Starving at the cinema and the American Dream

I don't review anything - I moan. And by god, do I have to moan about this. Yesterday Friday Sometime, I went to see Hunger Games, and what a complete waste of my time and capital it was. Colossally boring, plot somewhere between Twilight and Star Wars, appeal of All the Pretty Horses. I vowed at some point earlier in my life, never to pay again for bad movies. And there was I, next to a couple who could have done with a private room, with a partial hangover, watching flawless Americans and one Australian run through a forest. Plus Donald Sutherland, who is neither British nor American, but sort of Canadian, and then again not. 

Boots, the mother of vouchering

No I don't review. Unless it's absolutely necessary. Recently, I haven't seen that much, there weren't just any free tickets - my new obsession - and I was writing essays, so culturally, it was bleak. Much like the weather at the moment, an appalling mix of rain and wind, with a little hail thrown in, and that's just lunch hour. But I return to my newest obsession that is oh so very pas chic, and oh so very unsexy. Vouchering. I had to adapt this from the American 'Couponing', which sounds a little bit like an actual activity, whereas vouchering sounds like something your 65 year-old neighbour does on a rainy Sunday afternoon. In reality (that is this weird space-time thing outside the matrix), I am searching for vouchers and freebies on a rainy Sunday afternoon, to find a different way of financing my life, once I graduate into unemployment. The very addictive source of this obsession is a television show that came only recently to my attention, Extreme Couponing, a TLC outcome, posted on Facebook by a Maple syrup-country national that you, dear inexistent reader, better not try. It is instantly addictive. Like heroin. The show follows overweight and overanxious, but underfucked Americans in their daily life as unemployed couponers, who spend up to 60 hours of their lives clipping coupons to buy 77 bottles of mustard they don't eat, or simply store in their epic larders, that are infinitely better stocked than the corner shop around the, errr, corner. Stocking up on nappies when you don't have any children, stocking up on 1000 tubes of toothpaste, when you already have about 5000 at home. Or stocking up on 67 packets of cream cheese, when any human being, no matter how much they love cream cheese, cannot eat more than one a week. At most. But they freeze well, apparently. Only they can't freeze them because there is no space in their freezers, (note the s), because they've buries a whole cow there. 12 pound of steak. 12 POUND of steak. and that is just the steak. Pizzas and other varieties of frozen food are 'a staple of the extreme couponer' because they last forever. The most appalling part of the show is that nobody seems to want to decrease their stockpile, i.e. eat all that shit, and use the toilet paper and the 1000 disposable razors. No - they all just continue buying the stuff, until their toddler has to sleep in toilet paper and kitchen towels, because there is no other space. I wonder whether this phenomenon would catch on in the UK, since the consumers here have a tendency to, hmmm, not voucher. Even the nectar cards, or their Tesco equivalent are not that popular because it takes an effort to use it, and effort is not something people like to put into their weekly shop. I include myself. I think that efficiency is key in London shopping. Rarely do I see people handing over their 4000 vouchers after a gruelling 3 hours at the till, to then break the till and make the poor Tesco guy call his manager to fix the problem. At my local supermarket, one of the cashiers is so effective that she doesn't even bother with the formalities: no look at the customer, no hi, no goodbye, no thanks - she is the epitome of the fuzz-free shopping (some people call her rude, but I see beyond that, I think she must have seen Extreme Couponing).

So how come that in the land of the triple pasteurised, filtered and plasticised cheese, people prefer to spend time cutting out stuff in the paper, than earning money with whatever skills coupon-cutting involves? Is this the American dream? Has the coupon trend replaced the dishwasher-to-millionaire story, where anybody could raise to have as much money as they'd wished to, as long as they put enough effort and dedication into it? Or is this just part of the growing addiction or obsession, at the very least, with shopping, the compulsion to substitute meaningless lives with consumer goods and the accumulation thereof? I don't really like to quote here, so I don't, but it does remind me of the theories of two grumpy, dead Germans, who wrote in a German town not too far from where I come from. And of course of various very grumpy, bald French people.
The real sadness of the program lies in the portrayal of the subjects, who are almost invariably portrayed as the heroes of the show; it is a glorification of the compulsive tendencies of these people, for the entertainment of the viewer. In an episode where little more happens that people buying groceries, real time is so minced and patched together that reel time appears as an action-packed 10-minute trip to the supermarket. However, these people spend 6 hours or more in the supermarket, and to do this, you must be desperate or very lonely. Otherwise, could or would you want to spend 6 hours pushing a trolley around in a cold supermarket, on an almost daily basis?

