Neurotic Arm Syndrome and Its Effects on a Monday Morning

You’re leaving your house on a Monday morning. Outside, the weather is spring-like, and the air is full of freshly processed oxygen from the trees which line the pavements. You walk along the broken concrete, dodging dog poo, and taking in the sight of the new houses being erected on the opposite side of the road. Spellbound by the novelty of walking to work and the prospect of some morning exercise, you see beauty in everything. ‘What lovely breeze blocks,’ you think.

You’re light-headed with optimism for the day ahead. It matters not that you’re going on a training day to be taught a subject you feel you’re  adept with already, and it isn’t at all off-putting that some of the people in that training room will have self-righteous opinions about the underclass of Britain today.

Your positive outlook carries you to the end of the street as you pass cyclists, dog walkers and primary school children busy scurrying after the hems of their mother’s bespoke bohemian skirts. Satisfied with the magic of  this morning world waking up around you, you decide to give the scene a sound track.

From your bag you pull out your dad’s iPod which you borrowed on the weekend, because you thought you’d lost yours, but which you later found. The inherited playlist of  Bucks Fizz, Chas ‘n’ Dave, Hot Chocolate and Irene Cara amuses you, and, after  The Land of Make Believe, Rabbit, You Sexy Thing and Fame, has provided you the voyeuristic pleasure of imagining your dad dancing around his ’60s bedroom in his underpants and singing into his comb, you laugh. Loudly.

The sudden attention you attract by guffawing in the street makes you feel conspicuous.  Because you don’t want to unsettle the parents of small children or frighten cyclists from their bikes, you check your bag for your own iPod, the one which suits you and not your dad; the one which offers a different type of entertainment. But it isn’t there. Knowing you haven’t got time to return home, you forget about the music and remove the headphones from your ears.

As you walk along, you remember last night’s dream. You dreamt of a camel. Before putting the iPod back in your bag, you check your dream app for an interpretation. “To dream of camels,” it says, “foretells that you are about to inherit mining property.” Once again you laugh, but once again you feel like you’re drawing attention to yourself. You decide to put the iPod back into your bag.

You continue in earnest to take in your surroundings. After a moment of breathing in more fresh oxygen, watching cyclists, parents, children, and the sullen faces of drivers and their teenage kids who’re being driven to school, the novelty of walking to work on a Monday morning begins to wane. And after tripping over a broken pavement, you begin to wish you had driven the car.

As malaise creeps in, you become aware of your Being. You hear your shoes as their soles and heels hit the pavement, you recognise the scuffing sound of your jeans as your legs move back and forth. Then, when you notice your arms swinging back and forth,  you feel incongruous once again.

You wonder how to halt their pendulous speed. You go for the laid back look, go to dig your hands in your coat pockets, then remember you don’t have any. You figure you’re walking too fast so try to slow down, but your immediate change in speeds draws the attention of a passing teenage boy who gives one you a funny look.

As he passes, you lament your arms’ stubborn independence and  begin to recall the times when they held you back. Those interviews when you didn’t know whether it was best to fold them, lean on them, leave them in your lap or entwine them around the back of your head. That half marathon when you tried to keep them still but lost your balance.  When you speed up your pace again, they swing with such verve it’s as though they’re playing out a satirical role in an episode of Dad’s Army.

You imagine everyone is talking about you: ‘HAHA!’ they’re saying, ‘Look at her arms!’ Decisively, you pretend to everyone that you have stiff fingers. For the remaining mile you walk and wiggle your fingers like you’re playing air piano. Surprisingly, the phobia of letting your arms swing outweighs the stupidity of your own performance. And, by the time you arrive at your training day, you’re resentful of morning walks,  grateful for iPods and cars and ready to battle it out for the underdog.

Top 10 Romantic Movies for Geeks

Reblogged from Funk's House of Geekery:

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Update: Hey everyone, we’re very happy to have been Freshly Pressed for the 2nd time! Thanks to regular readers who have been supporting our writing team since day one and a heartful welcome to our new readers! Enjoy your time at the House of Geekery, and make sure you check the homepage to see our other great features!

We’re bringing the Weekly Top 10 forward a few days this week for obvious reasons.

