Other People's Lives: Film Journalism

It is always particularly awkward when you ask another blogger to write a little something for you only for their witticisms to outshine your own by a mile. Anyway here (completely unbegrudgingly) is an insight into the life of a lovely gentleman and talent writer. 

Title
Junior Web Editor (on my contract), Deputy Editor (on my email signature), Editor (IN MY MIND)

What does that mean?
I do everything the real editor does, but slightly less well and for quite a lot less money. However, I don’t wear clashing outfits as often as she does so I’m winning in the style stakes.

How do you get up in the morning?
Slowly. I’ve been considering investing in one of those alarm clocks that don’t stop shrieking until you’ve done something taxing like lift weights or hit a target with a laser pistol, but shopping around for one would cut into my dozing-at-my-desk time. Generally speaking I set my alarm for 6 so I can catch up on freelance work before I go to the office, then ignore it until quarter past nine and have to shower in forty seconds and wear a band t-shirt that I bought in Year 9.

What do you get up to on a typical day?
I procrastinate, pontificate, perambulate and occasionally percolate (although the cafetiere’s broken at the moment, and I don’t really like coffee anyway). In between I have fag breaks, flirt with the interns and try to remember why there’s a photo of a burrowing owl stuck on the wall by my desk.

What are the job perks?
Going to festivals of films (nominally) connected to the work of transcendental Swedish mystic Emanuel Swedenborg.

And the worst bits?
Trying to conceal my relentless pâté consumption from our ferociously vegan HR manager.

Anything else you’d like to add?
I’m working on a plan to electrocute Little Mix’s tits at the Olympic opening ceremony. It’s going to be pretty special.

Margarita anyone?

The Covent Garden Cocktail Club

 

I seem to be on a bit of a role with the cocktail clubs at the moment. I do love a good margarita or five. This week's margarita was sampled at the Covent Garden Cocktail Club, another supposed "members club" located down a set of stairs on Newport St just shy of Leicester Square station. This time with decor that would do the likes of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler proud.

Having visited here twice now I can confirm that walking in as a group of girls or with a date seems to grant you "membership" status for the night. Try to gain entry as a group of more than two males and be prepared to be treated like you are wearing neon signs flashing "probably going to try it on your girlfriend" before being told that you can sign up for membership "online". They do like to pick and choose their clientele in these bars.

If you do make it past the door though you are in for a treat. A lovely basement bar with deep leather couches, low lighting and candles makes for a great date venue. You'll gain extra points for "just knowing" this romantic little bar smack bang in the middle of Soho.

The cocktails are as delicious as the bar man, who will give you plenty of flirty chat regardless of gender. Though the French Martini was sweet enough to give me toothache, I highly recommend the margarita, straight up.

Have I mentioned that I like margaritas?

Happy Skullmas

I really want this print. Like, really want it. However it is Christmas, which means less money for me, and more injected into presents for everyone else. My solution was that I would buy this for my little brother (who would never do anything as brotherly as regularly check up on my blog), which was an idea quickly squashed by the large OUT OF STOCK next to the price. Fail. I am almost tempted to sneak into my old schools art department and do some late night screen printing like the creative rebel I am.

There is something amazingly appealing about happy looking skeletons. If I wanted to appear like a really pretentious twat I would delve into an analysis of the varying attitudes towards death across the world. I won’t though, instead we’ll just leave it on the thought that perhaps I’m a bit morbid, and find smiling skulls that look like they have walked out of a bar in a Raymond Chandler novel around Christmas time very soothing.

Other People's Lives: Graphic Design

I have coaxed another friend to tell you an honest account of their working day.
He likes bagels.

Title
I'm a graphic designer.


What does that mean?
I kind of do what it says on the tin. Like literally designing what it says on the tin.. or website or brochure, I also make promotional films. What I do is versatile but it's all wrapped up in a strategic branding blanket. 

