Well, I really hadn't expected that.
I've been trying to write this conclusion or epilogue or whatever it is for days. I wanted to offer something to sum up what's been written by everyone else here but really I can't. Not without sounding fake, fatuous or false.
When in mid-October I began to think about the substance of this year's Review 2005, how I'd be getting the world involved I simply hadn't assumed that there would be thirty-two people willing enough to put themselves out in that way -- take the time to write something for this weblog, and such great writing, about big issues and big emotions. I mean really, as each email came in and I sat reading about how their lives had changed this year, about those fundamentals, I was humbled.
Two thousand and five was a difficult twelve months. In the closing of the year, look at a newspaper, watch the television and there will be someone describing the bodyshocks the planet and its people have experienced, trying to comprend how we'll cope if similar things occur in two thousand and six. What the people who've written here over the past thirty-one days have proved is that life goes on. We will cope. People do. We just carry on.
Thank you everybody.
Showing posts with label review 2005. Show all posts
Showing posts with label review 2005. Show all posts
Review 2005
Karen
When Pete wrote about the brain-bulging awesomeness of New York City, the one life-altering factor that he didn't mention was the baby that we conceived there (with apologies to Stuart & Krissa's spare bedroom). This was of course entirely unplanned and accidental, but when we miscarried at 7 weeks, our destiny was fully focused on the fact that we definitely, definitely, wanted another go.
So at the earliest possible opportunity, we conceived again, and for two months now we have been sitting on this brilliant burning fact, unable to tell anyone except where absolutely necessary (to explain the debilitating effects of all-day morning sickness, for example). It's such an exciting thing, and we can't tell anyone. These have been the longest weeks ever, waiting to reach the magical 12-week mark, when the risk of miscarriage diminishes significantly, and we can relax and start to enjoy it.
This morning - exactly 12 weeks in - we had our first scan. The main purpose of this was to establish the statistically likelihood of having a baby with Down's Syndrome; but we got bloody good value for our fee, including a DVD to bore the grandparents-to-be with at christmas. We had a full tour of the baby, showing that it had two legs, two arms, and two halves of a brain. It seemed to be sleeping, so it had to be jiggled around to wake it up, so that the scan-lady could measure the fluid at the back of its neck, which is the indicator of chromosomal abnormality. When woken up, it wriggled and somersaulted for a few seconds, and then went back to sleep; no doubt about its parentage, then.
So, in summary, we have one healthy foetus; 5.3cm long at the time of writing, which puts it at exactly 12 weeks old. Its tiny heart is beating at 158 bpm. Statistical likelihood of DS reduced from 1:312 to 1:1754. Up until this point, we have been so very cautious; we have not given it a comedy nickname, or planned how we will fit the cot into our house. Last time it was so intensely disappointing to get all excited, and then have nothing; so we have counted every day that we woke up still pregnant, and been pleased about it. Now I feel as though we have been given permission to let go of some of the anxiety and enjoy the pregnancy; it's such a relief, and it is SO exciting.
Written 5th December 2005, but embargoed until after Christmas, by which time we will have told our parents.
Karen writes Rise
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
So at the earliest possible opportunity, we conceived again, and for two months now we have been sitting on this brilliant burning fact, unable to tell anyone except where absolutely necessary (to explain the debilitating effects of all-day morning sickness, for example). It's such an exciting thing, and we can't tell anyone. These have been the longest weeks ever, waiting to reach the magical 12-week mark, when the risk of miscarriage diminishes significantly, and we can relax and start to enjoy it.
This morning - exactly 12 weeks in - we had our first scan. The main purpose of this was to establish the statistically likelihood of having a baby with Down's Syndrome; but we got bloody good value for our fee, including a DVD to bore the grandparents-to-be with at christmas. We had a full tour of the baby, showing that it had two legs, two arms, and two halves of a brain. It seemed to be sleeping, so it had to be jiggled around to wake it up, so that the scan-lady could measure the fluid at the back of its neck, which is the indicator of chromosomal abnormality. When woken up, it wriggled and somersaulted for a few seconds, and then went back to sleep; no doubt about its parentage, then.
So, in summary, we have one healthy foetus; 5.3cm long at the time of writing, which puts it at exactly 12 weeks old. Its tiny heart is beating at 158 bpm. Statistical likelihood of DS reduced from 1:312 to 1:1754. Up until this point, we have been so very cautious; we have not given it a comedy nickname, or planned how we will fit the cot into our house. Last time it was so intensely disappointing to get all excited, and then have nothing; so we have counted every day that we woke up still pregnant, and been pleased about it. Now I feel as though we have been given permission to let go of some of the anxiety and enjoy the pregnancy; it's such a relief, and it is SO exciting.
Written 5th December 2005, but embargoed until after Christmas, by which time we will have told our parents.
Karen writes Rise
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
Shazzle
Christmas always tends to have an air of melancholy, as nothing screams frustrated ambition quite like the sound of another year passing by. However, I think in my 2005 I have made some tiny but important achievements that might, one day, come to the attention of the wider world, and will eventually have me hailed as the right and proper Queen of the Universe, and also saviour of mankind, and quite possible Best Person Ever.
But until that happens, my successes in 2005 remain some of the biggest and best of my humble and increasingly pointless lifetime.
In contemplating writing this little piece of self-importand dribble, I considered a number of possibilities as to what my biggest achievement in 2005 could be. It could be that I've finally managed to trick someone of the opposite and opposing sex to move in with me and become, as I like to refer to him, "my live in lover" or "my special flatmate" or, as others describe him, "that poor fool". I could talk about how I've finally overcome two of the biggest phobias of my life: that of flying, and that of needles, by getting on a plane at least twice a month every month between November 2005 and July 2006, and having some tattoos painted on my foot with big scary needles and ink.
Alternatively, it is an achievement of sorts that I managed to successfully contract food poisoning (being a vegetarian), but miraculous disembark from the tube train on which I was travelling to throw up instead on the platform (if you've ever commuted in London, I think you'll share with me the horror of being ill on a tube train). I'm also quite pleased about the practicality with which I have dealt with my credit card debt, in that right at this moment I have more in my current account than on my credit card, something that hasn't happened since 1998 at the earliest.
But no. My honestly, truly, proudest moment of actual sheer physical, mental and emotional success, the peak of my year as a person, came about a week ago, when myself and my long-suffering better half were leaving a young person's musical adventure, and noticed that the bus we were intending to catch was rapidly approaching us from behind, while we were still quite the way away from the stop at which we could catch it. I looked at him. He looked at me. We both looked ahead. And, grabbing the top of my jeans and hiking them up to avoid them falling around my ankles, we both set off in a sprint, laughing and yelling as we did that there was no way we were going to get that bus, and where was my oyster card, and my trousers are falling down, and look it's stopping and oh god, we did it.
It may not seem like a big deal to you, dear reader, that I managed to run for and successfully catch a bus, but this time two years ago I spent New Years Eve on the floor of my flat in Edinburgh, alone and crying due to the pain in my back that was so bad I couldn't sit up, stand, or socialise in any reasonable or meaningful manner. I don't by any means intend this post to be a sort of self-aggrandising rant to the power of my healing abilities, or the bravery over which I have defeated my adversaries, or even just a boasting on the fact that I can recover from physical injury. It is simply a darned, straight up, and thank the good lord and all his angels, mind boggling success for me to happily run for a bus without a care in the world, that this is my biggest success of 2005.
Now. I'm off to drink my body weight in brandy. Do please have a merry that and a wonderful the other.
Shazzle writes Dreadful Nonsense
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
But until that happens, my successes in 2005 remain some of the biggest and best of my humble and increasingly pointless lifetime.
In contemplating writing this little piece of self-importand dribble, I considered a number of possibilities as to what my biggest achievement in 2005 could be. It could be that I've finally managed to trick someone of the opposite and opposing sex to move in with me and become, as I like to refer to him, "my live in lover" or "my special flatmate" or, as others describe him, "that poor fool". I could talk about how I've finally overcome two of the biggest phobias of my life: that of flying, and that of needles, by getting on a plane at least twice a month every month between November 2005 and July 2006, and having some tattoos painted on my foot with big scary needles and ink.
Alternatively, it is an achievement of sorts that I managed to successfully contract food poisoning (being a vegetarian), but miraculous disembark from the tube train on which I was travelling to throw up instead on the platform (if you've ever commuted in London, I think you'll share with me the horror of being ill on a tube train). I'm also quite pleased about the practicality with which I have dealt with my credit card debt, in that right at this moment I have more in my current account than on my credit card, something that hasn't happened since 1998 at the earliest.
But no. My honestly, truly, proudest moment of actual sheer physical, mental and emotional success, the peak of my year as a person, came about a week ago, when myself and my long-suffering better half were leaving a young person's musical adventure, and noticed that the bus we were intending to catch was rapidly approaching us from behind, while we were still quite the way away from the stop at which we could catch it. I looked at him. He looked at me. We both looked ahead. And, grabbing the top of my jeans and hiking them up to avoid them falling around my ankles, we both set off in a sprint, laughing and yelling as we did that there was no way we were going to get that bus, and where was my oyster card, and my trousers are falling down, and look it's stopping and oh god, we did it.
It may not seem like a big deal to you, dear reader, that I managed to run for and successfully catch a bus, but this time two years ago I spent New Years Eve on the floor of my flat in Edinburgh, alone and crying due to the pain in my back that was so bad I couldn't sit up, stand, or socialise in any reasonable or meaningful manner. I don't by any means intend this post to be a sort of self-aggrandising rant to the power of my healing abilities, or the bravery over which I have defeated my adversaries, or even just a boasting on the fact that I can recover from physical injury. It is simply a darned, straight up, and thank the good lord and all his angels, mind boggling success for me to happily run for a bus without a care in the world, that this is my biggest success of 2005.
Now. I'm off to drink my body weight in brandy. Do please have a merry that and a wonderful the other.
Shazzle writes Dreadful Nonsense
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
Adrian McEwen
When I signed up for the Review 2005 I had a clear idea of the achievment I was going to write about. My achievement for the year would be the release of my first piece of software.
Not the first piece of software of which I'd written a major part; or the first piece I'd been responsible for planning; or the first piece I'd seen in people's hands... Although they were all important firsts of which I'm proud, they all happened a few years back, earlier in my career.
This would be the first product that I'd built, from scratch, all by myself. Decided the feature set myself, written all the code myself, and planned and managed from start to finish myself. The culmination of over eighteen months' work.
It hasn't been the easiest of transitions, from employee to self-employed. There are many more things to take care of - I almost said to worry about, but the over-riding problem hasn't been worrying about them; rather finding the time to fit them all in and still keep the development of the software edging towards completion. Working alone, from home, has also been a challenge - I'm finally getting to grips with the self-discipline and motivation required to get through the times when the task seems to stretch away into the far distance. And I still need to keep reminding myself that most of the time any decision, even the wrong one, is better than no decision and will stop you procrastinating away hours...
Now all that's left is to close with a short description of what I've built... to point you to the website where the software can be downloaded, and then tell you how I'm going to relax and enjoy the Christmas period having achieved something I've been thinking about doing for many years.
Only unfortunately I can't.
Not just yet.
If you followed the link above, you'd just be asked if you wanted to join the beta testing (which, if you haven't backed up your computer lately, you should think about). For the software isn't quite finished. It's so close to being finished that I've begged for a special extension to the deadline for Review 2005 submissions, but even that hasn't quite been enough.
So my great achievement isn't going to happen in 2005. There have been plenty of other achievements made along the way: I've become a company director; run my first usability testing; launched a beta programme; and got my software into the hands or real people. So there's still lots for me to feel proud of, and I'll be all set for next year's review...
Adrian McEwen writes mcfilter
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Not the first piece of software of which I'd written a major part; or the first piece I'd been responsible for planning; or the first piece I'd seen in people's hands... Although they were all important firsts of which I'm proud, they all happened a few years back, earlier in my career.
This would be the first product that I'd built, from scratch, all by myself. Decided the feature set myself, written all the code myself, and planned and managed from start to finish myself. The culmination of over eighteen months' work.
