tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140618072024-03-14T10:50:16.287+00:00Thiefree.netAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.comBlogger465125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-43184380260932470072016-03-31T21:53:00.003+01:002016-03-31T21:53:41.795+01:00On choosing sidesWhen I was a kid, everyone supported either Liverpool or Man United, and despite not knowing a thing about football I was encouraged to pick a side. Just the same, whenever there was a falling out between my classmates, someone would run up to me in the playground and say “are you on Tom’s side or Kirsty’s side?” (I’d refuse to pick a side; even then I was a difficult little bugger.)<br />
<br />
The same binary thinking is everywhere. Democrat or Republican, Gamergate or SJW, Red or Blue. You have to be all one thing or the other; no middle ground, no grey areas, no compromise. The internet has exacerbated this problem by providing us with more people to agree with us than we could ever need.<br />
<br />
This thinking is insidious, which is why I recently had to check myself (prior to any potential wrecking) when I saw a tweet I disagreed with by someone I respect. I still disagree with her, and I still respect her, because I don't want to fall into the trap of designating her "problematic" and putting her in the bin, nor of ignoring her flaws and setting myself up for disappointment. It's okay to have problematic faves.<br />
<br />
We’re too ready to regard other people as inferior copies of ourselves. I think that’s why we get angry when they won’t agree with us, and I think that’s why we draw these battle lines. John and Hank Green (known as the Vlogbrothers by their thousands of fans) often entreat their following to “imagine others complexly,” which is the most succinct way possible of expressing this idea. I’ve probably even quoted it on here before.<br />
<br />
This is not a callout post. I deleted about three paragraphs of specifics, but ultimately I don't want to go into the details. I left my comments where she may see them, may ignore them, may still disagree with them. The part I want to remember, is this:<br />
<br />
We have to learn to be comfortable in the middle ground, even if it means leaving contradictions unresolved. It's a far, far better way of being.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.<br />Walt Whitman</blockquote>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-68915327856895052462016-03-26T19:29:00.000+00:002016-03-26T19:37:24.582+00:00Cleaning house“What’s that, Anna? You’ve written 800 words about cleaning and church? Why, you must be a RIOT at parties,” I hear you cry. “u sarcastic bitch”, I reply.<br />
<br />
I am an untidy person. Whether this is nature or nurture, I couldn’t tell you, but I’m happy to let my entire floor disappear under strata of clothing before I finally decide to tidy. But when I clean, I clean HARD. And I think that has its roots in a church rota.<br />
<br />
As a child, I was raised by my religious community almost as much as by my parents. I therefore spent a lot of time wandering around the church my family has attended since the 50s. My grandfather, as I understand it, was one of the founding Elders, and it had always felt like a home – just with more pianos and a higher ceiling.<br />
<br />
Bethany Evangelical was (and still is, I’m sure) a community. We had rotas for everything: for flower arranging, music, sermons, the recording of said sermons onto countless cassette tapes... And, whether I liked it or not, my family and I were on the cleaning rota. I did not like it. Or, no, it was fun at first: up to about age 10, I loved running around the church in its off-hours, getting to know its every secret corner while playing hide and seek with our cousins. But playtime can’t last forever, and I was eventually expected to be useful.<br />
<br />
As I got older, and more fiercely protective of my lie-ins, I started to resent the enforced early mornings. I’d never signed up for this, after all! How often do plastic chairs really need dusting, anyway? I’d waft a dustcloth around, spray furniture polish at things, and get frustrated by the total lack of difference it seemed to make. It was rubbish. I’d grumble, I'd slack off, I’d attend only out of duty - but I’d clean.<br />
<br />
At that point in my life, I was a sincere, believing Christian. So I did what I always did when something frustrated me: I asked God why I should bother with any of this, and started feeling slightly guilty. Not in a bad “faith made me neurotic” kind of way (I've never wanted to blame religion for all the world's ills), just in a “maybe check your selfishness” kind of way. If I really wanted to honour God in word and deed, I reasoned (or He pointed out), maybe I should take a different approach.<br />
<br />
That’s when I started cleaning in a completely different way. For some reason, there were long bamboo sticks in one of the church cupboards, or under the stairs. So I’d tie a dustcloth around the end of it, and brandish it like a magical extendo-rag to get dust out of all the hidden places. I’d stand on the balcony at the back and dust the slats on the blinds that were higher than any of us could reach. I’d dust the tops of doors. I’d dust the light fittings. I’d clean anywhere that nobody would see, that nobody would notice…. except for, if he happened to be paying attention, the omnipotent, omniscient deity with what I imagined to be a bird's-eye cross-section view of the building. Like in the Sims.<br />
<br />
And if my parents complained that I wasn’t doing the hoovering, I could have a little theological chat from atop the moral high ground about who we were really doing this for. Oh, yeah, I was that insufferable.<br />
<br />
I bring this up because it’s become part of my approach to cleaning, and I hadn’t noticed until recently. Why do I scrub the dirt out of woodgrain on the bannisters? Why do I wipe down the underside of shelves? Why do I clean the grime off lightswitches? (Well, because that’s where most of the germs are. But still!) I spent a day cleaning our tiny bathroom at home recently, using a rough sponge then a normal sponge then a dustcloth then a disposable dry duster. My housemate may do the washing up more often, but he doesn’t clean like this, does he? He doesn’t dust and sweep and polish every tiny crevice, does he? He doesn’t get on his knees and scrub with an old toothbrush at the gaps between the taps, does he?<br />
<br />
Well, no, nor should he have to.<br />
<br />
Maybe this is not a normal thing to expect of someone.<br />
<br />
Perhaps, thinking about it, I am a bit manic about these things.<br />
<br />
And now, with God no longer in my personal picture, who am I really doing this for? I don’t know. I just like to. My room may still be an absolute tip, but the bases of our shampoo bottles are clean, and I’ll be happier sooner if I accept that my housemate will never notice or care, and that I shouldn’t expect him to. But for some reason, that’s how I operate: If I’m going to do housework, I’m going to do it to an almost unreasonable degree, as a passive-aggressive jab at a callous universe that still sometimes makes me get up earlier than I’d like.<br />
<br />
“If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with them two miles.”<br />
- Matthew 5:41, NIV.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-58004129369325432372015-12-25T20:51:00.000+00:002015-12-25T20:51:27.139+00:00It's a Christmas miracle!Gosh. It's been a while, but I always do come back.<br />
<br />
I've been missing writing, and I want to pick it up again.<br />
<br />
Right now it's tricky, because it's Christmas, and I'm listening to Cabin Pressure with my family. So I can't concentrate. Despite how often I multitask, I am not very good at it. Nor are you, actually. Multitasking is one of the great lies; we have finite resources for attention, and splitting that up between multiple tasks decimates the amount of energy we can dedicate to each. This is one of those times when the whole is truly less than the sum of its parts.<br />
<br />
