The Commute II: Getting to Practice and Beyond...

I finish work at 4pm for one bloody good reason: That I can skim around rush our and brush shoulders with it but not actually be affected by it in any significant way.

I am fortunate that currently my journey takes me from the north east to the south west and so I am usually guaranteed a seat either side so, once headphones are rammed in and book is placed a mere few centimetres away from my tired eyes, I manage to cope with the experience of having various people pressed against any limbs that are unfortunate enough to not be in the shelter and safety of the seat area (rarely a pleasure, often extremely irritating and sometimes simply a terrifying experience, body dependent).

But our practice was at 6pm last night, meaning I had to work until 5pm (so I had the knowledge that I had just completed an hour of unnecessary overtime on my shoulders before I'd even gone tubewards). I struggled out of the office, where I had to battle with the toilets before I headed out into the rain. That was an experience in its own.

I struggled through the doors, laptop on one shoulder, guitar on the other.

I now know what its like to have two unruly children in the cubicle with you. At least my two 'children', whilst I'm sure not being wonderfully impressed that they were rammed in there with me, were silent, rather like mardy teenagers than screaming toddlers.

So the three of us managed to get through that ordeal and and we struggled towards the tube, each slipping off my shoulder, tugging on their owner, dragging my limbs in opposing directions, hanging on like tired children. Just to make things that little bit more complicated, I thought now was the perfect time to return my friend's call so I had to contend with barriers and tube doors while negotiating the wedging of a mobile between my ear and my shoulder.

Once on the tube I managed to reduce my heart rate and stabilise my unruly sweat glands with a 30 minute tube journey, arms rested at shoulder height on my laptop bag with book suspended in the sky, head craned upwards, my guitar swaying in an unruly fashion, desperate to poke, nudge and scar anyone that came within reach.

Then it came. The Change.

I am one of the lucky few commuters who don't have to negotiate a tube change on their journey to and from work. But to get to practice, not only do I have to change, I have to change at Kings Cross. But oh no it doesn't end there. I have to change at Kings Cross to get on The Northern Line.

The Northern Line is one of my least favourite of the tube lines (I'd throw the District Line and its unsettling wooden floors, oversized carriages and regular unexplained delays alongside it). It is officially Commuter Hell. I have had more bad experiences on the Northern Line than any other underground line, probably with all my other bad experiences put together. And I've never even used it for a work commute. That gives you an idea of just how much we don't get on.

I battled my way off my tube, by this time wallowing in satisfaction everytime my guitar managed to jab into someone, or make an attempt at poking their eye out; by now we were in union and I was determined to make every other pitiful soul who dared stand or sit near me have just as bad a commute and be just as miserable as me.

So we descended even further, and as the escalator approached the bottom I saw a swarm of people gathered at the bottom; grey, terrified, lifeless souls inching their way towards the escalator. And I was about to be spat into them.

I am not good in crowds. At all. I never have been.

This is possibly because I am so short that, when situated within a crowd, all I can see is someone's back. And it scares the crap out of me.

I remember one terrifying time at a gig, jammed in the moshpit, chin and windpipe pressed up against the back of a very large, very unsavoury character, and having to be extracted from the crowd by my friend, who calmed me down and took me to the safe haven of the back where, if I was very clever, I could look through the curly mass of pubic hair that someone was cultivating on their head in front of me (why is there always Pubic Hair Man in front of me at these gigs? Why why why?). In between the wisps of coarse curls, if I was clever and timed it right, I could occasionally see flickering of who I believed may have been people on the stage in the distance.

I used my guitar's pointed headstock as a rather unmenacing weapon and charged towards my tube, in the process causing a few more bruises to hapless commuters, to accompany my foul temperament.

Finally, I emerged, battered, dazed and thoroughly pissed off. Into the pouring rain.

Its a good job I'd packed a marmite and cucumber sandwich. I got to practice and found normality and a safe haven between those two slices of bread and their watery innards.

Not the most rock way to start a band practice. I think my bandmates despair.

The Commute

Today wasn't a good day for commuting. Band practice days always make commuting that little bit more painful. And now I have a laptop to carry around as well, so things were never going to go well.

So I set off: a rather heavy bass guitar on one shoulder and a rather heavy laptop on the other, concealed inconspicuously in a large rucksack with the laptop's name embezzled on it. (I found out it had a rain sheet the other day which I thought might help - but no, that also had the laptop's name, this time in horizontal stripes, all over it. I bought a rucksack so that it would be a little less like 'HELLO I'M CARRYING A LAPTOP' but I don't think its done the job. Well, at least the rain sheet isn't bright orange, and yes, I do own one that is).

Now's the time to break you rather harshly into another part of my world, and another one of my foibles.

I sweat. Apparently, horses sweat, men perspire and women glow. Well, not with me. I don't like being compared to a horse but there it is.

For as long as I can remember, clothes have been purchased to hide or combat this problem. Grey marl? I don't think so. Long sleeved tops? Ah no. (Don't even think about grey marl long sleeved tops, let's just say its not pretty). I've broken the latter rule this morning, but over my long sleeved top I've got a tshirt in, praying that while my sweat glands will make light work of one top, they might struggle a little with two.

I am currently going through the process of buying a bridesmaid's dress for a very close friend of mine's wedding who knows my problem and has agreed that I will wear absolutely anything as long as I won't sweat in it (oh and I also put the rule of tartan and velour on the list as well but other than that she has free reign).

Satin is laughable. Lycra is dangerous. You may remember I mentioned previously that I had to wear a turquoise catsuit aged 15 for a rather humiliating dance routine. Well, thank god it had a sequined bolero to go over it (I never thought I'd be saying those words) otherwise it wouldn't have been pretty.

