Proof is in the Pudding

My therapist...

(yes, I own one)

... has mentioned the once or twice that the number of thoughts and ideas for new projects buzzing around my head, combined with the many unfinished personal projects I have on the go, make even HER feel a little exhausted. Top that off with a subtle dusting of impatience and focus issues on my part, and it's a recipe for disaster.

A quick glance around my flat leads me to think she might just be on to something...

books 1&2:

book 3: book 4: books 5&6: book 7:

This is nothing new. There are pictures out there somewhere of a 7-year old Le Pew watching television whilst reading a book AND constructing some dodgy lego-technic invention, all at once. The parental units used to fire questions at me to verify whether I really did follow what was on TV AND in the book at the same time. Legend has it my feedback was accurate. Altho this might be the stuff of parental myth-making, it proves that my attention is scattered, to say the least.

It was with great pain then, that I decided to put books 1 to 6 back on the shelf, imposing an embargo on their re-un-shelving until book number 7 (Critical Mass by Philip Ball) has been thoroughly completed.

I believe sane people called it "focus". A neologism to many a neuron in my system.

I may need to consult my GP about the unabated side-effect: a continuous itch to grab an extra item to occupy myself with.

At 17 (Cue Janis Joplin)

The last few weeks, I've been pondering what it would be like to meet my 17-year old self again. A decade seems to have made all the difference. My intrinsic nature, quite logically, hasn't changed. But my opinions and attitudes to life, my self-perception... they've undergone drastic changes. And while that's surely a good thing, I do regularly try to tap back in to who I was when I was 17.

I remember the strong opinions I held and vowing to myself that I would never forget what I felt right there and then. And I haven't forgotten. I can recall the motivations behind those opinions, the emotions associated with them and can trace the changes all the way back to where I am today. On some things, I've blatantly taken a 180 degree turn. And while I feel I have done so with reason, I always wonder whether I would be able to explain myself to the 17-year old Le Pew.

If you could. Would you meet up with yerself? If you could go to dinner with who you were 10, 20, 30 years ago... would you? And if so, what would you try to convey to yourself, if anything at all?


I for one would like to go for dinner with Pew17, although the first issue would most likely be the choice of restaurant. Pew17 is a devoted vegetarian. I'm a reborn carnivore. However, since I'm the one most likely to pay for said meal, Pew17 will simply have to swallow the proverbial beef. I'd like to have a beer or perchance a glass of wine to accompany my meal, but Pew17 refuses alcohol or drugs of any kind. I'd confidently wear bootcut jeans, boots and a snug sleeveless top, while Pew17 is desperately trying to hide her (imaginary) Pluto-sized arse with a monstrously baggy T-shirt and one of dad's old jumpers.

Five minutes after the waitress has brought us our drinks, the ash-tray on the table will start to overflow with shredded napkin or beer cards. We're both fidgetters and it's highly likely that the labels will be peeled off both our drink bottles before the starter arrives. When the waitress walks past, we'll both sneak a quick peek at her bum. We'll feel slightly guilty at the overt sexism of our actions, but it's something we've never quite been able to control.

Pew17 will stare at me when I'm not looking, wondering how this could be her in a decade. She'll be disappointed with the fact that I've blatantly never had the guts to get a funkier hairstyle. Sad too, to see that the spots haven't all cleared. But happy that she'll succeed at shedding half a stone.

I know what the first question on her mind is. It's the one that'll keep her awake at night for another year or so. But she will wait to ask, as she's not sure I'd still understand. And I will wait to tell, as it's the topic most worth discussing. We'd need to ease into it.

I'll first tell her that I didn't become an astronaut. Not a space-engineer. No job at NASA. And that NASA disbanded the height-restrictions just before I went to uni, so that the choice not to become an astronaut, was entirely in my own hands.

She'll ask me how much longer she has to wait before she gets to move to Colorado. And I'd reply that we now have a rather distinct disdain for anything American. That the US flag got thrown in the bin a few months after we started uni. She'll growl at me. Tell me off for forgetting the promise I'd made to myself "not to settle for local". I'll tell her we didn't. That we left when we were 20 and only just properly returned a few months ago. And that it's been a fun - unamerican- wild ride.

She'll ask me who I vote for. And I would explain the concept of libertarianism. I would let her in on how things stopped being so black and white, just a few years ago. That opinions are not always a clear-cut thing. That she should watch Dogville, to understand what I mean. That it is possible for your gut to believe in one thing, but your mind to forfeit to another idea altogether. That the most important way to make a difference, is in first degree: by affecting those around you.

When my mobile phone rings, I'll pick up and say: "Hey babe! Can I ring you back in a wee hour? I'm having dinner just the now. Yeah, we're still at the restaurant. Uhuh. Yeah she ordered the vegetarian." She'll go quiet. I will let her mill it over. Then she'll take a deep breath and try: "Was that... your boyfriend?" I'll grin. "What do you think? What do you hope?"

She'll sigh and say that she honestly no longer knows what to hope for. I'll tell her it was my girlfriend and that she'd save herself a lot of time and energy, if she would only stop worrying about defining herself.

She'll scratch her neck, fiddle with her bottle and then she'll blurt out: "Does it ever get easy?" Yes it does. You'll learn to tune into yourself and pick it up in others. You'll learn not to fall for straight women. To not limit yourself to a label. To explore the fluidity of your sexuality without restraints. Without guilt. You'll figure out that you can be both genders, regardless of your sex. You'll figure out how not to be panicked by the stereotypes. How to work around them. To become your own definition. That the spectrum is there to move around on freely, without having to settle down.


