tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12119470836680211582024-02-02T10:04:09.663+00:00Splitting Ions in the EtherThe final resting place of the "thoughts, thoughts about thoughts, [and] thoughts about thoughts of thoughts" of a recent postgraduate (hence the unnecessary Sartre reference).adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-1315131132638832612013-08-22T17:54:00.001+01:002013-08-22T17:54:39.752+01:00Cluster headache and a new EPThe last few weeks have been rather painful to say the least. After battling daily headaches for a fortnight with no sign of an end in sight, I decided it was probably time I pay a begrudging visit to the doctor. The diagnosis was fairly swift; after quickly ruling out migraines, sinusitis or stress-related issues, I was diagnosed with <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cluster_headache" target="_blank">cluster headache</a>. Had I not inadvertently been made aware of this illness a few days prior, I might have been a little surprised. As it happened, I was somewhat relieved to have a reason for the headaches and I left the medical centre almost happy with the outcome. Of course, I was quickly brought back down to reality when the next headache kicked in, reducing me to a nervous wreck for the best part of an hour. To make matters worse, the medicine I was prescribed not only didn't seem to be working but on the sixth day I experienced a bad reaction resulting in a day spent unable to move without throwing up. That was two days ago and I am still feeling tired and run-down. Not fun. However, on the bright side, in between the headaches I have found plenty of time to continue composing and have a new set of tunes on Bandcamp. As always, they are absolutely free to listen to or download!<br />
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<iframe seamless="" src="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=2923257606/size=medium/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; height: 120px; width: 100%;"><a href="http://ionsintheether.bandcamp.com/album/un-titled">(UN)titled by Ions in the Ether</a></iframe><br />
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If you like what you hear, please share with any and everyone!adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-39341132621152096312013-07-23T09:30:00.003+01:002013-07-23T09:33:47.185+01:00Ions in the Ether - "When We Were"Some more electronic music I've been working on. Listen or download for free!<br />
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<iframe seamless="" src="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=2704754088/size=medium/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; height: 120px; width: 100%;"><a href="http://ionsintheether.bandcamp.com/album/when-we-were">When We Were by Ions in the Ether</a></iframe><br />
If you like what you hear, why not click that little "Share" button above? I'm pretty sure it does something.
adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-42209592028832901332013-06-21T11:32:00.001+01:002013-06-21T11:42:44.565+01:00Ions in the Ether - "Begin"So I went and composed some electronic music...<br />
Give it a listen, download for free, share with your mum.<br />
<iframe seamless="" src="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=3015812325/size=medium/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; height: 120px; width: 400px;"><a href="http://ionsintheether.bandcamp.com/album/begin">Begin by Ions in the Ether</a></iframe><br />
Oh, also there's a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ionsintheether" target="_blank">Facebook page</a>. Be a dear and press "Like" if you are that way inclined.adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-61458875795380970872013-06-02T23:02:00.002+01:002013-06-02T23:02:28.701+01:00"Lost Cat" by Caroline Paul<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhUjrjq6rC2wvbEwhdNH4ylhiWt-DtzyQHlsdn44i9ehNER5kYVJT6WmXqLxwjEat6YIrz5W0HJheJxW6SqBc__tSwJvyIfzekgl_jZHD5BiPOtnjWacvkwtFeglWZEWaPQuEYKH2yLwY/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhUjrjq6rC2wvbEwhdNH4ylhiWt-DtzyQHlsdn44i9ehNER5kYVJT6WmXqLxwjEat6YIrz5W0HJheJxW6SqBc__tSwJvyIfzekgl_jZHD5BiPOtnjWacvkwtFeglWZEWaPQuEYKH2yLwY/s200/photo.jpg" width="156" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.ataleoftwocats.co.uk/2013/06/78.html" target="_blank">"What'cha reading?"</a></td></tr>
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It was over a month ago that Caroline Paul's latest book arrived on my doorstep. As per usual, the cats knew about it first and, as per usual, Tilly gave it the once over. Mind you, I didn't actually see her inspecting the post that morning but I was greeted with the familiar sight of torn paper and a series of highly incriminating bite marks... she's never been good at covering her tracks. Nevertheless, unlike my bank statement, it seems she must have deemed "Lost Cat: A True Story of Love, Desperation, and GPS Technology" acceptable and with a title like that who can blame her?<br />
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<a name='more'></a>Truth be told, I'm not entirely sure what I was expecting when I sat down to read "Lost Cat". Actually, that's a lie, I knew exactly what I was expecting and I expected exactly what everyone always expects from a book about cats; that is to say, a cute, lighthearted and occasionally funny tale of inter-species companionship. You know, something slightly vomit-inducing. So you can imagine my surprise when, upon finishing "Lost Cat", I realised I had quite legitimately laughed, sighed and ultimately cared about the story I had just read. For someone like me that is no small feat. I mean, sure, I own two cats and I occasionally draw pictures of them but I'm not a crazy cat person, right? "No, of course not", I hear you cry and you'd be right. And yet, Caroline writes with a wit and conviction that never fails to make an impression. Her story is one of tragedy, loss and reconciliation, subject matters that could so easily have buckled under their own weight, but which she handles with an understated ease. The poignancy of such moments are underpinned by Caroline's subtle sense of humour, which manages to remain omnipresent without ever feeling forced. The same can be said of Wendy MacNaughton's beautiful illustrations; adding a seemingly organic vibrancy and intimacy that ebbs and flows in perfect unison with Caroline's words. "Lost Cat" is a delightful book that will be instantly relatable to all but the most nonchalant of cat-owners and animal-lovers alike. This still doesn't mean I'm a crazy cat person though...<br />
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<i>Find out more about "Lost Cat" at <a href="http://lostcatbook.com/">http://lostcatbook.com/</a></i></div>
adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-35941661028662142842013-05-08T19:12:00.001+01:002013-05-08T19:12:22.060+01:00Free Running Dogs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitz4S-n3qkMQPMLvCAfsrBI5saFEJhmyzH4flzxVe4zqETny4_y0l_wIgLCmjGvTbuP8sil2d-eZtcC1NyS54wh7xYg_lUkQFpgYw6mGg_B-AizkJiSOUHp5SiJRwI2MnKiFNrNzJh8lQ/s1600/mWAHJaaKQM31nqfDcSVbDKg2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitz4S-n3qkMQPMLvCAfsrBI5saFEJhmyzH4flzxVe4zqETny4_y0l_wIgLCmjGvTbuP8sil2d-eZtcC1NyS54wh7xYg_lUkQFpgYw6mGg_B-AizkJiSOUHp5SiJRwI2MnKiFNrNzJh8lQ/s200/mWAHJaaKQM31nqfDcSVbDKg2.jpg" width="144" /></a></div>
So I was walking to work, as is customary when one has work to walk to, when I noticed an ominous bright red sign nailed to the front door of a house. Having walked the exact same path almost everyday for the past six months, I was surprised I hadn't seen it before but, then again, having walked the exact same path almost everyday for the past six months, I'm no longer in the habit of paying much attention to my surroundings. Funnily enough this also explains why I'm fairly certain that it did not, in fact, read "Caution: free running dogs".<br />
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Nevertheless, wow, I thought, dogs practicing parkour, that sounds like a whole lot of fun - I bet it's like the opening scene of Casino Royale in there, except instead of Daniel Craig chasing a miscellaneous 'bad man' across a building site, there's a chihuahua running from a yorkshire terrier across a living room; sliding under a coffee table, scaling a sofa, tight-roping a clothes horse. Later that day, approximately 30 seconds to be precise, I realised two things:<br />
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<ol>