Most materials, in fact, if developed to cling to my underarm, are approached with caution and often trialed in the safety of my own home where a wardrobe of alternatives and old favourite staples are there to back me up if all goes wrong. My sweat glands lay in wait, grinning 'bring it on'. I really didn't think my own body would want to rebel against me but from puberty its stood there, on the defensive, ready to humiliate at the slightest raise of blood pressure, the smallest movement above sitting still, the tiniest raise in temperature.

So going from walking in the bitter cold to the tube, kitted up with hat, gloves and scarf plus rather uncomfortable, and awkwardly sized, expensive items of equipment strapped to my back, things weren't going well on the old sweat front. Sure I felt bitterly cold, but everywhere else on my body thought it was time to party. A line of droplets were forming under my hat. My clothes, pressed to my back by my laptop and guitar, weren't exactly bone dry. So then what happens? I start going underground.

I've never got this balance right - dealing with the temperature changes experienced on a commute through London. There is invariably a point at which I am too hot or too cold, often both several times on one journey. I have tried a variety of methods to keep my body temperature regulated but have failed. After a year and a half I'm starting to believe I'm fighting a losing battle.

So then I had the issue of trying to balance said laptop bag on my lap which, awkwardly, did't fit across the width of a seat but jutted into the next allocated seat (which the person next to me didn't seem best pleased about but by this point I didn't care). I also had to hold said guitar between my legs but as my laptop bag took up most of the length of my thigh, I had to grip my guitar with my knees, which meant holding it with one hand as well to steady it. And, because I took up more than my allocated leg space, I was not flavour of the month with my neighbouring commuters.

I refused to be detracted from my usual tubing activities, the things that get me through the journey. I balanced the paper on top of my bag precariously until I'd digested anything vaguely of interest in the Metro, then managed, in a rather ungainly manner, to put it on the shelf behind me and get my book out of my bag.

So then I emerged into the harsh world of London the other side, into car fumes, cigarette smoke and other various smells of the city. And I trudged, sulkily, to work.

The building is largely insanely hot so once again my body decided that it was party time, until I managed to strip off my various layers and make myself a cup of tea.

I am now feeling rather unclean.

And I have to go through this every day.

'How to Not Blog' and other web tales

Yesterday I did something I've never done before. I bought three web design magazines. Not one, three. I bought a copy of every type of web design magazine in WHSmiths (obviously only three).

Buying the magazines itself was an experience. I'd already been there once this week, to look (so this was planned, calculated. This was not a whim. This was not an accidental purchase. A fact I am finding a little hard to swallow) but had decided that £16 was rather a lot to buy on three web design magazines and it was something that needed to be considered deeply for some time.

But yesterday I plucked up the courage to go back, to finish what I'd started.

I never buy magazines. Occasionally, if on a train journey, I will invest in whatever trashy celebrity magazine has been reduced to get people to buy that issue and hopefully hook them into a life of style, glamour and secrets of the vaguely rich and famous. So I was shocked to see the aisle was absolutely rammed with people on their lunch breaks reading magazines.

My geek mags were hidden in amongst far trendier Photoshop design magazines (I can't justify buying one of them because I think they would feel severely let down by theirclientelee when I attempted to recreate some of the tutorials, enthusiastically but somewhat misguidedly. Either that or I'd be stopped leaving the shop by a security guard saying 'come on love, seriously?' and he'd take the magazine off me, disappointedly shaking his head, and place it back on the shelf where it belonged, for a proper designer to claim) and even more geeky computer magazines, just to the right of the gay magazines.

I'm guessing the positioning of these magazines is quite a good ploy. Those appearing to be all technological can flip happily between staring wistfully at the gay magazines and pretending to look impressed at Intel's latest processor held, usually, by a scantily clad female exposing copious amounts of flesh, often with quite severe musclage (obviously those damn things are heavy, or maybe Geek Men like their woman to be dominating and, err, muscley), on the cover of 'My PC Magazine'.

So there we were. Men upon geeky, balding, insecure men. And me.

I waited, impatiently, fidgeting, for my turn to move closer to the shelves (I quickly discovered there was a pecking order, and I was clearly the small, scrawny Web Designer trampled underfoot until the Geek Men had read everything they wished to consume).

The copies of the three magazines, the exact same ones that I had picked up, scanned and then replaced on the shelves earlier in the week, were still there. I picked them up and headed for the checkout, so I wouldn't buckle and buy something that I actually wanted.

So, on the tube home, I opened the first of my three magazines. I held the cover down on my lap so as other tubers would not realise what I was reading. I felt like a filthy old man perusing a porn magazine with a rather uncomfortable fetish angle, trying desperately not to admit to themselves that they are actually turned on by the contents of the pages (or well I imagine that's what they'd feel like anyway).

I was not, incidentally, turned on by the contents of the pages of my magazines. I attempted to hide the magazines because people are, most of the time, insanely bored on the tube and are searching for eye candy, something to amuse their tired, weary gaze other than the posters advising commuters to get liposuction for a better life, or buy a new mobile phone (apparently this is all that advertisers think that commuters want, no need, in order to improve their lives).

I'm a classic for this. I'll have the Metro sat openly on my lap (or as open as I can get it jammed in between fat hairy man #1 and fat hairy man #2 who clearly have no idea of personal space) but, instead, be reading the Metro on fat hairy man #1's knee. I know how bloody irritating it is, (especially if it is a novel and I want to protect the fictional world that I am currently immersed in and don't want fat hairy man #2 joining me in there), and how I make judgments on the reading material of others. I know I should a. not be so hypercritical and b. not be so worried about what other people think but I am and as that's the least of my personality worries at the moment, I think I'll lay that self criticism aside and address it when I'm in a period of Least Stress.

I bought these magazines because I wanted to become part of that community, just out of my reach, where there are people who love the web, who get excited about the latest podcasting tools (I admit I've never even heard one), who thrive on CSS developments and new software releases (although, I have to admit, even I got rather too excited about Photoshop CS2 and Flash 8), people who need the internet, and rather enjoy indulging in that need.