Read more… 1,422 more words, 9 more videos

This much I know

1) The food on someone else’s plate is not calorie free

2) Comedy programmes with laughter tracks are mostly unfunny

3) Cats are mostly both lazy and psychic

4) ‘LOL’ means ‘I don’t know what else to say’

5) In another life, Yahoo Front Page is a couples’ counsellor for Relate

6) Triangular sandwiches taste better than rectangular ones

7) Clichés are the resort of the brainwashed mind

8) French Presidents do not send email offers of Viagra

9) Self-proclaimed ‘Bubbly’ women are crying on the inside

10) Middle class mothers in Starbucks: when ‘Tilly’ or ‘Jack’ are having fun, it means I’m not.

You will feed me Dreamies

The Art of Text Kissing

Dilemmas are not uncommon with me. I deliberate over which side to wear my hair parting, and often take at least two minutes to decide an answer to the question, ‘Tea or coffee?’

But these are the big decisions in life, aren’t they? After all, if I was to wear my parting on the left side, my fringe would engage in its natural inclination to skim my left eye, flop completely over my right, thus simultaneously cutting off half my vision and transforming me into the love child of Robert Plant and Gerard Way. Meanwhile, deciding whether to have tea or coffee is comparable to choosing whether to embody the persona of the Dalai Lama or Tyler Durden.

Maybe I think too much. After all, a choice about my appearance or state of mind only affects me. 

But the conundrum of kisses  – or X’s – and whether to end a text with one, is a decision which affects not only me but the recipient too.

So what is polite? Back in the day, when I was a novice mobile user, text rules were an unfamiliar concept for me. I would text using full words, sentences and punctuation, and it certainly never entered my mind to end these communications with an ‘X’. It was just a message, after all. And it’s not as if people exchange kisses so readily in person…

You can just imagine the awkwardness, can’t you? ‘How are you today,’ I say, before planting a smacker on the chops of my school/uni/work/sports friends and acquaintances.

“Yes, I’m good thanks,” they say, before returning the favour.

“What’ve you been up to?” I say, once again diving in for another embrace.

“Oh y’know,” they say, before once again reciprocating.

You get the picture. And it begs the question, where would it all stop? The deeper the conversation, the longer the smooch. Do confessions of secrets constitute a snog?

Back then, a friend politely inquired as to why I don’t end my messages to her with kisses when, after all, such affections were permanently at the end of her’s. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I never thought about it.’  Concerned as I was for the offence the absence of my ‘X’ would potentially cause, an ‘X’ was from thereon at the end of every exchange with her. And it progressed to others: anyone who kissed me would be returned with the compliment.

But what about the quantity of kisses? If someone ends their text with one ‘X’, should we also? And what about two? Or three?

After giving it some thought, I figured a straightforward guide to the meanings behind text kissing was a must for anyone who, like me, really needs to cut down on their non-essential thinking time.

No kiss: ‘I am your manager or professional acquaintance.’ Or, ‘I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.’ Or,  I’m annoyed with you right now.’ Or, ‘You know we’re just friends, right?

X: ‘I am your manager or professional acquaintance, but I’m a friendly person too.’ Or, ‘I like you less than I did, so I’m slowly withdrawing affection.’ Or ‘I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.’ Or, ‘I’m a bit annoyed with you, you’re only getting one!’ Or, ‘This is a courtesy because you’re a woman and I’m a man.’ Or, ‘I have to dash!’

XX: ‘I am your manager, but do boundaries in texts really matter?’ Or,  ‘I’m happy with you!’ Or, ‘We’re women, we’re friends, this is what we do.’

XXX: ‘I am your manager and I’ve got a drink problem.’ Or, ‘I am excited!’ Or, ‘You’re a friend and I am here for you.’ Or, ‘You’re not a really good friend, and neither am I, but I’m covering my tracks by overcompensating.’ Or, ‘I love you and I’m drunk.’ Or, ‘I fancy you and I’m drunk.’ Or, ‘I don’t fancy you, but I’m drunk and I’ll probably regret this in the morning.’

XXXX: ‘You might want to consider taking out an injunction against me’, or, ‘I’m under the age of 21.’

So you see, the art of text kissing is a sensitive one, and one which should be approached with serious caution. The lesson to learn is, if someone sends you a text with any number of kisses, and this makes you, a) Question yourself for not feeling an equal amount of affection for humanity, and, therefore, b) Fear for your professional/personal relationships/friendships or life as a result, just pick up the phone and call them. It might add years to your life expectancy.

