1755: Dad Rock

I have a playlist on my phone called "Dad Rock". The title will be fairly self-explanatory to most of you, I'm sure, but for those wondering why I would call it that when I'm not a father (and have no intention of being one, either), the explanation is actually relatively simple. It's a playlist full of stuff that I secretly quite enjoyed listening to when I was young and impressionable, but which during my teenage years I steered well clear of owing to the fact that it's not at all cool to be into records from your Dad's collection. Not that I was cool at all during my teenage years anyway, but that's beside the point.

Anyway, the point is, my Dad Rock playlist contains a selection of stuff from artists like Pink Floyd; Yes; Emerson, Lake and Palmer; and the Electric Light Orchestra. It's a playlist I intend to build on over time as I recall things from the past that I actually quite enjoyed, and ultimately will become a pleasing collection of somewhat retro music (largely erring on the prog rock side of things) that I can listen to at my leisure.

One of the first albums that I added to the mix was Time by ELO. I'm not entirely sure why this album has stuck in my mind all these years, but downloading a copy and listening to it on the way to and from work recently has confirmed to me that yes, it really is a cracking album and one that I'm very happy to have rediscovered.

Time, if you're unfamiliar, is a concept album based around the theme of a man from 1981 (the year of the album's original release, and the year of my birth) who somehow finds himself in 2095. The theme is rather flimsy, to be honest, but it's a good excuse for a selection of vaguely sci-fi-themed tracks about The Future — or at least The Future as imagined in 1981.

What I love about Time is how unabashedly earnest and unironic it is about everything. It features lyrics that would be used in a cynical, sarcastic or parody manner today, but it takes them seriously. Take this wonderful little bit from Yours Truly, 2095, referring to an apparently emotionless robotic woman that reminds the narrator of someone he left behind back in 1981:

She is the latest in technology,
Almost mythology, but she has a heart of stone
She has an IQ of 1,001,
She has a jumpsuit on,
And she's also a telephone.

Wonderful stuff. And it doesn't stop there, but I won't bore you with too many quotes.

What's interesting about Time is how its vision of the future actually isn't too far off the mark in a few situations. The above example from Yours Truly, 2095 is extreme, of course, but the prospect of the latest technology having "being a telephone" thrown in almost as an afterthought is already a reality thanks to smartphone technology and software like Skype. Similarly, these lines from Here is the News accurately predicted the launch of round-the-clock rolling news coverage and the subsequent banality that comes with it when there's not all that much going on.

Here is the news,
Coming to you every hour on the hour,
Here is the news,
The weather's fine but there may be a meteor shower.
Here is the news,
A cure's been found for good old rocket lag,
Here is the news,
Someone left their life behind in a plastic bag.

More than anything else, though, Time is an evocative work that uses a variety of different musical styles, some well-crafted (if occasionally cheesy when viewed through a 21st-century lens) lyrics and some genuinely catchy themes. Despite the fact that the "narrative" of the album is somewhat shaky and unclear, it certainly does manage to evoke an uncommonly vivid image of the future — not quite dystopian in nature, but certainly a rather alien existence to that which we know even now in 2014.

Early in the morning,
The sun was up and the sky was very blue,
Without a warning,
As I looked out, my thoughts returned to you,
A noise in the city made the children run,
And hide themselves away,
And thunder boomed and lightning filled the sky.

Since I've always known Time as a complete experience — and there's very much a feeling of a "journey" throughout the tracks, even if the narrative itself is a little muddy — it's one of those albums that I absolutely can't listen to on random play, even though I like most of the tracks individually. It's a work designed to be experienced as a whole, and it's one that still — for me, anyway — holds up remarkably well today. So I have a feeling there's going to be at least a few more journeys to and from work with it blasting from my speakers, yet.

1754: Yet Another Exhortation for Websites to Stop Bugging Me

As the years have passed, the Internet has undergone continuous improvement for the most part. It's now one of the most — if not the most — democratic media in the world, for better or worse, allowing pretty much anyone around the world to speak their brains on pretty much any subject they'd care to share with anyone who wants to listen. (This blog is, of course, a prime example of this in action; I'm still frankly bewildered anyone reads this at all.)