I wanted to learn their secret, I wanted to know how to love the web too.

I learnt a few bits and pieces but the secret of loving the web was, disappointingly, not hidden between the pages (I did look damn hard and even tried flicking backwards through them).

But the one thing I woke up thinking about this morning, were some tips to writing a successful blog. One that sticks out clearly is 'write short, concise blogs as your readers don't have the time or inclination to read lengthy, rambling posts and will quickly get bored'.

*ahem*.

I left these magazines at Yorkshire Lass's house last night (if you're reading this, you're welcome to have a read over the weekend by the way...).

I wonder whether that was intentional.

Kitchen Conversations

I'd like to share a little anecdote, to give you some idea of what my day is like.

I was in the kitchen, getting juice. Also in the kitchen was a new dev guy (that's what the cool web people of the world call developers because, I guess, it makes them sound more interesting).

Our conversation went something like this. He asked me if I liked juice. I said yes. He said that he didn't really like juice and preferred tea, pointing to the cups that were laid out in front of the kettle (I'm not sure his English isn't that good, but then that's about the level of banter for a dev guy). I said that I liked tea a lot but I'd already drunk enough tea today.

And then, as if to prove how caffeine induced and slightly unhinged I was, I laughed loudly, head thrown back, for quite a considerable length of time. Enough time for me to back out of the door and return to my desk, to stick my headphones on and get my head so close to the monitor that I could pretend I was immersed in safety and comfort and that I was not, in fact, at work at all.

I tend to avoid going to the kitchen when there are others around. I will actually turn around and walk back to my desk if I can see someone else is in there before I go past the door of no return.

I think I've effectively illustrated why.

Busy doing nothing

Yesterday afternoon was painful. For four hours I tidied files, helped my junior with things they really didn't need or want my help for and generally tried to make myself busy and/or useful. I even offered, several times, to make cups of tea. I drank tea that I didn't even want. When the caffeine rush started to become a little unsettling, I switched to herbal tea. Herbal tea at work. Things were wrong.

This would have been prime time to educate myself in the art of time wasting. But it was not to be, as I could see one of the director's screens, meaning they could also see mine. Searching for 'new + career' might have proved to be controversial.

I strongly believe trying to look busy is more draining than actually being busy. The Guilt is accentuated by knowing that other people know you don't really have anything to do. I was sat here, repeatedly pressing the 'get mail' button, actually hoping for work, needing it. I need work to feel needed.

In a job, you like to make yourself indispensable. I've always appeared flat out with my workload because, generally, I have always been flat out. I've instigated extra work, generated ideas, stimulated discussions, proposed reports. And all of it, fundamentally, not for the good of the company, but to make me feel that I was an essential and productive member of the team. That I was doing a 'good job', that I was, in my mind, because of that, a good and worthwhile person.

I went home yesterday feeling rather miserable about my wasted day.

Today, I am going to set a perhaps slightly ambitious but at least time consuming goal if I don't receive any work.

I am going to come up with a 'Life Plan'. *ahem*.

The Guilt

I am in the middle of a short burst of time wasting. I'm not doing very well at it. There is the world of the web hanging off my browser window.

But I have The Guilt.

I am extremely bad at doing bugger all. I get a funny tingling, sick sensation in my arms when I'm not immersed in work when I'm sat at my desk. Only if I have another task to distract me (buying a laptop; buying train tickets; looking for a new career) then I can possibly swing my mind around to a different way of thinking.

It comes largely from being self employed I believe (although it always has been there, like a heart murmur, beneath the surface, flickering away and was quite prominent during my degree. Okay, I've always been like this). Being self employed there is a temptation to get up late, go for coffee with friends, embrace eBay. But I went the opposite way. I became a mild workaholic.

Because I have The Fear.

I am terrified that if I don't work then I am a bad person. Its not simply if I don't work, its if I don't work hard and if I don't produce good results.

I know this philosophy is cack-handed. I know that if you allow yourself to relax you inevitably produce better results in your time of productivity. Your body and mind need down time. You need to rejuvenate, to reflect, to relax.

This is something I have never grasped. Even on my lunchbreak I feel guilty for reading the news. Weekends, only revealed to me once I had left education, and then only for a brief time before I became an academic and then a freelancer, are an open wound of worry and guilt. As a freelancer I regularly worked 10 to 12 hour days and throughout the weekend, terrified that if I stopped, took a break, took a breath, then I'd become behind and let clients down.

I am, you will be pleased to know that I recognise, an idiot. I am aware of my unjustified, slightly disturbing work ethic. I have also realised, through hours of dedicated, heart and soul work, you always disappoint clients. Because you cannot interpret the fact that the ramblings in their emails are not, in fact, what they mean at all. They are disappointed that telepathy is not a prerequisite of being a web designer (unlike an unhealthy Lego addiction).

Although I have realised this harsh truth, applying it is somewhat a different matter altogether. To combat my time wasting this morning, I have, in fact, been productive. I have written up not only my timesheet but my junior's as well (I can't bring myself to call them my minion now they are actually flesh and blood and being really quite lovely and useful, although they have made me several cups of tea). I have emailed, made phone calls, done some creative filing.

I am still feeling guilty. I seriously suck at wasting time.

Good things come to those who...

Two good things came out of my whining yesterday.

Firstly, my lack of internet access and subsequent rant was observed by a very lovely school friend of mine who contacted me telling me she shared my desperation and also sought solace in Skype and we had a rather lovely Skype chat yesterday afternoon about how rubbish our days were.

