Twenty Something (Something More)

I am, what is commonly referred to as being, in my mid twenties. This means I am no longer young enough to bare the scars of teenage angst and not yet old enough to have a crisis (of the mid-life variety). Twenty something is a bit like limbo, if limbo was an age, which would be very existential wouldn’t it.

I was talking to my friend the other evening after a particularly gruelling session at the gym. We were talking about many matters of interest to us twenty something’s; matters of the heart, matters of the soul and things which didn’t matter at all. It was a conversation I’d become used to living with someone my age but something my friend said struck a chord. She mentioned how much pressure she’d felt under recently from all angles. She was single, in a job she didn’t particularly enjoy, still lived with her parents and had no money. If that’s not ticking the boxes in the suicide booth I don’t know what is.

Anyway, after much speculation, agitation and regurgitation (we’d had a lot of pizza you see), we came to the common idea that our generation, in today’s modern climate, have so much more over their lives than anyone did (I’m talking generally here) even ten years ago. The pressure has ramped up, the heat has soared and the need to be seen as a contributing member of society has never been so great.

I suppose, thinking about it, being a twenty something has improved. I mean OK, we have the stress, strife, trouble and pressure of a thirty something or even a forty something, but isn’t that a good thing? Doesn’t that mean we have grasped the reigns of existence and decided to push on for bigger, greater things? OK, not everyone will share my optimism (indeed very few ever do, bar the occasional mental passing me in the street who shares my enthusiasm, only with a focus on lamp posts or the like) but I think it’s a valid attitude to have to take us into a new decade. We are, after all, the generation who witnessed the birth of the internet and took ownership over the technical revolution. We are the generation who grew up with Prince William. We are the people who saw our parents in shoulder pads and celebrated the millennium with genuine lucidity. We are a very lucky lot you know.

When I turned twenty I thought my youth was over. And it was. It gave way to the modern adulthood. My teenage self died and I regenerated into a young man without acne and a more confident stance. I began to suit fitted jackets and felt I could now attract potential mates (which I hasten to add, I did). I discovered who I was and where I was going. I was given a map that I could navigate at last. I was in control!

I look back to the kid I was and remember what he thought of growing up. I now share his enthusiasm for what I’ll be in the future, whatever that may be. Remember we aren't just a twenty something, we're far, far more.

Communication

Ring, ring. Ring, ring. Hello? Oh hello John/Bob/Sandra how are you? Oh no that's awful John/Bob/Sandra, what did you say? Really? Well good for you. OK my darling, let's talk again soon! Have a lovely day John/Bob/Sandra. Bye.

For those who don't get it, this is a transcription of a phone call. A phone call to John/Bob/Sandra. I thought I'd highlight the most common mode of communication we have, conversation, before going into this rather strange and wonderful topic.

Communication has been around since long before the written (and indeed spoken) word. It's an amazing ability we have as animals to relate information to others of our species (and in some cases those of another species). We have always strived to enhance and celebrate our evolutionary advances in communication to the point that now people get PAID to be officers of such a vast activity!

We all have the ability, on some level, to communicate. Whether it's through written words, spoken sentences, movements of the eyes or just a simple hug, we all have it in us to connect with other humans in ways other animals simply can't. Or rather that other animals do in other ways.

My thoughts of late have been geared towards communication more than usual. This blog is an example of my striving to enhance my own literary abilities and to 'find my voice'. I have become slightly more verbose in my spoken abilities as a result of exercising my grey matter for this blog and so as a knock on effect my communication has been refined to some extent, not massively, but just a little.

I then got thinking about how else we can communicate outside of our own bodies. It's easy to forget that this world is peppered with individuals all inside their own minds (and a fair few who inhabit those other than their own, usually around Clapham Junction or Victoria). I have taken for granted the number of ways I can communicate my feelings, thoughts and emotions outside of simply screaming, crying or becoming depressed.

I can play an instrument, this in itself isn't anything remarkable to me but I forget how many people can't actually do it. It's a real vent for ones creative side to be able to musically communicate outside humming the latest track as you walk to Tesco's. I can sing, which is an extension of my musical communication. I can utilise a computer better than most, therefore enabling my communication online. I can touch-type fairly well so I can articulate my thoughts to screen almost as fast as I think of them. I can speak with a wide and varied vocabulary (as long as I'm not tired, hungry or have just woken up as my previous relationships will attest to). I can type those thoughts down and I can be funny, thereby making people laugh.

There are so many subtle ways of communicating outside ourselves that I think people forget just how wonderful it is to do so. I am forced to then think of those who don't have those abilities. I have known people (some in my own family) who simply don't have any method of communication other than the spoken word and even then that's a little touch and go. I don't remain inside my own mind for long, and haven't done so since I was about ten. At that age I used to always wish to be smarter, taller, older and more mature so to be at that point now is a great achievement and I've tried my hardest to make it the best it could be.

Is there then, a fundamental difference in someone who can communicate in a variety of different ways and someone who simply can't? Does playing an instrument enable you to be a calmer person? Does an inability to type have a correlation to depression? These are probably far flung theories, but I think they are interesting none the less. What does an individual do who can't make someone smile, is tone deaf, only uses slang and whose handwriting is a line with dots (although I'm guilty of the latter)? Being trapped inside a body with only ones thoughts and no method of reaching out must be insanely frustrating.

I am by no means showing myself off to be better or worse than any other person, God forbid, however I am using myself as an example of how much a single individual can gain from themselves. I find us, as a species, fascinating and that's probably a large reason I write this blog. I like to articulate my thoughts around how we are and log them.

I think it's worth asking now that newer, faster and more intelligent methods of communication are flying at us faster than you can say/type/sing or play 'one, two three', shouldn't we get the basics nailed first? Would the world be a better place if everyone could communicate to each other in multiple ways? More importantly thought, would anyone even listen?

Modes of Intelligence

It's one of those aspects of our personality which defines us and enables us to engage with our surroundings. Some believe it's an innate, deep routed and very natural occurrence whereas others prefer the idea that it's an educationally enhanced effort on the part of the individual. Whatever side you take, I'm sure you'll agree it is a definitive strand in ourselves which has much to do with who we turn out to be.

I was watching an extra on a DVD of the wonderful 'Extras', a comedy by Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant, and something Mr Gervais said resonated with me on some level. He mentioned that there are two kinds of intelligence; intellectual intelligence and emotional intelligence. This has stayed with me for some time and I've formulated my own little addition to this view.

I agree there are people who are somewhat more intellectual than others however I don't think it is mutually exclusive from emotion. I think everyone has a variety of intelligence's within them, each radically different and each complimenting or repelling others.

