SO just when you thought you had nothing to write about, someone delivers a wormery. (Actually dumped on your doorstep more than delivered. The delivery guy was obviously not a worm fan, or he thinks people who buy wormeries are unhinged and doesn't want to talk to them.)
The wormery is the latest in mr and mrs househusbandnot's attempts to be a little more environmentally friendly. It is basically a stack of trays that you put worms in so they can eat your leftovers and stuff, and produce compost for you to use on your garden. (We don't have a garden here at househusbandnot HQ. We are on the top floor of three flats. But we have a small terrace by the kitchen and a roof terrace up top.) You can pretty much put anything in the wormery for the worms to munch on, including food, vacuum cleaner dust and hair (bleah), tea and coffee granules, and shredded paper. They don't like (I'm reading this from the instructions manual now) plant seeds, citric fruit, dog or cat droppings (because they carry human pathogens apparently [How does that work? I don't think I want to know.]), glossy printed paper, or glass or metal or plastic - so there goes mrs househusbandnot's agenda for 'recycling' my cd collection which is doing her head in at the moment. (My favourite instruction in the instruction manual was "Avoid all oral contact with the contents of the wormery".)
In between humming the theme tune to The Good Life, I put the wormery together yesterday and set it up on the terrace by our kitchen. It is kind of cool in a wormy, composty, mad way. It looks like a medium sized barbecue, with legs and a series of trays that you move around to rotate the worms and the stuff you put in there for them to eat. Once it was all set up, I dug around the kitchen for anything on the 'worms can eat' list, but couldn't find anything. So I made them some toast.
So technically, mrs househusbandnot and I now have pets - 1,000 of them. I'm also really tempted by that hen in a box you can buy, although as a hen I'm not sure I'd want to live in a box on someone's roof terrace. As a worm with 9,999 of my family I think I'd be cool, as long as the coffee was good and I didn't have to eat CDs.
I don't think househusbandnot is going to become some sort of diary about trying to be green in London, but I thought it would have been disingenuous not to mention our new pets. Here's to them, boom boom.
In other brief news, went to a great little party last night organised by my friend Nick who is over from San Francisco. At one point during the party a big picture fell off the wall right next to Nick and I. I hate when that happens. (I think it was the gay bloke who got a bit huffy when I asked him why he had a tattoo on the back of his neck, and he said it was so people would have something to look at when they were sitting behind him on the bus, and I said "I really thought the second part of that sentence was going to end differently".)
Sep 29, 2006
Sep 28, 2006
Scarey Pantomime
You will probably be glad to hear that I am now bored of politics - and comparing politicians to animals.
My English mate Nick turned up from San Francisco yesterday, with his American wife and very smiley half Brit half Yank baby. They were complaining that people in London are much less friendly about babies, and that back in San Francisco every other person stops to admire their kid. (All they have had so far in London has been two men sticking their tongues out at their daughter.)
mrs househusband has been reading a book about watching the English, and reckons this is all part of the English 'reserve' and not wanting to get involved in other people's space/life/kids etc. According to the book, English people only ever really relax and get friendly when they are drunk. So you have that little 10 minute window of companionship before they start picking fights with people - not a theory I would want to try out with a baby in tow. I think it is also about not wanting to appear creepy or wanting with kids, especially other people's kids. It all smacks a little of kidnap, and infertility, and...well other sad stuff. The blokes sticking their tongues out is just a bit odd.
In their travels around London, Nick and his family (he has his in laws in tow too) ended up at The Garrick Club the other night with none other than that colossus of the English stage and screen Donald Sinden holding court in one of the rooms at the club where you go and have your post-supper brandy and cigars. Apparently, Sinders was in cracking form, magnanimously sharing a few of his finer anecdotes with anyone who was too polite to tell him to sod off. Nick said it was one of those great surreal moments in his life watching his wife staring blankly at Sinders with absolutely no idea who he was or why he was bolloxing on about shows and films she had never heard of. (I'm guessing Two's Company never made it to the USA.) Actually, thinking about it, Nick used to live down the road from Brian Blessed, once went on holiday with Michael Elphick, and also forced me to have supper with Christopher Biggins. He's missing a trick as a booker for pantomime. (If any of you out there are not versed in really bad British 1970s and 1980s sitcoms, I'm done with the random names now.)
I hope Nick's wife - mrs nick - has recovered from her encounters with Sinders and that more people smile at her daughter during the rest of their stay over here. mrs househusbandnot spends a lot of time telling me to stop staring at people in the street and in bars and restaurants. She says I'm frightening them. So like Gordon Brown, I am trying to affect a new jolly smile, which just freaks people out even more because they think I am drunk and about to start a conversation, or a fight. London life, man. Here's me trying pantomime and all I'm getting back is jungle.
(Incidentally, is anyone else out there having problems publishing their blogs on Blogger? I have about 50 pages of this crap now, but/and it is taking ages to publish. Quite often it jams on the publishing in progress page and my laptop justs clicks at me as the publishing in progress meter stays on 0%. I am having to log in and out until it eventually does publish.)
My English mate Nick turned up from San Francisco yesterday, with his American wife and very smiley half Brit half Yank baby. They were complaining that people in London are much less friendly about babies, and that back in San Francisco every other person stops to admire their kid. (All they have had so far in London has been two men sticking their tongues out at their daughter.)
mrs househusband has been reading a book about watching the English, and reckons this is all part of the English 'reserve' and not wanting to get involved in other people's space/life/kids etc. According to the book, English people only ever really relax and get friendly when they are drunk. So you have that little 10 minute window of companionship before they start picking fights with people - not a theory I would want to try out with a baby in tow. I think it is also about not wanting to appear creepy or wanting with kids, especially other people's kids. It all smacks a little of kidnap, and infertility, and...well other sad stuff. The blokes sticking their tongues out is just a bit odd.
In their travels around London, Nick and his family (he has his in laws in tow too) ended up at The Garrick Club the other night with none other than that colossus of the English stage and screen Donald Sinden holding court in one of the rooms at the club where you go and have your post-supper brandy and cigars. Apparently, Sinders was in cracking form, magnanimously sharing a few of his finer anecdotes with anyone who was too polite to tell him to sod off. Nick said it was one of those great surreal moments in his life watching his wife staring blankly at Sinders with absolutely no idea who he was or why he was bolloxing on about shows and films she had never heard of. (I'm guessing Two's Company never made it to the USA.) Actually, thinking about it, Nick used to live down the road from Brian Blessed, once went on holiday with Michael Elphick, and also forced me to have supper with Christopher Biggins. He's missing a trick as a booker for pantomime. (If any of you out there are not versed in really bad British 1970s and 1980s sitcoms, I'm done with the random names now.)
I hope Nick's wife - mrs nick - has recovered from her encounters with Sinders and that more people smile at her daughter during the rest of their stay over here. mrs househusbandnot spends a lot of time telling me to stop staring at people in the street and in bars and restaurants. She says I'm frightening them. So like Gordon Brown, I am trying to affect a new jolly smile, which just freaks people out even more because they think I am drunk and about to start a conversation, or a fight. London life, man. Here's me trying pantomime and all I'm getting back is jungle.
(Incidentally, is anyone else out there having problems publishing their blogs on Blogger? I have about 50 pages of this crap now, but/and it is taking ages to publish. Quite often it jams on the publishing in progress page and my laptop justs clicks at me as the publishing in progress meter stays on 0%. I am having to log in and out until it eventually does publish.)
Sep 27, 2006
Bit More Politics (Kinda)
Having said that I would get back to househusbandry etc. today after yesterday's observations on Gordon Brown and his Gissa Job speech, just a few more thoughts on what's going down at the Labour Party Conference, well mostly about how they all looked on tv last night.
Who is Peter Mandelson, and why do we have to listen to anything he says about anything? Isn't he just Commissioner for Pickles at the European Union or something. Some of the papers describe him as one of the architects of New Labour. Fair enough, but you've done your work Mandy. Get back to Brussels and your subsidy rich life(Mandelson strikes me as one of those people who still only ever orders white wine with fish, and red wine with meat - very measured, very aware of people watching him, rather unpleasant. Not an ounce of real soul. Just glassy-eyed bitchy judgment on who has eaten too many of the Ambassador's Ferrero Rochers. I still like that urban myth about him asking Gordon Brown to borrow 20p so he could call a friend, and Brown giving him 40p and saying "Why don't you call both of them?")
Mind you Jack Straw is equally glass-eyed with his new contact lenses making him look even more like a nervous cat who is not sure where the cream has gone. Or an owl that has been on a diet. (Speaking of cats and Jack Straw - which I probably never will again - my sister used to live in the same street as him. When she lost her cat, the armed guards at Mr Straw's door were very polite and nice to her, so we like his people, well his bodyguards anyway.)
And Alan Milburn? Do people really think he should or could lead a political party? I wouldn't let him lead a group of people around Tescos. He looks like a keyboard player in Level 42. John McDonnell? ( No me neither. Too left wing to give interviews.) Harriet Harman? Pam Eyres' and Christopher Biggins' love child. Alan Johnson? Looks too much like a Kray twin. ("We'll sort out the Unions. Don't you worry about it. Now, get yourself a nice glass of brandy and tell me how the heist went down at the docks last night?" ) Charles Clarke? Look too much like a dog, and with similar loyalties ie to the last person who threw him a bone.
In fact all of them strike me as pretty shabby, and also achingly incapable of hiding their thirst for power and/or their fear of Blair and Brown, conflicting emotions which get them all confused about whether they should be looking - and sounding - statesmanlike or modest, which just results in them looking and sounding shifty. The one consolation is that David Cameron is keeping quiet, no doubt preparing for his next green-friendly visit to Antarctica or something. (Although I notice his special green adviser got stung by the News Of The World this weekend.)
Not that politics should all be about appearances, but a final note: has anyone else noticed how much Cherie Blair looks like Posh Spice at the moment? It's something to do with the I Don't Want To Make Eye Contact With Anyone gazing into the distance look she has found from somewhere. And they also appear to have borrowed one of Bob Geldof's larger daughters for the family photo calls at the conference.
Who is Peter Mandelson, and why do we have to listen to anything he says about anything? Isn't he just Commissioner for Pickles at the European Union or something. Some of the papers describe him as one of the architects of New Labour. Fair enough, but you've done your work Mandy. Get back to Brussels and your subsidy rich life(Mandelson strikes me as one of those people who still only ever orders white wine with fish, and red wine with meat - very measured, very aware of people watching him, rather unpleasant. Not an ounce of real soul. Just glassy-eyed bitchy judgment on who has eaten too many of the Ambassador's Ferrero Rochers. I still like that urban myth about him asking Gordon Brown to borrow 20p so he could call a friend, and Brown giving him 40p and saying "Why don't you call both of them?")
Mind you Jack Straw is equally glass-eyed with his new contact lenses making him look even more like a nervous cat who is not sure where the cream has gone. Or an owl that has been on a diet. (Speaking of cats and Jack Straw - which I probably never will again - my sister used to live in the same street as him. When she lost her cat, the armed guards at Mr Straw's door were very polite and nice to her, so we like his people, well his bodyguards anyway.)
And Alan Milburn? Do people really think he should or could lead a political party? I wouldn't let him lead a group of people around Tescos. He looks like a keyboard player in Level 42. John McDonnell? ( No me neither. Too left wing to give interviews.) Harriet Harman? Pam Eyres' and Christopher Biggins' love child. Alan Johnson? Looks too much like a Kray twin. ("We'll sort out the Unions. Don't you worry about it. Now, get yourself a nice glass of brandy and tell me how the heist went down at the docks last night?" ) Charles Clarke? Look too much like a dog, and with similar loyalties ie to the last person who threw him a bone.
