Disappointment (ii)

So, as I was saying, I tend to find myself disposed to disappointment. Previously such malady has variously been attributable to finding myself having spent 10 years (ten of my best years mind) working for a building maintenance company, not having a girlfriend, being sexually abused as a child any other excuse I could fall back on (such as poor weather, the confinements of not being rich and a bit of a funny tummy).

Now that I free from the burden of work, I have a girlfriend, the sunÂ’s out and IÂ’m much more regular nowadays thank you very much for asking I still find myself disappointed.

Am I equally as disappointed I wonder? Perhaps IÂ’m actually less disappointed than I was previously but when added to the sense of disappointment IÂ’ve acquired about not feeling overwhelmingly disappointment-free, it all adds up to about the same.

Perhaps I’m just self obsessed and ought to adopt the think positive attitude found increasingly among my peers. Frankly, such sentiments make me want to punch people. “Everything happens for a reason”. “It wasn’t meant to be”. It’s all very well if you believe in God and want to unburden yourself from the difficulties of complex thought and the realisation that there isn’t actually any intrinsic meaning to most occurrences but otherwise it’s just not good enough.

I realise IÂ’m out of my depth here and will desist without further ado.

Disappointment (i)

I couldn't post for the last couple of days as I'd downloaded an update to my anti-virus software and it changed all my proxy server settings. I imagine I'm supposed to know what that means but regrettably it came as something of a surprise to me so I panicked, randomly changed lots of settings and turned off my virus protection. One of those achieved success, bet you can't guess which one?

Anyway, that's not what I was disappointed about (nor I expect were you), rather I was (or should I say am) disappointed in a general sense.

A couple of years ago I was disappointed to have spent 10 years of life working for a building company. I didn't enjoy the job from the word go, I only took it on as the alternative was either unemployment or ushering on a Ray Cooney farce. As depressing as Run For Your Wife was it wasn't anything like as miserable an experience as unemployment so I opted to put down my ice cream tray, tear my last ticket and head west to the world of blocked toilets, smashed windows and broken dreams.

Despite trying to leave on a couple of occasions (I was tricked by the cunning genius of my evil boss) I spent a decade of my life sliding down the greasy pole of English life. I started in Putney which is quite an affluent London borough, took the short trip to Merton which is rather less salubrious before heading to Liverpool and then eventually Stoke on Trent. I don't want to say too much about either of the last two cities as most of the people I met there were the most friendly, generous and genuine people you could wish to meet. Especially when you consider that they live in a shit hole.

Still, I managed to escape. I visualised myself free of the company, I steeled myself to break the shackles which bound me and I drew deep from my well of mental strength. I was aided in this task by the fact that the company went bust and everyone who worked for them was laid off but hey, I was ready to go...

I've actually got to go and help set up a theatre restaurant but I've more to say on this topic, make yourself a cup of tea or something, I'll be right back.

Hard to Believe...

...that one so angelic in appearance could behave in a manner so discordant with her demeanour.

Oh, she wasn't so bad I suppose, if I let her watch TV she'd probably have been as quiet as a mouse (a mouse watching TV I guess) but I don't allow it on the grounds that it's not good for her.

Quite what the beneficial effects of trying to get my hands and feet to kiss and form stable relationships might be is less clear but at least it allows her already rampant imagination a little more room for manoeuvre than the brain sponge drivel on TV.

Still no thank you, still no goodbye (although I wasn't ignored when I picked her up yesterday which was an improvement on last week).

Plenty of tears and mini-tantrums about nothing in particular.

Not very interesting this is it?

Day 3

Still not smoked although last night I could have been tempted, just a bit bored in truth and feeling slightly below par.

In two hours time I will have the pleasure of collecting my neice(ish) from creche and endeavouring to amuse her without recourse to the idiots lantern. I managed this minor feat last week and felt that we had a fantastic time together, indeed I would say that I was at my avuncular best. I made my right hand into Bob and my right foot into Rosie, she was allowed to decorate them as she pleased and sat enraptured with their conversation for several hours.