Secondly, my bruised and battered body may be keeping me from running this lunchtime (I'm not that much of an exercise sadist) but it has inspired me to start doing pilates with the lovely Ms B (the very same that features regularly in Yorkshire Lass's posts) and Yorkshire Lass herself (although she may not know this if she hasn't read her email yet).

It is very comforting to know that there are people out there who are willing to share physical pain in the form of group exercise to a DVD of a rather annoying woman in a leotard and untamed fringe who unsubtly tries to get you to drink Volvic all the way through the 45 minutes of bizarre stretching rituals.

It is also comforting to know there are people who are as frustrated as me at their desks, scattered throughout London (my lovely school friend has become a master at solitaire, while I have developed the art of filing my email and sorting through my folders under the guise of work).

I also have a confession to make. I didn't eat my soup last night. I'd forgotten I had bought, on a whim, Heinz beans instead of my usual Sainsburys variety and when I opened the cupboard and stared, with a heavy heart, at my tin of watery condemnation there really wasn't any contest. Beans on toast it was.

My diet will start tomorrow.

Did I leave the gas on?

I have a confession to make. Before I left the house this morning, I had to check to see if I'd put my laptop in my bag. Twice.

When removing my keys from the drawer, I also had to spend a few moments saying to myself 'boyfriend's keys are there, boyfriend's keys are there' so I wouldn't get all the way to work to find a million missed calls from my boyfriend saying I'd manage to take his keys as well as mine.

This, I might add, was a good day. When I have to straighten my hair, its a whole new kettle of fish. I not only turn off my straightening, I unplug them and drag the plug over as far away from the extension chord as possible in case it decides to replug itself back in (often inducing static shock when I touch the plug, always the sign of a quality electrical item or perhaps the sign that only an idiot would think about touching the plug but I'd prefer things to be The WebStress proof).

But it doesn't end there. I then turn the switch off for the extension chord. Then, not content with all that, and this is a new addition over the last couple of weeks, I unplug the extension chord. And just in case that wasn't enough, after saying, usually out loud, to myself that I have unplugged my straighteners, I have to get my boyfriend to check that this 5 minutes of my time was not imaginary and that I really am suffering from a mild case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

I've been like this for as long as I can remember. Flatmates, friends and (seriously) next door neighbours have been asked to check to see if I turned the gas off or unplugged those straighteners (I really should just succumb to the world of The Kink and let my hair do its own thing to avoid me from such unnecessary stress). From any time period from 5 minutes to 5 hours later I will be stuck by sickness, worry and self doubt. If I can't actually remember turning off every plug in the house before I leave for work, then they have all spontaneously ignited (our flat, and the majority of places I have rented, is currently riddled with suspect wiring) and the house is currently engulfed in flames while I am sitting on the tube, in a restaurant, on a plane, in the theatre (the latest crisis was watching Edward Scissorhands) and, now, in work.

When leaving for a two week holiday for Australia a few years ago, I had to sit in front of my gas fire in the bedroom and say to myself, over and over 'the gas is off'. I actually even turned the gas back on so I could remember the process of turning it off.

Probably my most obvious obsessiveness is with regards to my car. Asking my passenger to lock the door is not enough. Watching my passenger lock the car door is also not enough. My ritualistic behaviour with the car is so unsettling it even disturbs me. I will circle the car (circulations dependent on how obsessive I am on that particular day) and check each lock. Again and again.

I'd like to think that my obsessiveness stems from being thorough. But I'm not. My obsessiveness comes from being absent minded. But I think, in fact I know, the very time I do not reach the front door and run back up stairs to check, again, that I have locked the flat door, that I will have left it gaping wide open and thieves will be stripping the house as soon as I turn the corner.

It has happened. There has been the odd, very rare, occasion that I have, in fact, left the gas on. In this there lies the problem. I will never be able to break the cycle because I am fundamentally flawed in being able to carry out simple activities without having my own personal vetted safety checks on them after they have concluded, to once again instill safety in my life.

But my absentmindedness actually slips through to my obsessive checking. And here's where the audible monologue of a girl posessed with the fear of her absentmindedness is necessary. Here is where courage in my convictions really would be useful (especially when I am on an aeroplane heading out across the ocean). Because even when I have checked things, if I don't clearly remember checking them, clearly remember saying to myself that they are 'dealt with' then my old friend, self doubt, hurries over to accompany absentmindedness and obsessiveness that are already kicking around causing havoc.

I think maybe it is because I wander around largely in a bubble. My internal chatterings keep me largely away from the world and physical space I occupy. I am thinking about last Tuesday or next week or what to have for tea.

I have no conclusion or solution for this. It is helpful having a boyfriend who is not only extremely thorough but also humours my obsessiveness by witnessing my unnerving rituals and stares at plugs alongside me, just to make sure. I don't believe there are any solutions to this without a complete character overhaul, due to the contributing factors, so I guess I'm stuck with it.

And throughout this whole post I've been thinking...because I know I didn't check the cooker before I came out.

Exercise and the art of Being Attractive

Today I was going to write a blog about how I am failing quite spectacularly in the art of looking attractive while exercising.

I run on my lunch break. I don't run for very long, or very well. In fact, for as long as I can remember, my friends have made many jokes over my running 'style', or lack of. 'Lollop' would be a better word. My arms and legs flail all over the place, doing everything in their power to hinder any physical aerodynamics that might have aided my speed. But on most days, as a preferable alternative to sitting in the office, I don my rather unattractive PE getup and head out, come rain or shine (although my enthusiasm varies greatly, but stepping out in miserable weather really does highlight to me how little I want to sit in the office for the duration of my lunch).

My PE gear consists of various shades of charcoal grey layers. In decency (as in how much of my body it requires) it is the polar opposite of my PE gear that I had to wear to school (I remember being forced into gym class in a white t-shirt - which apparently was not supposed to be long enough to cover my knees so I was 'informed' - and royal blue, extremely tight, gym knickers as was standard and perfectly decent apparently for a mixed set of eleven year olds vaulting over various pieces of equipment) but in attractiveness, it is about on the same level.