In fact all of them strike me as pretty shabby, and also achingly incapable of hiding their thirst for power and/or their fear of Blair and Brown, conflicting emotions which get them all confused about whether they should be looking - and sounding - statesmanlike or modest, which just results in them looking and sounding shifty. The one consolation is that David Cameron is keeping quiet, no doubt preparing for his next green-friendly visit to Antarctica or something. (Although I notice his special green adviser got stung by the News Of The World this weekend.)
Not that politics should all be about appearances, but a final note: has anyone else noticed how much Cherie Blair looks like Posh Spice at the moment? It's something to do with the I Don't Want To Make Eye Contact With Anyone gazing into the distance look she has found from somewhere. And they also appear to have borrowed one of Bob Geldof's larger daughters for the family photo calls at the conference.
Sep 26, 2006
Bits Of Politics
So Gordon Brown gave his I Want To Be The Next Labour Leader speech at the Labour Party Conference yesterday. It was hardly the Gettysburg Address, more a measured and leaden riposte to some of the criticisms that have been made about him lately. We didn't find out much about the economy or foreign policy or any other 'politics' from his speech. But he told us a bit about his family and how much he lurves and respects his boss. And he kept on doing that really creepy new smile he has been taught. And that Arctic Monkeys gag? Purlease. (All ruined of course by the alleged throw away remark from Cherie Blair as she was leaving the conference hall during the speech. Maybe she is - allegedly - way smarter than we think.)
Politics today is about what politicians can do despite themselves rather than as a result of their charisma or conviction or consideration or party history. Brown and Blair and Cameron and that old geezer from the Liberal Democrats seem so reluctant to really take part. Pushed on specifics, they get all huffy like a schoolboy being asked if he really did steal the sweets from his smaller class-mate. It's as if they had been forced to become leaders and spokespeople, and resent the accountability that their office demands. Playground bullies without the courage to stand up to their own (bullying) convictions. (People complain about the Paxman style of interviewing, but I don't see that he has any other choice, faced with people who simply won't answer questions, or have had so many Central Office briefings that they have forgotten what the answer should be.)
When I was a quasi civil servant (I know, it's frightening isn't it) I had monthly briefings with the Ministry I worked with/for, which involved me asking, begging, pleading for my Ministry counterpart to give me some sort of idea as to what he wanted me to do. It was just too Yes Minister with me leaving the briefings with considerably less idea about what was going on, and how I was supposed to take part in those goings on.
I guess the real politic is this paralysis (which was the whole point of Yes Minister really). And the only point beyond paralysis is survival, which is what Gordon Brown was up to yesterday, in his leaden Scottish way.
My money is on John Reid. At least he looks like he wants to take part. (Will get back to comedy dogs, househusbandry etc tomorrow. Apologies for this party political distraction.)
Politics today is about what politicians can do despite themselves rather than as a result of their charisma or conviction or consideration or party history. Brown and Blair and Cameron and that old geezer from the Liberal Democrats seem so reluctant to really take part. Pushed on specifics, they get all huffy like a schoolboy being asked if he really did steal the sweets from his smaller class-mate. It's as if they had been forced to become leaders and spokespeople, and resent the accountability that their office demands. Playground bullies without the courage to stand up to their own (bullying) convictions. (People complain about the Paxman style of interviewing, but I don't see that he has any other choice, faced with people who simply won't answer questions, or have had so many Central Office briefings that they have forgotten what the answer should be.)
When I was a quasi civil servant (I know, it's frightening isn't it) I had monthly briefings with the Ministry I worked with/for, which involved me asking, begging, pleading for my Ministry counterpart to give me some sort of idea as to what he wanted me to do. It was just too Yes Minister with me leaving the briefings with considerably less idea about what was going on, and how I was supposed to take part in those goings on.
I guess the real politic is this paralysis (which was the whole point of Yes Minister really). And the only point beyond paralysis is survival, which is what Gordon Brown was up to yesterday, in his leaden Scottish way.
My money is on John Reid. At least he looks like he wants to take part. (Will get back to comedy dogs, househusbandry etc tomorrow. Apologies for this party political distraction.)
Sep 25, 2006
Would You?
Things I got asked over the last few days:
1) Would I move to Australia?
I guess, if there were fewer snakes and Australians there. (I read a while back about a survey some travel company did on Europe, and it turned out that the place people like most in Europe is Paris and the thing they hate most in Europe is Parisians. Speaking of surveys, I read last week that people are most likely to flirt in the office on Wednesdays. Interestingly, househusbandnot gets its most hits on Wednesdays too. I don't want to say told you so, but househusbandnot will get you into a lot less trouble than hitting on Angela in accounts, not that you don't have time to do both since Wednesday is obviously donothingallday day in offices nowadays.)
2) Would I sleep with Victoria Beckham?
That would be a no, because: I'm guessing the encounter would involve having to talk to her too; because I walked straight into her in a hotel lobby a year or so ago and she is really really weird looking; and because it would be really embarrassing having to admit it to mrs househusbandnot. ("It didn't mean anything. She's just someone I met. What does she look like? Well, do you have a copy of Heat or Grazia or The Daily Mirror anywhere?")
3) Would I just pop the recycling downstairs?
Now I am not dissing mrs househusbandnot's new post seeing that Al Gore movie recycling drive, but it took me about half an hour to just pop all our recycling downstairs. (And you'll remember that - for reasons I still have not worked out - we are doing the recycling from mrs househusbandnot's office too.) On Monday mornings, our front doorstep is beginning to resemble a favella, except without the people.
4) Would I be prepared to work for a large petrochemical company?
That would be a yes, as long as they were nice to me.
5) Would I look into creating a new charity to promote a micro-credit system for women in the developing world?
A contrast to my yes to working for a petrochemical company? No not really. Each would serve a purpose in different ways. Although I think the setting up a charity would be more fun.
6) Which wormery do you think we should buy?
Preferably one without worms in it. This is another of mrs househusbannot aka Tipper househusbandnot's recycling gigs as you have probably already guessed. I'm into it. I'm just worried that in some Kafkaesque way, I am going to come home one afternoon to see mrs househusbandnot disappearing into a recycling bag in a completely empty flat as the worms in the wormery polish off the remains of my cd collection.
7) Would I put more pictures on househusbandnot?
Alright already..
8) Would I please get my hair cut before I get arrested?
Yeah, yeah, yeah. (Actually I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror in a restaurant on Friday, and mrs househusbandnot is right. My hair is on the wrong side of long, not long long, just peadophile unkempt long. That's not me in the photo with the dog by the way, although I have a similar hair (non) cut at the moment.)
9) Would I be less anonymous on househusbandnot?
Okay. I'm the one with the bad haircut, picking up litter to take home to recycle. Approach me. Ask me anything you want.
10) Would I rather be blind or deaf?
I'm thinking deaf. I helped a blind guy on the street near where we live the other day. He had been hussled by some woman promising him sex, and she had taken him to some apartment in an office block and not given him sex but taken all his money and pushed him back on the street. He was completely lost, although it turned out he was just a few hundred yards away from where he lived. Deaf would be bad, but not as alienating as blind.
1) Would I move to Australia?
I guess, if there were fewer snakes and Australians there. (I read a while back about a survey some travel company did on Europe, and it turned out that the place people like most in Europe is Paris and the thing they hate most in Europe is Parisians. Speaking of surveys, I read last week that people are most likely to flirt in the office on Wednesdays. Interestingly, househusbandnot gets its most hits on Wednesdays too. I don't want to say told you so, but househusbandnot will get you into a lot less trouble than hitting on Angela in accounts, not that you don't have time to do both since Wednesday is obviously donothingallday day in offices nowadays.)
2) Would I sleep with Victoria Beckham?
That would be a no, because: I'm guessing the encounter would involve having to talk to her too; because I walked straight into her in a hotel lobby a year or so ago and she is really really weird looking; and because it would be really embarrassing having to admit it to mrs househusbandnot. ("It didn't mean anything. She's just someone I met. What does she look like? Well, do you have a copy of Heat or Grazia or The Daily Mirror anywhere?")
3) Would I just pop the recycling downstairs?
Now I am not dissing mrs househusbandnot's new post seeing that Al Gore movie recycling drive, but it took me about half an hour to just pop all our recycling downstairs. (And you'll remember that - for reasons I still have not worked out - we are doing the recycling from mrs househusbandnot's office too.) On Monday mornings, our front doorstep is beginning to resemble a favella, except without the people.
4) Would I be prepared to work for a large petrochemical company?
That would be a yes, as long as they were nice to me.
5) Would I look into creating a new charity to promote a micro-credit system for women in the developing world?
A contrast to my yes to working for a petrochemical company? No not really. Each would serve a purpose in different ways. Although I think the setting up a charity would be more fun.
6) Which wormery do you think we should buy?
Preferably one without worms in it. This is another of mrs househusbannot aka Tipper househusbandnot's recycling gigs as you have probably already guessed. I'm into it. I'm just worried that in some Kafkaesque way, I am going to come home one afternoon to see mrs househusbandnot disappearing into a recycling bag in a completely empty flat as the worms in the wormery polish off the remains of my cd collection.
7) Would I put more pictures on househusbandnot?
Alright already..
8) Would I please get my hair cut before I get arrested?
Yeah, yeah, yeah. (Actually I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror in a restaurant on Friday, and mrs househusbandnot is right. My hair is on the wrong side of long, not long long, just peadophile unkempt long. That's not me in the photo with the dog by the way, although I have a similar hair (non) cut at the moment.)
9) Would I be less anonymous on househusbandnot?
Okay. I'm the one with the bad haircut, picking up litter to take home to recycle. Approach me. Ask me anything you want.
10) Would I rather be blind or deaf?
I'm thinking deaf. I helped a blind guy on the street near where we live the other day. He had been hussled by some woman promising him sex, and she had taken him to some apartment in an office block and not given him sex but taken all his money and pushed him back on the street. He was completely lost, although it turned out he was just a few hundred yards away from where he lived. Deaf would be bad, but not as alienating as blind.
Sep 22, 2006
Me Or The Dog
I wrote a whole lot of stuff for this morning's entry about househusbandnot and it not really having a real identity other than being about me, but friends saying it was not enough about me or too much about me, and me worrying that I should be more...well something. But then I realised this was really dull, and that I should just put up a few pictures of comedy dogs to get you through to the weekend.
But two or three people have said to me this week that they (only really) enjoy househusbandnot because they know me. Which does beg the question about those of you who read househusbandnot who don't know anything at all about me, other than that I have an internet connection and too much time on my hands right now and that I obviously like the sound of my own voice. Which does get you thinking about blogging in the abstract - and detail - and whether or not you should be writing about your life or other people's lives or politics or sex or just finding those comedy dog photos.
I'm thinking that some of this identity stuff is because I have been seeing and getting in contact with people about work, and taking on different personas depending on who I was talking to/contacting. Monday I was emaily hi there how you doing person. Tuesday I was coffees with various people and please give me some work. Wednesday I was...well my first meeting was cancelled, and then I was a board member at an AGM - sounds important, was very dull. (On the way up to this meeting, I had quite a long chat with a headhunter while I was on a bus, which my fellow passengers and I could have done without.) And yesterday I went to see a couple of people with the idea of asking them for some work, but I decided that was too needy and proposed that we work together on tapping as yet untapped markets in what we do, so I guess I was being mr business ideas or something. And then I had lunch with a journalist friend of mine and we ended up talking about househusbandnot and how it was not really addressing some of the more interesting ideas around house husbands - like I said, she is a journalist.