Pssst…When I kick the bucket (list)

Seriously. Bucket lists are unashamedly clichéd, aren’t they? They’re also self-defeating.  Surely if you live life according to your desire to ‘Learn Japanese’ or ‘Make friends with at least five strangers in the street’, and you say ‘No!’ to other opportunities because you’re frightened they’ll interfere with your long-term goals, then not only are you preventing spontaneity from propelling you forward into new and unexpected experiences, you’re also leaving yourself wide open to being sectioned. (Who, really, WHO, talks to, let alone makes friends with, total strangers on the street?)

Anyway, put off as I am by Bucket Lists which focus on life, I am partial to bit of planning when it comes to life after death.

Don’t worry, I’m not religious and I’m not about to subject you to images of me swanning around in Grecian robes and feeding red grapes and Chardonnay to saints. It’s just that life after death implies the opportunity to metamorphose into a ghost, and boy, am I up for that.

List of things I’ll do when I’m dead:

1) Visit my old primary school friend, Tracy, who I made a pact with to visit after death, just to prove ghosts exist

2) Float to the moon, meet Elvis and mock the living world by performing a loud duet of Suspicious Minds

3) Stalk David Cameron until, during an interview on Newsnight, and in a state of panic, he tilts his head to one side, moves his eyes slowly around the room, checks behind him, then confides to an incredulous Jeremy Paxman about how he’s being followed by a ghost

4) Eat custard slices. Tons of them.

5) Ride a Unicorn

OK. So, in contrast to the clichéd Bucket List, mine isn’t very long. But I’ll add to it every day. I promise…really…

Unicorns: they're lovely, aren't they?

Conversations with the internet: So long, Yahoo.

Yahoo: Do you want to stay slim?

Me: Err, I’d like to be slim and then stay slim.

Yahoo: OK, well do you want to know the six secrets of  the most succesful slimmers?

Me: I’m not stupid, Yahoo, I know what to eat.

Yahoo: Well then maybe you need to cut down on your portion size?

Me: Look, Yahoo, I’m not being funny but there’s nothing you can teach me about food, OK?

Yahoo: OK, but, hah, let me just check something… is a tomato a fruit or a vegetable?

Me: Seriously, Yahoo, I can hang out with others, y’know? Twitter, Facebook…

Yahoo: Do you spend all your time on-line?

Me: Well, not all of it, I go out too, but a lot of the time I’m online because…

Yahoo: Don’t you know how Twitter and Facebook can damage your health?

Me: Um, yes I probably do, common sense really…

Yahoo: You need to take control of your social life!

Me: Yahoo, you’re very bossy, aren’t you? Could we talk about something else?

Yahoo: OK. Well…um…I know! Did you hear that Beyoncé didn’t actually give an interview to a magazine after her baby was born? The interview published was fake…!

Me: And why would I care about that?

Yahoo: OK, well did you know Denise Welch got her knockers out on Big Brother?

Me: That’s just too much…

Yahoo: And do you watch Corrie? ‘Cos Owen slapped Faye this week and it Caused UPROAR.

Me: Do you have any real news, like from the real world?

Yahoo: This is proper news!

Me: I don’t think I can bear this …

Yahoo: What’s that supposed to mean?

Me: You’re superficial, condescending…you’re like the Daily Mail’s stupider younger sister who’s even MORE OBSESSED with celebrity culture. I really don’t think I can do this anymore…

Yahoo: What? Where are you going?

Me: I’m taking my mail and I’m going.

Yahoo: But…

Me: I’m sorry…

Road rage as catharsis

You’re in your car, moving slowly through rush hour traffic. You’re driving your daughter to a university interview at Cardiff’s local art school. You should, because you’ve lived there all your life, know where you’re going, but in the absence of proper sleep after a week of some surprises, you don’t. Said daughter is in the passenger seat beside you, cheeks flushed red, simultaneously daydreaming about one day winning the Turner Prize, while arguing down her mobile to her boyfriend because he forgot to wish her luck. Given the blank look she throws at you when you interrupt her to ask, ‘You know where to go when you get there, yes?’ you know that, despite the fact she’s eighteen, she hasn’t made it to the land of adulthood.

The traffic stops and starts with each of the red, amber and greens of the seemingly never-ending sets of lights.

Trying to figure out where to go, you spot a familiar coffee shop in the distance, then, experiencing a dramatic memory recall, you remember you used to work next door to the art school. You soon recall which lane you need to be in: the lane to the left is for turning left, the lane to your right for turning right. Because you’re in the middle one, which is the wrong one, and nobody’ll let you in the left one, which is the one you need to be in, you decide to continue straight ahead, over the hill and around the roundabout.

