The value of things

I had a restless sleep last night. My body was aching and in my subconscious, I was very, very, scared about the amount of work I've left to do in my last two days before the deadline.

But I got rudely woken up to the terrible realities of life by J – who declared that he was going to drive all our unsold car boot stuff to the charity shop at bloody 0715 hours in the morning.

We did a car boot sale on Sunday and earned about 180 quid from selling our worldy possessions for ridiculously low prices. All the stuff that's been with me the last however many years were bargained over, their value hassled down... and try as I might, to remain unperturbed about the whole event, it finally got to me this morning.

When I could get a quid here or two for things that were mine, but sold. I could accept it. But yesterday, I said to J there were a few things I wanted to salvage from our leftover car boot heap, which we were going to give to charity shops.

But it didn't register.

I got abruptly woken up to him driving the van away with all my precious stuff in it... and I got up, looked around, really disorientated and I realise to my horror that all my beautiful coats, my lovely books, videos, cds, personal paraphenelia, clothes, shoes... everything. Was driving away from my grasp before I could retrieve it. Or prepare myself for it. Or mourn for it.

How we all get attached to our worldly possessions...

I jumped out of bed and threw on my jeans and jumper and literally, for the first time in my life, ran down the streets to look for him in the wee hours of the day. I knew which charities he'd be heading for – he wanted to donate them all to RSPCA because he likes animals better than human beings. But I wanted to donate it to cancer research because my real father died from blood cancer. In the end, in my bewildered, flustered, and hair-all-over-my-face state, I located the van, gave him a bollocking for just driving off without giving me any warning, and started to pick at the loot that he had carefully placed outside the charity shop (it was RSPCA in the end, he won).

I looked so dodgy picking at charity stuff outside the shop – but it was my stuff after all. I took a few jumpers back because it was getting cold, a pair of shoes, one book. I looked around at all the stuff and I suddenly came over all sad. I don't know why.

J said he couldn't bear to look at the heaps of precious clothes he had bought for a crazy amount of money, sitting like golden rubbish outside a shop. He went back to sit in the car because he said he 'didn't want to think about it' while I just stood hopelessly, helplessly, staring at all my things. Easy for blokes to just 'switch off' and 'not think about it'.

I stood there staring at stuff, but couldn't bear to extract anymore of my possessions, with J sitting there staring at me. I decided enough was enough and picked up the few pathetic items I had managed to salvage and we drove home sullenly.

Halfway home, I realised that the one thing that I really wanted to get back – my lovely soft-as-a-bear furry topshop coat – I had left behind.

I got really upset with J. It's not like I didn't want to be charitable – we were going to give all our stuff, which was worth hundreds of pounds, to the charities anyway before we left... but, he didn't even accord me the grieving time I needed, the luxury to look at my things one more time before saying goodbye to it forever, alongside with all the memories that it carried. It wasn't so much the value of things that really affected me, but the memory associated and the period in time of my life that it had come to represent.

I threw a tantrum back at home and almost cried about all the stuff that I was robbed from grieving over. But when I calmed down, I almost felt ashamed at the extent of the value I had attached to them.

I can buy another coat, can't I? I can read all those books again if I really needed. And all those little personal things, bits and bobs... like J said, if we had sold it at the car boot, would I really still miss it?

I'm thinking about my furry boots that I used to podium dance and rave with – I still want those. They were my first pair and they were mad stuff, representing all the good times I had dancing my tits off and getting inebriated with my friends in my university days.

But they're sitting outside a shop now and I can't go back to get them again. I suppose I could go back there and buy it off the shop again – but how stupid would that be. Or worse, the charity shop might have just thrown it away.

So now I'm sitting here, and I should be thinking about my dissertation, and all I'm thinking of, is being robbed of all my memories. Robbed of my chance to grieve. Robbed of my chance to hold on to things I knew I eventually had to let go of. Of that little pipe I bought in Amsterdam, of that coat I left there, of those furry boots, of the stuff that I actually wouldn't mind taking back with me.

But maybe this is my lesson. If I died tomorrow, I couldn't take it with me, could I? Perhaps somewhere else, some other person would put those things to much better use. Someone who perhaps isn't so well off, and can only afford charity shops. Someone who isn't like the rich, middle class twats we see so often, and whom we should always resist becoming. Someone who understands the true value of things.