And then last night I had a chat with an old friend and work contact who lives in New York, and he said "So what do you want to do this time? Is it about money, or you, or saving the world?" Very New York I know. But a good f(*&ing question.
Anyway, off for lunch with my mate Styx who always has a left-field take on identity and who we are. Will report back next week. But in the meantime...
But two or three people have said to me this week that they (only really) enjoy househusbandnot because they know me. Which does beg the question about those of you who read househusbandnot who don't know anything at all about me, other than that I have an internet connection and too much time on my hands right now and that I obviously like the sound of my own voice. Which does get you thinking about blogging in the abstract - and detail - and whether or not you should be writing about your life or other people's lives or politics or sex or just finding those comedy dog photos.
I'm thinking that some of this identity stuff is because I have been seeing and getting in contact with people about work, and taking on different personas depending on who I was talking to/contacting. Monday I was emaily hi there how you doing person. Tuesday I was coffees with various people and please give me some work. Wednesday I was...well my first meeting was cancelled, and then I was a board member at an AGM - sounds important, was very dull. (On the way up to this meeting, I had quite a long chat with a headhunter while I was on a bus, which my fellow passengers and I could have done without.) And yesterday I went to see a couple of people with the idea of asking them for some work, but I decided that was too needy and proposed that we work together on tapping as yet untapped markets in what we do, so I guess I was being mr business ideas or something. And then I had lunch with a journalist friend of mine and we ended up talking about househusbandnot and how it was not really addressing some of the more interesting ideas around house husbands - like I said, she is a journalist.
And then last night I had a chat with an old friend and work contact who lives in New York, and he said "So what do you want to do this time? Is it about money, or you, or saving the world?" Very New York I know. But a good f(*&ing question.
Anyway, off for lunch with my mate Styx who always has a left-field take on identity and who we are. Will report back next week. But in the meantime...
Sep 21, 2006
Other People
In the spirit of curbing househusbandnot's recent wanderings into introspection, I spent some time yesterday reading other people's blogs to see what househusbandnot might be missing/needing/stealing etc. This exercise was also in part to exorcise a little blog demon that has been sitting on my shoulder lately telling me to post photos of my holidays, tell you more about mrs househusbandnot, and or just do lists of things I love/hate/eat/read/listen to/remember from when I was five years old - all illegal blogging activities as you will know if you have a copy of Househusbandnot: The Rules Of Blogging Made Simple.
But looking at other people's blogs is not an educational process. Unlike most other things on earth, except for going out with people, the more you do it the less you understand. Having searched for 'house husband' on blogster, I delved into a world of sad women, much sadder men, frustrated housewives (not in the porno way), innocent fools, and dull - and I mean really really dull - individuals writing very badly about their very dull days. (I'm talking "Hey check out the photo of me in a dress in Egypt. Don't tell the missus" with a photo of some bloke in a caftan, or "One thing is for certain: after buying the food tonight, looking after myself for 5 days, putting the rubbish out on Monday morning, and everything else that I've got to remember before she comes home on Tuesday, if I don't already realise how lucky I am to be married to her, I surely will now ", and "We are house hunting. Trouble is my husband and I have TOTALLY different ideas about where we want to live." [Actually I am quite interested in this last one to see how it pans out.])
I was getting really depressed about all this anodyne crap out there in the name of house husbandry and blogs, but then I struck some pure American redneck gold with a blog called Generation X-Pose It is written by some mad neo-fascist woman from Colorado who has taken the self-validation of blogging to a whole new dimension.
With God as her only true guide, her views on 'How to be a good Democrat (or Republican)' include:
"You have to believe that Mel Gibson spent $25 million of his own money to make The Passion of the Christ for financial gain only."
"You have to believe that Hillary Clinton is normal and is a very nice person."
"You have to believe that the only reason socialism hasn't worked anywhere it's been tried is because the right people haven't been in charge." (It took me a while to get this one.)
and
"You have to believe that homosexual parades displaying drag, transvestites, and bestiality should be constitutionally protected, and manger scenes at Christmas should be illegal."
She tells us all about the fact that "many homosexuals encounters occur while drinking, high on drugs, or in an orgy setting", and that if you are homosexual you are 19 times more likely to die in a traffic accident. (She doesn't specify whether or not this happens on the way to or on the way back from any given orgy setting.) She demands to know which side you are on. Apparently the real tell tale sign is that they (the left) hug trees while we (her and her right wing gang) want to cut trees down because they are a sustainable resource. There is a heart-felt piece about her convertion to homophobia, and much much more - including, and I promise that I am not making this up, a discussion with someone who reminded her that she used to be a lesbian.
I absolutely disagree with everything this maniac says, and am genuinely alarmed about the - I admit unlikely - prospect of even coming across her husband who produces a self-published magazine which has a strap line of 'Words Are Weapons'. But her blog was more interesting than most of the other blogs I read yesterday, in a terrifyingly way.
But looking at other people's blogs is not an educational process. Unlike most other things on earth, except for going out with people, the more you do it the less you understand. Having searched for 'house husband' on blogster, I delved into a world of sad women, much sadder men, frustrated housewives (not in the porno way), innocent fools, and dull - and I mean really really dull - individuals writing very badly about their very dull days. (I'm talking "Hey check out the photo of me in a dress in Egypt. Don't tell the missus" with a photo of some bloke in a caftan, or "One thing is for certain: after buying the food tonight, looking after myself for 5 days, putting the rubbish out on Monday morning, and everything else that I've got to remember before she comes home on Tuesday, if I don't already realise how lucky I am to be married to her, I surely will now ", and "We are house hunting. Trouble is my husband and I have TOTALLY different ideas about where we want to live." [Actually I am quite interested in this last one to see how it pans out.])
I was getting really depressed about all this anodyne crap out there in the name of house husbandry and blogs, but then I struck some pure American redneck gold with a blog called Generation X-Pose It is written by some mad neo-fascist woman from Colorado who has taken the self-validation of blogging to a whole new dimension.
With God as her only true guide, her views on 'How to be a good Democrat (or Republican)' include:
"You have to believe that Mel Gibson spent $25 million of his own money to make The Passion of the Christ for financial gain only."
"You have to believe that Hillary Clinton is normal and is a very nice person."
"You have to believe that the only reason socialism hasn't worked anywhere it's been tried is because the right people haven't been in charge." (It took me a while to get this one.)
and
"You have to believe that homosexual parades displaying drag, transvestites, and bestiality should be constitutionally protected, and manger scenes at Christmas should be illegal."
She tells us all about the fact that "many homosexuals encounters occur while drinking, high on drugs, or in an orgy setting", and that if you are homosexual you are 19 times more likely to die in a traffic accident. (She doesn't specify whether or not this happens on the way to or on the way back from any given orgy setting.) She demands to know which side you are on. Apparently the real tell tale sign is that they (the left) hug trees while we (her and her right wing gang) want to cut trees down because they are a sustainable resource. There is a heart-felt piece about her convertion to homophobia, and much much more - including, and I promise that I am not making this up, a discussion with someone who reminded her that she used to be a lesbian.
I absolutely disagree with everything this maniac says, and am genuinely alarmed about the - I admit unlikely - prospect of even coming across her husband who produces a self-published magazine which has a strap line of 'Words Are Weapons'. But her blog was more interesting than most of the other blogs I read yesterday, in a terrifyingly way.
Sep 20, 2006
Self Curation?
So I spent quite a lot of yesterday walking along the river here in London, which was nice because it gives you a sense of space in this otherwise crowded city. And I went to the Tate Modern which has rehanged/hung/organised/sorted out its collection. They've organised the gallery into pretty random categories - Poetry And Dream, States Of Flux, Material Gestures, and Idea And Object - which don't really make much sense, and don't parlay into anything. And they have a whole room for Richard Hamilton which I thought was excessive because he is rubbish. But all the art looked good, and there were lots of nice middle class people enjoying themselves as appreciators of art. (And some pretty amusing groups of school kids trying not to laugh or blush at the nude stuff.)
For some reason I got stuck looking at a video that a Latin artist called Sierra had done of four prostitutes having lines tattooed on their backs. He had paid them each a fix of heroin to have the tattoos done. According to the little plaque next to the video, his idea was to illustrate how people get stuck by their social and economic status and don't get to make their own choices. It worked, although they didn't say if the women got the heroin before or after they had been tattooed. (I can't tell the difference between someone who has just taken heroin or who is waiting to take some. Although I guess for them they are two very very different states.)
Fired up to my navel with my middle class gazing, I walked further along the river to see my friend Jim, who - amongst other things - dared me to try and get the word parlay into the blog today. Actually, we talked a lot about writing my blog and also about his project which involves a different sort of much more accountable writing. I've mentioned before about the self-validating process in blogging. Writing in my blog about talking about my blog would take that process a whole step further up my own arse, so I won't bore you with the discussion we had about househusbandnot, other than to say that after talking about it for a while last night I ended up thinking that I should stop writing househusbandnot, and then changed my mind, and then changed my mind, and then changed my mind again. So here I still am.
Not sure what my point is today, other than the fact that we self-validate too much. Poetry and dream in states of flux with the material gestures of ideas and objects. Shit, I'm turning into Nick Serota.
Incidentally, got this comment back yesterday after my rant against The Daily Mail:
" Yes, the Daily Mail is evil, evil. I had to read it every day when I worked in a press office and 3 copies on Mondays. The scariest thing is how many people read it who you previously thought were reasonable individuals. You should wrap all your copies up in a different material so as not to attract the wrong sort."
Good on you fellow ex-press officer. You should check out http://www.qwghlm.co.uk/toys/dailymail/
For some reason I got stuck looking at a video that a Latin artist called Sierra had done of four prostitutes having lines tattooed on their backs. He had paid them each a fix of heroin to have the tattoos done. According to the little plaque next to the video, his idea was to illustrate how people get stuck by their social and economic status and don't get to make their own choices. It worked, although they didn't say if the women got the heroin before or after they had been tattooed. (I can't tell the difference between someone who has just taken heroin or who is waiting to take some. Although I guess for them they are two very very different states.)
Fired up to my navel with my middle class gazing, I walked further along the river to see my friend Jim, who - amongst other things - dared me to try and get the word parlay into the blog today. Actually, we talked a lot about writing my blog and also about his project which involves a different sort of much more accountable writing. I've mentioned before about the self-validating process in blogging. Writing in my blog about talking about my blog would take that process a whole step further up my own arse, so I won't bore you with the discussion we had about househusbandnot, other than to say that after talking about it for a while last night I ended up thinking that I should stop writing househusbandnot, and then changed my mind, and then changed my mind, and then changed my mind again. So here I still am.
Not sure what my point is today, other than the fact that we self-validate too much. Poetry and dream in states of flux with the material gestures of ideas and objects. Shit, I'm turning into Nick Serota.
Incidentally, got this comment back yesterday after my rant against The Daily Mail:
" Yes, the Daily Mail is evil, evil. I had to read it every day when I worked in a press office and 3 copies on Mondays. The scariest thing is how many people read it who you previously thought were reasonable individuals. You should wrap all your copies up in a different material so as not to attract the wrong sort."
