Afterthought -

I think I've put this on here before, but I was mulling my world this evening and this poem came to mind. Pablo Neruda. Who else. How on earth can these students not appreciate the beauty of such poetry??


Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
`
Write, for example, 'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'
`
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
`
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
`
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
`
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
`
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
`
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
`
What does it matter than my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.
`
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
`
My sight searches for me as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
`
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
`
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
`
Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voice. Her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
`
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
`
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
`
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Why I'll never again date a guy who uses Facebook...

I use Facebook; I'll not even bother denying that. I put up photos, I update my status to inform people where I am or where I'm going, and occasionally I'll post a link to some article or another I thought a bored individual or two may appreciate. If someone puts something particularly witty on their wall, I'll give them a 'thumbs up', and every now and then I'll make a remark – usually noting (thanks to the Facebook reminder) that it is their birthday and I hope it is a happy one.

As for my Relationship Status, that is nobody's business. Favourite movies and books? Quite irrelevant. A long list of current and previous employers and the schools I attended over twenty years ago are decidedly absent. I am not a 'fan' of anything on Facebook; I shudder at the thought of being a 'fan' of something as vague as a subject ambiguously entitled 'Travel' or pretentiously named 'Literature'. Back when I first joined the site, I became a member of a bunch of groups for no reason whatsoever. I should probably delete all that too, if I can ever be bothered.

The majority of my supposed Friends on Facebook aren't quite that. I have a purging session every now and then: clean out the cobwebs, remove the people whose photos I no longer peruse and whose love-lives are suitably dull as to not spark even a moment of mild curiosity in the gossip recesses of my brain. (I'm female and, whether they admit it or not, pretty much every female has a default gossip filing cabinet in her mind; it needs stocking up every few days or everything seems remarkably tedious.)

Considering that if my close friends are on Facebook I've already added them, the only people I add these days are: people I want to be darn nosy about, people I feel obligated to add otherwise there will be ripples of friction spreading through the virtual stratosphere, and people I add for the briefest of moments to catch up on their lives and then promptly delete. Usually after establishing they've never left their home town and married their next door neighbour, have produced a brood of ghastly children and are living off benefits; their photos show them on drunken nights out either in England or Ibiza (the former with pale white skin, the latter with lobster red skin), and they've usually acquired a couple of decidedly ugly and aggressive looking dogs. You wouldn't believe the number of people I was at school with who now fall into this category.

The problem with Facebook, as almost any user of it knows, is that the majority of users are artful swines who deliberately use it to manipulate or injure others. Not always, and not necessarily even consciously at times, but nevertheless it is done. The deletion of key photos; the spiteful status updates aimed at an ex – even worse, such updates that aren't spiteful but rather along the lines of, 'Look at me! Life is wonderful! I can't believe how happy I am these days!' Passive-aggressive is an art-form on Facebook. You can write on someone's Wall ostensibly to just 'pop by and say hello', but secretly to annoy the bejesus out of a partner who thought you'd lost contact with that individual.

I have seen whole relationships conducted on Facebook walls: the I Love Yous and I Miss Yous written for all the world to see. Why your entire friendship group needs to know that you miss your snuggly-wuggly is a little beyond me.

I justify using this cursed internet phenomenon for a few reasons: one, it keeps me in touch with people when I'm overseas (which, let's face it, is pretty much always). Two, it allows me to put photos up so friends can see them if they want, and not have them inflicted on them by me in some painfully drawn out evening display of My Latest Holiday. (Plus, having had a hard-drive crash, and the back-up also crash, I'm mighty glad some of those photos are there as otherwise I'd have lost them forever.) Furthermore, it allows me to satisfy that gossip-loving female mind of mine. And I talk with people using the Chat feature.

Quite frankly, a guy who uses Facebook – with all that wonderful manipulative potential just waiting to be pounced upon with the click of a few icons and tap of a few keys – is not the guy for me. A guy who does anything as frivolous as blog is not the guy for me. (MySpace doesn't even warrant a serious mention; it goes without saying that anyone who uses MySpace is painfully cretinous in the first place and therefore not welcome in my world. Likewise Twitter. Who gives a damn what the hell you had for breakfast and all that menial information people clog up the internet with via that particular site.) Facebook is designed for women and their aforementioned gossip requirements. That's it.

