Alleluia! I Heard a Voice

So.  One month.  Ah... Almost every day.  How was it for you?

Like I said yesterday, even though it starts to become a struggle, I really like writing every day.  I enjoy writing.  I like it because it means I have a voice without having to open my mouth, without making a sound except for the constant clatter of the keyboard.  It's therapeutic.  It's a great stress reliever.  Hopefully, I'll be able to make light out of all my problems by writing about them.  I'm still just a little tiny bit too serious about everything; it's all so personal, I can't so much detach myself as completely dissociate, I haven't found my middle ground, but... Still.  Baby steps.

I'm still very much established in a mode of personal reflection.  Write what you know, huh?  There are awkward forays into different territories, so I ought to work hard on myself and push to be more comfortable.  One thing is that I get no feedback these days.  There used to be a stock of regular readers who would give oral feedback but that seems to have dried up, and I certainly don't get any comments, here or there.

It's blatantly obvious that I have fewer readers compared to my last blog as well, which is a little disheartening, but we carry on.  Tomorrow will be seven (SEVEN) months since I started over, and all told I'll have pulled in around two and a half thousand hits, which is pretty tidy.  There's still plenty of time for me to go viral after all.

But it's time for the scores on the doors, so without any further ado...!

• Out of 30 days, there are 15 posts.
• The running total not including this is 11,000 words dead on, 60706 characters in total.
• The average sentence length is 19 words, over a total of 115 paragraphs.
• The average word count is 788 per post.
• The most common word?  "Time."
• Speaking of time, the average time of publishing was 1:42pm, with only two posts after midnight.
• There's been 578 views this month alone, 35.7% of all views since March.

So, what's next?  Obviously I haven't really been posting every day.  I think every writer experiences days where there's just nothing to say, not like having block but just nothing.  I don't have an enormous stock of suitable pre-written material that's ready to be edited for here either, so substitutions aren't exactly easy.  Whether by madness or bravery I decided to put a sonnet up, and who knows, maybe I'll get a hold on the exact lunacy that led me to and do so again.  This is after all, my blog for everything, not just moaning about how much I hate myself and everything around me.  There have been some things that I've wanted to write about, like Chestnut-gate and what Madame Mim really means to me, but those things have been so close to the bone it'd be a third degree burn.

Maybe I'd like to get involved in more community based things?  I dunno!  I should obviously get out more.  Maybe this would help.  The latest upcoming trip to Exeter (either this Saturday or next) will obviously form prime candidacy for this sort of thing.  Over the coming months there are ideas for London, Oxford and maybe even Bristol on the books as well.  Travel broadens the mind even if it does narrow your vision sometimes, and lessen your funds.  I'm still not really taken with pictures in my blogs but it's no reason not to try I suppose.  Even though I keep my commonplace with me I hardly write in it anymore, but that's because my life has been boiled into the alarming regularity of a 9-5 office job.  Yes, exciting things happen like my sickness (don't worry everyone, I'm still ill!), but other than that it's still the same people in the same place saying the same things at more or less the same times.  The predictability is killing me.  Actually, one really thrilling thing that's happening is a band forming with the Scholars; rather than the usual done to death close harmony arrangements (And So It Goes?  Enough already), we're performing as an outfit at the Old Ale House's open mic jam nights on Mondays instead!  We already have Minnie the Moocher under our belts, along with My Evaline (...), so there's calls for some Earth Wind and Fire, and the likelihood of another Barbershop classic in the offing for next time.

In the meantime, if anybody does have anything helpful to suggest then go ahead.  If you'd like to guess at this latest string of titles' origins as well, I'm open to competition entries.  You won't find out if there's a prize if you don't try.

This is another month drawn to a close.  If another opportunity for BEDM crops up I'll jump on board, sure, but otherwise I need (and I do really, really need) a regular schedule, even if that's running to a week A/week B kind of thing.  Blah blah blah.  I say this every time and never hold to it.  I'm sorry.  You must be so disappointed in me.  I'm still here though (yes, still), so that must be disappointing to you too.  Some of you, anyway.  This is it for September though, as we all breathe a collective sigh of relief, but October is literally twelve hours away.  Don't think you've got off lightly.

If King Manasses

Oh I'm sick Master.  Sick as it gets.  Sicker than a dog!

I really should have called this Blog Every Week Day In September, because the amount of weekends this month that I've either just not or been too hungover to actually get my laptop up and running and actually write is currently a 100% rate.  In my defense for this weekend, I seemed to have come down with a light case of food poisoning that made yesterday in particular a complete and total nightmare.  I know that one ought not to be so graphic, but there's a point where you vomit after brushing your teeth at twenty to nine in the morning that you just know it isn't going to be a good day.  I hate to put so fine a point on it, but I really am getting tired of people just assuming that I've been out on the lash when I say I don't feel very well.  There is of course a subtle difference between the two, and if anything it's just disappointing that I haven't been out!

I still feel absolutely dreadful of course, and I suppose that strictly speaking I shouldn't be sat at the desk as I am now.  I shouldn't remotely have been in to choir yesterday, but there we go.  I never give myself the option to miss the service unless I'm actually crippled and unable to move.  Old habits die hard, eh?  At least I no longer feel like a human landmine... Or do I?  Updates on the appropriate social networks as the day goes on.  I'm actually quite good at being ill these days, you know, I just take myself off very quietly and then go and be ill and then come back without people really knowing.  Last night was absolutely dreadful and hilarious at the same time, sleeping for half an hour at a time with it feeling like an eternity, then waking drenched in a cold sweat at midnight, and then sleeping through completely unbroken until 8 in the morning.  And now I'm here wishing... Not quite for death, but definitely for a cessation in PHYSICAL MISERY.

Really that's the most misery on my plate, and I have that much alone to be thankful for.  I'm gradually working my way through my stack of books, including keeping a Palahniuk in the stalls of a Sunday.  I've just finished Sara Benincasa's Agorafabulous! Dispatches From My Bedroom, which is at turns both hilarious and harrowing, and sometimes just grimly uncomfortable.  Parts of it have reminded me of just how bad past episodes have been, which is never easy, but reading something as honest as that, without trying to sound too clichéd, does give me hope.  And sometimes it's just been straight up, laugh out loud funny.