But not every improvement in the Internet has been a positive one. In fact, one thing specifically appears to be on the rise, and it's not at all a positive thing, despite usually being implemented with good intentions.

I am referring to websites that, within moment of you arriving, pop up a Google Hangouts-style chatbox in the corner of the screen, often featuring a photograph of some overly-chipper looking person, and invite you to "chat" if you need help.

Now, in principle this isn't a terrible idea. Those who are less familiar with the Internet will probably appreciate having guidance on hand — immediately, and without having to seek it out — should they run into difficulties. (That said, assuming that "those less familiar with the Internet" are too dim to determine that clicking on a link that says "Help" — as most (vaguely useful) websites offer — will actually provide them with assistance is, to be honest, rather insulting towards those who are "less familiar with the Internet". And yes, I'm primarily talking about old people.) Having a live person on hand is, theoretically, a great thing, as it means you can ask questions without having to work out what the specific search terms to describe the problem you're having are — and then discover the only vaguely useful search result is an unanswered forum post from three years ago of someone having the exact same problem and never resolving it, of course.

The implementation, however, leaves something to be desired. Take WordPress here, for example. I started composing this post and not five seconds after the post editor had appeared, up popped a little blue box in the corner of the screen cheerfully enquiring "Hello! How can we help?" It's distracting, it's annoying, it's patronising and it is, in this case, unnecessary: I have been using WordPress for… (checks) quite a long time now, and thus it's probably reasonable to assume I know my way around most of it — and that anything I don't know how to do I'm perfectly comfortable with looking up in help files and forums.

That doesn't stop this silly little box from popping up every few times I start creating a post, however — yes, it's not even every time I start writing a post. No, apparently WordPress believes that maybe two or three times a week I'll reach some sort of existential blogging crisis and rather than, as most bloggers would do, pontificate about it for a thousand words in a self-indulgent stream-of-consciousness post, I would like to "chat" with someone about it. I do not want to "chat" with anyone from WordPress. I would like them to be on hand if I have a specific question, but I'm more than happy to use the already established channels for that — I don't need live support.

And it's not as if this "live" support is particularly live, anyway. Owing to the fact that most chat support people are juggling a number of different conversations at the same time — each of which is with someone who has a markedly different thinking and typing speed from everyone else they're interacting with — it can often take minutes at a time to get a response. Not exactly "instant" messaging. And, okay, it's still quicker than waiting a day or two for an email response — or more, if you ever have the misfortune to deal with any sort of government agency via email — but the benefit of instant messaging is supposed to be that you can get an immediate response, and if that one benefit isn't even present in these ever-present "How can we help?" boxes, then there's no fucking point them being there in the first place.

I might write a letter. That's always seemed like the most satisfying — albeit least time-efficient — means of expressing your dissatisfaction. Although sadly, it's also one of the easiest to ignore in this digital age. But the recipient actually receiving and reading it isn't necessarily the point in many cases; often putting pen to paper is a cathartic experience that makes the frustrated party get a few things off their chest and calm down a bit. It may not resolve anything in the long run, but, speaking from personal experience, by golly does it sometimes make you feel better.

So that's how you can help me, WordPress. You can bugger off with your patronising little chat box, otherwise you might just find yourself on the receiving end of a sternly-worded letter written on actual paper.

Or not. I might just stop getting worked up over stupid little things like this and go and do something fun instead. Hah! That'll be the day, eh?

1753: Shifter

It's quite surprising what a relatively minor shift in your routine can do for you.

I said yesterday that I was going to try doing my commute a bit earlier than usual and see if that made a difference to my daily journey. Specifically, I woke up at 5:30am, snoozed the alarm for half an hour and got up at 6. Previously, I've been waking up at 6:30am, snoozing the alarm for as close to half an hour as I think I can get away with, getting dressed, having a quick breakfast and shooting out of the door as close to 7am as I can manage. Today, I managed to be out of the house well before 6:30am, which meant that it was still dark and cold — although at this time of year it's still dark and cold at 7am, too — and well on my way to work considerably ahead of my normal schedule.

