September 2004 Archives

Near every summer since I've lived this far south has seen me sweltering through sleepless summer nights brought on by the heat. During the day I can deal with high temperatures, but I don't fare so well at night. As I mentioned yesterday, I may not be looking forward to the inevitable onset of winter with it's chill mornings, but I do savour the cool autumn evenings and I'm quite content to huddle under a duvet when it's frosty out - indeed I consider it one of the perks of winter.

However, the central heating has now been turned on in the block of flats where I live and the ambient temperature has increased dramatically. I'm not entirely sure anyone thought the central heating to be necessary, thought I suspect it's likely a pre-emptive strike against the arrival of winter. The problem I'm having is that it's not yet cold out (to my mind, at least). In fact, I consider the temperature at this time of year to be just about right: Cool enough to make duvet snuggling a pleasure, yet not cold enough to make stepping out of bed in the morning a frigidly miserable experience. Except it now it feels like the height of summer again, sleepless nights and all. And I should stress that this is with the radiators in my flat turned off - goodness know what it would be like with them turned on.

For all my complaining about the summer heat I still managed to survive the season over the years without buying a fan (though I promised myself one on more than one occasion). I find it dryly amusing that I may end up purchasing one to get me through the winter instead.

Just recently I've started to be woken by my alarm clock again. Whilst you might imagine this to be a good thing, the down side is that it's only happening because I'm asleep when the alarm goes off. And I'm only asleep when the alarm goes off because it's dark. As a general rule, you see, I'll waken naturally just after first light in the morning, usually at some absurdly early time during the summer, graduating to more reasonable times in the winter. Of course, at some point during the year the way the time at which I'll waken will cross the time I need to get up in order to go through my normal ablutions and get to work, and I find myself being rudely woken by the infernal alarm clock. And that point has now been reached.

Now, one thing you should know about me is that I hate to be woken. I don't mind waking up, so long as I get the opportunity to do it myself. But when it's forced on me, such as by the aforementioned infernal alarm clock, I really, truly resent it.

I'm not going to be in a good moon in the morning for the next several months. Bleh.

I crossed the path of a black cat earlier as it was perched on top of a fence. It promptly fell off the fence.

I'm sure there's a twisted experiment in this somewhere...

Ah, how Douglas Adams must be chuckling in his grave - the BBC have resurrected the old Infocom Hitch-hikers Guide to the Galaxy text adventure. Despite the game being, well, ancient by modern standards, this has been my first encounter with it. I knew of it, certainly - it's achieved legendary status on the net (along with much of Infocom's output, such as the Zork series), but this is the first time I've had a go at it. And I have to admit, it's every bit as frustrating as I'd heard. It's almost taken for granted that games these days will molly-coddle their players. Devices such as multiple lives and continues are the norm, and on the whole minor mistakes will rarely lead to sudden deaths (though there are exceptions). It wasn't always like this, of course. Once upon a time the slightest error on would be rewarded with your instantaneous demise and HHGTTG hearkens back to that bygone era: I've lost count of the number of times I've been squished by bulldozers and disintegrated along with the rest of the planet earth.

Even when I've managed to avoid coming down with a bad case of death the game proves no less frustrating. The game logic is bound to Adams' unique wit, which makes it compelling and baffling by turns. I've been sorely tempted to give up on it several times now, but... perhaps after I've managed to get that darned babel fish in my ear...

Yesterday's word of the day:

[schlimazel or shlimazel (shli-MAH-zuhl) noun

Someone prone to having extremely bad luck. From Yiddish, from shlim (bad, wrong) + mazl (luck). A related term is Hebrew mazel tov (congratulations or best wishes).]

A schlimazel can be concisely described as a born loser. No discussion of schlimazel could be complete without mentioning his counterpart: schlemiel, a habitual bungler.

The last time I bought a leather jacket it was something of an accident. I'd ventured out on a Saturday morning in my now customary outfit of jeans and a tee-shirt and about an hour later I realised that it was February, that the temperature was in fact freezing cold, and that I myself was in fact freezing cold. I decided to remedy the situation by buying more clothing. Which, if nothing else, goes to prove that I am capable of following a logical train of thought. Of course, I ended up buying a nice leather jacket, instead of, say, a simple, and considerably less expensive woolly pullover. Which, if nothing else, goes to prove that I do not necessarily follow practical trains of thought.