Give us an idea of a typical day...
I get up like everyone else and amble in to work about 9:30, at which point I have a cinnamon and raisin bagel and check emails. I then sketch my way through the morning until the clock hits 1:00, at which point I toast another bagel and laden it with the 'cheese of the day'. I go back to my desk and click, copy and paste my way through the afternoon until about 16:00 at which point I might have another bagel. I think our studio are single-handedly dragging the New York Bagel Company through the tide of this recession. 

What is the best perk of your job?
Not ever having to open Excel. And having to think creatively every fucking day.

And the worst part?
Having to occasionally open Apple's equivalent to Excel - Numbers. And having to think creatively every fucking day.

Anything else you’d like to add?
Who are you and why are you calling me? Can I go get a bagel now?

Aubin & Wills Literary Salon

Aubin & Wills Christmas Literary Salon with readings by Jessica Fellowes and Laura Lockington


I learnt an important lesson yesterday. When someone tells you to turn up at a venue to DJ, it may possibly be a good idea to look up the details of the event your meant to be playing at. If you don't you might just run the risk of turning up to an Aubin & Wills hosted literary reading night accommodating a host of middle-class, pearl wearing, champagne drinking 30 to 40 somethings dressed like something out of Lost Boys and with a laptop full of dance tunes.


Pulling my shrinking denim shorts low enough to be decent I hunted around the dusty corners of my iTunes for remnants of jazz and blues while knowing perfectly well that I would probably end up hiding behind the considerably more competent and taller DJ beside me.


Some soft jazzy tunes and nostalgic Christmas readings later, the wine was flowing and the mince pies were a plenty.


A lovely start to the Christmas season.

Other People's Lives: PR

Ever wanted an honest look into someone else's professional life? Well now, with a certain amount of coaxing, bullying and trading in sexual favors, you can!

Right from the horses mouth... (that's funny, you see, because she likes horses ...I think I need a nap)

Industry:

PR

Title:

I get to choose. Main determining factors are who I'm lying to with regards to my importance on that day, or which part of the company I'm pretending to work for. Both are my bosses attempt to "make the company sound better" - Reassuring.

And that means…

It means I'm everything and nothing. It means if I left then the company would fall apart...which actually says more about the company than it does about me.

How do you get out of bed in the morning?

I have employed a small sherpa type dude who pokes me from a distance with a very long pokey stick. He had to sign an extensive insurance waiver prior to starting - I tend to have a lot of wrath first thing in the morning so it was for his own benefit.

What do you get up to on a typical day?

Well, as I'm filling in this form, clearly not a lot. When I'm not searching blog sites under the premise of "Scouting for press" (what do you mean Justin Beiber's new haircut isn't relevant?!) I'm generally shitting myself about one social media post or another and praying no-one notices my incompetence.

Job perks?

The fact that I get to read FHM and Zoo as standard. Try bringing up the fact you spend "all day staring at boobs" at a family dinner party. Priceless. Also, I pass a nero on the way in - the free coffee I earn when I've drunk another 9 tastes like the best coffee in the world.

Job nightmares?

Social Media. My every mistake is witnessed by over 1 million people. Thankfully, I've been worn down to the point where I have lost the ability to care.

Anything else you’d like to say to the nice people on the Internet?

My job has driven me to drink. That, and I secretly wish I was a penguin. This could be the only way to restore my sanity. If you don't believe me watch Frozen Planet...

Behind the doors of Soho: Part Two

The Experimental Cocktail Club

Between dumpling dives on Gerrard st

I am sometimes wary of the choices made by this particular friend. The week before had comprised of an outing to The Nordic Bar, where after spinning what will now forever be known as the "shot wheel of misery" I managed to drop call friend number 2's boyfriend to rant at him (for a reason now lost on me) before finding said friend slumped on the ground in the loos.

On this particular night friend number 2 and I were taking our steps towards Gerrard St gingerly, and with fully lined stomachs. 