As the month limps to a close though, perhaps this is the time for a short valediction before I do the running totals tomorrow and consider what the next move is.  Writing every day is difficult.  It was difficult last time I tried it and it's been difficult again this time, and it'll still be difficult next time I do it.  I like it though really!  It's a shame I don't actually have a schedule or direction though, as trying to come up with original material every day isn't as simple for me as I'd like it.  Controversially, I'm keeping a record of the music list and the repetition of repertoire - I'm sure it'll go down a bomb with the local Junior Deity but it's at least going to be interesting.  Rather than sit around and think "have we done this before?" at least we'll know.  I might just pull up all the music lists from the last three years so I can put together a little study because well do you think I really have anything better to be doing with my time?  I can submit it to peer review and get it published in some journal and add it to my portfolio of professional writing for next year!  Ha ha!

Next week heralds the return of Cardinal Sin and a cinema trip beckons so I'll have something NEW and EXCITING and INTERESTING to write about (all those capitalisations are probably going to be red herrings though, let's be honest).  Hopefully next week will include a 100% return to strength and health as well, so at least I can stop bloody moaning about that.  Office work is gradually winding down as well, so I'll be glad of the financial benefits come pay day, especially after having not even stepped foot in an office for at least a week by then.

If only I didn't feel so ill...

Songs and Sonets III

As I said when I started this month, it was 500 words or bust... Or a poem. Really I should have taken advantage of this earlier, as I've lost more than enough days of writing to days in the office like this - not overly busy but just things happening every five minutes, not to mention that damn phone. Add to that Evensong and then going to dinner with the local junior deity tonight, I won't have much time to stick to the schedule I dreamed up so long ago. Instead I offer this. The number at the top is right, by the way, it's not as if you've missed anything...





                                   All's said and done, words count no more,

                                          And sound only contributes emptiness;

                                                 So silence is our best tool to express

                                                        All we feel; speech is a chore,

                                   And even song we find too poor

                                          To tell those secrets, to confess

                                                 The profundity, we dare not address

                                                         In case we're left stood, unsure.

                                   Yet find a place in written word,

                                          As if Ink and Paper saves us

                                                 From prisons of our own minds' making,

                                   Through fact or fiction (both absurd);

                                          Or maybe a poem's not too much fuss,

                                                 Where all life's fancy is for the taking

All People Clap your Hands

This is it!  Freedom!  Horrible freedom!  Ahahahaha!

Okay; context. As regular readers well know, I've been working at the Cathedral Office since the start of July off and on, and going on to pull in 35 hour weeks from the middle of July.  In many ways, this has been the ultimate bind.  Sat inside of a sunny summer's day, answering the telephone instead of... Oooooh say... Anything else?  Not exactly my weapon of choice.  Still!  It's been the financial pick-me-up that I've so desperately needed, the benefits of which will last through October as well.  After 4 years basically pissing about at the end of my overdraft, I'm finally making headway not only out but substantially out as well.  I've sunk a huge sum into my holiday fund, which as it stands now should basically cover hotel accommodation for a week?  Maybe ten days, fortnight-ish.  I ought to get flights covered soon though, and spending money could go on for ever and ever.  The problem is I quite enjoy the level of domestic expenditure I currently employ - visiting the Alehouse and frequenting the HUBBOX isn't exactly cheap, but it's a damn sight better than not doing so.  I visited both two evenings ago with the excellent Cardinal Sin...

But since my employment is temporarily ending, I'll also have to actually start watching my outgoings.  Even though things were supposed to quieten down at the end of last choir year, I went out even more than I did when we were in term, because I didn't want to miss out on the experience.  Turning a night down wasn't about saving money; money can always be recovered.  Time, however, cannot be.  I've been saying yes to a lot more things recently as well, starting with "yes I would love another drink."  I jest!  Not really.  Things like leaping up and hearing the call, "Is there a bass player in the house?" at the Old Alehouse jam night.  I said yes to surfing at the start of July, even though I can't swim.  I've been in Cornwall for three years now and never tried it at all!  I've never really felt safe enough with a group of people to really do so before, but I had my prodigal son to back me up after all, saying "If I cry for help, then I'm really not joking" to him.  Captain's top tip?  Don't have a panic attack when you fall off your surfboard.

For all the excitement of the opening statement, I'll still be working.  The usual General Administrator (Administrateuse?) is coming back on a phased return, so I'll still be working full days in a part time fashion tomorrow, and then for the following three weeks.  This of course throws my original financial predictions out for October (and even maybe November?) in the best way possible, as does the news that the minimum wage will be bumped up by a whole 19p next month.  Nineteen pence!  Jackpot.  Thankfully, this this phasing out will give me chance to get the drop on things again, rather than feeling like I've been dropped in it.  This past two weeks hasn't been the most comfortable in the world, what with full days in the week and only a one day weekend.  It was one of the major problems of my tenure at Truro School, among many others, but thankfully the usual Evensongs feel less rushed (and I also don't feel like falling asleep at the end of the Nunc) due to only having to whip round the corner rather than throw myself down the hill.  

Speaking of Evensong... It's easy to forget sometimes just how lucky I am really to be here at Truro.  I found out, almost by accident in fact, that there was plenty of effort behind trying to block my appointment as a Lay Vicar.  I'm still here.  I evidently have a lot to be thankful to my Boss for.  Even elementary things like the breadth of the music scheme and the nature of the repetition we have, the power of the back row in all departments (especially mine [haha]), and how smoothly services actually go here.  I take this for granted now, having been spoiled by being part of actually very decent choirs; I've always sang Byrd 4 wherever I've gone, and was totally shocked to find out that isn't the case across the country.  The complaints that I have about choir are borderline groundless, mere grumbles in the face of being so close to perfection rather than legitimate concerns that things aren't working out.  It is very early in the year; we haven't reached the first midterm break yet.  There's plenty of things that will work themselves out given time and more importantly, hard work.  

There's much to celebrate here at the end of the line, even if all I can do is find problems some days... There's no point in leaving when everything's so good though.

Laboravi in gemitu meo

Where do I even start with this one?

See, the problem with looking at yourself critically like I have been (and the usual self-criticism as well IT'S ALWAYS MY FAULT ALL THE TIME) is that you sometimes have to face some unsavoury things.  It's been part of why I've had such screaming depression lately.  I've looked into the abyss so much that I wonder not so much that it stares back but more that I am the abyss.  It would explain a lot.

I am a person who makes inherently bad decisions.  I should not be allowed out on my own in case I make another bad decision... Okay, it isn't that drastic.  But I do wonder how many aspects of not only my life but also yours would be instantly and massively improved if I were no longer allowed to make my own bad decisions but instead had somebody who could make decisions that instead start at fair to middling, and then improve with a following wind.  Short of going into full time care though, I don't suppose this will really happen.  Still, I dunno though, could be good!  I might even get an allowance!