Tallulah (left hand) was also called into play and Rosie was eventually retired as she was a bit rude and bit loud.

Then we read about 6 books together.

Then her Mum arrived and I didn't warrant another word, not even a goodbye. Fair enough, you may say, she is very close to her Mum and loves her to the exclusion of all others. However, I saw her again on Sunday when she was with her father and she had not a word for me then either, not a hello, not a goodbye, nothing.

I know I shouldn't be hurt by the whimsies of a four year old but it's hard not to react in a childish and vengeful fashion. Not that I plan to jab forks into her eyes this afternoon but I would like to hear what she has to say about it.

Of course she may not give it a moments thought, she's too occupied with serious thought to worry about such childish things but she may be able to cast some light on her actions.

Perhaps I'll sulk.

Otherwise I've put a stop to the auto generated comments I've been getting (which should end forever the thrill of thinking that someone else reads this crap) and am having serious second thoughts about yesterday's enthusiasm for the job at the Golf Club.

That's what I mean about not trusting my emotions, one day I'm out of here, next day I'm applying for a job here, today I'm placid, tomorrow...who knows.

Didn't start my daily star rating system either.

****

What The Cotton Pickin'...?

Day's drawing to a close, having a bit of a flick to and fro, found this blog.

Well I'm no stickler for spelling and the like but this is hardly quality writing is it. I have no idea what the first and last words mean and the rest of the post is just a repetition of the title.

So why then, pray, does my new mate The Keyword King feel compelled to bestow alarmingly similar praise on this tokenist effort as he does on my recent outpourings?

I don't know why I bother sometimes, I really don't.

L' Appartement

Saw this the other day.

Do I win a prize?

Did I Say I Felt Alienanted (again)?

Crikey, that was yesterday or the day before. Today I feel much more in harmony with my surroundings, why is that I wonder?

I was reading The Rotters Club recently, one of the characters in that kept a daily diary and had a rating system for her mood, using a sequence of asterisks I think. Perhaps I should do that with my blog (dazzlingly original I know) as I'm one of those people who can never remember feeling content when I feel like shit and vice versa.

Anyway, the alienation thing was about me feeling largely out of it when I was back in the UK, looking at my friends and feeling like I didn't belong with them, I didn't understand them and either they or I had moved on.

I come back here and now find myself feeling far from comfortable with people and my surroundings. This is a bit alarming as it suggests (ta, ra!) that I am out of it, I am the alien and being here, running there or hiding under there will not change a thing. Got to deal with the freak inside.

So, anyway, gave up smoking (again) yesterday. Although THE BOOK says I'm not to tell anyone I'm quietly confident that I'll get plenty of comments along the lines of

"Hey, love your blog, great to read some cool stuff for a change, I'm writing a blog about pig semen which you might be interested in, why not drop by and check me out"

And I started yoga (again) yesterday and my press ups (again). If I think of something new to start I'll stop it pretty much straight way and start it (again) so that it fits in with the rest of my recidivist behaviour.

As the last (again) moment of the day, I'm once again toying with the idea of applying to be the Manager (part time) of the local Golf Club. Don't laugh for fucks sake, this is my future we're talking about.

Not The One About Alienation

Clearly I am in something of a quandary with regard to my life, what to do with it and how best to enjoy it but I feel my grip on what little sanity I have left beginning to slip when I find myself reading American-style-self-help-life-changing-guru-inspired articles such as this one.

And finding them useful!

Does this mean that I've been missing out by not reading Chicken Soup For The Soul, Think Your Way To Success, How Green Is My Parachute and others of it's ilk or does it mean that I'm succumbing to the same mind numbing hopelessness that drives others to such treacherous shores.?

Domesticated Ungulates

Yesterday we went to an Alpaca party.

Well, strictly speaking we went to chop wood for Katie, a new arrival on the island looking to stock up for the remainder of the winter. The wood we collected happened to be on the land of Sir Rodney Bowling who happens to have recently purchased two alpaca's so a modest wood collecting trip became an Alpaca party to which several local dignitaries were invited.

Oh, and I gave up smoking today.

Again.