Surprisingly, I felt pretty alert. Sure, the espresso I had necked before leaving the house probably helped, but I often have one of those on "normal" days, too; this felt somewhat different, like I had somehow hit on the correct biorhythm and synced up my body with what the universe felt I should be doing and when.

I grit my teeth and clenched my buttocks as I approached the accursed M27 and prepared for the worst — and longest — part of my daily journey. I merged onto the main carriageway, accelerated, accelerated, accelerated… and before long, I was cruising at what I'd consider to be a normal motorway speed without being dragged to a grinding halt by overhead flashing lights declaring the recommended speed to be "40" and a sea of tail-lights indicating that no, I'm not going anywhere for a good while yet.

In other words, my journey was smooth, quick, uneventful and, most importantly, completely stress-free. I arrived at my destination in ample time to find a convenient parking space that didn't involve a mile-long walk to the office; I walked the route to work still feeling fairly chipper and positive, and it put me in a good frame of mind for most of the day: compared to a lot of other days I've been working at that place, today was extremely busy and could well have been quite stressful had I arrived in a negative frame of mind. However, due to that good start to the day — all because I went through my morning routine an hour earlier than usual — it didn't; rather than stressful, it was productive, and I managed to get a whole lot done on a big project that I've been working on, which was good.

Shame I had to go and ruin all that with my journey home, then; I noticed rather too late — i.e. once I was on the motorway and approaching a buildup of traffic — that I was low on fuel, and sure enough, a moment later the warning light came on. I pulled off the motorway to go in search of a petrol station, but made the mistake of driving into the black hole of despair that is Fareham, traffic capital of the South Coast, and ended up turning what should have been a 45-minute journey into one that took two hours. In stark contrast to how the smooth run this morning put me in a positive frame of mind, this appalling journey home was stressful, unpleasant and put me in a bad mood — albeit a fleeting one which has dissipated after some food and funny TV.

Just goes to show how little changes can make a big impact on the way your day goes and how you feel. I'm going to see if I can continue the routine of getting up at that earlier time and enjoying a smooth run in to the office of a morning; starting the day right is very important, and I experienced firsthand today what a big difference ensuring that start was a positive one made. So hopefully I will be able to keep it up.

I give it a week before I'm back to rolling out of bed five minutes before I absolutely, positively have to leave the house otherwise I'll be late. But it's nice to be (vaguely) ambitious.

1752: Death to Shitty Roads

I may comically exaggerate my dislike of certain things at times, but for the most part these are nothing but exaggerations for (possible) comedic effect. There are very few things in this life that I genuinely hate.

But the motorway that runs along the south coast, connecting, among other places, the town where I live (Southampton) and the town where I work (Havant, just beyond Portsmouth), is one of those things I do hate. Oh, M27, how I loathe and detest you so. How I wish you weren't so awful. How I wish I wasn't obliged to drive on you every day since, despite your shittiness, you are the most efficient means for me to get from my home to my work.

The M27 isn't an especially poorly maintained road or anything — although the patch around Southampton has a somewhat bumpy surface that serves as a convenient "you're nearly home!" landmark for my return journey — but it clearly isn't suitable for its purpose. It's heavily used by commuters every morning and evening rush hour, and it clogs up pretty much every day for well over an hour in either direction. You can set your watch by the traffic reports on local radio saying day after day that the M27 is busy between Fareham and Southampton Airport, since it is literally every single (working) day.

It's one of those roads that clogs up for seemingly no reason. "QUEUE AHEAD," the overhead signs will warn, offering a somewhat optimistic recommended speed of first 60mph and then 40mph (which can be translated to 40 and 15-20 in real terms respectively) as the sea of brake lights illuminates ahead and the flow of traffic slows to a crawl. Everyone will proceed like this for a while, and then just as suddenly as it started, it will clear up and start moving again.