It hasn't been the easiest of transitions, from employee to self-employed. There are many more things to take care of - I almost said to worry about, but the over-riding problem hasn't been worrying about them; rather finding the time to fit them all in and still keep the development of the software edging towards completion. Working alone, from home, has also been a challenge - I'm finally getting to grips with the self-discipline and motivation required to get through the times when the task seems to stretch away into the far distance. And I still need to keep reminding myself that most of the time any decision, even the wrong one, is better than no decision and will stop you procrastinating away hours...
Now all that's left is to close with a short description of what I've built... to point you to the website where the software can be downloaded, and then tell you how I'm going to relax and enjoy the Christmas period having achieved something I've been thinking about doing for many years.
Only unfortunately I can't.
Not just yet.
If you followed the link above, you'd just be asked if you wanted to join the beta testing (which, if you haven't backed up your computer lately, you should think about). For the software isn't quite finished. It's so close to being finished that I've begged for a special extension to the deadline for Review 2005 submissions, but even that hasn't quite been enough.
So my great achievement isn't going to happen in 2005. There have been plenty of other achievements made along the way: I've become a company director; run my first usability testing; launched a beta programme; and got my software into the hands or real people. So there's still lots for me to feel proud of, and I'll be all set for next year's review...
Adrian McEwen writes mcfilter
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
Sasha F
2005 was the year that I really discovered photography (among other things - I don't want you to think I'm one dimensional).
I often think of myself as a visual person: I dress in that textured creative way that implies I know the canon of visual imagery. I was Trinny-and-Susanna-ing my friends (without the nastiness, obviously) well before anyone knew from personal shoppers or TV shows. And I go to art galleries, and often notice small interesting details in the universe - visually - and imagine myself framing photos and referring to them later as I build up my records of how the world looks to me.
I am susceptible to my environment. I notice when people's furniture is the wrong size for the room, or their pictures are hung in a way that doesn't work for the space. A very long time ago (when I wasn't quite so good at knowing when to keep my mouth shut) I enabled the speedy and rather tragic ending of lovely relationship with a creative opera-lover-type who lived in Highgate because I rather forcefully insisted that he rehang the pictures in his living room. He subsequently turned out to be gay, and I learned the value of keeping shtum.
Last November, I did the usual phone-upgrade thing with Orange, and I got a Nokia 6710. I didn't want a camera, it just came with it, and for six months, I was annoyed that it was a phone that primarily perceived itself as a camera, and you had to press more buttons to make a call than take a pic.
Two summers ago, I angsted for ages about which digital camera to buy - balancing technical requirements with value for money - because the moment you make the purchase decision on any piece of technology and press the "confirm order" button, that very minute something bigger/better/smaller/cheaper comes on the market and you are already working with tired materials.
The camera gods, however, were having none of it: my new digital camera was nicked by a taxi driver in New York less than a month after I bought it, and before I'd even had a chance to download the photos.
Sometimes, you think someone up there has a message for you.
But in the meantime, I'd got into my phonecam. Camphone. Who knows what you call all the new stuff that keeps arriving.
What I like is the spontaneity. The throwaway-ness. I'm not taking a day of work and saying "today is the day I take pictures." My camera's always in my handbag, because my phone is, and the impermanence of the snaps that I take is what does it for me. The artlessness, and the limitations of the form - closeups are better than vistas, real closeups just get fuzzy - mean that I have to work within restrictions that, bizarrely - seem to engender my creativity, rather than hamper it.
After I'd worked out the geek-stuff of getting my photos off my phone and onto my PC, I got excited. I felt like I'd found a new way to express myself. There's something both calming and life-affirming about recording the world as you see it.
This all came to a head in November, traditionally phone-upgrade month. Usually, I'm hungry for the latest whatever, craving newness above all else, but now I feel my Nokia 6710 is my trusty friend: I couldn't give it up for anything. Also, it looks slightly art deco in a fakely retro way, which makes me feel very Algonquin, which is never a bad thing.
And I never bought another real digital camera - I've thought about it, and delicioused all the research, but there's no hurry. Sure, I'd like to explore new ways of doing clever things with photos, but there's still so much for to discover with what I've got, that there's no real hurry.
No real hurry. That's a new concept for me.
So for a few months, I've had a flickr. Now I've got more than five hundred photos, and sure, lots of them are holiday snaps, but some are really good photos that I really like. And also, sometimes I think my blog looks a bit dull, all text, so I can break it up with pictures.
After all, a picture's worth a thousand words.
Check out my flickr at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/sashinkauk/
Sasha F writes Sashinka
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
I often think of myself as a visual person: I dress in that textured creative way that implies I know the canon of visual imagery. I was Trinny-and-Susanna-ing my friends (without the nastiness, obviously) well before anyone knew from personal shoppers or TV shows. And I go to art galleries, and often notice small interesting details in the universe - visually - and imagine myself framing photos and referring to them later as I build up my records of how the world looks to me.
I am susceptible to my environment. I notice when people's furniture is the wrong size for the room, or their pictures are hung in a way that doesn't work for the space. A very long time ago (when I wasn't quite so good at knowing when to keep my mouth shut) I enabled the speedy and rather tragic ending of lovely relationship with a creative opera-lover-type who lived in Highgate because I rather forcefully insisted that he rehang the pictures in his living room. He subsequently turned out to be gay, and I learned the value of keeping shtum.
Last November, I did the usual phone-upgrade thing with Orange, and I got a Nokia 6710. I didn't want a camera, it just came with it, and for six months, I was annoyed that it was a phone that primarily perceived itself as a camera, and you had to press more buttons to make a call than take a pic.
Two summers ago, I angsted for ages about which digital camera to buy - balancing technical requirements with value for money - because the moment you make the purchase decision on any piece of technology and press the "confirm order" button, that very minute something bigger/better/smaller/cheaper comes on the market and you are already working with tired materials.
The camera gods, however, were having none of it: my new digital camera was nicked by a taxi driver in New York less than a month after I bought it, and before I'd even had a chance to download the photos.
Sometimes, you think someone up there has a message for you.
But in the meantime, I'd got into my phonecam. Camphone. Who knows what you call all the new stuff that keeps arriving.
What I like is the spontaneity. The throwaway-ness. I'm not taking a day of work and saying "today is the day I take pictures." My camera's always in my handbag, because my phone is, and the impermanence of the snaps that I take is what does it for me. The artlessness, and the limitations of the form - closeups are better than vistas, real closeups just get fuzzy - mean that I have to work within restrictions that, bizarrely - seem to engender my creativity, rather than hamper it.
After I'd worked out the geek-stuff of getting my photos off my phone and onto my PC, I got excited. I felt like I'd found a new way to express myself. There's something both calming and life-affirming about recording the world as you see it.
This all came to a head in November, traditionally phone-upgrade month. Usually, I'm hungry for the latest whatever, craving newness above all else, but now I feel my Nokia 6710 is my trusty friend: I couldn't give it up for anything. Also, it looks slightly art deco in a fakely retro way, which makes me feel very Algonquin, which is never a bad thing.
And I never bought another real digital camera - I've thought about it, and delicioused all the research, but there's no hurry. Sure, I'd like to explore new ways of doing clever things with photos, but there's still so much for to discover with what I've got, that there's no real hurry.
No real hurry. That's a new concept for me.
So for a few months, I've had a flickr. Now I've got more than five hundred photos, and sure, lots of them are holiday snaps, but some are really good photos that I really like. And also, sometimes I think my blog looks a bit dull, all text, so I can break it up with pictures.
After all, a picture's worth a thousand words.
Check out my flickr at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/sashinkauk/
Sasha F writes Sashinka
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
Franchesca Puehler
Forgive me for seeming greedy, but this one experience actually killed 2 birds with one stone so to speak.
I was visiting my best mate who's at Manchester Poly as was, and we went to one of their themed nights at the student union. It was Karaoke. Not being much of an exhibitionist myself I'd never tried this before. Besides, my only singing experience had been in junior school for the Xmas Nativity and that was so long ago I can hardly remember that. My best mate was actually a good singer so I always let her take centre stage while I cowered in the safety of my chair by the bar. Anyway we had a few drinks and she went up to put her name down for a song. I'd told her it was something deep down I'd always wanted to try but could never ever find the courage to do. She tried to persuade me but there was no way I was going to do it here and now in front of soooo many people.
Anyway she got up and did her Alanis number as usual. It was good but I've lost count of the number of time's I've heard her do Ironic, but who cares. The next thing I know my name is being called out and I'm up to sing next ! I was stunned. You know like in the movies when the camera does a close up on your face and the background zooms away, or something like that. My friend came walking back over to me grinning like a Cheshire cat. She said to me "you'll be great, I know you will" and she kissed me on my cheek and whispered "knock em dead girl".
The next thing I knew I had somehow reached the stage - mental note, never drink too many screaming orgasms as it seems to leave you with the impression you have powers you don't really posses ! Anyhow, I hadn't even noticed what the song was during these few moments of terror. Oh my god ! How cheesy can you get? I Will Always Love You by Whitney ! I thought to myself, oh what the heck. I can't chicken out now, I guess its now or never. Then the backing track started and the words lit up on the monitor in front of me. This was it. It was really happening. There was a hush that descended on the room and eyes from what seemed like every corner where fixed on me. I went for the first note, and I hit it just how I'd imagined I would - terribly lol. But soon enough everything seemed to fit into place and the right notes started to flow. I was doing it! And you know what, it felt good too. At a break in the singing I eventually plucked up the courage to take my transfixed eyes from the monitor and look out into the crowd. As I did I could see my friend standing right in front of me just staring into my eyes and smiling. I expected her to be pulling faces or cheering, but she was being very subdued. Anyway I managed to get to the end of the song and the relief of getting there overwhelmed me. I'd done it and people were actually cheering.
I stumbled down the steps of the stage and made my way over to my friend, who now I wasn't so desperate to strangle like I had wanted to minutes early. I noticed something about her. She had a tear in her eye. She was stunned. "That was amazing. And you said you couldn't sing !". I was flattered. She came to give me a hug, but instead of a drunken sloppy kiss on the cheek like she'd given me moments before I'd got up to sing, she looked my straight in the eye and kissed me on right on the lips ! I'd never experienced this before, but it just seemed so right for that moment. I'd secretly had a bit of a crush on her in my teenage years and had even thought about kissing her back then, but now after all this time it was actually happening. It was only short, but it was like something I've never felt before. It was one of those brief moments when everything seemed to just click perfectly into place.
Now I can safely say I've finally done something, well to be honest two things, I've always wanted to do! That reminds me, must check when the next Karaoke night is . . .
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
I was visiting my best mate who's at Manchester Poly as was, and we went to one of their themed nights at the student union. It was Karaoke. Not being much of an exhibitionist myself I'd never tried this before. Besides, my only singing experience had been in junior school for the Xmas Nativity and that was so long ago I can hardly remember that. My best mate was actually a good singer so I always let her take centre stage while I cowered in the safety of my chair by the bar. Anyway we had a few drinks and she went up to put her name down for a song. I'd told her it was something deep down I'd always wanted to try but could never ever find the courage to do. She tried to persuade me but there was no way I was going to do it here and now in front of soooo many people.
Anyway she got up and did her Alanis number as usual. It was good but I've lost count of the number of time's I've heard her do Ironic, but who cares. The next thing I know my name is being called out and I'm up to sing next ! I was stunned. You know like in the movies when the camera does a close up on your face and the background zooms away, or something like that. My friend came walking back over to me grinning like a Cheshire cat. She said to me "you'll be great, I know you will" and she kissed me on my cheek and whispered "knock em dead girl".
The next thing I knew I had somehow reached the stage - mental note, never drink too many screaming orgasms as it seems to leave you with the impression you have powers you don't really posses ! Anyhow, I hadn't even noticed what the song was during these few moments of terror. Oh my god ! How cheesy can you get? I Will Always Love You by Whitney ! I thought to myself, oh what the heck. I can't chicken out now, I guess its now or never. Then the backing track started and the words lit up on the monitor in front of me. This was it. It was really happening. There was a hush that descended on the room and eyes from what seemed like every corner where fixed on me. I went for the first note, and I hit it just how I'd imagined I would - terribly lol. But soon enough everything seemed to fit into place and the right notes started to flow. I was doing it! And you know what, it felt good too. At a break in the singing I eventually plucked up the courage to take my transfixed eyes from the monitor and look out into the crowd. As I did I could see my friend standing right in front of me just staring into my eyes and smiling. I expected her to be pulling faces or cheering, but she was being very subdued. Anyway I managed to get to the end of the song and the relief of getting there overwhelmed me. I'd done it and people were actually cheering.