I would like to address my most recent post of a little over a year ago (making this, I think my longest hiatus yet). I was depressed! It kicked in again in November this year, and I couldn't work out what was wrong, until I brought my blog up. "All this has happened before, and all this will happen again," as the saying goes. It helps to remember that.<br />
<br />
The doc's prescribed me a whole bunch of anti-allergy stuff, and I'm feeling in better health than I have done in a very long time. And feeling well in body has left me feeling well in mind! So that's been awesome! I'm getting a bit of the seasonal malaise, but (today aside) I've been eating far better lately. Let's try and work some exercise into that, and we'll be away.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-24449092320139726252014-12-02T21:37:00.001+00:002014-12-02T21:37:35.123+00:00Winter dazeWork has been objectively stressful lately, but I don't think that's entirely why I'm struggling. All my copes are gone, you know the feeling. SAD or summat.<br />
<br />
This is good, that I'm doing this. It's been a long time. I've been at least 3 entirely different people since I started writing this blog. School Anna and girlfriend Anna and whatever the heck I am now.<br />
<br />
Howard, thanks so much for your comment, I definitely want to catch up soon! I keep meaning to carve time out of my reluctant schedule to do so. It's difficult, but not impossible - think obsidian rather than bedrock!<br />
<br />
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What would be nice, in the middle of winter, is if you could open a door into summer. Sometimes that's all I need, just an hour or so of summer that can walk into. Someone else's summer. One where there's grass.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-24695360041686531162014-11-30T22:39:00.000+00:002014-11-30T22:39:20.583+00:00“And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be?”I'd like to tell you that a lot has changed since I last posted, but in truth, things are much the same. I sympathise very much with Alice:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Well, in our country," said Alice, still panting a little, "you'd generally get to somewhere else—if you run very fast for a long time, as we've been doing."<br />"A slow sort of country!" said the Queen. "Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!"</blockquote>
I've been running in place for quite a while now, and I'm not sure how to achieve escape velocity.<br />
<br />
I told myself, a couple of years ago, that I would find the Thing I'm meant to b doing when I was 27. That I'd work out what I can contribute to the world, and what would make me happy, before a completely arbitrary date: New Year's Day 2015. That, if I didn't have some kind of revelation before then, I'd do something drastic to change my circumstances.<br />
<br />
Drastic change can be very good, very healthy. The frame of mind I've been in lately, I have not been thinking of good change. I can't put it into words well, but if I can't find some way to be happy soon, my 'drastic change' might be to give up, I don't want that.<br />
<br />
It's hard sometimes to believe that I can get on the right path, but I hear that, with practice, one can believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast.<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-33246084354280430332013-08-24T02:36:00.001+01:002013-08-24T02:36:51.938+01:00Did you miss me?Sometimes you don't know what you've been missing until you're in the middle of it.<br />
<br />
Tonight I caught up with a lot of very good friends. Many of us apologised to everyone for 'being antisocial lately.' It happens so easily sometimes, doesn't it; you're busy for a bit, or fancy some alone time, and the next thing you know you haven't seen some of your favourite people for months.<br />
<br />
I've been very lonely and I don't think I saw a way out of that until tonight.<br />
<br />
A couple of weeks ago I went home to visit my family. We did the usual Cowes Week things - beach barbecue, fireworks, catching up with my oldest friends - while thinking about how it might be very different next year. Dad's retiring, so a lot of things might have changed when I next go back.<br />
<br />
One moment stands out though: it was so wonderful to swim in the sea again. It was the first time I've been swimming since... maybe over a year ago? Could be two. A long time. As I squeaked about the cold and inched my way deeper in, my sister said the sea had missed me, that it had been waiting for me to come back.<br />
<br />
The thing that surprised me, both tonight and back on the island, was being reminded that there are other people who think like me. Whether it's my friend Zaru encouraging me to perform my poetry soon, or my brother Michael chatting to me about quantum physics, it's been a blessed relief to be around people who are interested in things that interest me. I don't get that at work.<br />
<br />
I work with good people, kind people, but I don't have much common ground with them. I know nothing about football or reality TV, and am too scared to go digging for something real to talk about. So I've felt alienated. At first I thought they were a bit weird, but in the absence of anyone with whom to talk about that, the thought gradually became "I am completely abnormal."<br />
<br />
Well, normal is all in the context. These people, my family and friends, are the context in which I make sense. They are my normal. They are my home.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-80922558301947754162013-07-29T01:19:00.000+01:002013-07-29T01:19:04.035+01:00My left hand is spasming. I don't want to be resting up for work, I want to be writing. I want to spend every minute working on outliving myself.
There are caves where you can hear and see the northern lights sing. I know this is true. Just like I know that if you hold your breath and step sideways, if you do it at just the right angle, you can go somewhere different.
People at work keep telling me how intelligent and creative I am, and I keep telling them it's a shame that doesn't matter here, it's a pity that doesn't help.
The surface of the moon and the ocean floor are the same place, and both have deep and heavy lakes full of terrors.
I was tired five hours ago. I should have slept then. Instead I want a pen and paper bedsheets, instead I want to keep going until something worth saying falls out of my hand, until I can fall asleep knowing I'll respect myself in the morning, until I can tell the imaginary Neil in my head what I've come up with and imagine him smiling in imaginary pride.
"Not a bad start," I imagine he'd say. "Now actually write it, and you'll really have something."
Damn you, imaginary Neil. You're always right.
My last resting place will be beneath a willow tree. I know, but don't know how I know. I hope there will be a bridge at least, and someone to lead me across.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-66668047563662506942013-07-23T12:14:00.002+01:002013-07-23T12:14:43.467+01:00Hipster fashion<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I don't have a problem
with hipsters, first of all. I long ago realised that 'fashion' as a
concept wasn't for me, but I don't want to intrude on anyone else's
fun. Or what passes for fun when you're too cool to publicly emote.
If you want to wear skinny jeans, leggings with elaborate prints on
them, thick-framed glasses, t-shirts featuring animals that also wear
thick-framed glasses – well, fair play to you. Well done on the
impressively swoopy hair.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It <i>is</i>
bewildering, though, isn't it? The way one particular style starts to
pervade the media until an entire era has a definable Look. In the
same way that some photos are instantly recognisable as being from
the seventies, the images we're churning out in advertising and
posting online all scream “I was taken in the twenty-tens!”, and
there's nothing you can do about that. The very cut of your fringe
betrays you.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
think what bothers me most is that people don't realise how <i>temporary</i>
it all is. Twenty years from now, when aesthetic circuitry is the big
thing, you'll still have a moustache tattooed on your index finger.