Why lasting cannot last in a week of everyday lasts

I am in the final round of my education. Tomorrow, or today (1.39 am) I commence what will be the last week of proper school days in my life. And I couldn't be less interested.

So over to more exciting things: I have finished THE present and it sits here next to me, wrapped in brown paper, in its full glory, waiting to be shipped and delivered come the end of the week. I feel the pain a mother feels to see her child leave the nest. I put my whole heart into that parcel, and I hope the charming notifications on the outside will encourage the postman to handle it with extra special über-care. I have an intuition that he or she won't, but by then, I no longer hold any control over it. 

Also, I finish work, which is a bit more sad than finishing school, because I really like work. I think I have written about it before. I even had to capitalise it. I will attempt to drown my sorrow in carrot cake: I find that a good measure of sugar always helps overcoming the lasting feeling of interrupted routines. I think I might have written about that, too. 

Camilla I Regina

A lot more exciting is the run-up to Thursday's school event/do, which involves even more sugar, and possibly, a lot of high percentage beverages. It is of course a fancy dress evening (my insistence), and the theme is rather royal. I hope to impress with this charming hat (picture), a blonde flick-wig, and a navy blue dress. I am Camilla I, Queen of England (what else?). I even learned how to smile like her. The rather angelic touch of the picture is due to recently uncovered/discovered photoshopping skills on my behalf, so that now every single image that leaves the Fruit is digitally altered. Bliss.

I won't lie here, you, dear non-existent reader, have probably seen better. You will, of course. But remember the blood, sweat and tears that have contributed to this charming image, and you will award me an Oscar. Or the equivalent for photoshoppers. I really like my costume, the hat is very Edwardian, quite heavy, and will leave me with an irreparable neck damage for the rest of my life, but it's soooo worth it. 

Shallow, you say, non-existent reader? Bah, humbug, that's an Ascot-neck for you. Speaking of Edwardian, I just saw Julian Fellowes' latest effort, Titanic, in an ITV mini-budget, mini-series version. Mini-pleasure. 2 minutes into the program and I KNEW that I wouldn't like it, let alone follow it with the same attention to detail (that is obsession to me and you) that I follow Sherlock with. No, 2 minutes in, and I have not only a massive déjà-vu, I have a bad déjà-vu. While I won't even go into the accuracy debate - I am no authority, but those clothes seem a little too starchy on the stoker - the plot is borrowed from Titanic, the movie, and Downton Abbey, the not-yet-movie. But, haha, it's not just borrowed, it's a bad copy: the story of Jack and Rose, A and B, is retold with a different set of A and B in a slightly different version of the story. In fact, I suspect that one of Fellowes' mates saw the original movie and then, via Chinese whispers, got the message to Fellowes, who re-told the story is an awkwardly upper-class way. Today is the last I have seen of this monstrosity. 

Portraying the servants, yet keeping that distant gaze is what one does, isn't it? It's nice to see that they are there, but that's it. Those filthy creatures are not to venture into the dining room. Let alone the drawing room. Prime example: that French mistress we all know not to be married to that bloke she's with. No, she's married to Mark Ronson, everybody knows that. Uuuuhuuuhh, they are together but not married. Does such a thing exist? Not in Fellowes' world - I very much doubt it. In the land of country houses and posh toffs in morning gowns, people are either married or dead. There is no in-between, Unless you are a man in possession of a good fortune much in need of a wife. Then you may spend a glorious 95 minutes on screen, chasing Keira Knightley (or somebody equally costume drama-ish), without being married to her. You may consider proposing once or twice, in the rain, in a shed, under a table; but never, never for the love of god let that plonker Collins get her. We all know why.