I stumbled down the steps of the stage and made my way over to my friend, who now I wasn't so desperate to strangle like I had wanted to minutes early. I noticed something about her. She had a tear in her eye. She was stunned. "That was amazing. And you said you couldn't sing !". I was flattered. She came to give me a hug, but instead of a drunken sloppy kiss on the cheek like she'd given me moments before I'd got up to sing, she looked my straight in the eye and kissed me on right on the lips ! I'd never experienced this before, but it just seemed so right for that moment. I'd secretly had a bit of a crush on her in my teenage years and had even thought about kissing her back then, but now after all this time it was actually happening. It was only short, but it was like something I've never felt before. It was one of those brief moments when everything seemed to just click perfectly into place.
Now I can safely say I've finally done something, well to be honest two things, I've always wanted to do! That reminds me, must check when the next Karaoke night is . . .
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
Anna Pickard
It's Weird
I've been sitting, and screen-staring, and mentally shuffling all of the things that have happened to me in the past 11 months. From rental flat to rental flat. From mouse infestation to cauterised IKEAness. Conversations sublime and ridiculous. From 8-4, 10-6, 11-7, occasionally overnight, work, and work, and work. One professional moment I thought I'd never see, then another, and another. The moment my tiny nephew first walked towards me on shaky legs. My first beetroot.
"... describe a moment when you suceeded in doing something you've always wanted to do this year."
My mind riffles and flips through the hundreds of words I've seen move from my brain to various kinds of pages this year. Some were important, some were exciting, and some represented some kind of success. But for some reason, these don't seem to hold, to keep focus, as the thing that should be written about. I have the feeling that there are too many words to write about words, and I think I should be looking for just one. It's weird.
"It doesn't need to be a life changing event, but it really could be... what counts is how it made you feel."
It was strange. It was odd. It was - it was weird, but the first time I realised it, it felt good.
This year - for the first time in my life - I have finally driven into my head the correct spelling of the word 'Weird'. It's "e" then "i", apparently. Not the other way around after all.
I've known a lot of people who've had problems similar to mine in the past. People who always use two p's where one would suffice, people who have to write "accommodation" on a piece of paper in three various spellifications before they commit it to its waiting home - people who are underconfident about their sense of "necessity" and will slowly plod through it, repeatedly adding and deleting s's and c's with growing glumness of heart until they reach the y.
And why? Because it happens to everyone - everyone has that word, I think. That word they just can't spell. For me, it was 'weird'. It was always 'Weird', and before it was simply 'weird', it was all other words with e's and i's in as well. I often had problems with friends, found it difficult to talk about weight issues, or even height ones. I would avoid caffeine, if at all possible, and never, ever used the word inveigle. Until now, obviously.
Over the years I've tried desperately to teach myself - little incantations of "I" before "E", except after "C" - even way after the moment I realised that it was a stupid rule and barely applied to anything I was trying to spell at all. I before E, except after C. But weird started with a 'W'. So according to the stupid rule, that would mean it to be "i" and then "e"? Wierd. No?
Confused, I would try the tricks my mother had taught me. I would write the word down one way. And the other. Wierd. Weird.
Well it *was* weird, because the Law Of Jan said that when you wrote the possible spellings next to each other, one of them should look desperately wrong.
But Neither would look wrong. They would both look fine, and perfectly plausible. Weird. Wierd. I would read them out loud. They both sounded right too. Weird.
Eventually, I would give up. A bloody dictionary. The bloody internet. The chagrin of asking a passing competent speller. Or just the bloodyminded decision taken that whoever was reading would have to love me regardless of my pissy e's and i's.
It was a great problem. No matter how many times I looked it up, made my peace with it, and carefully folded and placed it in my brain, the next time I went to find it, it would have fallen out again, and the hole in my mind where it was meant to live would simply hold a mocking note, saying "ei? ie? 'oo knows?".
And for some reason that note would be in a French accent. I don't know why
But it sounds undeniably more disparaging.
It drove me insane. Every single time this cropped up - and it's a word I like to use, I like to use it a lot, I would stumble, and stumbling would slow me down, and I would lose my thread, and losing my thread would make me grumpy, and my appalling memory would make me grumpy, and the e's would just sit there and the i's would swim before mine and I wouldsit and grump and swear.
Because I couldn't, for the life of me, work out why I could remember whole swathes of scripts, song lyrics from chart hits long forgotten, and facts about ridiculous things that I would never ever need to know, but couldn't for one second remember whether weird was spelt with and i-fecking-e or an e-fecking-i.
Then, this year.
This year, for some unknown reason, something changed. One day I looked at the word "weird" and said "You know what? That is how you spell it. I think that's how it might have been spelled all along". And immediately wrote it on the side of my monitor.
And since that day, whenever I've had a momentary panic, I've simply looked down at that little 'weird' note, and smiled. Smiled, and typed, smiling.
It's weird, you see. Weird.
The "e" goes before the "i".
Anna Pickard writes little.red.boat
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
_______________________________________________________
I still can't spell the name Micheal though. Michael. Michel. Micheal. Oh arse.
I've been sitting, and screen-staring, and mentally shuffling all of the things that have happened to me in the past 11 months. From rental flat to rental flat. From mouse infestation to cauterised IKEAness. Conversations sublime and ridiculous. From 8-4, 10-6, 11-7, occasionally overnight, work, and work, and work. One professional moment I thought I'd never see, then another, and another. The moment my tiny nephew first walked towards me on shaky legs. My first beetroot.
"... describe a moment when you suceeded in doing something you've always wanted to do this year."
My mind riffles and flips through the hundreds of words I've seen move from my brain to various kinds of pages this year. Some were important, some were exciting, and some represented some kind of success. But for some reason, these don't seem to hold, to keep focus, as the thing that should be written about. I have the feeling that there are too many words to write about words, and I think I should be looking for just one. It's weird.
"It doesn't need to be a life changing event, but it really could be... what counts is how it made you feel."
It was strange. It was odd. It was - it was weird, but the first time I realised it, it felt good.
This year - for the first time in my life - I have finally driven into my head the correct spelling of the word 'Weird'. It's "e" then "i", apparently. Not the other way around after all.
I've known a lot of people who've had problems similar to mine in the past. People who always use two p's where one would suffice, people who have to write "accommodation" on a piece of paper in three various spellifications before they commit it to its waiting home - people who are underconfident about their sense of "necessity" and will slowly plod through it, repeatedly adding and deleting s's and c's with growing glumness of heart until they reach the y.
And why? Because it happens to everyone - everyone has that word, I think. That word they just can't spell. For me, it was 'weird'. It was always 'Weird', and before it was simply 'weird', it was all other words with e's and i's in as well. I often had problems with friends, found it difficult to talk about weight issues, or even height ones. I would avoid caffeine, if at all possible, and never, ever used the word inveigle. Until now, obviously.
Over the years I've tried desperately to teach myself - little incantations of "I" before "E", except after "C" - even way after the moment I realised that it was a stupid rule and barely applied to anything I was trying to spell at all. I before E, except after C. But weird started with a 'W'. So according to the stupid rule, that would mean it to be "i" and then "e"? Wierd. No?
Confused, I would try the tricks my mother had taught me. I would write the word down one way. And the other. Wierd. Weird.
Well it *was* weird, because the Law Of Jan said that when you wrote the possible spellings next to each other, one of them should look desperately wrong.
But Neither would look wrong. They would both look fine, and perfectly plausible. Weird. Wierd. I would read them out loud. They both sounded right too. Weird.
Eventually, I would give up. A bloody dictionary. The bloody internet. The chagrin of asking a passing competent speller. Or just the bloodyminded decision taken that whoever was reading would have to love me regardless of my pissy e's and i's.
It was a great problem. No matter how many times I looked it up, made my peace with it, and carefully folded and placed it in my brain, the next time I went to find it, it would have fallen out again, and the hole in my mind where it was meant to live would simply hold a mocking note, saying "ei? ie? 'oo knows?".
And for some reason that note would be in a French accent. I don't know why
But it sounds undeniably more disparaging.
It drove me insane. Every single time this cropped up - and it's a word I like to use, I like to use it a lot, I would stumble, and stumbling would slow me down, and I would lose my thread, and losing my thread would make me grumpy, and my appalling memory would make me grumpy, and the e's would just sit there and the i's would swim before mine and I wouldsit and grump and swear.
Because I couldn't, for the life of me, work out why I could remember whole swathes of scripts, song lyrics from chart hits long forgotten, and facts about ridiculous things that I would never ever need to know, but couldn't for one second remember whether weird was spelt with and i-fecking-e or an e-fecking-i.
Then, this year.
This year, for some unknown reason, something changed. One day I looked at the word "weird" and said "You know what? That is how you spell it. I think that's how it might have been spelled all along". And immediately wrote it on the side of my monitor.
And since that day, whenever I've had a momentary panic, I've simply looked down at that little 'weird' note, and smiled. Smiled, and typed, smiling.
It's weird, you see. Weird.
The "e" goes before the "i".
Anna Pickard writes little.red.boat
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
_______________________________________________________
I still can't spell the name Micheal though. Michael. Michel. Micheal. Oh arse.
Review 2005
Neil Perryman
2005 - the year I finally came out of the closet.
After spending many lonely years hiding my feelings and lurking on the fringes of the "underground" scene, I can now finally hold my head up high and declare to my friends, my family, and my colleagues at work that YES!, I *am* a 'Doctor Who' fan!
Then again, who isn't these days?
In 2005 you couldn't move for Daleks, TARDISes, and Christopher Eccleston's ears. These days, when I buy the monthly 'Doctor Who' magazine from WH Smiths I don't have to hide it inside a copy of FHM, and I still can't get over the fact that many of my lunch times this year were spent filling in newcomers on the subtle complexities of Gallifreyan history or the finer details of the Doctor's regenerative cycle.
I'm still pinching myself. Did it really come back in such a triumphant blaze of glory? Seriously, did it really happen or am I lying in a coma and simply imagining it? I suppose it's a bit like faithfully supporting a Conference League Football Team for years and years and years, and then they suddenly win the FA Cup *and* The Champions League.
Anyway, besides the return of my favourite Time Lord, 2005 was a fairly eventful year for me: construction work finally started on our severely delayed barn conversion; I started work on my PhD; I started a couple of blogs; I saw my first short story in print; I saw Edgar Froese play wah-wah guitar; I played in my first real life poker tournament (and won!); I saw the 'One-Man Star Wars Trilogy' in New York; I made some new friends and I managed to re-establish ties with some old ones, but when I try to pin-point a moment that really sums up the year for me, I am drawn to Friday October 7th at approximately 6:25pm. On the A19, just outside Stockton.
I'm on my way to see 'Serenity' for a second time, which is reason enough to remember the date, I suppose, but what really marks the moment out for me is the fact that my daughter is the one driving the car.
She had passed her driving test the day before and we'd somehow managed to scrape enough money together to buy her a second-hand VW Polo (I think we had to sack some of the builders). Now, I can't drive (I've never really seen the attraction, although living 25 miles out in the middle of nowhere is beginning to challenge that long-held position), and this was the very first time that I had been in the car with her. And it felt... weird. As a father I was supposed to be responsible for her, but when she disengaged the hand-brake to that car I suddenly felt the ground shift beneath me. I had a flash-forward to the moment where she finally drops me outside the Old People's Home and I knew in that single moment that things have changed forever.
As she took the roundabout to the cinema with a self-assurance that masked her limited experience, it hit me - she was all grown-up. It was a profound moment for me - a mixture of pride, terror (where did all the years go?) and the growing realisation that 2005 would be the last full year we would spend together as a family; this time next year she'll be living it up at a university somewhere and we'll probably only see her at Christmas time or when the loan money runs out. It really knocked me for six, I can tell you; this was compounded a few moments later when she asked me to explain 'Firefly's back-story to her, and if you know my daughter then you'll appreciate just how surreal a moment *that* was!