I feel I may need to express myself more better. Sir Rodney, regrettably, has not kneeled down before the monarch to receive his honour, rather it was bestowed upon him by his friends who believed such a title befitting someone with as much land as he.

He has however purchased two alpacas which is possibly the sort of thing landed and titled gentry may do to amuse themselves. He also has his name painted on his roof in 6 foot high letters, has cut a hole from his bedroom into his lounge with a chainsaw to facilitate better TV watching, has a pregnant possum living in his larder and most remarkably of all, has a new girlfriend.

Despite his title and his land Sir Rodney leads a relatively modest life. Driving to his home without a four wheel drive vehicle is not to be recommended as the road is uneven at best, a swamp at worst and littered with the bodies of slow, stupid or suicidal wallabies. His home is very cosy being a bungalow with a kitchen-diner, a bedroom and a bathroom. It shows signs of his recent bachelordom but has been greatly improved by the presence of the aforementioned lady who laid out a great spread yesterday.

Those who have been fortunate enough to visit Sir Rodney's domain on more than one occasion (I count not myself among their throng) noted the fact that this was the first time they had eaten at his home, as his sister and best-friend were two of them I'm guessing it was a notable event I had the privilege of attending.

Sir Rodney's lady friend (would Lady Rodney be too presumptuous?) was charming and a dab hand in the kitchen to boot. He looks a great deal healthier than he has in the past and she seems very happy with the domestic arrangement.

Quite why I've started rambling on about the domestic habits of someone I met for the first time yesterday I don't know. Perhaps it has something to do with the long, dark and wet journey back which was only punctuated by the occasional bitter remark from my beloved. Set me off on my great escape plan again.

I think I'd like to write later today about my feeling of alienation.

Tossing

Speaking of doubt…I was awoken this morning by the musical sound of my partner expressing her bountiful armoury of doubt. Must be contagious.

It wasn’t exactly how I planned to start the weekend and caused me to withdraw into my usual taciturn state. This in turn caused her to express frustration at my habit of withdrawing into my usual taciturn state. She also stated, quite logically, that such withdrawals on my part meant that she is reluctant to discuss such issues with me which came as something of a surprise.

I’ve always painted myself as the one more likely to raise difficult topics so to hear that I’m the reason why they are not discussed as frequently as they might be caused me to experience a little more doubt being added to the growing pile.

I might have added (were I not being so taciturn) that the reason I don’t relish such discussions is because they always lead me to the same conclusion. That our relationship is doomed and that I may as well get on a plane and leave before I cause any more damage.

We’ve been together for about five years now, we would both like children but the window of opportunity is gradually closing and as I don’t seem to be able to find my place in the world I’ve become increasingly pessimistic about my ability to care and provide for a child. Previously I’ve held the view that things would work out, that the child will not starve and (less vocally) that having a child may well provide me with the impetus to make something of my life.

Currently I feel that we both might be better off were we to face such problems apart. This morning I suggested that if I was not here she would be happier, less hindered by my doubt and lack of direction and may well be better placed to achieve the modest ambitions that she holds, ie children, security and stability.

I know that such, “falling on one’s sword”, scenarios are a bit dramatic and lean towards the flight rather than fight tendencies in me but there was little counter argument provided to this train of thought. Of course this may well have been an expression of frustration or an attempt to rise above my dramatic proposition but I’m increasingly drawn to the argument none the less.

What a tosser!

Doubt

I was lying in bed this morning (as one does), staring at the ceiling and thinking about the nature of doubt. The curse of it in fact.

I wondered whether A.C. Grayling had anything to say about it as my friends recently presented me with two of his books, The Meaning Of Things and The Heart of Things, but regrettably they held not the answers I sought, (although I did wonder whether the chapter on Hope might not somehow qualify being something of doubt's anthithesis).

Anyway, to cut a long story I was wracked with doubt. Doubt about my career, doubt about my partner, doubt about my ability, doubt about living on the island, doubt about my will to change...does that qualify as wracked?

