On "A Tale of Two Cats" and the Creative Process

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 not 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.

Introducing "A Tale of Two Cats"

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 technically 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.

An Englishman in Paris: Observations & Reflections

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 Musée du Louvre, the Cathédrale Notre-Dame? Is it not the Arc de Triomphe and the Avenue des Champs-Élysées? Surely, by 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. 

Every Picture Tells A Story #7

Get a cat they said. It'll be fun they said.

Reality TV, The Apprentice and Job Hunting

It 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 The Apprentice. 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 reality 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 The Apprentice 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.

Every Picture Tells A Story #6

Mona found a new use for the anti-cat litter doormat... an hour after it was purchased. 

It All Began...

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.

Black Coffee (Documentary)

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!

Every Picture Tells A Story #5

Half past two. Breakfast is finally ready. 

Confessions of a Sales Assistant: The Battle Against Automatism

Although 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 - is she really discussing her private parts over the phone whilst handing me money for her daughter's birthday card? As time passed, this amazement gradually subsided and the irritation came to the fore - 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. 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. Meh. 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 those customers believed that I was all along. And yet today, in one fell swoop, one such customer changed everything.

The Perils of the Light Sleeper

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.

Every Picture Tells A Story #4

Painful memories of the great bagel incident.

On Ackroyd, Cities and the Unknown

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 actually 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 London Under 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.

Every Picture Tells A Story #3

Quite a sight to wake up to.

Small Talk and Customer Service

For 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 bloody "customer service" experience altogether. Nevertheless, for the sake of argument, we shall just have to pretend that although this imaginary customer is 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.

Every Picture Tells A Story #2

The quiet before the storm. 

On Sebald, Authorial Absence and Dreams

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, it is enough to know that I like these things more than those 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 The Rings of Saturn is my favourite.

A Journey Home From Home, Pt. 2

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.

Every Picture Tells A Story #1

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.

A Journey Home From Home, Pt. 1

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.

The Apex of Boredom

In the week or so since my last entry, I have been busy being not particularly busy, by which I mean I have been at work. Okay, perhaps that is a little flippant; I am merely trying to point out that the day-to-day life of a sales assistant is at the whim of his customers. And as I have come to learn over the past few days, the vast majority of this particular sales assistant's customers have better things to do during the middle of the week than buy greeting cards for distant relatives, not to mention even more distant occasions, that they really couldn't care less about. Not that I blame them; after all, such trivial concerns can usually wait until the weekend when instead of trying to find time, they are trying to fill it. However, as a direct result, this means that working during the week can often be a particularly tedious affair and this brings me to the crux of this post: boredom. Now before you decide to stop reading, I would just like to mention that it is not my aim to induce crippling ennui in the minds of all those who read this (although, as a sort of rudimentary disclaimer, I should also say that I cannot rule out the possibility of such an ironic eventuality). No, rather this is a meditation born of boredom, on what it means to be bored.

Confessions of a Sales Assistant

You know it's going to be a long day when the most interesting thing that has happened thus far is receiving a text message from an unknown phone number that has obviously been sent to the wrong person, that is to say, me. Unless I know a "Hayden", which I don't, and she likes to refer to me as "Brit", which I'd highly doubt even if we were acquainted, then I think the likelihood is that I am not the intended recipient; and that's fine, I didn't want to go to the "prom" tonight anyway. Perhaps that isn't the most interesting thing that has happened today. After all, I have been removing promotional stickers from diaries for the past hour only to replace them with exactly the same stickers except in a slightly different hue... You may think I'm being facetious, if so well done, but, as I've come to learn in the retail business, even the most repetitive of menial tasks is infinitely more preferable than having nothing to do. Having said that, thank god it's lunch time.