Intellectual intelligence is important, it's knowing stuff. It's knowing stuff which is useful or relevant in some way. Knowing stuff has always been important to me, not that I'm saying I know more than the average fella, but I've always liked to strive to build on my education and focus my mind. Emotional intelligence is an area I don't think i'm particularly up on. Emotional intelligence is gauging the emotions and emotional needs of others. I've always been a bit rubbish at that. I'm working on it though.

We now come to the other intelligences we have in ourselves. What about observational intelligence? Sexual intelligence (which is very different from romantic intelligence)? physical intelligence (which dancers have I'm sure)? And even technological intelligence!

It may sound a bit 'new labour' to say this but in this mode of thinking everyone has a form of intelligence they can and should use to their advantage, my concern is that people sometimes need intellectual intelligence to realise that, and unfortunately that particular intelligence isn't as widespread as one would think.

Self Storage

Everyone goes through breakups. It’s one of those unavoidable facts of life. I have never perceived a breakup as a negative event, although I’m sure many people do. I have always seen them as opportunities to move on down a different avenue in your own life and learn things about yourself you’d never have thought of otherwise. I actually feel a little sorry for those that have never experienced a breakup as to me it’s part of what shapes us as people. Then again, that’s only my opinion!

My last breakup came at a very awkward time. I was out of work and pushing my own production company as well as scribbling my embryonic ideas to paper in an attempt to start on my route to writing as a career. I was living on savings and I was living with the person when we mutually decided it was time to move on. There is a deeply emotional side to splitting up with a partner and that’s always hard to deal with in the short term (and my answer to that was to pack my bags and fly to New York for a few months) but to me the biggest challenge has always been the physical logistics of moving out of a shared flat.

As I was making travel plans to get away from the situations I was soon to leave behind, I was faced with a plethora of practical issues as I owned a lot of the bigger furniture and silly fiddly bits of home like kitchen bits and bobs as well as my wardrobe which is an entity unto itself. Of course, I couldn’t pack it all up and take it with me to the States, so after a failed attempt to sell some of it, I had to bite the bullet and consider self storage.

Self storage, to those that are fortunate enough to claim ignorance to it, is basically a large, dark, cold, florescently lit warehouse space divided into ‘units’ which one can rent for a (not inconsiderable) fee. There has been much press coverage of late exemplifying individuals who have hired these spaces on a professional basis, using them as dance studio’s, offices, music rooms or the like. I envy those people as they don’t really need to deal with the primary reason one usually hires a unit: to store your accumulated ‘life crap’.

‘Life crap’ is far worse than your common house or garden level of crap. It’s stuff. Stuff which has been lying around for weeks, months, years even, that you have rarely seen, taken notice of or touched since you bought it. Either that or it’s the endless pile of necessary technologies, implements and objects that are required to stop oneself from slipping back into the middle ages.

During a breakup you are too full of emotion, plans, ideas and arguments to consider anything like ‘life crap’ as anything other than piles of inanimate obstacles to moving on with your life. I had this mindset myself and hastily packed away my belongings in order to speed up my departure from the UK. I managed to get pretty much everything into a ridiculously small space and, although slightly saddened by facing the fact I had to leave my entire life behind in order to move on with it, I locked the bright yellow metal door and happily tucked the key in my pocket, sauntering away. Done. Sorted. Fab.

This morning was a strange morning. I had arranged to return to my self storage unit to pick up a couple of suits for an interview on Tuesday. I had been driven there and it was the first time I’d returning to my stuff since I’d locked the door almost six months ago. I was totally fine with the journey and rather enjoyed the sun beating in through the window as I flew through Brent Cross. On taking a step into my corridor (where my particular yellow door was situated) I felt a sudden chill. It wasn’t particularly cold outside so it must have been me. I stepped slowly towards my door, took a breath and opened it slowly. There before me was my life again. My stuff. My ‘life crap’. Sofa, chairs, piano, boxes, bags and all manner of homely objects facing me sadly. This was the life I’d left behind and never faced until now. It was a chilling metaphor for me to be faced with a physical manifestation of ones own psyche; a jumble of bits and bobs propped up against each other, all as they were when I last saw them.

I had a job to do so I rooted around and eventually managed to pull the relevant things from the pile and placed them into my suitcase to return to the real world with. It was strange though. It didn’t feel like my belongings. There was a morbid air of looking at the belongings of someone now dead. It didn’t help that the air temperature in the units was fairly chilly as well. It then occurred to me, the person who all this belonged to was indeed dead. Me, who I was, had died when I placed everything in the warehouse. I was a boyfriend, a tenant, a nester and a writer in the early stages. All were no longer part of who I was. It really gave me a strange feeling. I still don’t think I can articulate it. Now there’s a thing!

As I closed the big yellow door once more, taking a last lingering look at my stuff slowly relegated to darkness once again for an indefinite stretch of time, I had leant something. I had learnt that running away from things doesn’t do anything other than delay dealing with the problems you are running away from. Whether it’s ‘life crap’, emotions, people or yourself, you need to take the time to ease away from it gently. Otherwise you’ll find that what you’ve left behind is a chilling reminder of what may never be again.

The Humble Cuppa

I was considering calling this 'Writers Blocked Nose II' but rather liked 'A Humble Cuppa' so consider this part two.

As I sit here, blocked up from head to toe and producing substances I didn't know my body was capable of producing in colours I've never seen before, I have been struggling. I struggle when I'm ill, tired or hungry. I have been all three recently and I'm getting a little sick of it. Fortunately I managed to find my ever faithful Night Nurse (for those that don't know, it's a cold and flu remedy, not a sexual proclivity. Even if it were, as I'm feeling right now, I dare say I'd be fairly rubbish) so I was unconscious and out for the count until I awoke at seven this morning even more blocked up (which I honestly didn't think would be humanly possible) and feeling disappointed that my previous few posts on my blog have lacked any sparkle due to my aforementioned cold from hell (yes, I'm that whacked when I'm ill that I ruminate over this blog that early in the morning... among other things of course).

When I'm tired, I can rest. When I'm hungry, I can (and often do) eat. When I'm ill, I have to wait. This is the problem I face, I'm not good at waiting. I'm not impatient, but I'm not one to sit down for a long period of time (feeling like a compacted ford fiesta) and let my autonomic immune system take the lead. I'm a control freak and I demand my own way. Unfortunately beings billions of times smaller than me have other ideas and I find myself giving in to group pressure, especially when the group is pumping through my veins and demanding I yield to their every whim. Bitches.

Let me go back to my point. I have been thinking long and hard about what to write about. I am usually bursting with inspiration and ideas in every shade, every which way, however over the last couple of days I've been devoid of anything. I am barren. I am an infertile writer (not literally you understand, well I hope not) planting seeds in arid terrain at the peak of summer, not a rain cloud in sight. Balls and bugger.