<li>Firstly, a dog free running isn't really all that impressive. In fact, isn't that just what they do? Isn't that what most animals do? For instance, only this morning I witnessed Tilly jump up and over a bed, skid through a door way, bounce off a wall and scale the side of a bath tub in order to reach the litter tray at the other end of the house. There was no need (yes, the tray<i> is</i> on the floor, thank you very much, clear of obstacles and with open access!); she just did it. You see, animals aren't tied down to predefined paths like we are, walking straight to the toilet like idiots. They are free runners by nature. </li>
<li>Secondly, given the above, the sign may as well have read "Caution: free running dogs". </li>
</ol>
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And with that, I carried on walking to work; along the same road, over the same crossing, through the same subway and past the same bus stop.<br />
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P.S. Just for the record, I am perfectly happy to walk straight to the toilet.adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-28260778591768106222012-08-28T10:12:00.001+01:002012-08-28T10:12:21.636+01:00On "A Tale of Two Cats" and the Creative Process<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhry8byKh0ymCFLFWcdcq07Ap0EoSVtUQqyCziGbO05yr-FTVyLfNTlUsaaJLTJGYSSSu0lfST4R-p2M_gf0Le_j9SKp9NMteK5IMJ0zTMOgRJQn8hEbPoUWsNnj55Vx5kzeg_sCYevFk4/s1600/CreativeProcess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhry8byKh0ymCFLFWcdcq07Ap0EoSVtUQqyCziGbO05yr-FTVyLfNTlUsaaJLTJGYSSSu0lfST4R-p2M_gf0Le_j9SKp9NMteK5IMJ0zTMOgRJQn8hEbPoUWsNnj55Vx5kzeg_sCYevFk4/s200/CreativeProcess.jpg" width="200" /></a>As you may have gathered from the dearth of new content on this blog over the course of the past two months, I have been rather busy. Although I would like to say that I've been doing lots of exciting things and that the majority of my time has <i>not</i> been spent drawing pictures of Mona and Tilly, I'm afraid I would be lying. Well, that's not strictly true. For instance, I have been spending a fair amount of time selling stationery, or at least standing around waiting for the opportunity to sell stationery whilst the rest of Britain sunbathes, and I did finally receive a job offer, which was more exciting than I care to admit. But then again, it is equally true to say that I have indeed spent an inordinate amount of time drawing pictures of Mona and Tilly.<br />
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When I started <i><a href="http://a-tale-of-two-cats.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">A Tale of Two Cats</a></i> way back at the end of June, I really hadn't given a thought as to whether it would still be live, so to speak, two months down the line. And even so, if I had thought about it, I am quite sure I wouldn't have bet on the blog lasting for more than a couple of weeks before my enthusiasm waned. Nevertheless, as with most creative endeavours that I happen to embark upon, the initial inspiration and excitement is often so intoxicating that I rarely take a moment to sit back and think about it with any sense of perspective or objectivity. This can, of course, be a negative thing; after all, there is nothing quite as disappointing and anti-climactic as the premature demise of a project that, in reality, was never going to be completed had I thought about it rationally. And yet, it is precisely this initial surge of vigor that gives life to the projects that do work; that are achievable. <i><a href="http://a-tale-of-two-cats.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">A Tale of Two Cats</a> </i>is a prime example; in the first few weeks I was eager to create as much content as possible and by the time I'd reached the two week mark, I had developed an idea that I found more exciting than when I had originally conceived of it. After this point in a project, the creative process becomes almost self-perpetuating, which allows room for more objective thought. In the case of <i><a href="http://a-tale-of-two-cats.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">A Tale of Two Cats</a></i>, this meant that I found the time and desire to think more carefully about things outside of the content itself, such as how the site should function and where I wanted the project to go. It is at the stage now where I feel that I have created something significant in some small way, whether simply from my own point of view or from that of those who enjoy my work. I suppose this is the ultimate value of creativity. Or something.adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-74058326048637129512012-06-30T12:50:00.000+01:002012-06-30T12:52:59.940+01:00Introducing "A Tale of Two Cats"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijew3m-ssLGwT90YVOzit7FoBDELSPj7VTgPTvZj7kw-tI7YY-WLdmpEQLnIhmaW8v41v2LMzniDYyS48ujiRcahEI7kWWEEFn23EhgwAsLYpsEbZWw0aH9LpK6GXsqCwbd_TEQtGzkIM/s1600/ataleoftwocatslogo.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijew3m-ssLGwT90YVOzit7FoBDELSPj7VTgPTvZj7kw-tI7YY-WLdmpEQLnIhmaW8v41v2LMzniDYyS48ujiRcahEI7kWWEEFn23EhgwAsLYpsEbZWw0aH9LpK6GXsqCwbd_TEQtGzkIM/s200/ataleoftwocatslogo.png" width="200" /></a></div>
Although I have been a cat owner for almost a year and a half now, it still feels somewhat bizarre when I say it out loud. Indeed, if someone had told me eighteen months ago that in a year's time I'd own not just one but two cats, I would have laughed in their face and kindly asked them to leave my house. Of course, this wasn't quite my reaction when someone actually did suggest that I adopt a cat. Then again, it was probably for the best; I don't think asking my partner to leave would have gone down too well. Nevertheless, even though I am now <i>technically </i>a cat owner, I take great care not to give people the impression that I am some kind of pet lover. That is not to suggest that I dislike animals, I'd just rather they weren't anywhere near me or my belongings. I will admit, however, that this was a much easier task before we adopted Mona and Tilly.<br />
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But as far as I'm concerned, being a cat owner and a pet lover are two entirely separate ailments. You see, although it makes sense to think of Mona and Till as my "pets", I am still not completely convinced that this is true. On the contrary, I have come to the somewhat depressing conclusion that if anyone can be labelled as the "pet" in this relationship, it is most likely myself. After all, if a pet can be defined as an animal domesticated for amusement or companion, then in the eyes of Mona and Till I most definitely fit the bill. And yet, it is true that I get a lot of amusement out of them. After all, they are a funny pair and this is the reason why I have decided to embark upon a new project in which I hope to capture and document their antics for all posterity. Well, that and the fact that I have far too much time on my hands! Either way, head on over to <a href="http://a-tale-of-two-cats.blogspot.co.uk/" style="background-color: white;" target="_blank">"A Tale of Two Cats"</a>.adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-56382813632445703442012-06-25T12:31:00.000+01:002012-06-25T12:32:50.560+01:00An Englishman in Paris: Observations & Reflections<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhylBxcfGywtiQ7UCJQ4K46IX1Jm6ReUwU324hocKROCkiGDbOYml7fJoNMKMLtFSv9l08octKaBhvZnHelvsBTwDCMyqvFbe27IEHyyGULdtGko8TpdS7GzgOnRnRNzePaFdfcOnwKpNI/s1600/WP_000269.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhylBxcfGywtiQ7UCJQ4K46IX1Jm6ReUwU324hocKROCkiGDbOYml7fJoNMKMLtFSv9l08octKaBhvZnHelvsBTwDCMyqvFbe27IEHyyGULdtGko8TpdS7GzgOnRnRNzePaFdfcOnwKpNI/s200/WP_000269.jpg" width="150" /></a>This time last week I had never been to Paris. Not for any particular reason, mind you, other than for the simple fact that I had never had cause to go. Nevertheless, even for someone who has never visited the French capital, the mere mention of Paris evokes such a wealth of familiar sights and sounds that you could quite easily persuade yourself otherwise. After all, isn't Paris the Tour Eiffel, the Mus<span style="background-color: white;">ée du Louvre, the Cath</span><span style="background-color: white;">édrale Notre-Dame? Is it not the Arc de Triomphe and the Avenue des Champs-</span><span style="background-color: white;">Élys</span><span style="background-color: white;">ées? S</span><span style="background-color: white;">urely, b</span><span style="background-color: white;">y the same token, Paris is even the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo? Having now spent time in the capital, I can honestly say that the answer is yes; it is everything that the non-resident thinks it is. And yet, as with every tourist destination, Paris is more than it's defining landmarks and, although they may be reason enough to visit, it is the experience of the city itself that sticks in the mind. This is the Paris that is not immediately obvious; the living, breathing city that exists in the shadow of it's own immortal status. Therefore, although I enjoyed visiting the Parisian monuments, if only to prove their existence, it was the subtle differences in culture that I found most interesting. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">With this in mind, for me, the thought of Paris no longer consists merely of a roll call of familiar iconography. No, I can now add my own observations and reflections to the list, some of which I've documented below:</span><br />
