F is for Fountain of Consciousness

Why is everyone out there so very fussed about this stream of consciousness I’ve heard so very much about? It’s hardly the most important stage in proceedings when you really think very deeply hard about it. And you don’t need to because I already have. What’s so much more relevant to the creative process, well I say the creative process like it really means anything whatsoever but you know the sort of thing I mean because it’s painfully obvious from the context and I bang on about it far more often than is good for me especially when it’s unfortunately off topic and definitely going off on a strange tangent, is the idealogical springboard, the original moment that sets everything in motion. After all, how could a body of whatever consciousness is made up of as opposed to water evolve to the point of being considered a stream without there first being a start point, a wellspring, a fountain? If by now you’ve realised that I’ve sat around for a very very long time today without coming up with anything half decent to write about and I’m desperately trying to fill in a day’s worth of words whilst worrying that I’ll still be this stuck by the time the next alphabetical cycle rolls round in just under a month, just in case you weren’t fully versed in how time works, and I’ll be reduced to calling the next one f is for freeform jazz. Doubtless you’ll have already grasped precisely what that means, I always said that you were clever didn’t I? Oh, well I’m sure I must have thought it once or twice in the past . It’ll be exactly the same principle as this post, typing words in the vain hope that some ideas might fall out at some point but with one key difference, you all imagining a scat or whatever underneath it. Except now I’ve explained it there isn’t really any reason to write it. Oh dear.

E is for Engineering Serendipity

Well that sounds vaguely snazzy now doesn’t it? Maybe I’m trying to show off or something, trying to get you people to think I’m a bit more impressive than I really am (but that’s not possible is it? I am terribly impressive, I heard you say so). Really it’s more that I was flicking through an old notebook on the hunt for stray ideas I haven’t completely butchered yet and I happened upon an interesting list.

I’m pretty sure it’s from a talk I went to a while called something aggressively optmistic like ‘winning the future’. It was quite a refreshing experience really, for once we weren’t being told how we’re all going to die because of global warming and overpopulation and asteroids and the impending rapture (I might be paraphrasing). Instead, a very enthusiastic man shared insights into frankly awesome new technologies and developments in renewable energy sources and the like that I unfortunately can no longer remember. This is the problem really, I have these hastily scrawled statements but no supplementary notes to go with them. It’s all well and good to know that in order to ‘win the future’ I’m supposed to police my own cynicism (ha! Good luck with that) and engineer serendipity (sounds pretty cool but now I have absolutely no idea what that means, more on that in a minute). Um, how? It seems to me that this is all essentially high minded idealism rather than anything practical (I will work on that cynicism thing).

So, engineering serendipity. It seems like a slighlty oxymoronic concept – isn’t the point of it that it’s purely coincidental. So how are you supposed to make happy accidents happen? Well, we all know how accidents happen or at least when, those rare (or otherwise if you’re anything like me) times when you’ve taken your eye off the ball, not paying quite enough attention to whatever it is you’re doing and you make some sort of horribly embarrassing mistaek. But how do we make that happy? Or am I being overly literal again? Tell you what, do it with a smile, that’s bound to cheer up the person who’s foot you’ve just run over.

D is for Don’t You Remember Me?

Oh dear, it’s one of those days where I’ve got quite a way through it and I don’t really know what I should write about. Awkward. Bear with though, I’ve got a scrappy fledgling of an idea that might just be able to battle its way int my consciousness to the point where I can scrape it into a hundred or so more words than it really deserves.

Facebook has the capacity to be a singularly troublesome website (I am probably going somewhere with this), it’s a real social minefield when it wants to be. I could probably just leave it there (apart from the whole pesky self set word count thing that is definitely never ever a pain in my posterior region) and everyone reading this who uses said site would probably be on board with me. In fact those who don’t are ost likely smiling smugly to themselves as the righteous feeling of satisfaction spreads through them as their life choices are clearly superior in this instance. Facebookers, go and kick them, they need more hardship in their lives.

