Slightly bored and frustrated

It's one of those ludicrously slow Sunday's at work. I mean I could be busy, but no, I chose to do all my preparation on Friday and then p.r.e.t.e.n.d that I was doing the work today. So I've sat here bored on Facebook all day and metering out the cups of tea and toilet breaks so as to keep my interest.
Oh Bolton, will you never learn?
Meanwhile, bored as I am, I am sitting here wishing I had more time to study my Russian. I love the language and thoroughly enjoy my lessons but I never get time to study at home. It's a source of endless frustration to leave my tutor every Saturday morning so amped to study and then suddenly find it's Thursday and I haven't opened my text book even once. I hate myself.
Work at the moment is an endless source of frustration. I think I am ready for some kind of internal change. I don't mean inside me, you understand, I don't mean I want to move my liver a little to the left to make more room for my kidneys or anything. I mean internal as in within the company. I can't be bothered with the hole interview-stress-impress-people-meet-new-colleagues-fit-into-existing-office-politics-fill-out-forms-inform-your-superannuation-company kinda change. Way too hard. I just want to be shuffled around here a bit.
There is a new position in the offing and I'm seriously considering it. That's despite several colleagues describing it as "the worst job ever" and "a suicide mission".
Hey, feeling reckless is more exciting than feeling bored and frustrated.

Les be friends!

This may just be the story of the year.
There is nothing I can say that will add anything to the story. I can't get crazier, it can't get funnier. It is, quite simply, gold.

Sorry, mandatory what?

Aside from the fact it is almost impossible to find a hard toothbrush any more (seriously, what kind of gum disease-loving pussy PREFERS a soft brush over a hard one?) something that has really ground my gears today is this mandatory sentencing thing.
I have a problem with it. I'm not convinced that serving a compulsory prison sentence because you have somehow injured a police officer is the best outcome we can produce, nor is it the best for our system of justice.
Yes that footage of officer Butcher hitting the ground is sickening and the sound of his head popping on the pavement turned my guts inside out too, but this is the justice system, law, we are talking about. McLeods' lawyer Michael Tudori is clearly a brilliant solicitor, being able to get such a thuggish family who brutally attacked an officer of the law off scot free (see what I did there?). But that's just it. He did his job better than the prosecutor. Case closed.
What worries me is the MANDATORY part of mandatory sentencing. This legislation needs to be analysed very closely indeed before it passed by Parliament. How could it be exploited? Abused? I mean really, you think a dodgy cop or transit guard won't take advantage of these laws where they can?
If an officer smacks me 40 times across the head and I hit back once, is that still self-defence? Or am I going to prison?
The evidence would have to really freakin watertight to COMPULSORILY sentence someone to a term in prison for assaulting a public officer.
I look forward to seeing the detail of Jim McGinty's proposed amendment tomorrow, which would, as I understand it, make the mandatory sentencing discretionary.
That's right folks, discretionary mandatory sentencing.
Too much time bonging on in Freo, methinks.
However, some kind of amendment is the best hope for a fairer law which balances the desire to offer greater protection to Old Bill but doesn't take away our rights as citizens. Rights given to us in Magna Carta, Opus Prime, Optimus Prime, Opus Dei... Oh fuck it, I forget where it's written... you know what I mean.

Census for March

Reading: Top Price, the Matt Price collection.
Watching: Wipeout, Ladette to Lady and right at the second, Top Gear.
Listening:Sia.
Downloading: This American Life.
Website du jour: Loving "Stair Porn", "Worst of Perth" and "The Sartorialist". All links at side.
Café: Milkd, North Perth.
Pub: Been Courting it up and Scottoing it up and Devillesing it up a bit too.
Club: Actually, this is probably where Devilles belongs. My God THAT was a birthday party and a half.
Eating: Just cooked pasta. Was trying the no carb thing but mother-of-fuck... I can't live like that. It's not natural. I'd rather give up masturbation.
Drinking: Soda water. Preferably mixed with booze, but it doesn't have to be.
Wearing: A lot of Top Shop stuff. I love you Kate Moss.
Last show: Goodness, it might have been Camille O'Sullivan (who was freakin AWESOME)... unless I count Rai Fazio's film "Two Fists One Heart" (Read: Two Fists One Arse) which I saw yesterday. Particularly loved the final fight scene for two reasons. Firstly the shameless McInerney Ford advertising (but then I'd want something too Dennis, if I'd invested all that money) and secondly for the spazzy 'ranga in the Everlast t-shirt in the crowd shot. Trish? Zat you?
Next show: Sia.
Can’t wait ‘til: Sia. Seriously. Thom really fucking knows how to give presents.
Most recent scoop: Getting the lowdown, the inside running, if you will, on the underpass at Karrakatta. Hardly a major story, but there you go.
Most recent purchase: New work by my budding Caravaggio.
Want but can’t afford: To pay my bills.
Need but can’t afford: To pay my bills. Prooooooooobably should have partied less on the weekend.
Last bad act: Turning my phone off so I didn't have to deal with a phone call I knew was coming.
Bad news: There are bound to be impending redundancies and sackings as a result of the editor change.
Good news: The bank is interested enough in something I asked them about this morning. On the same subject, I have new plans and goals..
Goal: To not be doing at 30 what I am doing at 29.
Yesterday I: Slept quite a bit, then went on an adventure in the city and in Freo then saw Two Fists then fucking laughed and laughed and laughed.
Right now I should be:Studying Russian or doing something serious like watching Four Corners.
Later today I’m: Catching some Zs.