As I thought long and hard, frustrating my little brain and sniffing uncomfortably, I picked up my cup of tea and took a little sip. Then it came to me, I have been thinking too hard. Instead of trying to formulate some grand argument I can wax lyrical about, why not just take in my immediate surroundings and the inspiration they nurture. The humble cup of tea. What a thing of beauty. even as I feel now I can appreciate it's stark simplicity and it's reassuring presence. A wonderful reminder that life is still alright, and although inside my own body there's a microscopic war being fought (and lost by the feel of it), outside spring is starting to blossom (at long last) and plans are still afoot, moving along at the same pace they always were.

I guess if I have to wait for this sodding cold to break and to feel like I can go from one room to the other without wondering where I can sit down next, then I'd might as well wait with a cup of tea. There are worse ways to pass the time. Ooh, I'm a little hungry, time for lunch. And a rest. And maybe another tea.

Writers Blocked Nose

Today I have literally been walking through treacle to get anything written. I managed to pull together a new version of my CV and send it to a couple of people, but beyond that I have felt dizzy, tired and listless... why? I have a sodding cold.

I know men always complain of ‘man flu’ but after a night of restless sleep, night sweats, a hacking cough waking me up and a day of blocked sinuses, I can understand what the concern is.

I find it extremely difficult to order my thoughts when I’m gunged up. I don’t know why. I know people who’d hardly bat an eyelid at the onset of a cold, but I simply cease to function properly. My thoughts become sticky, my speech becomes loose and every little gripe becomes heart attack annoying. Not fun.

I become more like an old man when I have a cold. I slow down, I find fault in things and I feel very sorry for myself. The only solace I get from times like this are the posters on the underground which display how germs can carry from person to person through that wonderfully vivid green paint strewn about all over the place. I hide a wry smile thinking I don't have to worry any more, I already have it. All the holier than thou commuters surrounding me will soon be like me. Only worse. One hopes. Oh the malicious side that rears its head when ill.

As a result I just about managed to type out my previous blog (which was like following a mirage in the dessert with no water and only a blow heater for company) and this one is more of a footnote to my annoyance. One thing that I love about blogging is that you can share your thoughts and opinions without having to share your germs.

Audience Participation

Last night I was fortunate enough to have been invited to the opening of the LGBT Film Festival as part of the BFI. It was at the Odeon West End (literally across from the larger Odeon where he new Robert Patterson film was premiering). I went along without any preconceptions and was delighted to find out that bookending the festival was to be either a gay male or a lesbian themed film. It was a full house and a real divide of men and women so the jury was out over what it could be. Soon enough the lights went down and a small woman made a speech which seemed to last for the duration of the festival, inviting every single individual involved in the festival and then the film itself.

Well, firstly I must say, it’s been a long time since i’ve seen that number of people lined up on a stage since Pricilla the musical (strange seeing as this was a film festival), however it was really nice to see the people behind the camera being celebrated as much as the obvious talent (although they had their place next to the crew on this stage).

The film was introduced as ‘The Secret Diaries of Miss Anne Lister’, which was apparently the product of painstaking research into a recently discovered diary of a wealthy land owner who lived over one hundred and fifty years ago. It was a fascinating piece and (contrary to people’s opinions afterwards) I really liked the script. It was a witty, warm, genuine and deep look at lesbianism of the time.

I could go into an in depth analysis of the film but apparently it will be on BBC 2 later this year so I advise you all to watch it if you can. What I want to talk about is the genuine excitement, fun and interaction an audience had with the work when they watched it together on a large screen.

Any film or piece of TV work has so much effort, love and energy pumped into it that it almost feels sad to know that it is shown, watched and forgotten within its duration (usually by a few people in front of a TV with who knows what happening around it). It’s so refreshing to see something like that in a dark, airy auditorium with a collection of like minded people who are there to genuinely enjoy the work, not flick channels or use the work as a means to pass the time over a TV dinner.

At various points throughout the film people whooped, people laughed, people applauded and it seemed people genuinely connected to the work far more than I’ve seen at any cinematic film or TV program I’ve known. It was truly brilliant and felt so unbelievably just how a film should be viewed. With love, with compassion and with genuine enthusiasm.

Regardless of the theme of the film, I think what can be taken away from last night’s experience is that with the right audience behind the right show, you can take so much more away from it. I am not a lesbian, I didn’t live one hundred and fifty years ago and I am not a woman, but I really connected with what it was to be all three. If I’d watched this at home, chances are those points would have made me ponder ‘I wonder what’s on Comedy Central’.

Curriculum Vitae

Let’s face it, CV’s are a pain in the arse. It’s a simple fact of life that no one (in their right mind) can sit down to a blank page and feel overjoyed at the prospect of typing out their professional history in such detail as to make themselves a potential candidate for a possible job at a company you may never work for. It’s one of those essential masochistic pass times we, as humans, have manufactured around us to ensure we feel we have achieved something before we’ve actually achieved anything while also laying on a new layer of bureaucracy. Aren’t we wonderful.

Sitting in Canary Wharf last night, I was talking to a friend of mine who is helping me with my own CV. I expected a long drawn out discussion about how awful my initial draft was and that I couldn’t hope to gain any state of employment without sucking in my pride and whoring myself totally to the corporate machine that stands before me. This, in fact, wasn’t the case.

I sipped on my freshly squeezed orange juice (I’m on antibiotics at the moment you see) and listened as he clarified to me what exactly a CV needed to be. I knew it was a black and white representation of ones professional life but the simplicity of it’s communication of that is actually a rather succinct process. The profile explains exactly what you are. I am a project manager, a strategic planner, an international events coordinator and an intranet administrator. The employment history has to answer that. From 2008 to 2009 he/she/it managed projects ranging from this to that. Key achievements are just what it says on the tin; how did he/she/it add value to said employment. Education; several qualification, most of which are no longer even regarded with any respect. All very neat and tidy. All very compartmentalised. All very corporate.

It struck me that, just as a CV is a document you hold in your hand representing you as a potential candidate for employment, would it be beneficial to us to write multiple CV’s (like one does applying for different jobs), but for each remit of our own lives. Even just a general one we can use as a template for others (come on, everyone does it).

I guess a profile would read; He/she/it is a brother, a lover, a writer, a musician and a Doctor Who fan. Life history; from 2003 to 2006 he/she/it went to University in search of his/her/it’s self. Key Achievements; gained much reputation for sleeping around, although had one meaningful relationship and discovered he/she/it doesn’t like olives. Education; has one. That kind of thing. I must stress I am not talking for myself here, although I do dislike olives. Unless they’re in something. Anyway...