The creation of need: a birthday present

Hooray, I get to buy a birthday present! I love buying and making presents (more of that later), but sometimes, my super hot, topless male muse is a bit slow on his feet and does not inspire me at all. Still, he's topless. However, I need to find a birthday present for a bored Capitalist in the land of the banks. A very bored Capitalist who is also looking for a job. I have this project that I am working on at the moment,  '25 Days to 25', a mammoth project if ever I've seen one, where I dedicate some time every day to the creation of, what is essentially a glorified diary for creative people. A mood book, if you like, dear non-existing reader. 

Here is a detail of the cover picture: I call it
 'Daniel Craig through the mincer'
(and I've cut him in pieces, too)

It's coming along nicely, I have written, pasted and rambled into it every single day since the beginning of March - and I do not see a reason why I should loose interest or creative drive. But for a quarter-centenarian, a simple book is not enough, is it? I was really inspired at first, but then realised, I have no cash to spend on original art, or anything else for that matter. And I lack talent for most other things. I even thought about making a blog for the bored Capitalist, but it's much more fun pasting stuff into a book. Then there are several rules I must obey in the search of the gift: a. it has to be postable (this rules out the Pug) b. it has to be a no-food (my own rule, don't encourage eating) c. it has to be really fun (common knowledge) d. it can't be a voucher (see c.) e. it can't be a graffiti-ed mannequin, a customised dress, a petticoat, a hat, candles, cosmetics, homewares or a two-tiered cake. Which leaves me with......what? 

In eleven years, I have outsourced cool birthday gifts, including fake vouchers for intimate piercings. So what now? Should I make a fresh start? Buy a pyjama? A scarf? Should I try and breed funky birthday gifts, like they do when Tuna has been outsourced? I can see a birthday gift farm with lots of free range birthday gifts, reared and fed to perfection, ready to be presented to somebody. Seeing that I can't even keep a blog alive, I doubt that I'd be much of a birthday gift breeder, but you never know.

I have managed to isolate my problem: it has to do with narrative. No narrative, no gift, that seems to have been my policy for the last eleven years, and unconsciously, I want to continue this line. ('A newspaper subscription!' cries my inner self, but no, I have done that as well) I have googled birthday gifts and frankly, the websites are appalling: you would only buy something on a designated birthday gift website if you're desperate and can't really stand the person, or don't really know them.  This smells like a business opportunity (just saying). 

So narrative: I had an idea whilst serving beer to people who don't buy art. I will make a gigantic box filled with empty promises. HA! Doesn't that sound cool? Also, I want to include one of these pug-cards I saw in Spitalfields Market, the ones that have little legs attached and are filled with helium. Joy of joys, I love completely pointless gifts. 

Reviewing the comedy that is 'Online Job Applications' - a new play by Samuel Beckett

My last post made me think about the arbitrariness of reviews and critiques you read wherever you go. Even if you're not going, but reading the Evening Standard on the tube. Can an opera about a musical survive the critical assessment of the harsh ES critics: I say yes. If they write it pre-release. Which is where my ingenious idea comes in: what we need to do is pitch them ideas and concepts, infiltrate their brains before they have seen a single act, show them ridiculous drawings of costumes, props and sets and make them believe it's the greatest show this planet has ever seen - it's called marketing.