Alas, that jacket, much to my chagrin, was later purloined from me, which probably has something to do with why I was jacketless today, when once more I ventured out on a Saturday morning in my customary outfit of jeans and tee-shirt, only to realise about an hour later that it was nearly October, that it was in fact a cold and wet day and that I myself was in fact cold and wet. You can see where this story is going now can't you?

I justify my purchase on the grounds that over the past year or two I've reduced my clothes budget to the barest minimum, that I hadn't yet replaced the stolen jacket and that I was about due for a splurge on something - I can only manage so much fiscal responsibility.

I donned it immediately and proceeded to strut my funky stuff around the streets of London. A short while later, someone stopped me in the street to compliment me on my jacket and to ask where I'd bought it from (strangely the second time in a week someone had stopped me in the street to pay me a compliment - the earlier incident related to a watch my brother gave me as a best mans gift). I instantly felt better about the morning's unexpected expenditure.

Having had my confidence in my fashion sense so bolstered, it occurred to me that if I were in charge of a clothing store, I'd randomly assign various members of my staff to wander the streets looking for people wearing articles from my store, and then to stop them in the street and compliment them on their clothing, and to ask from whence it was obtained. Or would that be ethically wrong?

It would seem I've been granted a new, if somewhat unofficial, title at work - that of head geek. It comes to me courtesy of our customer support team, a group I get along with well enough, since I can usually be relied on to generate enough work to keep them busy, and to help them out when a technical solution is required. My newfound status stemmed from an incident a few weeks ago, when I noticed someone in the customer support team sitting at his desk reading a graphic novel. Out of curiousity, I interrupted and queried him about the book. It had been obtained from the local library which turns out to have a small but respectable selection of graphic novels. He was slightly surprised about my interest, and even more so to discover I knew more about the book than he did. I'd even go so far as to say he was rather astonished that I was able to identify the artist of the Daredevil wallpaper on his PC (very obviously Joe Quesada). I finally sealed my reputation with the subsequent volumes of graphic novels I deposited on his desk the following day. I have a fairly lengthly list of what I consider to be required reading when it comes to comics and although much of my collection is resident elsewhere, I still have at hand to educate and impress the neophyte. These slowly made their way around the rest of the team, and I now find myself being looked at in a new light. I'll confess to relishing the experience somewhat, since I'm somewhat starved of opportunities to geek out down here.

The customer support team is currently organising a trip to go see Spiderman 2 at the Imax cinema near Waterloo and they've invited me along. I feel as though I've accidentally done something terribly right.

Today felt much like any other day. Too much like any other day. Nothing occurred to distinguish from many of the other days that have idled past recently. I observed nothing unusual happening. I witnessed nothing unique, no events that I haven't watch unfold a hundred times over. Obviously the problem is with my observances, rather than the day itself, which I'm confident was a very fine day (in it's time at least, it's on it's last legs now). I'm sure if I truly put my mind to it I'd still manage to spin and weave something of consequence out of the day's remembrances, but it all feels drab and colourless and I'm struggling to get past my own ambivalence.

Bleh.

I bought a plane ticket back to Edinburgh today. It departs at 6:10pm on Christmas eve. And it's one way.

The first time I came down to London, I travelled by train, and bought a return ticket. If I remember rightly, the return trip had to be made within a month of the outward journey. Thus I made a point of returning home each month. But then one month passed and I didn't make it home. I don't recall the details why. I don't think I appreciated it's importance then. My return ticket duly expired., leading to a subtle but significant shift. Each time I travelled from that point onwards, each ticket I bought saw me starting from, and coming back to London at the end, not Edinburgh. I suppose that's when I should have realised I was going to be down here longer than I'd anticipated.

I could have gotten away with booking an earlier flight, since historically, most everyone departs the office early on Christmas Eve, or is simply told to go home around lunchtime. One that basis, I could have booked a flight several hours earlier and, to be honest, no-one would mind if I left a little early on that day of all days. But to make that assumption would be to take advantage of my employers - in my mind at least. I couldn't bring myself to do it, even if it leaves me sitting in an empty office for a few hours on Christmas Eve. Truth be told, though, I rather like the idea of waiting around after everyone else has gone home. It's how I'd like to leave: no fuss, no protracted goodbyes. Makes it so much easier to simply walk away.