There is one part of this dreadful road where it's possible to see how jams form; I think I mentioned it a few days ago, but while I'm complaining it bears mentioning again. For the most part, the M27 is a typical three-lane motorway in either direction, but for one single solitary mile just beyond Portsmouth, there's a fourth lane added on the "fast" side, dubbed a "climbing lane". This is inevitably used by BMW drivers to pull out aggressively, charge past everyone else and then get stuck when, just under a mile later, the lane disappears again, merging back into what was before (and immediately afterwards is again) the "fast" lane. Jams form as those screaming up the climbing lane shove back in to the main flow of traffic, with other cars moving aside in an attempt to get out of the way of these aggressive drivers. Everyone ends up squished against one another and a jam forms; it's no coincidence that immediately after the end of the climbing lane, the flow of traffic gets back to normal.

The reason I'm whingeing about the M27 this evening is because it decided to be particularly annoying for my journey home. I was tired, I was hungry and I just wanted to get home and relax. But the M27 had other ideas, first throwing a broken-down lorry in the middle lane in the path of everyone, followed by not one, not two, not three but four separate accidents in the space of about five miles. The weather wasn't even particularly bad; there were just four separate but nearby incidents of disastrous driving; one car with all its windows smashed in the central reservation; another that had obviously skidded off where the motorway and a slip road parted ways at a junction; another where one car had seemingly hit the back of another so hard that the front of the former was practically fused with the latter; and another that I didn't see just ahead of where I pulled off to actually get home, gnashing my teeth by this point.

I haven't yet figured out the optimum time to do the commute to and from work. I'm beginning to think it might actually be in the interests of my own sanity to get up ridiculously early and drive in before the rest of the horde hits the roads; that way, I'll get to come home before the rest of the horde hits the roads on the way back. I'm tempted to try that tomorrow, but it does involve getting up horrendously early, something which I struggle with at the best of times; perhaps it will be worth it, though. We'll see!

1750: Time Kompression

Once again, time has been proving itself to be somewhat fluid. I've only had a week off from work, but it feels like an eternity; it probably helps that I've done one hell of a lot of things in said week off — most notably going back and forth to Scotland, but also last night's trip to London for Distant Worlds as well as a few other things — but this would seem to disprove the whole "time flies when you're having fun" theory; I've certainly been having plenty of fun, but this week feels like it's been an extremely long one.

I'm not complaining; it's been nice to have what actually feels like a really long holiday when, in fact, I've only been away for a week. I feel quite rested and relaxed and, necessity of waking up at an ungodly hour for a commute that doesn't suck all of the balls aside, pretty much ready to face the day tomorrow. I'm sure I'll be back into the same old routine before long, but that's not really a bad thing; routines are comfortable and familiar, and form the backbone to one's existence. Routines mean that breaks like I've had this week feel all the more meaningful and enjoyable; times like this week are honest-to-goodness breaks when I don't have to worry about anything and can just enjoy some legitimately completely free time.

This is something I never really got when I was working from home. Although most of the publications I worked for were perfectly happy for me to take a few days off here and there, it was sort of hard to justify doing so when I have a laptop and could work from literally anywhere there was an Internet connection. Indeed, on a number of occasions I found myself working hard well into the night when I should really have been relaxing and enjoying myself doing other things, but I was always keen to make a decent impression with the effort I made — that and, in the case of things I wrote regularly, such as my Japanese gaming column on USgamer, I didn't want to let down my audience.

This is something I never really got when I was a teacher, either: you can't just take a day (or week, or month) off here and there when you're working as a teacher; you have to go by the holiday calendar the school follows. This makes things both restrictive and prohibitively expensive; school holidays are "primetime" season for travelling, tourist attractions and, indeed, pretty much everything, so the prices are jacked up accordingly. Not only that, it means that there's just no letting up, even when you need a break for the sake of your health — mental, physical or both. Couple that with the guilt trip you get when you take a day off genuinely sick — you're expected to provide a full day's worth of lesson plans for cover teachers to use even if you're on your deathbed — and the whole situation is just rather shitty all round.

So now I am pleased to enjoy my times of holiday, because they're just that — time off. Nothing to worry about. No work I "should" be doing while I'm away; no "I'll just check in on the office email"; no "I'll just pen a quick article on that" — just rest and relaxation. Bliss.

1748: Have You Met Ted?

Finally watched the end of How I Met Your Mother tonight — I'd managed to remain completely unspoiled on exactly what happens in the final two episodes, although I knew that quite a few people were a bit cheesed off about it when it originally aired.