Forty years from now, when fabric can be programmed to display
whatever you dreamed about last night, <i>you will still have
a moustache tattooed on your finger.</i>
That doesn't bother some people, but I like the fact that some tattoo
artists will only ink unique works. If you already know three people
with a particular design, like it or not, you're joining a club. What
would the club of people with moustachioed digits look like, I
wonder? Would you want to be a part of it?</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There's been a lot of
debate over what exactly makes someone a hipster, and because humans
can't cope with there being more than two kinds of people, I've
helpfully decided where the line is. You're welcome. The schism is as
follows:</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Anyone
who gets conspicuously, publicly excited about their interests is a
geek; anyone too cool and reserved to do so is a hipster. There's a
distancing from the moment in that attitude that's actually pretty
sad, and more <i>held</i>
back than laid back. If you're tempted to say that you preferred a
band's early work because the alternative is to appear happy or
unhappy at the music entering your earholes at that exact moment,
you've detached too much.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I
think you'll find a comments section below, if you want to say that I
don't know what I'm talking about, and lord knows you'd be right to.
I'm no expert. I'm just a victim of the times, like everybody else.
It wasn't intentional - I'd been looking for non-skinny trousers for
months, and eventually gave up. I bought the first tolerable item
that looked like it would cover my legs, only to check the label
after purchase to find that I was now the ashamed owner of a pair of
jeggings.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That's
how fashion works. It gets everywhere, until you have no choice but
to succumb. I have girl boxers with bowler hats and monocles on, and
I'm not sure I could tell you why; only that it seemed the least
abhorrent option at the time.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And
so the symbols of our time continue; repeating, duplicating and
mutating, until every surface in sight is covered in owls with
moustaches.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-91350856952334483812013-07-16T03:46:00.000+01:002013-07-16T03:50:32.669+01:00Why I SelfiedFor Jill, because she was interested.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">"And I'</span><span style="font-family: Arial;">m a mill</span><span style="font-family: Arial;">ion different people from one day to the next" - The Verve, Bittersweet Symphony</span></i></blockquote>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Between the ages of 17 and 22, I took a lot of selfies. Hundreds. Probably thousands, although a mere few hundred ended up online. How very restrained I was. (Of course, they weren't called selfies then, and all this was fields.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div style>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Why was I so obsessed with my own image, and with other people's reactions to me? I've given a lot of thought to this, because that is the kind of person I am. I do very normal things, then give a lot of thought to them, as if that somehow makes them worthy and important.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Many would say that it was vanity; the more perspicacious might say it was insecurity. I think it was both and more. I think that those years, late teenage and early twenties, mark the baffling, peculiar, and mercurial stage in which one looks like a different person every day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">This is undoubtedly true of one's childhood, too, but now the world is treating you like an adult. Suddenly you're considered ready for responsibility, for attention, for catcalls and compliments. When two different strangers can, within the same week, shout that you're ugly and beautiful respectively, we should not be surprised that people want to know what's happening that could provoke these responses.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So, we document. We try new hairstyles, new outfits, new angles; but instead of waiting for the opinion of a random on the street, we put them online and mentally chart the likes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My peak of selfie-taking was probably age 19. My life got suddenly fuller, days packed with new experiences, and I never felt the same from one week to another. This was reflected, it seemed, in my reflection itself. Every time I got the camera out, I found that I looked less or more grown up than I expected, sometimes slimmer, sometimes lonelier, sometimes happier. I was in a long-distance relationship, which provided the perfect incentive (alibi?) to send photographs, and every one was a surprise to me as much as my intended. I was an adult now, who knew?</span></div>
<div style=>
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">And why was it that I never saw what I expected? What is the strange dance we do with our self-esteem that prevents us from getting a reliable read on how attractive we are? (That's a whole 'nother blog post, I suspect.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I still look like a different woman every day, but as the woman in question is merely getting older and fatter, I forgo the photos. That era has passed, for me. I'm done taking selfies. I don't see that changing, as I don't want to see myself changing any more. Maybe one day I'll be glad to have<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/thiefree/sets/72157622033432190/"> these to look back on</a>, but they're not exactly things to show the hypothetical grandkids, are they?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Who knows. Maybe by then I'll be too old and too wise to be embarrassed of my fascination with my own changing self.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-85566692831874043602013-05-02T16:19:00.000+01:002013-05-02T16:31:57.784+01:00"Today I accidentally let a meth addict use my ukulele as an ashtray."Fairly self-explanatory? No? Ok, apparently this one needs further elaboration.<br />
<br />
Jenny Lawson, wonderful and strange, offered a copy of her book to a random commenter on her blog. "<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Calibri, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.984375px;">What should you comment about? </span><em style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Calibri, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.984375px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Anything</em><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Calibri, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.984375px;">. Your favorite toe. The pet names of your body parts. How many glass eyeballs you think a normal person uses in a lifetime. The number of bodies you can fit under your bed. It’s totally up to you,</span>" <a href="http://thebloggess.com/2013/05/lets-pretend-this-never-happened-unless-you-win-then-it-totally-happened">she said</a>, and so...<br />
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I was showing a friend around Cardiff yesterday. She's recently moved to this fair city, and I wanted to show her everything exciting and good that it has to offer. We swung by the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/CardiffFashionQuarter?ref=stream&viewer_id=0">Cardiff Fashion Quarter</a> to introduce her to my lovely and talented friend <a href="http://laurapickeringartist.weebly.com/">Laura Pickering</a>, who recommended that we wander around Bute Park, seeing as how it was such a lovely day.<br />
<br />
It was <i>such</i> a lovely day, guys.<br />
<br />
At some point, I got my ukulele out in a quiet area and started strumming one of the few I know by heart. A woman approached us. Now, I'm woefully naive at the best of times, but even I know that someone who's walking unsteadily, missing teeth, and alarmingly thin is either an addict or a zombie. (From that perspective, this story could have gone far worse for me.)<br />
<br />
She opened with "You can't play." I smiled politely and said something self-deprecating, probably "I know I'm not very good, but -"<br />
"Let me have a go."<br />
So, I took a gamble, thinking she'd take refusal as an insult and hoping that she'd get bored fairly quickly. Above all, I hoped she didn't smash it. (Spoilers: if she'd smashed it, I wouldn't be writing this - I'd be cackling madly on the news while a man in a suit said "my client has no comment at this time" to the cameras.)<br />
<br />
She twanged the A-string, pulling it out of tune, and shakily tapped her cigarette ash into the body of the uke.<br />
<br />
Now, my friend, as she's pointed out to me, has lived in London and dealt with worse. God bless her, I don't know how she had the fortitude, but she stood straight away to ask for - and then take - my uke back. And she had to fight for it, too.<br />