And after I've hopped back online to post this, I'll wander over to Facebook and see if anyone has commented on my link. It's to a conversation someone created between Mr Darcy and Mr Thornton, a wonderfully dark and brooding duo who would surely send even the most level-headed ladies into swooning ecstasies. Did I put that link up to mock all those guys on my Friends list who are ex boyfriends, or those who never even temporarily made it to 'boyfriend' status? Or to amuse the odd decently-read female who happens to be passing by my profile page? You can figure that out for yourselves, dear reader, because whatever I write on here will only ever be my conscious interpretation of events, sifted and sorted to fit with what I want you to know about me. The wonders of a virtual version of yourself: you can edit away unflattering photos, convey emotions via a series of unambiguous icons, and keep your true feelings firmly locked inside. My real friends take the time to step beyond Facebook and know what those wretched status updates fail to show.

Mossy musings

Blogs are, by their very nature, pretty self-indulgent enterprises. I assume that in the majority of postings made by a few million people around the world every day, the purpose is primarily for the writer to figure something out – rather than to entertain or amuse the masses. I'm feeling in a particularly ruminative mood today and as such am going to allow myself to wander down memory lane. This lane specifically stretches over the last ten years, to a point back in the year 2000 when I left the UK to live abroad for the first time.

2000 – the day after my last A-level exam, I hopped on a bus up to Heathrow airport and caught a flight to Sydney, Australia. I had never had a job before, and never lived anywhere other than Home. Within weeks, I had acquired a well-paying secretarial job at the Prince of Wales Hospital in Coogee; a few months later, I moved into a house a few hundred yards from Bondi Beach. I went to cheer on Kathy Freeman and Michael Johnson at the Olympics, saw in the New Year at the Sydney Opera House, and discovered mangoes...

2001 – after a month messing around in Canada and a few months working as a cleaner in a ludicrously poncy hotel on St Martin's, the Isles of Scilly, I set off for university. I joined the rowing club and lost stupid amounts of weight by over-training and under-eating.

2002 – ah yes, the year of the weir, when the women's 1st VIII all nearly drowned one freezing morning in February. This was also the year I was, somewhat hilariously, accused of 'criminal assault and battery' – how I wish I'd kept that piece of paper as a memento. I spent some time in Washington DC and saw in the new year in Times Square, New York; there, I became part of the world's largest synchronised bell-ringing event... I think this must also be when I went to Romania for a month, just to see how depressed it is possible for a human being to get.

2003 – this was the year I discovered South America – I went to Peru, paddled around on Lake Titicaca, dragged myself along the Inca Trail, and flew up to Cuba for the carnival in Santiago de Cuba. I spent two weeks getting the best suntan of my life in Jamaica and went home via Miami. I bought a DKNY tshirt for USD5 and didn't know for the next two years that I actually owned a piece of 'designer clothing'. Horrifying realisation. After a few weeks in the Amazon rainforest, I went down to Buenos Aires for new year and for the first time fell in love with a city.

2004 – I wrote reviews for London hotels and apartments, and gained my 1st in English Lit, despite only doing about four hours of work over the previous three years. I think this must be the time when I returned to Buenos Aires, spent a month in Santiago de Chile establishing that the two places were not remotely comparable, and passed the new year in BA. (I spent a few months living in a hostel, the Portal del Sur, and just a few weeks ago bumped into someone who had worked there – he was visiting Swaziland. Blimey.)

2005 – at some point, I figured that perhaps I should do something 'sensible' with my life and subsequently applied for a Master's degree at Oxford University. I still don't know why, but I was accepted. To celebrate this, I obviously returned to Argentina and Peru, coming home via Mexico, Atlanta, DC and NY. A month over Christmas in Goa, India, was followed far too rapidly by a transition to Sweden for the new year – my body never did deal well with the cold...

2006 – a lot of rowing coaching, a lot of messing about in boats, a good deal of Pimm's and many drives in classic cars around the English countryside. A month in Swedish wilderness was followed up by a long drive down to Andalucia and installation in the most miniature of cottages; I saw in new year in Knysna, Spain. I think this must also have been the year I went to Morocco and returned with severe and somewhat terrifying food poisoning.

2007 – after a few months messing around doing some work or other in Oxford, I took a job in Hong Kong. Thank goodness for discovering Lamma Island there, or I may not have lasted the year. Hang on, this must also be the year I first went to the Philippines, did my PADI course, and fell in love with the underwater world. And I also found out the merits (and curses) of sea-rowing, outrigging, and dragon boating.