The point is that Facebook can throw up the odd sticky situation that probably wouldn’t have managed to arise through other means. From the way I’m talking you just know I’ve got something specific in mind that I want to moan about don’t you? Well done you, I’ll put you out of your anticipatory misery. The thing is, when people add you on Facebook it’s not always clear where they know you from (if indeed they know you at all but that’s a problem for another day), you might not remember them and the context provided by your mutual friends list might not be enough for you to place them. I had such an experience recently. It’s absolutely not my fault, these are people I knew over nine years ago, I can’t be expected to remember every single one of them (though obviously if they don’t all remember me they are the most foolish of mortals). Fortunately, my poor little brain did eventually kick into gear but still the whole thing is mildly unsettling. Let’s all go back to handwriting letters.

C is for Capaldi’s New Look

Alrighty then, so a couple of the relatively geekier corners of the internet have been set buzzing and or twittering or whatever depending on your perspective and social media site of choice. Or maybe this particular news story is more momentous and mainstream than I’m giving it credit for. After all, it has managed to crop up on the BBC’s website. Then again, it’s not wholly unsurprising given that this is Doctor Who related.

Basically, the new older Doctor’s fresh wardrobe has been revealed. It is exciting. Well, a bit. Given that there’s no firm date in sight for the return of said show, this is pretty much all we have as fans to go on until it comes back properly. Now I know that I’m not alone (because I’ve actually talked to other people, try not to be too surprised, it does happen every now and then and it’s very easy to get people talking about this sort of thing – passions can run surprisingly high. Maybe not all that surprising really if you’re familiar with the fandom. Anyway, I’ve had the odd chat with fellow watchers on related topics, I’m not quite so up to date as to have discussed this latest development) in thinking that the latest instalments of Doctor Who aren’t quite one hundred per cent up to scratch (scandalous as it is for me to say such a thing).

So I’m sure that you’re all dying to know what I think of the new ensemble. I’m not exactly enthused. Almost every excited comment seems to be about the snazzy red lining of his navy cardigan. Or the fact that he’s wearing Doc Martens. Well, if I wasn’t already missing Matt Smith, I very definitely am now (and I really was before). Where’s the bow tie? Where’s the fez? Where’s the flair? Apart from that little flash of red, this outfit is just so bleak. And his top button’s done up and he’s not wearing a tie. I am not amused.

B is for Beer Ice Cream

Oh yes, courtesy of adventurous friends with such discerning palates from Japan this is a thing. A very long time ago at school we were given the choice of doing a presentation on absolutely anything we fancied. Naturally I chose ice cream. As such, I was already aware of the bizarre and exotic flavours they have over there like octopus. But this is a new discovery, one I’m not sure I entirely understand. It really does make me wonder precisely what their problem is with the old dependables. You might have something of an issue with one or two but who out there seriously doesn’t enjoy all of vanilla, chocolate, strawberry and my definite favourite mint (though why it constantly has to be plagued by association with chocolate I’ll never know).

I mean, I do drink beer. It’s highly socially awkward of me to turn my nose up at wine so I can hardly commit a further heinous sin by disdaining beer too. But I don’t really see precisely what beer has going for it as a flavour. Then again, I get a slight impression that some of these ice cream varieties exist really more for the sake of it rather than their culinary excellence. I hesitate to use the word novelty but I can’t be bothered to crack out the thesaurus so it will simply have to do.

For example, there’s a flavour called Vampire. I only mention it because it’s apparently rather garlicky. Which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. For one thing, I know it’s not the only one on the list but ice cream was never meant ti be savoury as far as I’m concerned. But more than that, why on earth would anything remotely vampiric taste of garlic? Surely they’d avoid said substance at all costs. Of course this might just have a little something to do with how the vampire in question ended up in a vat of ice cream. It’s a fascinating process.

A is for Are You Kidding Me?