Finally, as it's Christmas, I can't really end this without a list. I love lists, me. I could watch Channel 4's 'Top 100 Christmas Moments' on an endless loop until the end of time (as long as you cut out all the Jimmy Carr links, of course). And so, without any further ado, here are my picks of the cultural year:
TV Drama of 05: Part of me wants to be controversial and say 'Bodies' (I programme I really do watch behind the sofa) but 'Doctor Who' wins simply because it reinvented television for the 21st century, and you can't say fairer than that.
TV Comedy of 05: Not exactly a golden year for comedy. Sandwiched between the thoroughly predictable 'Catherine Tate' and 'Little Britain', and a terrible second series of 'Don't Watch That', 'Extras' surprised me by being just as good (if not better) than 'The Office'. But the clear winner has to be 'The Thick Of It' for its semi-improvisational realism and Peter Capaldi's surreal Scottish sarcasm.
Reality TV of 05: While I enjoyed the rackety philosophical experiment that was 'Space Cadets', the Americans still produce the best reality shows bar none. Best of the bunch has to be 'The Apprentice' with Donald Trump. This season's finale also featured one of the most gob-smacking moments of year when the winner, Randall, refused to let Trump hire the second-place contestant as well - the jerk!
TV Moment of 05: A tie between Pink Floyd at Live 8 and a certain cricket match being rained off.
Music of 05: Coldplay's 'Talk' went from being annoying as hell to really quite wonderful the moment I finally worked out that the melody was sampled from Kraftwerk's 'Computer Love', and while Depeche Mode's return to form was welcomed with open arms, the album of the year has to be Kate Bush's 'Ariel'. A work of such unparalleled genius it even managed to make Rolf Harris sound good.
Film of 05: 'Serenity' was everything I wanted it to be and more. Except, sadly, the runaway hit it deserved to be.
Neil Perryman writes Behind The Sofa Again
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
After spending many lonely years hiding my feelings and lurking on the fringes of the "underground" scene, I can now finally hold my head up high and declare to my friends, my family, and my colleagues at work that YES!, I *am* a 'Doctor Who' fan!
Then again, who isn't these days?
In 2005 you couldn't move for Daleks, TARDISes, and Christopher Eccleston's ears. These days, when I buy the monthly 'Doctor Who' magazine from WH Smiths I don't have to hide it inside a copy of FHM, and I still can't get over the fact that many of my lunch times this year were spent filling in newcomers on the subtle complexities of Gallifreyan history or the finer details of the Doctor's regenerative cycle.
I'm still pinching myself. Did it really come back in such a triumphant blaze of glory? Seriously, did it really happen or am I lying in a coma and simply imagining it? I suppose it's a bit like faithfully supporting a Conference League Football Team for years and years and years, and then they suddenly win the FA Cup *and* The Champions League.
Anyway, besides the return of my favourite Time Lord, 2005 was a fairly eventful year for me: construction work finally started on our severely delayed barn conversion; I started work on my PhD; I started a couple of blogs; I saw my first short story in print; I saw Edgar Froese play wah-wah guitar; I played in my first real life poker tournament (and won!); I saw the 'One-Man Star Wars Trilogy' in New York; I made some new friends and I managed to re-establish ties with some old ones, but when I try to pin-point a moment that really sums up the year for me, I am drawn to Friday October 7th at approximately 6:25pm. On the A19, just outside Stockton.
I'm on my way to see 'Serenity' for a second time, which is reason enough to remember the date, I suppose, but what really marks the moment out for me is the fact that my daughter is the one driving the car.
She had passed her driving test the day before and we'd somehow managed to scrape enough money together to buy her a second-hand VW Polo (I think we had to sack some of the builders). Now, I can't drive (I've never really seen the attraction, although living 25 miles out in the middle of nowhere is beginning to challenge that long-held position), and this was the very first time that I had been in the car with her. And it felt... weird. As a father I was supposed to be responsible for her, but when she disengaged the hand-brake to that car I suddenly felt the ground shift beneath me. I had a flash-forward to the moment where she finally drops me outside the Old People's Home and I knew in that single moment that things have changed forever.
As she took the roundabout to the cinema with a self-assurance that masked her limited experience, it hit me - she was all grown-up. It was a profound moment for me - a mixture of pride, terror (where did all the years go?) and the growing realisation that 2005 would be the last full year we would spend together as a family; this time next year she'll be living it up at a university somewhere and we'll probably only see her at Christmas time or when the loan money runs out. It really knocked me for six, I can tell you; this was compounded a few moments later when she asked me to explain 'Firefly's back-story to her, and if you know my daughter then you'll appreciate just how surreal a moment *that* was!
Finally, as it's Christmas, I can't really end this without a list. I love lists, me. I could watch Channel 4's 'Top 100 Christmas Moments' on an endless loop until the end of time (as long as you cut out all the Jimmy Carr links, of course). And so, without any further ado, here are my picks of the cultural year:
TV Drama of 05: Part of me wants to be controversial and say 'Bodies' (I programme I really do watch behind the sofa) but 'Doctor Who' wins simply because it reinvented television for the 21st century, and you can't say fairer than that.
TV Comedy of 05: Not exactly a golden year for comedy. Sandwiched between the thoroughly predictable 'Catherine Tate' and 'Little Britain', and a terrible second series of 'Don't Watch That', 'Extras' surprised me by being just as good (if not better) than 'The Office'. But the clear winner has to be 'The Thick Of It' for its semi-improvisational realism and Peter Capaldi's surreal Scottish sarcasm.
Reality TV of 05: While I enjoyed the rackety philosophical experiment that was 'Space Cadets', the Americans still produce the best reality shows bar none. Best of the bunch has to be 'The Apprentice' with Donald Trump. This season's finale also featured one of the most gob-smacking moments of year when the winner, Randall, refused to let Trump hire the second-place contestant as well - the jerk!
TV Moment of 05: A tie between Pink Floyd at Live 8 and a certain cricket match being rained off.
Music of 05: Coldplay's 'Talk' went from being annoying as hell to really quite wonderful the moment I finally worked out that the melody was sampled from Kraftwerk's 'Computer Love', and while Depeche Mode's return to form was welcomed with open arms, the album of the year has to be Kate Bush's 'Ariel'. A work of such unparalleled genius it even managed to make Rolf Harris sound good.
Film of 05: 'Serenity' was everything I wanted it to be and more. Except, sadly, the runaway hit it deserved to be.
Neil Perryman writes Behind The Sofa Again
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
Laura Póvoa Tintori
3am. Yes, sounds like the "clise" hour for doing things but since a few days it's the moment when I can get to breathe a little bit. I'm trying to enjoy myself despite the merengue songs the police department near my apartment is playing out loud right now. Caracas has been a chaos as Christmas approaches. Just like any other city this time of the year I guess. I'm used to its traffic jams, subway delays and neverending noises, along with all the unstoppable smog and fast-walking -sometimes incredibly annoying slow walking- people. It all can be a highly effective stimulant as a deeply depressing background.
However, though I do not intend to make a compilation of bizarre events in Caracas or any other city, there is a great feeling going on while stopping to see. And sometimes, just sometimes, it comes to me the clearest view of where I'm standing on: A giant, luminous, envolving and spectacular valley filled with as many houses, buildings, cars, people, lights, trees, highways, and pictures one can think of. I enjoy the beauty of it when it comes to my eyes then to my mind. Of course it's hard to remember that while living the worst part of it: daily routine.
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
However, though I do not intend to make a compilation of bizarre events in Caracas or any other city, there is a great feeling going on while stopping to see. And sometimes, just sometimes, it comes to me the clearest view of where I'm standing on: A giant, luminous, envolving and spectacular valley filled with as many houses, buildings, cars, people, lights, trees, highways, and pictures one can think of. I enjoy the beauty of it when it comes to my eyes then to my mind. Of course it's hard to remember that while living the worst part of it: daily routine.
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
Leah Penn
My name is Leah, and I am a vendor. Yes, I am one of those people that is alternately annoying and useful during a game at the sports stadium. I hawk cotton candy, lemonade, snocones, or hot chocolate, depending on the weather and my pick of the day. I've been vending for 6 years, and I've worked for the company for 8 years. To fully understand the vending goals I've achieved this year, you have to understand that vending isn't just my job. It's a family thing. My little brother also works at the stadium with me, and my older brother is the one who started the job at the Kingdome in Seattle and pulled us in. Even before that, my father and his brothers were vendors. In fact, my mother and father met while they were both working at the Brewers stadium in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Vending is in my blood. By the end of the year, I will have achieved three goals in vending, and I've already got two down.
My first goal was a personal one; I wanted to work at every major stadium in Seattle. I began my career at the Kingdome (although I didn't vend there), and I began vending when Safeco Field opened up. I worked at the Key Arena (Sonics basketball) over winter break, even though the pay was fairly dismal. When Qwest Field (formerly know as Seahawks Stadium) was finally built, I also started there. I had four fields down, so Husky Field - the college football stadium - was my last challenge. I've been trying to vend there for several years, but I never lived in Seattle during the fall college season because of my own college studies. This year, I'm out of college, and I finally had the chance to work a game and achieve my goal. I must say that I was a bit disappointed; while Husky Field is beautiful and historic, it's not a great place to vend. Mostly, it's a combination of lots of drunk students behaving badly with the uneven, worn concrete steps and small aisles. Still, a job is a job, and I've done my job all over Seattle.
My second goal is one held by ever vendor in my company. We chart our progress my dollars made in sales. A typical day at the baseball stadium can be anywhere from $400 to $700 in sales for the average vendor, and it's a bit higher at football games (go figure - I'm not sure why either). The big benchmark is $1,000 in product sales. At 15% commission, that gives you roughly $150, though it is more like $140 after taxes. Still, it's a big goal, and I've never been able to achieve it. I'm 5'4", a bit pudgy, and not really athletic. While I do just fine vending, I've never been a top seller. However, just last week, I finally broke a thousand. I've been working out recently, which I presume has raised my stamina and speed while weighted down. Last Sunday, there were only three vendors at Qwest Field (normally, we have five), it was a cold day, and we were selling hot chocolate. The start was a little dismal, and I had to return to the vending room with a few unsold product. To make up for it, I began to take a few extra hot chocolates on each tray, and it ultimately added up to push me to $1,008.75 in sales. This was 269 hot chocolates in about four and a half hours!
My third and final goal of the year will be met today, on Christmas Eve. My brothers will be home for the holidays, and the three of us will finally have the chance to all vend together. We're worked together before, but we've never all been vendors at the same time. I'm quite excited to work with them.
Vending isn't my life, but it sure is a wonderful job. It has seen me through high school and college with money in my pocket and more in the bank. The money I've saved allowed me to study abroad in Europe, purchase a digital camera, and learn about wise spending. I'm not sure if I'll continue vending through graduate school (I suppose it depends on what city I go to), but I know I've learned a lot from my 8 years of work with my company. You can't be shy while vending successfully; and you can see how polite behavior, quick math, and speed all add up to greater profits. I definitely hope my children carry on this family tradition.
Leah Penn writes penn
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
My first goal was a personal one; I wanted to work at every major stadium in Seattle. I began my career at the Kingdome (although I didn't vend there), and I began vending when Safeco Field opened up. I worked at the Key Arena (Sonics basketball) over winter break, even though the pay was fairly dismal. When Qwest Field (formerly know as Seahawks Stadium) was finally built, I also started there. I had four fields down, so Husky Field - the college football stadium - was my last challenge. I've been trying to vend there for several years, but I never lived in Seattle during the fall college season because of my own college studies. This year, I'm out of college, and I finally had the chance to work a game and achieve my goal. I must say that I was a bit disappointed; while Husky Field is beautiful and historic, it's not a great place to vend. Mostly, it's a combination of lots of drunk students behaving badly with the uneven, worn concrete steps and small aisles. Still, a job is a job, and I've done my job all over Seattle.
My second goal is one held by ever vendor in my company. We chart our progress my dollars made in sales. A typical day at the baseball stadium can be anywhere from $400 to $700 in sales for the average vendor, and it's a bit higher at football games (go figure - I'm not sure why either). The big benchmark is $1,000 in product sales. At 15% commission, that gives you roughly $150, though it is more like $140 after taxes. Still, it's a big goal, and I've never been able to achieve it. I'm 5'4", a bit pudgy, and not really athletic. While I do just fine vending, I've never been a top seller. However, just last week, I finally broke a thousand. I've been working out recently, which I presume has raised my stamina and speed while weighted down. Last Sunday, there were only three vendors at Qwest Field (normally, we have five), it was a cold day, and we were selling hot chocolate. The start was a little dismal, and I had to return to the vending room with a few unsold product. To make up for it, I began to take a few extra hot chocolates on each tray, and it ultimately added up to push me to $1,008.75 in sales. This was 269 hot chocolates in about four and a half hours!