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<ul>
<li>When it comes to learning the French etiquette between the pedestrian and the driver, simply walking out of Gare du Nord on to the Parisian streets for the first time provides ample opportunity to get the gist of things. Essentially, don't go believing that your well-being as a human has any bearing on whether cars will stop for you. Because it doesn't and they won't. The first mistake I made was thinking that a zebra crossing in Paris is the same as a zebra crossing in Britain. Suffice to say, it isn't, so don't go thinking that as a pedestrian you have the right of way. Because you don't and you never will. By way of example, think of cyclists in Amsterdam, except that instead of the possibility of causing an impromptu and anger-induced symphony of bicycle bells, you are far more likely to be run over by a lorry. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>It is no secret that stereotypes rarely match up to reality. Having said that, although I never expected to see the French exclusively<span style="background-color: white;"> wearing blue and white striped shirts and berets, I couldn't help notice that the few people that were wearing such attire were all, in fact, American. I suppose that says more about them than the French. However, what does ring true is that the French love their baguettes. There really is at least one boulangerie on every street and seemingly every other person has a loaf slung under the arm or sticking out of a grocery bag. This is the kind of stereotyping I can get behind; the French bake really good bread. </span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>If you think there is a lot of graffiti in London, you haven't been to Paris. For instance, it is rare to find a single section of wall, a bench or even a tree that hasn't been marked in some way or other. Even the insides of the Metro tubes are covered in spray paint, which surely must take some courage on behalf of the graffitists. Indeed, graffiti is so abundant throughout the centre of Paris that it almost seems to play as dominant a role in the fabric of the city's culture as the infamous landmarks that it exists alongside.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>The absolute worst thing about Paris has little to do with the city itself. Rather it is the insipid modern tourist culture that flocks around any such large and iconic destination. Unfortunately, it somehow seems particularly pronounced in Paris, perhaps because of the sheer number of tourist attractions and the close proximity between them. Of course, I was visiting the city as a tourist myself and I don't begrudge anyone doing the same. But what I dislike about <i>some</i> tourists is the dissociation between what they are seeing and where they are. For example, whilst in the Louvre I observed one woman walk hurriedly from room to room without taking her eyes off of her camera screen for more than a couple of seconds at a time. Although I can't really see the point of such an exercise, I don't so much care about this in itself. However, when the majority of tourists are doing exactly the same thing, it makes the experience for those that aren't far less enjoyable as you find yourself carried away with the mass of people, unable to take the time to appreciate what you are seeing. Anyway, I'll leave that rant for another day. </li>
</ul>
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<ul>
<li>Finally, one of the things that struck me about Paris is that it genuinely feels like a friendly place to be. For someone that is not particularly keen on cities, this came as quite as a surprise. In part, I feel that this has a lot to do with the layout of the city. Whilst there is no denying that it is an extremely busy and densely populated place, the streets of Paris are generally very wide in comparison to those found in equivalent British cities and there are large open areas all over the place. This works towards giving the impression of space, which in turn lessens the feeling of overcrowding and the sense of hostility that this can lead to. <span style="background-color: white;">In addition, restaurants and shops quite literally open out on to the streets, which, in itself, promotes a kind of airy and unified connectedness between public spaces. Then again, perhaps I was just mildly delirious from the heat and otherwise sheltered from the hubbub by my lack of understanding of the French language. Either way, Paris felt like a pleasant and comfortable place to explore. </span></li>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5kwqYrwVx7JFI5Ppb24Xod5qkzkiEz0XfT7-nodnMu16tOQ_oQL1BMpTUrvJSda4-T8YGVncK-9x4XzGesjXlIsFQZBh8swXVW92ETnVS80hGXMMIcXqhouDSeBhfCpPK8CHzTqODrxg/s1600/WP_000268.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5kwqYrwVx7JFI5Ppb24Xod5qkzkiEz0XfT7-nodnMu16tOQ_oQL1BMpTUrvJSda4-T8YGVncK-9x4XzGesjXlIsFQZBh8swXVW92ETnVS80hGXMMIcXqhouDSeBhfCpPK8CHzTqODrxg/s400/WP_000268.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-47242931443290045062012-06-06T23:02:00.001+01:002012-06-06T23:02:19.842+01:00Every Picture Tells A Story #7<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1WbgHxjKLtOritG0R21Y_7xQRYDzJ7FdcAAt4AXFqiwDq0l2_JY5yRL_exS8RU1aJYIdRuax738TkivbpCsHwW0BUdjadYW_OX9Ft7KOdBGkDA-eVCANR793PJFVp8qOjIAa6xUWcgNc/s1600/WP_000261-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1WbgHxjKLtOritG0R21Y_7xQRYDzJ7FdcAAt4AXFqiwDq0l2_JY5yRL_exS8RU1aJYIdRuax738TkivbpCsHwW0BUdjadYW_OX9Ft7KOdBGkDA-eVCANR793PJFVp8qOjIAa6xUWcgNc/s400/WP_000261-001.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Get a cat they said. It'll be fun they said.</td></tr>
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<br />adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-62168642707353077472012-06-05T14:59:00.000+01:002012-06-05T15:05:57.968+01:00Reality TV, The Apprentice and Job HuntingIt must be an exceedingly difficult task to choose the handful of successful applicants from the thousands of starry-eyed hopefuls who apply for each series of <i>The Apprentice</i>. Exceedingly difficult, that is, not for a lack of talent (nor an abundance for that matter) but for the simple fact that the show is as much an exercise in reality television as it is an exposition of business practice. Therefore, whilst it is true to say that the successful candidates must display at least a basic level of business acumen, this detail is only necessary in so far as it justifies the show's central premise. It is equally true, however, to say that television programmes live and die by their viewers and, thus, what is far more important is that the candidates are entertaining to watch. And this brings us to the curious paradox that lies at the heart of "reality TV"; that is to say that, in order to turn <i>reality</i> in to a viable form of entertainment, it must be manipulated in such a way that it is no longer merely a reflection of real life. Rather it is an illusion; a form of hyper reality, perhaps. It is only in this illusory world that <i>The Apprentice</i> can exist, for only here is it possible that such a sorry band of applicants could possibly make the short list for a lucrative partnership with one of Britain's most prestigious businessmen. And yet, in spite of their mediocrity, they are undeniably entertaining to watch, even if that entertainment revolves almost entirely around their vulgarity.