I can hardly wait.

Apparently there was some maintenance being done on the block of flats where I live today. Something to do with the plumbing. Whatever it was, the work was being carried out during the middle of the day whilst I was at work, so I paid it little heed...

...until I returned home and turned on the tap. For a brief, serene moment nothing happened. Then came the faintest hint of a rattle reverberating through the pipes before a volley of water literally exploded forth from the tap, rebounded off the sink, and drenched me. I paused for a moment, wiped the water from my glasses, and stood in my puddle, dripping.

The work carries on tomorrow. I shall approach the taps with caution...

I'm at a bit of a loss for interesting things to say right now. I tried to come up with a metaphor involving a clockwork toy winding down, but it came across as far more pathetic than I really feel. So let's forget about me for a moment and let me instead present you, for your delight and delectation, for your amusement and amazement, with a handful of funky links that I declare to be worth your time to visit:

• Revenge of the astonishly large wave


• A curious tale of whimsy


• Small cows that produce just as much milk? Where do I sign up?


• Earth From The Air


• I haven't checked the veracity of this, but it makes me want to do more nonetheless.

Ah yes, the Open House weekend in London. It's been going for several years now, but this is the first time I've managed to participate. It's truly a splendid idea, and one I'm quite enamoured with, especially after today. And, judging from some of the queues I witnessed (more on that in a moment) I'm not alone in that sentiment.

First you'll have to permit me a small whinge about the Jubilee line. It's a line on the underground which runs through the capital from, roughly speaking, east to west. It was recently extended to serve the long neglected east end of London and some of the architecture for the new stations is quite remarkable. Vast silver and grey spaces which managed to make me rethink my instinctive dislike of concrete. Anyway, my whinge is regarding the maps on the trains themselves which display the stations through which the line runs. This particular map, in fact. Have a look at it. Now, given that the line runs east to west, would you guess that Stratford, the first station present on the map, is located in the east or west? West, you say? Well no, that would be too obvious. The stations are presented in precisely the opposite arrange you'd expect. Things like that just get to me. Whinge ends.

City Hall was up first, another recent creation from the ubiquitous Lord Norman Foster, an architect who work can been seen in virtually every corner of the city. It's a curious looking structure from the outside, interesting rather than dazzling. From the outside. But it was the interior I'd really wanted to see, largely because of it's central stair case. It's takes up an vast amount of space, is probably completely impractical, but is visually stunning. It also bounces slightly if you run up and down it. But don't tell anyone I told you. Besides that I was also pleased to discover there are some fine views to be had from the top of the building too, especially of the neighbouring Tower Bridge.

I anticipated that The Swiss Re Tower (aka the gherkin) would be a popular destination, so I headed there next, hoping that I would be early enough to avoid the inevitable crowds. Not early enough as it turned out. Not by a long shot. It should have been a giveaway that the normally deserted streets of the City at the weekend were thronged with people strolling along holding copies of the Open House guide, but I was still amazed to reach the tower and discover a queue the likes of which are rarely encountered outside of Disney World. I quickly decided that any queue I couldn't see the end of probably wasn't worth joining (which also ruled out the adjacent Lloyds of London). It was a bit of a shame, since the Tower allegedly offers spectacular views, but it would have taken the best part of a few hours to reach.

The The Royal Courts of Justice were next. Visually it's one of my favourite buildings in London. It's exterior resembles a enormous gothic cathedral, and I'd long been curious as to it's contents. Unfortunately, the interior was disappointing. Sparse is probably the best way to describe it, or austere. There's very little in the way of decoration inside, though it was worthwhile to get the chance to sit in a courtroom, and the atmosphere felt as though it was trapped a hundred years in the past. However, I was intrigued to find out that they will be staging a re-enactment of a famous court case in October. I quite fancy trotting along to that.

Also disappointing were the Offices of the Deputy Prime Minister. These could only be seen by way of guided tour, which turned out to consist of only two rooms. Both were of historical interest, one having been Nelson's boardroom, the other having been were Nelsons body lay overnight before being transported to St. Paul's. The former was reasonably interesting, having been well preserved, and containing some elaborate wood carvings as well as a still operational wind dial mounted on the wall. The latter on the other hand was little more than an empty office. This was a little irksome, especially considering the lengthy security check involved to get there.