She'll ask me for some advice. We've always had the inclination to skip to the final chapter of the book before starting page 1. I would like to tell her to be more lenient on others and to be kinder to herself. To ignore mirrors and explain to her the difference between good mirrors and bad ones. And that since the only good mirror is based in the toilets of a club in Dublin, all others are bound to make one look fatter than one really is, so it is best to ignore them altogether. I would like to tell her not to panic. To learn to count on herself. To never settle for second best. I would tell her to pay attention. That time goes by faster than she thinks. I'd tell her not to burn her diaries, because memory goes downhill fast. To not waste her time playing poker at the pub all day, the first year at uni. I'd tell her to trust her own instincts, because they never lead us astray.

That's the advice I'd like to share with her. But I won't. I need her to make the same mistakes all over again. To discover what I've learned. Changing her, would mean changing who I am today, and for the first time since long, I actually quite like me.


But I would tell her this, before parting ways:

"Your fear of loneliness is misdirected. What stifles you now, will become your drive. And the only thing holding you back, ever, is yourself."

As she slips onto her moped to set off home, I will shout after her: "And don't leave your moped at the house in France, once the house goes up for sale!!"

home...

It's two weeks before I get handed the key to my new home. That's also when the mortgage officially starts and I've been having wee flaps about the commitment I'm about to sign in on. I seem to have come a very long way from being a straying wee vagabond just over 6 months ago.

Back in the flatlands, out of academia, a fab challenging job, a little gem of a girlfriend and now... a scary mortgage lol. Allright... soyons-optimiste... A HOME!!! ;-)

But I woke up this morning thinking: "What am I doing??? Is this still me??" The strange thing is that I genuinely think it might actually be "me" still. It all just needs to settle in a bit. I need to find my own pace and rythm, and more importantly, my own way to put MY stamp on the things I've been creating for myself (often with help) these last 6 months. So that they will start to feel familiar.

As luck would have it, Ine posted a blog earlier today on local.live.com, so I quickly checked it, to remind myself of where I'm going to live come July. When I got home this evening, I strung together three consecutive images of the area and drew a big yellow arrow on it to mark my first own "HOME". Just to remind myself why this is all good. It steadied my nerves a bit. And it reminded me that in fact, I'm one lucky sod for being able to make this my home:

- Pew's home (Click on image for larger view) -

Peripherals

The back-light of my phone is flashing 3 am at me. I'm tired, but can't seem to get myself to bed. To switch off the light, to lie down and close my eyes... to ask my mind to stop, right now, is like asking me not to breathe. It's essential I grab hold of the minutes. To not surrender to time lost. To not slip away.

Through the windows, subtle tones of amusement find their way in from a party next door and muffle my thinking like a blanket of snow muffles sound. Softening my train of thought, slowing it down and bringing it back to me more clearly than before, I realise I've perhaps not as much been thinking, but feeling. An intense clarity of emotion that words could never support in thought.

Everything is perfect, just the now. All emotion thrown in the balance. And for once, the scales don't tip. A fragile equilibrium to be savoured. Right now.

I'd write it down. A guidebook for days to come. To remind us how to get here. But feelings can rarely be owned. They grace you with their presence at their own desire and leave but mere traces upon their leaving. Elusive. Like peripheral visions, they can't quite be looked in the eye. But they linger. And for now, I linger with them.

I'm tired. But I revel in time gained.

When technology gets cheeky...

Had trouble getting myself out of bed this morning, so I hit the snooze button a few times. Until that is, my mobile phone decided that I'd had enough. When I tried to reset for more snoozing, it beeped at me angrily and flashed a message "no further actions possible" at me. The cheek.

*growl*

So I got up.

Oot 'n Aboot

Jo hadn’t been home since Christmas and the last time I was in Scotland was just under a year ago, so it seemed like a perfect little outing for our latest three-weekly “conjugal visit” ;-)

For the first time since the start of our relationship, we were on turf that was familiar to the both of us, and as soon as I got into Jo’s car at Newcastle airport, I had the strange sensation of coming home. I could drive the road up to Cumbernauld with my eyes closed. Even when I was living in that neck of the woods, driving past the Lake District and the hills that parallel Hadrian’s Wall, always felt like being handed a tub of vapour-rub. As if you can finally breathe freely again. We stopped for some fish ‘n chips in Gretna Green (no we did not get married... yet) and got ridiculously excited at the idea of being back in the country of neds, fried mars bars and gingers. Jo was beaming with excitement when the first tones of Scottish hit her ears.

We stayed over at Jo’s dad’s on the Friday night. I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous about meeting a parental (I really wanted to make a good impression), but I was greeted with a very wide, very cheeky grin and a proper weegie “ye allrite hen?”. The resemblance with Jo was hard to miss and I instantly felt very welcome.

I slept close to nothing that first night and not for the reasons you might expect. Jo’d forgotten to bring up the inflatable double bed, so we ended up sharing Jo’s old one-person stead. Admittedly, Jo’s only wee. But when you take into account that fabulous hair of hers, she does succeed at taking up half the space, so I woke up repeatedly during the night trying to resuscitate one limb or the other, as it’d gone dead under the cramped position we were in.

When we headed into Glasgow for breakfast the next morning, I was in dire need of a strong cup of coffee. And spaghetti, apparently, because I ended up choosing a royal serving of pasta for breakfast. I try not to question the cravings I get on weekends of indulgence ;-)

We’d planned to do loads of shopping, but instead, we just hung around enjoying each other’s company. I had to constantly remind Jo that I had in fact lived in Scotland, and that yes, I did know that Cult was just around the corner and that I had ventured into Borders once or twice before. It was fab. We keep discovering more and more common ground between us, as well as fantastic distinct little quirky differences and I have to admit that this is why I love the flutterstage so much. It’s like charting the proverbial undiscovered country. And as Eddie Izzard would be inclined to say, I feel utterly smug at having planted my flag in this one ;-)

Despite the lack of sleep the night before and a tiring day out in Glasgow, we decided to go for a wee jolly at the Polo Lounge that night. It’d been a while since I last set foot in a proper gay club and it was hugely entertaining doing a round of “spot-the-stereotype”. I got accosted by a rather drunken lad at the bar when ordering drinks, who seem to feel it necessary to stress that he was in fact straight, not gay, that he had wandered into the club by accident and that he was surprised to see that we were all nice people. I replied that I knew some nice straight people too and that I occasionally accidentally find myself stranded in a straight club, but that I too get over the embarrassment then and just try to have a good time.