Chris Bracey via Daniel Poole in Redchurch Street

Right, now apart from stating the obvious, another week has passed without progress - in any way. I am contemplating my mother's default way out: getting married. Even in times of great despair, lodged between historical chronics and aspiring lawyers in the library, I would not concede to getting hitched. Unless one of the pre-lawyers obliges. Yes, the bleak days of dissertation writing are descending upon me in their dreariest, most boring outfit. Stats of the past two days: cake, two film rentals, no shower, library, youtube. And that is just the prequel. Wait for the methodology chapter - the most futile chapter in every dissertation where you present, not what is interesting or important, but how you got to the bits of information that you can't write about because you need the word count to write about how you found it out. It drives me crazy. I don't even want to find our anything anymore.
What I am doing now is watching The First Knight on BBC, with Richard Gere and Sean Connery, both of whom have appalling British accents. And having one of the quarter-yearly life admin sessions, where I am going through piles of Excel sheets all labelled 'my life', to find that my accountant abandoned me ages ago. Ok, sooooo, back to BBC.

(The protagonist turns to the audience. She is wearing an old t-shirt; in the background we hear some of the dialogue of The First Knight)

I would want to complain at this point, so I do, unless ITV rolls the credits midway through my speech, or Audi drives their latest steel monster into the frame. On the subject of: job seeking. You should know, dear audience, I LOVE to work. In fact I love working so much, I had to capitalise it. The only problem between me and my love for work at the moment are these awful online applications, awkwardly formatted PDF documents and descriptions over descriptions of coffee-mate positions advertised cunningly as 'assistant' or 'junior so and so'. And it's not even the case that I don't like writing an application, because I like writing about myself. It's the writing part that these generic application forms get wrong. They don't want a cover letter where I can express myself in a clear grammar, with illustrations of my working life - no, they want Twitteresque joke-elaborations of no more than 28 1/2 characters about me, my previous jobs, my aspirations and my references. These applications are processed by a computer tracing keywords and eliminating everybody who writes without using those. It reminds me strongly of my old Biology class, where points where gained if certain words appeared in the text of your answer. Needless to say, I nearly failed the class. I am just not very good at using standardised, formulaic prose to express myself about....myself. So, I probably fail to get a job. Despite one and a half degree, some half decent work experience and a serious need for money.
Every time I start one of the online applications now, I feel like crying, because I know that the same questions will litter the way to the final, relieving sentence: 'Thank you for submitting your application. We will be in touch shortly'. Well, who is we? He? Who is that 'we' who tells me time and time again that they will be in touch with me and really, they never are?

(Curtain. No re-entrance of the protagonist. The audience is violently pushed out of the theatre)

Metro: 29th February 2013

Samuel Beckett, the author of 'Online Job Applications' strikes again. The play is a masterpiece on the confusing nature of the digitalised world of the current employment market and its weaknesses. He manages to highlight the unnatural relationship between employment seeker and computer, and the attentive critic spots technological determinism as a recurring motive and background of the play. The jobseeker, played brilliantly by a job seeking unknown, manages to convey real despair and confusion in the tradition of Beckett's plays. One does recognise elements of 'En Attendant Godot' and 'Molloy' in the character, but it is the first time that Beckett focusses on a female lead in search of an unknown, unreachable goal. The confusing nature of the online system, played by an exquisite Bill Nighy, fills the audience with doubts about their own careers, and it is not by any chance that Beckett included into the stage directions the presence of a psychologist and a motivation trainer. We feel that this is not the last we have seen of the anonymous jobseeker; we hope that Beckett will again use this character in a series of plays or novels, and built up on the confusion we experienced in this first encounter with the jobseeker.
It is an honour to see this play.

(Curtain again, a second one. Enter Beckett, in knickerbockers. He remains silent)

German arachno-musical-operas and lots of boredom

Signs are the new signifiers

It's early March and it's freezing. My nose, fingers and cheek bones are gone already. Gone the Ranulph Fiennes way, soon to be followed by toes, legs and ears. Why is the weather so inconsistent? Why was this Sunday so boring and why on earth can I not find my second Christmas sock?

These are the worries of a middle-class Capitalist. Me. But, today's clutter holds a couple of pearls. Well, let's say well-made costume jewellery. Another completely bored Capitalist from the land of Oz facebooked something about making an opera about the ongoing drama about Spiderman: the Musical. Yay. Because I have neither talent nor education, only a serious passion for puns and lame jokes, I signed up to do the lyrics. In German. Wagner, eat your heart out. I should emphasise, I have no idea what is going on with the musical, I haven't followed the news and I have certainly no interest in Spiderman. In short, I am the man for the job. Woman, woman..... (feminist muttering).