I thought to myself, how one often does, that people seem so utterly comfortable boiling down their skills, aptitudes, talents and achievements into a single side of A4 paper, yet when it comes to really defining themselves as people they wouldn’t know where to start. I think we should all apply to the lesser known multinational ‘Life Limited’ in the capacity of ‘A Person (holiday included)’ and contemplate whether or not we’d get the job based on what we have in our CV. If not then maybe it’s worth a redraft.

Suits

I had a meeting tonight at the wonderfully opulent Canary Wharf. Now I used to work there and can attest to it's brilliance and splendour as well as to it's blocky, glass walled metropolistless facade which is really rather lovely to visit, not always so good to spend most of your day in. I don't mean to say that the aesthetic isn't pleasing, it is. Billions of pounds have been pumped into the area to ensure we all appreciate just how aesthetically pleasing it is. I think my main problem with our sparkly, silvery and costly financial hub is the fact that among this style, architectural mastery and beautiful sunset stealing vistas are a load of sad faced, stressed paced, grey and black clad individuals.

Among the amazing colours and lines of such an important and poignant area (in the already historically and aesthetically splendid London, lest we forget), you'd think one would step up to the mark and flex some serious haute couture muscles. Alas all we can hope for are splashes of safe, harmless and usually similar styles.

Women don't seem to be as bad as the men in this capacity. Women seem to have a knack for adding a little colour to themselves without jeopardising their often solid, professional and damn right rigid persona's with a scarf or a pashmina or the like. It's all very well thought out.

Gentlemen though, of any age, colour or creed tend to cling to the unremarkable and mediocre greys and blacks (and navy's) which inspire... well, not a lot really. No wonder stress levels are through the roof and multinationals are having to build rooms specifically for creative thinking (with a vast spectrum of bright colours never seen in nature hanging on the walls) when these poor people have to look at chalkboard sketches of themselves in dull mirrors all day.

For industries which are increasingly reliant on creative thinking and 'out of the box' mindsets, I think it's time to shake it up a little. Let's get companies to start thinking in the same way as they push their employees to. Let's bring a little colour to the office. Smart can be bright. Professional can be fitted. Serious can still be fun. I myself wear a tie and a waistcoat on an almost daily basis but I ensure it bleeds through a personality which I'm comfortable with people seeing as my own. I absolutely love the smart, tight look, I just think it really shows off a figure (and we all have one somewhere under all that polyester) so let's not be afraid of it. Let's relish it. Let's bring ourselves into the workplace, not just our skills.

I sat back in my seat, during my meeting in Canary Wharf. I saw a man walk passed the window on his way home or to another meeting (or to see a hooker), whatever. I saw him walk passed in a wonderfully tailored fitted suit with a stunning orange shirt and a burnt orange tie. I watched him disappear into this distance and couldn't help thinking; Our skills and talents have always been our strongest assets, so isn't it time to let our style become our strongest suit?

Online, Off Balance

Last night I had managed to pull together all six episodes of my scripted series which i’ve been working on over the last month and emailed them to my colleague who was set to script edit them. I was slightly apprehensive as the final episode came to a measly nineteen pages whereas episodes one to five boasted between twenty five and thirty one. Still, I thought, it means I get to write a really gritty ending involving all of my characters (which I’m still working on). All in all it was a very productive evening and I had rewarded myself with a Waitrose chocolate pudding and cream. Those that know me know that a chocolate pudding with cream is the ultimate in rewards to myself (high on the ranks of any foodstuff) and so my productivity must have been fairly impressive.

This morning I awoke in a lovely double bed, alone with no traffic noise, no alarm and no pressing engagements. It was wonderful. I was prepared to leave my mothers house in the early afternoon and had the best intentions of getting on with some work (including this blog). I was feeling very smug that I’d finally got slightly ahead with my work. Then I turned my laptop on and opened my emails. Nothing. Not a sausage (which would have been weird anyway, who’d send a sausage via email? Royal mail could manage that surely?). I checked my iPhone which had registered receipt of over twelve emails over night (through the trusty 3G wonder-link-hyper-system) and was concerned that nothing was linking to my mother’s broadband connection.

It occurred to me then, as panic set in that I was isolated from the empire like online world, just how reliant I am on the internet or in fact any connection to my cyber network. It seemed somehow pathetic that I was genuinely relieved to have a full 3G connection on my iPhone still and that it alone could provide that addiction induced bond to the sky. Long gone are the days of paper and pen unless a pigeon is good enough to grab hold and assist (although pigeon education being what they are at the moment it would likely just fly away from my paper and poo as it did so).

It really gave me a sense of deflation having no connection and it annoyed me that it had this affect on me. What a vicious cycle. Only the other day my iPhone refused to respond to me (no matter now many times I shook it or prodded the dead screen), and until I read up on google how to cope with the problem (holding both menu and power buttons for ten seconds as it happens!) I had the same veil of dread. Everything seemed to have vanished.

What made me really annoyed, I think, is the fact that the newest of new technologies (which still and always will go wrong on a regular basis) are all so utterly perfectly formed and so amazingly compact that, no matter now much thought goes into the resolution to the problem, unless you have a small congregation of nanobots you will be unable to fix it. Long gone are the days of hitting a piece of technology over a table and hoping for the best. Now, if you were to do so it would most likely explode in your face (or more likely, ask you not to).

You win some you loose some. My iPhone is now working absolutely perfectly (touch wood), and my mothers broadband was still dormant until I left the house. I could drive myself crazy about it all but I think it'd be better for my health if I just leave well alone, step back and walk away. Maybe I can find some paper somewhere?

Ten

Isn't it strange how our preoccupation with numbers effects our thoughts and feelings in our every day lives? You can look at any single inanimate object and see a wealth of numerical information shinning back at you. It has mass, depth, height, length, width and weight. How many of these inanimate objects exist? Was it one of a set number of inanimate objects? how many people have owned this inanimate object? How many people like inanimate objects like this? what was the phone number of the first person to touch this inanimate object? How many people will slap me if I keep saying 'inanimate object'?

Our every day lives are steeped in numerical influence. We arise at a set time. Usually a nice round number at the O'Clock. We spend certain amounts of money throughout the day. Some of us deal with financial information to get a monthly amounts of salary. We go home, watch programmes on numbered channels at specific times and then retire to bed ready for a set number of hours sleep before the whole number system begins all over again. It's all so regulated. It makes me dizzy.

Just for fun, here is a top ten of my personal numerical facts:

25
I am (as I'm sat here now) 25 years old.

12
The age of my little brother in NY.

358
The number of friends I have on facebook at the present time.

12:42
The time I'm writing this exact line.

2
the number of moles I am unhappy with on my face.