I think he was too drunk to note the hint of sarcasm.

We spent the remainder of the weekend in Edinburgh, where we’d booked ourselves a room in a hotel just off the Royal Mile. Excellent staggering distance from the pubs ‘n clubs and easy access to a decent fry-up for the morning after. I’d asked Jo to show me “her” Edinburgh, so she’d compiled a wee list of places for us to go to. I would recommend any tourist take the Jo-tour, because not only did we get to have lunch at Elephant House (where J.K.Rowling wrote the first Harry potter), we also saw an excellent exhibition on Pixar animation, the ancient cemetery AND we had the most royal serving of nachos possible.

Because the Monday was a bank holiday, we decided to do something characteristically lesbian: we both rang our ex-es, their respective current girlfriends and a few other friends (Richard!!) to meet up for a night out on the Sunday. Ok, so I exaggerate *grin* There were only two ex-es really ;-)

Most of us were moderately inebriated by the time we fetched a cab to Studio 24 (27? 53? Sod knows what number it was, I did just say I was inebriated) and when the cab driver failed to respond to our enquiries but kept driving in what appeared to be the wrong direction, I had a very scary vision of the lot of us stranded in a ditch just outside the Scottish border. But the bloke clearly DID know the venue, because a few minutes later, he pulled up next to a very butch female bouncer, who welcomed us into a noisy wee club.

I will refrain from commenting on the burlesque show that was put on between DJ sets, as I got called a body fascist by both my girlfriend and my friends following my comments on the night itself, but can I just say that THONGS are wrong on SO many levels *shudders*.

Dammit, my train’s pulling into the station. I will have to love you and leave you. Might finish off this post later… or I could simply take this opportunity to spare you further ranting ;-)

Observing The Habitat

What do you pack on your first visit to the girlfriend's natural habitat? I had a chocolate cake and ample supply of Belgian cookies, but surely I was supposed to bring some other stuff too? Clothes yes. But which ones? Packing makes me feel uncharacteristically girlie. And there's no point bringing your entire wardrobe, cuz that'll just make you look like a right tit. Plus, Jo's chivalrous and only wee, so it's not fair bringing a bag twice her size. She'll only insist on carrying it to the car for me anyway.

After a lot of faffing, I settled on a weekend-sized duffel-bag full of freshly laundered clothing, the basic toiletries, a notebook to jot down my observations and a good book in case Jo would tire of my rambling at any point over the weekend. I turned up at the airport way before schedule, and lost about 5 years of my life when this cheery announcement sent me off in a wee panic:

- Leeds Bradford: Cancelled -

As it turns out, only 14 people had signed on for the flight to Leeds Bradford, and despite the 300 euro airfare per person, BMI simply couldn't be arsed chartering a separate plane for such a small group. So instead, they transferred us all over onto the semi-full East Midlands flight, told us we were lucky to still get a flight out and dropped us of at Leeds Bradford via detour, a whole 2 hours later than expected. If I hadn't been so relieved that it wasn't a proper cancellation, I would have kicked up a real fuss.

But then, my mind was on my final destination, for just this once. My mind slid out of focus, however, when I had to make my way through customs. As I dropped my bag onto the X-ray belt and placed the chocolate cake on a separate tray, a very scary thought crossed my mind: What if... what IF, the bakery accidentally left a knife in the chocolate cake while making it? I mean, it happens. Not often. But it happens. And it would be just my luck that the knife would accidentally be forgotten inside the ONE cake to be scanned at a high-security airport that day now wouldn't it? I was in half a mind to just bin the cake entirely, but then decided that my neurosis was simply in overdrive, and stepped through security with my fingers crossed.

Just as my cake was passing through the X-ray, the lady in charge called her two superiors and stopped the conveyor belt. They eyed me up suspiciously for a few minutes whilst talking amongst themselves and finally turned to me with the words: "Is it a good cake?"

It took me a moment to gather my wits and I eventually replied: "Well Sir, that depends on why you want to know?" To which he said: "We were just thinking of keeping it." "Oh well then, it's a bad one," I replied. Which made him grin as he handed the cake back over to me.

Looks like I wasn't about to be arrested for suspicious knife-smuggling after all.

- Angel of the North in Brussels??-

I took a big risk flying without my lucky travel-sock, but I figured I'd just about all the luck I needed, waiting for me at the other end of the channel ;-)

There's something peculiar about long-distance relationships. No matter how close you've become, no matter how long you've known each other for, there's always a refreshed amount of flutters, nerves and shyness each time you meet up again. It generally takes an hour to settle back into where you last left off, but the fantastic aspect of it is, that you switch into an accelerated gear after that. You have both made a conscious effort to make time for each other for those few days, and you can well and truly focus on each other and on what it is you both want to do. It's remarkably fluid and intense.

While it was my first visit to Jo's habitat, it felt very much like coming home. I did warn her that I wasn't quite sure whom I'd kiss first: Her or the British Soil. I'd not been back to the UK since I left for New Zealand last August, so I'd more than missed Britain. But when I walked through the gate and saw her pretty smile flash back at me, I couldn't resist kissing her first ;-)

She offered to carry my bag for me and I was relieved I'd stuck to a weekend-sized bag.

The drive to her house was a quiet one. We squeezed each other's hands a fair few times, but we were both settling into that strange mixture of re-acquaintance and excitement, and it felt nice to just sit there, among all the tension and unspoken thoughts, with her next to me.