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Nevertheless, I would a hazard a guess that even the most ardent fans of reality television are well aware of the disparity between what is presented as real and what <i>is </i>real. After all, isn't that what makes reality TV so compelling? It offers a completely contrived vision of reality that somehow manages to position itself both close enough and far enough from our own experience that we can simultaneously invest ourselves in it and maintain a distance. And yet we have become so accustomed to this disparity that it can be quite unnerving when reality television strays too close to<i> reality</i>. Take the most recent series of <i>The Apprentice </i>for example. In many ways the show wasn't any different from previous incarnations; in fact, if anything it adhered so rigidly to the usual formula that it became a self parody of sorts. Indeed, for all its theatricality and sensationalism, the final came down to a decidedly simple decision between two personalities. However, during the final programme, Alan Sugar effectively asked the question, "Do you have to be a bit of a dick to get noticed these days?" (Disclaimer: Not necessarily his words). Judging by his subsequent decision to hire "Ricky" Martin, surely one of the show's most arrogant, egotistic and, frankly, ridiculous candidates in memory, the answer, it seems, is a resounding yes. Now, given all that I've already said about reality TV, of course this choice didn't come as a great surprise; out of the two remaining candidates, Martin was clearly the entertainer, the showman, the jester. But with the fragile state of the current economic climate and my own desperate search for a job firmly in mind, I couldn't help feel that this was a rather disappointing conclusion; a sign of the times, so to speak. I'm no fool; I fully understand the importance of self-marketing but I didn't realise that that meant sacrificing personal integrity. Then again, perhaps I've been going about job applications all wrong? Maybe if I said I was "Thor" I'd be taken seriously.adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-20064018059914776142012-05-05T20:01:00.002+01:002012-05-05T20:03:56.017+01:00Every Picture Tells A Story #6<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgfqiWN6D3bnCP5hfR3z87V_a-JZK5fVSuoXs3a7gMgz8Ba2am139WBPFPn-FroV_YWofiqq5DX6oslnTssCMSYSuKq1kvp8-Hk5TXC6OF_W0efNsMxpRYN0aRc_TZlHW6ZrndAGntM4Q/s1600/WP_000218s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgfqiWN6D3bnCP5hfR3z87V_a-JZK5fVSuoXs3a7gMgz8Ba2am139WBPFPn-FroV_YWofiqq5DX6oslnTssCMSYSuKq1kvp8-Hk5TXC6OF_W0efNsMxpRYN0aRc_TZlHW6ZrndAGntM4Q/s400/WP_000218s.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mona found a new use for the anti-cat litter doormat... an hour after it was purchased. </td></tr>
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<br />adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-7637057270646300332012-05-03T15:12:00.000+01:002012-05-03T15:12:18.361+01:00It All Began...<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 150%;">It all began
as soon as you had finished reading this sentence. So, now. But if you weren’t
ready then don’t worry for there is still time to stop; there is always time to
stop. Of course, that is not to suggest that the story hasn’t actually started
yet. After all, you were the one that finished reading the sentence and I am
afraid that there is very little that can be done about that. However, it
should also be noted that you are under no obligation to continue; at least, under
no obligation to me. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, my life would have been a
whole lot easier had you not begun at all, in which case I wouldn’t have to be
explaining your current predicament to you. Nevertheless, this is your story,
not mine. Therefore, whether or not you choose to continue reading is entirely
up to you. For my part, I shall sincerely endeavour not to judge you by your decision,
even if that decision is to mercilessly abandon the story that you began.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 150%;"></span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 150%;">I must say, I
commend you on your choice. If it had been up to me, I highly doubt I would
have been so easily swayed. To think of all the things that you could be doing
right now. To think of all the things that I’d rather be doing right now. </span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 150%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 150%;">But perhaps you feel that you have been
coerced in to this story? I suppose it is true that I could have given more
forewarning; a change in tenses perhaps. However, you made your decision and I
respect that. Now, whether it was out of misplaced guilt or genuine curiosity,
I can’t say. Yet either way, I have a feeling that you will be disappointed
because, although I wish it wasn't the case, it all ended as soon
as you had finished this</span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 150%;"> </span><br />
<br />adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-58008848074899263892012-05-02T13:03:00.001+01:002012-05-02T13:06:40.233+01:00Black Coffee (Documentary)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/PdUCpch8Qgw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
For those who are even remotely interested in the origin and rise of coffee culture, this documentary is an excellent place to start. Apparently this is the first of a three-part series that originally aired a few years ago, although unfortunately only the first and third episodes are currently available on YouTube. In any case, this is well worth a watch - perhaps even over a cup of coffee!adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-33451591921998209762012-04-25T14:32:00.000+01:002012-04-25T14:32:14.263+01:00Every Picture Tells A Story #5<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ6Ota83kf7c_DUTVFHrtKYkjUmjZ8jhqa9Pd4mgOt2hcn5MRWV4oUcJFqVnOkXpuGXB3LwYoDZLYlBVigPAkbSIEVPBZ-b5ypCkRfMbMknPbRN5JQKQ-XeGDY_xv3W0oyy4XRQwyy8kw/s1600/WP_000191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ6Ota83kf7c_DUTVFHrtKYkjUmjZ8jhqa9Pd4mgOt2hcn5MRWV4oUcJFqVnOkXpuGXB3LwYoDZLYlBVigPAkbSIEVPBZ-b5ypCkRfMbMknPbRN5JQKQ-XeGDY_xv3W0oyy4XRQwyy8kw/s400/WP_000191.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Half past two. Breakfast is finally ready. </td></tr>
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<br />adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-51600209914682082602012-04-22T23:50:00.001+01:002012-04-22T23:53:51.997+01:00Confessions of a Sales Assistant: The Battle Against AutomatismAlthough it pains me to say it, I have been working in the retail industry for long enough now that I am no longer quite as incredulous at the level of contempt that the British public holds for sales assistants. There was a time, for instance, when the blatant discourtesy displayed by certain customers induced amazement as much as it did irritation - <i>is she really discussing her private parts over the phone whilst handing me money for her daughter's birthday card?</i> As time passed, this amazement gradually subsided and the irritation came to the fore - <i>believe me, lady, I'd rather spend as little time taking your money from you as you'd like to take giving it to me, but I can only do so as fast as the cash register allows me to. Bitch</i>. Nevertheless, as even more time passed, I found that I had become so accustomed to the occasional rude or disdainful customer that I could no longer even muster the energy to feel irritated by their behaviour. <i>Meh. </i>Now that I think about it, I suppose I had become institutionalised, for want of a better word. I had become the mindless automaton that <i>those</i> customers believed that I was all along. And yet today, in one fell swoop, one such customer changed everything.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
No matter what anyone says, working in a shop on a Sunday is quite literally like working in a shop on any other day of the week. That is, except for the fact that on this particular day both the customer and the sales assistant alike exudes an air of lethargy that can only be attributed to our Western religio-cultural heritage. After all, Sunday is the day of rest; an idea that we all seem to cling to as some form of transcendental truth, whether or not we are religious. As such, on this one day each week, there exists a brief and unique unity between the sales assistant and the customer; a unity that pivots upon the simple and delightful fact that neither could give a shit. It is, therefore, especially easy to settle in to the familiar role of the mindless automaton on Sundays; resistant to even the most obnoxious customer - or so I had assumed. And then, with just an hour until close, a gaunt woman skulked up to my till and laid down a card without so much as a glance of acknowledgement. <i>Whatever</i>. I preceded to say "hello" as per usual. At the sound of my voice, the woman looked me straight in the eyes for a number of seconds with a bitter expression on her face before glancing down at the card she had just placed on the till. Ignoring this rather impertinent reaction, I scanned the card and asked for the required amount. This time she didn't even bother looking at me and simply thrust a ten-pound note in my general direction. Now, up until this point, nothing about the woman's poor attitude had surprised me, but what she did next was quite literally extraordinary: as soon as I took the money from her scaly hand, she turned her back towards me.<br />
