About a month ago I wrote about an amazing weekend where I took my SLR out for a long overdue photographic orgy.
It'd been a long time since I'd used my SLR, mostly because of lack of confidence in my abilities with it and I was more than a little nervous that the results would be disappointing.
It's amazing what a dash of daring, a handful of encouragement and a liberal helping of relaxing and enjoying yourself can do.
So in honour of the event, this week is duly christened "Gherk Week", because the aim of the day was to take photos of the Gherkin.
Only, you'll have to wait a few days for the Gherkage, because the weather was so bad at the start that I had to find photographic nirvana elsewhere, and I found that in an almost empty Spitalfields Market.
Social Stuff
It's not like me, but almost by accident I've developed a bit of a social life.
Tonight I'm going to be trying to drown cold germs in Jack Daniel's at the blogger meetup and trying to get over chronic shyness in the process. If you fancy coming along, details can be found here.
Friday night I'll be going all rock-minx at the Bull & Gate in Kentish Town as The Dolz are on stage from 8.15. They're an ace band, and good friends of mine, and if you like good music and don't have any plans you should come along. You can find details and download a flyer here.
If you can't make it to this gig, but still want to see the band, don't worry, there are two more before the end of the year - one at the Academy in Islington and one at Underworld in Camden.
Ranty Stuff
Dear Selfish Bitch,
From the looks of it, approximately 400 teddy bears died to make your coat and hat.
You were walking in the sheltered area under the overhang of the offices at Camden Town Hall.
It wasn't actually raining any more, although yes, the air was still a bit damp.
Perhaps you could explain to me why you had your umbrella fully deployed and thus, nearly slicing my face open and puncturing my eyeball as you continually cut me off by weaving in front of me ensuring that I couldn't get past you?
You are not an articulated lorry on the motorway. You might have been substantially bigger than me (fake furry coat notwithstanding), but do that again and I'll show you a unique method of umbrella deployment.
Also. Acid rain wouldn't make a dent in that fake fur monstrosity. Get over yourself.
Sincerely,
Pix
Shoe Stuff
Yes, the shoes are comfortable.
I put them on pretty much the second I got home from the store, and didn't take them off until after I'd got into bed (where else did you think that photo was taken?).
I then wore them all day yesterday in the office and am wearing them as I type this.
Blister count so far: 0
This is a distinct improvement on past shoe purchases.
Nonsense
Warning: This will possibly only be amusing to a small group of people.
Go to Argos.
Enter the word "chav" (without quotes) into the search box.
Enjoy.
Don't you think?
(Photo not by me, for a change)
(Altogether now) "Oooooooh yes you are..."
Hello. My name is Pix and I'm a shoe addict.
I had a plan.
I wanted a pair of shoes for work. The ones I've been wearing most recently, while comfortable, are boring and frankly, fairly ugly.
This could not continue.
It was payday. I had a plan.
I wanted a pair of shoes that fulfilled the following criteria:
- I can run in them.
- I can walk down the very steep hill into the train station in them (without falling flat on my face or having to turn around and go backwards, clinging on to the railings like a novice skater at an ice-rink).
- Are comfortable enough to wear all day at work, and then all evening in the pub.
- Will co-ordinate with the items in my wardrobe.
- Will look good teamed with fishnets (and ordinary black opaque tights).
- Are sexy (oh come on, of course this is a requirement - I have a reputation to protect).
- Are not too expensive (note: the most I've ever paid for footwear is £50. That includes boots. It's not so much that I'm cheap [shut up], it's that I come from a family of fierce bargain hunters).
So on Saturday afternoon, after an inordinate amount of faffing, I made it to Oxford Street, where I promptly got serious claustrophobia as a result of the crowds, and remembered why I hate shopping on Oxford Street.
More by luck than by judgement, we emerged from Oxford Circus tube station right next to Shellys shoe shop.
... and it was there that the wheels came off the wagon.
I fought my way through the crowds, elbowed my way into the shop, and there they were.
The perfect shoes.
