blackberry way

Just got back from a week's camping at the gorgeous Blackberry Wood site in East Sussex, celebrating a non-significant birthday. A week of very simple living: cooking on a camp fire, reading, walking, lying in a hammock, ah - bliss. Bit of a shock to get home to work, essay writing, art making, veg planting, book reviewing, housework ... Still, birthday presents included a copy of the new Neil Cowley and, wonder of nostalgic wonders, Wishbone Ash's "Argus" from 1972. I haven't had a copy of it in many years, so delighted at last to be able to play along to Andy Powell on the Gibson Flying V and Ted Turner on Stratocaster. There was an odd coincidence just before my birthday when we were listening to an Inspector Rebus novel. At one point, Rebus is musing which his favourite track on "Argus" is - at which point, me and the narrator say simultaneously "Throw Down The Sword!". Once again, the neighbours have become very familiar with this track over the last few days - it makes a change from the folk down the road who seem obsessed by "Daydream Believer".

brain drain

I've spent a good part of the last 24 hours trying to unblock a drain outside, in the cold and wet (and at times, dark). The heavy rain doesn't help as I'm bailing out the drain trying to de-silt the pipe. Ever inventive, the latest tool pressed into service is a Uri Geller-type bent spoon. It works for a while, but then the drain can't cope with sheer volume of water coming down the drainpipe. I mean, I'd even rather be working, let alone all the other things I've got lined up to do.

Tomorrow should see me sitting a test for a new (i.e. additional) home-based job. You have to sign a non disclosure agreement about what the work is all about. If I breach that I have to shoot myself. I used to do really classified work, the ever-pompous "work of national importance", which apart from having to sit in a Faraday cage to actually do the work, seemed much more relaxed than this commercial stuff. Still, there was the Official Secrets Act to consider. The most irksome part of it was having to dress up for the meetings, which involved me buying a suit. I once had to roam around the bowels of GCHQ - ooops, just off to load the Browning.

stumble in the jumble

Another Saturday, another village jumble sale. We are now the proud possessors of a portable black and white TV. I switch it on, hoping for re-runs of The White Heather Club. Oh, and some strange Swedish kitchen scales with a slider thingy, an embroidery of the cave paintings at Lascaux and a lampshade. This jumble sale was a civilised affair, unlike the ones in the next village where folk cut a swathe to the bric-a-brac, armed with enormous bags, push chairs and shopping trolleys, scattering OAPs and toddlers alike. At all jumble sales, however, there's an unwritten rule as to how to go through the piles of clothing, creating a peristaltic movement of items down the line for the next person to see. It's quite amazing what people buy, a embroidery of the cave paintings at Lascaux, for example. Meanwhile, I'm off to practice the Sir Roger de Coverley, just in case the BBC comes to its senses.

another day another Dali

Well, that was yesterday. Today's challenge (apart from having to review a 600 page novel written mainly in an irritating present tense) is a 500 word piece on surrealism in fashion for my college art course. At this stage, having exhausted my knowledge of same, i.e. Schiaparelli's shoe hat, I am being to wonder if I can pad it out with an erudite discussion about odd socks. Are they truly surreal or just a product of bad laundry management and poor logistics? Any contribution towards the remaining 400 words would be appreciated.

On another surrealistic note, Freecycle listings are a great source for the social commentator. Looking through yesterday's offerings on the Hastings list, I see that someone wants Gary Rhodes and has recently taken possession of a black dustbin and some cycling overshoes. Have the police been informed? The strangest offering I've seen so far was a burnt saucepan (I thought about it but decided against it).

prose and cons

So, just as I'm thinking, sod all of this malarkey, don't define yourself in terms of a job (or lack of it), along comes an interesting vacancy (thanks, Ruth). It's for maternity cover (haha, given earlier posts), for a year, full-time and in London, but it's very interesting and well-paid. But, the application form! I'm exhausted. I've battled through screens and screens of it, trying to shoe-horn in various bits of gainful employment over the years, and just when you think the end is in sight you get to the difficult bits, and boy does this employer squeeze you:

"Please tell us about a time when you developed a good working relationship with a client."

"Can you provide an example of a difficult relationship that you have had at work, explain why it was difficult and what you did to overcome this."

"Please provide an example of where you have found a creative solution to a problem."

as well as the usual supporting statements, and sundries such as what colour nail varnish do you prefer, waist measurement, size of overdraft, recreational drug use, favourite flavour of jam, etc.

And, usually, after all this effort, you get diddleysquat back from them.

At this point, I head for the duvet, thinking mmmmmm, can we live on courgettes?

hierarchy of needs

Waking to an unreasonable level of grumpiness today, I was led to ponder Maslow's theory of human motivation (as one does). Discredited as it is, it's one of the few things that sticks with me from the various management courses I have done over the years. Surveying the base of the pyramid, I am thankful that my physiological needs appear to be satisfied, although more sleep is always welcome. The next layer is also OK if I squint a bit in the direction of financial security and pray to the God of the NHS. Onwards and upwards, there are a few holes in the social layer and then it starts to crumble, which is a great shame as creativity is at the apex. Mmm, not sure how starving-artists-in-garrets fit into Abraham's chart.

I read, courtesy of Wiki, that Maslow

"studied exemplary people such as Einstein ... rather than mentally ill or neurotic people, writing that 'the study of crippled, stunted, immature, and unhealthy specimens can yield only a cripple psychology and a cripple philosophy'".

Worrying, that he was a psychologist and not wanting to study "unhealthy specimens".

On that note, I wonder what Maslow's take would be as to why grumpiness set in yesterday when I got an e-mail from someone to whom I have sold a very modest item on eBay - just over a fiver including postage - so I make a profit of about £2.50. She's thinking of bidding on something else I have up - if she gets that, would I dock the first item's postage? Now, everyone makes a little bit on postage so this would reduce my profit to £1.50. There always seems to be something financial lurking to destabilize me - a phone bill, the car tax, NI contributions - but isn't my reaction to the loss of £1 a little worrying? Pass the St John's Wort.

move over, Darling

I am suffused with anger about the 20p tax thingy. When they talk about the group that this affects, think Richard and me. I never thought a Labour government would target those on a low-income, so I'm shocked and extremely annoyed at the recent announcement. Could they have been more blunt?: bugger off if you are non-productive. If you don't earn enough to support the consumer nightmare we seem to live in and have the audacity NOT to have children, that's it. Why not issue the pills now? After all, that would save us from being a drain on society any further.