So what do I do about it? I need money but I can't bear the thought of returning to the cheese factory and there's little or nothing else to do for gainful employment. I need a career (see above). I need to resolve the issues within my relationship but can't seem to focus on them whilst distracted by all the other issues (or should that be the other way around - I'm sure A.C. Grayling would have something to say about it).

I still harbour dreams of writing but, as you can tell, my output isn't exactly prolific and this blog is just about the sum total of my efforts. I'm nearing 40 and feel no more at home in the world than when I was a tortured undergraduate, at that time it was almost expected of me as an arts student but now I can't help feeling the mantle sits a little uneasily on my ageing, rounded shoulders.

As an aside I spoke to my Nana last night. When I was back in the UK, Peter and myself took down her old garden shed and erected another in it's stead. This act was replete with symbolism as her husband, Fred, spent a great deal of time in that shed before being overcome with altzhiemers, depression and eventally death.

Removing it was something I really wanted to do for Nana as I miss her when I'm away and feel a degree of guilt for not being nearer to her in her dotage. I'd hoped that the new shed would stand as a symbol of my love for her but last night she informed me that she spent a couple of hours sitting by it yesterday and worried that she'd never see me again. That comment didn't exactly fill me with the sense of self satisfaction that I'd selfishly hoped for.

Neither has writing about doubt to be honest.

The Call Of The Cheese

It's so close I can almost smell it.

Today I have been back on the island for five days and the time is rapidly approaching for recommencing my cheese career. I don't think I need to spell out the degree of dread involved in performing this task but for those of you who remain unfamiliar with the horror of dehooping, turning or salting cheese I can only say that while my mood at present could best be described as average, the moment I walk into the factory I will once again become sad-man.

I will attire myself in the garb of the food processor, purge my hands of bacteria, greet my fellow cheese monkeys and plunge myself into the dark world of cheese production. It will be interesting to note how many minutes pass before I curse myself, kick something, make a poisonous remark and eventually settle into the familiar routine of early morning starts, falling asleep on the sofa at about 8.30 and wishing away the hours until I can enjoy my one day off.

I say enjoy but more commonly I find pleasure in the first few hours until I start to count down the hours until it all begins again.

On a brighter note....

I'm sure there's something.

Black Turd

Profound cannot begin to describe the topics I had lined up for today. What with getting back to the island after a month away and being no nearer any sort of plan for the remainder of my miserable life I felt that perhaps I could find solace in sharing the exigencies of my life for the common good.

What did I come up with?

My shit was black this morning. I sat down for a long and reflective dump during which I would grapple with the topics teeming through my conciousness and settle on which one to publicly disect. Bish, bash, bosh, there it all was before the chill had even left the seat. Black and sloppy.

I've also got conjunctivitus a sore throat and a cold sore. Could it be bird flu? (I stopped over in Singapore for two hours you see).

Alternatively, I did burn the curry last night.

Maybe one of these emergency service blogs could help, do they do callouts I wonder.

Tullamarine

So many questions and issues to be resolved following my trip to London. Probably a wee bit too soon to be attempting anything productive as I've been travelling for two days and am beginning to feel a little insane in the membrane.

Initial thoughts are that it was largely a waste of time. Glad I managed to build Nana a new shed and spent some time with Pierre but little else springs to mind as something worthy of the name, 'achievement'.

The usual manner of these things is that I look back on them with affection with increases in direct proportion to the passage of time involved. To summarise (with the aforementioned tiredness caveat) I felt out of place for a large period of time and didn't bond with my friends in the way I expected or hoped for. It was the same last Christmas but I blamed that on the deleterious nature of my relationship with Peta and what I perceived to be her selfish behaviour.

This again is a familiar tale, I have excuses for my unhappiness / discomfort which are gradually stripped away to reveal...me.

My current excuse is that I feel betwixt and between, at home neither here nor there (I'm currently in transit both literally and metaphorically).

Or am I just a moody twat?

Shall I give writing a bash? Teaching? Work with my brother? Children? Living on a remote island? Kelping? Surfing? Fishing?

Told you there were lots of questions, won't take long for me to realise how few and how well concealed the answers are.