Since entering the world of exercise for exercise's sake, my PE gear has largely consisted of clothes that were once 'going out' tops, but are now oversized, stretched, shapeless sacks and faded trousers (although I have a pair of very small shorts that occasionally see the light of day in the height of summer, coupled once again with a t-shirt which is long enough to cover my knees). I used to dance, 'elegance' *ahem* first, exercise second, although memories of a turqouise catsuit and sparkly bolero that I was forced to wear as a substantially proportioned 15 year old hint that my get up wasn't any more attractive.

I recognised quickly, through varying degrees of quality of sports centres and the patrons that frequented them, that perhaps there was a whole world of sportswear out there, some of which might even make me look a little less like the substantial fifteen year old I used to be (yes, I am still getting regularly ID'd, and I am extremely familir with watching the pubescent shop assistants examine my date of birth and attempt to figure out how old that makes me, give up and serve me dubiously anyway, even though I am 24).

But while I will sacrifice my time to exercise (and actually quite enjoy it. At times. Well, it is as a preference to making rollovers), I refuse to make myself attractive whilst doing it. I sweat. I lollop. But I believe that maybe I am being offensive to the public eye. I run alongside The Beautiful People. People who have stamina, who have a Running Posture (whatever that may be). People who not only run, they invest in their running.

I said I was going to write about how I am failing to be attractive while exercising, and the reason that it was supposed to be past tense (which it clearly isn't), is because while I was running and immersed in my rather dull internal monologue that was rattling around my brain, flitting between my marmite and cucumber sandwich that awaited me at the office, the costings which I had yet to invent and what it might be like to be Dave Grohl, I tripped over rather spectacularly.

It was a slow motion moment John Woo would have been proud of (minus the double guns and attractive filters). As I stumbled (over a glitch in the concrete even a microbiologist would have struggled to locate), I had a moment where I thought 'I'm going to recover from this, I'll trip and just carry on running', but then came the realisation.

I fell. First my knees, which I skidded on for a little while before I managed to put my palms out to save me from further damage. My hands buckled beneath me and down went my shoulder.

Then my face broke. You know the moment where a child's face contorts into The Face Of The Devil before they begin to wail like a banshee? Yep that'd be mine. I could feel it colapsing into what was due to be a spectacular outburst.

But I had the sense to look around. There were runners approaching, businessmen on their lunch. So I just got back and carried on in a sort of limp-jog back to the office where I ate my marmite and cucumber sandwich and pondered on the pain and humiliation I had endured in an effort to maintain some sort of vaguely toned physique (toning which is currently very vague indeed).

I always thought it was more painful to diet. I live for my food (all 7 items that a non-dairy eating vegetarian can easily eat without stomach cramps). I still have terrible memories of a 24 hour famine I endured for charity (never again). But now I am in doubt.

So I am now going to heat up a can of 1%-fat-tasteless-lacking-in-any-sort-of-enjoyment-or-satisfaction-yet-not-inducing-physical-pain-soup.

And then I'm going to weigh up which is worse.

I have a strong feeling, however, through all my doubt induced from today's pain and humiliation, tomorrow I will be donning PE kit and setting out for further indignity.

The WebLessStress

I have no internet connection. I am writing this in OpenOffice (a small personal silent protest against Microsoft, despite running it on a PC running a brand spanking new, legal copy of XP Pro).

I am pretty stressed.

I am stressed with the absence of the internet. I feel anxious, nervous. My heart rate has increased, and not, disappointingly, due to an unhealthy consumption of caffeine as is the usual for a Monday morning. I am imagining the backlog of email desperate to flood into my inbox, packets sat impatiently on Thunderbird's doorstep.

An arachnophobic would be elated to suddenly have all eight legged creatures unceremoniously destroyed. A vertigo sufferer would be more than happy to be moved an awful long way from anything cliff like. But The WebStress, a self-confessed interphobic, has realised that I need the internet.

It is a pretty difficult realisation to swallow. I need the one thing I am afraid of. I feel like I am suffering a rather painful breakthrough in my budget counselling course.

The internet makes me tense, stressed, upset. It isn't just my work either. Poorly laid out, badly designed websites make me angry, especially when I am trying to throw my money at some miscellaneous company (recent attempts at insuring my new laptop online equated to much stroppyness). But it isn't just bad websites that feel my wrath. Considering I actually lectured in aesthetics and ergonomics of web design, it is amazing that even the simplest of navigation confuses me. And woe betide you if you were to add a distracting and pointless piece of flash to your website (badly tweened text and poorly faded jpgs is always a good one to get me going). I can feel the muscles in my arms tense just thinking about it.

I officially suck at surfing too. If Google doesn't return precisely the right search results on the first page to my often rambling, overlong and vague queries, then I will close the browser window aggressively (and believe me that is possible) and skulk off to make a cup of tea. And don't even get me started on eBay. I lost at several bids just before Christmas on a Jabba's Palace Lego set, no longer available (complete with minifig Princess Leia in gold bikini and chains, trap door and Lego Jabba). I got frustrated with constant outbidding and failure (I am not a betting woman) that I just bought it outright (I felt initiated into the community briefly, even if I was somewhat of an impostor, but felt relieved when the whole ordeal was over).

But I also need the internet to make my work life bearable. My friends and family on msn, email and Skype really do help me battle through, once my toast seems like a distant memory and I've had one too many cups o tea. Its usually just a brief whine about how badly their day is progressing, then one of us will say 'got to go, really busy' followed by a series of vaguely related hyperactive emoticons (Skype's dancing man is a personal favourite). I need to know I am not alone in sitting at my desk sulking that it is Monday, bored, fed up but with an enormous workload. I need to know that other people are as miserable and depressed as me, there is something deeply comforting to know that I am not alone in my suffering.

