It's Taken Me Until November...

It seems breaking your hands and deciding to move one’s life 10,000 miles back to the UK has resulted in my blog being severely neglected over these past few months. Four entries this year and that is frankly unacceptable. To those of you who have logged on looking for the next gripping installment of ‘The Laughing Buddha’ only to find the same old entry loading up in your browser, I apologise profusely. It must be like flicking through the TV channels only to find the only thing worth watching is a rerun of ‘Friends’ on E4. Personally, it’s quite frustrating as I try and pride myself on being disciplined enough to keep this diary of musings going. I can only blame distraction, apathy and most of all lack of inspiration due to my head being full of half baked plans that I have been urging into realisation. Kicking my life into, well, something that resembles ‘a life’ I suppose.

I find myself in a state of flux (hardly anything new I hear you cry) which is not just a mental state for me but it seems to be materialising in several other aspects of my life like my career, my home and even some of my friendships. Being back in London is unfathomably easy and way too familiar for my liking. It is the mental equivalent of slipping on an old pair of slippers, yet this time I also have my eye on a shiny pair of new shoes (the shoes in question happen to be in a swanky New York department store, on sale and put on hold behind the counter with my name on them, making them especially alluring even though I am stuck on a different continent). My life has moved on so dramatically now, that certain parts of it that once fit in quite easily with my daily routine now seem to be totally defunct or inappropriate. You’d think living out of a suitcase since April and not working properly since July would throw me into further disarray but to be perfectly honest I have never been more happy in my life than right now. Attempting to carve out a new life back in London, not knowing if this next step is the right step forward, is the thing that fills me with the most unease and doubt.

The idea of sitting behind a desk and working for someone else fills me with so much dread I’d rather vomit onto a porcupine then lick it up. I have to be creative. I cannot and will not settle for anything less. Sounds dramatic and I suppose it is. For the first time in my life the thought of permanence and routine bores me - this used to be the safety net I would seek out and hold onto desperately to in order to give my life structure. I don’t know what the antidote is but I know I need to step out and embrace my creative side again. I need to be embrace the unknown and allow creativity to flow back into my bones. It scares me as I really don’t really know how to achieve this. I feel like a priest who’s been asked to become an atheist or a dog being ordered to meow. I know what’s involved, I’ve seen other people do it, I just don’t have the tools available to make it the transition. I read the fantastic book ‘The Creative Habit’ by the choreographer Twyla Tharp which has been a great starting block for me as it’s practical and full of sound advice. No airy fairy crap most self-help books insist on preaching. I realise it’s just inexperience and fear that holds me back mostly. Practicality is also an issue, I simply don’t have the funds to suddenly be a full time writer or performer. I went to a talk given by Stephen Sondheim, a musical theatre hero mine and to many other theatre fans. He spoke about his mentor Oscar Hammerstein II and it made me think how envious I was the had someone in his life who saw enough potential in him to be something greater than he was. I’d quite like a mentor. A guiding and enthusing force of good in my life. I can lend my talents towards many things but my concentration and impatience tends to let me down. I am reminded of this constantly with the random notebooks full of ideas stuffed in various bags and boxes of mine, the half finished documents and scripts on my computer or the songs yet to be memorised and technically mastered. I do wonder if it’s cynicism, perhaps indecisiveness or even age that stops me from committing or just a life long habit I have failed to keep in check. To be great at one thing when I have the urge to do a hundred million things all at once. ‘Focus’ is the big word I need to remind myself of over the next few months.

Sorry, what was that?

A Couple of Screws...

Those who know me know that last year I had an accident. Quite a big one. I broke my hands. Yes, that's right - in the plural sense. In fact, I broke eight bones in total - both wrists that now have what are affectionately known as 'Herbert Screws', some other small bones in my left hand and most significantly my left arm, which needed a 'Wolverine' style plate bolted into place. I only realised today, I never wrote in detail about how this happened but to cut a long story short: I was on a date.