We needn't have worried. The ECC is a London extension of the original Parisian cocktail club of the same title that hides behind another worn out looking doorway right in the heart of Soho. The doorman (who seems quite notorious after scanning some reviews), rudly claimed we couldn't enter without a booking, even after Friend Number 1 pointed out that she did last time. Just as we turned to walk away he called us back, gave us a look up and down and let us in. 

Excusing him the bar is beautiful, opulently dressed without being garish with a strong nod towards the prohibition era in the design of the bar. A very handsome barman served us cocktails that live up to the name, with my second choice of the St-Germain-des-Prés (a mixture of Hendrick's gin with elderflower liqueur, egg white, chilli, lime and cucumber) being my recommended choice. If you are a braver soul than I and choose the one with Budweiser and marshmallows I would love to hear about it.

At £11 a pop it isn't your Friday night local, but we left with Friend Number Two fully conscious, which is always a plus.

Behind the doors of Soho: Part One

In the last few weeks’ two separate friends took me to two separate unmarked doorways for drinks at “hidden” bars. I’m going to refuse to use the term speakeasy because, well, they're not. If I don’t feel like I’m about to be offered some cut-price cigarettes and slipped a number on my cocktail napkin before having my arm twisted behind me, my face slammed against a wall phone and threatened with a 32. Calibre digging into the small of my spine, well it’s just no dice.

Hidden bars or speakeasys (sigh) these days seem to refer to any bar placed behind an unmarked door. The feeling of being in-the-know is somewhat ruined by owners then needing to go around and shout about it in reviewer’s faces when they realise in a recession being a “secret” venue means being a very short-lived venue also.

Back to the point.

The New Evaristo Club

Nestled behind an old blue door on Greek St

I was brought here by a friend of mine who is infinity cooler than I am. Very kindly though he makes me feel more on a level by constantly tripping over his own feet. It’s the only way we have maintained friendship all these years.

Behind the unmarked door with paint peeling pathetically from the wood lies a corridor and a staircase you wouldn’t be surprised to pass your nan on. Beyond the sign in desk (a small nod at being an exclusive members bar, completely --- by the need only to sign your name and donate £2) is a basement bar. That's really it. It's a pretty comfortable basement bar that you might create in your own house if you were having one of those American sitcom moments.

The drinks are decent, but the menu is short. The room itself is laced with old furniture, wax table cloths and 1930's memorabilia.

Not exactly The Back Room of speakeasy fame, but it is less crowded than practically everywhere else on a Friday night.

Oh, and I failed to take a picture, so here is a picture my friend drew on my arm while we sipped whisky and ginger ale. He didn't have a red pen.

Employed & Dangerous

What’s this? A job? Don't mind if I do. And what do you do once you finally find the hole in your pocket sewn up again? You put down your teacup, elevate yourself from the crevice in your couch and head out until the threads begin to pull again.

Welcome to a recharged what-red-said. Adventuring around the music and culture scene of London the only way I know how.

Naively.  

Write about what you know

That is the advice given to you on any writing course. The problem being that all I know at the moment is this desk, this computer and the bottom of my tea cup.

My days have become a a groundhog day of little routines to busy myself. High on the list is my daily visit to Tesco's to scrutinize the contents of the reduce to clear section for food void of any signs of life. On my way out the door I give a friendly nod to Steve the Tramp (self named) who is usually too rapt in conversation with the pigeons to notice me at all, and on to a whistle and air kiss from Builder on Corner which satisfies my need for daily flirtation. We are going to name our kids Aiden and Tristan.

When I get home I spend a little time answering e-mails, chasing contacts and preparing for my next interviews (of which I have had two very promising ones of late with some lovely contacts at Iris and iProspect... yes that was officially a suck up. I'm not proud) followed by some deep contemplation about the benefits of day time drinking. Medicinal, thought provoking or other.

Once I have successfully created a crater in my sofa and have made a card tower of tea cups I begin to be productive, starting with some applications and ending in a day dream of the small cafe-come-music venue I will open one day with my unrivaled  knowledge in marketing.

For now though I will settle with booking myself on an evening course in social media marketing to help me out along the way/ a productive use of my time/ to get me out of the house.