That's a good point really; I am dreadful with money.  Today is pay day in the land of Truro Cathedral Musicians as well, and thanks to being chained to this desk all summer I have earned what I class as an obscene amount of money.  Okay, to anybody who has a real job all the time this will be nothing more than pocket change... But to me, this is it!  This is my ticket out of here!  How much will I throw into my savings account, and how much will I use to fuel my music buying habit?  £76 is an awful lot of money to let go of in one go for a keyboard score, but it is the complete works of Thomas Tomkins after all.  Would that be a bad decision?  I don't really think so.  It'd certainly be a far better decision than the usual cocktail of, well, cocktails.

Even now, just hours after receiving funds through bank transfer, I've already splurged on Burger King for lunch and bought a weighty Pynchon tome from Waterstones.  I cannot be trusted with money.  I must be stopped, no matter the cost.  No pun intended.

Of course, continuing my theme of reflection on my own mental issues, my ultimate bad decision arena is that of interpersonal relationships.  I make plenty of good decisions, but there's still a hell of a lot of gambling going on, especially we look at my track record of romantic relationships.  Don't look for too long though, as it's not exactly an embarrassment of success, shall we say.  Being autistic I'm permanently on the back foot as far as any real certainty of others is concerned.  Your emotions and intentions are a vast, unknowable ocean, an unsoundable deep.  Non-verbal communication is a particular nightmare that is hit and miss at the very best, and anxiety-inducingly volatile at worst.  I've been getting better though!  I'm often complimented by work colleagues and Choral Scholars that they would have no idea that I have horrid panic attacks for no reason or that I'm autistic in any way at all - that is, until something happens to upset the fragile balance.  I feel like I'm retreading old ground here, but it never hurts to be reminded that just because it looks like I'm coping does it mean that I am coping in any way at all.  

I kind of came to a point the other day where I said it was time to stop crossing oceans for people who wouldn't even skip a puddle for me; I'm sure you have felt the same thing, even if you parse it differently.  Perhaps you have sworn never to be a doormat again (okay the stakes are higher but the direction's there).  Maybe I finally hit rock bottom after the last few years of girlfriends that barely limped over the 12 week mark and something that escapes simple definition this year.  I'm not happy.  I have gambled again and again with my emotional well-being and come out bruised and bitter.  I make judgements and give my heart out to people who will just not give back, whether by accident or design.  I have no way of telling if peoples' intentions are serious until there comes a point where there's a 100% black & white situation, and I'm sure that must work the other way as well, that nobody can really tell if I'm being serious either.  That's if I have the confidence to approach in the first place!  Argh!

I'll save a deconstruction for the last line there for another time.  I'll need something to think about and to phrase without too much heart bleeding and a complete avoidance of blame.  The last time somebody mistook my authorial intent well... Oh who cares!

Plead Thou my Cause

A daily writing schedule that has no explicit structure is ambitious enough, even for the focused, but coupled with the enormous emotional crash that was the last entry, you can see why I might have needed a little rest... I wonder whether I should have included trigger warnings in its advertisement as well.  

Ever since, you could say I've been living in some kind of martian time slip; all the days seem massively extended, evenings and the following night times compressed and to say my memory of the weekend is tenuous is only the start of it.  Friday night I wrote off entirely... And then Saturday was Old Choristers (Dinner?  Drink?  Vanilla!?), and then Sunday... Sunday there was... Curry?!?  Drink?!?!?!?  I don't know.  It's all a colossal blur really, but then it's not as if it was a particularly stress free weekend.  

It's these long days though, that are really grinding away at my soul.  The once sacrosanct morning routine has been truncated to the bear necessities: teeth brushing, a shower, iron a shirt, dress and leave the house, complete with a large mug (anything from 2/3rds of a pint to 2 entire pints) so I can have my precious tea with fake milk while I'm at the desk.  I used to take a banana with me for breakfast but that was obviously a fad that came and went.  Even if I take in a substantial lunch, the evenings just kind of crash, you know.  Working at the desk all day is pretty draining, and also not exactly a fun mental workout either - seeing the same people, some of whom say the exact same things all day every day without variation of any kind is just... Jeez, I dunno.

The day starts at 7:50.  I then play chicken with myself to see just how long I can leave it before I actually have to get out of bed to perform the above routine in enough time to get me into the office somewhere approaching on time.  I normally sail in at 9 on the dot.  Punctuality was never my strong suit, and it continues to be a weakness.  It's just as difficult getting up on time for a Sunday morning as well, but rather than actually get up in plenty of time I usually hang around in bed til a point of no return and then have to rush getting ready and generally feel unawake for the most part of the rehearsal.  And then take it out on myself.  I also tend not to do any formal warming up before rehearsal as well, using the actual practice because that's a good idea eh!  Prat.

The day then finds its next stage beginning at 9.  Or just after 9.  You know, in and around 9am.  The morning lasts for 5 hours, which either drag by or whiz past, depending on what day it is, how many people come to the door, how many call the bloody telephone, and how many times the printer breaks down.  Then, a lunch hour (unpaid), where I either punish myself with a Co-Op meal deal, or go to a Thai joint for a surprisingly affordable two courses, or, if it's a Thursday, treat myself to an hour on what's left of the Byfield in Saint Mary's Aisle.  I then return by 2pm, and it's only another 3 hours to the finish!  It's often surprising how fast five o'clock can sneak up on you sometimes, by which time I have to be ready to leave posthaste and get to Church!  IT NEVER ENDS!

Of course, to say that this is the most strenuous thing in the world is to grossly underestimate the nature of effort.  It's still tough though, particularly Wednesdays (and also Mondays), which can potentially go on for over 12 hours.  Like I said last time, I'm not wired up to deal with people for that length of time, it's simply at the very limit of my abilities.  Lots of people compliment me on my behaviour, that it isn't obvious that I'm "on the spectrum", one of my least favourite phrases that seems to have been turned into an all-encompassing explanation for people who do not behave in socially expected ways, that I have become so good at hiding my major symptomatic behaviours.  It's a double edged sword at best, and a gutting hook at worst.  Oh well.  These things are sent to try us after all...

Grant the King a Long Life

I don't take sleeping pills.  In fact, I don't take any pills at all, if I can help it.

Every now and again, I like to remind people that I'm an insomniac.  I don't sleep, as a habit.  I once rationalised that I didn't actually enjoy being asleep, rather than any particular physical or psychological reason behind it.  I'm sure there is a deeper meaning, but I've sort of come to terms that it's because I don't like it, so avoid it.  There are times when this wears particularly thin though.

I'm sure this next part isn't going to illicit much in the way of sympathy, but I don't care.