Much more interesting was Freemasons Hall. It's a glorious art deco building full of intricate stained glass windows and mosaics. And I'll admit to a great deal of curiosity to the Freemasons in general. Of course, perhaps the biggest surprise was the discovery that the hall has a giftshop. I bought some chocolate and moved on.

And finally was the Royal Institution. I'll admit that I was a huge fan of the institutes Christmas Lectures. I arrived just in time to sit in on lecture put on for the open day. I'll confess the content, whilst interesting, wasn't nearly as much fun as simply sitting in the lecture theatre looking around. I'd dearly like to attend one of the Christmas lectures themselves, but alas, I'll be out of the country at the time.

Sorry to cut this short, but it's a school night and I can't stay up too late. But before I go, I promised you a picture of myself in a kilt. Don't laugh now. I'm the short one. The handsome gentleman to my left (your right) is my brother Nicky.

I'm just about all permabled out today. It's the annual Open House weekend in London, which makes available to the public all those buildings at whose facade they can only gaze curiously at for the rest of the year.

Needless to say there are a great many buildings whose interiors I'd still like to see before I leave this place permanently (more or less). I managed a few of those today, some of which were spectular, whilst others turned out to be something of a disappointment. More details, and even a few photos (ooh) tomorrow. If you ask me nicely I may even put up a picture of me in a kilt.

Of course, you'll have to ask really nicely for that...

Just before I went back to Edinburgh last week, I received an email from my manager asking me to consider again the possibly of working from home, once I'm back up there permanently. He mentioned this might be a possibility some time ago, but didn't go into much detail, and ultimately I pondered over it briefly, before pretty much dismissing the idea. After all, I don't think working in the absence of human contact would be much fun, and I've been hankering for the opportunity to do something new for a while now.

However, whilst I was home, I've got to admit I found the idea considerably more attractive, even if only as a stopgap solution. It would allow me to move into my flat immediately, as well as affording me a source of income and generally removing several other uncertainties. And should it fail to work out (a strong possibility) it will be much easier to look for other work whilst I'm actually up there - one thing my recent experiences have taught me - and have that much coveted income stream behind me. Viewed like that, and with my family surrounding me, it became an increasingly tempting proposition.

Our MD unexpectedly called me into his office today to talk the idea over. I expressed my concerns - that I want to move onto something new, and that I'm not sure how I'll cope working alone - and was slightly surprised to find that he was willing to accommodate me on several fronts, such as agreeing that I should only commit to it on a trial basis at first, of perhaps three months or so, as well as allowing me a months leave to get my flat sorted out. He also said that if it didn't work out there'd be no problem with me looking for another job whilst I was still working. I was quite flattered to be honest. He really does think I'm good at my job and wants to keep me around. In fact, his exact words were "I think you're very good at your job and I want to keep you around."

It's not a perfect solution, and it's almost too easy - I've walked down the path of least resistance enough times now to have learned that doing so carries inevitable consequences - but I'm sorely, sorely tempted.

Advice anyone?

I try to make a point of catching Sondheim shows whenever they pop up. Musical theatre, particularly in London, is often seen as a home to crowd pleasing spectacles, something to entertain the tourists, rather than as a worthwhile medium in it's own right. This criticism seems increasingly valid as in recent years the stage has been swamped with adaptions both of films and of the back catalogue of pop stars old and current. I can't necessarily fault this, since beyond the familiarity there's occasionally to be found some exemplary stagecraft, and perhaps even some immensely enjoyable entertainment. Still I'd class few of these projects as daring, or even original. Fortunately Sondheim can be relied on to buck the trend. His shows are more thought provoking than crowd pleasing; structurally complex, and lyrically and melodically challenging - you'll rarely exit the theatre humming the score, but you'll almost certainly be left with a lasting impression.

Sweeny Todd is no exception. As you might expect of a tale concerning the life of a 18th century serial killer, it's not the happiest of tales. The current production at the Whitehall Theatre favours a minimalist approach, featuring a basic, though apt, set and a cast of only 9, most of whom are assured a grisly, though tastefully portrayed fate, by the time the story ends. The minimalism I mention above also extends to the orchestra who, rather uniquely, have been done away with. Instead the cast doubles as the orchestra with each member carrying around their own instrument when necessary. It's a fascinating approach, which is carried off with consummate professionalism despite being what I can only assume to be a logistical nightmare.

