F is for Freaking Car Alarms

You’re an intelligent and cultured individual (of course you are, you really ought to indulge in a little more self confident thinking if you really believe that you aren’t. I am not just trying to butter you up), I’m sure you’ve heard of the domino effect. Now imagine, if you will, that you’re in a relatively confined space. For a random example that I’ve totally just plucked out of the air, you could vision a parked up car deck on a ferry. You are surrounded by cars. One starts screeching in alarm at nothing in particular at all. Soon, all its mates are joining it in the shrill cacophony. It’s not exactly an ideal situation if you’re trying to work out why on earth your car’s side lights won’t turn off (they did, eventually but I’m sure you can understand that we really could have done without the overpowering din).

Has a car alarm ever actually worked for its intended purpose? Admittedly, I’m a little biased against them given that I’m vehicularly challenged so all that said alarms can possibly do is annoy me. But in all seriousness (yeah, I don’t think I’m using that term correctly either, it just sounded vaguely dramatic), I don’t think that I’ve ever seen any response to such noise beyond vigorous tutting (or possibly fingers in the ears if its at particularly close quarters). 

Is it just a particularly irritating way of declaring to the world that you actually own a car? I can see that being the case, if I had a car I’d probably show it off (not in an obvious way, I’d definitely play it cool because that’s absolutely what I’m like). Maybe the poor automobile is suffering from separation anxiety and is attempting to demand your attention like a needy toddler. So go feed it, burp it and give it a lovely oil change as a treat so that I can get a little peace.


E is for Empty Promises

Yeah, you always knew that I was full of crap, didn’t you? No talk of front bottoms for anyone. At some point, I’ll probably have to drop this now won’t I? Well, you’ll have to wait and see, I’ve been known to drag things out for simply ages regardless of the feelings or interests of anyone else. There are too many reasons to count for going back on a pledge or just to plain not fulfil it. There’s the ever present driving force that is apathy. That one’s definitely a big contender for ensuring that things, whatever they might be, don’t happen. On the other hand, there’s probably got to be more to do with it than plain and simple not caring. If only I could be bothered to find out.

You might give up on something because it’s just too difficult and you’re a bit of a wimp. Maybe you got sidetracked by a more important or engrossing project. Or perhaps someone went out of their way to prevent you from doing whatever it is you said you’d get done. They pleaded, blocked and sabotaged. If it’s so vital to them that you fail in your efforts then it would be terribly rude for you not to oblige them.

People really don’t get you do they? You say things without thinking all that carefully in order to get people to like you but possess little to no follow through so it’s pretty obvious that nothing was ever going to actually happen. See? I totally understand you. I’m sensitive like that. Obviously you very definitely had the very best of intentions when you promised the moon on a stick or whatever and that’s totally all that counts. Well done you. The only thing left to do is to make sure that people don’t grow weary of your pledges and resent you for being full of nothing more than being so full of nothing more than hot air. How? I’ll tell you tomorrow. Promise.

D is for Do I Have To?

I promised talk of lady gardens and associated bits. It might have been safely ensconced in brackets but it was very definitely a relatively firm pledge made in vaguely good faith. I really do have to remember in future that what I consider to be an entirely throwaway line isn’t always interpreted as such. 

I make a flippant joke about three magic wishes relating to the death of social media trends I don’t enjoy at all (don’t look for it, I deleted it rather than elaborate or go so far as to have to invent three such wishes) or pen a very silly list about different types of men (I’m still not altogether convinced that there’s more than just the one) and suddenly people want to hear from me on subjects that I never really considered open in the first place (it happens. Sometimes).

Maybe this wouldn’t happen if I worked more often in a slightly different medium. You can’t always be totally sure of what tone I’m trying to convey (trust me. I’m not always sure as to what I’m going for so how could you be in the know? Are you magic? Is that what’s going on? Because it really would explain a lot). When you heard the boredom or even dismissal in my voice or notice my emphatic eye rolling perhaps you’d understand me that little bit better (or you’d begin to actively worry for the state of my sanity because I look like a particularly deluded loon what with my pupils pinballing all over the place as if they’re actually trying to escape the confines of my skull. And who could blame them? I’m quite certain that there are far more exciting sights for them to experience that I am quite simply denying them. Poor things, take pity on them – they have to witness the entirety of the slow grind of the writing of this blog.

C is for Current State of Doctor Who

Please do bear with me, I’m experimenting with lost and forgotten leftover ideas from my slightly more official though still entirely unpaid writerly activities (get me, I’m an intern). The brief was to generate seven things wrong with insert item here (oh don’t go making the obvious joke. We simply don’t have time for you childish smuttiness. I’ll see if I can find a moment or two to get round to it tomorrow. I’ll have an in depth discussion on front bottoms or something). 

Given that I’m a dedicated if selective sci-fi nerd and its return is relatively imminent, is it any wonder that my mind turned to the collective uneasiness surrounding present era Doctor Who. I love this show to bits. Matt Smith and Alex Kingston have become the unlikely power couple that I’ll root for through thick and technically slightly dead thin. However, the programme seems to have sadly somewhat lost its shine. Current bigwig sitting atop the TARDIS and directing all things Whovian is Stephen Moffat. He’s admittedly done excellent work with it (Blink, The Silence in the Library, the aforementioned fabulousness that is River Song) but perhaps it’s just possibly time for someone else to be at the helm.