Good on you fellow ex-press officer. You should check out http://www.qwghlm.co.uk/toys/dailymail/
Sep 19, 2006
Sleepless
Another terrible night's sleep, which I know is about as engaging a first line as "not much to say today" which we discussed some time ago as an illegal start to a blog (see househusbandnot Masterclass In Blog Writing Chapter 3 August 2006). But in the spirit of posting every day of the week....
...last night mrs househusbandnot went to bed around 10.30pm so was left to my own devices for an hour, which turned into another hour and another and another until it was 4.45am and too light to sleep in the sitting room sofa where I had parked myself on the sofa for the night not wanting to wake up mrs househusbandnot and figuring - wrongly - that night-time TV would make me sleep. (I ended up watching Midnight Run, that great road movie with Robert De Niro and that bloke who went on to make loads of dumb movies about a giant dog. Actually, I ended up watching the end of it and then the beginning of it with the Channel 4 +1 hour option. I watched a bit of Hannibal too, but it was soooo bad it really woke me up. I'm sorry but I just don't believe that wild boar eat people, or is that just me who doesn't make that leap of faith/fact/fiction? ) And as is always the case on these sleepless nights, I had just finished a book but did not have the energy or imagination to start another one. In the olden days, I would have got up, smoked a load of cigarettes and maybe drunk a glass of scotch or something to make me sleep. But I don't smoke anymore, and am now old enough to realise that a glass of scotch at 4.00am is probably a bad idea. Anyway, we didn't have any in the house, so maybe it was availability rather than maturity that stopped me having a night/morning cap.
On not sleeping: why do feel so dusty when you don't sleep, and why is it then in the middle of the night that all those strange little irks and guilts come to haunt you? I spent at least an hour berating myself for a time when my granny, who was living with us, bought me a small football and my sister really told me off saying I was forcing our granny to use her pension money on stupid stuff for me. I'm guessing I was about five, my sister seven and my granny well granny and pension-receiving age. I punctured the ball on a rose bush a few days later, deliberately because it was making me feel so bad. It had been more of a small beach ball than a real football that I had really wanted. I think about this incident far too often.
Now feeling very half-life and trying to get my head around going to see a friend I used to work with to see if they can give me some tips about any freelance work out there. Not feeling in a very selling/give me work mode, but will get there I guess. I need to.
...last night mrs househusbandnot went to bed around 10.30pm so was left to my own devices for an hour, which turned into another hour and another and another until it was 4.45am and too light to sleep in the sitting room sofa where I had parked myself on the sofa for the night not wanting to wake up mrs househusbandnot and figuring - wrongly - that night-time TV would make me sleep. (I ended up watching Midnight Run, that great road movie with Robert De Niro and that bloke who went on to make loads of dumb movies about a giant dog. Actually, I ended up watching the end of it and then the beginning of it with the Channel 4 +1 hour option. I watched a bit of Hannibal too, but it was soooo bad it really woke me up. I'm sorry but I just don't believe that wild boar eat people, or is that just me who doesn't make that leap of faith/fact/fiction? ) And as is always the case on these sleepless nights, I had just finished a book but did not have the energy or imagination to start another one. In the olden days, I would have got up, smoked a load of cigarettes and maybe drunk a glass of scotch or something to make me sleep. But I don't smoke anymore, and am now old enough to realise that a glass of scotch at 4.00am is probably a bad idea. Anyway, we didn't have any in the house, so maybe it was availability rather than maturity that stopped me having a night/morning cap.
On not sleeping: why do feel so dusty when you don't sleep, and why is it then in the middle of the night that all those strange little irks and guilts come to haunt you? I spent at least an hour berating myself for a time when my granny, who was living with us, bought me a small football and my sister really told me off saying I was forcing our granny to use her pension money on stupid stuff for me. I'm guessing I was about five, my sister seven and my granny well granny and pension-receiving age. I punctured the ball on a rose bush a few days later, deliberately because it was making me feel so bad. It had been more of a small beach ball than a real football that I had really wanted. I think about this incident far too often.
Now feeling very half-life and trying to get my head around going to see a friend I used to work with to see if they can give me some tips about any freelance work out there. Not feeling in a very selling/give me work mode, but will get there I guess. I need to.
Sep 18, 2006
Neighbourhood Watch
Despite it being a Monday and a new week of being energetic and keen etc., feeling a little bleary this morning. I was woken up at 3.00am by some weird noise from our new Japanese next door neighbours. It sounded like they were using a power hose or something inside their flat. I stuck my head out of the window expecting to see them cutting up a body or something, but could only see that all their lights were on and they were up to...well something.
Was woken again at 5.00am by the same noise of the hose, and stuck my head right out of the window to see if I could see anything. All I could see was someone making some sort of pasties or pies in their kitchen. Although I could only see bits of (alive) limbs moving around the kitchen - they are on the ground floor and we are on the second floor in the next door building - it did look like they were preparing a whole load of Japanese food to celebrate the month of the owl or something. mrs househusbandnot thinks it was some sort of Japanese cleaning ritual that has to be completed on the morning of every 17 September before the sun comes up. Any thoughts on this welcome. (You will have noticed that I have put the comment option back on for househusbandnot. Incidentally, mrs househusbandnot was right about not bleating on about getting more visitors. When I did this on Friday, the number of visits to househusbandnot halved. I'm not going to go on about it any more. Obviously not a popular topic.)
In other news, I had supper with a friend of mine last week who is way into horoscopes and star signs. In her wisdom, she has decided that I am not actually a Virgo, but a Leo because my birthday is on the day that Virgo kicks in and I have more Leo traits than Virgo characteristics. So all those years of reading the Virgo horoscopes in newspapers and magazines have been giving me the wrong guidance according to my friend. I'm not into horoscopes really, but odd to think I have been reading the wrong one all these years. Good thing I never got a Virgo tattoo or anything, huh?
Speaking of indelible marks, mrs househusbandnot and I went to see that Al Gore film about global warming this weekend. The immediate effect of the film on our habits was that I was required to carry a whole load of litter home from our walk along the South Bank on Sunday afternoon. And mrs househusbandnot is setting up a new recycling regime in her office, where they drink lots of cans of diet coke and read many many copies of The Daily Mail every day. She is going to bring all this trash back to our place on Friday evenings so that we can recycle it. I find the idea of other people's litter kind of gross, but mrs househusbandnot's right that we should be doing more on the recycling front, even if it gives our neighbours the impression that I am addicted to Diet Coke and further addicted to reading multiple copies of The Daily Mail. (For those of you who don't live in the UK - and indeed some of you who do - The Daily Mail is the very worst of all the dailies in this country. It pretends to be serious newspaper, but is just a right wing tabloid, with every other article starting "Am I the only person in this country who..." When I used to work in press offices, it was always the Mail journos who picked up the wrong end of the stick of a story so they could continue to promote their right-wingery dressed up as avuncular concern and playful interest in the needs of the people of Britain. Some examples of their headlines this morning: "Arrest of foreigners leap by 18%", "Rooftop siege suspects get a sandwich and a hoodie", and "Wear balloons not masks for Halloween says Bishop". They have a regular section called FeMail which basically tries to scare women with contradictory articles about contraception, pregnancy, beauty treatments and cancer.)
Anyway, bit of a random wander around my thoughts this morning, but like I said am feeling a bit dusty from lack of sleep thanks to the nighttime activities next door. ("Migrant Japanese In Making Pies In Dead Of Night Shocker".)
Was woken again at 5.00am by the same noise of the hose, and stuck my head right out of the window to see if I could see anything. All I could see was someone making some sort of pasties or pies in their kitchen. Although I could only see bits of (alive) limbs moving around the kitchen - they are on the ground floor and we are on the second floor in the next door building - it did look like they were preparing a whole load of Japanese food to celebrate the month of the owl or something. mrs househusbandnot thinks it was some sort of Japanese cleaning ritual that has to be completed on the morning of every 17 September before the sun comes up. Any thoughts on this welcome. (You will have noticed that I have put the comment option back on for househusbandnot. Incidentally, mrs househusbandnot was right about not bleating on about getting more visitors. When I did this on Friday, the number of visits to househusbandnot halved. I'm not going to go on about it any more. Obviously not a popular topic.)
In other news, I had supper with a friend of mine last week who is way into horoscopes and star signs. In her wisdom, she has decided that I am not actually a Virgo, but a Leo because my birthday is on the day that Virgo kicks in and I have more Leo traits than Virgo characteristics. So all those years of reading the Virgo horoscopes in newspapers and magazines have been giving me the wrong guidance according to my friend. I'm not into horoscopes really, but odd to think I have been reading the wrong one all these years. Good thing I never got a Virgo tattoo or anything, huh?
Speaking of indelible marks, mrs househusbandnot and I went to see that Al Gore film about global warming this weekend. The immediate effect of the film on our habits was that I was required to carry a whole load of litter home from our walk along the South Bank on Sunday afternoon. And mrs househusbandnot is setting up a new recycling regime in her office, where they drink lots of cans of diet coke and read many many copies of The Daily Mail every day. She is going to bring all this trash back to our place on Friday evenings so that we can recycle it. I find the idea of other people's litter kind of gross, but mrs househusbandnot's right that we should be doing more on the recycling front, even if it gives our neighbours the impression that I am addicted to Diet Coke and further addicted to reading multiple copies of The Daily Mail. (For those of you who don't live in the UK - and indeed some of you who do - The Daily Mail is the very worst of all the dailies in this country. It pretends to be serious newspaper, but is just a right wing tabloid, with every other article starting "Am I the only person in this country who..." When I used to work in press offices, it was always the Mail journos who picked up the wrong end of the stick of a story so they could continue to promote their right-wingery dressed up as avuncular concern and playful interest in the needs of the people of Britain. Some examples of their headlines this morning: "Arrest of foreigners leap by 18%", "Rooftop siege suspects get a sandwich and a hoodie", and "Wear balloons not masks for Halloween says Bishop". They have a regular section called FeMail which basically tries to scare women with contradictory articles about contraception, pregnancy, beauty treatments and cancer.)
Anyway, bit of a random wander around my thoughts this morning, but like I said am feeling a bit dusty from lack of sleep thanks to the nighttime activities next door. ("Migrant Japanese In Making Pies In Dead Of Night Shocker".)
Sep 14, 2006
Confessions
Right you lot. I love you all very much, but we need to be getting more people to read househusbandnot. Tell your people to tell their people that there is a good blog to read. A number of you told me this week that you had to hide your laughter from your staff and colleagues in the office when you were reading househusbandnot. Hey, don't hide it. Share the househusbandnot groove . Make it part of required reading before departmental meetings. Wear househusbandnot T shirts on dress down days. Have househusbandnot roundtables. Sell me you bitches.
This is all flying in the face of mrs househusbandnot's suggestion that I do NOT bang on about audiences/hits/visit etc on househusbandnot. But hey, what does she know - other than being a good 10% of my audience on a slow day. Although I am sad, nay, staggered to tell you that she admitted to me the other night that she does not always read househusbandnot, and then begged me to let her read it when she got home, which I didn't let her do because if you read it from our PC at home it does not log as a site visit. Harsh I know, but you gotta work with the audience you've got, and try and make them work for you.
I know there are other ways of getting more people to read househusbandnot: being more entertaining; doing techy networky stuff to the blog; and or doing porno. Well, I'm working on the first two, but not on the last one.
But speaking of porn, there was some article the other day in the Observer women's supplement about female confessional bloggers and how they "trawl for men, display their most intimate secrets on the internet and turn their diaries into essential reading for thousands". Fundamentally, I see no difference between this sort of confession, and the 'confession' of photos of a girl taking her clothes off. I'm not anti pornography, just anti trying to sell pornography as something other than what it is, and still being all puritanical about stoke mags etc. ("She calls herself a memorist. Her former mother on law calls her a whore." Yeah, whatever.)