My third and final goal of the year will be met today, on Christmas Eve. My brothers will be home for the holidays, and the three of us will finally have the chance to all vend together. We're worked together before, but we've never all been vendors at the same time. I'm quite excited to work with them.
Vending isn't my life, but it sure is a wonderful job. It has seen me through high school and college with money in my pocket and more in the bank. The money I've saved allowed me to study abroad in Europe, purchase a digital camera, and learn about wise spending. I'm not sure if I'll continue vending through graduate school (I suppose it depends on what city I go to), but I know I've learned a lot from my 8 years of work with my company. You can't be shy while vending successfully; and you can see how polite behavior, quick math, and speed all add up to greater profits. I definitely hope my children carry on this family tradition.
Leah Penn writes penn
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
Alistair Myles
Having lived so close to North Wales for so many years but never mustered the time or inclination to make a proper foray over the border, one of my highlights of 2005 has to be going on a trip to Llandudno. It might not sound much, and it's certainly no epic voyage through hundreds of miles of unrelenting countryside, but it was something I'd always longed to do, figuring it was about as far as I could get into Wales by train, have some hours to explore, and still get back home within the day.
After an unprepossessing start picking my way through the rather grimy out-of-season detritus of such coastal high spots as Flint and Rhyl, the scenery suddenly opened out as the mountains of Snowdonia rose in the far distance and the huge open promenades of Colwyn Bay and Llandudno hoved into view. I'd expected both places to be pretty much deserted given the weather (bitterly cold, but brilliantly sunny) and the time of year, but no - they were bustling with shoppers and moochers and loads and loads of pensioners. All the same there was enough open space to feel properly alone and undisturbed, as I found when I got into Llandudno itself and marvelled at the row upon row of hotels and guest houses, none of which seemed to have any residents inside.
I wasn't quite sure what I was going to do with the few hours I had at my disposal, preferring to let my feet take me wherever they wanted and so avoid having too much of a pre-ordained plan of action. So I trekked down the pier and back again, consulted the giant war memorial, searched in vain for a decent bit of lunch, and browsed the generously positioned town maps for inspiration. All the while, however, my attention kept being drawn to the giant outline of the Great Orme: a huge outcrop of cliffs and hills towering above the town and dramatically jutting out into the Irish Sea.
I knew the view from the top would be amazing, but both the tram and cable car service to take you there were closed.
So in the end I just started walking. And I walked all the way up to the top, past warrens of houses cut into the rock at a multitude of auspicious angles, past the dry ski slope and toboggan run, past herds of mountain goats scrabbling their own way up the Orme, emerging to find one of the most fantastic, jaw-dropping panoramas I'd ever seen.
There was something about being up there, with so many miles of openness all around and having accomplished such a climb, that helped turn the hour or so I spent loitering atop this titanic prominent into one of the most magical moments of the year. Sure, it was freezing cold and blowing a gale, but it'd been ages since I'd felt so out of the rituals and routines of normal existence, and so far from the clatter and confusion of the everyday. The light was such that I could see far far inland, as well as right out over the sea towards Anglesey - destination on a fair few family holidays - and back in the other direction towards Formby and Southport. For a time there was nobody else up there, and when the wind dropped there was a kind of silence so profound and unbroken as to be almost unsettling.
I just could not believe that within 48 hours all of this would have been substituted for an office and a crappy computer screen a few inches in front of my nose. The contrast was almost too much to bear.
Anyhow, the trip turned out to be everything I'd expected and way way more. It reminded me of how important it is to make the effort to see the kind of country that lies out of sight just round the corner. And it supplied me with a host of images and emotions I can, if I dig deep enough, still return to in those moments when I feel I'll never be able to escape my present less-than-happy circumstances ever again.
Alistair Myles writes Visions Before Midnight
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
David Campbell
I have always thought that it would be cool to have a government file on me somewhere in the FBI or the Department of Defense.
I wouldn't want a thick file or anything, and I certainly wouldn't want to have the government keeping tabs on me because I liked to make bombs or had extremist political views - I only want a modest little entry under my name in a DoD computer somewhere. That's not too much to ask.
In the strange mix of reality and fiction that is my mind, having the government take an interest in me for "security reasons" is kind of cool. Now, I'm not a huge fan of The Patriot Act and wouldn't be terribly happy if I was on a government watch list because I checked out the wrong library books or something, but the geek part of me -the part of me that grew up on a diet of comic books and James Bond movies - loves the idea of my name being on a database in Virginia somewhere.
This year, two special agents from the U.S. Navy Criminal Investigative Service visited my house to determine whether or not I was a menace to national security. I was thrilled. My wife was not.
I did nothing illegal, mind you; I was just snooping around military bases during wartime with a video camera. From their perspective I can see how it might have looked suspicious, particularly since I drove away before the military police caught up with me. I'm dumb like that.
The whole thing started when I had a free day and decided to take a trip up to Whidbey Island, a long island in the Puget Sound area near Seattle. I wanted to visit my friend Che, take a look at Whidbey Naval Air Station, and maybe get some footage of a prototype Naval warship that I had been reading about. What can I say, I'm a nerd, a strange combo of liberal peacenik and military buff.
I visited the shipyard on the south end of the island where they were building the prototype ship, but the gal at the front desk told me that it had sailed for Everett a day earlier for painting before they did sea trials down in California somewhere. The ship, called only The X-Craft, is a big twin-hulled vessel designed for littoral combat in shallow water. It's very impressive and futuristic looking, and I was disappointed that I didn't get to see it.
After the shipyard I drove up to Whidbey NAS, the home station for a bunch of carrier-based A-6 Prowler jets. I hung out on a hillside just outside the base for about an hour and got some excellent footage of the Prowlers doing touch-and-go landings. Little did I know, somebody had reported me to the MPs, who were en route to question me when I drove away at high speed. I had no idea they were after me, really. I was just speeding because I like to drive fast on occasion. Honest.
The next day, while I'm at work, my wife opens the door to find two guys in suits and crew-cuts asking to speak to me. They got my license plate number and figured out who I was, even though the car is registered to my wife. She convinced them that I was just a harmless nerd and promised them that I would call and explain myself.
When I found out about the Navy guys I was STOKED. Plainclothes federal agents, asking for me? It's almost flattering.
I called one of the Navy agents the next day and explained myself. I was a military buff, I didn't think I was doing anything wrong, I'm sorry about the trouble, etc. I seemed to set the guy's mind at ease - clearly I wasn't plotting to bring down an A-6 with a shoulder-launched missile or anything like that. But up to this point they hadn't specified exactly what it was that they were concerned about, only that the Navy thought I had been acting suspicious on Whidbey Island. So like a dumb-ass, I ask the Navy agent:
"So, just out of curiousity, was all this about me taking pictures at the air base or was this about the X-Craft?"
There's a pause, and then the agent says very seriously, "The X-Craft? What do you know about the X-Craft?"
Oh, crap.
I spent another five minutes on the phone convincing him that I had found out about the X-craft online, on a public Navy website no less, and that, again, I was just a curious geek. He finally bought it and I hung up the phone, heart beating a little faster. I could just imagine him in an office somewhere at Naval Base Kitsap typing notes into my case.
Thus did I fulfill a secret goal of mine: to have a file, a dossier if you will, about me somewhere in The Halls of Power. I still have the Navy agents' business cards as a memento of my brush with a larger, more serious world that most of us never see. In this era of secret prisons and renditions and NSA wiretaps perhaps I shouldn't be too thrilled about catching the attention of the powers that be, but I kind of am.
David Campbell writes Dave's Long Box
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
I wouldn't want a thick file or anything, and I certainly wouldn't want to have the government keeping tabs on me because I liked to make bombs or had extremist political views - I only want a modest little entry under my name in a DoD computer somewhere. That's not too much to ask.
In the strange mix of reality and fiction that is my mind, having the government take an interest in me for "security reasons" is kind of cool. Now, I'm not a huge fan of The Patriot Act and wouldn't be terribly happy if I was on a government watch list because I checked out the wrong library books or something, but the geek part of me -the part of me that grew up on a diet of comic books and James Bond movies - loves the idea of my name being on a database in Virginia somewhere.
This year, two special agents from the U.S. Navy Criminal Investigative Service visited my house to determine whether or not I was a menace to national security. I was thrilled. My wife was not.
I did nothing illegal, mind you; I was just snooping around military bases during wartime with a video camera. From their perspective I can see how it might have looked suspicious, particularly since I drove away before the military police caught up with me. I'm dumb like that.
The whole thing started when I had a free day and decided to take a trip up to Whidbey Island, a long island in the Puget Sound area near Seattle. I wanted to visit my friend Che, take a look at Whidbey Naval Air Station, and maybe get some footage of a prototype Naval warship that I had been reading about. What can I say, I'm a nerd, a strange combo of liberal peacenik and military buff.
I visited the shipyard on the south end of the island where they were building the prototype ship, but the gal at the front desk told me that it had sailed for Everett a day earlier for painting before they did sea trials down in California somewhere. The ship, called only The X-Craft, is a big twin-hulled vessel designed for littoral combat in shallow water. It's very impressive and futuristic looking, and I was disappointed that I didn't get to see it.
After the shipyard I drove up to Whidbey NAS, the home station for a bunch of carrier-based A-6 Prowler jets. I hung out on a hillside just outside the base for about an hour and got some excellent footage of the Prowlers doing touch-and-go landings. Little did I know, somebody had reported me to the MPs, who were en route to question me when I drove away at high speed. I had no idea they were after me, really. I was just speeding because I like to drive fast on occasion. Honest.
The next day, while I'm at work, my wife opens the door to find two guys in suits and crew-cuts asking to speak to me. They got my license plate number and figured out who I was, even though the car is registered to my wife. She convinced them that I was just a harmless nerd and promised them that I would call and explain myself.
When I found out about the Navy guys I was STOKED. Plainclothes federal agents, asking for me? It's almost flattering.
I called one of the Navy agents the next day and explained myself. I was a military buff, I didn't think I was doing anything wrong, I'm sorry about the trouble, etc. I seemed to set the guy's mind at ease - clearly I wasn't plotting to bring down an A-6 with a shoulder-launched missile or anything like that. But up to this point they hadn't specified exactly what it was that they were concerned about, only that the Navy thought I had been acting suspicious on Whidbey Island. So like a dumb-ass, I ask the Navy agent:
"So, just out of curiousity, was all this about me taking pictures at the air base or was this about the X-Craft?"
There's a pause, and then the agent says very seriously, "The X-Craft? What do you know about the X-Craft?"
Oh, crap.
I spent another five minutes on the phone convincing him that I had found out about the X-craft online, on a public Navy website no less, and that, again, I was just a curious geek. He finally bought it and I hung up the phone, heart beating a little faster. I could just imagine him in an office somewhere at Naval Base Kitsap typing notes into my case.
Thus did I fulfill a secret goal of mine: to have a file, a dossier if you will, about me somewhere in The Halls of Power. I still have the Navy agents' business cards as a memento of my brush with a larger, more serious world that most of us never see. In this era of secret prisons and renditions and NSA wiretaps perhaps I shouldn't be too thrilled about catching the attention of the powers that be, but I kind of am.
David Campbell writes Dave's Long Box
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
Ian Jackson
This year I traveled across to Ireland for the first time. I have lived and worked in and around Liverpool all my long life and the thought of hopping over the Irish Sea every so often was a constant but it just never happened. But this year the combination of Cork being the first European Capital of Culture and cheap one-hour lights direct from Speke (sorry, I mean Liverpool John Lennon Airport (sigh)) to Cork made it irresistible.
Of course, you still have to turn up two hours before take-off and, of course, the flights were delayed, here and back. There was an extra delay on the return flight because a passenger had failed to board but they couldn't take off because she had checked in and her luggage was on board. It was less hassle to just wait for her to show than to find and unload her luggage. Needless to say she got some glaring looks when she eventually boarded, half an hour late.