I can’t help but be just a little apprehensive about Peter Capaldi as the Doctor. The purist in me is still absolutely furious that he has very obviously already been on the show and if they don’t address it then I’m going to have to write a terribly angry letter. I may even use red ink. He’s a fantastic actor and yet I can’t help but feel he’s not the new direction I want to see. Because, clearly, the fate of the show depends solely on whether or not I, influential lady of impeccable taste and exquisite judgement that I am, approve of it.

B is for Blackcurrant

I’m weird. There, we were all thinking it and now I’ve been all brave enough to say it. Don’t you all feel so much more relaxed now that I’ve admitted it? Right at this point though I really should qualify my opening statement and give at least a mere lick of evidence to support my claim (I’m not sure that came out right).

I don’t know why everyone always like blackcurrant as a flavour. It’s always the darling, the blessed favourite when it comes to fruit pastilles and the like. I know my tastebuds work differently to everyone else’s (I’m certainly a lot picker than I like to think I am with regards to certain foods. Good luck feeding me world) but the definite superior flavour simply has to be orange. Quite frankly I can take or leave the blackcurrant ones (in most cases leave. Or more accurately, I’ll eat them first in order to get them out of the way with. Ain’t no one else having my candy even if I’m not particularly enjoying them). Maybe I’m putting too much thought into this. However, it must be said that the day when I open a packet of the aforementioned sweets and discover that they’re all orange (or possibly with a few yellows and greens sprinkled in there for variety) ill be a very happy one indeed.

I know that we’re talking very minor leagues delight here. The little things that are guaranteed to considerably perk up a day but not make the biggest difference to one’s general wellbeing. For example, if you were somehow granted three magic wishes or something this is probably not the sort of thing to waste one on. Then again, it’s hard to see how such a wish would turn around to bite you in the arse as they’re so prone to do. Maybe it would cause a worldwide shortage of the accursed blackcurrants. I’d be ever so happy then.

A is for At Least I Have This Thing

It’s certainly safe to say that I crank out rather a lot of material. As to the consistency of the quality of said output I really can’t say (I’m simply far too modest for that sort of thing. You feel free to wax lyrical about how wonderful I am though. Often. And in public). 

However, certain questions have been raised lately regarding what sort of writer I might be (don’t worry, this isn’t some kind of literary existential crisis. Or is it? There’s no way to be sure). You see, over the years on here and through other efforts, I have learnt to waffle and then some. So when I’m commissioned to write something (it totally does happen. Occasionally) it’s not exactly the end of the world if it’s not quite me (no matter how initially frustrating it might be) because I churn this stuff (this delicious spun gold of words) ever single day. With no editor to answer to and no one to tell me what content I should be covering and the style in which I should be going about it, I can confirm that this blog is completely 100% bona fide me. It’s up to you really to decide if that total authenticity is a good thing or not.

There’s the very slight downside of me being in sole creative control of this archive in that it means I’m often left staring desperately at the wall willing myself to come up with absolutely anything worthwhile (or not necessarily worthwhile, it only has to occupy an idle three hundred words or so after all) to talk about. I scour the internet, dig through dictionaries (well, I probably would. There’s one on my iPod I use every now and again. I think I do have an actual real dictionary. Somewhere) and spend really far too long with an entirely empty head before I come up with something to discuss with all of you lovely people out there in cyber land.

Z is for Zach

Zach loves a crisp. He’s always been a sucker for a savoury treat. What he doesn’t quite realise, bless the dopey unobservant lad, is that his train carriage is rather far away from sharing in his appreciation of them. First there was the rustling. That was bad enough. That’s the thing about posh crisps, the higher the quality of the packaging the greater the likelihood of it being capable of making an incredible amount of noise.

But the worst of it is that the special sweet chilli oak smoked or whatever infused hand cooked kettle crisps really are fairly whiffy. A little bit of noise handled in the correct manner and of short duration is just about forgivable to a compartment full of hot and bothered commuters, even in the quiet carriage, but a nasal assault is an unavoidable invasion that cannot be ignored.

Poor Zach. All he wanted was a snack and now he finds that he’s managed to attract evil glares on all sides. The man with a hangover and an important meeting in thirty seven minutes that he’s highly unlikely to get to is clearly contemplating something violent. What can he possibly do? He could smile cheerfully and offer to distribute his luxury product amongst all his fellow commuters. However, I’m afraid to say that such friendly overtures would be most frostily welcomed by the old bat opposite looking down her reading glasses at him. 

It’s terribly unfortunate but Zach has been cowed into meek subservience by the sheer force of malevolence radiating from certain members of the human race seated in close proximity to him. He’s stowing the crisps in his bag where they will wriggle into freedom from the depths of the supposedly resealable bag, crumble into hundreds of spiky fragments and burrow into the lining never to be removed. This is what happens when you have the nerve to break the silence.