<br />
The woman struggled with her and called her a fat bitch a few times, while my friend said "would you please leave us alone," politely but firmly. She eventually did walk off, and I went to a music shop to buy the uke some strings as an apology. I should have known better. I am sometimes, as I said, woefully naive.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
So, that's that! I apologise for the long period of silence. I got scared away from my blog because of something I can't talk about, and in all honesty I only came back because this one was too long to tweet. But there it is, Tony. She left, everyone's fine, and my friend reassured me that I should forget about it, so I think I will.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-43334876545751465122012-12-22T00:34:00.000+00:002012-12-22T00:34:10.897+00:00Cool internet things<a class="g-profile" href="http://plus.google.com/101827562749547976389" target="_blank">+Anthony Ashfield</a> Well heck dang, look what I can do! <a class="g-profile" href="http://plus.google.com/116789692419265580726" target="_blank">+Paul Roth</a> holla.<br />
<br />
This year we've had several apocalypses, and they've all ended with the same thing: sarcasm on twitter. But then, as sarcasm on twitter is the first response to any death, maybe they are one and the same, and we've all already gone to the big snark in the sky.<br />
<br />
I have been watching so many Let's Plays lately. I blame <a class="g-profile" href="http://plus.google.com/115555956863360526663" target="_blank">+Michael Fruen</a>. Mike, look at this tomfoolery:<br />
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You guys, I practically wept with laughter when I first saw this. It's like pixellated Monty Python. It's sublime. </div>
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I will be back with proper Crimbletide greetings when... I remember.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-66542348361940084042012-12-12T18:16:00.002+00:002012-12-12T18:18:36.741+00:00Dear Family:I can't make it home for Christmas, and maybe for that reason I'm thinking about you guys so much.<br />
<br />
<b>Esther</b>, thank you so much for the presents! I've had so many comments on my cute new bag, it's insane. Guys, look:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">it is ALL THE COLOURS</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
HOW CUTE is that? I'm delighted.<br />
<br />
<b>Michael</b>, I've been watching your Minecraft Let's Plays with John and I'm really wishing we could hang out, and that you could teach me the basics of that dang game. I know I'm late getting into it. I'm late getting into everything. You remember how long it took me to discover (let alone finish) Portal? Too long.<br />
<br />
<b>Judi</b>, it means that world to me that you came up to visit. I had a really great time shopping with you, and I miss y'all a lot less now as a result of that day. Also, I love my badass new reversible skirt (again, CHECK IT).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/DSC_0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/DSC_0006.jpg" width="283" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look 1...</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look 2! Aww yiss</td></tr>
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<b>Naomi</b>, I don't think you read this. You might not even know about it. Maybe it's better this way. But I should tell you that, in my dream last night, you had the most awesome Scottish accent. You were talking to me about how Ran was coping with sharing Michael's bedroom. :|</div>
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<b>Mum</b>, in the aforementioned dream, you started a fire in a bin to try to clear your sinuses. Important note: do not do this. It did not end well.</div>
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Give my love to <b>Dad</b>; I'll call soon.</div>
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<br /></div>
I haven't decided yet whether your presents will go ahead of me in the post, or whether they'll come down with me in January. Which means, probably the latter (you know what I'm like). But rest assured I've been thinking of you all, and I hope you have a very special Christmas.<br />
<br />
P.S. Uncle Steve, have a very happy birthday! John, Paul, I wanna hang out with you guys soon. Julia, I think you're partially responsible for my life-long love of purple.<br />
<br />
P.P.S. Cousins on my dad's side, of which there are many: every time I find out what you've been up to lately, I get all smug because I'm related to awesome people. Keep kicking your various kinds of ass.<br />
<br />
P.P.P.S. Nanny, thanks for recognising me even with purple hair. Granddad, thanks for looking after her. I know you won't read this, but I love you both.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-85554983612774003862012-12-09T00:27:00.000+00:002012-12-09T00:27:01.245+00:00Love?There are very few people in my life that I would do anything for. There are a few people who ask me out for coffee or whatever. Those two groups never seem to overlap.<br />
<br />
One way to put it is that my standards are too high, although I'm not the type to have a check list. I just want to know I've got a connection with somebody. A physical, mental, chemical attraction to them, and them to me.<br />
<br />
I don't think that's impossible. I think some people get it. A partner to go through life with, somebody who reminds them every day that they're capable of great things and great love.<br />
<br />
I don't know. Some days I believe that that's an option, but never for long before my cynicism stirs from its den and says "It's very improbable, you know." Well, yes, maybe it is. But improbable happens. It does. I've seen it.<br />
<br />
From a distance.<br />
<br />
I think.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-33052012177241926402012-12-05T00:14:00.002+00:002012-12-05T00:16:43.669+00:00Frisky and Mannish and poems and hairSo! Yes! Hello! What wonderful and exciting things can I tell you about?<br />
<br />
I saw Frisky and Mannish perform last week. They are truly legends in the making: Frisky can do justice to any female vocalist you care to name, and Mannish has such incredible range, in every musical sense. They're both skilled performers, and have an incredible dynamic. It's a thoroughly enjoyable thing, to see that kind of natural partnership: people whose thoughts and signals bounce off each other so flawlessly.
Here is a video they made: Kate Bush sung in the style of Kate Nash. It's called Kate Bash, because of course it is. I feel like I might have shared this video before? I can't recall. In any case.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/LjHRFkkGYgA" width="560"></iframe> </div>
Here is a picture of my face in proximity to their faces:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/For%20the%20blog/fnm-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/For%20the%20blog/fnm-1.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was as profoundly awkward as it looks</td></tr>
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I don't know what else to tell you, other than that life continues and my poetry has all but ground to a halt. I really thought that having a creatively undemanding job would spur me to write in my free time, but honestly, I have just about enough mental energy to jot down draft after draft without ever finding the time or drive to work <span style="font-family: inherit;">them into something.<br />I mean, take this for example:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">So I said goodbye. What else could I do?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">And me and the sea oh we both waved to you,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: -webkit-auto;">well no wonder it's blue.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: -webkit-auto;">That could be an actual song (not a good one, mind you, just a me one), if I just got my dang act together and finished it. I need to spend some quality time with my ukulele when I get my day off. I'm getting all of three minutes a day in which to practise, so I'm slipping backwards from "incompetent" to "an affront to ears."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: -webkit-auto;">My hair is getting beyond silly. My roots have grown out beyond the point where a hat can successfully cover it, which is due to being very impoverished for a long time, and then very busy recently. I still want to get along to Guy Christian - probably their new salon in the bay! - to get something done with it. Just as soon as I decide what that is.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Hair is a mystery, man. I mean, they <i>say</i> it grows back, but who wants to take that risk, you know?</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-30048231760031678982012-11-02T16:06:00.000+00:002012-11-02T16:12:37.704+00:00Product review: mum, don't read this oneThe world post- the invention of the internet is a strange one. You can be famous for a week, reviled for a month, and can meet all your heroes at peculiar conventions. One of the other oddities, one that applies to me today, is that sometimes people think your opinions matter just because you write a crummy blog. Hooray!<br />