Oh its back on now. No-one's online. I've had no gmail apart from an auto generated email. Msn is 'temporarily unavailable'. And my inbox is overloaded with pointless, time consuming, dull amends to banner ads that had to all be completed before I even took breath this morning. I am behind with my work and its only half ten on a Monday morning. Quite clearly, the grass is always greener.

Sounds of the City

After my rather damning report (apart from my closing paragraph that I was hoping might redeem me from my spiteful tongue) about London yesterday, it stuck its fingers well and truly in the air to me this morning.

I woke up late. 7 minutes late to be precise, but when you allow yourself approximately 15 minutes to get ready on a morning (basic hygiene rules adhered to as a minimum, hair brushed and earrings located if I'm feeling particularly spritely), this obviously is quite a large chunk of time.

I have a rather large, terrifying, palm-sweating-high-blood-pressure-inducing presentation to give this afternoon. I have tried to reduce my stress levels by treating it as an informal presentation, trying to pretend to myself that this is merely a 'discussion', a 'chat'. I might have been successful in convincing myself of this fact had it not been to pitch for a substantial sum of money, and actually quite an exciting project for me (to fulfil my typical 10% of my job per year that I actually enjoy all in a few months if successful).

In preparation for this I have even worn clean clothes that I haven't pulled out of the wash bin in a moment of desparation as is the normal routine on a morning in the world of WebStress. Due to this meeting, there was no chance of shaving any time off by skipping my basic hygiene routines (I am a webdesigner after all, I could wear my pyjamas to work and noone would notice).

Then the worst thing happened. Not content with consuming my sight, touch, and smell, London captured my last remaining outpost.

Today I had to listen to the city.

Half way along Gillespie road (incidentally the longest road in the world) my music stopped. I checked my MP3 player to see if I could encourage it with that age old trick, 'The Battery Roll'. Niente. Not a sausage. The energiser bunny it was not.

So I arrived late to the tube, Mr Ticket Man said I was a 'silly girl' for not finding it, I made an excuse that I'd got in late (why the hell I was making an excuse to Mr Ticket Man is beyond me). The long descent to the tubes felt like a prison sentence, a physical manifestation of my day beginning to go downhill.

Due to my 7 minute delay and having to endure blonde comments from Mr Ticket Man, the tube was by that point rammed and I had to read my newspaper under someone's armpit until Kings Cross where I managed to get a seat. I was not in a good mood. The man sat opposite stared at me disgustedly, obviously because I had sat down or taken up slightly more room than was allocated to me through The Unspoken Rules of the Tube (which noone else adheres to, I've noticed).

My tunelessness made me realise that I'd been walking around with a soundtrack to my world, blissfully unaware of the irritating noises that surround me day to day on my journey. People rustle. They breathe loudly. They shift and fidget. And worst of all, there was a bloke standing next to me today who had a tune playing on his phone again and again and again. 15 minutes of my journey were spent with this 30 second tune repeating at regular intervals. Starey Disgusted Man and I joined forces, giving this bloke our best evil glares. But to no avail, he had headphones in and, like I usually am, was happy and content in his own musical bubble. That made it even worse. Because that's how I should have been.

The 7 painful minutes from my ascent from the tube to my office are usually when I select my favourite, most uplifting tunes. My tunes that say 'this is going to be a good day'. My tunes that say 'its only a job, its only a few hours, you'll get through it'. My tunes that make me happy.

My tuneless walk to work was beyond bleak. Climbing the stairs to my office, to my desk, I was alone.

I have not cheered up. XFM did its best, until the office became busy and I had to fade it down until it was so quiet that I just succumbed to the world of work and turned it off.

So today I have realised I have another addition to my Toast need. Take my MP3 player away (all £20 of Matsunichi glory. No I've never heard of them either) and you face The Wrath of the WebStress.

London Calling

Me and London have fallen out. To the point I don't think we're even talking anymore, and don't know when we will be reconciled.

On moving to London in July 2004, I'd like to think I had a fairly open mind to how our relationship would blossom and grow. Country Girl Makes Her Millions In The Big Smoke. But it didn't quite work like that.

I'm not sure who had other ideas, London or my subconcious, but we never really 'clicked'. It was like moving to a new school and being shown around by a fasionable, popular fellow student, who you secretly hoped would become your new best friend, then you both quickly realise you've nothing in common but are forced to begrudgingly sit next to forseeable future.

Its always something small that causes these arguments. The snowball effect, to push all your stress and anger forward within a tiny channel of an issue until it explodes out of the top spectacularly and, usually, rather messily.

And my tiny channel this morning would actually be my fault, I'm willing to admit that. I lost my Oyster card. While those around me will know that mess is attracted to me like wasps to a pint of Carling, I have managed to keep hold of the same Oyster card since my first week in London. The same battered, abused casing, the same picture (of me looking slightly more spritely and less haggard, I swear London is giving me premature wrinkles). Sure I've misplaced it a few times but not like this.

I think its in the house. I'm not 100% certain (lack of courage in my convictions and a distinct absence of factual evidence once again present in full force). I think I saw it last night, but that might have been the night before...(you can see where this is going).

So this morning, cue hopeless panicking and teary wailings to my boyfriend (PreTea, PreToast). Him: searching calmly and methodically, me: searching whimperingly and irratically.

I am largely annoyed with myself for losing it, I am messy, I am forgetful, I am a little (ahem) disorganised at the best of times. But I'd never lost it before and this morning wasn't a good time to start a new trend.

So, I arrived at the tube to be told by Mr Ticket Man that I lost it because I was blonde, but a 'pretty blonde, a very pretty blonde'. Even sleazy flattery from Mr Ticket Man didn't make the pain of having to shell out £6.60 for a day's travel that I'D ALREADY PAID FOR.