2008 – mostly spent in HK, with a trip to Thailand thrown in for good measure. I ended up on Palawan island seeing in the new year. A year is never complete without a couple of months of serious Philippines beach time, I've decided.

2009 – a few months working as a writer and editor, and flapping about teaching English in Oxford, before rather randomly taking up a post in Swaziland, Southern Africa. I barely knew this place existed before coming here. A long trip to South Africa, and I discovered Kruger, the Garden Route, and incredible Cape Town – a decent place to see in the new year.

'A rolling stone gathers no moss'... Well, after those ten years galloping around the globe I am most decidedly without moss. Maybe a bit of moss would do me good. I wonder.

“A man travels the world in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.” (George Moore)

Some Peculiarities of Swazi-Ville

There is a custom in Swaziland that requires you greet every person in a room when you enter, and those greetings must be appropriately acknowledged in response. Considering there are over fifty members of staff here and a good portion of those hang around in the staff room in the mornings before lessons begin, it can be something of a tedious and lengthy undertaking to enquire after the health of multiple people you have seen probably a mere twelve hours before. The only exchange I have with the majority of colleagues consists of, 'Good morning! And how are you?' 'Good morning! I'm fine, thank you. And you?' 'Oh, good, good. Cold at the moment, isn't it?' I then usually signal an end to such banalities by slotting in my headphones and staring firmly at my computer screen.

Now, there are two possible reactions to this. Or probably more, but I'm going to consider two. Some of you will immediately respond that it is nice and polite to greet everyone, and since I'm living in Swaziland I should logically adopt their customs. But those of you who are anti-social sods such as myself, and indeed advocates of people being remotely genuine in their behaviour, will appreciate the issue I have with this whole pointless scenario.

I'm also tired of standing in shopping queues and having someone pressed against me. Without putting too fine a point on it, I'm not entirely sure that deodorant has reached all corners of the globe and certainly not this one; I'm not overly keen on spending the rest of the day with the smell of somebody else's stale sweat embedded into my clothes.

And I'm not that wild about the fact any time I am required to have a conversation with someone whose job description falls under the broad umbrella of Customer Service Assistant, I am forced to wait while they finish personal calls, file their fingernails, wander off to do – well, God knows what. But they always wander off in the middle of conversations and, after a few minutes of absence, you are forced to ask one of their co-workers, 'Er, do you think they'll be coming back??'

A few months ago I was required to rent a car for a period of five days. I phoned around all the local car rental companies and came to the depressing realisation that the cost of renting a car in Swaziland for five days is the equivalent of buying and insuring an old banger in the UK. I went with my friend into the chosen company's offices, and spent maybe forty minutes filling in documents and looking over the car. Five days later we returned as arranged, to the exact same people in the office looking at us completely blankly. 'Erm... we're here to return the car' we eventually explained; the three Customer Service Assistants exchanged startled looks which clearly meant, 'Heck, we rented a car out? Really? Do you remember this?!' Paperwork finally confirmed that we had indeed hired a vehicle from them and, before the price went up even further for a Late Return, we'd very much appreciate if they would take the wretched thing back.

The odd encounter like this might be classified as entertaining, but such events on a daily basis can eventually take their toll on a person. Through my teaching and such mindless interactions, I'm learning to have the patience of a saint: you now won't see me angrily tapping my watch when a train is two minutes behind schedule, as would the majority of Brits lined up on a platform. Stay over here for a while and you'll soon learn to appreciate the arrival of any train at all, late or otherwise. And be glad of the fact that, as a female travelling alone, it is possible to board that train after dark and not be embarking on a suicide mission.

I have never been so aware of my safety as I am forced to be over here. It is unsettling; constantly looking over your shoulder is surely no way to live a life. And I have never been so aware of the fact I'm white – and the implications that seem naturally to come with that fact. I live in a country that is unquestionably one of the most beautiful I've seen, but which is also a complete social disaster with no apparent hope of the issues being resolved. When I stop seeing the beauty, I guess that will be time to leave.

Erm... why am I teaching??