I've been pulling in weeks of working 9-5 at the Cathedral office since the middle of July.  Thanks to this, not only was there a brief and shining island of being out of my overdraft at the end of August, but I'll be even further out soon due to when my hours get added up, meaning I'll still benefit from all this work in October.  The sad truth of it all is that frankly I'm not well suited to working the front desk.  I'm not really wired up to answer the phone and greet people all day.  It's very draining being constantly asked by people how I fare, when I answer honestly and tell them I might not be feeling as great as maybe they are or they would expect me to be, and being questioned as to why.  Sometimes, these people who come to the door are so unfailingly rude it beggars belief; only today I had one caller who proclaimed loudly that "a man like you would not understand!" in regards to handing over a length of fabric to the correct person, before leaving so disgruntled that I said something deeply offensive.  I now feel upset, as I obviously missed a chance to do so, the outcome being the same either way.

One of the defining points of my disability is that I am not good with people, but as part of this job I have to deal with people for almost 7 straight hours.  I say almost depending on what I do for lunch.  But there I am, having to deal with queries that range from the mundane to the bizarre to people thinking that because I can't connect them to the right office, explaining their problem to me will magically sort it out.  What does this have to do with sleeping pills?  I recently worked out that I'm awake for at least 18 hours a day, sometimes longer.  Sure, I turn up in a suit clutching a mug for tea and pretty much have a working strategy for the phone and everything, but I'm still not sleeping enough for a day at the desk.  I don't want to be asleep though!  And now we're back in choir term, so I go straight to evensong after I finish.  Sometimes I'm late to rehearsal, which I absolutely hate.  I'm tired by the time I get home, and in all honesty can't be bothered to cook because I know I'll need to do the washing up later, by which time I'll be more tired, and then I'll get to bed and find... I just don't want to go to sleep.

Keep taking the pills... No.  Don't take the pills.  I used to be on Amphetamines for my hyperactivity, years ago.  I ended up taking myself off them cold turkey because the girl I was seeing at the time managed to persuade me to do so on the grounds that they were bad for me in the long run or something, I dunno.  I was getting quite a bit of sex in that relationship at the time, so you can see how my judgement might have been clouded ever so slightly.  I was proud that I could manage without them though.  Then I went to University.

My University career isn't the wall-to-wall success story that others seem to have enjoyed (or at least put on their websites that they did) thanks to various factors.  One of the major stumbling blocks I encountered was being suicidally depressed for most of my second year, which isn't something I'd advise for anybody, no matter who they are.  This is about as far from joking that I can get.  There were times, when I sat there in that dark, cold, and often empty house, thinking about the most or least painful way to go, or what would make the least mess (I wouldn't want to cause too much of a problem), what would be quickest, or perhaps the most painful way to die.  I have been to dark places.

Weeks without eating properly, not so much alcohol (but still a lot), and weeks where I wouldn't sleep for days as well.  And a violent bout of food poisoning.  Oh, and the Swine Flu?  It was a weird year.  Of course there were calls for me to be medicated, to embark on a course of anti-depressants.  I dodged.  Somehow, I avoided taking them.  There are a number of friends in my life who have looked down that same knife edge, wondering just what the point is; they have been there and they have come back time after time, and the most consistent piece of advice I've heard is "Don't take anti-depressants".  Tales of violent mood swings and lack of appetite without any discernible benefits have soured me for ever more, short of a miracle, from taking a course of pills.  My mood and appetite are bad enough without a further chemical cosh to worry about.  I drink very heavily for a man of my slight weight and low body fat as well, and even if I don't have a problem now, I've certainly had one in the past that looking back, I've managed to hide quite well.  There were several points, especially in my second year at uni and funnily enough here in Truro, where I was doing services distinctly less than sober, and that's simply unacceptable.

Third year came though, which was easily one of the best combinations of people and circumstances I think I've ever had.  There were still plenty of times when I didn't come out of my room... Well, maybe not plenty.  There were, however, plenty of people to help look after me when I didn't.  There's little to say here now except for a concreting of that position that I wouldn't take anti-depressants.  And also sleeping pills.  We can cut to my second year as Choral Scholar at this point. 

Various students from UEA every year fly to foreign colleges, either on exchanges or on straight up years abroad.  The difference in 2012/13 is that this time, I knew some of them, including one whose brushes with suicide make mine look paltry.  Staying up late to best the time difference to hear about hospitalisation, poorly implemented and extremely expensive medical care and disaster after disaster were awful.  Nobody deserves it.  I too was in a bad place, so bad a place in fact that I almost walked out of Truro.  There are some people who are very disappointed that I didn't, but I oh dunno, I have to win sometimes, even if only by the skin of my teeth.  Once more though, the call goes out: sleeping tablets, anti-depressants... Still the answer is as strong!  No!  Then, last year, somebody had an accident.  Somebody who was suicidal enough at the time, what with relationship collapse on top of a mountainous workload, had an accident.  They accidentally overdosed and put themselves back into hospital.  This was shattering to me.  I ended up weeping openly in public that day.

One of the things that stopped me from actually going the whole hog in second year (again, uni or as scholar) was "What if I change my mind and it's too late?"  I know that even though a depressive episode can last a long time, they do end; there is hope.  What if, motivated by sheer emptiness, I had decided to kill myself in a slow and irreversible manner, but then decided I didn't really want to die after all?  There would be no going back.  There'd be no chance to put two feet on the ground when I got out of bed ever again.  No more anything ever again, and that frightens me.  How easy would it be to make a rash decision?  To load up on pills, maybe after coming back, tanked up?  Things like that simple sensation of fear pull me back.  Remind me that there are people other than me who are invested in my life, and often more so.  I have no wish to let any body down by giving up like that.  What would the Big Man say?  What would anybody say?  No matter how bad things get while I'm alive, at least there's chance to improve on what's gone before, even if it's just by virtue of living another day.

I'm sure this hasn't been an easy read.  It hasn't been an easy write either, but it's kind of been sat there in my head for quite a while; I was just waiting for the right title to appear, and having found some new inspiration settled on this one.  It's not Orlando this time, but maybe the keen-eyed among you will work out the theme.  Things aren't too bad, even if I can't seem to shake this depression at the moment.  It looks bad and it feels bad and maybe I ought not to be so bad, but soon I'll stop working full time and I'll be able to put my little Castle of Heaven back together and manage again.  As difficult as it gets, I do in fact choose life.  I already decided to dismiss ending my own life as an option entirely, not a valid choice.  I will manage myself, without any medication unless it becomes completely impossible and I cease to function... But we're a long way from that yet, if at all.

Now, I don't know about you but I'm going to turn in and retire for the evening.  Sleep tight.

Voice Work

Your blog is about to be recorded into an audiobook. If you could choose anyone — from your grandma to Samuel L. Jackson — to narrate your posts, who would it be?