Anyway, tell people about househusbandnot.
This is all flying in the face of mrs househusbandnot's suggestion that I do NOT bang on about audiences/hits/visit etc on househusbandnot. But hey, what does she know - other than being a good 10% of my audience on a slow day. Although I am sad, nay, staggered to tell you that she admitted to me the other night that she does not always read househusbandnot, and then begged me to let her read it when she got home, which I didn't let her do because if you read it from our PC at home it does not log as a site visit. Harsh I know, but you gotta work with the audience you've got, and try and make them work for you.
I know there are other ways of getting more people to read househusbandnot: being more entertaining; doing techy networky stuff to the blog; and or doing porno. Well, I'm working on the first two, but not on the last one.
But speaking of porn, there was some article the other day in the Observer women's supplement about female confessional bloggers and how they "trawl for men, display their most intimate secrets on the internet and turn their diaries into essential reading for thousands". Fundamentally, I see no difference between this sort of confession, and the 'confession' of photos of a girl taking her clothes off. I'm not anti pornography, just anti trying to sell pornography as something other than what it is, and still being all puritanical about stoke mags etc. ("She calls herself a memorist. Her former mother on law calls her a whore." Yeah, whatever.)
Anyway, tell people about househusbandnot.
Conference Clothes Etc.
Off to a conference this afternoon. I always think that people at conferences dress very 1970s. Maybe because going to a conference is not strictly work people just grab some old outfit from the back of the cupboard forgetting that they have not worn this outfit since 1978. Or maybe they are just trying to blend in with the surroundings since most conference venues (in London anyway) are faceless 60s and 70s monoliths, designed by well-meaning post-war modernists who were wishing they were working on something more interesting like a zoo or a palace or a war memorial, but were stuck with the dull democracy of the conference centre. ( "We need an auditorium that seats 120 people, with a wooden floor and good acoustics." "Can't I do a penguin pool?". "No".)
There is something very 1970s about conferences though. You always get really 70s biscuits like shortbread in the coffee breaks, and the coffee and tea both taste the same out of those huge dangerous looking 1970s urns. And the staff serving out the tea and coffee and that nasty stale orange juice all look like extras from Are You Being Served or competitors in The Generation Game. And there are lots of other 70s details, like umbrella racks, and the name badges, and the cheap biros that you get in your conference pack, and men (and women) with beards, and someone you vaguely recognise as the bloke no-one spoke to at school who is some sort of expert in what the conference is about but still has no friends, and display tables covered in dusty black or green baize which have been secured to the table with drawing pins. (When did anyone use a drawing pin in the last 30 years other than at a conference?)
As far as I can see the only breakthrough in conference design over the last two decades has been those stupid clips you use to clip your wine glass to your plate when you are standing up. But they don't work.
Obviously going to conferences is about networking rather than listening to any of the speakers. I guess you have the option of asking a pithy, clever question in the Q and A sections. But then there is all that buggering around with microphones and saying who you are before you ask the question, and they never answer the question you have asked anyway. ("househusbandnot from...home. Do you like penguins?" "I'm glad you asked that question. If you look at slide six in my presentation which I think should be in your conference pack, you will see that the sale of shortbread decreased by 20% in 1980. Next question. You. Up there in the Laura Ashley outfit.")
Actually not sure what I will wear for this conference. I don't really have any 1970s clothes, and was going to wear a jacket and jeans, but mrs househusbandnot said I looked like a dad in a bad way in that outfit. (She could have told me a little sooner. I've been jacket and jeansing all over London for the last two years.) Think I will wear the jacket and jeans outfit though. I can tell that dull bloke I was a school with I have to leave to pick up the kids.
There is something very 1970s about conferences though. You always get really 70s biscuits like shortbread in the coffee breaks, and the coffee and tea both taste the same out of those huge dangerous looking 1970s urns. And the staff serving out the tea and coffee and that nasty stale orange juice all look like extras from Are You Being Served or competitors in The Generation Game. And there are lots of other 70s details, like umbrella racks, and the name badges, and the cheap biros that you get in your conference pack, and men (and women) with beards, and someone you vaguely recognise as the bloke no-one spoke to at school who is some sort of expert in what the conference is about but still has no friends, and display tables covered in dusty black or green baize which have been secured to the table with drawing pins. (When did anyone use a drawing pin in the last 30 years other than at a conference?)
As far as I can see the only breakthrough in conference design over the last two decades has been those stupid clips you use to clip your wine glass to your plate when you are standing up. But they don't work.
Obviously going to conferences is about networking rather than listening to any of the speakers. I guess you have the option of asking a pithy, clever question in the Q and A sections. But then there is all that buggering around with microphones and saying who you are before you ask the question, and they never answer the question you have asked anyway. ("househusbandnot from...home. Do you like penguins?" "I'm glad you asked that question. If you look at slide six in my presentation which I think should be in your conference pack, you will see that the sale of shortbread decreased by 20% in 1980. Next question. You. Up there in the Laura Ashley outfit.")
Actually not sure what I will wear for this conference. I don't really have any 1970s clothes, and was going to wear a jacket and jeans, but mrs househusbandnot said I looked like a dad in a bad way in that outfit. (She could have told me a little sooner. I've been jacket and jeansing all over London for the last two years.) Think I will wear the jacket and jeans outfit though. I can tell that dull bloke I was a school with I have to leave to pick up the kids.
Sep 13, 2006
Swimming Pool Diaries
Went for a swim yesterday with my friend and neighbour Mark. Mark is expert in - amongst other things - knowing about good swimming pools. His wife (she's the one I wrote about always being surprised that I can do anything [ "YOU went swimming with my husband?"]) says she spends a lot of time on their holidays meekly following behind him as he marches into exclusive hotels demanding to be shown where the pool is with such confidence and determination that no-one even dares to ask if he is a resident or not. He could find a decent pool in the desert. (He is currently engaged in a vigorous - and I have no doubt eventually successful - campaign to get our local council to build a swimming pool in the park near where we live.)
I read somewhere that Tracey Emin was planning on producing a book of good pools around the world. My mate Mark could write that book in an hour, and can happily chat away about pools all day. ("No don't go there. It looks like the sort of pool where you would catch polio." "That's a good pool to go to at 11.30." "Have you been to Bucharest? There is a great open air pool there that you should go to." "If you are ever in Dallas.." etc etc. I love it. So much information about swimming pools.)
So no surprises really as I followed Mark into a public pool in Chelsea yesterday that we didn't have to pay and we had the pool to ourselves for three quarters of an hour - unheard of in London at lunchtime, which was when we were there. Mark's a good person to go swimming with, although he does wear a hat when he is swimming, and his swimming trunks are on the dodgy side of skimpy. He also has a special swimming towel which is about the size of a tea bag that was developed by NASA or something.
Mark really looks like a swimmer, all snake-hipped and lithe and eel-like. The sort of person who tuts at anyone else in the fast lane with him. I waddled around in an unmarked lane, as he ploughed up and down the fast lane like an Olympian. Good fun though, and I take some vague pleasure in the fact I did more lengths than he did, although he measures his swims in 'loops' = two lengths.
In and around our swim, Eel Man gave me some good advice about looking for work and also on blogging, so it was an ideal interlude in an otherwise unremarkable day. Today I am off to get some career advice from another friend who used to be a swimming instructor. I can feel a theme - or me offering to write Tracey Emin's book for her - coming on.
I read somewhere that Tracey Emin was planning on producing a book of good pools around the world. My mate Mark could write that book in an hour, and can happily chat away about pools all day. ("No don't go there. It looks like the sort of pool where you would catch polio." "That's a good pool to go to at 11.30." "Have you been to Bucharest? There is a great open air pool there that you should go to." "If you are ever in Dallas.." etc etc. I love it. So much information about swimming pools.)
So no surprises really as I followed Mark into a public pool in Chelsea yesterday that we didn't have to pay and we had the pool to ourselves for three quarters of an hour - unheard of in London at lunchtime, which was when we were there. Mark's a good person to go swimming with, although he does wear a hat when he is swimming, and his swimming trunks are on the dodgy side of skimpy. He also has a special swimming towel which is about the size of a tea bag that was developed by NASA or something.
Mark really looks like a swimmer, all snake-hipped and lithe and eel-like. The sort of person who tuts at anyone else in the fast lane with him. I waddled around in an unmarked lane, as he ploughed up and down the fast lane like an Olympian. Good fun though, and I take some vague pleasure in the fact I did more lengths than he did, although he measures his swims in 'loops' = two lengths.
In and around our swim, Eel Man gave me some good advice about looking for work and also on blogging, so it was an ideal interlude in an otherwise unremarkable day. Today I am off to get some career advice from another friend who used to be a swimming instructor. I can feel a theme - or me offering to write Tracey Emin's book for her - coming on.
Sep 12, 2006
Naked Or Religious
So after all the simulated freefall fun on Sunday, I thought things would return to normal, which they did, except for two mildly bizarre incidents as witnessed by mrs househusbandnot and I on Sunday afternoon and Monday evening.
Sunday, we got back from Milton Keynes and were walking past our local art school where we noticed there was a show of the MA students' work. Being middle class and tossy, we went in to have a look. Nothing particularly remarkable or shocking to be seen: some nice postcard-sized paintings of moody London scenes; a bad tryptych of a large lady in black underwear; a conceptual room full of old furniture (wow, conceptual man) ; and some rather peaceful dark grey and black monochrome paintings by a thoughtful middle-aged woman who was sitting in the room with her work.
But then we walked into the largest room at the show, and were confronted by a posh old woman who informed us in a friendly manner that "My son, the artist, has to go back to Norfolk. We are taking the pictures down but you can have a look if you like." I checked mrs househusbandnot's reaction (remember I mentioned a while back that she has a thing about bossy posh women), but she seemed cool, so we turned to look at the five huge paintings on display. The first one we saw was of the same posh old woman, the artist's mother, floating naked with her legs wide open - vage akimbo* I think is the technical term for this pose. I just managed to stop myself from looking back at the (real) woman to check the (facial) likeness, and turned to look at a second picture of an old man in a similar pose of nakedness and genital display. I assume this was the artist's dad.
Now I am no prude, but I just couldn't get my head around wanting to paint your parents naked, and not just naked naked but with legs wide open across the canvas. What's the deal on this one? Did the artist have no friends who could sit for him? Did his parents ask to be painted like that? Why was mum there to witness everyone's reaction to the image of her in so indelicate a pose? And why were they taking the pictures down? Had they realised the error in their ways? Or had granddad just bought them all to hang in his Norfolk dining room? mrs househusbandnot and I mumbled something to each other about taking another look at the thoughtful lady's monochromes and shuffled out of the room before we a) asked posh mum about the pictures b) looked at the pictures again c) called the police.