Cork's culture efforts were a bit disappointing but its not a huge town and didn't have a lot of funding. Its a lovely place though with the river meandering through the centre it seems you always have to cross at least one bridge just to get anywhere. Lots of nice pubs of course and he hospitality of the natives is no myth. I kept missing the pub musicians though! Every time I arrived they had just finished or left to go elsewhere, shame.
I also had time to spend a day in the lovely seaside village of Kinsale. So that's Ireland done, next year the Capital of Culture is Patras in Greece, not been there before, then its Luxembourg, ditto. Then in 2008 its right on my doorstep, which will be nice.
Ian Jackson writes Art In Liverpool
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
Suw Charman
How's this?
The brief for this post was to write about the moment when I succeeded in doing something I've always wanted to do this year, and I have to admit that in some ways it's hard to decide what that should be. So many really good things have happened this year and in many ways it really has been the culmination of years of hard work and fuck-ups.
(You are, ultimately, the sum of your fuck-ups. Only through fuck-ups do you truly learn anything, only through making a right pig's breakfast of something do you find out who you are, what you're made of, and how not to screw things up next time. Success is for wimps - vive la fuck-up!)
On the other hand, it's pretty damn easy. Lots has happened, but there's one thing that really stands head and shoulders above everything else.
Earlier in the year, I went over to San Francisco for the Supernova conference. Whilst I was there, I decided that it'd be great to take the opportunity to have lunch with the EFF's Danny O'Brien, someone that I was pretty in awe of. I'm not quite sure why, other than that he once gave a talk that had quite an impact on me.
By the time I met Danny for lunch I had decided that, now that my life was a bit more under control and I was keeping myself busy with real paying work, it was about time I started doing something constructive with my spare time. Not that I really had any spare time, mind, but I'd make some in order to volunteer for the EFF. I had this idea that I could use my journalistic and blogging skills to help them improve their communications, and so Danny sat patiently whilst I outlined my plans in, quite likely, excruciating detail.
When I finished, Danny glanced at his sushi, then at me, and said "Fancy doing something in London?"
I think I may have nodded my head vigourously, or said "Yeah, sure!" or made some other expression of interest and enthusiasm. However it was that I agreed, I had no idea then that by the end of the year I would be the Executive Director of the Open Rights Group, a new digital rights campaigning group in the UK.
Danny and I aren't alone in ORG - we're joined by a group of the savviest activists in the UK who are helping us organise things, and supported by over 1000 people, each pledging to donate £5 per month.
Possibly luckily, I didn't realise when I got involved in ORG just how much work is required to set up a new NGO, how challenging it would be, or how much I would enjoy it. I have a 'to do' list as long as your arm, and it's hard sometimes to balance the demands of ORG with the need to earn money to live off, but I'm doing my best and I think I'm really getting somewhere.
Maybe it's growing up on a literary diet of sci-fi and fantasy, but I've always been someone who looked at the way the world was, felt it really should be better, and tried to find a way to make it so. I never really considered myself the activist type - 'activists' being generally painted by the media as nutcases who burn down holiday homes or break into labs and release white mice into the wild. But with ORG, I'm seeing a side to activism that's rarely shown on TV or in the newspapers. The digital rights activists I've met are passionate, intelligent, well-informed, and willing to work their arses off to make life better for people who really, in general, won't ever notice that their rights were being abused.
I am really proud of what we have achieved so far with ORG, and what we have planned for the future. I'm proud to be a digital rights activist. And I'm grateful to be doing something I've always wanted to do.
Suw Charman writes Chocolate and Vodka
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
The brief for this post was to write about the moment when I succeeded in doing something I've always wanted to do this year, and I have to admit that in some ways it's hard to decide what that should be. So many really good things have happened this year and in many ways it really has been the culmination of years of hard work and fuck-ups.
(You are, ultimately, the sum of your fuck-ups. Only through fuck-ups do you truly learn anything, only through making a right pig's breakfast of something do you find out who you are, what you're made of, and how not to screw things up next time. Success is for wimps - vive la fuck-up!)
On the other hand, it's pretty damn easy. Lots has happened, but there's one thing that really stands head and shoulders above everything else.
Earlier in the year, I went over to San Francisco for the Supernova conference. Whilst I was there, I decided that it'd be great to take the opportunity to have lunch with the EFF's Danny O'Brien, someone that I was pretty in awe of. I'm not quite sure why, other than that he once gave a talk that had quite an impact on me.
By the time I met Danny for lunch I had decided that, now that my life was a bit more under control and I was keeping myself busy with real paying work, it was about time I started doing something constructive with my spare time. Not that I really had any spare time, mind, but I'd make some in order to volunteer for the EFF. I had this idea that I could use my journalistic and blogging skills to help them improve their communications, and so Danny sat patiently whilst I outlined my plans in, quite likely, excruciating detail.
When I finished, Danny glanced at his sushi, then at me, and said "Fancy doing something in London?"
I think I may have nodded my head vigourously, or said "Yeah, sure!" or made some other expression of interest and enthusiasm. However it was that I agreed, I had no idea then that by the end of the year I would be the Executive Director of the Open Rights Group, a new digital rights campaigning group in the UK.
Danny and I aren't alone in ORG - we're joined by a group of the savviest activists in the UK who are helping us organise things, and supported by over 1000 people, each pledging to donate £5 per month.
Possibly luckily, I didn't realise when I got involved in ORG just how much work is required to set up a new NGO, how challenging it would be, or how much I would enjoy it. I have a 'to do' list as long as your arm, and it's hard sometimes to balance the demands of ORG with the need to earn money to live off, but I'm doing my best and I think I'm really getting somewhere.
Maybe it's growing up on a literary diet of sci-fi and fantasy, but I've always been someone who looked at the way the world was, felt it really should be better, and tried to find a way to make it so. I never really considered myself the activist type - 'activists' being generally painted by the media as nutcases who burn down holiday homes or break into labs and release white mice into the wild. But with ORG, I'm seeing a side to activism that's rarely shown on TV or in the newspapers. The digital rights activists I've met are passionate, intelligent, well-informed, and willing to work their arses off to make life better for people who really, in general, won't ever notice that their rights were being abused.
I am really proud of what we have achieved so far with ORG, and what we have planned for the future. I'm proud to be a digital rights activist. And I'm grateful to be doing something I've always wanted to do.
Suw Charman writes Chocolate and Vodka
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
Alan Sharp
It had begun almost a year before. That's when I had had the idea, and when I had known I could do it. I had tried before, many times, so many times. I had started, but the idea had been half-formed, and before too long I had run out of steam, and faltered, and given up.
But this time I knew it would be different. Because this time the idea was fully formed. I could see it, in my mind's eye. I knew exactly what I had to do. I knew exactly how to do it. It was achievable, attainable, and it would satisfy an ambition which had festered within me for as long as I could remember.
I won't pretend it was easy. It was hard work. It required commitment. At some point I realised it was not something I could do part time. I had to quit my job, throw myself into it totally, immerse myself in it, and trust that when I came out the other end I would be able to find work again to keep body and soul together. But I knew it would be worth the effort, worth the risk.
Fast forward to this year. It is the end of January. I receive a phone call, at the office, in a whole other city at the company I started working for six months earlier. It has arrived. I leave the office, head home, and there is the van, offloading boxes in the street.
I sign my name on the form attached to the clipboard. I carry the boxes up three flights of stairs and into the door of my flat. I put them down in the living room and, pulling the first box towards me, I break the masking tape urgently, hurriedly, impatient now to see the fruits of all my labours. I pull the box open, almost tearing it apart. And I lift the first one out, hold it in my hand, gaze upon it in wonder. I can't believe what I am looking at. I can't believe that at long last, after all these years, it finally exists.
288 pages. With my name on the front cover.
Alan Sharp writes Random Burblings
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
But this time I knew it would be different. Because this time the idea was fully formed. I could see it, in my mind's eye. I knew exactly what I had to do. I knew exactly how to do it. It was achievable, attainable, and it would satisfy an ambition which had festered within me for as long as I could remember.
I won't pretend it was easy. It was hard work. It required commitment. At some point I realised it was not something I could do part time. I had to quit my job, throw myself into it totally, immerse myself in it, and trust that when I came out the other end I would be able to find work again to keep body and soul together. But I knew it would be worth the effort, worth the risk.
Fast forward to this year. It is the end of January. I receive a phone call, at the office, in a whole other city at the company I started working for six months earlier. It has arrived. I leave the office, head home, and there is the van, offloading boxes in the street.
I sign my name on the form attached to the clipboard. I carry the boxes up three flights of stairs and into the door of my flat. I put them down in the living room and, pulling the first box towards me, I break the masking tape urgently, hurriedly, impatient now to see the fruits of all my labours. I pull the box open, almost tearing it apart. And I lift the first one out, hold it in my hand, gaze upon it in wonder. I can't believe what I am looking at. I can't believe that at long last, after all these years, it finally exists.
288 pages. With my name on the front cover.
Alan Sharp writes Random Burblings
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
Mimi Leigh
Ahhh, 2005. Two thousand and five. The sum of its parts is seven. 7, a lucky number, no? Seven dwarfs, Seven Sacraments, The Seventh Sign. Seven opportunities a week to not want to get out of bed.
What's that stress list? You know, the one that rates levels of stress associated with life changes? Well, I think my score is actually right at 2005. But it's not all bad.
I actually DO want to get out of bed now. This year took me away from my shoebox cubicle where I sold gourmet cookies by phone, but REALLY updated my blog and refreshed Gawker 6 times an hour. I woke from a blog/cookie induced stupor one day and decided that I really could be doing something better with my life that didn't involve chocolate chips or the latest news on Vincent Gallo. My deus ex machina---the classroom.
Yes, I started teaching 7th grade Language Arts just a few months ago. And I set my wedding date the same day that I accepted the job. Perhaps I actually had a death wish.
85 little 13-14 year olds keep me crazy every single day. And I love it. I always wanted to teach high school, but I feel relieved that I didn't get my wish. These little hellions are everything I never thought they would be. They're funnier, they're MUCH more mature (they have sex!!! gag), they're much smaller in stature that I expected, they're completely and unforgivingly unmotivated, they're hip, they're tragically unhip, they curse, some smoke, some drink, some have marijuana tattoos on their forearm and used to be in a gang, some are gay and haven't admitted it yet, some have to pee every day at exactly 9:26, some give me their food that they don't want every day at lunch, some have had open heart surgery and others have had brain tumors. All in all, even with their faults, they're a colossal joy. I find it hard to get angry with most of them. Example:
Today I was sitting on my stool in front of the class a few minutes before dismissal. Students were gathered around me, competing for my attention as usual, when I suddenly felt something funny on my bottom. Charles (names have been changed to protect the innocent) was idly drawing on my ASS with a big pink piece of chalk. ON MY ASS.
I said "Charles dear, I know it's such a temptingly large canvas, but please refrain from touching my bottom with that pink extension of your finger."
He is apparently so comfortable with me that he just giggled. I went to wipe off the pink evidence and he preemptively took his little hand and RUBBED MY BUTT, yes RUBBED MY BUTT to erase his designs. I should have gone crazy on him, but it was only then that he realized that anything he was doing was inappropriate and he then looked a bit sheepish and apologized.
These are my days, and it sure beats selling cookies.
Mimi Leigh writes 72hrchikdom
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
What's that stress list? You know, the one that rates levels of stress associated with life changes? Well, I think my score is actually right at 2005. But it's not all bad.
I actually DO want to get out of bed now. This year took me away from my shoebox cubicle where I sold gourmet cookies by phone, but REALLY updated my blog and refreshed Gawker 6 times an hour. I woke from a blog/cookie induced stupor one day and decided that I really could be doing something better with my life that didn't involve chocolate chips or the latest news on Vincent Gallo. My deus ex machina---the classroom.
Yes, I started teaching 7th grade Language Arts just a few months ago. And I set my wedding date the same day that I accepted the job. Perhaps I actually had a death wish.