<br />
As a result, I have been sent, by the very generous Adam of <a href="http://www.strawberryblushes.co.uk/">Strawberry Blushes</a>, a <a href="http://www.strawberryblushes.co.uk/categories/Womens-Sex-Toys/">women's sex toy</a> to review. At this juncture, I'd like to ask anyone not comfortable with the idea of that to skip this post - I'll be back to normal for the next one. Thanks.<br />
<br />
Before I tell you what I picked from the site, here's a bit of background information: Ben Wa balls have been used for centuries to help stimulate women, either during sex or throughout the course of the day. It's thought that Japanese geisha used to use them, hence the alternate name "geisha balls."<br />
<br />
They serve as more of a prolonged tease than a masturbation aid, so the aim with them isn't to orgasm. In fact, one of their uses is to strengthen the pelvic floor muscles, in much the same way as kegel exercises do.<br />
<br />
I bought some a few years ago. I liked them, but found them quite tricky to use, to be honest - they were small enough to slip out sometimes, and the feeling of them clicking against each other takes a bit of getting used to!<br />
<br />
Anyway. Fastforward to now: I selected a product called <a href="http://www.strawberryblushes.co.uk/products/Girly-Giggle-Balls.html">"Girly Giggle Balls"</a> to review. They're a bit bigger, because there are traditional metal balls inside the outer layer. Take a look at that outer layer, by the way. It looks interesting in the "tickly soft pink" colour that I chose - I can only imagine how I'd have felt faced with the "daunting black" option. (It's probably not labelled as that, but come on. Look at 'em!)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/For%20the%20blog/morn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/For%20the%20blog/morn.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If I wanted to insert a morningstar I'd - no. When would I <i>ever</i> want that.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So yes, I chose the less intimidating ones. They were delivered quickly and in discreet packaging, so that ticked all the boxes.<br />
<br />
My first issue was that there was no real product information on the packaging. You're told that they're made of "soft and nubbly jelly," which isn't very specific - and it does matter, because you're not supposed to use silicone-based lube with silicone toys. Because it might dissolve the surface and make them feel sticky to the touch (thanks, Wikipedia!). Luckily, the Strawberry Blushes website has a lot of information on it - what they're made of (PVC), their size (1.5"), what they do, how to use them... I mean, I know it sounds obvious, 'put them in;' but a helpful reminder to lie down and relax really wouldn't go amiss.<br />
<br />
Because, boy, these aren't the same as my old ben wa balls.<br />
<br />
They are bigger. And pricklier. And I really think you'd benefit from being pretty turned on before you even started, which I wasn't.<br />
<br />
As I mentioned above, the idea is that the movement of the two balls against each other is intended to gently and continuously stimulate throughout the day as you go about your normal life, but the size of these ones means that they just don't do that. Not for me, anyway. It's not better than the alternative of them slipping out sometimes, because I'm pretty sure they're not toning any muscles. Keeping them in is not an effort. Taking them out, however, requires patience and careful positioning. They're not uncomfortable while they're in, but nor are they erotic, just - present, in much the same way as a mooncup (and, oh boy, I need to write a mooncup review one of these days).<br />
<br />
In the absence of any product instructions, I thought I'd write some of my own so that anyone curious can repeat the experiment.<br />
<br />
<h3>
HOW TO USE GIRLY GIGGLE BALLS: instructions for use</h3>
<br />
<ol>
<li>Lie back on your bed and slowly - SLOWLY - insert the first ball.</li>
<li>Take a breather. Try to internally adjust yourself so that there's more room.</li>
<li>Insert ball two and sit up -<i> slowly</i>.</li>
<li>Question what you're doing with your life.</li>
<li>Wonder why you didn't just take up your hot friend on his perfectly reasonable offer.</li>
<li>Later, squat and pull the string to take them out - slowly, for the love of god, <i>slowly</i> - and wash them, taking extra care with the string because it looks like it's made of the same stuff as bathroom light-pulls and you've seen how grubby they can get.</li>
<li>Have a cup of tea, and try to think of the least undignified way to describe the experience.</li>
</ol>
<h2>
TL;DR:</h2>
<div>
<b>Appearance:</b> 2/5</div>
<div>
<b>Ease of use:</b> 2/5</div>
<div>
<b>Effectiveness:</b> 0/5</div>
<div>
<b>Would I recommend them to a friend:</b> maybe, if they'd annoyed me in some way. Maybe by oversharing. I can't think of any other way it would come up in conversation.</div>
<div>
YM, as ever, MV.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This has been interesting, anyway! Next time, I think I'll get something else. Maybe a new vibe. Maybe <a href="http://www.strawberryblushes.co.uk/products/Waterproof-Clitoral-Hummer.html">something showerproof</a>.</div>
<div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-17920380085239430462012-10-25T18:48:00.000+01:002012-10-25T18:48:17.249+01:00Presenting my findings: the dream journalWhen I moved house a few months ago, walking out on a flooded basement and an angry landlord, I started keeping a dream journal. I've written and tagged 53 entries now, and while that isn't much, I've learned something interesting: my subconscious is a strange and twisty place. Some things are frankly baffling (why couldn't I remember if that millipede was my sister?), while other themes seem to be marked in flashing neon lights. "PAY ATTENTION TO THIS, IT IS IMPORTANT!"<br />
<br />
Some of the recurring themes aren't that surprising, considering. The dreams where I have someone to cuddle up to; the dreams where I explore unfamiliar rooms with secret doors. The ones about packing (moving, unpacking, realising I've left things behind) in particular: they're reflections of my literal circumstances, as I've had to move my belongings into and out of storage on three separate occasions for reasons too tedious to list here. <i>Those</i> I get.<br />
<br />
What I didn't expect, however, was the water. Water is <i>everywhere</i> in my dreams; flooding from the taps in a church's bathroom, filling my mouth, crashing in a big tsunami wave over an entire civilisation. I've stood in a rising tide, sailed a ship over a waterfall, and pissed off a river goddess. One in five dreams of mine features water in a big way.<br />
<br />
Another one that took me by surprise is that - look, I'll apologise in advance, because it's going to make me sound excessively egotistical, but - I rescue people. I've led my friends down to a bomb shelter during an air raid; I've swatted bats away with a big stick while we fled a haunted house; I've even tried to get plasticine monsters out of a factory without them being seen (or mangled by machinery).<br />
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<a href="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/For%20the%20blog/trapdoor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/For%20the%20blog/trapdoor.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I don't know why this is. I've mentally linked it to <a href="http://www.thiefree.net/search/label/YFC">my brief stint as a youth leader</a>, but it's fun to think of what it might be preparing me for. Not that dreams foretell the future, I don't believe that; but perhaps by thinking of myself as 'someone who leads others out of danger' I'm making it more likely that I'll have the balls to do it for real if the time ever comes.<br />
<br />
There's not many nightmares, as a whole. There's the occasional nightmarish side-quest, though. For example, I did recently took a brief detour from a fairly standard dream about my ex and secret rooms to face down these guys:<br />
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<a href="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/For%20the%20blog/Weeping-Angels-brr-doctor-who-roleplay-17991290-587-300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="324" src="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/For%20the%20blog/Weeping-Angels-brr-doctor-who-roleplay-17991290-587-300.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
So, ya know, THAT was horrendous. Did you know that, if you blink, they can come through sheet glass without breaking it? Well, in my dream, they can.<br />
<br />