<br />
So there I was, counting out change for a customer who was facing in the opposite direction with folded arms and an angry grimace on her face. It must have been quite a sight to behold. And yet as horribly awkward as this whole exchange had been, in that bizarre moment, the sheer amazement that I used to feel came flooding back. In essence, this awful woman had reaffirmed my humanity in a way that I could not have imagined; she had unknowingly saved me from automatism. Having said that, I sincerely hope that she doesn't need any more cards in the near future.adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-10406094764662829892012-04-20T16:05:00.002+01:002012-04-21T17:08:07.015+01:00The Perils of the Light Sleeper<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5LUWUXQfP7qLFwPTUd2l0CnXs70M1DpaiCLbIrpMHa3LaidE-flEM-5E5YtNjPms_8k5-gia6kLS4NP2bvgmkm3mYsLoFSunBebTyCOrZ-yG4Y5U8xNO01F8UbXDmQzhhXQ3lkPNcxZo/s1600/WP_000244-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5LUWUXQfP7qLFwPTUd2l0CnXs70M1DpaiCLbIrpMHa3LaidE-flEM-5E5YtNjPms_8k5-gia6kLS4NP2bvgmkm3mYsLoFSunBebTyCOrZ-yG4Y5U8xNO01F8UbXDmQzhhXQ3lkPNcxZo/s200/WP_000244-001.jpg" width="158" /></a></div>
Much to my annoyance, I am generally a rather light sleeper. It is to my even greater annoyance, therefore, that my partner is the complete opposite. Indeed, I am quite convinced that she could sleep through an earthquake without so much as a stir. And yet, not only is she a heavy sleeper, but she also possesses the uncanny ability to sleep at any time and place seemingly at whim; a concept that is completely foreign to me. Without wishing to state the obvious (but knowing full well that that is precisely what I am about to do), I find that I can only fall asleep when I can no longer stay awake. And, likewise, once I have woken up I feel awake, which makes attempting to fall back to sleep a difficult task. With this in mind, it is somewhat ironic that although Kat sets an alarm every night, it is not so much for her as it is for me; after all, it is only through me waking at the sound of her alarm going off, and thereby having to wake her in order to make her turn it off, that she gets up each morning. Nevertheless, it is not as though she has to be up at some ungodly hour, so I don't particularly mind. However, you can probably imagine my annoyance at being woken up in the small hours of this particular morning by the quiet but unmistakable sound of a cat. Vomiting.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
And so began a frantic trail around the bedroom at half four in the morning in search of the half-digested remnants of Tilly's latest meal. Lights were turned on. Boxes were upturned. The carpet was scrubbed. And yet somehow Kat managed to remain fast asleep throughout the whole sorry saga. As if that was not irritating enough, I then found myself in the awful predicament of being both wide awake and desperately tired. This unpleasant stand-off persisted for at least another hour before I finally fell back to sleep, during which time Kat breathed more than one heavy, contented sigh as if to mock me from her happy state of partial consciousness.<br />
<br />
I suppose it is true to say that my relationship with sleeping is somewhat antagonistic. For instance, many people say that they love sleeping, which, frankly, I find utterly ridiculous. I mean, let's be honest, sleeping is rather unmemorable, both literally and figuratively. It is a necessity, not a pastime. What they really mean, therefore, is that they like lazing around in bed, which, whilst I can relate to, I'm not sure I'd define as a pastime either. But having said that, perhaps if I wasn't such a light sleeper I wouldn't be so disparaging. After all, the joke is firmly on me, because today, unlike most, I am actually very much looking forward to going to sleep... God help the cat that wakes me tonight.adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-80592797412486818982012-04-18T08:01:00.000+01:002012-04-18T08:02:47.362+01:00Every Picture Tells A Story #4<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicpmCaQ5k5uiNKU_uluzHaJ1cP1k2-OII1KU474rOYzgcXOiF79RTiZmDrFnEzQVQVUq9xYWtlCZcEy4kDTcSGObxlxCo7ksfBWVhJECG8X9swDetShz5eB4ZuJD42_3BJ3YIiyFgOsxY/s1600/WP_000172.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicpmCaQ5k5uiNKU_uluzHaJ1cP1k2-OII1KU474rOYzgcXOiF79RTiZmDrFnEzQVQVUq9xYWtlCZcEy4kDTcSGObxlxCo7ksfBWVhJECG8X9swDetShz5eB4ZuJD42_3BJ3YIiyFgOsxY/s400/WP_000172.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Painful memories of the great <a href="http://ionsintheether.blogspot.co.uk/2012/02/adventures-of-tilly-atyical-but-not-so.html" target="_blank">bagel incident</a>.</td></tr>
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<br />adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-66104135068241200122012-04-12T15:25:00.001+01:002012-04-12T15:29:12.248+01:00On Ackroyd, Cities and the Unknown<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicHH7YD7q7vA9DjshbegciNOBoGczFQcQ10rF-QpEbtMVZqcX1RAPrZQlZsHWLu0N4hNW87VP5UB3vUPepfqAFIOJqkVJHLWXGMHPujAG7INM9jUSES5fnuBxDQIs2bejbFlpF69Y_r4w/s1600/WP_000170.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicHH7YD7q7vA9DjshbegciNOBoGczFQcQ10rF-QpEbtMVZqcX1RAPrZQlZsHWLu0N4hNW87VP5UB3vUPepfqAFIOJqkVJHLWXGMHPujAG7INM9jUSES5fnuBxDQIs2bejbFlpF69Y_r4w/s200/WP_000170.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
Although I currently live in a city, I would not describe myself as a natural city-dweller. I am sure that this is due, in no small part, to the fact that one would be forgiven for thinking that this particular city is simply a large town. Forgiven, that is, by all but the local inhabitants who are fiercely proud of the status of their home. For instance, I will never forget arriving in the city for my first year at university and being sternly warned never to ask a bus driver for a ticket in to "town". Whilst I highly doubt that anyone would <i>actually</i> be refused travel for such an assertion, the fact that a warning was deemed necessary, even if only in jest, is a testament to the pride that people attach to the designation of city status. Nevertheless, regardless of size and population, I simply don't share the same affinities with city-living as friends who have been raised in, or enthusiastically adopted, a city as home. That is not to suggest that I am some kind of "ruralite". On the contrary, I spent my entire childhood and the majority of my adolescence growing up in a suburban neighborhood ten minutes from the centre of a wealthy East Anglian town. However, it seems to me that the difference lies in the escalation of anonymity; it is simply easier to "know" a town as opposed to a city. And it is for this reason that I find Peter Ackroyd's <i>London Under</i> such an oddly compelling read, for although he manages to shed a wealth of information about the very specific history of London as revealed under the ground, the book still manages to end with an unnerving sense of the unknown.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div>
For the sake of context, it seems pertinent to mention that I have been tentatively exploring the notion of psychogeography in recent weeks, from Guy Debord's original and oft-repeated definition ("The study of the specific effects of the geographical environment, consciously organized or not, on the emotions and behaviour of individuals.") to the more recent revival amongst contemporary writers; any mention of which never fails to include Peter Ackroyd's name. Having not read any of his work before and with the weight of expectation resting firmly in my palms, delving in to Ackroyd's latest work on the cultural history of London was something of a leap of faith. I was pleasantly surprised, therefore, to find a style of writing that is very reminiscent of Sebald's prose in <i>The Rings of Saturn</i>, which I just so happened to write about in a recent <a href="http://ionsintheether.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/on-sebald-authorial-absence-and-dreams.html" target="_blank">post</a>. That is to say that, like Sebald, Ackroyd defies genre expectations by blending historical fact with an almost poetical rhetoric; the effect of which goes some way towards revitalising both the past lives of those he speaks about and, indeed, the life of the City of London itself. Furthermore, Ackroyd presents history with the same sense of fluidity that is the structural hallmark of <i>The Rings of Saturn</i>. Thus, although the book is divided in to clearly delineated topics, each chapter sends the reader backwards and forwards in time, from the Bronze Age to the present day and seemingly every period in between. This gives a sense not only of the vast differences between London at separate periods in it's existence, but also of the profound similarities. And as a direct result of this loose and associative portrayal of history, the city seems to emerge as a kind of living organism in and of itself; one that grows and evolves hap-hazardously in accordance with the ever-changing conditions of humanity above the ground.<br />