After a side-trip through the whole shop, I finally took my courage in both hands, and made the fatal mistake.
I tried them on.
They were sexy. They fitted. They looked good with fishnets. They were comfortable. I could walk in them. I could have run in them. They weren't so high I was going to fall on my face on the hill to the station.
In short, they were perfect.
Well, almost perfect.
They were £65.
So I wobbled.
I wibbled and I faffed.
I dithered and I prevaricated.
I went through several other shoe shops, telling myself that I'd find something just as perfect, and much cheaper, just a little bit further along the street.
In short, I was a girl... and worse, a girl shopping for shoes.
... and in the end, later than planned, and after a fruitless search for the mythical Schuh shop, I went home, empty handed and horrified at the depths to which I'd sunk.
My despair was so great that not even a bottle of wine and some of those mini chocolate swiss rolls from Marks & Spencer could help...
It was a desperate situation. I had a plan. I wanted shoes, and I had none.
What was I to do?
In a flash, the answer came to me.
eBay.
eBay. Purveyor of bargain shoey goodness.
Surely they would have something to ease my suffering?
They did.
Of course they did.
Two pairs of shoes, and two pairs of boots and £50 (including postage) later, the howling despair had been transformed.
... but you know what?
I still want those shoes.
I have to have those shoes.
Somebody stop me!
Wow.
Not that you can tell from my long silences on this blog, but I'm not often speechless - and this week, it's been difficult to know what to say.
The number of responses has been amazing - particularly for the fairly high number of comments from lurkers, and although I wasn't fishing for compliments, your kind words are all very much appreciated.
It's been a really strange year for me. My life and world view have been turned on their respective heads so many times I'm in danger of spinning off into orbit, and I'm still not entirely sure which way is up.
To know that despite the long silences, and the not very subtle retreat from writing into posting pictures (which, although wasn't nearly as cathartic, did keep me going through some of the toughest times) that there were people who were still interested, who still cared, really means a lot to me.
Although it is my site, and a lot of the motivation for me to keep maintaining it is because I feel the need to express myself, it's the element of interaction that stops it from being the online equivalent of shouting at the dustbins. If I'm honest, if it wasn't for that interaction, that feedback loop, I probably wouldn't still be doing this.
Although I enjoy it, I've never really thought I was particularly good at writing. Yes, there are pieces I've written where I've put a bit of effort in, or I've felt I've surpassed myself, but mostly, I just write as I'd speak. My photography though, is something that I have a bit more confidence in, and feels a bit more like artistic expression, and so I was finding myself a bit conflicted.
In typical fashion - I'm greedy. I want to do both. I want a photoblog, but I also want the space to wibble at life in general, and to rant, and rave, and yes, even shout at the virtual dustbins.
Those of you who've stuck with me through the many, many changes of URL will know that at various times I've had separate blogs for words and for pictures. While I like the idea of keeping the two things separate, it also feels like more work for the people who like both halves, and really, what I was hoping for was to figure out if there was a strong preference for one side over the other, to help me figure out whether one should be more emphasised than the other, because, after a good while trying, I just couldn't make the decision.
So, thank you for speaking up, for letting me know you appreciate what I do, and for helping me decide that the best thing for me to do is figure out something that's flexible enough to have either words, or pictures, or whatever else happens to occupy my brain at the time.
In short, thanks for helping me realise that the best thing I can do is just be me.
What do you/would you prefer to see on this blog?
a) words
b) photos
c) mixture of both
As I was setting things up to bring the blog back here, I did a bit of a rummage around the wayback machine, because, while I actually had four different blogs on this domain, I didn't think that any of them had ever been given pride of place and allowed to rest at the root.
When I checked the earliest archived page, I found one of my original entry pages, and on it, the following text:
I need to believe that every day is mine for the taking, and remind myself that even a small step is progress. The web is my passion, inspiration, lifeline and playground. It tears down barriers and gives me the freedom to express myself.
Four years on, and I'd still stand by those words.