You'd think this would have been quite an ordeal for me, well it was and quite hideously painful too (strange how I curiously never imagined broken bones to be that painful until then) This aside, the episode wasn't that surprising given my track record with dating; just ask my friends. So much so, when news of my injury reached my best friend back home in London, it didn't illicit a sympathetic and frantically worried call, no quite the opposite really. As I lay in the hospital bed with my arms bound in plaster and bandages, with my iPhone on speaker mode balanced precariously on my chest, I could hear the faint unimpressed voice of my friend Dan say "Richard, it's time to write that book now."

I've toyed with the idea of writing about my dating escapades every now and then, I've even posted a few of them on here - but a whole book? Too self indulgent and self deprecating perhaps? It sounded like a crazy idea before and too 'Bridget Jones' for my liking but now I'm thinking it might not be such an idiotic idea after all. Gay fiction in general makes me want to hurl into a cheap plastic carrier bag in front a room full of strangers and the only gay biographical authors I do admire are David Sedaris and Augusten Burroughs. I'd have to have some message beyond "Hey look at the crazy dating antics of this guy, ain't he hysterical?!" Writing something bigger than a few paragraphs is what this blog has been leading up to I suppose; the trick is for me is to stop thinking and actually do more and just sit down and write goddamn it. Am I capable of doing it? I just have to let go of being such a perfectionist and allowing myself to be distracted by, let's face it, everything.

Where to start?

Here's the wonderful David Sedaris reading and extract from his last book "When You Are Engulfed In Flames":

OK?...

Sometimes I wonder if words I spell are correct, words I have continued to spell for years sometimes. I hate to be incorrect. I make every effort to ensure words are written properly and my grammar is also in tip top working order, even though I do admit failing occasionally with syntax (the result I feel of thinking too quickly and typing too slowly). I realise the English language evolves continuously, but the wonderful rules we have created enabling us communicate effectively with each other is also in danger of dying out if we're not too careful. I think it's important to keep it good working order so to speak. So it terrifies me that the latest generation horrifically uses 'TXT SPK' in everyday conversation now or should I say 'CONVO'. I put my case forward with this aberration below:

ooow god c i dnt no hu u r babe im gessing u go 2 beal 6form but atleeast u no wat im talkin about....! this is frm head to toe "storkage" the guyz probably gona fink were a bunch of pedoz LOOL.....x

To be quite frank. What the fuck is that?

A grown 16 year old woman wrote this on a Facebook page. I know it's a "Social Networking Site" but there is no excuse. Emmeline Pankhurst is probably turning in her grave at the thought this girl now has the right to vote but not actually given herself the right to spell and form complete sentences. I felt quite sick reading it and wanted to violently stick the Oxford English Dictionary into one of her orifices. If you actually 'translate' it, she also thinks 15 years olds can be classified as pedophiles because they fancy their teacher (who is a friend of mine). Yes - after three, we can sigh simultaneously together. Do I sound like a Daily Mail journalist yet?

Anyway, I return to the point in hand. One of the simplest words Okay or OK used in my last entry, was one such word that made me think twice about it. I wanted to know where this phrase came from. Well, I wanted to know, as I have a keen obsession over the English language and also love to consume useless facts. According to Dictionary.com (I know it's American but I will find out what dependable old Oxford say too) it is derived from the following:

OK is a quintessentially American term that has spread from English to many other languages. Its origin was the subject of scholarly debate for many years until Allen Walker Read showed that OK is based on a joke of sorts. OK is first recorded in 1839 but was probably in circulation before that date. During the 1830s there was a humoristic fashion in Boston newspapers to reduce a phrase to initials and supply an explanation in parentheses. Sometimes the abbreviations were misspelled to add to the humour. OK was used in March 1839 as an abbreviation for all correct, the joke being that neither the O nor the K was correct. Originally spelled with periods, this term outlived most similar abbreviations owing to its use in President Martin Van Buren's 1840 campaign for reelection. Because he was born in Kinderhook, New York, Van Buren was nicknamed Old Kinderhook, and the abbreviation proved eminently suitable for political slogans. That same year, an editorial referring to the receipt of a pin with the slogan O.K. had this comment: "frightful letters ... significant of the birth-place of Martin Van Buren, old Kinderhook, as also the rallying word of the Democracy of the late election,'all correct' .... Those who wear them should bear in mind that it will require their most strenuous exertions ... to make all things O.K."