I like semiotic layering - there is nothing as comforting as discovering a second layer of signs after peeling away the first layer with much care and precision. The second, third, fourth etc. layers are for the knowing, you know, dear non existing reader. Knowing is knowing, as George W. Bush might have said, but he didn't, he said something about fooling, which really was just foolish, and he knew. But he didn't know. Knowing goes beyond knowing theoretical crap that fills academic volumes since the invention of the printing press, or rather, since the invention of academic volumes. Knowing now is no longer just knowledge, it is knowing  and knowing how to use the knowledge, where to find it, and what to exclude from our search for knowledge. Take that Victorian toffs and your encyclopaedias. It's knowledge 2.0, where a Twitter status is worth just about as much as the entry for 'screwdriver'. Mind you, it has to be the right status. What I imply is that a lot more intellectual and social weight is accorded to a message less than 140 characters,  airport-tweeted, coffee-break-tweeted, before-descending-to-tube-tweeted or waiting-for-date-tweeted, more or less carefully crafted and then spewed out into the world by the touch of a button. And there it is then, it can be deleted, but it can never be revoked - it exists in cyberspace. Think of an article in the Encyclopaedia Britannica: before it comes into existence, it is checked, double-checked, edited and signed-off and then printed. A tweet only benefits from the Fruit's ghastly spellchecker and autocorrect, which fails to recognise terrible grammar mistakes involving the use of apostrophes. If you can't spare two characters for the benefit of your reader, why bother at all?

Literati should rejoice over Twitter: it is a platform for the essential Haiku, the short, short story and other Hemingway-inspired writings, though mainly about life, not about death. For the witty, Twitter could be the nec plus ultra in their writing career, for the not-so-very-witty, it is yet another platform to display poor punctuation, self-importance and narcissism. Did I mention that I tweet?

Boredom, a subtle change of subject, yet another Sunday spent sitting in the cold, trying to convince people that their taste is NOT universal. I am of course always ready to get the big guns out, hit them frontally with Bourdieu and Hebdige, Panofsky and that other guy, Cowell, but then again, I leave it. As much as my Sundays are devoted to intellectual exchange and Monday's readings, other people's Sundays are devoted to bad fashion and roasts. Those things do not work well together, especially after a couple of pints at the local boozer. If a non-art student then wants you to leave your prejudices behind in favour of a more structural, stylistic or economical view of the world, you get really cross. Yes, I am talking to you, man in the green sweater and woman with the rather heavy perfume. If you don't like what you see, why do you start talking about it in the first place? Both of you, among others, missed the moment to just shut up and keep it to yourselves. Or start writing a blog that nobody will read, or better still, write your comments on a piece of paper and burn it when you're done. Or tweet it, where people have the option of not following you (why would they???).

A little learning is a dangerous thing (Alexander Pope) if formulated in less than 140 characters.

Dictatorship of the Fruit and other things addictive

As of today, I am tweeting. (Today in fact was Thursday. Thursday is today once a week, which makes Thursday really happy, if only Thursday could be today everyday, but then everyday is today all the time, which makes Thursday really confused)

Me and Ravi in the latest Sci-Fi flick Fondue: The Next Generation

It wasn't meant to happen. I was an accident, I swear. In an attempt to have a lookie-look at someone else's Twitter account, I accidentally registered myself. So. With a full stop. I could have deleted the account immediately, but as it is the case with all things new and ever so slightly unknown, I couldn't resist. And spent most of my leisure time (some people in my semi-direct environment pronounce this word 'liiiiiisua time') trying to track down people I could stalk with my newly extended Go-Go-Gadget vocal cords. Again I must insist that I am innocent and that I couldn't resist the fangs of the evil tweeting bird of procrastination. 

