in bed typing away, but I had to finish. I was just about there. A few more sentences and I would have it and be able to tell the tale I wanted to tell. I wasn't really looking at the keyboard as I typed and suddenly I hit three keys at once.
Restore, Minimize, flashed the tab. Fuck, what have I done, I thought. But there was nothing I could do. The screen had frozen. Nothing would move, save for the mouse arrow, not that it was highlighting anything of course. I tried clicking on a couple of icons - nothing. The internet is not responding, flashed the pop-up before the screen faded and the internet restarted. I searched and scoured but it was no good. Every word that I had put into the laptop, uninterrupted, had now gone. I hadn’t saved any of it. In the next few moments, my reaction to what was unfolding on the screen in front of me could and may for all I know, have woken up the neighbours.
I tried re-writing, but it was no good. The moment had gone. It may come back, who knows, but that's for another day. For now you'll just have to wonder at what you might have been reading now instead of this.
C’est la vie...
Saturday, 28 August 2010
First Viewing
My friends, the combination of not working, together with the current economic climate has resulted me making the ultimate sacrifice. I have decided share my valuable living space and take on board a flatmate.
Those who know me would be proud. The flat has been cleaned from top to bottom. The spare room itself has been cleared out and everything rearranged. Multiple trips have been made to buy furniture for the spare room, which has resulted in it looking like a very cosy and welcoming place to live. Part of me wants to swap bedrooms it looks so nice. I'm even feeling slightly sad that some ugly stranger is going to reap the fruits from all the hard work of yours truly.
The first viewing was planning for 6.30pm and she arrived right on the dot. "Hellooo" she said with a grin. First impressions were good. She seemed friendly and outgoing and unattractive. If I am going to be sharing my flat as part of a professional arrangement with someone who I want to pay regular rent, then the less potential complications, the better. "Wow, it's a lovely view, It's quite historical this area isn't it" she said, pointing at Tower Bridge. "Yeah it's not bad is it" I replied. I pointed out where the local supermarket and the local gyms are. "Would you like to see inside?" She did and I started to show her around.
I leaned against the fridge freezer with my arms folded watching her nodding silently as she walked around the kitchen. First impressions of optimism turned out to be short lived however as she ran her little pinky along the kitchen top and looked at it covertly (or so she thought). She looked around the lounge "Cosy" she said, before moving onto the bathroom. She looked but said nothing, the air of disdain conspicuous by the invisible turd under her nose.
"And here's the room I'm renting" I said as I led her into the spare room. She looked around but didn't say much. She opened and closed drawers and cupboard doors. Was she interested? If she was then she wasn’t giving anything away. It felt like the moment after an exam when wonder how you did and know that it could have gone either way.
I walked her to the bus stop as a way of showing her around the nicer parts of the area. "So what do you think?" I asked. "Well I like the area. The flat's not very modern though". The sale was about to flat line and needed a defibrillator. In that moment I just wanted the room rented so that I'd have one less thing to think about. I remembered her comment on the historical nature of where I lived and so broke into a monologue on the history of the flats in the area. I started with the building having character, how it had lived through the blitz and then moved onto a short history of the London docks. I told her about how generations of dockers used to live in my building. Not only that, but it was symbolic today of the changes going on locally. Today, retired dockers and new city money lived next door to each other in a characterful old building, sturdy on the solid foundations of the local heritage. I was winging it, but it sounded quite good and by the end I had myself convinced that I should be a local tour guide.
Her bus arrived. "You're a good salesman" she said "I still prefer a new build though" and with that, she got on the bus. A neighbour walked out of the flat adjacent to the bus stop, just as she boarded and came over to join me as the bus drove off.
Neighbour: Hello mate, who was that?
Me: Just an unattractive woman with no soul or sense of history.
Neighbour: So she didn’t want your spare room then?
Me: Nope.
Neighbour: I wouldn’t worry about it mate. I’m sure there loads of ugly women out there, just waiting to live with you.
Me: Here’s hoping mate, here’s hoping.