"How fascinating!" and yes, I'm aware only myself said that just now.

A time for change...

Tomorrow is the end of 2007 and like most cliched endings, is a dawn of a new era for many people, mostly significantly for me as I prepare to uplift my life and move to a different country on the other side of the world. It's been a long time since I wrote my last entry and I am angry at myself for not keeping my writing going over the last five months. Life has been eventful. It's been full of events I could have written about, but life took over, as it usually does in these situations and I foolishly put this blog to one side. I'm also considering opening up this blog to all my friends and family soon, so they can keep track of my life when I get to Sydney. I'm in two minds as I enjoy the anonymity and regular purging exercise I get from releasing all my thoughts and rants into the cyberworld. We shall see.

I have a musical to write and other writing to start and my new shiny white beacon of an iMac seems to be inviting me to use it solely for Facebook and porn. There are far too many diatribes on the passive nature on owning a computer to be included in this entry, so I will leave those for another time.

Moving to Australia is a thrilling and terrifying prospect. I'm currently facing a big chalkboard which has lots of intricate scribblings all over it which I've accumulated over the years and now stand poised with one of those eraser blocks in my hand, waiting to wipe it all off in one smooth swipe. I want to start a fresh new scribble and I'm hesitating, as hover over my life in London just one more time admiring everything I've achieved, I know deep down I'm not really losing anything it's just the action that terrifies me. I suppose this feeling is natural to someone starting a new chapter and many of my friends are envious of the freedom I have before me. I will however truly miss this moment in my life as it is rich and I have a lot of good things going on in my life right now. It's so predictable how making this decision has made me appreciate what and who I have in my life right now. Clichés that rear their ugly heads in fiction and in other people's lives are now making a long overdue appearance in mine. A comforting thought perhaps?

Oh dear...

I've been looking back at my blog in recent months and I seem to have done it again. Well, the opposite this time. There I am writing flippant, jocular entries to satisfy those who worried my blog was getting morbid and now it's just silly, of little substance and frankly has no thought whatsoever. I need to verbalise my thought processes more carefully, however mundane. My writing suffers badly and it becomes dry and something the editor of Heat may think was an 'interesting Carrie Bradshaw approach' to observing life. I'm shuddering in my cheap IKEA chair now. Dear Lord. Strike me down now. I'm meant to encourage great writing. Actually, don't strike me down just yet, I have a show to do in four weeks time and have no understudy. Anyway, I digress. I've decided and I'm sorry now in advance, if future musings seem depressive. I'm not. Please don't call social services or suggest seeing a psychiatrist. This is what writing is about - exploring every aspect and the negative parts are so much fun to write about. Exorcising those demons and woes in tiny, thought provoking words, syllables, sentences and paragraphs, it helps put everything into joyful, toe-tapping, 'Mr. Bluebird on my shoulder' perspective in a weird way. I miss it and I will now write whatever the buggery-hell I want to write. Self-editing in order to please the masses is for people who go round saying things like "I do love The Vicar of Dibley but I just don't get BBC2". (I wonder if John Craven worried as much, putting together his child-friendly news stories for Newsround.) I hope this will eventually kick start something within me to get my novel and script ideas into shape. After the show, I must start breaking the concepts down and figure out what will work and what is shockingly bad, I might as well cast it aside and lock it up in a small safe marked "Step away now. Dull beyond words".

Damn you SKY, damn you to Hell!...

The global communications company SKY has invaded the comfort of my abode and wreaked havoc with everything it touched. After naively thinking their £26 a month deal for TV, Broadband and Phone offer would be a good idea and signing my life into their hands, I am now currently residing in a flat that is bereft of terrestrial TV, no broadband and have been billed £20 for the experience. Ironically, no one at SKY thinks this is bad for a new customer or can communicate within their customer services departments. Apparently, it takes 3 working days to log a complaint which is most likely to be filed under 'IGNORE AND TRANSLATE INTO FARSI' so only limited individuals who fluent in a dead language are able to respond and help you. I am now 'sans' internet access at home after SKY decided to disconnect us two weeks ago, without warning or sending the correct 'technical team' to install a dish to our roof, connect the relevant cables and routers and, you know, basically do their job as stated. According to Rupert's people, second floor flats require a 'specialist team' team of installers, who are few and far between, obviously trained along side Japanese Samurai, the Gurkhas and elite SAS soldiers. This does mean I'm unable to regularly update this blog until it's all been sorted, which probably at this rate, will be around the same time the London Olympics opens in 2012.

