Sentience in a seed-pod

Hello.

I was just reading this blog, when I started thinking about how as a kid you always dream about setting out on your own, across the sea into unknown territory. Now, as an adult escaping the stresses and strains of everyday life naturally leads to this kind of fantasy. But that's not when you have them. You have them as a carefree all-needs-catered kid. Perhaps the critical difference is that as a kid, you're running toward something. Your parents, your house, your friends are a given, taken for granted. Running away to a faraway place doesn't mean leaving these things behind - it means adding an adventure, the sense of the unknown, a quantum leap in learning experience.

I wonder if my trips up the mountain are biting that bullet?

What happened with my week? Well, I'll tell ya. Aside from traing, which has been boring on a new scale of boredom, it's been pretty fly. I must say I've been enjoying the British lot way more than the Americans. There's something about the attitude to life here, and I can't quite put my finger on it. Perhaps I just key into it because it's my cultural heritage from Grandpa Geoffrey and Nunna Eve.

Anyhow, Emily the receptionist is mad, but says the same of everyone else, and Beaver Steve the new developer is fun and speaks with a slightly Scottish accent which gives him Sean Connery cool. We went out on Wednesday night with Emily's mates Ann the Liverpudlian, who is unspeakably scary and attempted to woo me with the if-you're-not-gay-prove-it approach, unsuccesful, and Amy the bar person from Moore's, a pub in Chertsey, who is young and loverly.
It was supposed to be a comedy night thing, but the drinking started in the early evening with a couple of pints of ale, some Stella Artois and something pink and sweetish for Amy. We moved onto the Crown, which is my hotel, and had more drinks there, so by the time we got to Moore's for the comedy, we were all pretty trashed.
The level of comedy was middling, and made worse for me by the fact that I can't understand people from Manchester.
Summary of shenanigans:

• I changed Emily's phone to Turkish and then couldn't change it back.
• Emily shouted at me.
• Steve threw up in the toliet area, but not actually inside the bathroom.
• Amy shouted at Steve.
• Steve missed his train so he had to come back to the hotel with me.
• Amand Ann wanted to come back to my hotel room with some wine.
• I wasn't keen because a) Ann was rank, and up for it, b) Amy was cute, but not up for it and c) I was pretty drunk and sleep was more important.
• Nothing happened you pervs.

What happened with my week? Well, I'll tell ya. Aside from traing, which has been boring on a new scale of boredom, it's been pretty fly. I must say I've been enjoying the British lot way more than the Americans. There's something about the attitude to life here, and I can't quite put my finger on it. Perhaps I just key into it because it's my cultural heritage from Grandpa Geoffrey and Nunna Eve.

Anyhow, Emily the receptionist is mad, but says the same of everyone else, and Beaver Steve the new developer is fun and speaks with a slightly Scottish accent which gives him Sean Connery cool. We went out on Wednesday night with Emily's mates Ann the Liverpudlian, who is unspeakably scary and attempted to woo me with the if-you're-not-gay-prove-it approach, unsuccesful, and Amy the bar person from Moore's, a pub in Chertsey, who is young and loverly.
It was supposed to be a comedy night thing, but the drinking started in the early evening with a couple of pints of ale, some Stella Artois and something pink and sweetish for Amy. We moved onto the Crown, which is my hotel, and had more drinks there, so by the time we got to Moore's for the comedy, we were all pretty trashed.
The level of comedy was middling, and made worse for me by the fact that I can't understand people from Manchester.
Summary of shenanigans:

• I changed Emily's phone to Turkish and then couldn't change it back.
• Emily shouted at me.
• Steve threw up in the toliet area, but not actually inside the bathroom.
• Amy shouted at Steve.
• Steve missed his train so he had to come back to the hotel with me.
• Amand Ann wanted to come back to my hotel room with some wine.
• I wasn't keen because a) Ann was rank, and up for it, b) Amy was cute, but not up for it and c) I was pretty drunk and sleep was more important.
• Nothing happened you pervs.

Since I stayed over at Jo's last weekend I've had that "Gay Bar" song in my head. The video was on VH1's worst ever list, and somehow it earwormed its way between my synapses. Well, it was prescient or something because last night I went to one in Soho with some folk. I can't remember the name but it started with an R. Maybe Rembrandt? Nah. Anyhow, I didn't realise at first, but it slowly dawned, along the lines of, in flow of consciousness: Jesus it's noisy in here and no place to sit down erg I hope these aren't more sports supporters blah hey where are the girls that guy is so gay oh wait.

Anyway, I was checked out by zero (0) ubergay London boys. Sigh, too straight for gay boys, too metro for girls. What am I, chopped liver? By the way, I was watching a cooking program where they made liver pate. Gag. But then no surprises where organs are involved.

Alright, so in other news my company has been sold to a bigger company. How does this affect me? I have no idea, in reality. In the words of Deng Xiaoping, it's too early to tell. But the immediate psychological effects are: Fear, for no reason I can put my finger on, but I guess it's just the unknown, Optimism, because the great Capitalist machine rolls on and someone's going to profit, so it might as well be me, young, smart and charming training guru and god of biscuits and Skepticism, because we're being hit by internal marketing from all sides and marketing is managing and management is mortifying.