Walking through her front door was like finally finding another difficult piece of the puzzle I was trying to solve. When you meet someone long-distance, it takes a while longer before you get to see the clear picture of each other. You fall in love gradually. Bits of the puzzle are revealed to you only slowly through texts, e-mails, phone conversations and the stolen moments spent together. But a person's home, where they keep their memories, where the rooms are drenched in their daily routines, can reveal substantially more to you than any conversation can. And as such, every new encounter is like falling for someone all over again, only deeper.

It's been a while since I've had such an indulgent, relaxing weekend. We went wherever the flow took us. Much to our surprise, we actually successfully made it out of the house a few times. Strolled the lovely historic streets of the town, hunted down some poached eggs for breakfast, indulged in a traditional Sunday Roast down a local pub, spent a night on the town with some friends, whiled away some time over coffee at Borders while perusing (and buying) books. All incredibly relaxing.

I have a major thing with books. When I was little, my mum arranged it so that I could have three library cards instead of just the one, enabling me to take out 15 books a week. And when I'd made my way through most of what the local library had on offer, my dad started taking me to FNAC once a month, where I would be allowed to buy as many books as I wanted, provided they were of a certain level (was never allowed to buy "the baby-sitter's club" ;-)) And I think to me, those visit to the library and bookstore were like the proverbial visits to the candy shop.

So I love bookshops. And thankfully, it's a passion shared by Jo. I love strolling through them for hours, sitting on the floor in front of a section that tickles my interest, just perusing the books on offer. I genuinely feel that Belgium still lacks on bookshop-culture. Most good bookstores in Britain have coffee shops incorporated in them, and there's sofas strewn throughout the entire shop where you can cosy up for a wee read. There's few things more invigorating than having all that information and story-telling at your fingertips, while being given the time to browse them at leisure.

The nice thing about relationships then, is that you get given a second set of eyes. And because Jo loves books as much as I do, we were feeding off each other in the bookstore. She'd spot things I had missed and vice versa, and while our topics of interest don't necessarily always overlap, our interest in each other enriches the perusing experience. After much oooh-ing and aaaah-ing, I walked out with a book on Banksy's artwork, a photography book on emerging patterns and "Freakonomics", a book I would very much recommend to anyone with an interest in incentives, logical fallacies and economics.

Now, this going to sound a little sad. But do any of you have deeply hidden fantasies about "the love of your life", like say, a knight in shining armour coming to your rescue, or a bad boy/girl on a motorcycle driving you off into the horizon? Vivid dreams about the day Richard Gere walks into the factory in officer's outfit to lift you into his arms and carry you out? Or of Fred Astair tap-dancing his way over to you to seduce you with his singing? No? Right, well don't judge me on this then, but I've always had a massive thing with Dirty Dancing and Grease. And while I fancied "Frances" and "Sandy" instead of Patrick Swayze or John Travolta, the romantic view of love instilled in my head is very much to do with dancing and music.

I don't have "a type" as such, but a nice smile, sparkly eyes and some killer dance-moves never fail to seduce me. And I didn't quite realise how deeply rooted this romantic "Dirty Dancing"-fantasy of mine was until I went out clubbing in York. Jo slipped down in the booth next to me while we were waiting for our drinks, and I could tell she was itching to have a wee boogie. Five minutes later, she was up on the dancefloor strutting her stuff and my jaw just dropped. Now that girl can dance. Not only that, she can dance WITH me. None of that Tango-style classical malarky, no... just freestyle contemporary fun. Feeding off each other's energy, a rhythm that was very much in sync.


Maybe, just maybe, scents and pheromones aren't the only factors of seduction at play in human relationships. I suspect rhythm and pacing very much are too.

- A slightly inebriated, sultry Jo on
our way home from the club-

Get in!

Oooooh I could crush a grape, I'm that excited!!!


I'm flying out to the UK for a wee visit this weekend. It'll be the first time I'll get to see the phenomenon that is Jo, in her natural habitat. Got my binoculars and notepad at the ready, and some chocolate to tempt it to come closer.

Get in!!!

Love Thru the Wire

"Given the large number of people that live within easy travelling distance of each other, it ought to be theoretically possible for everyone (except Australian outback farmers, polar research scientists, explorers, and religious hermits) to find someone geographically compatible; however, this is manifestly not the case. There are a number of theories about this, but perhaps it is nature's way of ensuring variety in the gene pool. Or perhaps it's a case of nature having a good laugh at the expense of a small number of unfortunate humans."

This is the opening statement of a link my girlfriend sent me yesterday. It is a BBC web-entry on "Long-distance Romantic Relationships - A Survival Guide". It made me giggle. The site is written in a style reminiscent of the late Douglas Adams and if you take a closer look at the actual link, you will undoubtedly spot the reference to the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

Jo and I are certainly no exception on the Long Distance Relationship (LDR) front. At lot of my friends in Academia are forced to keep up LDRs, because the likelihood of both finding a post-doc or lectureship in the same city, is small. Also, the more people travel, the more likely they are to start up long-distance things. I currently have 4 close friends, 2 cousins and a myriad of acquaintances that are in long-term LDRs.

Jo also directed me to The Center for the Study of Long Distance Relationships where we found a few entertaining statistics on the "average long distance couple":

How far apart do they live?
Average: 125 miles
95% range: 30 miles to 950 miles

How often do they visit one another?
Average: 1.5 times a month
95% range: once a week to once every four months

How often do they call one another?
Average: once every 2.7 days
95% range: at least once a day to once a month

How long are their telephone calls typically?
Average: 30 minutes
95% range: 2 minutes to 1 hour 20 minutes

How long do they expect to be separated before they can move closer?
Average: 14 months
95% Range: one month to four years

Our personal statistics are not too dissimilar: We live 285 miles apart in birdsflight, we aim to see each other once every 2 to 3 weeks, we call daily with an average skype-time of around 3 to 4 hours, and in terms of how long we expect to be seperated from each other before we can move closer, well... we've got a rough idea in mind and will see how things evolve.