Sometimes we need to lose our possessions to understand certain aspects of ourselves. I suddenly, weirdly, recall Ed Norton in Fight Club where his schizo other self (played by Brad Pitt) sets fire to his entire house – swanky, cool, wordly, middle-class possessions – and it turns out to be the most liberating thing he has ever done for himself.

I can only hope that in writing this, and forcing myself to forget about all those things I'd left behind, I will finally be accorded my appropriate grief and can finally let go.

Here's to liberation.

Research

I'm sitting here staring into space again and I don't know why why why I just can't seem to get my arse in gear especially since my deadline is one week today!

I guess it must be the curse of being a journalist (any excuse...), but since I've been faffing about for the whole day, I decided I shall share something really hilarious that I came across while doing my research.

To put things in context, my thesis is largely based on the digital age. The impact of new media on old media – or what some pundits choose to call it – 'we media' versus 'elite media'. Citizen journalism versus tradition journalism, bloggers versus professionals.

Which reminds me... Janet Street-Porter from the Independent on Sunday wrote this very sharp, slightly scathing, but nevertheless insightful article about blogging. In her words, "bloggers are those who, at the end of the day, can't get published."

But how about people who can get published but blog too???

Speaking of which, today I realised the very fine line between being officially published, and trying to blog anonymously. I created a blog the other day in my name and stupidly forgot to take it off my usual profile. Someone from News International apparently googled my name and came across my profile, which led to this blog, and the one with my real name on it. Doesn't take a genius to marry the two together, and I realised with one sick feeling that my frivolous posting, my blogging, without a care to sound like my published self, has been discovered by someone who was trying to find out something about me. There's something really eerie about knowing someone out there's googled your name, maybe in innocence to find out what stories you've written etc, but stumbled onto your personal life instead, in all its full frothy, flippant glory. What if I know that person in a professional context? What if I said something really silly and embarrassing; that has nothing to do with my published self! Still, but still, we persist in blogging details of our life to varying degrees. And publish it on the web. Not fully comprehending that anyone in the world could read it anytime and anywhere. (Unless of course it contains explicit porn, or paedophilic content, in which case, your site will be banned from most ISPs) Why! Is the question.

Maybe Porter was right, if you get published, don't blog. Leave that to those who don't. But then again, there's something so therapeutic about inane blogging – don't we all agree? Who cares who reads it? As long as I get the satisfaction out of it. But – and here's the danger – in the seemingly anonymous world of cyberspace, everything is deceptively hidden, but nothing really is. So once again, I have to remind myself, keep my published name, separate from my blogging self – rants and frivolous posting aside, I need to maintain my professional image. Can't have a potential newsmaker/client/mere acquaintance find out my innermost fears, hopes and desires, now... can I?

There's something very egotistical about blogging which everyone indulges in, but I just can't seem to find the guts to post a picture of myself online, with my name, and my personal life in beautiful detail (odd, for a – as my friends wrongly claim – rather egotistical person like myself. I prefer to call it confidence. ) I either display my name in relation to official stuff, or strictly business-only content. Or blog behind a pseudonym, revealing my other self in all its self-censored revelry. Maybe one day I'll finally be able to reconcile it in my head and do it. Just. do. it.

It can really be a headfuck. Take for example, Zoe Margolis, author of the blog Girl With A One Track Mind whose anonymity was recently exposed by The Sunday Times. I was working at another newspaper and happened to come across, at the photocopier, a piece that she had written for the paper (due to be published that week) and in that piece, she talks about being confused; how she's become a laughing stock in her profession and the vulnerability of it all – having your life exposed to anyone. who reads.

But she must have seen it coming. A few people in the newsroom were discussing how naive it is to think that one can write behind a mask, publish a book and chart her sex life in pornographic detail – make fame and money from it, and still expect to emerge unscathed.

Maybe my inability to reconcile the 'publish' side of myself, and the 'blogging' side of myself is a result of my cynicism and skepticism towards anonymity – that one day perhaps all the lewd (only at times) and brutal details I've ever written will come back to bite me on my peachy bum.

Do I really want to deal with the actualization of that reality?

It never pays to be naive.

***

But I digress.

The really hilarious thing that I was gonna share at the start, was actually this podcast from The Mr Brown Show.