Those who know me would be proud. The flat has been cleaned from top to bottom. The spare room itself has been cleared out and everything rearranged. Multiple trips have been made to buy furniture for the spare room, which has resulted in it looking like a very cosy and welcoming place to live. Part of me wants to swap bedrooms it looks so nice. I'm even feeling slightly sad that some ugly stranger is going to reap the fruits from all the hard work of yours truly.
The first viewing was planning for 6.30pm and she arrived right on the dot. "Hellooo" she said with a grin. First impressions were good. She seemed friendly and outgoing and unattractive. If I am going to be sharing my flat as part of a professional arrangement with someone who I want to pay regular rent, then the less potential complications, the better. "Wow, it's a lovely view, It's quite historical this area isn't it" she said, pointing at Tower Bridge. "Yeah it's not bad is it" I replied. I pointed out where the local supermarket and the local gyms are. "Would you like to see inside?" She did and I started to show her around.
I leaned against the fridge freezer with my arms folded watching her nodding silently as she walked around the kitchen. First impressions of optimism turned out to be short lived however as she ran her little pinky along the kitchen top and looked at it covertly (or so she thought). She looked around the lounge "Cosy" she said, before moving onto the bathroom. She looked but said nothing, the air of disdain conspicuous by the invisible turd under her nose.
"And here's the room I'm renting" I said as I led her into the spare room. She looked around but didn't say much. She opened and closed drawers and cupboard doors. Was she interested? If she was then she wasn’t giving anything away. It felt like the moment after an exam when wonder how you did and know that it could have gone either way.
I walked her to the bus stop as a way of showing her around the nicer parts of the area. "So what do you think?" I asked. "Well I like the area. The flat's not very modern though". The sale was about to flat line and needed a defibrillator. In that moment I just wanted the room rented so that I'd have one less thing to think about. I remembered her comment on the historical nature of where I lived and so broke into a monologue on the history of the flats in the area. I started with the building having character, how it had lived through the blitz and then moved onto a short history of the London docks. I told her about how generations of dockers used to live in my building. Not only that, but it was symbolic today of the changes going on locally. Today, retired dockers and new city money lived next door to each other in a characterful old building, sturdy on the solid foundations of the local heritage. I was winging it, but it sounded quite good and by the end I had myself convinced that I should be a local tour guide.
Her bus arrived. "You're a good salesman" she said "I still prefer a new build though" and with that, she got on the bus. A neighbour walked out of the flat adjacent to the bus stop, just as she boarded and came over to join me as the bus drove off.
Neighbour: Hello mate, who was that?
Me: Just an unattractive woman with no soul or sense of history.
Neighbour: So she didn’t want your spare room then?
Me: Nope.
Neighbour: I wouldn’t worry about it mate. I’m sure there loads of ugly women out there, just waiting to live with you.
Me: Here’s hoping mate, here’s hoping.
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Recruitment
My friends, I have mentioned before, that there is a reason for myself being less than forthcoming with updates on recent events. Well the reason, ironically is that I have more time on my hands. You see I am between roles at the moment and so I am spending all my time looking for a new job.
Now there are many aspects to this, but one of the most tiresome can be the daily dealings with recruitment consultants. Now you may have heard a few horror stories concerning recruiters. All I can say is that some can be quite accurate, whilst others tend to be urban legends. I have experienced a few myself though. Some recruiters will try to push you into roles that you clearly aren't interested in or are even capable of doing. Then there are the unreturned telephone messages and the non replies to emails. There's more too. Depending on who you speak to, a lot of recruiters can range in tone from smarmy estate agent, to Vicky Pollard, both of which leave you vexed and relatively impotent, in the knowledge that they are an inevitable part of finding a new job.
So it may surprise you to learn that last week I applied to become a recruitment consultant. I was told that I would have to attend an assessment centre and upon arrival was led through to a conference room with eleven others who were all going through the same process. Now, I had been warned that these were likely to be new graduates and this did indeed turn out to be the case. We said our casual hellos around the table before formal introductions started. A young chap nervously said "Hi, I.I..I'm Peter and I graduated in M.mmay", shortly before another voice of youth piped up with "Hiii, i'm Jane, I graduated in June and I like fluffy kittens". Actually she didn't say the last part, but I'm sure she was more than capable of it. One by one they went around the table. I was starting to feel very self conscious of the fact that I graduated in 2002 and even then, it was as a mature student. The eleventh person spoke "Hi, I graduated in June" and then everyone looked at me. "Hi, I graduated in Politics".