The website also offers a 6-step guideline (based on extensive research) to surviving a long distance relationship:

1. Stay Optimistic

2. Re-learn how to be Intimate:

- share in little day-to-day events

- use technology

- send snail mail letters/cards

- understand the pitfalls of phone conversations

- use little reminders of your partner frequently

3. Some Things Must be Said

4. Don't Isolate Yourself

5. Expect Disappointment

6. Learn the Art of Long Distance Sex

The upside for all of us long-distancers is that technology has evolved a great deal. It's easy to take camera-phone snapshots of things in your daily life and send them to your partner so they can be part of it. Phone calls are free if you use skype and if you combine them with wireless headsets, you can actually use skype as a sort of long-distance baby-phone. Jo and I sometimes leave the skype connection open, while we go about our daily business. I can faff around the room, doing whatever I need to do and still talk to Jo. Or Jo can be sat on the sofa reading her newspaper while I work, and we'd exchange little comments as if I was in the room right next to her.

Yesterday, we had a particularly long talk-session, trying to establish where we both stood in terms of the long-distance and each other. It eventually transgressed into conversation that went on into the wee hours of the morning, and we both fell asleep with the connection still open. When I woke up this morning, I noticed my laptop was still next to my bed and we were still connected with skype, so I ventured a tentative: "goodmorning gorgeous". A stiffled stretchy yawn and the sound of a kiss came right back at me through the wireless from across the North Sea. While this may a bit too much of a good thing for some people, I firmly believe that everyone should take their own relationship as they feel is right. And for us, it seems, we both have the urge to talk, to be in touch, explore each other's minds and to simply connect. So in that respect, current technology truly is bliss.

For more resources: Click Here, Here or Here

Trials & Tribulations outside the Time Warp

I'm moderately relieved that the week is almost over. It's been a bit of an odd one.

After having had Jo over for a nine-day visit (total indulgence) around Easter, it was time to see her off again last Monday. While Eindhoven Airport is only a half-an-hour away from my work, we decided to set off plenty early, to allow us some extra time for breakfast at the airport. A wee stolen moment to say goodbye without having to rush.

Unfortunately, it seemed like the world had collectively decided to return to work at 6am that particularly Monday, and traffic was tantalisingly slow. I was starting to get a wee bit frustrated at seeing my extra time with Jo being eaten away at by something as trivial as a traffic jam, when a police car overtook me. I made the rookie mistake of engaging eye contact with the police officer in the passenger seat, because, sure enough, he started signalling for me to pull over.

Despite a squeaky-clear conscience, I suddenly felt incredibly nervous. I have an incorrigible urge to mess with people in uniform and while I know I shouldn't, I never quite trust myself not to. It's like fear of heights. Popular belief claims "fear-of-height" is when you actually feel an urge to jump off and have trouble trusting yourself not to do so. I think my fear-of-uniforms is somewhat similar. I don't trust myself not to land me into trouble by sheer cheek.

As it turned out, they'd merely pulled me over because of a failing back light. I promised I'd get it fixed in due course, but he insisted on checking my board documents and then kindly informed me that my MOT (Dutch: keuringsbewijs), had expired over 14 months ago and that legally, I was now no longer allowed to drive my car.

*Sod's Law*

Thankfully though, the testosterone variety of uniform can generally be swayed by a sweet oestrogenous smile, and he said he'd give me a caution but would turn a blind-eye while I dropped Jo off at the airport. So off we popped.

While Eindhoven airport had been carefully chosen for it's low-budget services, Jo ended up paying some ridiculous surcharge for extra luggage, thus rendering the whole low-budget strategy rather pointless. The queues at the check-in were so monstrous, we had to skip a proper breakfast and spent our last half-hour together standing in a queue.

I had serious lovesick pangs in my tum when I saw her off, but I have to admit my body felt slightly relieved at the wee break it was getting. Jo's visit had been one of sheer indulgence, verging on the debaucherous. Now, Jo's a bit of a choc-o-holic, and we both love food, so Easter was probably not the most wisely chosen time for visits. There's something delightful about the initial loved-up flutterstage of a relationship. You seem to forget just about anything but the object of your affection, and life enwraps you into some special warped time-frame in which the outside world, the standard rules of physics and the restraints you normally place upon yourself, no longer matter. You float instead of walking, savour life instead of consuming it.

The only object in the universe, however, that forever seems to live by the normal rules of physics, is the bathroom-scales. And the vicious thing informed me I'd gained 2.5 kilos over 9 days. So, on Thursday, I hauled ass to the gym. Due to the RTW trip, being ill and having a new job, I'd not actually set foot in a gym since about July. And I think the gym came back at me with a vengeance, because when I tried to skip the cool-down period after my run, all buttons on the machine stopped working. The "EMERGENCY STOP" button was flashing away at me trying to tempt me to push it, but I never quite trust emergency buttons NOT to set off some ridiculously loud alarm, and the last thing I needed was to lose face in front of fellow sporters on my first day back. So... diddums here decides to try and jump off it, misses by about an inch and catches the treadmill's speeding conveyor belt with the tip of her right foot, which launches me into a full-on-flat-on-yer-face type fall. I guess I should come away with this with the notion that gyms are vindictive lovers when neglected for too long.

To top it all off, the cockrel I mentioned earlier seems to have taken permanent residence in our very own backyard and now appears to have lost ALL sense of time, as it's started crowing at 2 a.m.

Oh, and did I mention I got attacked by two pigeons on the way to my car on Friday?!? Still think I'm paranoid?!?

GM Cockrel

Could someone maybe please take some time out to genetically engineer a cockrell with a snooze-time that surpasses the 30-second mark?? Because seriously... while I'm all in favor of the return to the countryside, I would be tremendously grateful NOT to be roused by a "COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!!!!" every other half-a-minute at 5 a.m.