How do I feel? Well, I don't necessarily feel that it was a bad ending as such, but it did feel like it was somewhat rushed.

Spoilers ahead, obviously.

As Ted's kids point out in the final moments of the final episode, Ted's ten-year long story about how he met their mother actually wasn't about how he met their mother at all: instead, it was about all the other things that happened over the course of his life — events that happened to culminate in him meeting their mother Tracy, having children with her, marrying her and eventually having to say goodbye to her as illness took her from him and the world. (This latter aspect was glossed over disappointingly quickly; there was the potential for some gratuitous but nonetheless effective tearjerking here, and the show blew it somewhat — though in the process it only proved Ted's kids' point that the story really wasn't about Tracy at all.)

In particular, it was a show about relationships. Not just the extremely rocky Ross and Rachel-style "will they, won't they" nature of the relationship between Ted and Robin — which ultimately reached a somewhat hasty resolution in the very last moments of the last episode, but which nonetheless provided some closure on the overall story — but also the dynamics between the various elements of the whole group.

Marshall and Lily are presented as the most grounded members of the group; they're already in a relationship when the show begins, and the other characters clearly look up to them as some sort of "gold standard" of what to strive for when seeking a successful relationship with another person. They're far from perfect, though; they fight, they're often unreasonable with one another and, in the last couple of seasons in particular, they keep things of such magnitude from one another that it puts the very foundation of their marriage at risk. They always manage to come through, though; ultimately, their role is to provide the stable basis for the rather more chaotic other members of the group.

Barney and Robin's relationship was an interesting case. Barney falling in love with and eventually wanting to marry Robin was an abrupt about-face for the character, but it demonstrated a certain degree of personal growth on his part, and it was fun to see him struggling between his old life and his new, one-woman future as the final series depicted the last few hours before their wedding day. While their subsequent breakup and divorce in the final episodes acknowledged the fact that even the most fairy-tale of relationships don't always last even a couple of years — believe me, I know that all too well from firsthand experience — it was a tad disappointing for this aspect, again, to be glossed over somewhat hastily.

As for Ted and Robin, the tension over whether or not they'd ever end up together formed the backbone of the show to a certain degree. While it all being wrapped up neatly with them coming together in the final moments — and, presumably, living happily ever after — was predictable and, to a certain degree, satisfying, I can't help but find myself wishing that things had gone just a little bit differently.

The ending, I feel, would have been a lot more effective had we seen more of Tracy's final moments. It's abundantly clear that, although Ted loved Robin, he genuinely loved Tracy too, and even though she wasn't directly involved in much of the overall story until towards the end — the fact his kids point out — the show generally did a good job of teasing a few tantalising pieces of information about her as it progressed — the yellow umbrella; the fact she was always out of sight for the longest time; the fact we never found out her name until the final episode. The show did a great job of building up their relationship, of making the audience feel that everything that had come before had somehow led Ted to this moment — Destiny, Fate, whatever you want to call it — and then squandered it somewhat with a throwaway comment about her getting sick, and Ted ending up with Robin.

I'm a sucker for a bittersweet, borderline tragic ending, but I feel it would have made a fitting end to the series; although ostensibly a "sitcom", the show had more than its fair share of genuinely heartfelt, emotional moments, and the passing of Tracy at the end of the final episode would have proven a fitting finale — and perhaps a way of bringing "the gang" all back together in shared grief after they all go their separate ways following Robin and Barney's doomed wedding.

Still, I didn't write the show so it can't be changed, and overall, despite my criticisms above, I enjoyed the whole thing pretty consistently. It's definitely one of the strongest American comedies that has been on TV in the last few years; while I'm not sure it'll ever quite occupy the same place in my heart as Friends does, I'm certainly glad I watched it, and I'm glad it managed to come to a conclusion, even if it wasn't quite the one I would have gone for. It's just a pity the two-part last episode felt so utterly rushed; while it's not enough to spoil my memories of the show as a whole, I can understand why some people felt it was a letdown.

Onwards, though; I guess now it's time to find a new show to watch!

