That's Life

A year's hard work at Staffordshire Life magazine has reached its conclusion due to my contract coming to an end. It's been a memorable year, where I've gladly put up with all kinds of shenanigans being thrown my way. I guess not many people can say in their professional career that they've undertaken work that includes falconry, theatre, artists, cookery schools, musicians, museums, MPs, forests, canals, local businesses, Bentley, fashion, weddings, hospices, press trips, archaeological discoveries, festivals and even a trip to France.
It's been brilliant. And I hope that whoever's flicked through the magazine over the past 12 months has got just as big a kick out out of reading the features as I did writing them.
Still, onwards and upwards. Who knows what's next?

Seasoned feature

My Guy

The air smells wet. Like, it has that faint but decidedly moist whiff to it. That soggy sense clings to you, and you're acutely aware that it's November.
Bonfire night is one of my favourite calendar events of the year. It arrives in the most understated manner, without the expectations that come with New Years Eve, or the effort that Halloween demands, and it completely blows the non-event that is Easter out of the water. Strangely, I always find there's something quite cleansing about gazing into a great mountain of fire. Catharsis, and all that. Plus there's the technicolour treat of fireworks, that climb and fizzle and whistle and crackle and finally pop.

I had the rare opportunity to enjoy a day of 'solitude shopping' in Birmingham yesterday. However anti-social it may be, I always prefer to go shopping by myself rather than with a group of friends, as you're able to focus 100% on what you need to get. After sensible deliberation (mainly brought on by the fact that, much as I hate to admit it, I am not in possession of a limitless bank balance) I settled on a thick cerulean jersey jumper from Cos, and a black and white mohair-blend scarf from French Connection.

I only realised upon returning home and perusing their website that Cos is actually the far more dapper and cooler sibling of H&M - kept that one quiet, didn't you Cos? Their aesthetic is really comforting because it's all about taking items back to basics, but then enhancing them with little bits of detail, like the denim-wash effect that my jersey jumper has, which is barely noticeable unless you look closely on the sleeves. The simple template of all their designs really appeals to me, when so many things nowadays are covered in zips and patterns and pockets. The jersey jumper merely shrugs, 'I am jumper. You wear me.' Brilliant.
I know a lot of people find mohair a distracting son of an itch, but it never seems to give me much jip. It's one of those materials that you can't truly appreciate unless you give it a bit of a closer inspection; again, it's all about the detail. The scarf is a honeycomb web of warmth, and I can't wait to wear this and the jersey jumper together on Bonfire night.


The fact that a day of blissful Brumie browsing was bolstered by one of Starbucks' seasonal gingerbread latte's was just the cherry on top; liquid magic.

Life + job

I'm a talking cliché. Since beginning as a features writer for Staffordshire Life, I walk around making absurd exclamations like: "We need to put the September issue to bed!", or "Let me just speak to my editor and we'll get back to you!" I find myself cringing in social situations when people ask what I do. "Teacher", "graduate scheme", "office worker", they all say, while hot, sweaty specks of embarrassment press like pins against my forehead. "Oh, I'm a writer", I quickly mumble, while I feel their eyes bore into me as if I'm some kind of fantastical figment. It's pretty good though.

Man up

Following previous contemplation on whether the mlutch is a bold and beautiful move towards offering men more choice in the bag department, or if it's actually just a bit (whisper it) effeminate and sissy, I have found a solution: the mlutch should be held in the mouth. That's it, right between the gnashers. This revelation slapped me in the chops after a few vodka and lemonades on Saturday night.


See, manly.

Como? Não entendi direito

Sim!

a: Você fala português?
b: Eu entendo um pouco, mas não falo.
a: De onde você é?
b: Sou de Pop-sicle.
a: De Pop-sicle?
b: Sim, de Pop-sicle.
a: O que você faz?
b: Sou pop.
a: Como? Não entendi direito.
b: Sou pop.
a: Fale mais devagar.
b: Sou... pop?
a: ...
b: ...
a: Onde é o banheiro?
b: Não sei.
a: ...
b: O senhor pode me trazer mais pão? Obrigado!





Visit The Show Pony Trot to find out how it really went.

Desperately seeking

My brother is presently trying to help me write this Pop post. The absence of recent posting has been due to a week of 'self-improvement', for lack of a better, cohesive term: internship interviews, radio shows, tearing my CV apart and building it up again. Today I'm attending a 'CV Clinic', if you can believe it. Quite whether my CV is so ill it needs to see a doctor is debatable to my mind, but we'll see. And the lack of posting is set to continue into next week, as I'm off to Portugal for 6 days (OBRIGADO!), so apologies for that too.