So, really, none of this is London's fault. But London to me is like a boyfriend that you know you're going to finish with, its just a matter of when. They make you feel irritable and uncomfortable, you blame them for everything that goes wrong in your relationship, you sleep in separate rooms, but every time you go to break it off, they tell you their dog has just been put down and you console them and carry on as normal.

My complication, ironically, is my job. I moved to London *deep breath* because of my job. Here was a city of possibilities, of prosperous multimedia activity, of rollover potential galore. In my days of innocence, I thought that it was the specific role I was doing that made me unhappy. I tried relentlessly to find 'the right role'. I have a CV that reads more like a rather uninspiring, ill thought out novel, plot lines shooting out inconclusively from the page, character profiles introduced but never mentioned again, swept under the carpet when the author realises there really isn't much substance in them.

I think my CV would terrify an employer. Staying power I have not. The amount of times I have recited the lines 'yes I have had quite a few jobs in quite a short period of time but this role really is the one I want, I really feel I could develop a career here...'

This may be why I resent London. I've spent the whole time I've been here something that I'm never going to find until I make a drastic change - happiness in my job. And London can sense it, it can smell it on me, hear it in my bitter, stress induced ramblings. Its like an older sibling hell bent on breaking me, it knows how to wind me up. My boyfriend has taken the shape of a patient, yet frustrated parent, separating us, sending us to our respective territories to calm down (as London is pretty damn well stationary this is usually achieved by driving me as far out of the city as a tank of petrol can manage, which isn't a great distance once you've crawled along the A1 on a Friday afternoon).

Another reason is that I'm largely frustrated with myself. Yorkshire Lass enthuses about a London that I don't understand, or refuse to accept. There is a whole city out there, if I can just stay up past ten o'clock or not see approaching public transport for anything other than work with the mindset that it is worse than enduring the dentist.

London is an amazing city, a beautiful city (well, in parts), colourful, vibrant, exciting, there are no restrictions here (unless you are trying to park anywhere, ever). London opens its arms to cultures, ideas, talent, it has endless possibilities, it pushes you, drives you, it desperately wants you to succeed, be the best you possibly can. I like eating beans on toast with a warm ribena. Maybe this is why we don't get on.

The fact of the matter is...

I was discussing with my lovely fellow blogger Yorkshire Lass From London the other day about current affairs and our lack of acknowledgement of them in our blogs. Yorkshire Lass was worried that all she seemed to do was complain about her general situation (money; University freaks; house issues) and hadn't really added any political or social commentary of any substance (although it makes a damn good read).

I echoed her concerns. When I started this blog, I had visions of witty and thoughtful prose on current affairs, provocative discussion material and the like, an outlet for intelligent thought.

What I had failed to factor in to this assumption was my inability to remember facts. I'm not talking statistics, or mathematic equations or historical dates. I'm talking day-to-day, run of the mill, average facts. I'd be hard pushed to tell you what the documentary was that I watched part of last night was accurately about (something to do with an island and Dubai and flood defences but that's as much as I retained). Or what channel. Or what time.

But more fool you if you started a conversation where I could tap into this delight and attempt to interject my informative factual account (what I can remember of it).

Because its not just my lack of factual knowledge that can hinder my intelectual kudos. Its that I have a habit of displaying this lack of knowledge through poorly thought out, often painful anecdotal tales.

Basically, I seem to like to exert the fact that I'm not the sharpest tool in the box (again, a fact I repeatedly forget, because I keep on doing it).

I am like a small child tugging on their parents leg going 'oh oh oh I know the answer to that one!' when the parent is happily engaged with another person of equally intelligent calibre and when they turn, wearily, to me, I attempt to regurgitate the information that I learnt in school, only to find I am missing key information and my conversation colapses slowly and uncracefully. The parent can only look at me for so long with a loving, tender look in their face before their interest starts to wain and even a touch of social embarassment creeps into them, watching their offspring descend into a mess of endless sentences and inconclusive points.

And that's just the patience and attention someone who loves me unconditionally. Give me an interview, a presentation, a lecture, and that's a whole new kettle of fish.

Picture this: I am 14 or 15, in history GCSE. Sat near the back, our tables were set as two horseshoes, one inside the other. I am stood up, and I am talking. I am rapidly choosing my train of thought. I put my hand up with an answer, keen to get my point across. My point, however, has other ideas and has clearly buggered off, in search of greener pastures than my mind in which to evolve (mine: a barren wasteland of knowledge littered with show tune lyrics and boy related issues). My history teacher, kindly, asked me to sit down. My point that I had tried to get across was, I seem to remember, never added to the list on the blackboard.

And, unsurprisingly, I can't remember what my point was about, or what the subject was about (you'll notice that my age was ambiguous too).

So I think by now I think you'll assume (like I have, only through trying mind) that I am an appauling pub quiz team member. I am picked last for Trivial Pursuit. My parents still help me with the answers, much to my sister's disgust. I should be embarassed at 24 but if I didn't accept their hints and suggestions then I would never get a pink cheese (I can't tell you what the pink cheese was for though, I was hoping to brush over this fact through effective Google usage but I've had to give up and admit that I don't know, as I've proposal writing looming over my shoulder waiting for me to begin, like a sweaty, overweight Java teacher that I used to have, who breathed heavily and once rested her vast left breast on my shoulder. So you can tell I'm not looking forward to getting started on this one but I'd rather shake off that breast. Why the bloody hell am I plagued with memories of that and not of useful information?).

The informative factual anecdoe is like the holy grail to me. I feel like Indiana Jones, without actually being able to do all the dodging of spikes and boulders. So really I'm not like Indiana Jones at all. I'm like his very British, rather stupid sidekick, standing on the sidelines going 'no, actually, I don't think its that important, I'll leave it where it is' and then wandering off for a cup of tea.