I'm sure there's a market for expended-snoozetime-cockrells... Get in!!

Beyond Enthusiastic

When my girlfriend warned me that she could talk for Britain, I brushed off the comment with a very smitten reply along the lines of "But babe, I could listen to you ramble for hours". What I didn't know then, is that the talking doesn't generally stop when she goes to sleep. This for two very different reasons: Jo is a notorious sleep-talker (whole dreamt-up phone conversations and the lot) and well, Jo's also got a tendency to become very excited about cute little things.

Just a few nights ago, I got prodded in the arm at about 4.30 a.m. It was with some reluctance that I surfaced from the dream I was having, but when I opened my eyes, I found two very awake, sparkly shiners staring back at me.

"Do you know," she said excitedly, "that there's a place in Edinburgh called Saxe Coburgh?!?!"

A little confused about why exactly this bit of information had warranted a prod so early in the morning, I replied: "Erm... what?"

"Well, isn't your royal family called Saxe-Coburgh?!?" *excited Jo-wiggle*

Now, it has to be said. If anyone else were to attempt interrupting my sleep for such a random bit of information, they'd probably get a good thumping or a dangerous little growl, but right then, all I could see, was a big happy grin on the pretty face of that excitedly wiggly girlfriend of mine, and I couldn't help but burst out in a wee giggle.

Now, I think the REAL test of our relationship will come if she'd ever insist on talking me through the life-cycle of the single-celled amoeba in the middle of my sleeping pattern, but until then, I can't wait to find out the other random bits of info that excite this girl so much ;-)

Introducing...

The frequency and content of my blogging seem to have become increasingly scattered of late. While that is partly due to the fact that I have jumped headlong into my new job and am still very much trying to re-organise my private life around this new situation, that is not the whole story...

These last two months have heralded the arrival of a different level of distraction entirely. It presented itself in a highly compact, dangerously spiky and tremendously vibrant packaging. And I've taken the last two months to slowly unwrap it and figure out what place to give it in my life.

Frequent visitors to this blog undoubtedly know that I have been single for pretty much 19 months now. About a year and a half ago, I made the conscious decision to take some proper solo time for a change. It was time well spent on thesis-writing, travelling, re-establishing old connections, making new ones, physical and emotional recovery, finding a job and buying a flat. It seems odd, if not a little indulgent then, that one would find oneself at a point in life where things seem to fall perfectly into place, and to feel utterly contented with what one has and where one is in life... only to be presented with some unexpected icing on the proverbial cake.

I've taken some time to let things sink in and have refrained (as much as I could without exploding of eagerness to shout it over the rooftops) from recounting the events leading up to this point. But it seems fairly obvious to me now that this is the right time to introduce "the icing", as she'll undoubtedly feature in more than one of my future blogposts, if I continue the level of personal-account blogging I've accustomed these last two years. I don't feel very comfortable holding stuff back, and I'm sure you've all picked up on the fact that my posts have been less coherent as well as more impersonal, and I've just about stretched the limits of self-containment anyway...

So, ladies and gentlereaders, voila ma petite-amie: Jo.

Ye can't really tell from her picture (what with her being uncharacteristically pretty for a Scot *ONLY JOKING*... *not*), but she is in fact Scottish. Sexy accent included. And yes, yes, I KNOW I have just bought a flat and landed myself a fantastic job here in Belgium, but then I like the road less travelled. More than that... the combination of those various elements in my life seems to make perfect sense just now.

I could quite easily list a thousand things about her that make me go all mushy, but then I would like to keep my readership and it would seriously interfere with the high standard of blogging you're all accustomed to *cough*

Actually, sod that. She's fab. She's got bump 'n grind dancemoves that make MC Hammer look like a wallflower in comparison, her funky hair would turn even the most well-endowed hedgehog envious and when she smiles, it totally tugs at my heartstrings. She's in my system and it feels like that's exactly where she was meant to be. So yes, Jo's likely to feature on this blog in future. By association.

And now that I've managed to get this all out on "paper", I've cleared the path for my blogging to regain its natural flow...

Thru the Lens

I started my new job just a little over 10 days ago now and I'm still trying to find some sort of rhythm that will allow me to fit all my normal activities in and around my new work-shedule. It'll take a while before I'll successfully strike the right balance, and so I will have to ask you to bear with me on this, both in terms of blogging and social contact. I crammed as many social events into my after-work hours last week and it still feels like I've got major catching up to do. But the new workload is challenging and intense, and because I'd like to make a good contribution to the team as soon as possible, I feel like I (for a while at least) need to devote a few hours after work to catch up with all the new things I've been introduced to at work. So I don't loose grip on things until I've been properly trained up.

I have some personal news to tell you all and have mentally drafted 4 non-personal blog topics as well, all of which I'd like to jot down when I find some spare time later this weekend or week. Suffice it to say that I love the job, and that I'm confident some sort of new structure of social life/ work/ blogging/ personal stuff will emerge before too long, which will allow me to take everything on board as usual.

The quickest way to document things right now, is by using my camera phone for easy snapshots. My Fisheye Lens got scratched and I've yet to find a good replacement, so my stencil-shots are taken with a standard lens at the moment.

- Life In Transit -

- Pigeon Domination -

I'm sure most of you have at one time or other been witness to one of my infamous pigeon rants. You know the one: That I have a sneaky paranoid suspicion that pigeons are secretly plotting world domination. Because if you think about it, it all adds up. They have strategically positioned themselves in all our open spaces (easy mass-attack positions), they persistently shit on all our important landmarks and monuments (acts of rebellion), they embody breeding grounds for all sort of nasties and evil germs to which our own immune systems have yet to build resistance (mass production of biological weapons) and well, they look downright shifty what with their beady eyes snapping back and forth constantly on those freakishly dislocated heads of theirs. So I'm convinced pigeons are evil creatures plotting world domination.