Happily, it's not as much of a lifeline for me as it once was, but it's still a lifeline to many people, and a large part of who I am and what I do.
It's been too long since I did anything really creative online, and it's high time all of that changed.
Now, where did I put that inspiration...
So, after four and a half years of blogging, I'm back to the domain where I started.
Bear with me while I decorate the place, won't you?
52 days.
52 days since I last had an internet connection at home.
52 days since I moved the main bulk of my stuff out of the flat in which I'd lived for 310 days, with someone who I'd spent the majority of the previous 2,914 days of my life with.
I read somewhere, once, that it takes 8 weeks to form a habit, and by extension, 8 weeks to break one.
8 weeks.
56 days.
4 days short of a new habit, or possibly, the loss of an old one.
I'm not so convinced about this habit thing.
I mean, there are different levels of habits. There are the little things, like folding empty food wrappers lengthways into a ribbon, and then knotting it, or always putting the toilet paper roll on the holder with the sheet hanging forwards. Surely these little things take less time to change than the big stuff?
2,914 days is 56 times 52.
That's a lot of habit forming time, but not nearly as long as the 10,263 days I've been alive for, so far.
The origin of certain habits has occupied my thoughts, to a greater or lesser degree, for quite a while now.
Some of them have been easier to identify than others.
Simple cause and effect.
This equals that.
I tap the top of drinks cans before opening them because someone once told me that if you tapped the top before popping the tab it wouldn't explode all over you. It seemed to work, so I kept doing it. Logically, I know it's nonsense, and that if I'd shaken a can, tapping the top of it wouldn't stop it from emptying its contents all over me (and, doubtless, everyone around me).
Other stuff isn't so easy to pin down, and that's the stuff I most want to figure out.
I have a burning need to understand myself.
I need to know why I do what I do, so that I can decide which habits I want to keep, change, break or make.
Einstein said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.
I want a different result.
In the distance the majestic towers of Canary Wharf rise through the morning haze, glinting in the weak sunlight, and I slow my pace, resisting the urge I always get to run down the slope.
It's that kind of slope. The kind that I know will cause me trouble when it gets really wet, or icy, but for now, it's steep, and it makes me want to run and giggle as I go, like a small child that has no sense of the consequences of going too fast, or landing in a crumpled heap when the braking systems inevitably fail.
It's a beautiful autumn morning. Warm enough that I don't have to wear a coat or cardigan, but crisp enough to make me feel alive.
I've made it from my door to the train station in 6 minutes, without running, and with 2 minutes to spare.
The train pulls in, a minute late, and stops in just the right place so that a door opens right in front of me. I step up onto the train and for the first time this week, I'm not wedged into someone else's armpit.
North London suburbs pass by outside the window, and I smile as the train that carried me home last night pulls into the maintenance depot.
It isn't my fault, it was fine when I left it.
At Finsbury Park we slow, and the unholy spawn of Jamie Oliver and Thom Yorke appears at my side, throat swaddled in a huge woolly scarf, tucked into his moss-green pinstripe jacket.
We get off the train and he nips in front of me to dash down the stairs. I consider tripping him, but notice that he's wearing too-big flip-flops and decide it's just too easy a target.
As we race down the spiral staircase, I'm careful to stay a step or so behind, giving myself space to leap over his sprawled body, just in case.
When I reach the platform, a train is there - doors open - waiting for me. I leap on, mindful of the inevitable beeping which will surely start as I approach, and sit down, ample space around me, and pick up a copy of the Metro, thoughtfully discarded by a previous passenger.
At the other end, both up escalators are working, and I feel spoiled for choice.
Weaving through the throng of fellow passengers, I make it to the stairs, and up, out of the station into the noise and bustle that is central London in the morning.
I get to work, exactly 29 minutes after closing my front door.
It's Friday, and no matter what else is going on, the UK is a better place today.
... the online home and (not very) alter(ed)-ego of Ann McMeekin, a recently freelance Web Accessibility Consultant.
... passionate about many things, most of which will turn up on this site at some time or other.
... contactable via email.
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