Peep. So at half two I have one of these super insight moments, where all of a sudden life makes a little more sense in the wider context until I wake up tomorrow with a sleep deprivation hangover, a sleepover, thinking what an idiot I am to stay up that late, and wake up this fucked(ly). Not in the literal sense. If indeed I had been fucked all night (presumably some one-sided action) I might not feel fucked. Communication is low tonight, I apologise, dear non-existing reader, but remember I have tweeted my way through irrelevant human history until just now. To write a blog post... All this could not happen, had I not a piece of silver fruit lying in my lap. Another one of my sleek, suave transitions to refer back to the title: for the metaphorically challenged, I am writing this post from a silver Mac. On its throne of human leg it condescendingly stares at me with the bleak expression of a tyrant who only values its sovereigns for their willingness to submit themselves unquestioningly to its commands. Shift A, em, iiihh, enn. 

Without my silver dictator no Twitter, no Facebook, no Emails, no life. Big fruit is watching me.

Which does not at all cohere with the other half (1/4 more likely) of my life that is crafting away all evening, wearing my thrifted dress, my retro specs with a botched victory roll and a large cup of tea (victory roll on head, tea on desk). How come that there is a increasing discrepancy between my technologically advanced life and my smudging, crafting existence? This question doesn't come out of nowhere; it is tied into the narrative that will become my dissertation at some point later in the year. Why is there an increasing interest in practical skills and rather traditional occupations that contrasts the hyper-technologised life? And this is just the beginning: I wasn't born into a technoliterate society, and I certainly wasn't raised to embrace the use of all things computer-y. Now however, we take it for granted. Try and imagine life before mobile phone, or life before Facebook. WHAT DID WE DO?????? (I sort of have a hunch that I ate most of the time....) Is there a correlation between the above collective loss of memory of 'what was before the computer' and the revival of a lifestyle before the technological awakening? Are select cultural subgroups celebrating the cult of vintage (like a religion) to built a new faith from scratch, one that is both incredibly stylish and comforting in an era where iPhones hit the market like marbles the bullied kid in school? Are sewing and crafting substitutes for values that are lost in the speed of our times? And how much more can we take? We all tweet, facebook, flicker, google, youtube, pinterest ourselves, blog, update, download, upload, stream, comment, like, unlike, unfriend, add, follow, block, tag, untag, scroll, track and click on a daily basis: we are not creating a spectacle - we ARE the spectacle (thanks to Guy Debord for this spectacular insight). There is no longer a distinction between me, my Mac and my Twitter account.

Hm, maybe there is. Spectacular, spectacular, no words in the vernacular, can describe this great event, you'll be dumbed with wonderment. (hooray for Baz Luhrman) I agree with certain grumpy, dead German scholars that quite possibly, we've reached a state of complete commodification, and that now, all attempt to escape it involves a wooden box and cheap flowers (which are bought in by the bucket load). To escape the technified world of pretty, white goods of consumption originating in Silicon Valley, by way of cheap Chinese labour, means to choose but a different commodity to cling onto. Fail, if you observe it from the outside, which you can't really, according to dead German philosophers. But I like consumption. (Also, I would quite like to destroy Victorian/Edwardian metaphors here: I am not Leonard Bast - there are antibiotics - there is more or less central heating: it is time to rid consumption of its negative connotations.) I like to identify myself with a particular group and this year's great event is the Vintage Festival in July, where like-minded vintage consumers gather to celebrate consumption in its purest and retroest form. Hat included. The dictatorship of the fruit is at work here too: how many vintage lovers do you see scrolling up and down their iPads or iPhones to see where one can find the best original YSL gloves in their original packaging bought in 1953 in Indonesia from a passing Frenchman in return for a bowl of soup? Hm, maybe I went a bit too far with this example, but the truth is, because the Fruit still benefits from its 90s and Naughties artsy image, a lot of the artsy vintage crowd are proud to use the Fruit. And I don't see as much of a contradiction in using the Fruit and liking vintage simultaneously. I must admit that I have written myself into a oneway street, and I am way too tired to talk myself out again. So this ends abruptly.