1747: I Still Don't Care

Just slightly over two years ago (really quite surprisingly close, now I look at the dates), I pondered the subject of how I Don't Care about certain social issues.

That particular rant — kind of shocked how little things have changed in two years, to be honest — was inspired by the amount of time certain people spent pontificating on Twitter about how awful certain groups were towards other groups. Whether it was racism, sexism, ableism or any of the other bad -isms, there was always someone on hand to loudly denounce anyone who displayed one or more of these traits as The Worst Person Ever.

I've tended to find over the years that the more I find myself seeing the same things said over and over — and the more hyperbolic those things are — the less I'm inclined to care about them, until eventually you cross some sort of apathy event horizon and find yourself feeling completely and utterly unmoved by even the most tragic of human suffering. Desensitisation is very much a real thing — although I'll qualify that at this stage by saying that I am by no means desensitised to things like violent imagery or things happening to those who are close to me and that I care about.

I was reminded of this feeling today when a friend got in touch and told me about some dude I'd never heard of supposedly sexually assaulting a whole bunch of people, the dodgy things he'd said on Facebook and the rather specific, creepy details that his alleged victims had said independently of one another. Now, I knew that I was probably supposed to feel outraged about this apparent miscarriage of justice, but the fact is, I just couldn't bring myself to care even a little bit about it. I couldn't bring myself to Google who this dude I'd never heard of was; I couldn't bring myself to look at the news stories; it just didn't matter to me.

And, you know what? I don't actually think that's necessarily a bad way to be thinking about things. While it would be nice if all the good people in the world could wave their respective magic wands and make all the bad people's dicks fall off (where applicable), we all know that isn't the way things work. And it's all very well and good and probably morally admirable to get upset on other people's behalf, but there are an awful lot of bad people out there and only so many hours in the day. I know I'd much rather be concentrating on my own life and the wellbeing of those immediately around me (in social, not necessarily geographical terms) than wasting time — yes, I do think it is a colossal waste of time — getting angry on behalf of people I've never met, will likely never meet and have absolutely no means of relating to, helping or indeed having any impact on the lives of whatsoever.

Why do I say this is a good thing? Doesn't that make me some sort of woman/ethnic minority/disabled person-hating narcissist? Well, no, of course not — although a woman/ethnic minority/disabled person-hating narcissist would say that, wouldn't they? The simple fact is this: very few people are real "heroes". Very few of us have the power to make a true difference in the lives of people we've had absolutely no contact with whatsoever. And it's not good for one's mental health to continually get upset and angry on behalf of everyone who is wronged in the world. I've seen one friend go down that road, and frankly they became rather insufferable as a result. More than that, though, it seemed impossible for them to ever be happy, because there was always something new to get upset and angry about; they were perpetually in a state of anguish and fury, because there was no way to fix this broken world we live in. It was heartbreaking to see, and there was nothing I could do to help them.

Ultimately all most of us do is try to be the best people we can be to the people who do matter to each of us: family, friends and the acquaintances we come into contact with on a regular basis through work or other activities. If everyone simply tried to be a bit more excellent towards one another in their own social circles, the world would probably be a much more pleasant place overall.

Unfortunately some people simply appear to be hard-wired to be as un-excellent as possible to the people around them. And that's not at all cool, but if you have nothing to do with those people, harsh as it may sound, they're not your problem. They have to either recognise the problems they have themselves and do something about it, or the people who are close to them and care about them have to take action. You, as some random stranger on the Internet, have no influence, no power and, moreover, no real right to interfere with that person's life. Concentrate on dealing with your own issues, because everyone's got them to varying degrees, and if you're one of the lucky few to be in a place of relative contentment? Enjoy it, for fuck's sake; don't go looking for trouble.

So, to sum up: I Still Don't Care. And, I have to say, ditching social media has made it a whole lot easier to do just that. While my own issues mean that I'm still a way off feeling truly, completely 100% happy and content with my own life, I sure feel a lot closer to that ambition than I once was. And, should I ever reach it? I'm damn well going to enjoy every minute of it.