Charlie reminds me....

I've decided. I must procrastinate more when I write. About random things. More the things that annoy or confound me, like men or those dire chewing gum ads that supposedly declare it's "mastication for the nation".

Certain entries about my life and hobbies are certainly quite dull, well not dull exactly, I'm just not in the slightest inventive when it comes to prose. My fault is that I don't write enough. Midnight blog entries are never going to win the masses for the prize of hilarity. And that's why my book and script ideas are still, well, just ideas.

Thank you Mr Charlie Brooker.

Desiderata...

I believe I stumbled across this on my friend's website, I can't remember now, it was a long time ago. I saved it on my computer and found it again today. I think its a elegant and thought-provoking passage that focuses the mind and gives one the perspective we all sometimes desperately need in this chaotic world in which we live in:

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant, they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let not this blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore, be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams; it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

- Max Ehrmann, Desiderata (Copyright 1952).

Recently...

I've noticed over the last three months I've done some hardcore reflection on my life. I have to start writing some more flippant entries. You know, the ones that remind people how loud, mad and silly I am.

I need more observations about daily life. Those 'you never know what happened to me today' stories. You know, the ones people actually listen to, rather than the ones people nod to politely, as they try remember if they flushed the toilet before they left the house that morning.

Start typing...

"Everything You Need to Know About Writing Successfully - in Ten Minutes, by Stephen King"Everything You Need to Know About Writing Successfully - in Ten Minutes, by Stephen King

Honest. Clever. Simple.

Junctions...

I have a huge desire to write something tonight but for the life of me have no idea as what to talk about. If I was to be brutally honest, life is in a bit of a stalemate at the moment and has been for quite some time now. Urges to change parts of my life since returning from Australia, setting new goals in motion have been met with irritating and unnecessary hurdles. I might as well be made of rubber and relentlessly throw myself against a big brick wall. I am terribly impatient, not one of my more redeeming qualities, I admit. If I looked back over the past seven months, there are things I should be proud of like taking part in Anything Goes, other things have more than niggled though, like securing a higher paid job in order to save towards Australia. This has been like forcing an elephant up a staircase. With just your index finger. I've been beaten down at every available moment by the industry I 'love', I find myself having advanced forward the length of a gnat's cock which is pitifully frustrating and a little draining to say the least. I know I'm not alone in thinking this about my job and it's far from being a original insight in this day and age, I'm just not convinced it should be this hard that's all. I wish I was more gutsy (and richer) to just go 'Fuck it. Why not.' and just go and face whatever consequences are out there. Alas, I am far too responsible and I'm sure my bank would have something to say about it too (although they would probably ask me for my postcode and third and last digits of my password before giving me their opinion).

On a change of subject, you may have remembered me talking about a party I went to in Clapham two weeks ago. I met a man. As you do. He was a very charming man. A very sexy man. I took a shine to him. I tried my hardest to remain cool and in control. I managed to escape, unscathed, with number of said man inside phone. A small victory for a small man with big confidence issues. You maybe wondering what's happened since then. Well, that was two weeks ago and very little has happened since. Okay, we have conversed on email and text briefly, (my two most loathed forms of communications when it comes to getting know someone new) things are progressing very slowly and time has cast its shadow of doubt over how 'into' me he really is. I must march forward with a smile though, be determined not to freak out and say something inappropriate or off-putting in his presence as I might as well start reaching through prison bars of my padded 'single' cell, gurning the words 'Please Love Me!' at anyone who happens to walk past. It's wonderfully attractive image and becoming of a young man my age, I know, although I sometimes think we should embrace these images of honesty that flash inside our heads. They make me laugh and tend to slap a bit of sense into my overly romanticised head.