The definitive ranking of chocolate bars from worst to best with accompanying tag line our decision is final. Oh writers of Buzzfeed, you arrogant misguided fools, let’s take a brief gander and have a quick go at figuring out quite how wrong you are. Of course, on one level this sort of thing is all down to personal preference which can vary wildly and in strange and confusing ways. After all, at one point the most popular chocolate bar on the London underground by vending machine sales was Cadbury’s whole nut. The only reasonable explanation I can think of for this sort of sacrilegious nonsense is that this is the result of some deeply perverse psychological experiment to see if people were desperate enough for chocolate when all other options were disallowed so that the only sugary ‘treat’ on offer was the whole nut.

Maybe I’m just submitting to stereotypes and convention by admitting that my interest in this might somehow be down to a natural feminine affinity with chocolate. In fact, the whole business might have nothing whatsoever to do with my bodily possession or otherwise of lady bits. Anyway, what I’m trying to put across is that chocolate and I get on, we know rather a lot about one another and I’ve somehow found a few idle moments in my busy schedule to dedicate a thought or two towards which one I’d choose to spend the rest of my life with.

For example, who in their right mind gives the number one spot to Twix. Someone has made the excellent point that the chocolate to filling ratio is just off. As enjoyable as they might be, Twixes simply aren’t chocolatey enough to be top dog in this sort of list. This is the thing, the contender who emerges victorious here ought to be pure unadulterated chocolate, unadorned by any biscuity distraction. Unfortunately that puts Teaser, the delicious new kid on the block, out of the running but I’m sure we’ll live with that. In spite of the stiff competition out there, I think I’m going to have to throw my support behind the Sarah Millican endorsed combination of a square of Galaxy with a square of dairy milk. It’s simply Divine (another strong contender that would still be a player in its own right even if it weren’t fairly traded, that’s just the icing on the delicious chocolatey cake).

Z is for Zero Posts

Isn’t it a very good thing indeed that there exist in the world most charming establishments that will not only feed you so long as you pay them but also offer you free Wi-Fi? Given that you’ll be reading this online in one form or another it’s pretty safe for me to assume that you’re some variety if internet savvy if not dependent and therefore your complete and utter agreement with my previous statement is more than likely to rank more than highly in the league that contains the safest of bets and surest of things. You know, things like the religious orientation of the pope and the location of bear ablutions (somewhere up in the clouds if the Charmin loo roll adverts are anything to go by. Or maybe I haven’t really been paying quite enough attention to telly of late).

As it was I was really fairly busy yesterday (it happens every now and then. Of course I have to take a week of after such days but that’s beside the point). We were out of the house about nineish (we’d originally settled to be off at half eight, only half an hour late is relatively good going by the standards of certain family members I won’t name because I don’t want them to be annoyed with me for spreading such lies and slander  about them).

The truly remarkable thing (well, the thing that is of relevance to this blog and therefore the thing I’m going to talk about which is very nearly the same thing) is that I didn’t get back home until just after midnight. Oh the unimaginable horror, if I hadn’t somehow managed to publish the blog earlier on in the day… Well it really just downy bear thinking about. I’d certainly have been responsible for a few truly broken hearts, either from the sad realisation that life is empty without an insane daily update from me or actual heart attacks from the total shock if my failure. Well worry

Y is for You’ve Got the Song

Yes that’s right ladies and gentlemen, it’s a glorious mash up of Elton John (well technically I’ve got the version from Moulin Rouge because I’m very definitely cool but I’m afraid to say that’s completely beside the point. Well, that works actually be a pretty strange thing to be afraid of but it sounds polite and it’s filled in a bit of space) and Florence + the machine (or as Dave Gorman has as excellently nicknamed then, Flo and the Mac, unfortunately Apple is yet to offer that particular sponsorship deal).