Context (mainly for my English friends): Mr Brown was a (satirical) columnist in a free newspaper in Singapore; he still is a prominent blogger in the Singapore community website. And he was mentioned in the recent Prime Minister's Rally Speech because of a controversial article he wrote. Without getting involved in what the controversy was (this is part of my dissertation and you can read it when I've finished if you want to), Mr Brown responded with his own podcast, an...er, adaptation of... er, part of PM Lee's speech.

It is all good harmless fun. Very, very funny. I absolutely pissed myself when I heard it. I still click on it now and then just to make myself laugh.

***

Tick Tock, stupid clock

Yes, I know. I should be doing my reading, or writing my dissertation. But that strange inertia that always overwhelms me whenever I know I desperately need to do something is washing over me again, in repeated waves, so whenever I try to get my arse in gear, my determination is always foiled by some great unseen force.

So in a bid to drag out the time ticking on the stupid clock, I've decided to indulge in some mindless blogging before plunging headlong into (what I hope is) a frenzy of work.



Some sneaky phone pics of the Royal Albert Hall. Lynne and I went to watch a Mozart piano concerto last week and it wasn't fantastic but I enjoyed it anyway. I still retain that Mozart is boring – I do recognize his genius, but most of his music is a bit too placid for my liking.

RAH was huge. Loads of people promming in the centre... I don't think I could stand for an entire concert; not if I wanted to really enjoy it.

J and I are thinking of going to the BBC Proms for this, which includes Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue which I so love. The concert is going to be slanted towards Jazz so I'm really excited about going! Will have to work out if it's doable on Bank Holiday weekend, I'd hate to be stuck on trains. Anyone in London fancy it?

***

We've also moved out of the legendary Wise Terrace house and forsaken the very big, very chilled, but also very dirty house to move into an immaculately clean, mint, tidy house at the top of town. It's lovely and new – we're living in a massive ensuite room... like in a 5-star hotel. But somehow, it still doesn't feel like home.

I guess I'm really sick of living out of suitcases. For the first time in my life, I really want my own house. I even catch myself walking into furniture shops to goo and gaa over nice oranaments and pieces of wood! I mean, furniture?! I used to hate going home-shopping with my mum and now I'm willingly wandering into homey shops to fuel day dreams about my own place.

I suddenly feel quite old. But at the back of my head... I know it's barely even begun.

Interview

I stumbled on a very interesting interview with David Marshall today. It's a little long, but extremely insightful. I wish I had the chance to interview Marshall myself.

My favourite bit (I haven't read the whole thing yet) in this extract:

Our lives are empty. We don’t understand the joy of living is not in the gold coins. It is not in the bank account. The joy of living is in human relations. We are not in appreciation of this miracle of life.

We are giving a lop-sided view, an unfairness to the government! We come out of a morass of imperial subjugation where people were dying of starvation and now?

You know, when I won a case once years ago, I was presented with a lovely porcelain Buddha with a big flowing belly and ears that reached to his shoulders and a chubby face.

I said to my client, “Look, you Chinese got a real feeling for aesthetics. How can you worship something so obscene?”

He said, “Mr Marshall, try and understand. China is a land of starvation where millions of people die for lack of food, and to be able to eat that much, to be that fat, that is heaven!”

***

Now, that is the attitude of our government: to be able to eat that much, that is heaven and you should be content.

Aches and pains

I know about growing pains. But really, this is ridiculous.

I'm currently suffering – from general flu, a bad sore throat, badly-situated ulcers and to top it all off, my tooth is actually hurting like a motherfucker. I'm unsure if it's because I drank too much hot tea, or whether it's just the cherry on the cake, to top off my fully degenerating health. Oh, and the joints in my foot are hurting too – again I'm not sure if it's from walking in heels, or just plain arthritis.

Either way, it's not great. And I've got to go to work tomorrow. When the real work I should be doing is work on my dissertation which I have painfully avoided the last few weeks on the pretext that I'm working full-time, hence too tired for anything else.

Working at this particular Sunday national newspaper is proving not too fruitful. I really don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I think I've done enough time in 'work experience' – and I'm currently fully qualified with a job waiting for me, so it's just a bit much going through that whole experience of doing 'bibs and bobs', coming up with great ideas, only not to be given a byline for it, or expected to behave like they've done you the greatest favour ever to be bestowed on you in humankind history. I'm honestly, worth more than that.

Which makes me even more sorry for myself that I'll have to go to work tomorrow morning. And make inane calls, while nursing a full blown bad throat.