I wonder how many people would like to think they'd have their work narrated by Morgan Freeman?  It's too, too easy...

It's not exactly been an inspiring day.  Working the desk is taking a creative toll, and not least the toll on the old voce of having to answer the phone all day.  Monday was a standout though, where I had to pick up in front of half of the 'Scholary Dwellers', to utter hilarity.  Switching volte face from my usual, rich and characterful vernacular to the super smooth professional telephone voice to end all telephone voices was the joke of the day as far as the lads were concerned.  Of course, I have to deal with my voice almost every second of my professional life, what with being a singer and all.  As I'll tell anyone who'll listen, I think countertenors are completely ridiculous... But then again, the whole act of singing is totally beyond imagining.  Look at Opera!  The spectacle.  The noise.  The sheer volume of both sound and timbre of the voices that fill vast auditoria without amplification! 

Anyway.  I don't half feel that working all day isn't exactly the most conducive environment to finding a kernel, some exciting premise.  Sometimes I feel like my vocabulary's shrinking, what with doing the same thing all day every day, seeing and speaking to the same people all day long... I'm just glad that Evensong's back on, that critical vent at the end of the day to ensure mental survival, so answering the phone and taking messages doesn't take over my entire mind, that all there's left for me to do is answer the phone... AHHHHHHH!

To the prompt though.  Just who would narrate, who would go down on record reading the assembled ouvre of old Captain Pebblez?  Obviously if such a thing were to happen, I'd have to have a lot of money to put behind the project.  Maybe I could pull a few favours through some old friends (although who truly is your friend in a position of power?), and get what I want.  Or what I think I want.  I'm very conscious that most of my writing is composed primarily of moaning.  My tears have been my meat, day and night, and there have been times in my writing life where I've been less than afraid of saying so as well.  However, there's always a silver lining somewhere along the line, and as I write, I'm enjoying an episode of Richard E. Grant trolling round the Hotels of Tokyo, and thinking that perhaps he would be the man for the job.

This man is a hero.  A personal hero.  He smells not only everything he eats, but also absolutely everything.  He wears two watches on his wrists.  He is an incredible man.  Mad beyond belief, genuinely engaging and entertaining in a way that is so seldom seen.  Famously, he was the eponymous Withnail, even though he's tee-total.  I love this guy.  He's the ultimate eccentric English gent, especially in a programme like this, the last vestige of an old and idealised Empire.

I want him to read it, all the moaning and all the all the shady vignettes, the last vestiges of academia and everything inbetween.  I'd imagine that we'd discuss the recording arrangement over a sumptuous dinner, licking the plate between every course.  Surrounded by odours of edom, perhaps some myrrh from the forest?  Anyway, his voice sounds far better than mine.

O Mortal Man

I just couldn't be bothered to get up this morning.  

I've just spent the last hour off and on trying to write about my phone, and how it's cursed and how Microsoft basically need to pull their collective finger out because Windows Phone is like some sort of comical foil to the successes of Android and Apple, not least with the latest slew of releases from not just Google partners but the unstoppable Apple machine with the newest and greatest iPhones... In the world.  I would have carried on but I was boring even myself.  The long and the short of it is that in trying to make their OS more "market friendly" (I suppose), by dropping not only the internal but external hardware requirements like capacitive face buttons and the camera shutter on the side, and adding features such as a notification centre (that still feels incomplete), separate volume controls and a digital personal assistant, Microsoft are slowly weathering away the things that makes it unique, and just another also ran that doesn't have as many apps in their marketplace as the App Store or Google Play.

What with HTC not releasing the appropriate firmware so I can upgrade my own cursed handset this side of Christmas, hundreds of identikit "low-budget" handsets with specs so underwhelming you wonder whether phone evolution is going backwards, the lack of flagship hardware to show that actually, Windows Phone can stand shoulder to shoulder with the cream of the Android crop, and Nokia's (or should I say Microsoft Mobile's) curious inability to release a phone with a usable front-facing camera that has a shutter button as well... Feels like I'm backing a lame horse.  Come on guys, seriously; if you can slap a 5MP front camera in an "affordable", low-mid range phone with on screen nav keys and no camera button, then you can as sure as hell put one in a £500 handset with all the usual HD screen, all hardware buttons and top of the line camera.  Because of the tight hardware constraints, and also that the OS GUI is basically unchangeable, Microsoft had control over fragmentation of features (basically it couldn't happen), which is one of the criticisms that I level against Android, which will gradually creep in.  I don't really want to have to make compromises in something as stupid as a phone, you know?  Oh well, I suppose it is the way of all things...

This is my First World problem, I suppose.  There are plenty of people still running around with ancient bricks (or their modern counterparts), "dumbphone" handsets that will quite possibly outlive us all and be used by the 6 foot cockroaches that will take over the earth after our inevitable mutual nuclear destruction, out of genuine choice.  I must be doing quite alright if I get up in a morning and the one thing that I'm bothered about is what I'm going to upgrade my phone to next.  Of course, I could just flip the other way entirely at this point, because as they say, "You can't take it with you".  Might as well worry about it while I'm still here... But it there a point in worrying at all?  This must be part and parcel of my terrible relationship with money - either not spend a penny or throw it all away as quickly as possible.  It's only rarely the tinge of regret creeps through my mind... But only rarely.  

O How Amiable are thy Dwellings

While the odd mood swing over the weekend has definitely got in the way of writing, there is another, wholly more vital and important reason: the start of the Choir year.

As much trash as I talk about my singing, you must fundamentally understand that it's the one thing that keeps me going more than anything else in the entire world.  I yearn not for earthly riches or fame, notoriety, fame or even infamy (even if I know they've all got it in for me), as long as I will still sing.  I don't think a night out goes by without me proclaiming wildly about how much I hate singing, how little money there is (and therefore advising the Scholars to get out of music as quickly as they can), and even how utterly ridiculous countertenors are, all the while recalling the glory days when I used to play bass all the time... Ahhhh, those were the days!

I suppose I was institutionalised at a young age, as a chorister at Derby Cathedral, my favourite building that has a pink ceiling.  There's plenty more that I love about Derby actually, not least the confident serenity of the English Classical nave juxtaposed with the Perpendicular Gothic tower, the "unruly Daimler" of a West End Compton, and the spacious acoustic that belies the size of the building.  You know there's usually a probationer that's so short that even by the time they get into the stalls, they're still too short?  Well... Of course that was me.  Rather than spending almost the entire year out of the stalls though, we started in Easter and were stood with choristers by October instead.  There'll be plenty of opportunity in future to tune in to my exact opinion of these dissimilar systems; I'd hate for you to forget how outspoken I am.  Due to a quirk in the attendance of the boys on my side, I got left with a folder on my own a lot earlier than the rest of the probs, so I had to actually look after myself.