As for the story itself, it casts Sweeny Todd as a wronged man - once a loving husband whose life was sent spiralling into tragedy when a powerful judge starts to covet his wife. He returns from exile after 15 years to find the judge still in power, his wife dead after taking her own life, and his daughter raised to adult hood by his mortal enemy. His sole motivation now is revenge. Surprisingly, the show is not without a sense of humour, though it is a humour of the blackest nature. This is largely provided by the character of Mrs Lovett, who aids Todd by helping him to return to his previous career as a barber, and, when his murderous instincts get the better of him, in the disposal of his ex-clientele... by using them as ingredients for her pie shop.

Over the course of the evening, evil of all sorts is justly punished and by the end of the show, only the innocents, few though they are, are left standing, but far from unscathed by their experiences.

Highly recommended if you like that sort of thing. And even if you don't.

It fell to me in my capacity as best man to organise some form of stag night. Me being me limited my options somewhat, but in the end, and with Nicky's consent, I decided to organise a round or three of paintball.

It all got off to a rather shaky start, when it turned out that of the 10 people I'd expected to turn up, 5 had to pull out at the last minute. I fretted about that some, as I'm want to do when I find my meticulously laid plans disintegrating around me. I'd feared the low numbers would spoil the atmosphere, but thankfully everything seemed to work out in the end. It's true that the resulting games may not have be ranked amongst the most frenetic rounds of paintball ever played, but we made up for it with copious amounts of sneakiness allowed by the near deserted surroundings. Our low numbers also gave us an advantage in that we didn't fire as many of the extortionately expensive pellets as we might have otherwise.

This was the first time any of us had played paintball, and whilst we'd all heard tales told of how painful the sport could be, we still found ourselves unprepared. We'd been informed before the game started that the paintball pellets travelled at approximately 300 feet per second, and once the game started I think we were all taken by surprised by just how much 300 feet per second hurts. And that's a lot. For the most part I escaped rather lightly next to some - we compared welts and bruises at the end of the night, in what I presumed to be some form of male bonding ritual. I think Nicky was worst off, but that may be because in the last two games he was alone defending himself against the rest of us - the peril of of being a groom at one of these events. Naturally we showed him the requisite amount of mercy - none. That's not to say I got away scot free myself, although my worst wound turned out be self inflicted when I managed to shoot myself in the foot - in my defense it's surprisingly easily done, and it wasn't an attempt to exempt myself from the proceedings. Remember when I said these things are painful? Well, that's only from a distance. Up close, and even through a pair of shoes, they are extraordinarily painful. I spent a goodly while hobbling around after that. I take a little pride in the fact that one of the organisers told me that was the first he'd heard of anyone shooting themselves in the foot - it's nice to be first at something.

A good time was had by all in the end, and everyone agreed they'd happily return, albeit with perhaps a shade more padding next time. The night continued on beyond the paintball, as a couple of the Nicky's friends who'd failed to make it earlier turned up and decided that a more traditional stag night was in order. All I'll say about the remainder of the evening is: It wasn't my fault; they made me go along with it; and I've never stared so intently at a wall in my life. And that's all I have to say about that.

I still can't believe my little brother is now a married man. "Little brother", heh. Even now I insist on calling him that, largely out of affection, but partly I suspect as a means of inflating my own status - a childish trait maintained for childish reasons. It's not a term that's really applicable any more - Nicky surpassed me in stature a great many years ago, and in many other ways since then. Out of all my siblings he's the one I retain most affection for (though as I've come to realise just recently, if not too late, I have a great well of feelings for all my brother and sisters), and the one I connect with most easily. We have similar outlooks and tastes (though with plenty of room for discrepancies), and I trust his judgement implicitly. I suspect this is due to our shared childhood - we were treated almost as twins in many ways, with a shared bedroom (I got the upper bunk) and shared bedtimes - our mother even insisted on buying us similar - or worse, identical! - clothing. I resented this of course, particularly as the age gap between us was similar to that between my elder sister and myself. Yet I saw myself being denied the privileges she was accorded, and I came to resent Nicky as a result, for no other crime than being my brother. We spent a great deal of time fighting, as I did my best to try and differentiate myself from him. Such a waste. I've grown some since then, enough to look back on times past and hope I've been able to make amends.