<br />
To the return to my original premise, although <i>London Under </i>attempts to understand the history of London under the ground, and in spite of the enormous quantity of information and research utilized to this end, Ackroyd ultimately acknowledges that he is essentially trying to map the unmappable; to know the unknowable. Indeed, at the very end of the book, he writes:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"The underworld moves the imagination to awe and to horror. It is in part a human world, made from the activities of many generations, but it is also primeval and inhuman. It repels clarity and thought. It may offer safety to some, but it does not offer solace. London is built upon darkness."</blockquote>
It seems to me that this is the curse of the city, for, aside from all else, it is a constant burial ground. I suppose this means, therefore, that we are the gravediggers.<br />
<br /></div>adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-56278685793417540092012-03-31T14:38:00.001+01:002012-03-31T14:38:24.710+01:00Every Picture Tells A Story #3<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje4GkS78QvqIrAYOLaN-ENESgXSK20dVY1wv9HxDsPTuUhPD99-W4C3-fje1qR4oXnrbYDHs56ZEvOu-8csrfpzzL1zZ-alb3IAaXtJN-hhkMZx_yj-byvtkno6RTiE3ODF0Xgg2iJUmU/s1600/WP_000159+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje4GkS78QvqIrAYOLaN-ENESgXSK20dVY1wv9HxDsPTuUhPD99-W4C3-fje1qR4oXnrbYDHs56ZEvOu-8csrfpzzL1zZ-alb3IAaXtJN-hhkMZx_yj-byvtkno6RTiE3ODF0Xgg2iJUmU/s400/WP_000159+(2).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quite a sight to wake up to.</td></tr>
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<br />adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-78518467671999110392012-03-27T20:51:00.001+01:002012-03-27T20:55:56.913+01:00Small Talk and Customer ServiceFor the most part, I consider myself to be a fairly good sales assistant; at least from the customer's point of view. That is, of course, assuming that this hypothetical customer is anything like myself, which, admittedly, is rather doubtful seeing as if he was then he'd be much more likely to shop online thereby cutting out the whole <strike>bloody</strike> "customer service" experience altogether. Nevertheless, for the sake of argument, we shall just have to pretend that although this imaginary customer <i>is</i> like myself, he doesn't have access to the internet and thus, regrettably, has no choice but to do his shopping in shops. But that's okay because although I will smile and say hello, which is more than can be expected from half of the sales assistants I've come across, I won't hassle him, which, coincidentally, is more than can be expected from the other half of the sales assistants I've come across. To me, this is good customer service; friendly but not overbearing. Having said that, I am the first to admit that I could afford to be slightly more conversational with customers and so I have made a concerted effort in recent weeks to improve my small talk, no matter how painful the process.<br />
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In reality, this simply means that I have occasionally been asking unwitting customers how they are... as well as how much they owe me. The response is almost always predictable. Either they give a short answer as if to warn me that they don't care for small talk, which is absolutely fine as far as I'm concerned, or they proceed to regale me with tales of the trivialities of their daily lives, which is also fine on account of the fact that very little reciprocation is required. However, problems can soon occur when the response isn't predictable. For instance, on one such occasion, I decided to ask one of the regular customers how his day had been. He looked me in the face and, with his characteristically deep grumble, replied, "Everything's shit". Assuming that this comment was to be taken in jest (because it <i>was </i>funny), I laughed and jokingly said that I knew how he felt. It was at that point that he dropped the bombshell. Under his breath, but loud enough to be clear, the customer remarked, "My wife died two weeks ago". Fortunately, I managed to offer my condolences before the painstaking silence descended upon us. Unfortunately, he was buying four photo frames, each of which needed to be individually wrapped. Largely as a result of this horribly awkward experience, I cannot help feel that my attempts to improve my customer service have become somewhat jaded. Indeed, rather than providing any form of inspiration or enlightenment, the results have done little more than to reaffirm my faith in simply smiling and saying hello.adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-84532617934951763612012-03-22T13:30:00.000+00:002012-03-22T13:30:02.261+00:00Every Picture Tells A Story #2<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiQgqqdBkmHuBJH4B4N4ygVd5_CQ0bbXI7bkhW2zis8DNLjyaG1YTh-YR7VGI5XbNGjNh52H7bEUXf4KOAmQwr-pm1Olzx-A09vpnORI2prvLlA3gzkJjdBX2YadNd7RKrOpCir-Ep3To/s1600/WP_000154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiQgqqdBkmHuBJH4B4N4ygVd5_CQ0bbXI7bkhW2zis8DNLjyaG1YTh-YR7VGI5XbNGjNh52H7bEUXf4KOAmQwr-pm1Olzx-A09vpnORI2prvLlA3gzkJjdBX2YadNd7RKrOpCir-Ep3To/s400/WP_000154.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The quiet before the storm. </td></tr>
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<br />adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-90632072429154133712012-03-21T13:49:00.000+00:002012-03-21T13:59:56.360+00:00On Sebald, Authorial Absence and Dreams<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1asJx19hx-lEg1zh6TdSju4pOjnWmEJKw3zSLFjRZljVzBjxDTKdGojS_YZJuDJx0ni3A0sMJZKdf8FK1oryLZAToSEDcJMhu7zho5PZWM6IHZGm4W8MPjAha2da_UoX0azJqOvFUjkM/s1600/WP_000150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1asJx19hx-lEg1zh6TdSju4pOjnWmEJKw3zSLFjRZljVzBjxDTKdGojS_YZJuDJx0ni3A0sMJZKdf8FK1oryLZAToSEDcJMhu7zho5PZWM6IHZGm4W8MPjAha2da_UoX0azJqOvFUjkM/s200/WP_000150.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;">Generally, I'm not one to proclaim favourites. Of course, there are certain things, be it music, film or literature, that I value higher than others, but that is not to suggest that I feel any particular need to rank them. Rather, i</span><span style="color: #222222;">t is enough to know that I like</span><i style="color: #222222;"> these</i><span style="color: #222222;"> things more than </span><i style="color: #222222;">those </i><span style="color: #222222;">things. This wasn't necessarily always the case. For instance, when I was first "getting" into music, each new "discovery" had the potential to challenge the existing order. In many ways, I suppose this desire to classify and arrange is a very human endeavour, yet when it comes to subjectivity and personal preference, it can be as stifling as it is superfluous. After all, I always used to feel it imperative that I had a single favourite artist who stood above all others in my esteem; an artist whose work would set the benchmark against which I would judge everything else. Given my limited scope of music in general at that point, I guess this made sense, but as time passed and my tastes diversified this model no longer proved effective. And that is a very good thing for if it had been effective, I doubt I'd be listening to half the music that I do these days. As a result, I no longer have a favourite artist; I just let people think that Brian Eno is my favourite. Likewise, I don't have a favourite novel, but for the sake of this post I'm going to let you think that W. G. Sebald's <i>The Rings of Saturn</i> is my favourite.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; text-align: left;">I first read <i>The Rings of Saturn </i>just over a year ago for a module entitled "The Possibility of Fiction". After just a few pages, it's inclusion within the reading list became immediately apparent for it is a novel that constantly flirts with the reader's expectations of genre and form. At it's most basic level, it may be described as a piece of travel literature; a retrospective journal that documents a walk along the coast of East Anglia in the dwindling summer months of 1992. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><span style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">And