16
The age I lost my virginity (I hated every second of it).

3
The number of meaningful relationships I've had.

093
The last 3 digits of my phone number.

646
The number of words in this article.

2010
The year I will make a name for myself.

I've always had an issue with certain types of numbers. I can never get up on the O'Clock for example, it needs to be four or six minutes past the hour. I have always felt that nice, big, solid round numbers somehow control us and my stand on this is to control my own little world by defying the pressures of the decimal and the numerical. It is a true case of a rebel without a cause. Don't get me wrong, I like preparing meetings beginning on the hour. I like going to bed on (or half past) the hour. I think my dislike for it stems from my (probably highly questionable) observation that our obsession with time and our methods of measuring its passing are all totally manufactured. We were once creatures of light and dark, day and night, warm and cold. I see our numerical systems as very controlling of what should be organic and flowing lives. I'm not a hippy and I'm not advocating a mass rebellion on the last two thousand years, it's more of a gripe that I manage (without the use of medication) through my little idiosyncratic tweaks of my everyday life. Getting out of bed at seven thirty four instead of seven thirty. Hardcore eh?

I've got better with all this over the years. I'm still fairly weird about it but I'm far less militant. I have actually grown to enjoy gauging my progress in blocks of round numbers. I have finished five short films to date (with visions of soon making that ten), I have written a series (each episode consisting of forty pages). I have grown to really enjoy my mile stones. So perhaps on a personal level I am content with solid, even numbers if I am in control of them and not vice versa.

I now think there's something wonderful about round numbers. Today especially. Even numbers. Even numbers like ten. And what do you know, this is also my tenth blog! You'd have almost thought I'd planned it. Almost.

A City Boy on a Country Lane

This Sunday has been coming since Wednesday. I know the same could be said for any Sunday coming after any Wednesday but what I actually mean is that how I feel and what I'm doing on this particular Sunday was influenced by what I felt and what I did on Wednesday last. as well as last Thursday through yesterday. Every day this week since Wednesday in fact. Blah.

Anyway, I am sat in my mothers house (who is in Egypt until Tuesday) writing this cyber addition to my literary life, reflecting on the last few days (feeling unbelievably tired after a night of insomnia) and coming to some conclusions. Nothing climactic or earth shattering, but on a personal level, quite profound.

As I was sat on the train from Euston, I looked at my rucksack perched next to me on the vacant seat by the window (because I'm a aisle person you see). The harsh strip lighting shimmered all around me on the relatively new interior of the train and the twilight of the London skyline slowly receding away from me, becoming dark green tufts of nature. I just sat. I watched. I listened to the Noisettes on my iPod (Wild Young Hearts is an amazing track and evokes wonderful thoughts of me kissing someone I shan't mention here). I thought back to last Wednesday about something a good friend of mine asked me (over a magnificent breakfast). We were talking about my writing, my direction and what my plans were. He was helping me focus myself and giving me some reality checks (he owns a successful innovations company, so it's in his blood). All very positive. All extremely kind. Suddenly he asked 'so why are you in London?' I simply replied 'because I've always lived here', 'that's not what I mean' he continued 'It's so expensive in London, you need to make it work for you. Use it. Otherwise you'd might as well not be here'.

That played on my mind. It lingered heavily. Why was I in London? The opportunities. The exposure. The sheer brilliance of this amazing city. I'm a city boy; I love blocks of buildings, roads with harsh junctions, jagged corners and crowds of damp, unhappy commuters. I thrive on the spectacle of the intimate vastness of such a place. London is in my veins. So why wasn't I grabbing it with both hands?

In the days that followed I found myself ingratiating myself with the city more and more. I walked around. I met people for drinks. I went to Soho. I went to Shoreditch. I had a few great nights including bowling, margaritas and Mexican food . It dawned on me that I was over compensating for that comment that was still lingering in my thoughts. The excess was filling the void in my answer to the question I'd been hearing in my mind and it was wearing me out.

Today I was sleep deprived. Very sleep deprived. Sleep deprivation has been known to cause psychosis and I was definitely feeling unusual. I looked at my newly bought diary, now filled with various meetings and events, and glanced over the next couple of days. On noting I didn't have any set appointments, I decided to return to my mothers house and catch up on myself. And some work. I was feeling a little scatty and overwhelmed by procrastination. Things to do and no energy to do them. Those who know me know that isn't good. Not at all.

Back to the train. I sat there and saw London disappear. It went away and gave me some space. Then it occurred to me; some people say that acting is about the silences between the dialogue of any play, I feel that being in London can only be gauged against the time you are away from it. Those moments of silence in a particularly loud and aggressive play. Not something by Alan Bennet.

I will always love London but to truly experience it, to really muck in with it's opportunities, gain exposure and recoil from it's sheer brilliance, you need to leave it behind for a little while. Even if it's just over night. Alighting from the train at Leighton Buzzard station I took a deep breath of non London air (recognisable by the fact you can fill your lungs with it and not cough or get black nostrils) and began walking to the house. Walking. No taxi. No bus. Back to zero. A long bracing walk with my rucksack on my back.

It sounds strange but I even changed what I was listening to on my iPod (I only realised this once I'd done it). 'All by Myself' by Eric Carmen (very Bridget Jones I know). It clicked on and you know what? I was. All by myself. And I smiled. Because I knew I wouldn't be when I got back to London, but until then it's just what I need.

Mums and Dads (Noticeably Absent)

Today I'm feeling rather low. Not in a depressive 'dark place' kind of low, but rather a slight melancholy probably brought on from a sever lack of sleep over the last couple of nights. Being sociable can be a bitch I tell ya. To compound the problem I am preoccupied by a myriad of things today including, but not limited to, the bright sunny fact it's Mothers Day.

I know what you're thinking; he hasn't bothered to send her a card. He's not going to go see her and feels guilty. Well no, my mother happens to be in Egypt on a rather extravagant holiday, so I've been able to slip by the commercial side to the holiday (is it a holiday if it falls on a weekend?) so that's not the issue. My issue was that, on seeing the young men on a platform of Finsbury Park station clutching multicoloured flowers, I realised that I didn't and never really needed to bother with it all.

A lot of my friends have very close families and seem to spend a lot of time preoccupied about their parents and what drama ensues within their respective family units. Until recently I never really had that bond with my mother of father and in fact still don't think it compares to the connection a lot of my peers have with theirs. I recently spent three months with my father (who is located in New York of all places, which makes Fathers Day an ironic bundle of laughs), and realised that the period of time I spend with him was probably the longest I've spent with either of my parents since I was fourteen. Actually, it's probably the longest I've spent with any family member since I was seventeen! That's eight years of sporadic tooing and froing between family members and never really settling down with any of them to find that common ground. My father and I get on and I helped him as much as I could with some situations he's dealing with over there, but even after all that time I still didn't feel he actually knew me (beyond knowing I was biologically related to him). I feel the same of my mother. There's always something else to distract them, something that gets in the way, something that's more pressing to deal with. I've even seen a pattern in their ability to reminisce about every inch of the past and never really confronting the here and now.