I'm working as a teacher in Swaziland – a job which came as a considerable surprise to me, too. I've generally been an advocate of the 'those who can, do; those who can't, teach' philosophy, and consider the concept of an 'intelligent teacher' to be the finest definition of oxymoron going. Thus, somewhat out of character, I try to muster enthusiasm for course guidelines, exam regulations, and the restrictions imposed by the endless reams of instructions examining bodies are capable of producing. I remind myself regularly that the likes of DH Lawrence and Robert Frost worked as teachers.

In addition to brandishing my own endless reams of Browning and Shakespeare and Blake handouts at students, I am also required to teach the most ridiculous of courses: the ToK element of the IB diploma. ToK stands for the somewhat pretentiously named Theory of Knowledge aspect of the programme the students here follow. At first glance, those of you who have managed to avoid become embroiled in this wretched course may enthusiastically consider that it could be a sort of beginner's guide to philosophy. Why yes, it could! But it isn't. It is something that involves extremely loosely defined 'knowledge issues' and for individuals to be able to consider the various 'areas of knowledge' via the 'four ways of knowing' (language, reason, emotion, and perception – for those of you remotely interested).

It is a course that currently clogs up four periods a week on my timetable, and sees me standing in front of a class flailing vaguely in the direction of the ill-defined syllabus. Today's session at least created an interesting debate, although not that which I'd intended upon when entering the classroom. Via a series of leaps and bounds the students ended up discussing why they get educated at all: half were convinced it was so they could get a job with more money in the future, most of the rest 'abstained' (they couldn't care less, they just knew they were told to go to school and did so), and a couple of others seemed to be edging towards what I believe is the real purpose.

More accurately, what I believed. I now don't know. If even the pupils don't think it is to stretch their minds and make them more inspired, more interesting individuals with greater potential for understanding the problems the universe still daily throws at us, then I'm not sure it is for teachers to define it in such a way...

This goes some way to explaining, however, why none of my supposedly intelligent students saw any comedy in Kafka's, 'Metamorphosis'. Why they still insist on calling Levi's, 'If This is a Man' a mere story. Why the existential angst of Camus' protagonist in, 'The Outsider' will inevitably be lost on them.

Ignorance is never blissful – I will always be the curious fool who opens Pandora's box and goes dramatically into battle with the consequences. I can't understand these students who see the process of education as the great curse of their youth and as a mere means to a financially beneficial end. Imagine being granted the opportunity to spend the rest of your life researching anything that came to mind that morning when you woke up, following whichever path your brain desired until it found a new avenue to explore. And to experience everything this world has to offer: never mind just reading about the tribes in Papua New Guinea, but getting to go live with them and see for yourself. Don't just know that the Great Wall of China can be seen from space (I'm not even sure that is true, come to that) but go and see the dratted thing for yourself, snakes and all. Not just hear of the unrivalled majesty of the clouds lifting over Macchu Picchu as the sun rises between the mountains, but go and watch for yourself as the lost city is unveiled.

So many people wrongly accuse me of being 'angry with the world', and it becomes ever more tedious with each rendition of the tired phrase. I am angry with people who don't know and who don't want to know; who are content in their small corner of the globe to limit their experiences to a distinct safe sphere; who look scornfully at my erratic and seemingly unstable version of existence.

I think the trick with life is to realise when something is no longer engaging your interest and to be able to step away from that situation and head off to find new pastures, while fending off feelings of being jaded or discouraged. Some people think there is merit in 'sticking it out' and plodding wearily on when they are no longer content, that you can learn and – to use a painful Americanism – 'grow' from such experiences. I'm not so sure there is any great quality in learning to handle your increasing misery when you know how to exchange that state for a happier one.

'May you live all the days of your life'. (Jonathan Swift)

Coming back to blogging...

It has been over a year since I posted on here. There are multiple reasons for this, but the primary cause for the last nine months has been an essential inability to get decent internet access. I'm now living in Swaziland and every day experience something beyond blog-worthy; I finally went into battle with blogspot this evening determined to succeed and, gosh darn it, I've emerged victorious. Welcome back to my rants! I think throwing some of my anger at the world on here will help to moderate the building up frustrations I have.
And heck, maybe somebody will learn something by reading this witterage... Stranger things have happened.
I actually wrote the following nearly two months ago for no reason other than I suddenly felt the need to document the experience. And I'm too tired this evening to come up with anything creative or entertaining, so this will have to do. An insight into the real South Africa that isn't being seen on your television screens as you peer into the country hosting the World Cup.
(As an aside, the picture is totally disconnected to the story below. They're the African Penguins at Boulders Beach in Cape Town. Awesome little creatures.)