It was my brother's idea to write about my CV. "Write about," he says, "how we're in an academic sweatshop; we're having to be sold as a commodity. Working for 'The Man'? Who's the bloody man?!" Indeed.

The fact that everyone is so manufactured these days is a bit of a worry. 22, university degree, desire to succeed, GSOH... I feel like I'm playing the dating game, rather than at the start of a career. If this is the case, my CV is, without question, a slag. Do you realise how many times it has been whored out to prospective partners (i.e. 'The Man') in the past? To set it apart in the future, I will print it on good quality cream paper, send it out in A4 envelopes (so that it's not folded up and creased), and attach a super-smiley picture of myself, to add a more 'personal' touch. Yes, this slag is getting desperate.

And it's hard to not feel deterred at this stage of the game, which becomes even more frustrating when 'this stage of the game' is actually prior to the whole process of your career even beginning. And that word, 'career'. It's toxic. This moniker brings to mind etheral imaginings of sowing the educational bean, climbing that bewitched career ladder, and entering into the magical kingdom of Job.

Luckily, youthful optimism shines through. In my mind, and the minds of countless others, that magical kingdom still awaits. Except this fairytale is not made up of Prince Charming and the Princess, but the Tyrannical Corporate Capitalist and the Slag. But I think we all know which story will sell more copies. And they all lived happily ever after...?

50s pornstar at the gym

How do you know I don't mean the 2050s?

Shortbodies

If only shorthand was taught like this...

'James'
It's my name, don't wear it out. For some unknown reason Blogger has reverted the image back to its original formatting and won't let me flip it, so you'll have to make do with craning your necks 90 degrees to the right.
No socks were harmed in the making of this art.

'Amy'

A perfect example of 'y' saying 'i', this is the wonderful Amy Stocking, poet extraordinaire and mystic temptress of the Black Country. You can read her work and musings on life by clicking here: http://showponytrot.blogspot.com/

Mr Blog and I

It was only in the aftermath of an inordinate amount of time spent formatting an image of Robbie Williams from a GIF file to a JPEG one - a stupidly simple task - that I realised how much I missed the blog that never was.

Mr Blog and I have had a rocky relationship. I first heard of him through the casual chit-chat of those in the know. There seemed to be a buzz about the chap, but I dismissed it as nothing more than hype. Then I caught a glimpse of him; clean-shaven, smart but distinct, with a style all of his own. He was perhaps a little rough around the edges, but we could soon sort that out. However, modern-day cynicism soon set in, and I decided quite quickly that this was no doubt a case of style over substance; all talk and no trousers.

And then, like all the great romances, one day Mr Blog and I just happened to bump into each other. I suppose I should have expected it - I was in his neighbourhood. We got to talking, and it turns out he's a great listener. And what do you know, he shares a lot of the same opinions as me. And so friendly and polite, a complete gentleman. Never interrupts. My heart starts racing and I'm thinking, 'Gosh, this could really be something!'

So, I invite him back for coffee and we started playing around... Then we start fooling around... Which is playing around minus the coffee... Turns out I really know how to turn him on. When we'd shut down for the night, my mind would run rampant with all the, ahem, conversations we'd had. I really felt like I could get something out of this relationship.

We continued fooling around for a couple of weeks, but it wasn't long before the cracks started to show. He couldn't keep anything I told him private. He just regarded our relationship as an open book, for anyone to read. And then he stopped communicating with me altogether...! Can you believe that? He was happy to talk to other people about us, but had nothing to say to me. The nerve! I lost interest in him, and as a result didn't put the effort into our relationship that I perhaps should have... The answer was inevitable.

I deleted him from my life.

Life continued for 6 months or so, and I didn't think much of Mr Blog. And then tonight I found myself in his neighbourhood again. I was certain that he'd tricked me, but something inside me had brought me back here. That old familiar feeling rose up, and before I could stop myself I was caught in his net once more. And that's where I am right now.

The problem before was that I was trying to define our relationship. This time I'm happy for it to be an open one. As long as we're both committed, communicate with each other and keep things exciting, then we should be fine. Like that Robbie Williams photo, I knew our relationship was never going to be picture perfect, but then perhaps I'm missing the bigger picture...?