Anyway, before I bore you all with my origin story any further, let's skip to the bit where a bat burst through the study window.  I stuck with choir all the way through school; it was an anchor, where I was a ridiculous little maelstrom of a hyperactive child.  The rules of choir, enforced by the Master of the Music and his Assistant Organist, were an absolute, that any breach would result in an ear-splitting admonishment, leaving even the hardest perpetrator shaken.  I was also bullied a lot at school.  I know I often joke about being beaten as a child by my alcoholic father, but being harassed almost every day at school without fail has quite a damaging effect on a young mind, not that I need any particular help to be bitter about anything.  Choir was a safe place, somewhere where I was welcome, my efforts praised and appreciated.  I get the feeling I'm retreading old ground here, but onwards, nonetheless.  I kept going to sing in services all through both my GCSE's and my A-Levels, in fact through every end-of-year examination period.  The regularity of the service routine kept me going through strange schedules and being forced to revise in every spare moment that was filled with a test of some sort.  I missed out all of three services in my UVIth year, twice due to ill health and once due to performing in the school production of Little Shop of Horrors.  Where was I?  Bass guitar.  I'm one of them, you know, them, the ones whose voice never dipped and went back up.

Ironically, I'd say that quite a lot of choir at Uni was actually more damaging that not.  My gripes with Mancroft are already well documented, and I have no need to descend into some sort of mudslinging now.  The fact that I never gave up does make me wonder - am I of a stronger character than I give myself credit for, or just fatally bloody minded?  Still, I would turn up on time every time, once leaving a bicycle for dead to do so, and once sailing in so comically drunk that it forms the basis of a three part ITV docu-drama, funny yet poignant.  Actually, I was slightly late that time as well, and had it not been for my great Sensei, it would have been a great deal less amusing.

But being at Truro, that's where all that time spent singing as a kid really came into play.  An increased workload of 6 services over 7 days, with just enough rehearsal time to sight sing the day's office.  It's great.  I love it.  I couldn't imagine doing any less.  I am cut out for a life at the stall rather than anywhere else, although solos on podiums in front of Oratorios is definitely something else I want to get my teeth into.  Having worked full time over the summer without Evensong to go to has been the ultimate drag, and not an experience I'd wish to repeat... Although I get the feeling that I'll have to do so in order to keep my enormous fortune going.  No, choir keeps me going, and now we're back into term.  It's not exactly ideal working at the desk all day before the service (or being ever so slightly late to the rehearsal beforehand because of it), but this is what happens when you fall into the trap and grow up.  Admiral Ackbar was right!  Truthfully, I'm looking forward to the time where I shall no longer be working as I can iron my shirts whenever I damn well wish, rather than having to do so whenever I can fit it in with existing commitments; this weekend is going to be a particular killer, with the Old Choristers' service and dinner taking up the chunk of this coming Saturday that I usually spend feet up playing videogames and bantering with my Landlord.  It's a hard life, eh...

Behind Schedule

After a strong start, I was bound to trip up.

That said, an analysis of this weekend based on mood swings, drinking habits and my appetite would suggest that essentially I am still a little bit depressed.  Moan moan moan... Stick to what you know, right?  Right.  I wish I wasn't working a job that I hate, I wish I could have taken more chances at University, I wish I had got a better degree, I wish all my disappointments weren't so CRUSHINGLY INEVITABLE...  But eh, what can you do?  Change is the prelude to progress after all.

Even though sat at a desk in an office is still pretty much the personal hell I'll be headed to when I shuffle off my mortal coil, at least it's paying.  Thanks to last month's timely tax return, I managed to surface out of my overdraft for the fist time in almost 5 years, and with the incoming hours on top of the usual stipendiary joyes will mean that I'll be shot of it for some distance.  Last week I completed a financial forecast for the year based on guaranteed income only, that is employment until two week's time, the concert in November and then no real additional income for after Christmas.  I'm sure there'll be patches of work that turn up, and maybe additional gigs like weddings and even stuff like Carol singing and playing at Late Night Shopping this year, but for now I can only bet on what I actually know will come in, and it's not looking too bad!  I'd even hazard to say things were finally looking pretty rosy.  Next year is next year of course, so I'll need to wait before I can do any sort of long term planning... But it looks like I'll be able to finally get away without causing any lasting damage to my credit rating.

As you may or may not know, I made some moves to apply for the MA in Professional Writing at Falmouth University at the end of August.  After a huge flurry in two days, the course leader went on Holiday for the following week and then... Everything went dark.  I've been waiting for a call back so I can apply to the full time course, but there's been absolutely nothing, so ... Yeah.  Ringing up at the end of August to enroll in a September course is a bit of a joke though.  Trying to raise the money to fund the course in what would have been just under a fortnight might have proved to be slightly impossible as well... So... What?  I'm going to apply properly in January for next year, which will allow me adequate time to put all my material together and apply for that critical funding and bursaries and such.  I've already said to The Boss that I intend to stay at least until the end of the 15/16 season before moving anywhere for anything else, and I had rather hoped that doing an MA this year would have been not only good to take up the time between services, but also a good use of that time as well.  Focus on method (not just madness), gaining insights to the industry and getting some professional contact is exactly what my life needs, in both singing and writing.  Funnily enough, I feel far more comfortable in promoting my writing than my singing, I suppose that's the battle I've picked.  

That leaves me this year at a kind of loose end!  Leaving off in the application gives me a little more time to get at least one more concert under the belt before January and then all three plus any more work in between (I wonder who I can get to employ me.  Tell your concert organising friends.  Tell them all.) like the Welcome Pack and anything else that might come my way.  And all this, of course.  Practice makes perfect, even if perfection can only be found through imperfection.  Or something?

What's happened in these past three days since I last posted though?  Well, maybe you happie soules will find a few more dispatches.  I have a plan to frame most of next week, which will happily include Banjo playing.  I hope none of you are too precious about Bach now...

Cast Change

You've just been named the casting director of your favorite television show (or movie franchise). The catch: you must replace the entire cast — with your friends and family. Who gets which role?