Needless to say the recent emergence of pigeon-based stencils around Ghent is making me feel a little uneasy. They are everywhere. This one was positioned right next to an ATM machine. Call me paranoid, but I'd say the Pigeons have stepped up their plotting a notch. I am highly in favor of initiatives such as those taken by Faits Divers (a resto in Ghent), where you are promised a free beverage if you successfully snap the neck of one of the pigeons on their terrace.

[Disclaimer: A highly squeamish individual myself, I would never dream of wringing a pigeon's neck (despite the allure), so all you treehuggers: Back Off!]

- Don't Hold Back for My Benefit -

- Ghent Stencils -

- Cracks in the Foundation -

Excessive Happiness Alert

Stick a fork in me, I'm done *happy grin*

Not only did I have a fab first few days at my new job, I also got to spend my weekend with a totally hot babe AND I'm chomping on one DELICIOUS chocolate egg as we speak. *buzzzz* Would be hard-pressed to beat a moment like this ;)

My very first workday was interesting to say the least. You all know what it's like. A bit of a restless night beforehand, three cups of coffee in the morning instead of a proper breakfast because you feel like you may just throw up, you're that excited. And then of course, you've had so much caffeine down yer system, you have to stop at every other petrol station for a quick wee. If then, due to a lapse in focus, you also accidentally end up on the wrong motorway and don't realise so till you're well stuck in its snail-paced traffic, the wee voice in yer head going "you're SO fired before you've even started" becomes a tad hard to crush.

But I DID eventually make it onto the right motorway and into work and instead of being told off, I received the warmest welcome anyone could possibly hope for. Gran's notorious juice and biscuit overdose simply fades by comparison. My new colleagues are warm, interesting and clever, the boss has a humongous array of experience and expertise to tap into and seems focused on trying to bring out the best in all of us. The work itself is varied and challenging. I am slowly getting a better grasp on what it is exactly a job as Scientific Management Consultant entails. It appears to be a very nice blend of "detective work", background research, content design, writing, high-level data processing, strategic management and expertise provision. And while most people assume I'd resent the long drive to work (110kms), I find myself actually motivated to start my day and am happily tired at the end of it.

I can feel you're all gradually getting the urge to strangle me for my display of excessive happiness but before you all start loading up yer guns to shoot the dopey happy grin right off my face, let me just up the ante a bit. I'm thinking big kick-ass Kalashnikovs here.

So, not only did I have a fab first few days at work, I got to spend my weekend in the company of downright sexy cheekiness. The whole thing was extremely random and impulsive, but it's Tuesday and I've STILL got a moronic grin on my face, which surely is testimony to a lucky hit. While it seems totally superfluous to err on the side of caution with just how much I divulge about it all just now, I intend to fully enjoy the ride and report on it properly in due course. (And yes, this totally explains the absence of the latest Sunday Struggle)

On a slightly different note, I ended up at Sfeer this weekend in Flanders Expo, and can I just warn anyone thinking of going not to waste their precious 12 euros on what basically is a megalomaniac amalgamation of Carpetland and Brico clones. The lack of innovative design was simply appalling and the only fun feature was trying to score freebies to gain back those wasted euros. Although, I hardly think a few chocolates, a chunk of Parmesan cheese and a waffle tally up to 12 euros.

And to round up this grin-fest, I'd like to leave you with a sneak preview of the new Scottish I-Pod (Via Jo)

Skunk!!!!... in Boots

Dr.Jim's shop-o-holic other half Louise came over for a visit last weekend and as logic would suggest, we hit the shops big time. Unfortunately, neither of us were in "The Zone" much, so the spending spree was rather limited. Louise, however, is uncannily good at goading me into doing things. After we'd walked into some random shoe-shop, she strutted up to me with a pair of VERY girlie boots and with a defiant look on her face, said: "Go on. Get in!!" Now, I don't know what it is about girls with Yorkshire accents, but my resistance simply melts like snow in the sun and of course, I got in.

Partly to get Louise off my back but largely because I knew she was right, I decided to buy the boots. And today was my first opp to try them on. I had a meeting in Antwerp (what one wouldn't do for a bit of networking), so I decided to smarten up a little, strapped on my boots and added about an inch to my height. I'm still not sure I understand how you girlies get into to those things. It took me about 10 minutes just to slip on the one boot.

Anyway, for future reference, it's best to boot up AFTER you've taken the 30-odd stair-steps down to your garage. And when you release the clutch while driving, it's best to unhook the tip of your boot from the car frame. I stumbled twice during the meeting. Or, as a friend of mine so eloquently put it: "Seriously Sar, it was like watching Bambi trying to walk on ice!" But I'm sure she's just stolen that reference from an old Friends episode. Ten points to the person who knows which.

Anyway, after checking the mirror, I realise I'd better take in my trousers a bit, because while the ruffled up jeans look goes well with my normal shoes, it's not exactly classy on boots. But hurray to the lesbian for trying right?!?! ;)

Pew owns a flat

... or rather... a mortgage to one ;-)

At 18.30h this evening, I officially put my signature on the deeds and I have to admit, I felt like breathing into a paper bag for quite a while afterwards. The reality is finally hitting home. I have responsibilities now people. Responsibilities!! Pew's all grown up now ;-)

If all goes well, I will be moving into my new little nest in a month or two. This will of course be accompanied by a little celebratory event, the details of which will be safely distributed to you offline so as to not further compromise what little remains of my anonymity *cough*.

While I will refrain from dispensing my new future coordinates here, I WILL lift a tip of the veil and give you a glimpse of my new stead:

- Pew's new nest. (I know, it needs a bit of work) -

On an entirely different note, I am on a mission to discover Ghent's greatest dining places, and this evening I followed a supposedly "hot tip" from my brother dearest: Martino, in the Vlaanderenstraat. Anyone hoping to die of cardiac arrest or lard-overdose, or anyone wishing to chase a stinking hangover with some grease, this is most definitely the place to be.