I trundle on.

An Open or Closed Book...

I have been criticised by some, that I have been quite open and candid on this blog. Have I? I'm not sure. It does make you ask questions, I suppose. I'm aware there is an element of risk, but on the otherhand, if you're not personal and intimate enough in a journal, it becomes dry and unreadable. There is the 'exposure' factor, that anyone could read your daily thoughts and use them against you, to judge you perhaps, but I'm finding it therapeutic in a way. Almost exhilarating, like pressing your foot down on the accelerator, when you know you're past the speed limit. It forces you to analyse your actions, your attitude, observe lifes bumps and grinds or jiggles of fun from another angle. I want people to know they're not alone in their neuroses and expectation of what life brings. We all desire a decent amount of happiness and luck once in a while as we go through daily dilemmas, it's what keeps life compelling and thought-provoking. I don't want to join the ranks of those bloggers who put up photographs of their cats, their collection of plastic buttons or men they they'd like to shag, but don't have the time to as they spend 24 hours a day scanning the internet for porn. I love the undiluted pleasure of writing. Those dormant creative muscles, being forced to warm up and stretch their literary legs a bit. Remembering that there are numerous words to be found and used to describe one's life, more so, than the proverbial terms of 'nice', 'boring' and 'okay'. One of my close friends, who is a far greater writer than myself, exclaimed that she couldn't write about her life as it would be a bit dull, I don't believe her. We all have stories to tell and within them, we find allegories, lessons to be shared and jokes to pass on.

Through this reflection, we find our potential, our boundaries, our lust that drives us forward and sometimes mad. The disgraced author James Frey said in this weeks Guardian interview, that we live in a fast world, we think fast and everything has to happen now. Not a new observation I know, but not enough of us do take the time out to reflect, to stop, sit back and breathe in what has just happened to us. The paranoia of the 'now' grasps many of us by the throat and usually its our own hands which are strangling us. Will we be the generation that had everything available to them, but never took the time to stop and truly embrace it? We constantly look for future happiness and never think about whether it's in the palm of hand already or literally round the corner from us all along. I will stop this diatribe now, in fear I will come across as bleak or morbid, which I'm not - just having a very profound moment that's all. I do think it is important to take stock and cherish what we have though. I whinged about being nice and so dependable a few weeks ago, as it never seems to get me anywhere. Only to receive a letter the next day from my dearest godmother in hospital, who wrote me a simple line of praise saying, 'I love you for many things - one very special one being your constancy'.

Life is hard; especially when you go through it resisting the 'norm', in order to keep the faith, to retain a sense of identity and worth. It's so easy to take the simple, hassle-free route in life. Follow the herd. Get swept away by the current trend. I've always believed if doing the right thing was the easiest thing to do, then we'd all be wearing halos. Sometimes, you do lose the fight and it occasionally makes you want to give up your cause. Yet this obstinant determination does have its rewards. Especially, when the braver friends and strangers around you, notice what you do and what you believe in. I thank those and admire them for their resolve, especially my godmother Jean for recognising those qualities within me at a time I wanted to simply give up, while she faces much more unimaginable challenges.

Nice...

It's official. I am too nice. I join the ranks of Mother Theresa, Jesus and Dame Joan Plowright. Not normally seen as fault a few hundred years ago, it was probably even seen as a quality to be sought after, but now in this cynical, hard-edged, reality TV sludge of an age, it's not so cool. It's wrong. People don't want 'nice' anymore. Perhaps I am just slow on the mark. It's not sexy, or cute and apparently it won't help you get what you want. Over the last few years people have been telling me to not be so 'nice'. I ignored them. Actually, I find it incapable of being 'not nice'. Now people who hardly know me are telling me to not be so nice. Not their fault, they pick up on it. Alarm bells kick in, my conscience huddles into the air raid shelter of my thoughts. I find myself being nice to arseholes who let me down. Yes, what is that all about, indeed? Much like a hamster in a wheel, I can't seem to stop myself from being courteous and understanding, I just keep doing it instinctively. I have to get angry. Annoyed. Vexed. Pissed off a lot more. (And yes, I've been using my new Thesaurus.) If I can achieve the status of being called a 'Right C*nt', perhaps only then will things start going my way. Shame really, as nice is pretty well, 'nice' most of the time.