This is great, isn't it?  A real gimme.  Thing is, most of last year actually felt like I was living in an American sitcom, more specifically some bizarre mash up of The Big Bang Theory and How I Met Your Mother.  It's easy, really, looking at last year's roster, and allows for the necessary overlaps as and when.  There are the obvious cues, of course - our very own Cardinal Sin is Barney, while Madame Mim could almost be an exact double for Robin, to an uncanny level of detail.  Things begin to blur a little bit from here, but you can equate Lily and Marshall with The King of Canadia and his young lady, although instead of heading for Judiciary service on a State Supreme Court, he's more suited to oh I dunno, something a little more Prime Ministerial.  Those two great fools are harder to pitch though.  On balance, der Sohn is more like our Raj equivalent than not.  The Prodigal son is possibly the best mirror we have of Howard, even if he isn't Jewish, and he's still waiting for his Bernadette.  At a push, Mr. and the future Mrs. Murray are a mixture between Leonard and Penny and Marshall and Lily.  And me?  Isn't that obvious?  Why, I'm the worst parts of Moseby and Cooper, in one unhappy package.  

It's easy to find parallels with television in life, especially character based sitcoms like the above, especially if you look hard enough.  While I no longer live communally, as soon as you get into that environment, people fall into roles that fit the particular dynamic.  They fulfill certain archetypal roles in a group.  Sometimes, everybody listens to the loudest person in the room, in a race to the top for sheer dominance.  Sometimes that leads to the invasion of Poland, but now isn't the time for Historical commentary really.  Living in a close knit group like the Scholars do here, not only living together but singing services and more often than not propping up bars together every day.  Something like HIMYM's scenes set in MacLaren's, often featuring Barney spouting the phrase "challenge accepted" might as well be a mirror to being sat round the table at the local JD Wetherspoons establishment with Cardinal Sin detailing his latest Tinder success, or listening to the Swedish Chef talk about the hot barmaid he'll never speak to.  The feeling was much more like the unrelated yet familial dynamic in most American sitcoms, the kind of thing you find airing in double bills on E4 of an afternoon.

The big question now, of course is what will this year turn out to be like?  What must-see light comedy with tinges of sadness and the occasional profound statement will mirror this year?  This year really is all to play for, and as we stand on the brink of it all starting again, it's worth letting it work itself out before defining it.  Last year was pretty simple to compare, because two of the major players were Canadians.  Now, two of our arrivals are from within a mile of each other in London, with the third hailing from God's own county.

Of course, I suppose the real challenge is taking this life and fitting it for screen?  I mean, you couldn't make this stuff up if you tried...

Night shift

Twelve bells, and all's well.

I have problems sleeping.  I mean, I have problems sleeping at the best of times, let alone the worst of times; at worst, sleep is a distant memory.  I've pulled in straight 48 hour stints, and I once did three days split up by a scant pair of one hour power naps.  Just like my depression, sometimes my insomnia peaks for no discernible reason every now and again.  It's not great but... It's life.  Life as I know it.  I point blank refuse to take sleeping tablets on personal grounds, and try as hard as I can to get through the day without napping.  I know there are supposed to be all sorts of benefits to having an afternoon snooze, especially the fabled "coffee nap", but whatever, I don't care.  I once identified that essentially I just don't like being asleep, so go figure.

I recently discovered that on average, I'm awake for at least 16 hours a day, and in fact, as of this very second, I'm sailing through my 18th hour of consciousness.  Think about it for a second.  I'm working on the desk at the Office 7 hours, with an hour off for lunch... And then stay awake for nine more hours.  Imagine with me, if you will, the almost endless possibilities that lie before me... If only I could be bothered!  I could probably learn a new suite in 6 weeks, or solve Fermat's Last Theorem, or perhaps choose to improve my immediate environment by actually doing some ironing.  God alone knows how I'll fare once we get back into regular evensongs.  It's like I became an adult with a regular job without even noticing.  

Honestly, working 9-5 isn't amazing.  It certainly isn't wildly exciting, and I find it immensely draining some days, having to answer the phone, being subjected to all sorts of inquiries and demands, people phoning up to complain vehemently about things I know nothing of, or that special type of caller who feels duty bound to shout as loud as they possibly can down the phone.  And the rude callers.  Also, in what I can only see as a unique feature to this office, is the hatch: a sliding window that allows me to receive post and such small deliveries and also question those who try to barge in through the door, as if the lock is some sort of human rights violation.  Next to this hatch is the buzzer, which may well be the single most annoying thing.  There are three distinct criminal classes I associate with this joyless noise:

• The ones who see you've noticed them, assume a huge grin, and gleefully press the button, as if it's the funniest thing that's ever happened in our lives, that this amazing island of humour in an otherwise grey existence can bring us together for one brief moment...
• Those who walk in at quite a stately pace, stare ashen faced straight at you with empty eyes, like a sad halibut, and lean heavily on the buzzer.  One lady once pressed so hard for so long it actually distorted the little speaker that sounds the infernal buzzing, which was interesting merely through exhibiting something I didn't even think possible.
• Lastly, the very worst offenders are those who do not even bother to look.  They slide through the little narthex, their eyes fixed on the prize of entering this office complex, that they so desire for some reason.  They make sarcastic remarks about how slow my reactions must be as they march on through their day's master plan.  I imagine they are the sort of person who reprimand paint for not drying fast enough, grass for being too green &c.  I also imagine that they will never return, and instead choose, from that moment on, to live their lives in such a way that they will never need to come by this Office ever again; Alas, dear reader, you know as well as I, that it will remain pure fantasy.

 This endless cycle of telephones, emails and door buzzers is enough to drive one to the brink.  True, I'm able to get on with a bit of writing while I'm sat there, and I am earning a considerable sum of money for being there.  It's okay.  It could be a lot worse.  Every now and again I apply for bar work, which is as close as I'm going to get to the self-writing joke.  As far as I can see, the same faces just turn up in different places, almost as if there's just some kind of pool that these people are employed from and get shifted around and chosen by a new establishment, like one of those hook-a-duck stalls on a fair.  Rebutt me all you like, but I will always be on the outside of that particular circle.  Oh, that and I'm not really attractive enough to work behind a bar.

I'm really tired.  More physically, not so much existentially this time.  I've been awake for a long time, and I need to get up early(ish) so I can iron a fresh shirt for the day.  I know this is late, but it's still the third of September somewhere, right? 

Buyer's Regret

I can't help but wonder what the hell I was thinking when I said I'd write every day...

  

It's quite tricky thinking of some original topic every day.  It's tempting to write in advance and set up an auto-post, like last year's Suite experiment while I was on tour in Sweden, especially for those days (like today) when I won't put this up on Facebook or something (although who cares to read this anyway?), but that takes away the element of deliberate challenge.  However, everything counts in this mad mission, but hopefully I'll be able to produce something interesting...