1744: Congratulations to Cat and John

It was the wedding of my friends Cat and John today up here in sunny Aberdeen, Scotland. It's pretty rare to have a horrible wedding — though I'm sure they happen on occasion — but I am, unsurprisingly, pleased to report that it was a jolly nice day, with a pleasantly short ceremony (in which I did indeed read the shit out of the poem I'd been provided with, and was subsequently complimented by all manner of people I'd never met before throughout the rest of the day), a tasty meal that struck a good balance between being posh and actually being edible, and an enjoyable evening of ceilidh music and dancing. (I must confess to not having indulged in much of the dancing, primarily because I don't really enjoy it but also because my trousers were at risk of falling down partway through Strip the Willow.)

Cat is one of my oldest friends that I'm actually still friends with. She was the first person I ever met at university, and something of a fixture in my life throughout the course of my undergraduate studies. We haven't seen each other all that much for the last few years — primarily because she lives in a whole other country (yes, Scotland totally counts as being a whole other country) — but it was nice to see her today and it be pretty much like the intervening years simply hadn't happened; the only difference was that she was wearing a big, impractical dress and had a different surname.

The fact I'm friends with Cat reminds me of one of my secret proudest moments. It may not sound much — particularly if you're not someone who has suffered with social anxiety — but it was a big deal to me.

Let me explain.

Prior to starting university properly, I had signed up for a pre-term music course, during which I'd have the opportunity to play with members of the university symphony orchestra, as we indulged in some intensive rehearsal and study over the course of a single week, culminating in a performance of Shostakovich's 5th symphony and Beethoven's 7th symphony. I had never performed a full symphony before, and here I was preparing to perform two of them after just a week of rehearsal. It was challenging, but fun.

What was more challenging to me, though, was the prospect of meeting new people. I'd already established in my mind at secondary school that I wasn't quite sure how to go about making new friends or meeting new people, so I was quite nervous about going to university. (I had also contemplated, as I'm sure many people had, making up a cool nickname for myself, but never quite had the guts to go through with lying to potential new friends about what "everyone calls me".)

So it was that I found myself in the lift after the first day of the music course, heading up to the 15th floor of Stoneham Halls of Residence to get a bit of rest. Also in the lift with me was Cat — although I didn't know who she was yet, aside from the fact that she was in the string section. As the doors closed, I decided that I was going to bite the bullet and actually try to make a new friend. So I introduced myself. And, as often happens when I take a social "risk" like this, I was surprised to discover that I didn't die, wasn't punched in the face and wasn't showered with acid from my conversational partner inexplicably turning into a giant, acid-spitting snake-like creature. Instead, I found out the name of someone, got to know them a bit and had a ready-made excuse to escape when I reached the 15th floor. Ideal.

Over the early days at university, I came to know Cat quite well. Having grown up in a school where interests were divided quite sharply along gender lines — it was also the days before being a geek was "cool", although the relatively recent introduction of Sony's PlayStation meant that situation was changing — it was quite surprising to meet someone of the female persuasion who not only tolerated the presence of video games, but also appeared to be genuinely interested in them. We spent many an hour sitting in my room playing Final Fantasy VIII and Point Blank together — to date, I'm not sure I'd ever be able to name Rinoa anything but "Cat" — and we had a most enjoyable time getting through our music (well, English and music in my case) degrees together.

In short, she's one of those friends that will almost certainly be a constant presence in my life for many years to come yet, and I'm really happy to see her so happy today. I wish her and John a long and happy life together, and that new life for them starts today.

Thanks for a great day, Mr and Mrs Cowe. Have a very happy life!

1743: Sleepless in Perth

Andie and I are having a few nights away from home as we head up to Scotland (and back) for my friend Cat's wedding. Cat lives in Aberdeen, so it's quite a trek from the south coast, but we've made very good progress today — we got up to Perth by mid-afternoon, leaving us just a couple of hours' drive to do to get to Aberdeen tomorrow.