85 little 13-14 year olds keep me crazy every single day. And I love it. I always wanted to teach high school, but I feel relieved that I didn't get my wish. These little hellions are everything I never thought they would be. They're funnier, they're MUCH more mature (they have sex!!! gag), they're much smaller in stature that I expected, they're completely and unforgivingly unmotivated, they're hip, they're tragically unhip, they curse, some smoke, some drink, some have marijuana tattoos on their forearm and used to be in a gang, some are gay and haven't admitted it yet, some have to pee every day at exactly 9:26, some give me their food that they don't want every day at lunch, some have had open heart surgery and others have had brain tumors. All in all, even with their faults, they're a colossal joy. I find it hard to get angry with most of them. Example:
Today I was sitting on my stool in front of the class a few minutes before dismissal. Students were gathered around me, competing for my attention as usual, when I suddenly felt something funny on my bottom. Charles (names have been changed to protect the innocent) was idly drawing on my ASS with a big pink piece of chalk. ON MY ASS.
I said "Charles dear, I know it's such a temptingly large canvas, but please refrain from touching my bottom with that pink extension of your finger."
He is apparently so comfortable with me that he just giggled. I went to wipe off the pink evidence and he preemptively took his little hand and RUBBED MY BUTT, yes RUBBED MY BUTT to erase his designs. I should have gone crazy on him, but it was only then that he realized that anything he was doing was inappropriate and he then looked a bit sheepish and apologized.
These are my days, and it sure beats selling cookies.
Mimi Leigh writes 72hrchikdom
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
Samantha Burns
Although I've had a number of little successes this year, few are worthy enough of discussing here. I mean, I'm sure you all have little interest in hearing my success in going through my shoe collection and throwing out the ones I know I just won't wear anymore.
Yup, now I'm down to just one box. Yay!
Aside from that, I have had three successes I'll mention here. First, I am proud to say that after over 10 years of loving their music, I finally got to see Slash, Duff, and Matt in concert as members of Velvet Revolver. I've been a Guns N' Roses fan since they came out with Sweet Child O' Mine. Of course, I'm too old to be a freak fan of VR - being 30, I'd look pretty silly with my walls loaded with magazine clippings of the band and wearing a black VR t-shirt daily with ripped up jeans. Regardless, it was a superb experience being able to see my favourite guys in concert.
Another achievement I'm proud of is that I quit eating McDonalds. I haven't eaten the stuff since early in the year when I saw a news story showing an image of a dead rodent in a burger and that deterred me from going there again, regardless of whether it was a scam or not.
Finally, I found something that I take great joy in doing: blogging. My site is where I get to have fun, express myself as I wish, and give to society in the form of entertainment. It's just so much fun for me.
A couple other things I've succeeded at is getting my cartooning to a level that I feel is worthy of publishing, and I also started painting.
So, I guess, really, that I've described more than a moment of success, but I think that's a good thing. Overall, I've had a successful year, so I suppose next year can only go downhill.
Great, thanks for bumming me out Feeling Listless.
Kidding, of course. Next year, even greater challenges await and I can't wait to get my hands into it.
Samantha Burns writes The Crazy Rants of Samantha Burns
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Yup, now I'm down to just one box. Yay!
Aside from that, I have had three successes I'll mention here. First, I am proud to say that after over 10 years of loving their music, I finally got to see Slash, Duff, and Matt in concert as members of Velvet Revolver. I've been a Guns N' Roses fan since they came out with Sweet Child O' Mine. Of course, I'm too old to be a freak fan of VR - being 30, I'd look pretty silly with my walls loaded with magazine clippings of the band and wearing a black VR t-shirt daily with ripped up jeans. Regardless, it was a superb experience being able to see my favourite guys in concert.
Another achievement I'm proud of is that I quit eating McDonalds. I haven't eaten the stuff since early in the year when I saw a news story showing an image of a dead rodent in a burger and that deterred me from going there again, regardless of whether it was a scam or not.
Finally, I found something that I take great joy in doing: blogging. My site is where I get to have fun, express myself as I wish, and give to society in the form of entertainment. It's just so much fun for me.
A couple other things I've succeeded at is getting my cartooning to a level that I feel is worthy of publishing, and I also started painting.
So, I guess, really, that I've described more than a moment of success, but I think that's a good thing. Overall, I've had a successful year, so I suppose next year can only go downhill.
Great, thanks for bumming me out Feeling Listless.
Kidding, of course. Next year, even greater challenges await and I can't wait to get my hands into it.
Samantha Burns writes The Crazy Rants of Samantha Burns
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
Mike Atkinson
Ever since that doleful Christmas Day in my mid-teens when I found that I could carry all of my presents up to my room in one armful, the highlight of the holiday season has been the production, distribution and exchange of the hallowed Best Of The Year lists.
Although these vary in number and length from year to year according to whim, two lists are always compiled without fail: Singles Of The Year (minimum of 40) and Albums Of The Year (minimum of 20). Other supplementary lists might include gigs, films, books, cultural events, memorable experiences - and even, for a few giddy "You ARE a swan!" years in the late 1980s and early 1990s, best shags. Basic rule of thumb: if you can play it, look at it or (ahem) interact with it in other more personally specific ways, then it's ripe for ranking.
More balanced minds than mine might well deplore this strange urge to reduce every precious experience in life into a numbered item on a sheet of A4, or word processing document, or spreadsheet, or web page, or blog entry. To which I say: where is the fun in merely enjoying things as you go along, without the additional thrill of trying to compare them with other?
More importantly - and laying all ironic self-deprecation to one side for a moment - if, by cataloguing these experiences, we ensure that they are committed to our long-term memories, then doesn't that have more value than merely letting them wash over you, each fresh wave obliterating the traces of the one before?
Thus it is that, every morning of the working week, I pack my vintage Filofax into my satchel, containing hand-written lists of my favourite singles and albums from 1986 to 1999. Just in case I need to check something out during the day. (The rest are safely on the web, hence the cut-off date.) Sorry, doesn't everybody do this?
However, in all of these years of happy cataloguing - not to mention the ritual "countdown evening" which my mate Dave and I have been celebrating for the past 20 years, in which jealously guarded scraps of paper are brandished and read out, in reverse order, alternating with each successive chart position, while our respective partners cringe in the corner - no-one has ever invited me to submit any of these lists for inclusion into an official, legitimate, published Critics' Poll.
This year, that dream has come true. The ultimate validation. The cherry on top of the cake. The icing sugar on the mince pie. The brandy butter on the plum pudding. The cinnamon stick in the mulled wine. The sixpence at the bottom of the stocking. The descant variation on the final chorus of "The First Noel". The "Gawd bless you sir!" on the lips of the wassailing urchin. The complementary glass of Asti Spu at the office party. The half-day skive after lunchtime on Christmas Eve. The extra half hour on the end of Top Of The Pops. The tense little smile at the end of the Queen's speech, which almost makes you love her.
(Please feel free to re-arrange the above according to preference, awarding ten points to your favourite, nine points to your second favourite, etc. I know I shall.)
Having been charged with this solemn duty by the good people at Stylus magazine, I found myself having to deal with an altogether different set of operational guidelines. When making lists primarily for my own amusement, my only considerations are subjective. If this daft little piece of transitory disco froth has brought me greater personal pleasure than that groundbreaking milestone in the history of contemporary music, then so be it. But if I'm contributing to an official critics' poll, to be scrutinised and evaluated by a whole bunch of readers whom I have never met, and held up as some sort of definitive guide to the year's most important musical moments, then other considerations demand to be brought into play.
Also, there are tactical issues to consider. It's all very well to put that obscure Belgian dance track in your Top 10 - but if the chances of its picking up votes from any other participants are virtually zero, then why squander a perfectly good chart position? Also, why put that much loved international smash inside your top three, when it's a dead cert for the final cut anyway, and you could be promoting something a little more worthy instead?
As you might imagine, I deliberated on all of this for many, many hours, the weight of my responsibilities sitting heavily on my shoulders. But now, with the combined chart currently being revealed to the readers of Stylus magazine in daily instalments, I can smile with satisfaction at a job well done.
And then go away again, rip the first list up, and compile a completely different second list of my real favourites. Double the pleasure! What could be better!
Don't shake your heads at me like that. I am happy in my madness. Merry Christmas, everybody. And happy list-making.
Mike Atkinson writes Troubled Diva.
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Although these vary in number and length from year to year according to whim, two lists are always compiled without fail: Singles Of The Year (minimum of 40) and Albums Of The Year (minimum of 20). Other supplementary lists might include gigs, films, books, cultural events, memorable experiences - and even, for a few giddy "You ARE a swan!" years in the late 1980s and early 1990s, best shags. Basic rule of thumb: if you can play it, look at it or (ahem) interact with it in other more personally specific ways, then it's ripe for ranking.
More balanced minds than mine might well deplore this strange urge to reduce every precious experience in life into a numbered item on a sheet of A4, or word processing document, or spreadsheet, or web page, or blog entry. To which I say: where is the fun in merely enjoying things as you go along, without the additional thrill of trying to compare them with other?
More importantly - and laying all ironic self-deprecation to one side for a moment - if, by cataloguing these experiences, we ensure that they are committed to our long-term memories, then doesn't that have more value than merely letting them wash over you, each fresh wave obliterating the traces of the one before?
Thus it is that, every morning of the working week, I pack my vintage Filofax into my satchel, containing hand-written lists of my favourite singles and albums from 1986 to 1999. Just in case I need to check something out during the day. (The rest are safely on the web, hence the cut-off date.) Sorry, doesn't everybody do this?
However, in all of these years of happy cataloguing - not to mention the ritual "countdown evening" which my mate Dave and I have been celebrating for the past 20 years, in which jealously guarded scraps of paper are brandished and read out, in reverse order, alternating with each successive chart position, while our respective partners cringe in the corner - no-one has ever invited me to submit any of these lists for inclusion into an official, legitimate, published Critics' Poll.
This year, that dream has come true. The ultimate validation. The cherry on top of the cake. The icing sugar on the mince pie. The brandy butter on the plum pudding. The cinnamon stick in the mulled wine. The sixpence at the bottom of the stocking. The descant variation on the final chorus of "The First Noel". The "Gawd bless you sir!" on the lips of the wassailing urchin. The complementary glass of Asti Spu at the office party. The half-day skive after lunchtime on Christmas Eve. The extra half hour on the end of Top Of The Pops. The tense little smile at the end of the Queen's speech, which almost makes you love her.
(Please feel free to re-arrange the above according to preference, awarding ten points to your favourite, nine points to your second favourite, etc. I know I shall.)
Having been charged with this solemn duty by the good people at Stylus magazine, I found myself having to deal with an altogether different set of operational guidelines. When making lists primarily for my own amusement, my only considerations are subjective. If this daft little piece of transitory disco froth has brought me greater personal pleasure than that groundbreaking milestone in the history of contemporary music, then so be it. But if I'm contributing to an official critics' poll, to be scrutinised and evaluated by a whole bunch of readers whom I have never met, and held up as some sort of definitive guide to the year's most important musical moments, then other considerations demand to be brought into play.
Also, there are tactical issues to consider. It's all very well to put that obscure Belgian dance track in your Top 10 - but if the chances of its picking up votes from any other participants are virtually zero, then why squander a perfectly good chart position? Also, why put that much loved international smash inside your top three, when it's a dead cert for the final cut anyway, and you could be promoting something a little more worthy instead?
As you might imagine, I deliberated on all of this for many, many hours, the weight of my responsibilities sitting heavily on my shoulders. But now, with the combined chart currently being revealed to the readers of Stylus magazine in daily instalments, I can smile with satisfaction at a job well done.
And then go away again, rip the first list up, and compile a completely different second list of my real favourites. Double the pleasure! What could be better!
Don't shake your heads at me like that. I am happy in my madness. Merry Christmas, everybody. And happy list-making.
Mike Atkinson writes Troubled Diva.
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
June Gidley
I was ironing at the time. I wish I could say that I was striding across moorland, shouldering into a gale and it hit me teetering on the brink of nowhere, but sadly I was making steady progress across a duvet cover. No matter. I may not know what I really want out of life - for two years now I have been fighting against a job which bores me, a company which hates its employees and I live in an area of the country for which I have nothing but contempt - but I am a firm believer in knowing what you don't want so you don?t end up further in the shit. And I will not have children.
It came to me out of nowhere, like a name which suddenly and finally comes to you for which you had been struggling earlier in the day. But there it was, and for the first time in a very long time indeed I felt as if I had made an entirely constructive decision. I will not have children. Not because there is something physically wrong with me, I doubt there is, a doctor once said I was the healthiest person he had ever clapped eyes on, but because I do not want them.