I decided that the day shift had slightly more amenable hours – 7am to 7pm seemed somehow more feasible than a twelve hour shift in the cold and dark. I hadn't quite factored in the 5am start, allowing time to get across Johannesburg in the morning and check all necessary kit was in stock before the day started. (Notably, all necessary kit wasn't in stock, and indeed it never is. The paramedics are hopelessly underfunded and the supplies system is unnecessarily complex; it is often the case that the guys working will buy the required gear themselves. It saves time and frustration.)

At 0701, the first call of the day comes through: the radio crackles into life and gives the briefest of details. A female at such and such an address. We're in Hillbrow, one of the most notorious districts of any city in the world: once where upper class European immigrants vied to have an apartment, and now a place teeming with drug dealers, prostitutes, rapists and murderers. White visitors to the city are ill-advised to step foot into the area, and the only reason I would remain relatively safe was by merit of the fact I with the two paramedics; they're respected in the community. Most of the time.

The address is logged into a SatNav and we speed off from the station – the new Audi performs well as we screech around corners and leap through red lights. When arriving at the destination, I cautiously emerge from the car, keeping close to the two guys: the neighbourhood is full of watching eyes, crumbling houses, broken barbed wire fences, and flea-ridden, mangy dogs. We push through a fence and go round the back of the house to see a 20-something black woman, probably from Zimbabwe, lying on the ground. She's surrounded by worried looking relatives who we usher into the house so the paramedics can do their job: in this case, that is merely confirming that yes, she has died. Her three week old baby cries in the arms of his young aunt. They establish that death was not caused by a drug overdose, hear that she'd had a few breathing difficulties since giving birth, and recommend that the family call a funeral parlour.

There will be no post mortem, no autopsy. There aren't the resources, and nobody really cares. Life moves on rapidly in this part of the world. A guy comes in from next door and asks if we can bob by and see his wife – she's been feeling sick for the past few days and he figures that while there's a medical man around he should take advantage of the fact. We traipse into a small and dark room that stinks of stale sweat and food rotting on plates in the sink; the examination is brief and perfunctory, merely informing the woman that she is quite probably pregnant. She groans and rolls her eyes. I guess that another child to add to her extensive brood wasn't exactly planned.

Just as we're pulling away, a van with 'Flair Funerals' written on the side turns up. The dead woman barely fits in the back and is slotted in without care or delicacy; her sister climbs in alongside and they set off. Meanwhile, the rest of the family has arrived – all dressed in black, they've just come from another funeral.

I have some free time for the images to sink in as we head off to a local garage where the two guys get themselves strong coffee and settle onto the plastic stools. They tell me about some of the things they've seen and experienced, the Johannesburg paramedics known and respected throughout the medical world as being very much on the front lines. If you need someone who knows about stabbings and multiple gunshot wounds, about brutal slayings and horrific traffic accidents, ask these guys. They see it all. Daily. A shift without a few dead guys, violently killed, is a rarity.

We're called to an RTA – a Road Traffic Accident – shortly after the rain starts. One of the combis, the local taxis, has crashed into a wall and two women are complaining that their shins hurt. This is the kind of call the paramedics really hate: the women are clearly fine, they possibly have a few bruises, but protocol demands that they stay until the ambulance they are requesting has arrived. Waiting for the ambulance means other calls will go unanswered, and there isn't anybody else to respond to them. There is one car per district. The car for Hillbrow is parked up on a side-street, the paramedics sucking in cigarettes and exchanging jokes to pass the time. We're stuck there for nearly 90 minutes waiting for the ambulance, by which time we've missed countless calls. The guys aren't exactly subtle and don't bother to hide their frustration.

While waiting for the next call they take me down to the local market, the one where the witch doctors sell their wares. In some parts of Africa, up to 95% of people will use witch doctors in preference to western medicine; they're a huge part of life out here. They're identified by the white beads in their hair, and I see two looking into the back of a hearse that has pulled up. The potions they make often incorporate human body parts, and these two are buying direct from the funeral parlour – in broad daylight.