I've always been a loner and maybe that's a large part of why I never felt the need to connect to family in that way. I seem to like my own company, get on well with myself and on occasion, have been known to have fulfilling discussions with myself. Usually on crowded tube trains. Oh the larks. I had two maternal figures as I was growing up, my grandmother and my great grandmother with whom I lived with in Notting Hill while I attended college. I felt much more connected to the whole 'family thing' back then and found it faded when they both died within three months of each other in 2003. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger so I guess I became harder and more introvert from then on.

I was always loved. I should make that clear. I am still loved and I know it. I'm not having a go at anyone, nor am I feeling sorry for myself, I realise other people have it far worse than I could ever imagine. It's more of the fact I sometimes feel I'm missing out on that whole familial side to life which I have replaced with writing, friends, business and relationships (and anything food based). All utterly important, possibly because it's all slightly more controlled by myself and not just a matter of dealing with what you're dealt with.

I'm a big boy now, and all the daemons, issues and dilemmas I had about the subject are long since passed (or irretrievably repressed). I suppose that I'm keeping it all on board more for my own reference than out of malice. I want a family of my own one day (soon one hopes), which might be my way of putting my lessons to use. I also have a twelve year old brother who is going through something similar to what I did, so I'll have to make sure I'm there for him. Even if it's just to ask what his favourite colour is. Mine's blue.

First Kiss (Last Orders)

Hangovers and I don't get on at all; we simply don't see eye to eye. Fortunately the one I'm escorting today isn't as bad as most but still it's a heady reminder of why gin is a drink best enjoyed in moderation. Megh, you only live once.

It struck me, while talking to a friend in the early hours of this morning, that physical contact is so unbelievably important in pushing a relationship on. Whether you're talking about a friendship or something more romantic, it's such an intimate act (in western culture anyway) which we now take so lightly. It sounds like I'm putting a lot of weight on something which many people would consider rather trivial, but I do think it's worth a thought. Even if it's just a pat on the back from a father, there's a certain affirmation which is drawn from actual contact.

So then, we come to what could be considered the most overlooked physical act of all, the first kiss.

I've never found dating particularly easy, probably because there's a load of expectations which we, as humans, have listed to make the whole process somehow more quantifiable. I'm much more of a quality man myself and don't have any particular 'rules' to follow or etiquette to second guess myself about, I just go with the flow. Through all this though there is still the fundamental problem of when one leans in for that first kiss and turns a polite, well mannered (often awkward) conversation into something more intimate and cozy.

In a world of sexual freedom, pre watershed orgasm's and tits around every corner (not that anyone is allowed to look at them), the first kiss is often just a casual (drunken) instigator to possible relationships (if the individuals have nothing better to do and stumble upon the notion that it might be nice to have some fairly easy sex slightly cheaper than whenever you go out drinking). If, however, you take the slightly more dated approach, and actually 'court' someone, it's a bit of a minefield of sociasexual manners. When do I first mention sex? When do I mention my last breakup? Can I casually touch their shoulder? Do I look like a twat if I talk about my type of person? What was the last book you read? Oh you don't read. That kind of thing.

I have explored both sides of the coin since my pubescent insanity calmed down and although I like a bit of 'wham bam whose your daddy', I have often regretted having done so too early on. Maybe there's something about the yearning, the imagination and the possibilities which possess you over a few dates that mean something deeper to me. Maybe I get too excited about where it might be going and end up fairly broken if it ends up with whoever it is eventually finding someone else. Maybe it's about 'winning' someone over (the power mad control freak that I am). Maybe it's the ease into the connection I like, no big commitments on either side until 'that chat' which is another issue all together. That last point however has a flip side as you are lingering in a bit of a grey area until you affirm what you have together. We are strange creatures aren't we.

I guess there are pro's and con's to any method of eventual climax (available while stocks last), but I for one think that the dating route allows more time to take in the scenery, to facilitate that connection and eventually succumb to seduction. I have always been an advocate of sexy being more exciting than sex, probably because it lasts longer and is slightly more forgiving.

Jobsworth Junction

I spend a lot of time on London Transport. Whether it be simply hopping on a rickety double decker bus to pop up the road and back, navigate the often disrupted (but always improving) tube network, or catching an overground train into town when I have the misfortune to be found so far away I need to. I spend a lot of time topping up my oyster card to enable my transport freedom and I spend a lot of time trying to be terribly nice to otherwise hostile and angry commuters. I spend a lot of time simply 'being' alongside London's wonderful transport system. I can handle the closures. I can handle the commuters. I can handle the rising prices (only just though). I even like the upholstery on the Northern Line (different sized blue squares!). I'm fairly easy going with everything apart from the (sometimes, not always) smug, self centred, arrogant, passive-aggressive attitude from the Transport for London employees.

Before you all write in praising the efforts of those that keep our infrastructure structured and saying how misguided and evil I am, let me clarify; I have total and uncompromising respect for the workers who maintain our busses, tubes, trains, trams and clippers, I just sometimes doubt their respect for us. When you are confronted with an individual (as I did today) who absolutely relishes the power and hold they have over you, a single commuter with places to be, when you make a simple mistake, it makes you think (and write in this case).

It isn't unfair to expect that, with the recent changes throughout the London Transport Network, understanding the fares and limitations of them will be a common occurrence for a little while longer. I for example haven't travelled every single route on every single mode of transport to, from, in and out of London so sometimes a slip up can't be avoided, especially if you're in a rush. My mistake was to touch in at a station on the overground network (as they have Oyster card readers now don't ya know) and expect that no more than two stations further I'd be able to touch out. No such luck. I arrived at the gate realising that a blank space occupied the usual bright, happy and damn right annoying Oyster logo on the barriers. A moment passed when a little of my life flashed past my eyes which was then interrupted by a friendly sounding voice from the other side. A small man smiling and gesturing to the other gates. How nice, thought I, and went to complete my journey. This is when it all went wrong.

Little Man, as I have come to call him, didn't look at me directly and simply had a disappointed smirk on his face as though I'd just got my comeuppance in a really awful thriller. I explained that I didn't know this was out of the Oyster zones and apologies as calmly as I could. Then came the long slow explanation of 'how it all works now', which I nodded at and smiled along to until the line 'So you'll have to pay a penalty fare'. This line always gets my heckles up, understandably as it's a whopping twenty pounds, which is a lot when you don't have it. I was in a hurry and agreed very quickly just to get away from Little Man. Little Man seemed to want more than just a simple acceptance of the rules. He wanted blood. He wanted pleading and crying and begging to be let off. I didn't have the energy and simply repeated 'OK, do you take cards?'. Yet more explanation of 'how it all works now' and that I 'should have known'. Of course I should have. Please tell me more about how stupid I am. Really, it'll be best for everyone.