I don't know what these dreams tell you about me (aside from more than you ever wanted to know), but I'm going to keep writing them down for now. I wonder what else I'll learn.<br />
<br />
P.S. One dream I logged goes as follows:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Was in a room with about 5 other people. Dylan Moran was going through some material, and had wandered into really personal stuff. Hard to tell if it was still part of the routine or not; he seemed really sad. "You know I'm starting to realise my dad wasn't a very nice person. You know something's wrong when you have to explain to vampires how awful your dad is."</span></blockquote>
<br />
I've never seen Dylan Moran live, but I want to tell him everything's going to be ok.<br />
<br />
P.P.S. Oh, I did see Ross Noble live the other day though! You know how I got turned into a fairy over the summer? (Oh man I just realised I never told you about that. I'll write about it soon.) Well I found these on the way to the gig, and took it as a sign...<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-54332672861539329392012-10-04T00:05:00.000+01:002012-10-04T00:05:11.975+01:00Birthdings<br />
I was not going to celebrate my birthday. I was playing it cool. I always do, at first. It's a lowering of my own expectations, really, because I'm never convinced that anyone else is going to remember.<br />
<br />
I promise this post gets less wallowy. Bear with me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/bear-with-me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="218" src="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/bear-with-me.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">har! har!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Having a birthday in October, for a kid who grew up as bookish and introverted as I did, meant that people at school often hadn't had time to get to know me when my birthday rolled around. September kids probably have it even worse.<br />
<br />
In my first year at uni, my first birthday away from home, I quietly mentioned my birthday to the three people I knew by name; and I got a surprised "Ah! Really? Happy birthday! ... So are you doing anything for it?" to which I answered No, no. Not really.<br />
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So, nothing happened.<br />
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It's my own fault; I'm bad at making things happen. For my 18th birthday, my friends demanded that we go to Pizza Hut at <i>least</i>, because I wasn't planning to do anything at all.<br />
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Since coming to Cardiff, though, things have picked up speed. I'm not the wallflower I once was, and I'm lucky enough to have friends who'll grab hold of the most tenuous excuses imaginable for a fancy-dress shindig. I love them, I love them (fancy-dress shindigs AND my friends; but I mostly meant my friends. I would not trade the wonderful, talented, gorgeous people in my life for anything, not even a kawasaki ninja, and LOOK how frakkin' pretty <i>they</i> are:<br />
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Are we still parentheses? We are. Sorry).<br />
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Yesterday, despite being in work all day, I was remembered by a great many people. As soon as midnight hit, <a href="https://twitter.com/sdsolle/status/252905811976810496">Sean Solle got the first HBD greeting in</a>, and the following 24 hours saw a whole bunch of people on twitter and facebook and even tumblr wishing me a merry one. Some of them barely know me, or were reminded by facebook, but every single one made me smile and feel valued. That kind of positivity really adds up over the course of a day!<br />
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And, to top it all, the very kind family I live with (whose generosity I can't begin to deserve) bought me a book on Graffiti - one I don't already own! It looks great, the pictures are grouped by area rather than by artist which is so cool bec- er, anyway - and a birthday cake.<br />
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And AND, the people I'm training with at work bought me cards and chocolates because they are <i>insanely lovely</i>. INSANELY. Get this: the lady who trained me for the first two weeks remembered that <a href="http://ukzdl.co.uk/product-category/book/dead-files-vol-2/">my short story has been published by the UK Zombie Defence League</a>, looked the UKZDL up,<span style="font-size: large;"> found my blog along the way, discovered that Lindt Lindor are my favourite chocolates,</span><span style="font-size: x-large;"> got me some, </span>and<span style="font-size: x-large;"> made me promise not to share them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>SERIOUSLY.</b></span><br />
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like -<br />
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I can't even -<br />
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That's lovely on a scale I never expected to encounter in a work environment. <i>Dilbert did not prepare me for this</i>. How are you supposed to respond? Anywhere else I'd have given her the biggest bearhug on record, because seriously, that's above and beyond the contractually-obliged Happy Birthday, but instead I just rambled and thanked for a bit and grinned my way throughout training for the rest of the day.<br />
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Also, a girl I met on a bus and befriended the heck out of lent me the first Harry Dresden book, so I've got that going for me too.<br />
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Just - keep up the good work, universe. This is all very very adequate.<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-21627482981404742992012-09-30T22:59:00.001+01:002012-10-25T14:22:43.370+01:00TimeI'm not good enough. The list of things I would change about myself are as long as the phone book, and decidedly less interesting to read (and to write. As a favour to both of us, I will not enumerate them here). Ultimately, it's the length of the list that proved the biggest obstacle to my self-improvment; I get paralysed by the indecision. What's the biggest problem? What's the most urgent one? What needs long-term improvement? I have no idea. I hate lists.<br />
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I've always thought the "kid in a candy store" analogy didn't really encompass that moment: the moment when the kid clutches onto mum's skirt and hides their face because this is <i>too many everythings</i>.<br />
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I have, however, made a huge leap forward: I've targeted the one area that I really need to work on, and it's time management.<br />
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I've always been terrible at it. For the past 15 years, it's been the reason that I got incredibly creative with my excuses for having not done my homework. Remember <a href="http://www.thiefree.net/2005/09/cliff-here-i-come.html">this blog post</a>? Of course you don't; it was seven freaking years ago (almost to the day), but it was by no means an isolated incident. Why do today what you can put off till tomorrow?<br />
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Maybe it's hereditary. My own family was habitually late everywhere. Memories of school mornings are a blur of stress and hurrying, trying to remember where in the chaos my shoes were.<br />
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One of the side effects of this perpetual lateness was that I am extremely paranoid about travel time. I am currently getting to work about an hour early in the mornings, just because the journey home sometimes takes a couple of hours. It's hard to calm myself down enough to actually leave home later in the morning. I prefer being early anyway, I tell myself. I don't get told off for being too early. I go for walks instead; mentally calculating and recalculating that, since it took ten minutes to get this far, I should allow twenty to go back. It doesn't make a lot of sense, I know.<br />
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Oh yes, that's a new development: work. I work full time in a call centre now; 36 hours a week, or thereabouts. So far I've had two weeks of training in customer service. I won't get paid until a month from now, due to fluctuations in the mysterious forces that govern administration. That's sad. I wanted money for my birthday this coming Tuesday. I'm deferring my celebrations until I am ludicrously wealthy a month from now. (This is my first full-time job; it will feel like affluence beyond reason to me!)<br />
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So my job isn't paying me yet, but what it <i>is</i> doing is forcing me to think harder about how I'm spending my time. If I want to catch up with friends, I can meet up with them in town for a couple of hours in the evening, or we can plan something on the weekend. That's it. No more spending a couple of days at a mate's house just because we've gotten addicted to <a href="http://tv.disney.go.com/disneychannel/gravityfalls/">a new cartoon</a>. No more spending all day on tumblr, unless I've actively decided that that is what I need to do that day. (Sometimes that is what I need. Sometimes I crave the mental space to bumblebee around the internet, alighting on a topic for only so long as it takes my fancy.)<br />