You glance at your daughter. You repeat yourself and ask, ‘You know which room the interview is in, yes?’ Another blank look tells you she really doesn’t.

The lights turn green and you take your foot off the brakes and move forward two meters to meet the traffic. You are interrupted by the sound of the horn from the taxi behind you. You try to ignore it: you take a deep breath and wonder why taxi drivers are so sure of themselves. The horn is relentless. Your daughter is making up with her boyfriend. The horn continues to beep. You wonder how she’ll survive university. The horn continues to beep. You wonder how she’ll survive an interview. The horn continues to beep. Your patience can take no more: you twist around and attempt to vault over your seat and towards the rear view window.

For a moment, you shout and gesticulate the lane rules to the female taxi driver, who looks like Anne Widdecombe, and whose indignant mirroring of your arm waving demonstrates that there’s no way she’s in the wrong. You hear your daughter laughing and asking her boyfriend, who’s obviously now forgiven, and who she thinks must instinctively know the answers to everything, ‘What’s my Mum doing?’

You wonder this too. You imagine a police car pulling up beside you, rolling down the driver’s window and asking a similar question.You imagine your daughter trying to explain to her future lecturers how she’s late because her mum has been arrested for affray with an Anne Widdecombe look-alike.  You see the worried face of an old lady with a shopping trolley, scuffling up the pavement to your left and shaking her head. You look for traces of disappointment on the faces of surrounding drivers. But one, in the lane to the left, points back towards Anne Widdecombe and mouths, ‘Taxi Drivers’ while rolling his eyes up to his head.

Your daughter is busy narrating a run down of your unexpected outburst to her boyfriend, providing him with details of where you are, where you need to be going, and how you should have just been in the left lane from the start. ‘You have to know where you’re going in life,’ she said, ‘that’s how you avoid unnecessary trouble.’

You sit down. You realise there’s no police car, that old ladies are designed to be disappointed with society, and that the driver in the lane to the left is on your side. The lights have changed. You take the hand brake off, give two fingers to the taxi driver behind, put your foot on the accelerator and ascend the hill. You look briefly at your daughter, who’s now only flushed with laughter. You realise she’s OK. You know she’s going to be OK.  And now you know exactly where you’re both going.

A hundred years from now…

…there’s a bleak future ahead for those who believe in love.

According to the BBC News’  ‘Twenty top predictions for life 100 years from now’,  where readers, and futurologists, Ian Pearson and Patrick Tucker, respectively predict and assess the probability of what life will be like in the future,  there will be a 6/10 likelihood that marriages will be ‘designed’ only to last a decade or two, rather than a whole lifetime. Apparently, ‘if you marry at 20 and live to well over 100, that is far too long a commitment.’

Now I’m not unrealistic, and I’m not a traditionalist:  I’ve failed at some relationships, and I’ve got the lessons they taught me imprinted in my mind like tombstone  epitaphs. And I’m certainly not a believer that a piece of paper approved by a so-called God or man-made law means that a union of two people ensures monogamy, trust, and happiness. But the scepticism that an eighty year marriage is ‘far too long a commitment’, and the statement that marriages will be ‘designed’, as though they’re the creation of some jilted social architect, is far too suggestive of a world where humans are incapable of innate, independent thoughts and feelings.

Funnily enough, on the 10th of January the BBC published a story about a couple who were celebrating their 70th wedding anniversary. But, compared to now, of course, the ’40s was a different era entirely, and an era, at that, which will probably be the very antithesis of society one hundred years from now. And the biggest difference, of course,  is that, when Britain declared war on Germany and re-introduced national conscription, life, love and existence was much more valuable. So, back then, people placed an increasing emphasis on being with the ones they love for as long as they could.  Whereas, modern British society, with its miserable, capitalist-driven politics,  and technological advances that encourage paranoia and invite temptation, is far too preoccupied with money, image and a ‘grass is always greener’ outlook.

Where is all the love going?

…Charlotte Bronte is probably spinning in her grave.

Facebook Paranoia: ‘Help! I’ve Lost a Friend!’

Yesterday while using Facebook as a distraction from my writing responsibilities, I noticed that a friend had disappeared from my Friends list. This experience isn’t new. Only a few months ago two cousin Friends deleted me from their Friends list because my opinion on Amy Winehouse, heroin and bipolar disorder was having a hair-pulling, playground fight with their thoughts on the same subjects.  Cue some sulking from them which resulted in me being no longer able to see their, ‘ X-Factor! Yay!’, and, ‘If you’ve got something to say, say it to my face!’ status updates, as well as daily alerts on what they’re having for breakfast/lunch/dinner. For some, this would be devastating. For me, it’s about as relevant as Wayne Rooney’s new hairline. But my latest Delete-r holds more gravitas in her departure than either of those family members.