Coffee 101: An Epiphany

Like many recent graduates, I am currently honing my skills in the retail industry. Whilst the situation that I have found myself in is undoubtedly a sad reflection on the current state of the economic climate, it is not something that I like to dwell upon; after all, some people enjoy working in retail. As for me, I simply treat it as a means to an end. Admittedly, after standing around on my feet for hours at a time, subject to the petty whims of over-zealous customers and occasionally being treated as a second-class citizen, that end seems very far away indeed. Nevertheless, it isn't all bad. For instance, I like to think that after spending the past four months in such close proximity to others, as the other so to speak, I've become something of an amateur psychologist. Either way, I always look forward to my break, at which point I reconnect with the society I've been spectating all morning by ordering a drink and blending in to the background of a busy cafe. The resulting coffee is invariably disappointing, more token gesture than poor imitation, but the desire for a warm drink has always outweighed the aversion to an insipid taste. Until today, that is, for what I received this afternoon was quite literally the worst cup of "coffee" I have ever had the misfortune of sipping. Although it would be fair to say that my tastes have become somewhat refined since taking up coffee as a hobby, I imagine even the most ardent fan of the cheap instant variety would be repulsed by the terribly burnt, acidic swill that I was served, which neither a will of iron nor a tongue of stone could shake. This regrettable experience has led me to reconsider my own journey towards an understanding of what makes a good cup of coffee; the results of which I feel compelled to record lest my faith in my favourite drink is ruined forever.

Music Wot I Like: Brian Eno - Another Green World

When I first conceived of the idea to write a blog, the whole concept of "blogging" had only just begun to emerge as the mainstream phenomenon that it is today. For an impressionable young teenager, such as myself as I was at that time, the very notion of being able to occupy one's own space within the vast ecosystem of the internet was incredibly alluring. But alas, for better or worse, I never did start my own blog all those years ago; mainly because I didn't know what to write about, which, as you might imagine, was a major obstacle. Nevertheless, around the same time I did begin to post a number of very amateur music reviews on the wonderful RYM. Although this was a fairly short-lived hobby, sadly of which no evidence remains, it has since become a source of great nostalgia. So it is with some excitement that I look forward to writing about music once again and what better to begin with than the album from which this blog earns its namesake; Brian Eno's Another Green World (1975).

The Adventures of Tilly: An Atypical But Not So Unexpected Morning

After suffering a night of miscellaneous back pain, I awoke this morning not to the sound of Tilly whining to be fed, nor to the scrambling of her feet as she clambers haphazardly over the duvet, but to silence. A year ago this would have been a good thing but these days such blissful peace is a worrying sign. There are two things that you should know about Tilly. Firstly, she was found abandoned in a shed within the first few weeks of her life, suffering from a form of feline muscular dystrophy. This unfortunate ailment primarily affects her back legs and has rendered her tail almost completely insensitive. As a result, she occasionally finds it difficult to traverse the wilds of our apartment and I think it is fair to say that she lacks even a modicum of the graceful elegance of movement that you'd normally expect from a cat. As if that wasn't enough, Till is also particularly prone to urinary problems and has recently been diagnosed with a heart murmur. Now, before this post descends any further into a cheap parody of a charity plea, the second thing that you should know about Tilly is that none of the above bothers her in the slightest. In fact, she is as tenacious and inquisitive as the next kitten. Given this none too insignificant fact, waking up in the morning outside of Till's normal routine only ever means trouble.

On Camus, Indifference and Truth

Over the last couple of days, I finally found the time to leaf rather lazily through a copy of Albert Camus' The Outsider (1942), which has been waiting patiently on my bookshelf for the past six months or so. When I say that I "found the time" what I really mean, and what I suspect most people mean by this particular phrase, is that I finally mustered the effort required to commit myself to something outside of my everyday routine. And yet even so, The Outsider hardly battles to keep the reader's interest. Rather, it gently ebbs and flows with the same stark indifference displayed by its seemingly dispassionate protagonist. As a result, I found my thoughts occasionally drifting away from those of Meursault before casually picking up where I had left off half a page later; none the wiser to his predicament during my impromptu interval and none too concerned either. Whilst this may seem like a damning indictment of one of the twentieth century's most celebrated philosophical novels, perhaps I am giving you the wrong impression? 

A Magnificent Birth

Meet Tilly (left) and Mona (right)

Today is a day much like any other. For instance, the sun rose in the morning as it is prone to do, the cats spent the afternoon asleep at entirely opposite ends of the bean bag, and this evening I am once again staring into the glowing abyss that is my computer screen. And yet today is not so much like any other. After all, this morning I received an espresso tamper in the post, I had a bath in the middle of the afternoon, and at this exact moment I am writing the first entry of this very blog.