When I started my present contract in Nottingham, I needed a place to live in during the week. I found a nice flat in an old converted mill that was well furnished and at a reasonable rate. For convenience, I decided to rent the flat under my company name but had to jump through some hoops such as credit checks and references before being able to do so. Even though the company has been around for 6 years, it’s only fully been used in the last 2 years so at the time had little solid credit history. In the end, I had to pay 6 months rent up front before the letting agency would let me move in which wasn’t a problem and was actually quite convenient. I’ve got to admit, though, that the entire process made me feel a little like I was in the wrong – like I was some sort of scam artist or potential criminal.
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For some inexplicable reason¹ on Friday I got all proactive. I responded to an advert for short film scripts/treatments even though what I have in the way of short scripts I’ve been saving for me to direct. I also contacted a publishing company to see if the rights for a novel were available. In the case of the producer, I don’t think that’s going to really take off – not from anything that’s been said so far but the substitution of of “You know, I’d like to talk about one of your ideas and see whether it’s something we could take further” with the phrase “I’ve got another idea – what about love, sex, drugs and clubbing in London?”

I’m still assuming that it’s an idea for a story and not a proposition from the producer who, from what I can tell, just happens to be young, Italian and female. I haven’t got back to her yet to tell her that I’m old, married and past it².
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It’s coming up to a month since the birth of my daughter - I can’t believe how quickly it’s passed! So now I’m going to tell you a little more about giving birth at home (but don’t worry, I’m not going into detail about the minutiae.) The reason I asked if people wanted to know¹ about giving birth at home is because so many people have expressed surprise at our choice to do so, especially as we had kept the fact that we planned to have a home birth (as opposed to getting caught on the hop) pretty much to ourselves. The reason we did this is because of fleeting conversations we had with people who said things along the lines of “giving birth at home is crazy!” and “why would you risk it?” As we didn’t either want or feel the need to justify our decision, we decided that we’d only tell immediate family and very close friends.

Let me tell you right now: choosing a home birth for our second child was absolutely and definitely the right decision for us and it went wonderfully (although understand that this is coming from the point of view of a bloke and not someone who had to actually do the hard work.)
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So I’m watching tonight’s installment of The Apprentice and more so than any other episode I’m extremely fucking irritated and frustrated at the total incompetence and fucking fuckwittery of the contestants. Except for Lucinda who is right about everything for a change. Why? Because it’s all about film-making and advertising. Now I’m no advertising expert, that’s for sure. Marketing a tissue box? I have no idea! Seriously, no idea whatsoever. It’s a tricky product to market. However, I do reckon I could come up with a memorable advert that would work amuse and sell (although, like all good adverts, you’re unlikely to remember the product!

(They’ve just got onto the presentation and the big unshaven bloke is really, really fucking it all up!)

So, the pitch!

We’re in a bathroom looking at the back of a young man standing in front of a toilet, his right arm vigourously pumping in front of him. He’s panting… “Come on! Come on!” - he reaches out to grab…

CLOSE ON: a box of tissues. Voiceover: “Tissues (insert brand identity here) - there whenever you need them…” The man’s hand grabs a tissue from the box.

WIDE ON: man doing something with tissue in front of him. “Oh yes,” he says, “perfect!” He turns and holds up a diamond ring that sparkles brightly.

CUT TO: man on one knee in front of a girl who’s holding out her hand, staring at the diamond ring on her finger, hand to her mouth, tears welling up. The man hands her the tissue box.

CLOSE ON: the box, clearly identifying brand etc. etc. Voiceover: “… especially for the important moments in your life”.

Come on, tell me that wouldn’t have won!

So anyway, they played it safe and the team with the godawful, unscripted advert and poorly directed actors won (which was predictable - if you haven’t noticed, the team that seems like they’ve fucked everything up and are doing really badly will win.) Now Rafe “must get my cravat out!” and Mike “I’m a twat despite having a cool name” are facing the onslaught of Sir Alan. Hoo-aah!

(The idea above is now copyrighted but you may offer me substantial amounts of cash if you’re a tissue manufacturer and want to use it!)

My wife, her obviously visible pregnant bump and I went for a lovely meal at a local tapas restaurant last night. While the patatas bravas probably lacked that spicy kick you’d get in a bar run by a genuine Mardrileño, it was flavoursome and congenial enough that I’d want to go back. The staff were quite charming and poilte. As we left, the conversation went something like this:

Waitress: I hope you enjoyed your evening. (Indicating Mrs T’s bump) When are you due?
Mrs. T: About now?
Waitress: You’re expecting soon?
Mrs. T: No, I’m in labour now.
The waitress went a quite obvious whiter shade of pale.
Mrs. T: (cont.) Don’t worry, I’m not going to give birth here.

That was at about eight-o-clock. Four hours later, precisely on midnight, Mrs. T gave birth - at home - to a little girl hatchling weighing all of 7lbs and 3oz and a sister to hatchling #1.

That was some tapas!

I could begin this post with a plenitude of pithy aphorisms about the nature of fear, the effect it has on the soul and the fine line between audacity and insanity. I could philosophise about how the highly evolved ego can dominate control the primal instincts of the id, supressing the fight or flight instinct and standing tall against adversity. None of this would hide the fact that I was so frightened that I nearly shat myself on Sunday night.
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That was March. I hope you enjoyed it.