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In other exciting (to me) news, a short story I wrote has been accepted for publication by the UK Zombie Defense League! I'll let you all know when it's out. I'm planning to buy the paperback and show it to everyone I pass for a month or two.<br />
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Here follows a miniature list of things I have been doing lately, in what I'll generously call my "hiatus":<br />
<ul>
<li>visited my family on the beautiful Isle of Wight</li>
<li>saw Frankie Boyle perform, thanks to my lovely twitter-friend <a href="https://twitter.com/MerylORourke">Meryl</a></li>
<li>went to see Jonathan Coulton and Paul & Storm <a href="http://www.thiefree.net/2011/06/bristol-joco.html">again</a></li>
<li>discovered <a href="http://tv.disney.go.com/disneychannel/gravityfalls/">Gravity Falls</a> and decided that Mabel is my soul twin</li>
<li>the other stuff that I've already told you.</li>
</ul>
A few photos I've taken recently:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://s165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/For%20the%20blog/?action=view&current=DSC_0086.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" height="400" src="http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u71/Thiefree/For%20the%20blog/DSC_0086.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Judi, my big sister, who is crazy pretty and doesn't even know it</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/thiefree/8036005500/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Cowes week 2 by Thiefree, on Flickr"><img alt="Cowes week 2" height="201" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8172/8036005500_c1faa4b926_z.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I finally managed to reattempt this after losing an SD card a few years back!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/thiefree/8036051252/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Fly away by Thiefree, on Flickr"><img alt="Fly away" height="266" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8319/8036051252_e91c5015a0_z.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A helium princess. Blurry, but just about perfect.</td></tr>
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To round things off and reward you for reading my witterings, here is a story told by Neil Gaiman, in which his family are more terribly late than mine ever were:</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-65462880452235823212012-07-12T17:29:00.004+01:002012-07-12T18:13:32.279+01:00Might you be a feminist?The other day, my friend and I slipped into one of our recurring conversations about feminism. Prompted by <a href="http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/laci-green" style="background-color: white;">a couple</a> of <a href="http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/anita-sarkeesian" style="background-color: white;">recent incidents</a> (oh hey <a href="http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/daniel-tosh">I forgot this one</a>), we got talking about the label, and whether it's positive or negative, and what the implications are.<br />
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It's one of the subjects I get passionate about. After getting into the swing of my argument for a minute or two, I had to rein myself in, and I think I ended our conversation with "er but if you don't identify as a feminist I should probably stop telling you that you are one."<br />
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My friend is very aware of the way the world is. He knows that sexism exists, that women experience the world differently than men, that some aspects of the systems we live within are unfair and / or oppressive. However he rejects the word "feminist" because, in his mind, it reads as "man-hating female supremacist." (He's had some bad experiences with feminists in the past; what can I say.)<br />
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My good friend Paul has <a href="http://blog.paulidin.com/?p=1145">just written a blog post</a> about this subject. He didn't formerly identify as a feminist, but now he does. It's an interesting read, and highlights a very important point: that's it's ok, even good, to let your views evolve. To change your mind about what you are, and what words mean. Labelling oneself is a flawed system, no doubt, but it's how the world knows what you stand for. I stand alongside those who believe in equality. I am a feminist. And I think perhaps it's even possible to be a feminist and not know it.</div>
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<img height="640" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/425285_10151311118525175_1493276937_n.jpg" width="451" /><img height="640" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/405378_10151311118645175_1056339361_n.jpg" width="452" /><img height="640" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/424904_10151311356570175_1970356144_n.jpg" width="452" /><img height="640" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/424082_10151311356960175_379292406_n.jpg" width="452" /><img height="640" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/424384_10151311357390175_978911626_n.jpg" width="452" />
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These pictures are via the spectacular <a href="http://ohdeargodwhy.tumblr.com/">ohdeargodwhy</a>.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-2324743295945822782012-06-29T20:06:00.002+01:002012-06-29T20:06:36.165+01:00Seven<br />
Happy seventh birthday, blog!<br />
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If this blog was a child it would be learning to write, and reading more and more complicated books... and costing considerably more money than it is! Pros and cons, you know.<br />
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Web hosting isn't terribly expensive, and I'm glad of that. It means I'm not forced to make this blog worth anything, you see. No ads, no regular updates, no pushing and striving to increase my readership, because truthfully - I'm sure you've noticed - it isn't really for anyone but myself.<br />
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It won't always be that way. I go through phases, and I'd like to make this place a little bit tidier, a little more entertaining - I need to give some serious thought to the design and layout and (let's be honest) the quality of the content, but there's no hurry as I see it.<br />
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I'm seeing my parents tomorrow. That's going to be good.<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-739821475808036942012-06-27T19:36:00.001+01:002012-06-27T19:36:28.919+01:00DenimI've written <a href="http://www.thiefree.net/search/label/fashion">a few posts on fashion before</a>, and they've almost all revolved around how some people do dreadful, DREADFUL things to jeans. However, today I saw this photo of Sandra Bullock:<br />
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... which actually delighted me. Reminds me a little bit of these old jeans of mine:<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/thiefree/393497617/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="Jeans 2 by Thiefree, on Flickr"><img alt="Jeans 2" height="240" src="http://farm1.staticflickr.com/171/393497617_d7389eb3c6_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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So, yes. If jeans look like they've been hastily constructed from fabric samples, I am all <i>about</i> that.<br />
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The picture's part of this article, "<a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/whitneyjefferson/41-regrettably-tacky-photos-of-famous-people">41 regrettably tacky photos of famous people</a>." YMMV, I think some of them are delightful, the above included... though I'm inclined to agree about all the ones where the subject's knees look like they're not on speaking terms.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-2707701954208701092012-06-27T01:11:00.000+01:002012-06-27T01:11:41.265+01:00What a palaverWhat a strange day. Called someone out on a lazy sexist stereotype, in a civil way that totally left it open for discussion, and she told me to fuck off and left the way open for anyone who agreed with her to weigh in which they duly did. Wil's right; it's clearly troll season.<br />
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NEVER MIND HAVE A PUG THAT CAN'T RUN<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/x2RJN9a_jdM" width="560"></iframe>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-60958970384469779462012-06-21T21:41:00.001+01:002012-06-21T21:46:03.452+01:00Searching againEverything has changed again.<br />