It's a cliche to say that you couldn't be happier about a particular turn of events, but I'll stand by it in this case, since it holds absolutely true. Nicky and Kerry are, as everyone who's ever seen them together will testify, a perfect match. Watching them standing hand in hand before the alter in the church, I was humbled by their unshakable confidence that this was exactly how things should be. That there was no-one else in the world for them, save each other.

I'm proud of both of them.

Great trip. Brother successfully married. Best mans duty fulfilled. Trip back turned out to be a nightmare - plane was late, exit door didn't work, tube driver told everyone to get off because the train was going to be stuck there for hours. Wish I wasn't here. Bleh. Details will be forthcoming I promise.

My is that the time already? Must dash - I've got a wedding to get to. Not my own obviously, but rather my brother Nicky's. And not today - Sunday's the big day, but I've still got a plane to catch. My posting may or may not be sporadic over the next week, we'll see. In the meantime, go out and do something fun and tell me all about it when I get back.

ttfn!

A year. It's been a year already. Where did the time go? One moment Jonathan is teasing me with the prospect of a blog of my very own, and then next I know I'm here, 366 days, 357 entries and 533 of your comments later. If I were a betting man I'd have likely wagered that before the first new moon had passed, blog here would be abandoned, left lying alone, unloved and forgotten, whimpering in the darkness. But my bloody-minded persistance about the whole affair has surprised even me. I suspect this is largely because I know that if I ever attempt to become a casual poster, someone who only posts when there's something of significance to write about, I'll simply never post at all. I am a born procrastinator after all, and without some sort of structure or timetable, be it imposed by myself or by others, I'll simply drift away. So I maintain my rigidly defined posting schedule, the consistency of which is probably a little worrying - my preferred posting windows appear to be from 23:38 to 23:41 and from 23:57 to 23:59. Oh, there are plenty of exceptions too, but enough posts fall between those times that it's probably worth the raise of an eyebrow or two.

I suppose today is a good time to look back over the last twelve months, to see where I am now compared to where I was then. It pleases me some that there are things I can stab my finger at that are decidedly different - it would have worried me some if nothing had altered. Of all these probably the most significant is that I've found myself living on my own for the first time in my life. Solitary creature that I am, I have to report that it's wonderful to finally be beholden to none save myself (well, and my landlords, I suppose...). Space is something I covet, and whilst I don't actually require much of it (cf Edinburgh flat), I do need some if it. Needless to say I believe this bodes well for my long awaited return to Edinburgh and my fabled flat (even if I won't necessarily have a job waiting for me when I get up there, sniff).

On the other hand some things have remained all too constant. Twice over the last year, I came so very close to throwing in the towel, quitting my job and catching the next train/plane northwards. This included one very serious attempt at resigning, despite which I still find myself here some six months later. I ended up in a similar situation at my last job - I resigned and finally left six months later. It's a habit I really must get out of. It doesn't do me, or my morale, any good at all. There have been so many occasions when I just wanted to get up and get out, to get away (the question of why I didn't is best left for another time - I don't think I can easily answer it). I felt the same way over the weekend too. How easy it would be to not go back to work today. To just call in, apologise and then never go back. To do something entirely different instead. I don't know what, exactly, just something different. Change is what I want/need now. Change is good. But I'm still here, still determined to see it all through until Christmas, though I'll confess this is now largely because my lease doesn't allow me to exit before then, and to try to do so earlier would prove a costly adventure. Change will still be good in four months time.

A year has passed. A whole year. I still find it hard to believe. One question that's cropped up in my mind on a frequent basis regarding the amount of effort it's taken me to keep this thing going is: "Has it all be worth it?" Some days I'd have been inclined to answer no, others yes. And today... today I've been asking myself where did the last year go and for the first time I have a record of it. Not all of it, admittedly - there are too many gaps, too much nonsense, too many secrets. But there's enough recorded that I can look back and dwell on some memories that might otherwise have... faded, if not vanished entirely.

Yes it's been worth it.

Every so often, my mother and I find ourselves at odds over a variety of different issues. Nothing major, nothing of any great significance - but when it happens I'm always struck by how unlike each other we can, despite the many similarities a casual observer would not doubt... um, observe. One example which always springs readily to mind, is that she is something of a sun-worshipper. Even the smallest shaft of sunlight edging through the clouds is grounds enough for her to break out the sun-lounger, regardless of what the weather may actually be like. Sleet, snow, rain and fog are no barrier I promise. This is not a point of view I share. I like sunshine, or at least I've come to like it - I wasn't much of a fan of it in my youth, largely, I suspect, because it meant being turfed out of the house to play. Or worse, taken to the beach. My mother cannot abide people spending time indoors on a bright summers day. For my part, I steadfastly believe that fun isn't fun when it's forced upon you.