Suddenly, in a moment of forgiveness Little Man asked what I was doing there. It's his business you see. So I told him through gritted teeth I was seeing a friend, not planning on blowing up the town hall. 'I tell ya what' Little Man eventually blurted out, 'you buy a return ticket at the machine and give me the second part and I'll let you off'. Right, so it was in his power to be nice and suggest an obvious and friendly solution, but he'd kept me there for a good ten minutes wielding the little power he has at someone who simply just wanted to meet a friend (who I was now late to see)...

On a different matter, I once had a paper travel card (it's been years!) and on showing it to a totally disinterested bus driver (quickly returning it to my pocket when I saw he didn't give a toss) I heard a genuinely angry booming voice telling me to come back as he couldn't see it. Now I have no problem with returning and showing it again, I'm no fare jumper, but to make such a deal of it simply to liven up his journey, to me seems totally ignorant. I wonder how many troublesome youths he's let jump on just so he didn't have to deal with the drama? Or how many innocent older ladies he's made stand searching for their purse at a 'buy before you ride' stop?

Of course you can't say this is true of all employees of Transport for London, but I think they should be made to realise that they are still representing the city at large and although it's only a minority of individuals, those individuals taint the view of the many. I've had enough run ins with people like that to make sweeping generalisations which I know is wrong, but one can't help but assume the worst when the worst is what so very often happens.

As a final thought after this little rant though, I wonder just how much is made per year on penalty fares alone? If the solution to my little issue today (and with Little Man) was so easily resolved by simply putting a ticket machine on the other side of the barriers, I do wonder why they don't. Am I just being cynical? Probably.

Phantom of the... Circus?

It seems such a long time ago since I would enjoy a piece of theatre (or any live performance actually) without the cynicism, disappointment and analytical bloody mindedness that comes with, well, an education in the industry. Of late my literary goings on have been focussed more to film and TV, drawing on but not limiting myself to, theatrical technique. However from time to time I do enjoy popping to the theatre to take in what the world of spotlights and soundboards have to offer. Even just to remind myself of why I traded in stage plays for screenplays. For the moment at least.

Last week I saw Love Never Dies, Lloyd Webber's much awaited (was it?) and eagerly anticipated (really?) sequel to the sublime 'Phantom of the Opera'. I wasn't overly keen on the premise of Phantom being located in America, on the jolly old seaside town of Coney Island as, as one of my friends noted, it's like setting the 'Sound of Music' in Ramsgate. You simply wouldn't do it. But Lloyd Webber, in all his wisdom, had decided that this was to be the case, so I had a little faith in his vision. This man has given us some amazing work throughout his life and although I personally feel it's declined over the last several years (ever since Whistle Down the Wind), I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and enjoy whatever it was he'd decided to do.

Let me start by saying that the first twenty minutes of the show were absolutely stunning. I don't just mean lots of people dancing maniacally kinda stunning, I mean seriously spectacular. The overture soared and really complimented the visuals extremely well so all in all you're prepared for a real treat. I think because of this expectation now looming in your gut, everything seems to fade in comparison thereafter. The amazing effects used at the beginning weren't really utilised again quite as well and it all seemed a bit blocky. I'm not knocking the director Jack O'Brian, I've heard some brilliant things about his previous projects and directorially this was, for the most part, a sound piece of work.

Now I won't go into a blow by blow account of the show as I'm sure I'll give something away (as I'm not that subtle) about the plot or the ending, but I really think Lloyd Webber has missed a trick with this. I found his score interesting, yes, but nothing mind blowing. What really annoyed me was when heard an awful lot of his pervious work simply rewritten into a minor key (something musicians to do make a piece sound 'moody'). To highlight the musical failings, whenever a piece of the original Phantom score is heard you are instantly shown how far superior it was compared to what you are seeing. Disappointingly, this is from a man who created, from scratch, a new format for the stage through hours of beautiful scores who seems to now be selling out to anyone he can. I don't really know why, but I'm not going to speculate, it's none of my business.

After the, fairly damp, climactic scenes (which has some suspiciously pedophiliac undertones if you ask me), I tried to pinpoint why I didn't engage with Love Never Dies as much as I still do with Phantom. I really couldn't define exactly what was wrong which lead me to believe that it was the entire premise of the show. The setting of America simply isn't Phantom. Effects are nothing without a substantial show to back them up. A sequel to a show which was fine as it was. The characters were cyphers to a lacklustre score and reminded you of a golden age of musical theatre which sadly needs to be shaken up as much as Lloyd Webber did in the early 70's. Lloyd webber himself seems to have fallen victim to the same artistic issues he sought to fix in his youth and instead of building on his awesome body of work, he's simply produced a bit of a limp echo of something that didn't really need to exist. All in all a bit sad.

Don't get me wrong, there was some great moments. The effects were lovely and weirdly some of Lloyd Webber's smaller musical motifs were actually incredibly memorable and haunting. The phantom's henchmen looked absolutely stunning (especially the fabulous character 'Fleck' who's costume you should go and see regardless of the show) and the pretext of the Phantom involved in a darkly lit circus was actually a brilliant one, if only it had been used a little more effectively.

Maybe it's that I'm too fortunate to have a few friends who work for ticket companies here and there and I was able to get to see it for free, so I didn't need to feel I had to enjoy it (but if that's the reasoning behind theatre these days it's a small concern isn't it?), or maybe it was due to any preconceptions I might have had, but Love Never Dies simply didn't do it for me. I'll try and go again and give it a repeat viewing, but all in all I think the time and money going into the show could have gone towards a completely new show, devoid of any continuity or expectation.

On the positive side, watching this has kicked me to start work on a musical myself (currently in the very early stages), and has redefined my perspective on live theatrical performance. I'm not completely abandoning it, but I think a little break is in order, if anything to come back to it afresh, with a clear mind. Dare I say maybe Lloyd Webber could consider it as well.

Bodies of Work

It's late. Not hair pullingly, eye burningly, face scratchingly late, but late enough to feel I should really be asleep, or at least laying down in a dark room on something soft. As ever though, some of my best ideas come to me around this time. There's not an awful lot on my mind that can be solved before tomorrow, there's a few friends on facebook that I'm slowly bidding goodnight to and like I said, it's not so late that I feel too guilty for still being awake. Well, maybe a little bit, but that's the masochist in me.

It just struck me as I lay here, half upright, just how important a 'body of work' actually is to someone. Not just someone like me who lingers on the enthusiastic narrative of people, places and the world, but to anyone. Gandhi mentioned, probably in passing, that man is the sum of his actions, and never has that meant so much as it does today.