Today, I'd like to talk about what I do with my money once I get paid.  Not only has it been less than a fortnight since my last Cathedral pay packet, but I was also lucky enough to sing with a visiting choir for money this week as well.  As an added bonus, the choir were actually very good, and even let me lunch for free with them on Sunday.  They paid me a small but useful sum of money, most of which has either been spent already, or is going to be used to get me out of the top of my overdraft again.  Surprisingly, my spending habits haven't changed since I moved away from home almost six years ago.

The number one expenditure I have is food, whether I cook it or not.  I've gotten into quite an expensive lunching habit recently, spending my unpaid hour sampling various restaurants and cafes around Truro.  I sometimes think about writing reviews, but it would take a level of preparation and foresight that I just don't seem to either have or be bothered to use; I busy myself with the eating rather than any kind of judgement.  I suppose in a way it's quite sad going to places on my own, but is it sad?  I'm not really bothered.  I've taken to reading subversive literature in public places, so I have that to keep me company at least.  Last night I went to the new HUBBOX in the old Kenwyn Street Chapel (The One Eyed HUB?) and sampled their delicious Smoked Brisket and a quite powerful hoppy beer, for a remarkably affordable price.  It's an expensive habit, but I enjoy going out to eat.  Less washing up for starters.  I'm happy to shell out for decent stuff when I actually want to cook as well though.

One once major expense that doesn't exist anymore is toys.  Maybe I really am growing up or something, but I prioritise my 'disposable income' for food and more commonly booze rather than anything else.  True, I still haunt eBay looking for any bargains, but I don't often bid on anything.

The other avenue of expenditure in my life that has never changed is books.  I will buy books whenever I'm bored.  I once bought a book because it was edited by an American member of the Bright family.  I even bought a book because I read it was good (but no other detail) and it had a "buy one, get one half price" sticker (a deadly and effective weapon against my bank balance).  I'm gradually purchasing the entire printed works of Chuck Palahniuk, and at least one of his paperbacks accompanies me wherever I go; a hardback copy of Diary sits on my spare pillow for when I retire.  My Amazon wishlist for books (aside from the leftover Palahniuk titles) has a couple of crackers on it even as it stands, with The Portlandia Cookbook: Cook Like a Local for pickle recipes, Q and A a Day: 5-year Journal for even more daily writing, and the collections of Animal Man and Doom Patrol by Grant Morrison.  I discovered Morrison's run of Doom Patrol in the Norwich Millennium Library, and if you like surrealist literature, I suggest you seek it out.

I often don't regret buying things.  Like eating out, or going to the cinema, I try to exhaustively research  potential purchases to make sure I'm not disappointed.  There is one major area that I always seem t ofall down on though, and that's mobile phones.  I have a chequered history as far as phones are concerned, and my current handset, somewhat appropriately named "The Man Without Pity", doesn't work properly.  It hangs, freezes, quits applications whenever it likes... Okay, I'm running the developer preview software so I ought to expect it.  I characterise it as grumpy, and every time I try to replace it, something happens with the new handset that I'm not happy with, be it just from bad function to straight up software conflict.  It's... Cursed.  The whole thing is cursed through and through, and I have subsequently decided not to replace my phone before I actually upgrade...

Of course, I still need to get a significant distance out of my overdraft (Hah!), so I shouldn't be spending.  Sometimes, especially after a night on the tiles, I do feel a tinge of regret creep across my soul in those same boots of lead again... But money can be recovered after all.  I really need to save up for my trips though, not only to London, but ideally to get to Oxford as well, Toronto and the holiday of a lifetime that is Portland, OR...

Rules and Regs - Day I

Time for something a little bit crazy.

In May of 2013, I joined in with a blogging project that lead to me writing for almost every single day that month.  It was a mad journey that was sometimes a real struggle, lighthearted titles ill-suited for a serious minded, long form committed depression battler.  Even now, with things being slightly better (not withstanding last week lol!), I'm sure I'd still struggle.  I tried putting pictures into a blog the other week, inspired by one of Wordpress's Daily Prompts and it was... okay?  I guess?  I dunno.

So this is round two.  My own stab at writing every day a month gives me a chance to forge, through sheer force of habit, a better habit.  I actually enjoy writing a hell of a lot, and like I said last time, it forms a vital escape from singing that rescues me from the utter dregs of inadequacy.  I can even claim to be a published professional, because I get paid for some of the things I write that appear in print.  There's something absolutely magical about seeing your name at then end of something that's going to be distributed to the public.  I also can't help but enjoy the irony of being a socially awkward and often debilitatingly anxious person who puts themselves in a firing line of public expression, both through publishing this and being a musician...come on, sometimes I still play the organ.

There are some internal rules I'm going to impose though, so this thing has at least a semblance of structure.  

• Seriously man, there will be a post every day.

Have you tried writing something every day for a month?  It isn't easy.  There are no shortcuts.  I have four avenues of sharing this myself, and actually, if you like reading this stuff then I encourage you to share it as well!  I run a twitter just for this now as well, which is linked to a Glipho profile, my personal twitter and of course, Facebook; I won't post every day to my personal pages though.  I think three a week is enough to promote.

• There has to be a word limit

I remember when I was younger, trying to write essays for school and struggling at the 150 word mark.  Now, as I'm sure you'll know, it's the absolute opposite.  When I worked at Truro School, I recall laughing at VIth formers complaining about how a 500 word essay was just too much.  Even after an undergrad, 500 words is close to or near enough to too little.  I regularly knock out pieces to the order of 1000 as a minimum on here, so there'll be no less than 500 because that would be TOO EASY and possibly lazy.  Unless it's a poem.  I might post parts of the Crown that I've been working on, if I'm feeling particularly brave.

• We're going to keep doing what we're doing, whether or not a single record is sold

I've noticed a bit of a slump as far as readership's concerned.  I'm sure there's a core audience (Coredience?), but it's down and I don't exactly feel too great about that.  Maybe some people are turned off by my trying of new things, rather than just moaning and complaining and giving away what might just be a little bit too much personal information.  I'm just going to keep slogging on.  "There is more nobility in hard work than in pure luck", of course, and this is another part of the "mission" of Blogging Every Damn Day In September.  I'm also going to get a "professional" website set up so I can put my gradually growing portfolio of programme notes and welcome packs up without them only being found next to all the personal posts as well (because I'm sure that can't be good either).  I'll also advertise my singing services on this professional gaff as well, although who the hell wants to listen to a countertenor is simply beyond me...

So there's only another 29 entries to go now,  I know this was a bit of a cheat but it's my blog and I can write whatever I like.  I might even try and talk about things I don't want to talk about, you know, the sort of stuff that'll make my mother ring me to check I'm alright.  Or maybe I won't.