How to make friends

I was having a discussion with my friend Vince about making friendships at uni the other day. He had recently decided to go back to the very beginning of our wall posts on Facebook. "You let me say some terrible things to you Clancy. I mean, like, really horrific stuff and you just rolled with it." I had a look myself. They were pretty grim. I won't repost any of them here for fear of offending anyone/ my mum seeing but let's just say that I copied one of them onto his wall and he swiftly deleted it. Five years on and we now have a reputation to uphold on our social media accounts.

Vince had made himself known around the block quite quickly and I had bonded with his flat mate Mike over a drunken discussion of women and the Sunshine Underground in the first few weeks.

One night I was working on my first essay (that is to say I was drinking and smoking in front of my laptop) when I got a text from an unknown number. "What are you wearing? Love, Vince"
I thought for a minute, I could be one of two girls here.
"Lacy black lingerie and a sombrero" went my reply.
"Great, well put some clothes on you dirty slag and come up to Mike's room and watch Star Wars with us. Leave the sombrero on."
He is now one of my closest friends.

Clancy your soul is deep and mysterious. Much like your eyes. And your vagina

          -Chris Vincent, September 08

Day something or other

Three weeks in and I am already struggling to find time to write. How ridiculous. It might help if I were to stop using my unemployment as an excuse to travel around the country seeing people that regular work got in the way of. Who am I kidding, I love it. I would happily sit in this cafe writing for the rest of my life if someone were to pay me for it.

This weekend I travelled up North to see my friend Ali from the magical town of Bolton. In the Bolton countryside the chav's run free and drink from the fountain of Strongbow, laced with the powers of indistinguishable speech and unbeatable ability to spit. Once we tore ourselves away from those wonders though we hopped across to Manchester for shopping and Liverpool for sightseeing and music.
All in all a very busy and lovely weekend.

Back home it is a wee bit more grim. The power's of denial have helped me put off my packing to move back home until today when I should be moving out, well, today. It's a mess. Burning all my clothes sounds like a very convenient packing method at the moment, as well as an excuse to buy an entire new wardrobe. I was saved before I could even get through the first draw by a phone call from one of my recruiters...

Week three
Interviews: two
Packing: shoes so far, thought I'd work from the bottom up
Interview prep: Book buying as a reason to leave the chaos of my room even though I am perfectly aware I can probably find the same information on the Internet? Done.

Day Eleven

Thursday last week was a mad rush to buy everything needed to survive a festival. Outlook said rain, so on went the wellies. Outlook said sunny, so sunglasses and a hat were added to the equation. Two packs of cleansing wipes were packed (suitable for the removal of make-up, mud and grime), tent, sleeping bag, cider and airbed. “Um, Shiv?” I queried, rolling up the airbed with skills from years of crafting origami birds. Unfortunately the bird shaped airbed wasn’t fitting into the bag. “Yeah-huh” 

“How do we pump up the airbed once we’re there?” 

“There’s a pump in the box” 

“Yes” I said, unravelling the pump “Do the tree’s in Cambridge come with electrical sockets?” waving the plug of our very electrical looking pump. 

“Shit.”

An hour later I was standing in a queue in Argos in wellies complete with their own mud from last years festival antics, my hat, sunglasses and bag big enough for me to wonder why I had packed a tent at all and not just decided to zip myself into the bag each night when my phone started to buzz. Unknown number. “Hello?”
 “Hi Clancy, thanks for sending us the answers to the questions we e-mailed you. I was wondering if you were free to come in for an interview?”

Two weeks, one interview. Take that unemployment!

So I am back from the festival. Soul rested (definitely not body) and ready to prepare for my first interview.

Please Sir, can I have a Google+ ?

I nearly forgot! I either don't know you or you are one of my close friends who have already been subject to my puppy dog stares, but will someone please send me a Google+ invite?

I can hardly claim to be a social media mastermind when I lack the new toys.