And to all my music-obsessed British friends out there, guess who I sat next to this evening... indeed, none other than the DeWaele Brothers (Soulwax, 2Many DJs). And for the last time, no, I'm not inclined to ask their autographs for you lot. There's a reason these people like living in Ghent, everyone ignores them *grin*.

Off to Brussels now to pick up a load of trouble (see previous post)

Proof's in the Footage

The advantage of getting your dad's old Super-8 videos digitalized, is that you can finally present some answers to a few of your friend's recurrent questions. (I appologize in advance to those with slow connections).


Q: Were you always a geek with blonde tendencies or have you just recently cultivated that image because it makes you tragically hip?

A: Well...

In my defense, reading a magazine with your glasses upside down allows for an entirely new perspective on the subject matter ;-)

Q: Have you ever had an attitude problem?

A: Watch this clip twice and focus on both me (left) and my male cousin (right). Now, who has got too much testosteron and who has got too much oestrogen? And they say it isn't hereditary. Tsk.

Q: Have you ever been likened to a wee monkey?
A: That depends. Do you mean in manners or in looks? *cough*

Q: Were you always such a debater?

A: Just watch the smallest of the three kids... (Also note the stylish gender-bender outfit which I had been permitted to wear after a tantrum-ridden battle with the parentals just hours earlier.)

Q: Have you ever been captured on film with a dress on or do you always operate in stealth mode when dressing girlie?
A: Yes. But I accessorize with a BMX when operating out of stealth mode. It's a safety blanket.

Beware: Rant On The Way

I came out off the geek closet at work today. I'd received a few comments on my supposed use of expensive words (apparently the word "contamination" is classified as expensive these days) and on the fact that I was reading an English book during our breaks. So, I finally decided to out myself. Told all about how I've been living a double life and how I hope they will accept me for the geek that I am *grin*.

The response was really surprising. I had anticipated little more than a few shrugs and a stone-cold banishment from the social room. But instead, people started coming to me with more and more questions the further the day progressed. At first, it was just one of the girls. She told me she'd never had a chance to study, but had always been interested in science and its relation to things like religion, spirituality etc... We had a very pleasant conversation about this topic and I noticed that the others around us were listening intently, despite not participating.

After a while, someone else moved a little closer and said: "Would you mind if I asked you something? I've always wanted to know... birds... the way they all fly together, like... do you know how they do that, or is that not something you've studied". It's funny that this question should've come up, as it's the token example of Emergence in Complexity Studies. So I got VERY enthusiastic and explained as far as my limited knowledge stretched.

After that, the questions just kept coming from all corners. It'd turned into a game. They were testing my knowledge, but also, asking questions to which they'd apparently never found the answers themselves. And I have to say, the questions were interesting and insightful.

One of the questions though, turned the game into a rather poignant realisation. The person had been to see the doctor last week and was diagnosed with a virus, but was told by her doctor that there was no reason she shouldn't be at work. She said she couldn't remember the name of the virus, and hadn't really understood the doctor's explanation. She was worried, but afraid to ask him for more info, because she felt stupid. So I asked her if she could describe her symptoms and I said that while I was no doctor, it DID sound like a standard bout of mononucleosis. She said that that wasn't the word he had used, so I ventured a guess and said: "Well, did he maybe call it the Epstein-Barr virus?" She instantly recognised it and said: "YES!!"

It made me realise how seriously wrong we are. Us scientists, doctors, people responsible for communicating facts to laymen... we have got it seriously wrong. If a doctor doesn't sense that he should use less jargon when dealing with people who have no medical background and sends them home without answers because they are afraid to ask... then seriously, he shouldn't be a doctor.

I'm the first to admit that while I have some very libertarian-socialist viewpoints, I believe that a liberal/capitalist system is far more workable for everyone in our current global climate. We will always need people who do menial jobs... jobs that keep our economy floating. And sure, not everyone is up to the task to do high-flying jobs, but I very strongly believe that it is important that we keep including everyone into our information dispersal systems. Regardless of "status" (if you can call it that), people should always be made to feel that they belong. That they matter as much as the next person does. Because if we don't, we are re-widening a gap between the different social groups, our grandparents fought so hard for to close. Perhaps the gap will be less about money, but more about the possession of information.

The people I work with have thousands of questions. Interesting questions. And they are eager to listen if only someone would explain it to them in an understandable way. They might not read books, or browse the Internet for answers, but they like getting answers to things that pop into their heads during the experiences of every day life.

And I was thinking... maybe the government or several scientific institutes should subsidize something like an Info-Crew. Like a group of scientists/medics/experts who visit factories to work alongside the people there for a day or two, to just chat with them during work and over lunch breaks. So they get conversations going in an informal manner and people can just fire away their questions. No teaching. No lecturing. Just an easy access point to get answers to THEIR specific questions. It would certainly help to re-align the opinions about science and medicine. We'd probably start re-gaining our credibility if people felt that they OWNED the science as much as the researchers do.

Anyway. Just my two cents.

To apologize for this rant, I shall leave you with a little gem of an mp3: Metric - The Twist. Just click the file name in the box below to start listening. (Cool text as well)


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Blame My Typewriter

Right, well I'm going to give it a go. Without pretences that it will take off much.

Blame My Typewriter

I've opened this blog to run alongside Ubiquitous. I merely wanted to create a real and a fictional thread parallel to each other. Whereas Ubiquitous is a diary in stealth mode, Blame My Typewriter will be the shoebox under my bed in which I keep my attempts at fictional writing. The themes of these attemps will vary. Some might be liked. Others are bound not to be. This is MY shoebox. But you're allowed a peek.

Constructive criticism is welcome in the comment section. For any serious issues/ dilemmas/ outbursts of frustration or boredom, I'd like to refer you to My Typewriter. It's always got the last word.