A marketing gem: It is an honor for our young company, and a testimony to our reputation, to have been approached by an organization of this caliber.
Of course, our new masters populate a still younger company, but they're in a more lucrative market, so it's bigger. In fact, bigness is clearly the big selling point here. I think I heard the words "we bought a company in so and so" at least twenty times this morning. I wonder if this corporate imperialism yields a coherent culture. Do the conquered project managing generals and code warriors love or hate the new Rome? Perhaps it's more an ambivalence that penants the sallying hordes in the quest for Bank after Credit Union. Is it enough to keep us going?

So here we have one (1) times South African male, 28. 1.87 meters or 6 feet two inches, pretty lean, looks good in mirrors when well lit from above. Dark hair on its last tour of duty, pale baby-smooth skin with random hairiness on face ala Cheech and Chong. Wears glasses to correct middling astigmatism and enhance appearance of erudition.

I know too little, and I care too much. I don't worry about big things, but I niggle about small things. I'm all or nothing, frequently nothing. I'm lazy, but happy. I have a good sense of humour, but I don't do jokes. I handstand compulsively. I don't smoke except passively, I drink only in company and to tell you the truth I don't like the alcohol, just the ceremony of getting pissed with friends. I like girls' bodies but most people who meet me think otherwise. I'm fine with that, except that even though girls say they want a sensitive guy who doesn't burp, fart or hog the remote, what they really want is to be taken roughly by some scarcely tameable rogue I am not.

I train people for a living. I work for a software company. I travel a lot which I like, but sometimes I have to write courses which is crap. Of course, actually delivering those courses is great most of the time. I love a captive audience.

My ongoing "novel" is still four chapters in, and I'm in one of the fallow stages, although I can feel I might write again soon. I wish I could be workmanlike about it, or indeed, about anything.

So, 28. Today. What do I have to say for myself? Same thing I always say, I guess: no plan, no rhyme or reason, but I am having fun, so we're ok, for now.

On a brighter note, last night, despite earlier assertions to the contrary, I discovered the best television program ever. It's called Ban This Filth. It mixes porn, comedy and old ladies, a match made in heaven, since sex, and old ladies, are basically funny to start with.

Republicans off earth now!

Alright already! Journalists may not be ready to call it, but I am. The Bush has won. Again. This makes me feel ill in a fundamental way. What's worse is that this time he also won the popular vote, which means his stunning track record over the last four years has convinced legions of Americans to give him a longer stick. Well, I think I'm beginning to understand the frustrations that lead to terrorism. In the great words of Chris Rock (even though he was talking about something else) I'm not saying he should've done it, but I understand.

Note: for someone so politically apathetic, any emotion on this subject is a major coup.

God bless America: with the fratboy in charge, you're gonna need it.

For some reason I spent my feverish sleep last night dreaming exclusively of naked girls, parties and blankets. Dusty pink fluffy blankets. Perhaps being plague-ridden makes me horny. Or perhaps it's the American election, being covered in excruciating detail on the BBC. The naked girls and their free love hippy theme certainly gels better with the easy-going Kerry nature than the hardline Bush no-fun-not-involving-guns philosophy. Then again, Cheney's daughter is a lesbian, but that doesn't count, because she wouldn't have wanted to be in a dream with me.

So it's the first of November and I'm marginally excited. I'm excited because November is my birth month and I'm mercilessly self-obsessed (-possessed?). For the same reason green is my favourite colour (my eyes) and brunettes are my favourite girls.

Anyhow, I'm here in or near London where I'd hoped I'd not be till next year. I'd always had this hope to go to every continent before setting foot in Blighty, mainly because most people do it the other way around and I'm bloody-minded that way.

I'm sick. I hate being sick. And it doesn't help that it's cold and rainy here. I'm upbeat though. This weekend I went looking for Wombles in Wimbledon Common, which is pretty much just a golf course now. I have a few theories about the Wombles, but that's a subject for a later pictorial exposé.

I saw my friend Jo, and we ventured into the dark underbelly of South African expat London, which I found is almost exactly like the dark underbelly of South African Joburg. Rugby is big, beer is big, music is cover versions of eighties hits. Geoff was not loving this, although Jo continues to be a joy.

On Sunday we did Harrods and I saw £4000/kg white truffles. I want to start a truffle farm in Hogsback and fly into Cape Town in my Apache gunship for the weekends. How hard could it be?

By the way, I flew Business Class to London for no good reason. It would have been perfect, but they took away my window seat for the privilege. I was a bit put out until I realised that my seat was mechanised and I could spend the whole trip making my footrest go up and down. I was surprised to find that it was actually more comfortable than economy. But then I fell asleep, so I missed most of it. Oh, and they took my coat when I got on. That was cool. But there were no movie stars around. They all fly first class, which I think is nicer because the seats are a different colour.

Alright, I'm off home to convalesce. Night babies.