Day Eight: The keyword is "networking"

Day eight?  You say. But you have been going on about this for nearly two weeks now. Yes. The thing about that is that I don't count weekends. Everyone needs a little down time to re-charge for another packed week of unemployment. To tell you the truth unemployment is a lot busier than I thought it would be. There are applications with deadlines, recruiters to meet, networking to be done.

This morning I had a meeting with Dominic Proctor of Mindshare. Dom is a lovely gentleman and an old friend of my Dad who was kind enough to give me some advice when I first left uni two years ago with naive aspirations of walking into a copywriting role with no experience but a trendy handbag full of dreams. Today, taking time out of a very busy schedule, we talked about all the experience I have gained, my love of social media ("Old fart's like me know nothing about that stuff") and generally where I should go next and who he might know to help me. A networking success.

I hardly had time to get over that caffeine buzz before I was off to a cafe around the corner to meet Max, a friend of a friend and current account executive at Dare Digital. Again the chat was only informal, with some sound job hunting advice taken on but probably most importantly, and e-mail address to send my CV where it might just get a little further than HR's over flowing inbox.

Talk about taking advantage of my spare time. I haven't even started on the new cushions I was going to hand sew.

Impressed by my own productivity, I'm going to give it to you in stats

Recruiters signed with:                                 4

Applications sent through recruiters:         5

Applications sent through job sites:            3

Industry professionals met for coffee:        3

Not bad for a week and a half I think.

Day Six. Nothing says "hire me" more than an emancipated looking ginger

Job applications: 4

Recruiters met: 1.5 (I'm meeting someone from The Talent Business in a few hours)

Number of hours procrastinating: Procrastination is only more material for writing.

I wish someone would take a picture of me here, spread out in the cafe around the corner with my laptop looking like a nodding dog with my oversized headphones making for a ridiculous head to headphones ratio. One photo every day and nothing would change except for my outfit and my body mass. Unemployment is working a treat on my waistline. Nothing says "hire me" more than an emancipated looking ginger.

It's only week two and my initial enthusiasm is already waning. I have a self perpetuating issue that recruiters are happy to point out over watery coffee; although I have been working in agencies for almost two years, most junior roles ask for one to two years experience in the role advertised. Grad schemes are the other option (of which I have applied to many in the past) however 250 applications per place isn't a basket I feel I can put all my eggs into, no matter how pretty those eggs may be. The solution? do all of it. Recruiters, grad schemes, random job sites, begging friends, family, pets. 

Now as I have been writing (something I should really do at the end of a hunt rather than putting off the inevitable) a friend of mine has responded to my Facebook woes of job hunting with a position. 

"Media, marketing & reserach: Sunday Times Best Company"

Spec says they are looking for someone with a good academic record (tick) and an enthusiasm for social media (tick).

Logging off to log my application.

Day two

Recruiters contacted: 1
Jobs applied for: 1

Again it was a bit of a slow start. Little things got in the way. You know, the things that usually get in the way of your life, sleeping in, deciding to make breakfast, realizing you have no food, deciding to go to the shops to buy some food, remembering the social indecency of going to the shops in tiny pajamas, thinking it is probably best to shower before getting dressed to go to the shops to buy the food to make your breakfast. Little things.

I have found my new office. It is called the Boulangerie Bon Matin. It is exactly 1 minute 30 from my house if I drag my feet and the sounds of the neighbor clipping her toe nails has been replaced by the quiet hum of people that also don't have jobs getting high on lattes. It has free wifi and I have found that as long as I order a new cup of tea every 40 minutes, the staff seem friendly enough.

The lack of house bound distractions has meant that even after my late start I have finally started to chip away at the metaphorical mountain of job hunting ahead of me. I may not have yet created the interactive CV I dream of (my developer knowledge doesn't quite match my grand strategies, but this is where I start to call in favors from more technically proficient friends) but I have updated my basic CV with all the wonderful things I have done and sent it off to at least one recruiter. It is also now in the hands of one excellent agency who I am sure have been looking for me all their life.