I am a writer and to achieve my ambitions I am actively building on my abilities; I have a pool of short films I have written, I have a series in the making which I've written, I am writing breakdowns for future projects, I have a production company to channel my work, I have a solid team I'm still recruiting, I write a fairly haphazard blog, I tweet my goings on, I update my status an average of five times a day etc. etc. Each bundle of output and every compartment of 'stuff' is a unit against which I gauge myself professionally. But what about the little things which are periphery to my obvious professional ambitions? A healthy diet? Keeping up with friends? Amount of sex I have? Quality of sex I have (I'm sensing a theme)? Are these as important as my professional bodies of work? Of course they are. I think the only difference is that they are important only to me. What I deem professional I can promote, what I deem periphery I can only build on (and reflect on) myself. I've always been a loner.

Someone said (and I'm paraphrasing here), after death all you can hope to leave behind is your art. If this is true I want to include those aspects of life you may relegate to the sidelines. Without the domestic, sexual and social arts, the overt and obvious art I, and every other artist alive, aspire to create simply wouldn't exist.

If life is where art begins, then living is how art survives. Life is a body of work in itself and everyone should appreciate that, whatever you fill it with, however you break it down. Even if your only achievement today will be to have a wank, good on you. Add it to the list. Hope it's a good one.

It's still late. Slightly closer to hair pullingly, eye burningly, face scratchingly late. For vanities sake I'll give up on this particular addition to my body of work and start on another: sleep.

Creating Worlds

A blank page. That's what all writers are confronted with as we lift out foot to take the first step on a journey of creation. Whether it be a screenplay, a poem, a novel or any number of literary exuberances underlying shades of comedy, tragedy, terror and fear, we all begin with a lovely, deep, fresh bright white page of possibility. How fabulous.

From then on though, from that moment onward it's a black and white war of character against plot against style against genre. An uphill, burning, monochrome battle to forge something so colourful it barely registers in our visual spectrum. A writer's responsibilities are not unlike a parent. We are constantly nurturing our ideas, feeding our notions and ensuring our babies don't end up screwed up in a bin in the corner of the room. We balance budget with brilliance, tension with tone and all the time drag our minds through every detail of our work over and over again. And it's work indeed. Hard work. Wonderful work.

Russell T Davies once mentioned that writing was an addiction. And it is. It's a beast burning inside us which hath no regard for time or place. It demands we pour ourselves onto that blank page and discover new realms and realities through a mere twenty four shapes in various, almost inexhaustible variations in long horizontal lines. It's rather beautiful, in a minimalist sort of way.

If there were a way to click ones fingers and have had written a masterpiece, somehow I don't think I'd take that option. It may be a mammoth slog taking that first step across the snowy plane of possibility, but it's one I personally relish with terminal enthusiasm.

Brand 'Me'...

I am all too aware that a majority of my friends, and indeed possibly people reading this blog, are in some way connected to the arts. I myself am deeply involved and have been steeping within for a good ten years now (yes, seriously, it's flown by). I have always been at odds with the arts world as my education presented it as a colourful, vibrant world full of psychology, philosophy, lesbians and thespians yet my corporate experience showed me that, to be a success, one needs to pull focus to ones specific useful niche within a larger context. It's all very clear and simple, however I have never felt that those in the arts really 'got' that, and so end up a little damp and miserable, left out in the proverbial cold.

I spent years trying to pull myself into focus and present myself as a 'brand', something those in the marketing world will understand much better than I. It is a means of selling yourself and showing others that you fit into a nice little space in their psyche. If I ran into a room dressed in a top hat, stilettos, a tight skirt and a puffer jacket screaming 'Jerusalem, Jerusalem', I would probably be escorted from the premises rather quickly, however if I enter that same room in a sharp suit, slick haircut and muttering updates on my next exciting film project, I'm more likely to attract the right kind of attention (and possibly remain in the building).

After weighing up the decisions of how to present myself, I am still shaping it, however I have a far better understanding of myself as a result. I now know I am an avid and able writer. I now know I am extremely good at what I do. I know I don't take criticism well and I know where I want to be (and what I want to be doing) in a years time. It's all still me, but a clearer, less messy me. A me I can package and mass produce.

All in all, Brand 'Me' isn't just about getting the right kind of attention (although it helps hugely), it's about defining yourself on a professional and personal level which will then show through far clearer. Perhaps I'm writing this to further refine my own perceptions of myself, but even if I am, hopefully, it might help someone else. Someone in the arts perhaps. Someone who knows they are more than an actor, writer, producer, dancer or singer but just can't put their finger on why.

Just for the record, a top hat, stilettos, a puffer jacket and a tight skirt isn't a good look. Not that I've tried. Ahem.

Telegrams to the Future (Tweets to the Past)

I often wonder, procrastinating away my hours in between the agony of writing a script, how the online literary world came to be. You see I was only a boy when the internet began to churn out limitless spamography, and while I am now a self maintained powerhouse of creative nonsense, it may come as a surprise that I didn't have a direction in my youth away from eventually growing up to have a jaw line. Much of my time was spent deciding which coffee to eventually learn to love and whether or not my pubescent excitement in the changing rooms was in fact due to a latent interest in sport.

All the way through my eventual growth, I witnessed the amazing birth of 'new' forms of the literary experience, both for the writer and the reader, and now it seems is the culmination of my long observation. And to punctuate the matter, I am using them. Not all of them, but a fair few.

Whatever happened to the telegram? Well Twitter has that covered now, and how about Encyclopaedia? Oh yes, Wiki has that down to a fine art. Oh, but what about keeping a diary? Oh, no, quite right, we're bloggers now aren't we... It seems that reinvention is the new invention and the only change that has really come about is who now has access to all this information, which is of course, everyone. Worldwide. Forever.

Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love the fact we have all this choice now, born out of an increasing desire to 'broadcast yourself' (trademarked, I believe), and a need to break free of our paper prisons (which Green Peace would of course be chuffed to bits about), but don't you feel there's just a little something missing? Maybe it's all just too easy? I for one couldn't see the wood from the trees but all that has changed today when I purchased a diary. Yes, a real paper diary. Just like they used to have in the old days. When I was a boy. When the internet had to 'dial up'.

My diary is black, it's slightly heavy and it cost me £6.49 but you know what? It now means I can order my life and dedicate time to blogging, tweeting, my mates on facebook and researching material on wiki. It might even benefit my writing, who knows? Perhaps, sometimes, you need to look to the past to really utilise the future. Or maybe not be so militant about pushing the past to the wayside.

By the way, I have now come to learn that I'm rather partial to a decaf latte, and sport doesn't interest me. Not at all.