And then I'm rushed to the scene of another incident: a guy was trying to cut through cable with a simple saw, desperate to acquire the copper inside. Unfortunately, he chose a main power cable. Beyond a high fence topped with razor wire we can see him sitting there in a daze – barely alive. 50,000 volts have shot through him and his skin is hanging off in shreds. The worst part is, we can't get at him. The security guard is there but he gets locked into the site for the day to ensure he stays and does his job, and we are forced to wait for the company owners to arrive and let us in, the paramedics beside themselves with rage at the situation. Eventually they're allowed access and head towards the burn victim, and I figure it is wise to hang back at the car. Hang back with the gathering crowd who are jeering and pointing and taking photos with their mobile phones.

When the ambulance arrives, the man has essentially been mummified with wet bandages, a drip has been inserted and oxygen administered. One of the paramedics rides with him to the hospital because they don't trust the ambulance staff to actually take care of him on the thirty minute journey. He has 95% coverage of third degree burns to his body, and a pretty low chance of survival. A black guy has been turned white in a split second.

I'm getting a mere glimpse into the lives of these Hillbrow paramedics, and I'm not sure I can hack the rest of the day. They do it day in, day out, for months on end, and they're paid next to nothing for what they do despite working in one of the most dangerous cities in the world and in the most violent communities. Most of them are divorced or in disastrous sham marriages, with strings of broken relationships. Turning off emotions is essential in this job, and it is hard to turn those on again once you head back home; priorities are somewhat altered when you see dismembered bodies and the bloody results of brutal killings as par for the course.

At one point in the afternoon, a guy who is high as a kite on 'ganja' (the local term for a particularly strong type of marijuana) deliberately jumps into the side of our car. The way the two guys leap out to pursue him, I'm convinced they're going to beat the living daylights out of him: a broken wing mirror equates to a car that cannot be driven, and a car that cannot be driven means they're sitting around twiddling their thumbs while it is fixed – and while people die. Fixing a car out here can take months. I know. Mine was smashed into a wall by a mechanic who was driving it, and five weeks later I still don't have so much as a courtesy car and some stranger doesn't have a wall to his lounge.

The police eventually arrive but don't bother to leave their vehicle; they survey the scene, listening vaguely to both sides of the story. At some point the man we apparently 'drove into' makes note of the fact he's not actually being watched and slinks off around a corner, unobserved. No chase is given – not by the police, the two paramedics head after him but he's lost in the maze of buildings within moments. Nothing is done. And heaven only knows what is happening to the person we were on call to.

A man comes up to us and says he can cut us a new wing mirror, and since we have to hang around for an official Accident Investigator to appear we say go on, give it a shot. Fifty Rand if you can do it. He takes an old, blunt scalpel from a plastic bag, a bathroom mirror, and a sheet of newspaper. Slowly but surely, he cuts us a new mirror; he pops into a hardware shop to buy glue and sticks it on, his hands full of splinters of glass by this point. We give him a hundred because we're so impressed by his ingenuity, and are extremely grateful for making the car legal once more.

A brief visit to Hillbrow Police Station to report the incident is enough to illustrate to me why the crime levels are so high in this area: the police simply don't care. Half the time, it seems, they don't even enter the buildings where crimes have taken place because they're too scared. There is no law here. The underworld, the corrupt, they are in charge and rule by fear.

By the end of the day I am physically and emotionally drained. But I'm lucky: I get to wash my clothes, have a shower, leave behind the grime and the smells of Hillbrow, and wake up the next morning knowing I never need to go back there again if I don't want.

The Instruction Manual

Until yesterday, I had thought the most awkward statement anyone could make to you was to tell you, 'I love you', when you've no hope of responding in kind. While innocently glaring at the business section of the newspaper in a cafe last night (principally because it was the only part available and, no, I had no clue what any of it was on about), a girl interrupted me to apologise for staring at me. 'I hadn't noticed', I responded with a brief smile - using a manner to imply that I really hadn't noticed, and if she could leave me in peace that would be greatly appreciated.

'Sorry - it is just that you look like my dead sister.'

With the smile still on my lips and my brain having failed to register what she'd said, I reassured her that it was fine and I genuinely had not seen her staring at me.

Instantly realised I may have committed something of a faux pas by smiling at the Dead Sister statement, so plunged headlong back into the column I'd been skimming to do with... I've no idea; didn't understand it then and can't remember it now. But how on earth are you supposed to respond to such a statement?