yet the specificity of this journey is continually overshadowed by the
narrator’s seemingly sporadic digressions of thought, which take the reader far
beyond the apparent confines of the East Anglian countryside. As a result, what
initially appears as the distinct apparatus of travel writing, that is to say, geographical
information set to a journalistic tone, quickly begins to dissolve as the
narrative drifts into divergent genre territories. At any one point in the
novel, the reader is confronted by a tapestry of different styles of writing
that alternate with the same calm ease and compliance that is wholly
characteristic of the narrator’s train of thought; from meditative memoirs and
fictional accounts of historical figures to meticulously crafted fragments of
encyclopaedic knowledge. The effect of this relentless oscillation between
genres is to bring the role of the author firmly in to question and so it is particularly
ironic that, despite the autobiographical tone of the novel, the authorial
voice remains somewhat obscured, and perhaps even absent, throughout the course
of </span><i style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">The Rings of Saturn</i><span style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">. Certainly, if
Sebald himself is the narrator, as one assumes to be the case, then his
presence within the text would seem to be as tenuous and transient as the single
grainy photo of the author that can be found in the latter half of the novel; a
presence that only lasts as long as the turn of a page. </span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">In an essay entitled "The Possibility of Afterlife in </span></span><i style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 16px; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">The Rings of Saturn</i><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">", I suggested that one possible reason for this authorial absence is that the </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 16px; text-align: justify; text-indent: 36pt;">narrator displays a tendency to sacrifice his own voice in order to resurrect the lives of the departed. Thus one might say that he appears to serve as little more than a soundboard through which the past is brought back in to some form of existence through the medium of voice. Although I still believe that this is a rather elegant notion, I cannot help but feel that such a conclusion seems to suggest that the importance of the narrator is in some way diminished when, in fact, I feel that quite the opposite is true. Sebald, himself, provides a more comprehensive and satisfying description of the function of the narrator in <i>The Rings of Saturn </i>than I could ever hope to formulate in a beautifully crafted meditation on the nature of dreams:</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222;">"I suppose it is submerged memories that give dreams their curious air of hyper-reality. But perhaps there is something else as well, something nebulous, gauze-like, through which everything one sees in a dream seems, paradoxically, much clearer. A pond becomes a lake, a breeze becomes a storm, a handful of dust a desert, a grain of sulphur in the </span><span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; color: #222222;">blood</span><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.917969); color: #222222;"> is a volcanic inferno. What manner of theatre is it, in which we are at once playwright, actor, stage manager, scene painter and audience?" </span></span></blockquote>
It seems to me that this rumination perfectly captures not only the quintessence of both the narrator's role and Sebald's vision throughout the novel, but also the fundamental way in which the human mind works. And, for me, it is this quality that makes <i>The Rings of Saturn </i>such a wonderfully mysterious, complex and ultimately rewarding experience.adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-1853874261187655712012-03-20T18:19:00.001+00:002012-03-20T18:40:14.843+00:00A Journey Home From Home, Pt. 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_yUzAATjhdsUGfjV4aO4gYt_zv8Pl9CQ3He9C-H-eMZQUlq3CvGhO9dzfT9MVSujYFTAwp-HiGggVGzhXo6LkvRLyUGDYYR8HJ3IUE70jJelg32ueYCqj6JaaIQff2Alzv2Q25RlBdVY/s1600/WP_000146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_yUzAATjhdsUGfjV4aO4gYt_zv8Pl9CQ3He9C-H-eMZQUlq3CvGhO9dzfT9MVSujYFTAwp-HiGggVGzhXo6LkvRLyUGDYYR8HJ3IUE70jJelg32ueYCqj6JaaIQff2Alzv2Q25RlBdVY/s200/WP_000146.jpg" width="200" /></a>As I stood waiting for the connecting train that would form the second and final leg of my admittedly rather short journey home, it suddenly occurred to me that railway stations are rather odd public spaces. Of course, the layout of a typical station is, for the most part, purely functional; that is to say, it makes perfect sense that any platforms should be located parallel to one another along either side of a set of railway lines. However, as a direct result of this simple logistical design, the passengers waiting on one platform inadvertently face those waiting on the other, and vice versa. This, in itself, isn't particularly odd. That is, until you take in to account the fact that in England we are subject to that most typical of social traits: "English reserve". Indeed, in a country whose populous are conditioned from birth to avoid unnecessary eye contact and outward displays of emotion, it seems almost cruel that railway stations are designed in such a way that people are forced to face each other for often extended periods of time. With this thought firmly in mind, I cautiously surveyed my opponents on the platform opposite and noticed that they, too, were doing the same. And at that precise moment, I couldn't help suppress the feeling that I was in fact standing on the front-line of some kind of bizarre trench war, gazing out across the literal no-man's land of the railway lines at an enemy who was just as helplessly immobilized as I. Thankfully, the train arrived shortly thereafter.<br />
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Unlike the last train I had traveled on, the one that I now entered was fairly busy; at least more so than I would have liked, which, I confess, is little more than empty (sleeping old age pensioners aside). It wasn't until I reached the fourth carriage that I found myself a seat sandwiched between a commuter in front of me, who was absorbed in paper work, and a university student behind, who was equally absorbed in a McDonald's paper bag. As far as travel companions go, I didn't have that much to complain about except for the fact that until that point I hadn't realised how hungry I was. Now whether or not I was <i>actually</i> hungry I am still not sure but, either way, the mere smell of food was enough to usurp my thoughts for the next five minutes. This was, surely, exacerbated by the fact that no more than a minute after the initial idea, a jolly voice emanated from the speakers above me advertising a variety of "snacks" and "beverages" as if my mind had just been read. Nevertheless, I managed to resist the urge to part with what little cash I had in exchange for what would have no doubt been a rather disappointing sandwich, courtesy of the 'cafe-bar', and once again pulled a book out of my satchel. "We may imagine the mind's greatest adventure as a journey of this sort to the paradise of pitfalls".<br />
<br />
It wasn't long before I was interrupted from my reading by a strange looking man wearing a large woolly hat, who appeared to be talking out aloud to himself towards the front of the carriage. Slightly confused by this unexpected sight, I scanned the vicinity and identified four potential recipients in close proximity to the man. However, all of them appeared to be either staring absent-mindedly out of the window or trying to focus on whatever they had been reading up until this point. Although I would hazard a guess that they were all listening to some extent, I was also doubtful that any of them was supposed to be, and so I concluded that the man was simply either incredibly lonely or slightly mad; possibly both. Either way, I decided that as long as he was talking, I wasn't going to be able to concentrate on my reading and therefore I resorted to gazing out the window and watching as the world passed by. After observing little more than fields for the past half an hour, the first tentative signs of civilization served as a sign that the train was fast approaching the terminus that was to mark both the end of the railway line and the end of my excursion. I always find that it is this stage of a train journey that is the most interesting, for as the train closes in on it's target, passing from rurality to urbanality, the inquisitive passenger is offered a visual history of the expansion of the town or city outwards from its epicenter. For instance, I learnt that the outermost edge of this particular city is currently signified by a slew of relatively recently erected housing estates rather than the industrial sector that now precedes them. As the train drew ever closer to the station, I noticed that this pattern repeats itself many times over, almost without a fault, as if there has been a continuing battle for residential and industrial real estate throughout the city's history, which, I suppose, is at least partly true. Nevertheless, determining which came first is harder to say, after all, an increase in population anticipates an increase in demand for both housing and industry.<br />