After 78 days in captivity in the darkest recesses of Nottingham, I’ve learned two things:

1. I can’t count.
2. I tend to over-dramatize things.
3. Nottingham is (apparently) a city.
4. I really can’t count.
5. Only 4 people actually live in Nottingham.

I say that Nottingham is apparently a city because I still haven’t actually made it into the city centre itself so as far as I’m currently concerned, it’s just suburbs and not a lot else. Then again, the flat I’m renting is technically in Derbyshire so what the hell do I know? As for there only being 4 people who actually live in Nottingham, this is based on the fact that of the two Nottingham bloggers that I know of and feature in my listAllFeedRead(), I bumped into one in the local deli. So how big can Nottingham actually be? (Or is it, in fact, just testament to either my magnetic charisma or, more probably, my tendency towards stalking my victims before pouncing?)

Anyway, despite being accosted by a man attired in sweaty, running gear (sorry about that), Ms Rullsenberg was very gracious and charming at the impromptu blogmeet held in the tinned goods aisle. I don’t know what she thought after having someone yell “Oi! You! Blogger!” at her from the other side of the supermarker nor do I want to know what the she made of the contents of my shopping basket (which at that time contained a jar of chili sauce, rubber gloves and a bottle of cheap white wine - don’t ever let it be said that I don’t know how to have a good time!) Anyway, both she and her man were very charming and didn’t hit me so that was nice.

As an aside, I’ve started working on Revelation again although it mostly involves totally reworking the story. A friend told me about a story he’d heard on Radio 4 (on some wildlife program, no less) which was intriguing but also gave me some new ideas which, so far, appear to hold together much better. It’s always suprising how sometimes life can be stranger than fiction.

…sausage rolls.

I must be getting responsible in my old age. Today was the first time I’ve not only been aware of the fact that the Budget was taking place, I also was paying close attention but mainly as small businesses got pretty screwed over last year and the proposals for this year weren’t looking too promising. Fortunately, the big issue I was concerned about has been delayed until next year. Not that it matters anyway as Brown’s last fucking act as chancellor screws most of the people on a lower income anyway and these days, that includes me. Labour: protecting the interests of the wealthy since the Tories messed it up.

Anyway, enough of the politics. What the fuck is with CSI: Miami? It’s fucking dreadful! I know a lot of people rave about the original CSI which I confess to never having watched but I did catch this spin off last night and it was truly, truly terrible. I hope it’s not representative of the rest of its siblings! On a more positive note, I’m currently disappointed at not being able to tune into Virgin One on Thursday nights to catch the Sarah Connor Chronicles Terminator TV show thing. I watched the first one and it seemed quite good or perhaps that was because I think Lena Headey is far, far hotter than Linda Hamilton ever was.

Life in Nottingham is… unsettled. I still don’t have a place to live but am waiting to hear about leasing a flat which will give me a base to run my operations out of. I haven’t ventured far out of the guest house I’ve been staying in but have managed to finally watch the entire third season of Battlestar Galactica which entertained me for a couple of evenings. On the other evening, I rewrote a short script for the umpteenth time so that felt productive too. I celebrated by getting very drunk on Amaretto - I seriously know how to party hard.

That’s it. Nothing interesting. Haven’t finished my review of Cloverfield and rarely get a chance to netConnect() these days.

The year is whizzing past faster than I care to think about. It seems like only yesterday that I was being told my contract was going to end early and here I am, two months later, about to start a new one.

I know I’ve been a neglectful blogger recently, not only in terms of content delivery but also in reciprocating comments or even pageviews. It’s going to get worse before it gets better and I’m likely to be even more absent over the next 4 to 6 weeks than I have been recently. Unless, that is, my new client foolishly decides to furnish me with a laptop. Otherwise it’ll be April before I get one of my own (as getting one before means I miss new legislation regarding capital expenditure plus VAT benefits and other blah blah blah tediously dull stuff that will save me a wadge of readies - stuff I wouldn’t have known about if it wasn’t for Lyle so cheers matey, I’ll be buying a beer and toasting your health the cash I’ve saved!)

On the plus side, being away from home means I get to go the cinema* more. Woot and, indeed, yay!

*They do have cinemas in Nottingham, don’t they?

My current contract ended today so we had a bit of a piss up last night and I’m not feeling altogether clever today but anyway, it’s over and done with and I don’t have to do that commute anymore. I get a week off and start a new contract at the beginning of March. I don’t quite know how I manage to fluke rolling from one job to the next without much trouble but there we go.

The downside is that it’s in Nottingham - which is not to cast aspersions on the place because although it’s inhabited by delinquents and reprobates and although everyone keeps telling me that it’s got the highest rate of gun crime in the UK, it is, reputedly, a pleasant location in which to domicile oneself. The downside comes in being 100 miles away from where I live which means commuting is pretty much out of the question (4+ hours a day? Fuck. That.) so I’m going to have to be away from home for the forseeable future.

That’s the forseeable future for the next three months which is over the end of April/ beginning of May which is when what happens? Anyone? What happens at the beginning of May? Bueller? Anyone? Bueller? Yes - that’s right, the birth of my second hatchling. So it’s highly convenient that I might get a call at, I don’t know, 2am and have to jump on my motorbike and hare home like a crazy-mad person.

There have been easier arrangements.

So mucho shito to sorto outo which predominantly is going to revolve around accommodation and finding out what the seediest parts of Nottingham are so as not to find lodging there.

Life. Don’t talk to me about life.