It doesn't hurt to be optimistic.  You can always cry later.  
-Lucimar Santos de Lima

The end of Day One

Recruiters signed to: 0

TV programs watched: 2 (It was Mad Men so it was basically research)

Ok so today was a little bit slow. I had to drive my parents car back down to South London and I may have shuffled my feet on the way back up. It is all about easing yourself in though. I managed to edit my CV, or at least change everything to the past tense (quite depressing in itself) and then watched enough Mad Men to learn that you can move from being a receptionist to a copy writer in a matter of weeks, oysters and martinis probably aren't the best combination before a pitch, and that I strongly needed a drink. And a cigarette. And a 1950's wardrobe.

I don't have a table let alone a desk in my house so I have set up camp at the picnic table out in our "back yard". I am only able to do this past six pm when the sun doesn't cause glare on my laptop screen, and I am currently listening to the soothing tune of my neighbor clipping her toe nails whilst singing Breakfast at Tiffany's by Deep Blue Something like a cat with it's foot trapped in a blender.

For now I am going to open up my CV again, very slowly, and hope that my housemates come home before I am actually forced to do any real thinking.

Dusting off the notebook

Two weeks ago I 1) turned 24,  2) became unemployed and 3) made the difficult decision to move back home with Jacqui (more a great basis for a future novel than a great mother) after point (2) directly affected my final point (4) the inability to afford my rent.

Having hit the bottom I thought it might be nice to catalogue what can only now possibly be a turn of luck for the better as I job hunt, that or an amusing tale of my decent into madness.

It is day one.

Applications out: 0
Recruiters signed up to: 0
Agencies approached: 0
Creative side-projects: Does a new hairstyle count?
Hours of procrastination: Many.

Reasons Not To Live With Your Girlfriend

Well, that may be a tad unfair. This is another story about Jacqui and Damian and one of the many anecdotes that dad likes to tell horrified looking guests at BBQs. Really this post should be titled “reasons not to live with Jacqui” but it didn’t sound quite as catchy.

In the first few months of moving in to a new place with your partner, many couples fall into excited delirium about extremely important such as purchasing “their first” spatula, hanging “their first” picture of a duck on a rock in the bathroom. For my parents it was a case of getting skirting boards hung upside down and choosing to call it an eccentricity. Couples will fall into giggles as they come home and greet each other with “how was your day honey?” and “Shall I pop the kettle on?”, parallels drawn to their parents too quaint to go unnoticed. Jacqui chooses to greet my dad with a mild heart attacks.

Damian had been working part time at the tax office while studying in the evenings for his accountancy degree. Tired and head full of numbers he opened his front door with the rest of his energy spent on forming the words “Honey, I’m home” which echoed through the corridors to no reply.
“Jacqui?” He walked through the house questioning empty living rooms and kitchens. He saw the light on in the bathroom and pushed the door open with an unnecessary polite knock. While at first the room looked empty, the quiet splash of water against the tub took him in a step closer. He stopped breathing as he took in the sight of his girlfriend, eyes open and hair waving lying motionless at the bottom of the bath. Unaware of his actions now, he found himself pressed up against the bathroom wall clutching his chest and trying to breathe to no avail. As he began to slump to the floor, paralysed in panic, Jacqui burst from the water spraying my dad and laughing heavily having expended all her breathe holding it for more than a minute.

“Oh my God Mum!” Back around the kitchen table my brothers and I looked over in shock at Jacqui, who was trying to hide a half smile. “Poor Dad! What were you thinking?”

The other half of the smile emerged. “I didn’t really”

And that’s who raised me.

YouTube Mash-Ups

These are works of genius, that is all I can say.

Kutiman Mixes YouTube

Oh Metro...

You didn't think that one through did you?