Now I’m not entirely sure what this brand spanking new musical endeavour might sound like because I’ve just made it up. What I can tell you for an absolute certainty is that Ellie Goulding will not be allowed anywhere near it. Not that I’ve got anything against her as a person, at least I don’t think I do. After all, we hardly know each other. She might not be particularly partial to me. Though when you think about it, that’s harshly likely now is it? She’s only human. We seem to have wandered down a slightly odd tangent.

Mash ups are all the rage I’d you pay any attention to things like Glee (I honestly don’t though to a certain level of shame, I did used to. How can you trust my judgement any more? At least I’ve seen the error of my ways and won’t be tuning in again until they air the episode I wrote with the nuclear explosion. At regionals. In the middle of one of the interminable solos). It’s a canny way of breathing new life into not just one but two old and well worn tracks. By which I do of course mean it’s a cynical ploy to make a quick buck. How could I have ever possibly managed to become this jaded? Just remember, it’s a little bit funny, these hands up in the air. Hmm, might need some work.

X is for Xu and Xiang

Oh the deeply onerous and exhausting process that is having to actually go out of your way to give other people credit.  Obviously this an almost entirely empty gripe, I do understand the entirely reasonable and essential underlying reasons for this sort of thing. However, all the well mannered logic in the world won’t stop it from being a complete pain in the bum so I’m going to indulge in a cathartic moan because it might hopefully make me feel slightly better. Can you tell that I had an essay to hand in today? I’m very tired now, there’s nothing left in my tiny little brain. I’m going to have to write about it.

So yes, referencing, it’s a hassle. Clearly proper people should have to do it, people who are trying to get published and that (it would seem that I’m in something of a technical mood today folks). But not me. And I’m not just saying that because I’m lazy, a proper lecturer told me that. That’s some very definite wisdom in this idea. Think about it, if I hand in a piece of work you can basically assume that I knew about two per cent of the information in there beforehand. Stuff like the word and or whether or not I ought to be using whom (generally not). So it’s all going to be stuff I’ll have read somewhere.

Then there’s cheating. That’s just plain naughty (and I very much doubt that I’m crafty enough to get away with it). But the thing about that is, if I were to do anything as dastardly as to copy and paste, it would be pretty obvious that it wasn’t me what wrote it. Because it would sound vaguely coherent.

Referencing is demoralising, plain and simple. I’ve finally, magically, impossibly managed to get to the end of a piece if work but it isn’t complete until I’ve trawled through, scattering numbers at random and wearily copied the hundred or so authors of every paper into the references section. And because it’s science and I’m tired, I know I’ll make a mistake and write down someone’s name as Xieng, C. rather than Xiang, C. How embarrassing.

W is for What’s My Age Again?

Why did I mess with my old format? It was beautiful, I literally had a list of things that I could write about. Now I have to actually try to use my increasingly withered and battered little grey cells to try and come up with something fresh and interesting. Every single day. Who said I was complaining (I hope I’m not starting to come off as paranoid or anything, I wouldn’t want to tip off my enemies that I’m on to them and their varied attempts to bring me down)? So in a celebration of yesterday or a tribute to the past or whatever I’m dipping back into my song collection to see if there’s anything I can spin out into a blog length thought.

Social media really is this endless wellspring of joy and interest in our daily lives now isn’t it? It’s certainly the furthest thing I can think of from repetition of ideas and collective jumping on bandwagons. On a completely unrelated note, I just so happen to have noticed of late that lots of people are taking online quizzes. I’m sure you know the sort of thing (or if you don’t you can pretend you did after the end of this sentence); which character are you from this film no one remembers, how middle class are you, how likely are you to go on a killing spree (it turns out it depends entirely on how many of these quizzes I’ve taken on any given day)?

One of these quizzes that particularly caught my notice was what’s your real age? Or it was something along those lines. Because apparently your passport can’t be trusted to supply this information. I’m sure that you’re well aware that everyone’s either an old soul or a (wo)man child. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been alive for, your age is far more dependent on what you drink and how often and whether or not you’re down with social media. It turns out I’m a hundred and seven. Or six. I didn’t fill it out properly.