Creative space

I liked building cubbies in trees and forts using mattresses and blankets when I was a kid.
Drove the family insane, I'm sure but I loved it.
I liked creating little spaces for my hens to nest and nice little nooks in the garden where you could sit and think on your own.
I'm still that kind of person.
I like to live in as small a space as possible. When I had the two bedroom flat in Maylands (Chateau Guildford Road Embankment) and was living in it alone, the second bedroom actually lay fallow, spare and unused.
Now I reside in a single bedroom in my Dad's house, surrounded by my worldly goods, books, music, art and ephemera.
It is, to be honest, a shit-heap of crap and a fire hazard. But it's my fire hazard and I love it.
Recently I had a little re-jig of some furniture to create a good space to sit at my computer to improve my posture somewhat. Unfortunately I have a completely impractical desk and chair so I'm still hunched over like a blonde skank in a porn film spit-roast, but it at least has to be better than being slumped on the bed with all my weight on my cox... coks... tailbone.
I rather love my new "creative space".


I know it is bizarre to post pictures of your bedroom wall, as if I was some kind of teenage girl. And yes, I know a 29-year-old should probably be beyond blu-tacking pictures of movie stars on his wall, but fuck it!
It pleases me exceedingly.

It'smybirthdayyay!

Bloody brilliant day.

Thom made cupcakes. Special birthday cupcakes. With gay icing. He is indeed the best possible boyfriend.
Oh! And tickets to Sia, which I am spastically excited about!

Meditations on turning 29

Well it's not 30, is it?
Which essentially means nobody cares and you have to hang around for another 12 months to get everyone's commiserations.
Although it is, technically, the beginning of my 30th revolution around the Sun.
Over the years I've flipped out about a few birthdays - 23 and 26 were, inexplicably, horror years - but for some reason 29 holds no fear.
I blogged the other day about it being a time of opportunity and I stand by that. What I mean is, I'm not terrified of crows feet, aching joints nor stopping to count how long it takes the drips to stop when I think I've finished peeing.
What surprises me is I'm quite proud of my impending anniversary. I'm usually the kind of person who might just not mention the fact his birthday is tomorrow. But for some reason today I've been running around mentioning it uninvited, like some sort of five-year-old. If I could hold up 29 fingers as I empart the information about my looming celebration I would.
What surprises me even more is, I'm really looking forward to 30. Maybe it's because, like 20, you're starting at a zero year and you have a whole ten years on which to stamp your impromata. Plenty of time to shape your future or fuck it up.
I was born old. Turning 30 is one step closer to looking as old as my cardigan obsession makes me look and/or feel.
That's not to suggest I'll be wishing away the next 12 months. I might piss it away, but I won't wish it away.
You can look forward, in six months time, to me running around like a that five-year-old declaring to anyone who'll listen "I'm 29-and-a-half!".
As to how I shall spend the day tomorrow? Well I've jagged-slash-blagged the day off, so I shall spend it reading, laying on the couch or bed, watching Ellen, picking up my new artistic purchase, and then perhaps heading off to watch the oft-lampooned and greatly anticipated film, Two Fists One Arse.
Happy birthday, me.

Caravaggio's latest

There is a dear young artist whom I have come to know and I am deeply in love with his work.
He paints sci-fi landscapes and strange portraits and it all has an other-worldliness to it that I find engaging.
I bought two pieces from his first exhibition. One for me and one for Thom-with-an-H. They look a bit like cartoon x-rays of beavers. Hard to describe. Awesome to look at.
Here is my latest purchase.

I really shouldn't be buying this. I really shouldn't. But I have my pennies from Kevin and it's my birthday and I thought "fuck it, why not?".
Art is good for the soul.
I love this character, whom I shall call Orange Tie. Why is there a crow on his sleeve? Why is his crown upside-down? Is it because it is a tree stump? He looks like a grammar school boy. Sad and depressed. Or an investment banker trudging home with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
The artist's name is Martin Wills (or Martin Wells if you read the local paper) and he's fabulous.
Here is another of his works.

Renovation

Forgive the bad attempt at creating a banner - I have absolutely no program at my disposal and even if I did, I have no skills whatsoever.
That aside, I decided it was time to renovate my blog.
This year is all about new beginnings.
My New Years' Resolution was, essentially, not to see in the next New Year leading the same life I have been leading for years.
At the time I actually intended to see in the 2010 New Year in London. Or at least overseas.
Since then the global financial buttfuck has descended to a degree I have not witnessed in my lifetime. There are no jobs. Friends are coming home from the UK. Those journos staying in London have jobs outside the industry. English are warning me against coming.
In short the US credit crunch has comprehensively fisted the UK job market and Dorothy is stuck in the land of Oz.
Probably. We do have a Plan B which still involves travel and we will certainly go on a holiday to visit our lads in Munich for Oktoberfest. No recession will stop Pennells squeezing me into leiderhosen.
Perhaps the other reason I'm in a renovating mood is that I turn 29 this week. And apart from the fact I'm booked in for my first botox injection and my erections aren't what they used to be, the thing that's really getting me down about my impending celebration is, I've been doing the same job for ten years. Essentially. I mean different papers, editors, roles... but essentially the same job.
I don't have a lot of money. I don't have much to my name. And I certainly don't feel like I have made a difference.
Don't get me wrong, I don't really want to make a difference but surely it's expected as some kind of gratis payment for a decade of shit pay?
No, it's the money I want. And the sense that when I wake up in the morning filled with enthusiasm and initiative and innovation and enterprise, it won't be shat on two hours later when I talk to some disinterested boss who's on twice my salary.
So here's my birthday resolution, if someone could hold me to it:
To not be doing with my life what I'm doing with my life now, by the time I'm 30.
By the time I'm 30, I want to be in private enterprise.
And leiderhosen.