The thing about Jacqui

As far as mothers go, you can’t do much better than Jacqui. If you can’t base at least a novella on the relationship with your mother, her chablis drinking tendencies and inability to sensor what she says to your nearest and dearest then you haven’t really got a mother at all as far as I’m concerned. I mentally started this blog the moment I walked down the stairs in time to over hear her telling my English rose, butter wouldn’t melt friend Ali that she didn’t understand why these girls (waving a hand towards the rolling credits of Embarrassing Bodies on the kitchen televsion) think it’s ok to appear to the nation with their labia’s hanging down to their knees. “It is like they thought they could get away with just swinging it over their shoulder up until this point”. There was a look of pure ecstatic joy in Ali’s eye. It could have been distress.

It was the same look I had caught once before in a rear view mirror of mum’s car years earlier. At the end of my first year of university Jacqui offered to drive my fresh out of the university oven friend Vince and I back down to London. Having moments earlier warned him to lock up his profanities for the five hour trip, his eyes were watering with material as Jacqui hit the M1 and announced that we would be listening to The Vagina Monologues on CD for the entire journey back. For Vince, it was love.

There is something about Jacqui, and perhaps this hasn’t been the most rounded introduction to the woman who granted me life but this is the woman who just lifted up her top to flash my dad on Skpe in the kitchen in front of a now very horrified looking eighteen year old brother. “Oooooh la la” Dad’s voice rattles out of the speakers “but Jacqui, best not, I’m in the office”.

What do you make a typographer for his birthday?

Last Night

Last night I dreamt that I turned up at a pizza place, on my own, to discover my ex boyfriend sharing a pepperoni pizza with our friends. In spirit of being on friendly grounds I chose to sit with them. We laughed and joked and were generally having a Hallmark moment until a guy I had been recently dating turned up and put his arm around me. Next thing I knew we were outside watching the pizza place burn to the ground while ex boyfriend shouted at me for being too distracted by new boyfriend to put out the candle on our table.

I have spent my entire morning interpreting my night time fantasy, analysing the meanings behind the key symbols present.

I have come to the conclusion that I really fancy a pepperoni pizza.

A brother's birthday

Any excuse for a cake. Plus I'm strapped for cash. A cake is a suitable 21st birthday present right? Right? Good I'm glad you agree. There is a bit of an in-joke here, Mac tells anyone that listens that he is Spiderman. Why? "Because I am".

I didn't say it was a funny in-joke.

Prelude

Let me start by telling you that I am a terrible storyteller. I have many friends that will back this up. I have a tendency to start at the beginning, skip quickly to the end before filling in all the details in-between in order for the story to make sense. In fact a date recently pointed this out. Apparently I give the false impression of being quite eloquent in messages, only to spoil the illusion in real life. So is the beauty of editing. “Maybe you should try taking a deep breathe and thinking through what you’re about to say”. He didn’t last very long.

So here is the start of my story, and the end. The middle bits are a story for another day.

Twenty three years, seven months and twenty one days ago a young man of short stature stood on a pavement somewhere between his home in Mosman and Paddington Hospital in Sydney. He stood with his feet firmly rooted to the spot, his round face turning a shade of beetroot as he continued to scream at the bus driver who had moments ago torn down the side of his BMW at the traffic lights.

During this exchange the passengers of the bus began to shuffle off to get a better view of the commotion, or possibly to seek alternative forms of transport, who knows. Perhaps some of the more observant of the crowd even noticed a young woman in the midst of labour calmly climbing out of the BMW, reaching back in to collect her suitcase and signalling for a taxi.

Twenty three years, seven month and twenty one days later I sit cross legged on a chair at my desk at my family home in London, sipping tea and quietly contemplating everything that happened in between these moments. It is part of a pre-life crisis. “Another one?” my ex-boyfriend exclaimed wearily over drinks recently. He had the pleasure of talking me off the window ledge during the run up to my graduation. I thought a moment. “No, I’m pretty sure it is the same one, I think I just took a sabbatical”. I just haven’t decided who I am yet.

So here it is. A piece of online space made up by thousands of zeros and ones that placed together make up the story of all the irrelevant moments that fill in the story in between. Oh and cake. It is part of how I cope.