Monday, I went up to pick mrs househusbandnot from her office and we took the bus home. As usual there was one person chatting away on his mobile phone, seemingly oblivious to how annoying it was having to listen to his conversation. But what a conversation. He was talking about meeting up with his mate on the other end of the line, and asking how his mate felt. Listening intently to his mate's response, he paused and said: "I know but feeling crap is just sometimes feeling crap. God will use that and help you. It's not the enemy. It's natural. Don't think it is the enemy." ( At this point in this bloke's conversation, mrs househusbandnot caught me trying to take notes of what he was saying, and gave me one of those "you and your ****ing blog" looks. )
I have to say, the guy on the phone certainly had some sort of peace about him. He was nattering away quite happily to his mate. But 'the enemy'? Is that what they call the Devil nowadays? It was all so matter of fact, the matter being the fact that he obviously really really believes there are powers of good and evil guiding us though our lives. (Mind you, most politicians are just as casual about using those sort of terms when they talk about terrorism, so why shouldn't real believers use them too.) But, like the mum naked stuff, I was shocked that I was shocked. I thought 25 or so years in London would have got me inured to most things by now. I guess I need to work on my attitude to naked old mothers and people believing in the Devil.
In unrelated other news, I started a diet today. I had two pints of diet pepsi for breakfast, and am bouncing off the ceilings and walls of the sitting room. (Good thing I got the practice in on Sunday at the skydiving place.)
* My mate The Waunch has just read this, and provided another suggestion for this pose which I am actually too prudish to insert, descriptive as his suggestion was.
Sunday, we got back from Milton Keynes and were walking past our local art school where we noticed there was a show of the MA students' work. Being middle class and tossy, we went in to have a look. Nothing particularly remarkable or shocking to be seen: some nice postcard-sized paintings of moody London scenes; a bad tryptych of a large lady in black underwear; a conceptual room full of old furniture (wow, conceptual man) ; and some rather peaceful dark grey and black monochrome paintings by a thoughtful middle-aged woman who was sitting in the room with her work.
But then we walked into the largest room at the show, and were confronted by a posh old woman who informed us in a friendly manner that "My son, the artist, has to go back to Norfolk. We are taking the pictures down but you can have a look if you like." I checked mrs househusbandnot's reaction (remember I mentioned a while back that she has a thing about bossy posh women), but she seemed cool, so we turned to look at the five huge paintings on display. The first one we saw was of the same posh old woman, the artist's mother, floating naked with her legs wide open - vage akimbo* I think is the technical term for this pose. I just managed to stop myself from looking back at the (real) woman to check the (facial) likeness, and turned to look at a second picture of an old man in a similar pose of nakedness and genital display. I assume this was the artist's dad.
Now I am no prude, but I just couldn't get my head around wanting to paint your parents naked, and not just naked naked but with legs wide open across the canvas. What's the deal on this one? Did the artist have no friends who could sit for him? Did his parents ask to be painted like that? Why was mum there to witness everyone's reaction to the image of her in so indelicate a pose? And why were they taking the pictures down? Had they realised the error in their ways? Or had granddad just bought them all to hang in his Norfolk dining room? mrs househusbandnot and I mumbled something to each other about taking another look at the thoughtful lady's monochromes and shuffled out of the room before we a) asked posh mum about the pictures b) looked at the pictures again c) called the police.
Monday, I went up to pick mrs househusbandnot from her office and we took the bus home. As usual there was one person chatting away on his mobile phone, seemingly oblivious to how annoying it was having to listen to his conversation. But what a conversation. He was talking about meeting up with his mate on the other end of the line, and asking how his mate felt. Listening intently to his mate's response, he paused and said: "I know but feeling crap is just sometimes feeling crap. God will use that and help you. It's not the enemy. It's natural. Don't think it is the enemy." ( At this point in this bloke's conversation, mrs househusbandnot caught me trying to take notes of what he was saying, and gave me one of those "you and your ****ing blog" looks. )
I have to say, the guy on the phone certainly had some sort of peace about him. He was nattering away quite happily to his mate. But 'the enemy'? Is that what they call the Devil nowadays? It was all so matter of fact, the matter being the fact that he obviously really really believes there are powers of good and evil guiding us though our lives. (Mind you, most politicians are just as casual about using those sort of terms when they talk about terrorism, so why shouldn't real believers use them too.) But, like the mum naked stuff, I was shocked that I was shocked. I thought 25 or so years in London would have got me inured to most things by now. I guess I need to work on my attitude to naked old mothers and people believing in the Devil.
In unrelated other news, I started a diet today. I had two pints of diet pepsi for breakfast, and am bouncing off the ceilings and walls of the sitting room. (Good thing I got the practice in on Sunday at the skydiving place.)
* My mate The Waunch has just read this, and provided another suggestion for this pose which I am actually too prudish to insert, descriptive as his suggestion was.
Sep 10, 2006
Simulated Freefall
...is what mrs househusbandnot and I did this Sunday. It kind of went like this:
SUNDAY
8.15 am
househusbandnot/mrs househusbandnot's alarm goes off. Our two heroes wake from their uneven slumber and go about their ablutions/bacon sandwiches/gossiping about the wedding they had been to the previous evening, which they left at a very civilised 11.00 pm. (We are the old people at weddings now, so don't feel the need to stay to the bitter end - one of the nice things about getting on a bit.)
9.43 am
We leave London to drive to Milton Keynes to this place where they do this simulated freefall. We are supposed to get there for 11.00 am for an 11.30 safety briefing, followed by our 12.00 freefall simulated freefall experience. We are looking forward to what will probably be an amusing half hour or so floating around in some sort of hanger like those astonauts in their gravity free training.
10.30 am
Stuck in traffic on the edge of London
11.00 am
Stuck in traffic pretty much where we were half an hour ago. We call ahead and leave a message at the freefall place to say we are running late.
11.11 am
See sign for safari park which we decide to go to if we have missed our freefall slot.
11.39 am
Arrive at huge shopping centre in Milton Keynes at the back of which they have a dry ski slope, a mountain climbing simulation rock face and this simulated freefall place. After brief discussion with receptionist as to whether or not we are too late for our slot and whether or not I exceed the weight limit for doing the simulation, we are bungled into a class room-style room where the instructor looks at us in that inimitable white South African manner of hostility and disinterest and says "You've missed the safety briefing. Are you okay to go ahead without any information".
Now I should have heard the warning bells at this point, not least of all in the voice of the charmless instructor who, in another life, would have been quite happy as an attache for tourism or something in his grand-daddy PW Botha's apartheid South Africa. But responding to the assumed peer pressure that I have always felt in any class room, I speak for mrs househusbandnot and I, and say we are fine going ahead without the safety briefing.
11.45 am
mrs househusband and I join the other eight people to get togged out in boiler suits, goggles, knee and elbow pads and helmets and ear plugs, and Michelin Man our way up to the simulation area.
11.58ish (time was becoming a bit of a blur here)
We all huddle up on a curved bench in what looked like a replica of the execution room from a John Grisham movie, complete with a technician in a glassed off control room and a glassed off viewing area for friends and family etc. It was really hot and noisy in there, especially in our boiler suits and goggles and helmets as we waited for our individual turns to be dragged into the central wind tunnel by Botha The Third for our one minute of simulated freefall fun. (This central area was about the size of a table tennis table, but round and with a precarious looking grilled metal floor through which was rushing the air or wind or whatever that was going keep us buoyant in there.)
I was about fifth in line of our party of 10, so had a chance to watch as each of the four people in front of me got man-handled around the simulation area by Botha Boy and buoyed into some form of floating by the wind rushing through the grilled floor. By the time my turn was up, I knew I was a) not going to enjoy it b) not going to relax c) and get pissed off with Botha Boy as he did hand signals at me to relax and bend my knees more. I was hauled into the round simulation area, and - as far as I can tell - and I am glad we didn't spend the extra £14.95 to get a DVD of our time in there to confirm this - I bounced around about an inch off the grill floor while Botha Boy got increasingly annoyed by my inability to float like a bird. The only bird-like movement I did do was to flip over on my back as if I had just been shot.
After what seemed either 10 or 10 hundred seconds, I was bundled out of the simulation area, and watched while this South African tosser proceeded to do an impersonation of me to illustrate what I should not have been doing in there with him. Encased in my helmet and goggles, my brain was just screaming "Alright already you *&^%. I know I fucked up. Leave me alone."
I opted out of my second go in the simulation area, and marvelled at the other people seemingly enjoying this humiliation, including mrs househusbandnot who, typically, just got on with it and was good at it.
12.45ish
Everyone (except me) had completed their two one minute sessions, and we were allowed out of the simulation/execution area, and back down to the changing rooms to struggle out of our boiler suits.
Now in another life, or a few years ago, I would have mulled over this experience and berated myself for a good week or so about my lack of ability/co-ordination/athleticism in wind, and my decision not to do my second simulation. But armed as I am now with the support of a good woman and the aching body of a 40 year old, I am glad that I didn't do the second session. And I also strongly recommend that you do not bother hauling your - or anyone else's - ass up to Milton Keynes to dress up like a Michelin Man and be bumped around on a metal grill by wind. Oh, I forgot to say. After we had all finished our sessions, Botha Boy did a five minute show off session for us where he floated around upside down and stuff. What a nobber.
We left the shopping centre and found a nice pub where we ate four for ten squids tapas and I drank two pints of cold beer which hit just about every spot that had been numbed or degraded by my brief simulated freefall experience. And we came home and pootled around our nice flat, me having safely secured that mrs househusbandnot did not think me any less of a man for failing to simulate any sort of freefall except one from corporal grace in an oversized vacuum cleaner in Milton Keynes.
Incidentally, strongly recommend the new American show Entourage which we watched on Sunday evening. It made me forget all about Botha Boy.
SUNDAY
8.15 am
househusbandnot/mrs househusbandnot's alarm goes off. Our two heroes wake from their uneven slumber and go about their ablutions/bacon sandwiches/gossiping about the wedding they had been to the previous evening, which they left at a very civilised 11.00 pm. (We are the old people at weddings now, so don't feel the need to stay to the bitter end - one of the nice things about getting on a bit.)
9.43 am
We leave London to drive to Milton Keynes to this place where they do this simulated freefall. We are supposed to get there for 11.00 am for an 11.30 safety briefing, followed by our 12.00 freefall simulated freefall experience. We are looking forward to what will probably be an amusing half hour or so floating around in some sort of hanger like those astonauts in their gravity free training.
10.30 am
Stuck in traffic on the edge of London
11.00 am
Stuck in traffic pretty much where we were half an hour ago. We call ahead and leave a message at the freefall place to say we are running late.
11.11 am
See sign for safari park which we decide to go to if we have missed our freefall slot.
11.39 am
Arrive at huge shopping centre in Milton Keynes at the back of which they have a dry ski slope, a mountain climbing simulation rock face and this simulated freefall place. After brief discussion with receptionist as to whether or not we are too late for our slot and whether or not I exceed the weight limit for doing the simulation, we are bungled into a class room-style room where the instructor looks at us in that inimitable white South African manner of hostility and disinterest and says "You've missed the safety briefing. Are you okay to go ahead without any information".
Now I should have heard the warning bells at this point, not least of all in the voice of the charmless instructor who, in another life, would have been quite happy as an attache for tourism or something in his grand-daddy PW Botha's apartheid South Africa. But responding to the assumed peer pressure that I have always felt in any class room, I speak for mrs househusbandnot and I, and say we are fine going ahead without the safety briefing.
11.45 am
mrs househusband and I join the other eight people to get togged out in boiler suits, goggles, knee and elbow pads and helmets and ear plugs, and Michelin Man our way up to the simulation area.
11.58ish (time was becoming a bit of a blur here)
We all huddle up on a curved bench in what looked like a replica of the execution room from a John Grisham movie, complete with a technician in a glassed off control room and a glassed off viewing area for friends and family etc. It was really hot and noisy in there, especially in our boiler suits and goggles and helmets as we waited for our individual turns to be dragged into the central wind tunnel by Botha The Third for our one minute of simulated freefall fun. (This central area was about the size of a table tennis table, but round and with a precarious looking grilled metal floor through which was rushing the air or wind or whatever that was going keep us buoyant in there.)