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How is it that I can feel as though I've done nothing, when in fact since my last post I've been illegally evicted, left Cardiff, moved in with my friend Dave and his parents, seen an opera about Nelson Mandela's life, written several poems, been dancing, filled out needlessly detailed job centre forms (it's just a change of address, for pete's sake) and several other things that escape me just at this moment?<br />
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It's always the same. As soon as I stop moving, it feels like I've accomplished nothing, been nowhere. I can only attribute this to a mercifully short emotional memory.<br />
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The job centre in Penarth is <i>very</i> different to the one I went to in Cardiff. Not that people weren't friendly in Cardiff, they were; but I asked three different people there on several occasions to take a look at my CV and let me know what they thought, and nobody did. The lady I'm talking to now, Jan, she seems golden. Actually offered to send an email on my behalf to a contact at a company that I'd be <i>very</i> excited to work with. So, we'll see, maybe I shouldn't give up just yet.<br />
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In truth, though, I'm starting to see that very few people get where they want to be by following the pre-ordained, tried and tested, government-sanctioned route. I've been hoping for some miracle dream that will tell me which direction to strike out in. Now's the time to do it, you know? Whether it's music or video-editing or writing or whateverthefuck, there's no better time than now to decide that I'm going to do it. Only... I can't decide what the thing is. What do I love enough to do every day?<br />
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I'm pretty sure I'm getting some of this from Ray Bradbury. He died on the 5th, 16 days ago, and it seems like he left behind enough pearls of wisdom to keep me thinking for a long while.<br />
<blockquote>
Don't think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It's self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can't try to do things. You simply must do things.</blockquote>
<blockquote>
I know you've heard it a thousand times before. But it's true - hard work pays off. If you want to be good, you have to practice, practice, practice. If you don't love something, then don't do it.</blockquote>
<blockquote>
If you don't like what you're doing, then don't do it.</blockquote>
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But then... he did also say "we've got too many Internets." So I don't know.<br />
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I keep winding up back here, wondering what to do with my life, and I'm sorry for that. It must get repetitive for you; I know it does for me! But in the meantime, I've got a book of poetry to finish, a short story to write, a script to hammer out and a lot of real life to fit in around that. Wish me luck.<br />
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P.S. I think Cardiff council have gone clean-wall-crazy; walls that<i> </i>I'd expect to be plastered in graf are bafflingly silent. Am making do with the occasional found tag, but there's a legal wall on the bus route between Penarth and Cardiff that's a splash of dynamic colour. I always stare at it until I'm taken out of sight. Hope to get some pictures for you (well, alright, mostly for me) soon!<br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/thiefree/7416102814/" style="background-color: white;" title="king G by Thiefree, on Flickr"><img alt="king G" height="500" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8168/7416102814_a1e1be8867.jpg" width="375" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/thiefree/7416102942/" style="background-color: white;" title="capndope by Thiefree, on Flickr"><img alt="capndope" height="375" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8021/7416102942_80422c62e2.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
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</span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/thiefree/7416103116/" style="background-color: white;" title="westy by Thiefree, on Flickr"><img alt="westy" height="375" src="http://farm6.staticflickr.com/5456/7416103116_3615187f2c.jpg" width="500" /></a></span></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-13278096439426598592012-06-09T17:32:00.000+01:002012-06-09T17:32:10.456+01:00Silver liningsToday has been... not great.<br />
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It started off badly because I dreamed of my ex with his new lady, which I readily confess is my fault for rereading old emails yesterday. He was describing what he imagined our daughter would look like. I know, why not just stab myself in the face, right? It's like I have <i>no</i> comprehension of consequences.<br />
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Then I read Kim Rhodes' <a href="http://rhodeside.vuxe.com/?p=600">most recent blog entry</a>. Let me tell you, I love this lady, and not just for being in Supernatural - she's funny, charming, ludicrously down-to-earth and does <i>not</i> deserve even half the shit that's been thrown her way. I haven't commented on this post. I really am at a loss for words. None of the standard platitudes really seem to apply in this case, but on the off-chance that she ever sees this: Kim, you're an inspiration; write whatever you need to and I'll be reading.<br />
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Since then it's been a blur of packing for storage, getting threatening letters and bemusing visits from our landlord. Did I tell you our basement flooded? Probably not, it happened just after<a href="http://www.thiefree.net/2012/06/when-its-jar.html"> the rant about the door</a> went up.<br />
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Luckily I've got dozens of little silver linings in my friends, without whom I really would have thrown in the towel by now.<br />
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They cheer me up, look out for me, offer me places to stay. They make cups of tea and offer words of wisdom on twitter. They link me to <a href="http://flickr.com/gp/solle/8Fy781">footage of lizards</a> and <a href="http://meankitty.com/">websites about cats</a> to cheer me up. I also found <a href="http://open.spotify.com/user/tommcphee/playlist/1LhZldqf3Y1xlhu6Uk61yI">this gorgeous playlist</a> (Spotify link) by an old friend that has been slowing my heartrate down a little.<br />
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So to all my silver linings (and, if you're reading this, chances are you're one): Thank you. I love you.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14061807.post-61078532490129935172012-06-07T18:43:00.000+01:002012-06-07T18:43:28.670+01:00When it's a jarSome of you might be aware of the ongoing problems we've been having with our landlord / letting agencies (yes, plural). I've been keeping quiet about it on here because, honestly, the thought of writing down everything that's gone wrong is so bone-deep tiring that I'd sooner walk into traffic than lay it all out for you.<br />
<br />
But, as a microcosm, as a focal point for all that negativity, how about we talk about the living room door?<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>When we moved in, there was a cream-painted door with a blurry window in it. The handle was slightly shonky, but it was otherwise fine.</li>
<li>When we got the lady from the council round to make a bullet-point list of things that needed to be fixed, the door made it onto that list. It's not a fire door, you see, and because our living room is open onto our kitchen, it needs to be a fire door.</li>
<li>So they replaced the cream door with a plank of featureless wood.</li>
<li>It's gradually <i>becoming</i> a fire door, so we're assured, but right now it presents more of a fire hazard. It's not sealed around the edges, so it's not fulfilling that function anyway.</li>
<li>They eventually added a handle - the same cream-painted shonky handle from the old door. Looks out of place on the unpainted wood, but whatever, a handle is a handle.</li>
<li>Then they added a closer, so the door closes itself, and requires a bit more muscle to open. Also fine.</li>
<li>Well, today the handle fell off.</li>
</ul>
<br />
I have blocked the door open with a beanbag because if it closes now, we won't be able to open it.<br />
Because it has a closer.<br />
And no handle.<br />
And still isn't a fire door.<br />
<br />
My housemates are all pretty fed up of this place, so in an attempt to soften the blow, when I texted them warning not to move the beanbag, I ended it with *sad trombone*... but I don't think it helped.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16911606744887152262noreply@blogger.com0