Leadership theory. Is it just me?

Amplified self-confidence and the long way back

It felt like a long, warm hug from the Über-mother. A soothing drink for the soar self-confidence. A pat on the back of my ego. A Networking and Life skills workshop. 

That's the normal King's: all levels to a minimum

There is something intrinsically funny about a workshop hosted by a top agency, top people, with loads of free material and a well-structured schedule on the premises of King's College. But then we are CMCI, we like the binaries. It's now Saturday, sometime around midnight and I still feel energised. In fact, today was the first time in my entire time at King's that I felt energised at all, not drained of all my passion and will to live. I went into the workshop with little to no expectations at all, hoping to find at least some like-minded people to talk about what is bothering me. In addition to these people, we were presented with a group of professionals who actually cared about us. C-A-R-E. Unheard of in the area around the Strand, London, where levels of botheredness are so low, they fall beyond the bother-o-meter, off the scale into the Thames. And here are these people talking to us as if we were real human beings, valuing and evaluating every word we say. They even brought a former policeman in, who, admittedly, put a bit too much emphasis on the fact that he was not one of us, but a South-London boy with a Cockney accent, and a suit that wouldn't win the hearts of the Fashion Week people. Nevertheless, he rocked. And still rocks on. My hopes are all set on becoming a hostage negotiator. Denzel Washington-styly. Only that I am not male, not American, not black, not good at it, and not in a movie. The essence is that these people made us dream. Very realistic dreams in fact, about what is possible, not about what is impossible. 

The positive vibe that infused King's today was almost too much to bear - only hyper-regulated lunchtimes managed to keep us grounded. So where do they go right, where most other people go wrong? How did they manage to get my attention and keep it for two entire days with hardly any interruption (apart from said mealtimes)? How come that coloured pencils work more effectively than lecture handouts?

My main question of the day, and one of many unanswered ones (and that is a good thing!), was how can I make people listen to me? I find that people often switch off while I am talking. So, is it the boring content? My uninspiring articulation? My tone? My expressions? My general unappeal? What turns them off? Rather than being upset about it (though I still am, a bit) I explore the room for improvement, thanks to somebody who talks people off buildings, and somebody else who worked for a toothpaste manufacturer. I simplify here, because it makes the better story, and THAT is exactly what these two days were about: a story! My story, my life and the chapters to come. The dull prequel and the rather unimaginative introduction are over, now it's time to make things happen. What I need to do is work on the brand that is 'ME': 'ME' is the latest product of Alice, your trusted manufacturer of useless goods. 'ME' is launched in just one flavour, but with the promise of more to be developed within a short time. The components of 'ME' are a rather eclectic mix of novelty, eloquence, exchange, unattachedness, faithfulness and passion, shaped in the form of a regular Alice, but with a completely new recipe. 'ME' does not promise: 'ME' does. With its active ingredients of passion and novelty, 'ME' has everything future employers want: 'ME' will facilitate the generation of novelty ideas; it will provide the drive to make ideas go further; it will have the necessary distance to the project to see the need for correction; it will commit to the cause and want to finish the project: 'ME' does what others don't. (I love writing my own adverts) 

Also, what I learned today is that I need to stop complaining about my faults (see egocentrism) and start working with them as part of me, and potential strengths if modelled to my satisfaction. So I start here: 1. complaining (one for today is enough, I think). I like to complain, I have written to you, dear non-existing reader, about my complaints and what they mean to me. I have come to terms with them, and yet, they keep me from seeing myself clearly. They act as a veil of mounted dissatisfaction over my chubby face, blurring the distinctions between real unhappiness and just a bit of discomfort over some things that went a bit square. So, out with the complaints, in with positive feedback. I have decided that starting now, I will say positive things and stop moaning about everything, because my time is just NOT worth bothering. Uff that is quite a New Year's resolution, in mid-February.

Made me think about a beans party