I was about fifth in line of our party of 10, so had a chance to watch as each of the four people in front of me got man-handled around the simulation area by Botha Boy and buoyed into some form of floating by the wind rushing through the grilled floor. By the time my turn was up, I knew I was a) not going to enjoy it b) not going to relax c) and get pissed off with Botha Boy as he did hand signals at me to relax and bend my knees more. I was hauled into the round simulation area, and - as far as I can tell - and I am glad we didn't spend the extra £14.95 to get a DVD of our time in there to confirm this - I bounced around about an inch off the grill floor while Botha Boy got increasingly annoyed by my inability to float like a bird. The only bird-like movement I did do was to flip over on my back as if I had just been shot.
After what seemed either 10 or 10 hundred seconds, I was bundled out of the simulation area, and watched while this South African tosser proceeded to do an impersonation of me to illustrate what I should not have been doing in there with him. Encased in my helmet and goggles, my brain was just screaming "Alright already you *&^%. I know I fucked up. Leave me alone."
I opted out of my second go in the simulation area, and marvelled at the other people seemingly enjoying this humiliation, including mrs househusbandnot who, typically, just got on with it and was good at it.
12.45ish
Everyone (except me) had completed their two one minute sessions, and we were allowed out of the simulation/execution area, and back down to the changing rooms to struggle out of our boiler suits.
Now in another life, or a few years ago, I would have mulled over this experience and berated myself for a good week or so about my lack of ability/co-ordination/athleticism in wind, and my decision not to do my second simulation. But armed as I am now with the support of a good woman and the aching body of a 40 year old, I am glad that I didn't do the second session. And I also strongly recommend that you do not bother hauling your - or anyone else's - ass up to Milton Keynes to dress up like a Michelin Man and be bumped around on a metal grill by wind. Oh, I forgot to say. After we had all finished our sessions, Botha Boy did a five minute show off session for us where he floated around upside down and stuff. What a nobber.
We left the shopping centre and found a nice pub where we ate four for ten squids tapas and I drank two pints of cold beer which hit just about every spot that had been numbed or degraded by my brief simulated freefall experience. And we came home and pootled around our nice flat, me having safely secured that mrs househusbandnot did not think me any less of a man for failing to simulate any sort of freefall except one from corporal grace in an oversized vacuum cleaner in Milton Keynes.
Incidentally, strongly recommend the new American show Entourage which we watched on Sunday evening. It made me forget all about Botha Boy.
Sep 8, 2006
Bullshit Bingo
Went out last night with an old friend I used to work with a few years ago. He is still at the office where we worked, and he said it was "bullshit bingo" that some of the people who are managing that office are allowed to run anything more than a tap. ( You would be staggered if I told you what the office was and what it does - or more precisely doesn't do - for a lot of people around the UK. )
I know dissing other people for the work they do is a pretty useless exercise, and I have seen diligence and genius in places I have worked over the years. But my manager at that particular office did literally nothing all day and every day. Sure he turned up five days a week, and wore matching shoes and a tie (actually he wore a blazer quite often too, which was kind of the beginning of the end for any respect I was ever going to generate for him), and he usually had a pen and some paper if we had a meeting. But that was about as productive and creative as it ever got/still gets in his working week.
The Chief Executive was even worse in a different way. She was supremely jealous about anyone showing her up for the freak that she was, lived exclusively on a diet of hot chocolate, and cried if anyone disagreed with her. Pol Pot-like, she had hand-written slogans posted all over her office, really oblique things like "Nothing Is Never" and "Change Can Come At The Wrong Time". Mind you when I was working for her, I was reduced to using Brian Eno's Oblique Strategies to try and figure out how to deal with her.
Early on in my time at this nut house I met a quiet, unassuming bloke with a dull job title and a tiny office next to the room where they kept all the computer hardware. I could never really get anyone to tell me exactly what this guy did all day, until it became apparent that he did everything. On the occasional days that he took leave (I don't think he ever took a day off sick), the whole office would come to a grinding halt. The press office would have no information to give out to journos, the finance department would have no figures, the human resources team would look even more pointless than usual, and the 100 or so other staff would wander the corridors sipping sweet coffee and asking when He was coming back in. But this guy never really got the recognition he deserved. We never did tell him how much we needed him. (There had been some vague attempt at getting this dude to have someone working for him who could duplicate his much-needed expertise, but the person who got this job couldn't take the strain and left to go and try his hand at working in pantomime.)
So what's my point? Offices suck? People are lazy? A lot of people never get the recognition they deserve? Bosses are usually nuts? Nothing very new in any of that. I am sure there are 50 self help books for each of these scenarios. Maybe I should read a few of them and move on, or maybe write one.
Incidentally, someone was asking me the other day if everything I wrote about in househusbandnot was true. I do exaggerate sometimes, but I did regularly use Eno's Oblique Strategies to run a large communications programme for a well known organisation and the guy really did go and work in pantomime.
I know dissing other people for the work they do is a pretty useless exercise, and I have seen diligence and genius in places I have worked over the years. But my manager at that particular office did literally nothing all day and every day. Sure he turned up five days a week, and wore matching shoes and a tie (actually he wore a blazer quite often too, which was kind of the beginning of the end for any respect I was ever going to generate for him), and he usually had a pen and some paper if we had a meeting. But that was about as productive and creative as it ever got/still gets in his working week.
The Chief Executive was even worse in a different way. She was supremely jealous about anyone showing her up for the freak that she was, lived exclusively on a diet of hot chocolate, and cried if anyone disagreed with her. Pol Pot-like, she had hand-written slogans posted all over her office, really oblique things like "Nothing Is Never" and "Change Can Come At The Wrong Time". Mind you when I was working for her, I was reduced to using Brian Eno's Oblique Strategies to try and figure out how to deal with her.
Early on in my time at this nut house I met a quiet, unassuming bloke with a dull job title and a tiny office next to the room where they kept all the computer hardware. I could never really get anyone to tell me exactly what this guy did all day, until it became apparent that he did everything. On the occasional days that he took leave (I don't think he ever took a day off sick), the whole office would come to a grinding halt. The press office would have no information to give out to journos, the finance department would have no figures, the human resources team would look even more pointless than usual, and the 100 or so other staff would wander the corridors sipping sweet coffee and asking when He was coming back in. But this guy never really got the recognition he deserved. We never did tell him how much we needed him. (There had been some vague attempt at getting this dude to have someone working for him who could duplicate his much-needed expertise, but the person who got this job couldn't take the strain and left to go and try his hand at working in pantomime.)
So what's my point? Offices suck? People are lazy? A lot of people never get the recognition they deserve? Bosses are usually nuts? Nothing very new in any of that. I am sure there are 50 self help books for each of these scenarios. Maybe I should read a few of them and move on, or maybe write one.
Incidentally, someone was asking me the other day if everything I wrote about in househusbandnot was true. I do exaggerate sometimes, but I did regularly use Eno's Oblique Strategies to run a large communications programme for a well known organisation and the guy really did go and work in pantomime.
Sep 7, 2006
Pictures Of Me
I spent quite a bit of yesterday rewriting my CV, which a friend who knows about these things took a look at the other day and said it read like a job description rather than a CV. This same friend sent me a guide to CV writing which included a list of active words that one should use, like 'developed', 'set up' and 'trained', and rather more randomly 'doubled up', 'sparked', and 'trimmed'. So guess I should include some sort of reference in my CV to the time I doubled up in pain when I sparked out the electricity in the conference room and then had to take the CEO to A&E to get his burnt beard trimmed off.
I also took some time yesterday searching the web for advice on how to write the perfect/killer/optimum CV. Didn't learn a great deal in this exercise to be honest since the advice was either really obvious or contradictory - lie/don't lie, make it short/tell them everything, stick to the information you think they will want to hear/tell them about that time you were fire marshal it will indicate you are comfortable with authority etc etc. And as is always the case with any sort of web-based research, I got completely distracted and ended up looking up stuff on how to manage your boss. (There is a whole other story to this, which I will share with you another time.)
But since I am going to do this cold letter writing to househusbandnot top 50 prospective employers, I realise my CV is going to have to be pretty engaging. I wonder if there are other means of getting people to understand where I am coming from. Maybe a photo of me and mrs househusbandnot at our wedding, or a cd compilation, or just a link to househusbandnot - now there's a thought. But not sure how human any prospective employer is going to want me to be. And if they read househusbandnot they would see also see how often and casually mrs househusbandnot uses the C word and would maybe be concerned about what she might say to the boss at the office Christmas party.
Mind you, I would be pretty interested in working for someone who had read househusbandnot and still wanted to interview me. ("Tell us a little more about the floors you painted in your bedroom. It sounds like just the sort of experience we need in a communications manager here at Google." "Hating jazz musicians is pretty much our most important mission here at Nike. We'd like to talk to you some more about a project we are setting up in the Maldives." )
Or maybe I should just get a portrait painted of me, and send it round like they did with prospective brides for Henry VIII. Not that that did much good for any of them in the long run. (Relevant experience: probably fertile. Reason for applying for the post: my dad doesn't want to get his country invaded. Other interests: not getting my head chopped off.)
Thanks incidentally to my mate Bad, who sent me an email yesterday reminding me about his brother in law's experience of being sent by a headhunter to an interview at the organisation that had just made him redundant and getting a better job there. It's the sort of opportunistic chaos I need to hear about right now.
I also took some time yesterday searching the web for advice on how to write the perfect/killer/optimum CV. Didn't learn a great deal in this exercise to be honest since the advice was either really obvious or contradictory - lie/don't lie, make it short/tell them everything, stick to the information you think they will want to hear/tell them about that time you were fire marshal it will indicate you are comfortable with authority etc etc. And as is always the case with any sort of web-based research, I got completely distracted and ended up looking up stuff on how to manage your boss. (There is a whole other story to this, which I will share with you another time.)
But since I am going to do this cold letter writing to househusbandnot top 50 prospective employers, I realise my CV is going to have to be pretty engaging. I wonder if there are other means of getting people to understand where I am coming from. Maybe a photo of me and mrs househusbandnot at our wedding, or a cd compilation, or just a link to househusbandnot - now there's a thought. But not sure how human any prospective employer is going to want me to be. And if they read househusbandnot they would see also see how often and casually mrs househusbandnot uses the C word and would maybe be concerned about what she might say to the boss at the office Christmas party.
Mind you, I would be pretty interested in working for someone who had read househusbandnot and still wanted to interview me. ("Tell us a little more about the floors you painted in your bedroom. It sounds like just the sort of experience we need in a communications manager here at Google." "Hating jazz musicians is pretty much our most important mission here at Nike. We'd like to talk to you some more about a project we are setting up in the Maldives." )
Or maybe I should just get a portrait painted of me, and send it round like they did with prospective brides for Henry VIII. Not that that did much good for any of them in the long run. (Relevant experience: probably fertile. Reason for applying for the post: my dad doesn't want to get his country invaded. Other interests: not getting my head chopped off.)
Thanks incidentally to my mate Bad, who sent me an email yesterday reminding me about his brother in law's experience of being sent by a headhunter to an interview at the organisation that had just made him redundant and getting a better job there. It's the sort of opportunistic chaos I need to hear about right now.