Tonight we're staying in a Premier Inn in Perth. I'd always assumed that Premier Inns were cheap-and-cheerful affairs on a similar level to Travelodge's grotty-but-convenient charms, but I've actually been very impressed so far. The room is really nice — the bed is big (if surprisingly high off the floor), there's a chaise-longue for reclining on (or for allowing a third person to sleep in the room, should that become necessary), the TV is a nice big Samsung HDTV (and even has extra HDMI, composite, audio and USB inputs built into the wall so you can connect your own devices) and the bathroom is pleasantly shiny, albeit somewhat short on pinchable cosmetic goods and sporting a public toilet-style sheet-by-sheet bog roll dispenser rather than regular toilet rolls.

The restaurant is dubbed Thyme and is open to members of the public who aren't staying in the hotel. Normally I'd question whether or not anyone would ever want to come to a hotel restaurant if they aren't staying in the hotel, but after most of a day's worth of driving, Andie and I decided we didn't really want to go out in search of dinner, so we went to give it a go — and, you know what? It was actually really, really good. Like, surprisingly so; it wasn't what I'd call "cheap" but it also wasn't extortionate hotel prices and, more importantly, it was actually excellent quality food: Andie had a frighteningly gigantic burger while I had, I think, the best rack of ribs I've ever had. Not bad for a chain restaurant in a cheapo chain hotel.

It's almost a shame we don't have more time to spend just relaxing here, though thankfully we did arrive early enough to be able to just chill out for a few hours without feeling like we immediately need to go to bed. It's always nice to get away from the daily grind and have a bit of a change of scenery now and then, even if you're not really doing anything specific while you're away from home.

Of course, tomorrow we are doing something specific — we're celebrating my friend's marriage after a couple of hours' driving — but for tonight, at least, we can just relax and enjoy that holiday-esque feeling of being far away from home in a comfortable room in a strange city. So I'm off to go and do just that, and try not to think about the exceedingly long drive back we have waiting for us on Tuesday!

1740: It's Not Friday

This week has been incredibly long. I mean, obviously it hasn't been any longer than a week normally is (about a week) but it's felt that way.

Most of this can be attributed to a couple of reasons: firstly, that the place where I usually park my car to go to work (about a 10 minute walk from the office) has been full all week and thus I've had to park about half an hour's walk away instead — not a journey I particularly want to do in the dark of the evening — and secondly, I've been having to work an extra hour each day in order to make sure that I actually get suitably compensated (i.e. overtime) for the overnight shenanigans I participated in a few nights ago.

That extra hour makes quite a difference. It doesn't sound like much, but then when I think about how tired and "I just want to go home"-ish I am at the end of a regular working day, then extend it by a not-insignificant proportion, it's perhaps unsurprising that the trudge back to the car (almost inevitably in the wind and light drizzle at this time of year — not to mention the dark by the time I get out) is more depressing than any Walk of Shame I've ever done. (Not that I've done many, to be perfectly frank.)

Time is fluid; I'm utterly convinced of it. I've seen it this week, with that last hour seeming to last an eternity and the week, consequently, stretching on for far longer than it normally seems to. And this isn't the first time I've observed it, either; the first time I ever observed this phenomenon was during a German lesson at secondary school where a friend and I happened to comment that German lessons seemed to last twice as long as any other lesson despite actually being the same length. (I set the countdown timer on my digital watch to make it look like time was actually going backwards, which got a good laugh, then got us put into detention for talking when we should have been quiet. Worth it.)

The old saying is, of course, "time flies when you're having fun" and, frustratingly, it seems to be true. Do something fun and enjoyable and before you know it, it's time to get up/go to bed/check out/go back to work/put the paddle away. Do something mind-numbingly tedious and time will slow to an almost-standstill. Do something fairly neutral — like, say, going to work — and you'll find that time probably flows at its normal rate, but compared to the "fun" rate, it seems excruciatingly slow.

Anyway. Regardless of all that nonsense, there's only one day left in this working week, and then a nice relaxing Saturday awaits. Following that, a solid day of driving up to Scotland awaits, which I'm not looking forward to at all, but the reason we're going — my friend Cat's wedding in Aberdeen on Monday — will be worth it. (Hopefully, anyway. I'm doing a reading. I will read the shit out of that poem, just you wait and see.)

For now, then, I think an early night ready to take on the week's grand finale. What joy will Friday bring? Find out tomorrow, only on your favourite* directionless daily blog!

Category: Not Games