I have said for years I wouldn't have them but over the last five or so years I suppose I had begun to think that I probably would despite all the evidence that this would be a disastrous idea.
Why not though? I am certainly a responsible enough member of society to raise another human being and would probably do it a damn sight better than some of the pram-pushing lowlife you see out and about. You want reasons? Here are a few.
I don't like children - Parents always think this is not possible. Trust me, it is. Babies in particular cause my system to go into lock-down and I have to vacate the area as soon as possible. If someone even shows me a copy of a scan I am struck dumb. Do you recall in Sex and the City when Miranda 'fakes a sonogram'? That's me. I don't know what to say or how to react because I AM NOT INTERESTED. My job as a reporter requires me to summon up interest in all manner of rubbish (planning enquiries, charity events, bins not being emptied), outside of work this is just too much of an ask for me.
I don't want to be poor - Raising a child is not a cheap business and now it carries on until they finish university, over two decades of financial grief. I am 31 and I don't even own my own home, how could I have a child? If you really want to lose that much cash put it all on the three-legged donkey in next year's National or burn a pile of cash. It's easier and there are no sleepless nights.
Hassle - There is much I don't not like about my current situation. However, not a single thing could be improved by a baby. I don't want to be doing piles of extra washing, I don't want to be woken up in the middle of the night, I don't want to spend all my time sat in other people's houses where you have gone so they can 'see the baby', I want to be able to just walk out of the house to buy the paper and not have to take mountains of crap with me. The list goes on and on and on and sodding on.
Parents - I do not want to turn in to one of these people. I have never thought that the world owes be a big favour and that seems to be pre-requisite numero uno. Likewise I fully understand that shoving a pushchair into the back of someone else's heels REALLY hurts and it seems like you lose the ability to see this.
I fear physical change - Shallow? Probably, but it's true. I can't help wanting to keep my tits where they are for as long as I can.
Psychiatric stability - I read an article earlier this year on post-natal psychosis. This is the big daddy of post-natal depression, which is patronisingly referred to as the 'baby blues'. I am a prime candidate for post-natal psychosis, this is where you go AWOL after shutting your baby in the freezer. You actually lose your mind. And I would.
That's five. There are more. The realisation came to me on a Sunday afternoon and when I left the house for work the next morning I really felt as If I was starting the next period of my life and the path for the rest of the journey had been made a hell of a lot clearer. But truths only become truer when you tell people. So, please someone explain to me why is it that when you say 'I don't want children' everyone thinks you are being funny at best or, at worse, they assume you are saying it to just get a reaction? If I was crowing about wanting four kids everyone would think this was just dandy. I have put much more thought into not wanting children than someone who finds herself knocked up through sheer idiocy yet, somehow, I am not to be taken seriously. Thank you society, I'll just carry on paying my taxes and weathering your pitying glances. Forever.
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
It came to me out of nowhere, like a name which suddenly and finally comes to you for which you had been struggling earlier in the day. But there it was, and for the first time in a very long time indeed I felt as if I had made an entirely constructive decision. I will not have children. Not because there is something physically wrong with me, I doubt there is, a doctor once said I was the healthiest person he had ever clapped eyes on, but because I do not want them.
I have said for years I wouldn't have them but over the last five or so years I suppose I had begun to think that I probably would despite all the evidence that this would be a disastrous idea.
Why not though? I am certainly a responsible enough member of society to raise another human being and would probably do it a damn sight better than some of the pram-pushing lowlife you see out and about. You want reasons? Here are a few.
I don't like children - Parents always think this is not possible. Trust me, it is. Babies in particular cause my system to go into lock-down and I have to vacate the area as soon as possible. If someone even shows me a copy of a scan I am struck dumb. Do you recall in Sex and the City when Miranda 'fakes a sonogram'? That's me. I don't know what to say or how to react because I AM NOT INTERESTED. My job as a reporter requires me to summon up interest in all manner of rubbish (planning enquiries, charity events, bins not being emptied), outside of work this is just too much of an ask for me.
I don't want to be poor - Raising a child is not a cheap business and now it carries on until they finish university, over two decades of financial grief. I am 31 and I don't even own my own home, how could I have a child? If you really want to lose that much cash put it all on the three-legged donkey in next year's National or burn a pile of cash. It's easier and there are no sleepless nights.
Hassle - There is much I don't not like about my current situation. However, not a single thing could be improved by a baby. I don't want to be doing piles of extra washing, I don't want to be woken up in the middle of the night, I don't want to spend all my time sat in other people's houses where you have gone so they can 'see the baby', I want to be able to just walk out of the house to buy the paper and not have to take mountains of crap with me. The list goes on and on and on and sodding on.
Parents - I do not want to turn in to one of these people. I have never thought that the world owes be a big favour and that seems to be pre-requisite numero uno. Likewise I fully understand that shoving a pushchair into the back of someone else's heels REALLY hurts and it seems like you lose the ability to see this.
I fear physical change - Shallow? Probably, but it's true. I can't help wanting to keep my tits where they are for as long as I can.
Psychiatric stability - I read an article earlier this year on post-natal psychosis. This is the big daddy of post-natal depression, which is patronisingly referred to as the 'baby blues'. I am a prime candidate for post-natal psychosis, this is where you go AWOL after shutting your baby in the freezer. You actually lose your mind. And I would.
That's five. There are more. The realisation came to me on a Sunday afternoon and when I left the house for work the next morning I really felt as If I was starting the next period of my life and the path for the rest of the journey had been made a hell of a lot clearer. But truths only become truer when you tell people. So, please someone explain to me why is it that when you say 'I don't want children' everyone thinks you are being funny at best or, at worse, they assume you are saying it to just get a reaction? If I was crowing about wanting four kids everyone would think this was just dandy. I have put much more thought into not wanting children than someone who finds herself knocked up through sheer idiocy yet, somehow, I am not to be taken seriously. Thank you society, I'll just carry on paying my taxes and weathering your pitying glances. Forever.
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Review 2005
Keith Gow
2005: It was a year of change...
I turned 30...
I've never worried about my age. New Years' Eve is when I reminisce about what I have and haven't accomplished for the year. My birthdays are celebrations. Or merely excuses for celebrations.
Turning 30 is something else entirely, though. It's a big milestone. And there's an expectation there; even though I wasn't worried about getting older, there was just something about those numbers.
But beginning in late 2004 and culminating on my thirtieth birthday was something of a life-changing event that had me care less and less about a number.
I bought a home of my own...
For much of my twenties I wrote. I was going to be a writer. I may still make money doing what I love one day. But ever the practical person that I am, I realised that living with my parents and living on a dream wasn't going to entirely satisfy me.
So I looked for a job that would pay the bills and wouldn't bore me to tears. It took me a long time, but eventually I found it. Not thrilling, mind you. But it was a new kind of business - an online venture the type of which hasn't really been tried much around the world.
It wasn't what I'd spent my twenties dreaming about, but it made me more money than I ever had before. And finally I was in a position to put my savings to good use.
The home that I bought is modest in size, but big enough for me. It has two bedrooms and a combination bathroom/laundry; the rest is open plan - giving not only the allusion of lots of space but actually a fair amount of space! The kitchen has been renovated in the last few years, the floorboards are polished and it is well insulated - with a brand new wall heater that is perfect in winter.
I found pride of home ownership...
When I moved in I knew there were things that needed fixing around the place and parts of it that needed replacing. But mostly it needed a fresh coat of paint. So a couple of friends came around and for four days we painted. Turning it from the beige nightmare that it was, into a cozy modern-looking apartment. It's like a whole new place.
Soon after I was able to frame my prized original trilogy Star Wars posters and hang them on the living room walls. My dream has always been to hang movie posters on the walls of my own home. And I was able to do that.
I lost my job...
Often my enthusiasm for a new year lasts for months. Very occasionally the year from January to June is full of the promise of new, exciting prospects or plans I have made on New Years' Eve - feeling melancholy about the things I hadn't done the year before.
This year, with so many changes to my life, the good feeling continues. On average, and with me writing this on the eve of December, this is easily my favourite year ever. There's been past years that have had condensed highlights - holidays, relationships, other jobs, miscellaneous experiences - but 2005 has been continuingly fun, exciting, challenging and full of the unexpected.
Yes, I lost my job. That satisfying position that was my first real full-time endeavour. A lot of us lost our jobs - outsourced for reasons beyond our comprehension. And some of my colleagues are still looking for new sources of income. I feel bad for them.
For me, the prospect of losing my income not long after committing to a mortgage might have been unbearable. But within two days of losing my job, I had another job and at better pay. Less exciting day-to-day, but then at thirty and with a mortgage, you learn to adjust your expectations.
So many other things...
It's hard to sum up why I've loved this year so much. There are a myriad of other days and moments that spring to mind. People I've met and things I've seen. Movies I've loved and meeting Joss Whedon. Learning to embrace change and not be so scared of it. Having change actually bring satisfaction rather than disappointment.
But the major changes this year - 30 and a place of my own - have informed my life in so many fascinating ways that they seem worthy of reminiscing. And celebration.
Here's to 2006.
Keith Gow writes The New Review:A Day.
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
I turned 30...
I've never worried about my age. New Years' Eve is when I reminisce about what I have and haven't accomplished for the year. My birthdays are celebrations. Or merely excuses for celebrations.
Turning 30 is something else entirely, though. It's a big milestone. And there's an expectation there; even though I wasn't worried about getting older, there was just something about those numbers.
But beginning in late 2004 and culminating on my thirtieth birthday was something of a life-changing event that had me care less and less about a number.
I bought a home of my own...
For much of my twenties I wrote. I was going to be a writer. I may still make money doing what I love one day. But ever the practical person that I am, I realised that living with my parents and living on a dream wasn't going to entirely satisfy me.
So I looked for a job that would pay the bills and wouldn't bore me to tears. It took me a long time, but eventually I found it. Not thrilling, mind you. But it was a new kind of business - an online venture the type of which hasn't really been tried much around the world.
It wasn't what I'd spent my twenties dreaming about, but it made me more money than I ever had before. And finally I was in a position to put my savings to good use.
The home that I bought is modest in size, but big enough for me. It has two bedrooms and a combination bathroom/laundry; the rest is open plan - giving not only the allusion of lots of space but actually a fair amount of space! The kitchen has been renovated in the last few years, the floorboards are polished and it is well insulated - with a brand new wall heater that is perfect in winter.
I found pride of home ownership...
When I moved in I knew there were things that needed fixing around the place and parts of it that needed replacing. But mostly it needed a fresh coat of paint. So a couple of friends came around and for four days we painted. Turning it from the beige nightmare that it was, into a cozy modern-looking apartment. It's like a whole new place.
Soon after I was able to frame my prized original trilogy Star Wars posters and hang them on the living room walls. My dream has always been to hang movie posters on the walls of my own home. And I was able to do that.
I lost my job...
Often my enthusiasm for a new year lasts for months. Very occasionally the year from January to June is full of the promise of new, exciting prospects or plans I have made on New Years' Eve - feeling melancholy about the things I hadn't done the year before.
This year, with so many changes to my life, the good feeling continues. On average, and with me writing this on the eve of December, this is easily my favourite year ever. There's been past years that have had condensed highlights - holidays, relationships, other jobs, miscellaneous experiences - but 2005 has been continuingly fun, exciting, challenging and full of the unexpected.
Yes, I lost my job. That satisfying position that was my first real full-time endeavour. A lot of us lost our jobs - outsourced for reasons beyond our comprehension. And some of my colleagues are still looking for new sources of income. I feel bad for them.
For me, the prospect of losing my income not long after committing to a mortgage might have been unbearable. But within two days of losing my job, I had another job and at better pay. Less exciting day-to-day, but then at thirty and with a mortgage, you learn to adjust your expectations.
So many other things...
It's hard to sum up why I've loved this year so much. There are a myriad of other days and moments that spring to mind. People I've met and things I've seen. Movies I've loved and meeting Joss Whedon. Learning to embrace change and not be so scared of it. Having change actually bring satisfaction rather than disappointment.
But the major changes this year - 30 and a place of my own - have informed my life in so many fascinating ways that they seem worthy of reminiscing. And celebration.
Here's to 2006.
Keith Gow writes The New Review:A Day.
For an introduction and list of contributors to Review 2005, follow this link.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)