We met five years ago, through a mutual friend, on New Year’s Eve. She loved Frankenstein, I love Frankenstein; her favourite novel was Jane Eyre, my favourite novel is Jane Eyre. And as we shivered there in the beer garden of Cardiff’s Pen and Wig during the first festive season of the new smoking ban, sharing menthol cigarettes and sipping perfume-flavoured Chardonnay, a new FB friend was made. During the following five years we liked each other’s status updates, shared wry, satirical links; we voted ‘Yes!’ to Wales’s’ Referendum, paid our respects to the deaths of Jeremy Beadle and Lesley Nielsen, and abstained from Lolling, Rolfling, or, even, Laughing Our Arses Off.

Then she was gone.

As witnessed by the exodus of family members, I can offend.  But, during a relatively quiet news time, my opinions had no platform to cause offence. In fact, in the last 24 hours my activity on FB included:

1)      Sharing a picture of Anne Hathaway without eyebrows

2)      Lamenting the growth rate of my thighs.

Now, unless said friend has secret telepathic powers and was able to pick up my somewhat darker inner thoughts, of:

1)      Hahahaha! He sounds like Jim Trott from the Vicar of Dibley! (While watching Dominic West’s portrayal of the Serial Killer in ITV’s new drama,  Appropriate Adult)

2)      This stalking malarkey is easy to write about, am I a natural? (While writing a short story)

and was frightened by some, granted, evidence of nonchalance towards elements of real or portrayed psychopathy, I could think of no reason for her abandonment.

This lack of conclusion meant I had two choices. I could either email my Friend and ask her directly why she’s deleted me, therefore somewhat impinging her right to do whatever she likes; or just leave it, ignore it, try and forget, but potentially let FB paranoia whisk me away with all the might of  Hurricane Irene.

Being your average, reasonable human, I chose not to impinge upon someone’s free will. However, hours later, and me being me, the inevitable struck. Suddenly, with imaginary thoughts about said Friend being particularly prickly about those who laugh at serious based-on-true-events drama, I imagined a conspiracy: a FB page set up by said Friend to rouse existing Friends into deleting me for being flippant about serial killing. Cue mostly sleepless night, interspersed with dreams of me stalking said friend with demands for truth.

Eventually, this morning, I emerged from bed with two parts of my brain, Paranoia and Rationale, fighting for supremacy.

‘I was deleted last night,’ said Paranoia, as soon as I woke up. ‘Why did she do it?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Rationale lamented, ‘I’m sure she had her reasons.’

‘But what? I haven’t done anything.’

‘It’s not personal, she must have stuff on her mind.’

‘Really? Like what?’

‘Well I don’t know, I rarely speak to her outside FB.’

‘So what are you on about then? You can’t tell me it’s OK if you haven’t got any evidence, can you?’

‘Uh…well…’

‘Well…?’

‘No.’

‘So…’ Paranoia smiled.

‘Well, what are you going to do now?’ Rationale asked, hand on hip, concerned.

‘I’ll just ask her,’ Paranoia said.

‘On FB?’

‘No,’ Paranoia said, ‘On Twitter.’

And so it goes.

Pastiche of The Bell Jar: A Quick Route to Depression…

I’m a keen advocate of writing for therapy. I believe that recalling and detailing past traumatic experiences in written form can be very effective in reducing any residual stress, anxiety and depression. I’m not coy in admitting I’ve experience of mental illness, and writing has, in the past, been an effective way of objectifying my experiences. So don’t slander me when I say that when the claustrophobic, rigid, stubborn blackness of depression has gone, I wouldn’t want to write about it in any more depth than as a bye the by, because I understand why people do, and I fully comprehend the ability of art to behave as a healing conduit. However, what interests me is the difference between how valuable empathy is when an individual is in the pit of despair, and how much it is rejected as a reminder of that emotion when the experience causing the despair has passed.

It’s well-known that Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar was partly autobiographical, and, as an autobiographical novel of traumatic experience, I think the novel is a feat of empirical merit; you only have to look at the misery memoir genre to know that the factual ‘this happened to me and it was hell’ narrative is of lesser artistic merit than what can be found in The Bell Jar.  And once upon a time, when I was ill but not too ill, when I was unable to write but able to concentrate on reading, the novel was helpful: through the story I found relatable experience which allowed me to believe that, although my brain is often subdued into a mute state during depression, my creative mind would at some point re-emerge.