Two Left Feet

I think too much. This is a well known fact amongst people who know me. My friend Becky describes it as when I have one of my 'Woody Allen' moments. It's just the way I am, I can't relax or enjoy myself half the time, as I'm ruminating over what could happen next, with a leaning towards the 'glass half empty' most of time. To most, I project a persona of enthusiasm and 'glass half full' but my close friends know I fret and fidget. Much like a graceful swan paddling furiously with his big webbed feet, so he doesn't get dragged into the current of the river.

I can't think for the life of me what to write about tonight. A cancelled date has thrown me into a bit of a melancholy this evening, well it wasn't a date, I was just looking forward to meeting someone new who I have a bit in common with thats all. I'd rather not project all woes onto my blog tonight though. I did have a great time yesterday at Centre Stage, doing the first dance rehearsal for the show. Bugger, there's a lot to learn. We had a new boy start called Charlie, but more about him later when there's something to tell. Needless to say, half of us melted like a tub of margarine left on window sill when he walked in. At 6ft 4", I think I'll just admire him from a distance for now. The photo is of my view from my bed. It's like having a live picture frame to think right through into infinity.

Or it could just be a Velux window.

Asides...

I heard the best line at work today from my client, when he was describing how ugly his old assistant was:

"About as attractive as an old 'Chupa Chup' lolly found underneath a greasy oven."

Will go into my mental rollerdex of phrases to use on someone one day.

What would Jane say...

I was wondering if Blogs had been around years ago, what great writers like Jane Austen would say on their Blogs. Their efforts would have been far more spectacular and full of wonderful prose than ours. I decided to write my current situation, as if Austen herself was sitting at my laptop, namely wondering where her quill went first, but composing my own life entanglements using her inevitable style. Enjoy!


Dearest Marie-Anne,

Alas, to find oneself without a prospective advancement in earnings and career, is a vexation indeed. Fear not, if the fates allow, a position will no doubt arise at my final moment of disparagement. We can only live in hope as ladies, we have little knowledge of the complexities that take up a working gentleman's day and must be content with hours of reading, needle work and practicing piano forté. I remain enthused, though trying I know, remain confident in my faith that my decisions are made in good sted.

On to Meryton, where I have news of an abundant nature concerning certain members of the cavalry (online men of a homosexual nature) that have past into town and have caught my eye. After meeting a Mr Bartholemew last week at the Society of Friends drinking establishment, in the depths of Soho. He is of three and twenty years, a musician at the Royal Albert Hall none the less and comes from a wealthy family. He is probably worth at least ten thousand pounds a year, as he has a residence in South Kensington and Clapham. At first his demeanor and enthusiastic nature was charming and elicited many ruminations of how my beauty was 'cute' and that I was a 'sexy fella'. But after several conversations of a mobile variety, the situation has since changed dramatically and I am led to believe he is quite keen or 'really into me' as they say in the modern quarters. His communications have been frequent and the attention much cherished after my long spell of singledom, although the messages with this 'Xxxxxx' signed along each message is rather worrying. An overuse of consonants to the extreme. As you can imagine, I have been all of a bother regarding this situation, especially as he is quite handsome, a spectacular kisser and has also implied via the means of a visual text, the girth of his groin. This is quite spectacular to behold and some I believe have complimented on its beauty and size. Encouragement to seek a mere carnal nature from our next meeting is a temptation to say the least and 'hard' to resist. He is a true fellow and I am enjoying his company for now.

On to Mr Masonry, a resident of East Dulwich and a lawyer at that. A short, well built man of two and thirty years. He is of a fine face, although a little reserved in his speech and keeps conversation to the essential matters in hand. This has not greatly inspired me and over the past weeks he has postponed our engagement no less than three times. On one occasion, canceling our meeting to accept a delivery of chairs from John Lewis, Purveyors of Fine Furniture. We have meet upon two occasions and they have been perfectly charming, enjoying my wit and flirtations, yet has remained obscure in his decisions about me I feel. His enthusiasm to watch the moving picture 'Brokeback Mountain' every week, in order to reminisce his previous partner, leads me to believe, he may not be over his last love.

