i was looking for a job...

WARNING: contains motivational claptrap

the CULTURAL ELITE in a salon yesterday

Recently there has been a weirdly high number of suitable jobs for which I could apply.

It's strange. It has been a struggle and most of them have been of the "work up application, submit, get no response at all" variety.

But recently a position came up at a city-wide photography festival, a role that was my first ever freelance position (about 12 years ago now!)

So I thought I'd give it a go.

The job description was interesting, in that the vast majority of tasks were desk-based. But there were a couple of curve-balls involving taking journalists on walking tours round the festival.

With the best will in the world, this wasn't going to be something I could do.

I talked it over with the divine Mrs D and she persuaded me to go for it. Show them what I can do and negotiate the rest if and when the time comes.

I had an interview earlier this week and it was fine. Part way through, they asked if there was anything about the job description that I was concerned about. So I told them (even though, as I'd walked in with both sticks blazing, they would have guessed).

After a written task it was over. I felt it had gone ok but didn't hear anything that night.

As the following day progressed with no word at all, I started beating myself up. That job should've been a no brainer. What had I done wrong? Mrs D was more of the opinion that, if I didn't get the job, she'd want to know why. We know people shouldn't discriminate on the grounds of disability but, y'know, they do.

Long story short, they called at around 4.30pm to offer me the job.

It's part time for seven months and I can do a lot of the work (which is totally within my skillset) from home. Perfect.

So for the next seven months, I'll be a fully paid up member of the CULTURAL ELITE again. Did I ever really leave?

(As an aside, I looked for an image of the CULTURAL ELITE to illustrate this post. But on looking at the second image which came up on Google, I realised that I have worked with three of the people in the picture. And I know the photographer. I do not know ANYONE in the image above!)

If anyone reading this is always seeing jobs which they can 85-90% do, don't let the other 10-15% - which might be beyond your physical capabilities - put you off. Have faith, know your worth, and go for it.

(Told you!)

the die is set

World's oldest Multiple Sclerosis diarist / proto-blogger discovered.

Is a bit maudlin. And darkly funny.

Who knew?

https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2017/oct/21/barbellion-journal-disappointed-man-multiple-sclerosis-ms

inspiring and offending in equal measure

Let's not do the whole "not blogged in ages, too much life getting in the way, blah blah". Let's just say that we're both at fault and move on, OK?

Last month was our 10th wedding anniversary so we packed off The Child and went down to That London for the night and took in a musical. Now, I loves me a musical but even I have to admit the highlight was John "Bergerac / DCI Barnaby" Nettles, who was sitting behind us, helping my wife look for her glasses.

(Ironically he was no bloody use. But then her glasses were back in the hotel...)

The next day involved the National Gallery and the British Library, where there was a little punk rock exhibition, the most punk rock part of which was this fantastic bit of righteous graffiti by Viv Albertine, ex of The Slits. 

See http://pitchfork.com/news/66847-the-slits-viv-albertine-defaces-male-dominated-punk-exhibition/

Never mind that, there were loads of signs up saying that phones and  photos weren't allowed. But did that stop me? TAKE THAT, THE MAN!

We decided not to do the Underground this time. More than anything I get a bit anxious down there, it's not the most accessible thing in the world plus it was the height of summer. So we got taxis - both yr classic hackney and a couple of Ubers. I know they can be a bit controversial but being able to see when your (prepaid) taxi is going to arrive at the exact spot where you are standing is undeniably pretty bloody cool.

The other fantastic bit of travelling was going First Class on the train. Maybe you do this sort of thing regularly but I've always been strictly Prole. The only reason we did it was because a friend of ours works for a train company and got us a couple of free passes. Nice work if you can get it but we probably wouldn't have been so free and easy with the taxis otherwise. 

Last week we had a week away which involved driving all the way down to the South coast - 244 miles each way, the furthest distance I've ever driven. 

Both of these incidents are a reminder of my New Year's not-resolution, to try to give up less and try to go out of my comfort zone. I've forgotten about that quite a bit but I do need to try to maintain that frame of mind. You're a long time dead.

the thing with feathers

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

(Emily Dickinson)

BBC One - Panorama: Can You Stop My MS?

It's really hard to know how to respond to this programme - in a very real sense the stories seem so incredibly hopeful and positive, surely a cure can't be too far away now?

this isn't happening

Ivan the Terrible's hair shirt (16th century). The tsar wanted to die like a monk.

Warning: this post contains language.

You find me today in a typically self-loathing mood. The main reason? WALKING INTO WORK. Again.

I'm currently averaging one day a week walking in. It's really not enough. But I know that I'll always find an excuse - "ooh, it looks like rain", "I didn't sleep well last night", and so on and so on..

To be frank, that's all bollocks.

The main thing that stops me walking into work is fear of unlikely events happening which were talked about enough in my CBT sessions a couple of years back.

Knowing how unlikely these events are doesn't mean that I can switch my brain off. The old drip-drip-drip of unhelpful thoughts can keep any of us indoors.

The day I walked in this week I had a Board Meeting - I finished at 8pm but I felt great all day. Walking home with a friend, he actually struggled to keep up with me.

I know the benefits. I KNOW the benefits.

I just need to bloody crack on with it. And posting this to you is - in a sense - a way to embarrass myself into doing it.

To offer a bit of much-needed perspective, here's a poem which I picked up on Twitter earlier. One of my old Freelance jobs was to do with Literature Development in the East Midlands, and part of that involved me working with Jo Bell. She's a poet and was formerly Director of National Poetry Day - as a boat-dweller, she's currently Canal Laureate for the Poetry Society.

As I mentioned in my last post, any song lyric can mean something to anybody at any point in their lives - see great misunderstood songs of all time like "This Land Is Your Land", "Born In The USA", "You're Gorgeous".

(although Ms CrankyPants I'm still waiting for your interpretation of "I Can't Go for That (No Can Do)")

And the same can obviously be said about poetry.

But this poem - "This Isn't Happening" by Anthony Wilson - is a remarkably accurate portrayal of what happens inside your head when you're handed a medical diagnosis which your brain cannot and will not compute. It certainly took me back to my own.

This is not happening. It happened. Past tense.
One day, every day, eight years, a minute ago.
When they told me, they said, they are saying.
Mr Wilson. Anthony. (Tony). Darling. My lover.
It looks like. If you could. You have great veins.
Here is a gown. Here is a bag. Here are your pills.
Yes, you will. Yes, you will. It will, yes. All of it.
We don’t know. (We will never know). We don’t know.
No. Because. Maybe your genes. More likely your.
It’s best if you. If you can. We advise it. Everyone.
One day, that day, this, after another, today, May.
I am not angry, was not, shall not be. But I am angry.
Today, when they said ‘Actually…’ A minute ago.
With perhaps and maybe. Not No. We love Yes.
Yesterday. When it happened. (Present tense). Now then.
It left, it is leaving, it never. I am still waving goodbye.

(view the poem on Anthony's website)

Anthony was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, a cancer of the lymphatic system, at the age of 42. Thanks to him for being gracious enough to let me share this here.