So today was an overly sunshiny day, and I naturally avowed to spend as little time in daylight as possible. It would be a good day, I decided, to trek along the cool cloistered confines of the local cinema to catch a film I'd wanted to se for some time now, namely M. Night Shyamalan’s The Village. I'd furiously resisted reading reviews of the film, since M. Night is now infamous for his twisty turny plots and I do so love surprises. Of course, having said that, I also think he's in danger of typecasting himself as a Hitchcock-wannabe. He's a fine director, and he wrings some admirable performances out of his cast - Bryce Dallas Howard in particular - but I would like to see him try another writers material.

The problem with The Village is that the film loses it's way quite badly after the big reveal. All the tension, which had been so expertly constructed and maintained, evaporated in an instant, and characters who'd previously seemed so strong, were left looking weak and foolish. It also commits a cardinal sin of leaving plot threads dangling, some of which promised to add meaning to the story. Leaving these unexplored (what is Lucius' colour, for example) also marks much of the earlier part of the film as largely irrelevant. Lest I seem too harsh, it's still a film I'd recommend as an entertaining piece of fiction, albeit one that doesn't stand up to much scrutiny.

But in the end, my reaction to the film itself wasn't so memorable as my reaction to the audience, or more specifically to the group of 4 teenage boys sitting about three rows behind me. Why on earth they'd decided to watch this film was beyond me, since it completely failed to capture their attention. Instead, they chattered, giggled and laughed their way through the first hour of the film, despite several people behind them shushing them - to no avail. I'll admit I was somewhat frustrated by this, but, being as I am, I put with it as best I could. The popcorn fight, however, was the final straw.

I should elaborate that the reason I hadn't done anything to this point is that I find it difficult to initiate any form of confrontation - but particularly those involving bawdy teenagers. The few (which is to say extremely rare) occasions when I'd ever attempted such didn't go well for me. It's a task requiring a particular gravitas I've always imagined myself to lack. However, I'm not as I once was - I'll hazard that my self confidence is higher than it used to be, and I'm not unaware of the fact that I'm now considerably more physically imposing (all that time in the gym had to be good for something). I spent a few minutes considering those times I'd watched others successfully quell a group of rowdy teenagers, the most memorable of which an old man who brought a gaggle of girls to heel on a train once, with little more than a stern look and few softly spoken words. My circumstances were somewhat different, but I imagined the underlying principles would be broadly similar. As far as I could remember, the key appeared to be intimidation. Not a skill I've ever tried to develop, but I nevertheless thought I might as well give it a try.

Having decided on a course of action, I stood up, turned around, fixed my eye on one of the boys and slowly threaded my way around until I reached them. I then leaned over them, doing my level best to loom, and said, in a low voice: "Be quiet, or I will have you thrown out of here." I added in a quiet growl: "Do you understand me?" Four pairs of eyes widened in the darkness of the theatre and four heads silently bobbed up and down in front of me. The lad nearest me even quietly issued an apology. I returned to my seat, grateful for the ensuing silence which thankfully lasted 'til the end of the film, whilst feeling guilty about having deliberately intimidated a group of children.

As soon as the film finished and the credits started to roll, the boys ran out of the theatre at a fair clip. I think they were scared of me. Me! What's my world coming to?

Defeat I can deal with. I'm not overly fond of it, true, but cope with it I can. We pick ourselves up, we dust ourselves off, we acknowledge that's what's done is done and then we move on. There's some comfort to be had in the finality, if not the event. Hope, on the other hand... ah, hope - that's a different matter.

The rejection email I received, which I'll admit to having studied perhaps a mite too hard, mentioned that they'd like to keep my details on file in case in further positions open up in the future. I know this is standard practice for all recruitment agencies and that ultimately it means nothing, but I can't help but cling to that sliver of hope.

I should just ignore it, forget it, move on.

But I can't...

Perhaps Singin' In The Rain was a bad move. It's sunny outside just now, but then it never rains. It pours.