As always my dearest Marie-Anne, I have saved the best story till last. For over a month, I had been conversing most eloquently with a young gentlemen called Colonel Henge, he works in Housing. He is such a fine figure of a man and is of six and twenty years of age and resides in Clapham after just purchasing a small maisonette. He stands five feet and ten inches tall and carries full head of blonde hair. His pictures are very becoming and he had responded well to mine. When I first laid eyes on his profile, I mused that he was far too handsome to even consider responding to a message from my mere self. But he expressed much humour, a passion for penguins, a love of literature and film including 'The Muppets Christmas Carol' and 'Sense & Sensibility' (which I believe is based on a family situation near here). He had received a dictionary and thesaurus for his birthday, uncanny as I have received such birthday gifts. Our familiar passions and items in common have made me believe he is quite the genuine sort indeed. We spent much correspondence over the last few weeks and this has elicited a most charming rapport, he is both polite and full of questions about myself as well as answering my own queries about his credentials. This natural conversation had been most unexpected and was most assuring pertaining it's future possibilities. So much so, I suggested an official dinner engagement on the Friday, to which he responded with much enthusiasm and vigor. Yet alas, the ease of this situation was brought to an abrupt halt, after Colonel Henge had in fact met another gentleman since the agreement of dinner arrangement and had decided to pursue this assignation and not mine. I was bought this news of his decision by carriageless letter only two days prior to the soiree and as you can imagine, was most disappointed by the news. So much so, I may have over reacted somewhat and burned all his correspondence in a fit of melancholy. I was taken aback by receiving further correspondence from Colonel Henge, informing me despite the change in situation, he found me a fine fellow indeed, impressed by my love of musicals and honest nature and worthy of friendship at least. For this I am glad.

My daily chores have become tiresome and I have decided to seek fortunes in another place, namely the country of Australia by this time next year after much deliberation about my future and goals. I have been making long, hard decisions about what is important in my life and what I would like to achieve. See, my dear Marie-Anne, I too have face much drama these last few months. Alas, I must remain positive and thankful of the achievements I do possess and the love of friends like you around me.

To when we dine at Pemberly again. I must go forth and find my Darcy.

Yours

x Emily x

It begins Oh Buddha of mine...

So I have a Blog. How cutting edge of me.

How scary in fact. The idea of any stranger reading my daily thoughts puts me off, if truth be told. Lawsuits of people being fired from their jobs because they moaned about their unruly boss or having posed in a raunchy photograph wearing their company's uniform springs to mind. (I believe it was an air stewardess or something, how man-made fibre in Easyjet colours can be made too look sexy is beyond me.)

I shall therefore be sensible. Use pseudonyms to protect those who I may embarrass, which I will no doubt reveal in a fit of anger if they wind me up something chronic. It will be about me, naturally. A way of keeping my writing skills up to date and in practice. The long term goals of writing a book have been so poorly executed and I have no one else to blame apart from myself. So many ideas, so little time, so little drive after working all day. So many excuses not to actually write. So lame. So pathetic. And therefore, so not going to have a novel under my belt by the age of 30. This will be like stretching the muscles before a work out, I hope.

I have also been asked to write about my life and tales of dating boys, having caused much amusement to many friends over the years. Not sure if that is tragic or a reason to celebrate how varied and ridiculous my life gets. I have old tales that are out of date by now, but will no doubt reminisce on these,when the opportunity arises.

So, I write this. Will it last? Will it be a distraction? Will it bore people livid? Who knows, only time will tell.

I've noticed I've posed a lot of questions in my first blog post. I'm not normally like that.

Well, maybe I am.

The Laughing Buddha Looks On...

The Buddha himself. Sage. Sympathiser. Supporter. Onlooker, champion and general piss taker of my humble life. How his laugh mocks and comforts me so.