Sep 5, 2006
Assassinations And Alchemy
So yeah, characters. blokeihaventseeninages continues his solicitous attention to househusbandnot and the other day sent me the following thoughts on characters:
"The prime role of the character is to provide the writer with the opportunity for said character's assassination - that's when writing becomes enjoyable for everyone ( excepting that same said character, about whose feelings neither you nor your readers should care ). Why don't you start with the 'close friend' who suggested your blog needed more characters in the first place? "
While I appreciate blokeihaventseeninages' time in sending me advice, I'm not sure I agree with his theory. I know it's more fun to be rude about people than to be all sucky about them. And God knows there are people out there whose dislikability we need to be reminded about on a regular basis. ( Michael Winner, Puff Diddy and jazz musicians come to immediate mind. Winner because none of you took up my challenge of killing him while mrs househusbandnot and I were on holiday - you losers. I read somewhere yesterday that he thought Death Wish was a watershed movie which changed the rules of cinema. Changed the capacity for my arse to fall asleep more like. It was about as watershed as a film of my grandfather going out for a pint of milk at the 24 hour garage after midnight. Puff Daddy/Piff Duddy/Dud Poofey because he is supremely talentless despite thinking he is some kind of cross between Phil Spector and Prince. And he is about as gansta as my sister's cat Archie. AND he is up there with Bryan Ferry and me as one of the worst dancers in the world. And jazz musicians because they actually study how to kill music, and commit that particular assassination daily. We were watching the Mercury Awards Last night. When the jazz nomination performed - some bird with big gums and mad long hair - mrs househusbandnot watched the performance for a moment and said, almost to herself, but out loud: "Oh great a Brazilian groove. What a c*&*. I bet she still thinks that you should blow when you are giving a blow job." ) But I'm not sure that eventual assassination is a good enough reason to create someone. While neat and tidy, it seems kinda defeatist.
After my rants about death and people who won't interview me for jobs over the last few day, you may be thinking I am sounding a bit too reasonable and positive today. This is true, not least of all because mrs househusbandnot came up with a fun way of job hunting this morning. She thinks I should write a letter to 50 of the companies/organisations/individuals I would actually like to work for, explaining to them what I have done in the past and could maybe do for them in the future. I know it is not rocket science, but this seems a good and positive idea, unlike the bad and fundamentally un pro-active approach I am currently taking which basically involves me not hearing from head hunters and rifling through the jobs pages of The Guardian desperately trying to alchemise myself into the sort of model workers the job descriptions are...describing.
I'll keep you posted on how this project pans out.
"The prime role of the character is to provide the writer with the opportunity for said character's assassination - that's when writing becomes enjoyable for everyone ( excepting that same said character, about whose feelings neither you nor your readers should care ). Why don't you start with the 'close friend' who suggested your blog needed more characters in the first place? "
While I appreciate blokeihaventseeninages' time in sending me advice, I'm not sure I agree with his theory. I know it's more fun to be rude about people than to be all sucky about them. And God knows there are people out there whose dislikability we need to be reminded about on a regular basis. ( Michael Winner, Puff Diddy and jazz musicians come to immediate mind. Winner because none of you took up my challenge of killing him while mrs househusbandnot and I were on holiday - you losers. I read somewhere yesterday that he thought Death Wish was a watershed movie which changed the rules of cinema. Changed the capacity for my arse to fall asleep more like. It was about as watershed as a film of my grandfather going out for a pint of milk at the 24 hour garage after midnight. Puff Daddy/Piff Duddy/Dud Poofey because he is supremely talentless despite thinking he is some kind of cross between Phil Spector and Prince. And he is about as gansta as my sister's cat Archie. AND he is up there with Bryan Ferry and me as one of the worst dancers in the world. And jazz musicians because they actually study how to kill music, and commit that particular assassination daily. We were watching the Mercury Awards Last night. When the jazz nomination performed - some bird with big gums and mad long hair - mrs househusbandnot watched the performance for a moment and said, almost to herself, but out loud: "Oh great a Brazilian groove. What a c*&*. I bet she still thinks that you should blow when you are giving a blow job." ) But I'm not sure that eventual assassination is a good enough reason to create someone. While neat and tidy, it seems kinda defeatist.
After my rants about death and people who won't interview me for jobs over the last few day, you may be thinking I am sounding a bit too reasonable and positive today. This is true, not least of all because mrs househusbandnot came up with a fun way of job hunting this morning. She thinks I should write a letter to 50 of the companies/organisations/individuals I would actually like to work for, explaining to them what I have done in the past and could maybe do for them in the future. I know it is not rocket science, but this seems a good and positive idea, unlike the bad and fundamentally un pro-active approach I am currently taking which basically involves me not hearing from head hunters and rifling through the jobs pages of The Guardian desperately trying to alchemise myself into the sort of model workers the job descriptions are...describing.
I'll keep you posted on how this project pans out.
Ex Factor
Getting a little more topical than is usual here at househusbandnot, I was sorry to read about Steve Irwin being killed by a stingray. But mrs househusbandnot said that he would probably have wanted to go like that, like Keith Richards wanting to die on stage, taking his final moments as he had filled the rest of his life.
I'm not sure how other people would like to die. Banksy? Tony Blair? James Blunt? Alphabetically? I hope not. I would be right after that dull Australian bloke who writes the househusband blog about his kids going to the loo and other 'hilarious' observations on being at home with his family.
I guess a real house husband would want his final moments to come just after he had filled the freezer with easily prepared snacks for the wake, and right after he had completed any other chores on his weekly rota - sorted, organised, neat and tidy. By contrast, and with considerably less planning, I guess a househusbandnot would die waiting in the queue at the dry cleaners to explain that he had lost the ticket for his wife's dry cleaning , just before he's done that final coat of satin wood on the banisters, or just as he had realised that he had the wrong shopping list at the supermarket. It wouldn't be ideal, or convenient. Other people would have to sort it out. But there would be some verisimilitude and symmetry to it I guess.
This is all beginning to sound a bit serious for a Tuesday. mrs househusbandnot reminded me last night that I should not forget to tell you that I was laughing so much at X Factor while eating supper on Saturday night that I snorted a pea out of my nose. ( Now that would have been an embarrassing way to go. )
Back in the land of the living, yesterday I heard back from one organisation that "Unfortunately you have not been selected on this occasion [for a job interview] as your educational and/or professional experience does not quite fulfil the essential requirements of our person specification for the post (as attached in the application pack)." I am not sure what my educational and/or professional experience will lead me to be doing in the coming months, but in the meantime here's to Steve Irwin - an unlikely but today a very real role model for doing what you need to do, and not pissing around filling out job applications for non-existent jobs for organisations whose communications strategies you have written and who actually used some of your rhetoric in the job description. (Yes I am really pissed off about not getting the interview, but writing about it here just made me feel a whole lot better.)
I'm not sure how other people would like to die. Banksy? Tony Blair? James Blunt? Alphabetically? I hope not. I would be right after that dull Australian bloke who writes the househusband blog about his kids going to the loo and other 'hilarious' observations on being at home with his family.
I guess a real house husband would want his final moments to come just after he had filled the freezer with easily prepared snacks for the wake, and right after he had completed any other chores on his weekly rota - sorted, organised, neat and tidy. By contrast, and with considerably less planning, I guess a househusbandnot would die waiting in the queue at the dry cleaners to explain that he had lost the ticket for his wife's dry cleaning , just before he's done that final coat of satin wood on the banisters, or just as he had realised that he had the wrong shopping list at the supermarket. It wouldn't be ideal, or convenient. Other people would have to sort it out. But there would be some verisimilitude and symmetry to it I guess.
This is all beginning to sound a bit serious for a Tuesday. mrs househusbandnot reminded me last night that I should not forget to tell you that I was laughing so much at X Factor while eating supper on Saturday night that I snorted a pea out of my nose. ( Now that would have been an embarrassing way to go. )
Back in the land of the living, yesterday I heard back from one organisation that "Unfortunately you have not been selected on this occasion [for a job interview] as your educational and/or professional experience does not quite fulfil the essential requirements of our person specification for the post (as attached in the application pack)." I am not sure what my educational and/or professional experience will lead me to be doing in the coming months, but in the meantime here's to Steve Irwin - an unlikely but today a very real role model for doing what you need to do, and not pissing around filling out job applications for non-existent jobs for organisations whose communications strategies you have written and who actually used some of your rhetoric in the job description. (Yes I am really pissed off about not getting the interview, but writing about it here just made me feel a whole lot better.)
Sep 4, 2006
Anti-summer
Today - in my mind anyway - is the end of summer, which is one big relief. I spend most Junes, Julys and Augusts skulking around in the shadows, gulping down industrial quantities of diet coke and generally feeling sorry for myself. mrs househusbandnot says everyone else feels just as hot and uncomfortable as I do during the summer. She is wrong. I feel it much worse than anyone else. In the summer, I wander around in shorts that make me look like a sex offender rather than relaxed and summery, and envy any or all of you who are floating around in your un-sweat blemished linens and your open-toed sandals twittering on about how you should have another bbq and asking if anyone has a cardigan you can borrow because the temperature has dipped below 26 degrees. I am the anti-summer bloke who dreams about the winter and the wind and the rain. And it is just around the corner again.
I can get on with normal life again, free from the selected travels around town from the freezer sections of supermarkets to shops or bars where I know they have air conditioning. Soon, I will be able to wander the streets free from the taxi and van drivers' taunts of "Hot enough for you mate", and go back on public transport which will transform itself back into something resembling something other than a sauna in Hades. Going out will become a purpose rather than a torture, and I will be able to engage in conversations with friends and strangers without watching them watch me sweat my way to the end of a sentence.
Today is also two years to the day that I first met mrs househusbandnot, who on this particular day two years ago was just plain old hotsinglechick before I came bellowing into her life across a lawn at my sister's house. As a special celebration of this anniversary, mrs househusbandnot has gone off for her first day of two weeks' jury service, and I am about to varnish the floors in the hall.
So two good causes for celebration. Me and mrs househusbandnot, and the impending comfort of September weather and a return to normality for me.
What that normality will be I am not sure. I am just about finished on decorating the flat. (I am tempted to post some pics of the flat in its new decorated glory , but then I would be turning into diyloseram, and it would give away too much detail to househusbandnot stalker who I suspect is already way too excited about some of the personal details of my whereabouts he has gleaned over the past month or so.) I need to get a job now to get me out of this househusbandnoting.
I can get on with normal life again, free from the selected travels around town from the freezer sections of supermarkets to shops or bars where I know they have air conditioning. Soon, I will be able to wander the streets free from the taxi and van drivers' taunts of "Hot enough for you mate", and go back on public transport which will transform itself back into something resembling something other than a sauna in Hades. Going out will become a purpose rather than a torture, and I will be able to engage in conversations with friends and strangers without watching them watch me sweat my way to the end of a sentence.
Today is also two years to the day that I first met mrs househusbandnot, who on this particular day two years ago was just plain old hotsinglechick before I came bellowing into her life across a lawn at my sister's house. As a special celebration of this anniversary, mrs househusbandnot has gone off for her first day of two weeks' jury service, and I am about to varnish the floors in the hall.
So two good causes for celebration. Me and mrs househusbandnot, and the impending comfort of September weather and a return to normality for me.
What that normality will be I am not sure. I am just about finished on decorating the flat. (I am tempted to post some pics of the flat in its new decorated glory , but then I would be turning into diyloseram, and it would give away too much detail to househusbandnot stalker who I suspect is already way too excited about some of the personal details of my whereabouts he has gleaned over the past month or so.) I need to get a job now to get me out of this househusbandnoting.
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