I just got a call asking if I was free to be an extra in the Batman film I auditioned for several months ago, and guess what: I'm not. I'll be seeing my seeing my brother to his wedding instead, and whilst there's honestly nothing I'd rather do more, I can't shake the feeling that fate is putting the boot in today.

Sigh.

Two down. If these things really do come in three I may not survive 'til the end of the day.

...didn't get the job. Bummer.

It's an outcome I more or less expected and I prepared for it as best I could, but it's still a bit of a blow. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, though, and as I said before I had little to lose so my disappointment won't last too long.

I'll see what feedback I can gather now. I'm quite curious to hear what they have to say.

Only one taker for yesterday's impromptu quiz, and I'm afraid you didn't get it, Jim, which left me Singing In The Rain all by myself. A production at Sadler's Wells (one of the many theatre in London that orbits the West End from afar) is nearing the end of it's run and a few friends and I decided that it would make for a fun outing (influenced by the fact that we managed to get some heavily discounted tickets).

I remember catching the film a few years ago and, truth be told, I couldn't recall all that much about it. Some of the big musical number lodged in my memory, but the plot fluttered gently away. Perhaps not too surprising given that it's pure candyfloss - artfully constructed, deliciously sweet, and ultimately 99% air - but terrific fun nevertheless. The story concerns the fate of three friends in the movie industry back in the 1920's just at Holywood is about to be transformed by the arrival of talking pictures. The two biggest stars are the dashing Don Lockwood and the lovely (but spiteful) Lina Lamont. Both have to make the transition to the talkies, the only problem being that Lina's voice is marginally less pleasant than listening to fingernails drawn down a blackboard. Obviously something has to be down about Lina, and hijinx ensue - naturally.

The principal lead is Adam Cooper, who's more famously known as the Swan from Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake (which I also saw once upon a time, though I don't believe he was the swan then). Often the problem I have when I find myself in the audience of any skilled practitioner is that above a certain level I simply cannot distinguish between the good and the insanely great (and in several cases I'm not sure I can even separate the adequate from the mediocre). I can happily sit back and enjoy what I'm seeing or hearing, but at the end of the day, I'm as happy listening to the opera singers busking at Covent Garden as I would be in the company of Pavarotti. Having said that, Adam Cooper, as Lockwood, quite literally danced circles around everyone else on stage. It's not that the rest of the actors on stage couldn't dance - as far as I could tell they performed admirably, with tremendous enthusiasm and energy - but Adam Cooper was simply operating on a different level. He was amazingly graceful by comparison. Given that he is a trained ballet dancer, this perhaps shouldn't have come as a great surprise, but I was still amazed - I could tell the difference, that's how good he was.

Naturally the big event was the deluge which occurred, unsurprisingly enough, at the end of act one, thus allowing a good twenty minutes for the stage to be dried off during the interval. As in the film, it's a standout scene. Aside from being technically impressive (we're talking about a lot of water), it's also a wonderful celebration of pure happiness, which you cannot fail to be carried along with. It's heart warming. It's life affirming. It's the sort of scene such cliches were born to describe - I'm smiling just now even thinking about. It's every bit as infectious and you might imagine too - several people around me started to hum along with the music in spite of themselves, and I'm certain the majority of the audience tum-te-tum-tummed as they left the theatre at the end of the night.

Even the safety curtain managed to provide a minor source of amusement during the interval, as it descended rather gingerly to hover just above the puddles on stage, as though fearing to get wet. It also received a small round of a applause at it rose a few inches more to allow what I shall term "a water sucking device" (bearing a strong resemblance to a large vacuum cleaner) to catch a trickle of water that was threatening to soak the orchestra.

All in all, it's a most excellent production, and pehaps exactly what I needed to ward off my interview funk for a while. Go along if you get the chance.

Another late night after another outing in the black heart of London town. Much fun was had by all, which helped take mind of the fact that I'm still suffering from post-interview blues, having so far failed to hear back anything. Put me out of my misery already, please - the suspense is killing me! Now, as to where I was tonight, here's a clue:

Tum te tum tum, tum te tum te tum tum

This afternoon I mailed the above line to one of the friends I went out with and she had no clue what I was prattling about, which I found rather odd since she knew where we were going, and hence it's meaning should have been obvious. Still, I'm curious to see if any of you can do better...