But, several years later, during November of last year, when I was writing again, I decided to forgo any apprehension connected with revisiting depression to attempt a pastiche for the NaNoWriMo project which I’d just discovered through a link on Facebook. The aim was to complete a whole novel in a month. Because it seemed like such a monumental task to someone who wasn’t writing as regularly as she is now, I felt a pastiche would be the ideal way to guide me through the process; especially since the only other idea fermenting in my mind was my work in progress, Roof Box, which I wasn’t about to jeopardize for the purpose of experiment. The Bell Jar was just hanging out beside my bed, unmoved for I don’t know how long; incongruous amidst more upbeat novels, yet indifferent at the same time. I chose it because I’m lazy, because it was the closest to me, because I act impulsively and, when it comes to writing, sometimes without too much forethought.

Unfortunately, I didn’t see the project through to the end of the month. After personal challenges intervened, I forgot about it altogether. Until today that is, when sifting through my folders I stumbled upon it. At the time of writing, I remember feeling how my mood was becoming affected. I began to feel a malaise that I hadn’t experienced for some time. But putting it down to the time of year, and the propensity of people who’ve experienced mental ill-health encountering a mood drop come Winter, I didn’t think about it too much.

When I found the project today, however, and read over it, the same creeping darkness encroached on me. It’s nothing to worry about, of course: it’s not a clinical mood drop. What it is, however, is a clear demonstration of how art, when met by bad experience, can affect one’s appreciation of that art after the incident has passed.  Now I’m well, it’s as though The Bell Jar is haunted; and where once it helped me feel less alone, now it just makes me feel unsettled, like the spectre of depression looming in the corner waiting to enshroud me with its black blanket.

Ultimately, and without flowering it up, I’ve noticed how damn depressing The Bell Jar is.

Anyway, for the sake of posterity, here’s some of my pastiche (and before I bury the rest in a folder entitled, Hazardous). (The content isn’t autobiographical, incidentally, only the technical elements of The Bell Jar were used as influence; and not its autobiographical premise.)

                                                                                                                                      Chapter 1
I was about to leave for France when I heard the news. She’d hung herself in the centre of her kitchen; right where her husband would find her. When I returned, everyone in the office was banging on and on about how selfish she was. ‘She’s got a littl‘un,’ they cried. ‘How can anyone do that when they’ve a littl’un?’ These words were sermons repeated over and over. I wondered what it would be like, to wrap a rope around my neck, stand up on a chair then kick the damn thing away in one last two-finger salute.

Eventually the story of her suicide was like some nightmare where the presence of fear, of heavy-hanging misery, followed you around like a bad smell; like eggs or cat wee, or decomposing flesh. But there was something wrong with me that August: such events would normally linger for a bit then move on to haunt the next innocent and unsuspecting victim, but all I could think about was the suicide. Well, that and where I’d get my next drink from, how I was going to pay my credit card bill and how my postgraduate scholarship had turned out to be a total waste of time and effort when my days were spent sharing breathing space with, ‘Did you watch ‘Enders last night?’ and, ‘What did you eat for tea?’

A job like this was supposed to bring meaning to my life.

A job like this was meant to make me the envy of all other journalism graduates who were unemployed or jobbing it in Starbucks and McDonald’s, those who wanted nothing more than to be writing; even if it meant producing reportage vernacular about suicide statistics and the importance of fish oils in one’s diet. I dreamt about other alumni switching on their TV’s  and seeing me the upcoming launch of our project at the Castle. I imagined how their faces would green as local press photographed me and Andrew Lansley shaking hands; how they would spit bitter insults about their perceived inadequacies of me while I enunciated vowels, consonants and platitudes during our organisational statement.

Only the reality was never going to be like that. The last thing I ever expected when I signed up to work in Balance was to be saddled with work I didn’t want to do. It was never meant to be like that. I’d started the job waiting for the in-tray to fill up, for words to seep out through my fingers like silver coins from Penny Falls down Barry Island. But when the tray did fill, it was like it was someone else’s: the tray of someone who actually cared. Before long, after months of conjuring the enthusiasm to write articles about online shopping, and fighting back the bile I so wanted to unleash against the Coalition’s charitable cutbacks, I became indifferent.