Its really pretty embarrassing. It can, on occasions, be actually quite humiliating. All my friends, bless them, have learnt my anomoly and tend to just ignore me or kindly stop me before I get too far down the Path of No Return.

Dinner parties tend to be the worst, when a glass or two of wine gives me the divine right to drag out half-facts kicking and screaming from all crevices of my mind that are vaguely connected to the conversation.

I wonder on those occasions when I have had courage in my convictions, how many people I have flooded with falseties, the less knowledgeable of the people I have engaged in conversation. I wonder those who have nodded politely whilst making a mental note never to listen to another word I say.

But its not just that I miss things out or get things wrong. If I have an ounce of doubt, or I think my unfortunate audience may actually be listening to what I am saying, or pressure is forcing my heart rate higher than its normal agitated state, I stumble blindly in the dark, I bump into things, turn around, go back on myself, confused, but determined to get to the end.

Wherever that may be.

'I read about a man, or maybe it was on TV. Anyway, this man, he was about 40 I think, or perhaps a bit older, no actually I think he was a pensioner, well anyway he won this money on the Lottery, or the Lotto or something, and he won about £500 grand. or maybe it was £5 million. Anyway he bought a whole island somewhere in the south pacific I think. Or maybe it was near New Zealand. It was somewhere hot anyway. And.....yeah'

Yep that's where I usually give up the will to live too, like my hapless audience.

Back down to earth with a crash - and a coding calamity

My brand spanking new laptop arrived yesterday. Its beautiful, shiny and new. It has so far not complained to do anything, not once. Its not miserable, its not temperamental. Its actually quite happy being my conduit to the web. Its more 'you'd like to do that? okay lets see what we can do' than 'you WHAT?'.

I was almost excited about work this morning. In the comfort of my home, with a cuppa and (obviously) my toast, I began work in earnest (well, I opened gmail).

You may remember, it was just one week ago that me and my pc, that's sat sadly neglected by my new toy's side (even with the frustration the pc caused me, there is a tiny twinge of guilt for its abandoned shell, sat uselessly next to me, a glorified modem shelf) had seriously fallen out, beyond repair.

So: a new day, a new start.

I should have known.

Gmail welcomed me with frustrated email from a website owner that I had designed and developed. Its a good thing this website owner was my dad really otherwise things may have been even worse than they already are.

My web hosting have turned off global variables in PHP. For good. Their advice? Recode the scripts. For those of you who know nothing about coding - welcome to my world. For those of you who do - if you wouldn't mind letting me know how to fix it...

I have a good 5 or 6 websites hosted with this company. The sites, all for clients/friends, all have varying degrees of the problem, from being mildly frustrating with some limited usability to being effectively useless. I can't move them to another hosting company because most people have turned off global variables anyway.

All of these sites need fixing. All of which need fixing in the immediate future.

The WebStress has gone beyond stress. In fact, I'd love to just be 'stressed' now. I ache for the simplicity of the word. I'd embrace the stress with open arms, I'd welcome it lovingly.

I work full time, I have a boyfriend who's presently departing for 9 months in NZ (so would quite like to see him before I go), I'm losing my internet connection at the end of the month when I move and...

....I don't know how to fix the problem.

Praise Be

Yesterday I got a rather lovely bit of praise from a client. The email went directly to my boss, the client citing that I was 'a real asset', and am 'quick, willing and friendly' amongst other rather lovely things.

Well. Yesterday went along like a breeze. Clients rarely dole out significant amounts of praise, in case you'll suddenly realise that they need you as much as you need them and you suddenly double the cost of projects. Web banner? 180 x 150 with one sentence of text and a logo? That'll be twelve hundred pounds please. You want the best? You Will Pay (*evil-deep-booming-vaderesque-voice required for the reading of that sentence*).

Hmm, so I got in feeling rather smug and happy with myself last night. But as the course of the evening went on I started to fret a bit. I had, just as I left work, sent through some more design work to said client. I was wondering what would await me in my inbox this morning. As it happens the client has yet to look through the work so I am sat here conjouring up all the numerous design blasphemy I could have made (they're only banner ads so I can't have got them that wrong. Hahaha. Ah I have so much to learn...).

Now, PostToast, PostTea I have The Fear tickling away at my insides. The What Ifs mounting up like a layer of critical plaque over my creative gums (nice). I am On The Defensive - a regular manoeuvre for The WebStress - I am spraying my territory, building up my thick skin, guards on standby for the criticism I am anticipating.

This is quite exhausting, constantly being On The Defensive. It is a shame I can't accept criticism openly and lovingly, using it to my best advantage, to become (wait for it) a better designer. Good god. Yes, even for The WebStress who seems bound to the rock of middleweight design, preying on the ideas of others, there is the possibility to take that step to actually being really quite good if I am to 1. drop the barriers and 2. listen.

Problem is, even as I'm writing this I'm actually ignoring my own advice. While my fingers are using their own megaphone (by announcing my flaws to anyone who cares to trawl this blog), my brain is thinking about making another cup of tea. Seriously, throughout the majority of that last paragraph I was thinking 'mmm tea'. *sigh*.

So, I have found to enjoy my work, unbloodysurprisingly, I need constant consistent praise, each slightly more lovely than the previous (job's open if anyone fancies sitting by my desk being my Praise Minion. Cup of tea making abilitiy essential. Minimal pay but good job satisfaction. Good holidays). Glad to see I'm a well balanced, not-needy-in-the-slightest, open minded individual.

No, what I really need - and we're really getting to the crux of the matter here - and this is the bit where I have to do the leg work (or mind work) - is to Listen and Learn. Listen to my mistakes and Learn from them. Repeat after me: 'This will make me a better designer'...

Cup of tea you say?