<br />
It was at this point that the aforementioned stranger, who had spent almost the entire journey incessantly talking to himself, stood up and removed his woolly hat. As he did so, I suddenly realised that he had in fact been wearing a bluetooth headset the whole time, which had been concealed from view, presumably unintentionally, by his somewhat peculiar choice of headgear. As a result, in just a matter of milliseconds my impression of him transformed from that of a strange looking, lonely and probably slightly mad man to that of merely a strange looking man. I guess context is everything. In any case, this thought soon left me as the railway station came in to view and I began to rummage through my wallet in search of my train ticket; the only physical reminder of my journey home from home.adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-14429190393979838282012-03-15T13:19:00.000+00:002012-03-15T21:28:23.298+00:00Every Picture Tells A Story #1<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYIOMlfwQT0p5AGGwG6hz8SUtREIHSrPJXwzE6nFW_9I174VW4PceFE3kfclGgWE8USgLeAkSPAeoMF2wrNF1KwZnzYFdmrvw9B-k8OefPdSIY-TFljb2AO1YPRHFF5L-RfpkyJviSGTY/s1600/WP_000145.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYIOMlfwQT0p5AGGwG6hz8SUtREIHSrPJXwzE6nFW_9I174VW4PceFE3kfclGgWE8USgLeAkSPAeoMF2wrNF1KwZnzYFdmrvw9B-k8OefPdSIY-TFljb2AO1YPRHFF5L-RfpkyJviSGTY/s400/WP_000145.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is not what I want to see five minutes before I have to go to work; never have I wanted to sunbathe in a bathroom sink so much. Thanks, Mona.</td></tr>
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<br />adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1211947083668021158.post-68083558483149532322012-03-14T23:30:00.000+00:002012-03-20T18:24:54.250+00:00A Journey Home From Home, Pt. 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGH00Ii_LHu5yIcL4atWjLJ1X5Oo_OlsXaJNV91ujP2pEkGVqId0nl9-OboBkSgrY2hdlT8bk64Y_Tk7qnAK-LJipnO9T7XmUTFCyCTnWvA7bfJRpCrujGPow9NjRpeveL63zakwt9EMc/s1600/WP_000139.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGH00Ii_LHu5yIcL4atWjLJ1X5Oo_OlsXaJNV91ujP2pEkGVqId0nl9-OboBkSgrY2hdlT8bk64Y_Tk7qnAK-LJipnO9T7XmUTFCyCTnWvA7bfJRpCrujGPow9NjRpeveL63zakwt9EMc/s200/WP_000139.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
The train is due to arrive at the station at eighteen minutes past three. I had been casually reminding myself of this simple fact every so often for the past few hours. In fact, I had repeated it with such regularity since lunchtime that it had become a personal mantra of sorts. Yet it just so happened that between half past two and five minutes to three, the period of time in which I had planned to leave the house, any thought of train times evaded my attention. And I mean that quite literally, for I am in no doubt that the words "train", "arrive" and "eighteen minutes past three" continued to spontaneously erupt in my consciousness from time to time; they just no longer carried the same weight. I suppose this is an inevitable consequence of repetition. For instance, it is for precisely the same reason that the more we hear a piece of music, whether or not we happen to like it, the less interesting it becomes. Of course, as the clock struck three, this rumination didn't provide any form of consolation in the slightest and so, after a very brief set of goodbyes, I left the house with both a heightened sense of purpose and a pair of untied shoes.<br />
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It wasn't until I reached the train station approximately fourteen and a half minutes later that I realised I had forgotten to tie my shoelaces. Then again, perhaps I had noticed but semi-consciously chosen to ignore the fact out of panic. Or stubbornness. Either way, it was a lucky coincidence, for the train arrived at precisely a quarter past the hour; half a minute after I arrived and three whole minutes before it was due. Given the fact that not twenty minutes beforehand I had consoled myself with the somewhat sad but nevertheless assured knowledge that the local train service almost always ran late, I was not mentally prepared to deal with the arrival of my train earlier than expected. Indeed, just to make sure you are under no illusions as to how shocking a phenomenon this was, I would have thought it miraculous if it had <i>simply</i> arrived on time. In any case, it was only after I found a seat by the window and watched as the familiar sights of home faded in the distance that I considered how fortunate I had been to forget to tie my shoelaces half an hour earlier. Such is life.<br />
<br />
Some people tend to dislike travelling by train. I can certainly sympathise, after all, when confined to a small space for an extended period of time, you are at the mercy of others, which can be a rather daunting prospect. For example, there are few things worse than the vertiginous feeling of dread you experience when a family of screaming children and their negligent parents enter your carriage. Although having said that, if worse comes to worst and they do happen to sit down, there are few things better than the feeling of unbridled relief you subsequently experience when they get off the train at the next stop. In this sense, travelling by train can sometimes seem like a bit of a gamble. Fortunately, on this particular journey, I struck lucky. Aside from the occasional old age pensioner, who was either in the process of falling asleep or indeed sleeping, the carriage was mostly empty. And so I quite happily pulled a book out of my satchel and began reading: "Perhaps life needs to be deciphered like a cryptogram". It was at this point that I suddenly became aware of a voice coming from behind me. In retrospect, I am quite sure that I had been aware of this voice from the moment I stepped on the train, but at that precise moment something about it had piqued my interest. For the next few minutes, I listened as she, for the voice most definitely belonged to a woman, talked to three others about the two horses of one other (not present). From what I could gather, the owner of the horses was a trainer of some sort who traveled across the country with his prize possessions. Tragically, the older of the two horses had fallen ill and the trainer was faced with the grave decision to either submit his companion to a complicated and dangerous surgical operation or simply put him to sleep. For better or worse, he chose the latter and recently purchased a new horse in order to continue his business. However, it would seem that the bond between the deceased horse and his trainer could not be replicated and here, on this sad note, the story ended quite abruptly. This unexpected insight into the personal life of someone that I had never seen, and most likely never would, struck me as rather extraordinary.<br />
<br />
As the train approached its final destination, the conductor, who had been busy strategically attempting to wake his elderly passengers in order to check their tickets, turned around and set off towards the front of the train. Half a minute later, his voice echoed throughout the carriage with the familiar refrain, "we will shortly be arriving at". I suppose it is a particular quality of the train conductor that he is both always moving, even when <i>he</i> isn't, and, similarly, he is always ahead, looking forward. With this thought in mind, I gathered my belongings and walked slowly down the aisle, all the while looking out of the window at the various buildings rushing by and reveling in the fact that I was travelling faster than my pace implied. As the train came to a halt, I performed that most ritualistic of tasks: checking that I had my phone, keys and wallet - in that order. Satisfied with the result, I stepped down on to that station platform; the symbolic act that marked the end of the first part of my journey home from home.adamjosephwhitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14171348083532469152noreply@blogger.com2