Buy a packet of biscuits and it will be adorned with a small diagram illustrating how to get at your crumbly comestible. Furniture from IKEA comes famously flat-packed with instructions that require an engineering degree to understand, but at least exist. Bookshops have shelves packed with 'how to' guides: 'How to win friends and influence people', 'How to get rich', 'How to stay together forever'. They're crammed with awful advice from someone busy parading their PhD on the front cover - I think it is a good rule of thumb to avoid any book that is written by anyone so pretentious they include their qualifications alongside their name. I think that, 'The Little Book of Calm' is possibly one of the most pointless instruction manuals to have been produced to date, with suggestions such as, 'Pretend it's Saturday' being just plain daft. I somehow think telling your boss that you weren't in on Wednesday because you were busy following the instruction on page 46 of your pocket-size guide to life isn't going to go down particularly well.

The point was supposed to be that we have instruction manuals for everything that is, in the immortal words of Basil Fawlty, the bleedin' obvious - but nothing that is actually useful. Nobody has a clue how to deal with the really significant things in this world, everything is done by trial and error. Which I'm sure has its exciting aspect from time to time, but occasionally it is overwhelmingly exhausting figuring everything out yourself.

I guess the only thing more annoying than not being told what to do is, of course, being told what to do...

Some people use religious groups to offer them instruction - the Bible is full of suggestions for how to behave. It is perhaps somewhat outdated, though, with ideas such as, 'do not covet your neighbour's wife' suggesting that no female is ever going to be lusting after her neighbour's husband and therefore doesn't need to be led away from the thought. Twenty-first century women are probably more alarming than their male counterparts: with a constant need to smash through glass ceilings and prove that they are Just As Good As Men, the number of women slinking off with friends' partners is doubtless increasing exponentially. Even the instruction manuals with supposedly the best intentions are, evidently, flawed.

And so I will plunge headlong into the future, grasping wildly at straws while all the time trying to give the impression I know What Is Going On.

'My will shall shape the future. Whether I fail or succeed shall be no man's doing but my own. I am the force; I can clear any obstacle before me or I can be lost in the maze. My choice; my responsibility; win or lose, only I hold the key to my destiny.' (Elaine Maxwell)

Dirge Without Music

Edna St Vincent Millay. Goodness only knows what brought this to mind today, but I thought I'd share it with the populace at large - a very idle entry, admittedly, and a Proper Posting will appear in the immediate future. Honest. (You've heard that one before, eh??)

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.

The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Seeking 'happiness'...

Up until now, the Philippines have been something of a palm-tree fringed paradise extravaganza - with the occasional Timotei-esque waterfall thrown in for variety. Recently, however, I travelled up to Northern Luzon: land of mummies, rice terraces, and hanging coffins. Not only is the concept of hanging a coffin from a cliff-face somewhat bizarre, but the fact they have this practice in China as well is just darn random. China and the Philippines? Much of a link? You'd be surprised. Historically, the Chinese have been trading here for hundreds of years - and in fact, you'll find remote tribal families up in the north who have some practically priceless Ming vase kicking around that has been with them for generations.

I peeled back layers of history, found the links, talked with everyone who would talk back to me (which is pretty much everybody over here, as the Filipinos are fans of practising their English and telling their story to anybody who will listen with an attentive ear). I remember when I used to say how pointless and dull History seemed to be, courtesy of the manner in which it is taught in schools in the UK. All subjects are separate entities, nothing related across the curriculum. But that is a rant for another occasion... or rather, a return to my regular ranting about education practices in the world.

In trying to figure out where I go from here - we're talking literally and mentally, for the record - I recall some of the conversations I had. One with a guy who works as a tricycle driver in Bontoc, who had been at work from 6am until 9pm every day of the week for the past two months and was heading for his first day off: the fiesta in Sagada, to compete in the basketball tournament. And the old lady who is the wife of deceased photographer Masferre , who sat and talked for nearly an hour about her incredible life. They are people who have travelled little but are by no means ignorant of the rest of the world, and some of the people who are most settled in their lives. Which leads me to questioning why I'm rushing around like something of a lunatic at times, intent on seeing the whole world. It isn't making me more content, exactly.