After the assessment centre, we had to go through a series of interviews. I had three on the day of the assessment centre and six the following day. I felt like one of the candidates from The Apprentice as I went from interview to interview."Sell me a telephone" said one - which I did. "Why are you here?" asked another. "Your CV isn't like any of the others I've seen" was something I heard 4 or 5 times. "The guys here mainly come straight from university, how would you feel working for a younger boss?" “Well, you yourself mentioned that you are 29" I said "but to me you are a guy who is interviewing me and could potentially be my boss and so your age doesn't come into it." Off we went again with more questions, "why do you want a career change?", "what motivates you?" and so on. Each interview was like a game, a sparring match to be followed by another round with a different contender.
"Ok, that's great, stay where you are though and I'll send someone else in to interview you" It was the end of the fifth interview on the second day. I was feeling tired but with plenty in reserve. The age thing had come up time and again and yet I had managed to bat it away at each turning point. I stood up to stretch my legs and walked over to peer out of the window and down into the hurly burly of London's west end. I turned around and noticed a rather diffident looking teen, seemingly lost in the reception outside the meeting room. I smiled inwardly and remembered my own time doing work experience when I was at school. I peered my head out of the door, "Are you alright, you look a little lost" I said. "Ah there you are. Hi I'm Tom, one of the team leaders.”
Now there are many aspects to this, but one of the most tiresome can be the daily dealings with recruitment consultants. Now you may have heard a few horror stories concerning recruiters. All I can say is that some can be quite accurate, whilst others tend to be urban legends. I have experienced a few myself though. Some recruiters will try to push you into roles that you clearly aren't interested in or are even capable of doing. Then there are the unreturned telephone messages and the non replies to emails. There's more too. Depending on who you speak to, a lot of recruiters can range in tone from smarmy estate agent, to Vicky Pollard, both of which leave you vexed and relatively impotent, in the knowledge that they are an inevitable part of finding a new job.
So it may surprise you to learn that last week I applied to become a recruitment consultant. I was told that I would have to attend an assessment centre and upon arrival was led through to a conference room with eleven others who were all going through the same process. Now, I had been warned that these were likely to be new graduates and this did indeed turn out to be the case. We said our casual hellos around the table before formal introductions started. A young chap nervously said "Hi, I.I..I'm Peter and I graduated in M.mmay", shortly before another voice of youth piped up with "Hiii, i'm Jane, I graduated in June and I like fluffy kittens". Actually she didn't say the last part, but I'm sure she was more than capable of it. One by one they went around the table. I was starting to feel very self conscious of the fact that I graduated in 2002 and even then, it was as a mature student. The eleventh person spoke "Hi, I graduated in June" and then everyone looked at me. "Hi, I graduated in Politics".
After the assessment centre, we had to go through a series of interviews. I had three on the day of the assessment centre and six the following day. I felt like one of the candidates from The Apprentice as I went from interview to interview."Sell me a telephone" said one - which I did. "Why are you here?" asked another. "Your CV isn't like any of the others I've seen" was something I heard 4 or 5 times. "The guys here mainly come straight from university, how would you feel working for a younger boss?" “Well, you yourself mentioned that you are 29" I said "but to me you are a guy who is interviewing me and could potentially be my boss and so your age doesn't come into it." Off we went again with more questions, "why do you want a career change?", "what motivates you?" and so on. Each interview was like a game, a sparring match to be followed by another round with a different contender.
"Ok, that's great, stay where you are though and I'll send someone else in to interview you" It was the end of the fifth interview on the second day. I was feeling tired but with plenty in reserve. The age thing had come up time and again and yet I had managed to bat it away at each turning point. I stood up to stretch my legs and walked over to peer out of the window and down into the hurly burly of London's west end. I turned around and noticed a rather diffident looking teen, seemingly lost in the reception outside the meeting room. I smiled inwardly and remembered my own time doing work experience when I was at school. I peered my head out of the door, "Are you alright, you look a little lost" I said. "Ah there you are. Hi I'm Tom, one of the team leaders.”
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