At times like these, I know I should think about third-world countries, and all the poverty and strife in the world – then I'll feel really blessed and lucky. And I know underneath I do... but hey, ranting is therapeutic sometimes.

I want to jump forward in time, to when I have my own desk in my newsroom and am furiously working on my own stories which I know I'll get a byline for. When I've got there, I promise to myself I won't be mean to interns, or try to steal their bylines. But I'm sure every journalist that starts off, goes through the whole initiating process... and swears at the base treatment and exploitation they have to grim and bear at the lowest rung of the ladder... later go on to forget what they've gone through when they've reached a comfortable level... then only think it right that they torture entry-level rookies like they once were, just so they feel avenged for what they had to go through. Somebody needs to break the cycle.

I also want to jump forward in time, to when I finally have a place to call my home. No more living out of suitcases, living at dodgy areas, living with a house full of blokes or living at strange people's houses. I want to be able to come home, see J every day, chill out, listen to my music and be in my zone. I'm not being too boring, am I?

I want to jump forward in time, to when I've finally finished my dissertation and I no longer have anything hanging over my head, and no longer have to feel guilty about doing nothing and having fun.

Most of all, I want to jump forward in time. So that this stupid sore throat will just be over and done with – so I can join Lynne in eating all the yummy (and extremely unhealthy) chocolates and biscuits (which she is doing right in front of me now) and just resume my healthy eating appetitite. Yes, I want to stuff my face. I want to do nothing. I want to get my own home. I want to start work properly full-time (it's a lie). And I want to be freeeeeeeeee!

Happy Birthday to me

So it's that time of the year again.

I'm officially one year older, and hopefully, all the wiser.

In comparison with my last two birthdays, I think this is one of the best birthdays I've had.

I felt a bit sad that J wasn't around, and my family is 10,000 miles away. But mum rang me while at work today and sang me a birthday song, 'Heeeeey Jess,' she said, 'haaaappeee birthdaaaaaay to youuuu... haaaapppeee birthdaaay to you...' I laughed. She’s so sweet. And then I had to whisper loudly down the phone, 'Mum! I'm at work, can't really talk loudly!'

People who cared, and I cared about, got in touch. There were some surprising voices from the past. And those voices I expected to hear from, which I didn't, they truly don't matter anymore.

I had a lovely meal with J on Sunday before coming back down to London and he bought me the loveliest necklace in the world – ever. And also, the loveliest dress. He evidently has very good taste. He also wrote me the sweetest card that almost made me cry.

I finally moved out of New Cross after the most nightmarish year of my life, living in a place I absolutely hated. Ironically, I say I regret it, but I don't, really. After all, it's all an experience and at least I get to say I've lived out of my comfort zone before. It's an extremely difficult feat, which many others underestimate. So goodbye and good ridance to New Cross, I hope I don't see you ever again.


Had a lovely dinner with great company today too, it was so nice to see everyone. Only thing was the food wasn't really what I'd expected; I didn't get my SE Asia menu, which was my specific intention, and the restaurant basically lied to me when I made my reservations. But I had the best cake ever, present from Lynne – my bestest friend. Whom I'm living with now. And I'm so glad I don't have to walk back to New Cross alone anymore, constantly looking behind my shoulder to see if anyone was coming up to stalk/rape/stab/shoot me. We walked back arm-in-arm back to her flat from Paddington station... and compared our tums to see whose was bigger from the massive meal. I realised in retrospective horror from all the photos taken, that I’ve actually put on weight. The creepy, evil thing that insidiously deceives you into thinking you can eat more, but then suddenly hits you one day in the face (or literally, on the face) in full force.

Lynne also bought me matching sunglasses – mine red, hers green. It fitted perfectly and I love it!

Last year, two of my best friends forgot my birthday. Everyone else who mattered, J, Lynne, etc... weren't around. I can't remember what I did with my family but I remember being all sad and melancholic – which I usually do get around this time of the year when I wonder where my life's really heading to. Strangely, I had the sense that I started a new chapter of my life today, especially when I reported for my first day at work at a particular Sunday national newspaper. New beginning, new surroundings, yet everything was uncannily familiar.

I think I've changed quite a lot in the last year. But in other ways, further cemented the original me. Only thing I know, I'm surrounded by great family and friends – I'm truly lucky, in so many ways. I love you all.