Stress. Why am I always stressed? I guess some people are just disposed to worry about anything and everything. Methinks I do take it to a whole new level occasionally. I'm not even remotely content in my own skin or with any aspect of my life right now, if I think about it. The idle westerner's arrogant cry to the world. 'Do what makes you happy' is such a trite and yet accurate comment - the problem is figuring out what makes one happy. I'm not entirely sure that the moments when I'll have smiled and laughed more than others are necessarily the happiest; they are rather fleeting glimpses of merriment and a pleasant easiness. What defines happiness? I'm thinking if I could feel content with my situation in life then that would be it for me, having a break from the chaotic world we hurtle about in without stopping to think where we are going.

I'll let you know if I ever decide anything. In the meantime, I'll create equally as dire blog postings, barely comprehensible reams of drivel that worryingly indicate the meanderings of my mind to a pretty accurate degree. I don't have a clue, I fully acknowledge this. But where the hell does one start looking for a clue?

Saw this on a tombstone in Sagada last week and rather liked the idea:

'What we do for ourselves dies with us. What we do for the others and the world remains and is immortal.' (Albert Pine)

Christmas Day 2008

Having promised regular updates and witterings, I now feel obligated to throw something up here... Courtesy of remarkably little sleep for the past 48 hours, however, and a stomach that has gone beyond mere somersaults, my brain has finally packed up. Hopefully on a temporary basis.

So here's a photo from Christmas Day 2008. Santa hats, my genius idea (forgetting that we might possibly bake while wearing them). Paddled round to a place called Seven Commandos Beach, about 45 minutes from El Nido - lay in the sun and snorkelled, played Chess, drank a little, ate a lot. A beautiful and memorable end to last year, negating to some degree the somewhat inauspicious start I had to 2009. Specifically, someone insulting me the moment the new year arrived, me endeavouring to restrain myself then giving up and slapping them significantly around the face, and retreating to the peace of my bed for some decent sleep.

It's gone better since then, but I have to say that didn't particularly bode well for the next twelve months. I hope the year isn't totally jinxed.

Welcome to 2009

This coming to you from a sun-drenched rooftop in Coron, Philippines...

My blog has received a decided lack of attention of late - this is no reflection on you, dear reader, but is rather a manifestation of my overwhelming idleness. Internet access have been somewhat patchy over here in the Philippines: I've had time to search the essential information, such as discovering the plural of Platypus is Platypodes, and occasionally throw out a passing remark on Facebook to inform the world at large that I'm some version of Alive. But blogging has very much taken a back seat - perhaps because I have so little to rant about? I am installed, after all, in one of my favourite places in the world, with no cap on my meandering time bar bank balance issues or feelings of guilt regarding a Serious Career Path. I doubt the latter will have much impact on anything, in all honesty. And having discovered the average income for an entire family in the Philippines is approximately USD4600 for an entire year, I think I'll cope financially staying here for a while.

I'm supposedly trying to do some writing work out here, find a niche that I can slot myself into somewhere out there in the wide world of publishing, but for whatever reason I'm missing my 'voice' - what a cheesy, all-American term that is. This is probably blindingly evident in this blog article; and in fact, I'm only really writing on here to try and wake up the part of my brain that is in charge of writing ability. I became so depressed by an attempt yesterday that I was forced to get exceedingly drunk on the worryingly cheap vodka they have out here, passing out on the bed at 9pm. The very classiest of wenches that I am.

Perhaps the problem is that I'm concerned my flippant, decidedly caustic style at times is going to be misinterpreted by some editors. I would love to write endless deep and meaningful tracts of prose, new philosophies emerging in spectacularly written turns of phrase - readers gasping at the sheer wonder of my words. But that isn't exactly my thing, is it. I make brash comments and follow them up with even brasher suggestions, my purpose being to entertain rather than educate. If education happens simultaneously? - bonus feature.

What am I doing over here, just ambling about between the thousand odd islands of which the Philippines is comprised? The question is difficult to answer. I'm either on Walkabout - in pursuit of Understanding. Or I'm in search of Beauty, that which can be seen and that which burrows beneath the surface waiting for an opportunity to emerge and be observed in all its shy glory. Truth is another path: honesty and integrity, the meaning of the world, the purpose of our existence. One cannot find these in a city - or perhaps they are there, but harder to seek out. The Philippines is a place bursting with life and colour, reality blended perfectly with the surreal. It is a place where I feel I can be myself without judgement; ask questions without being questioned back. Open, welcoming, and painfully honest. How can I hope to stagger through life without any comprehension of these things I'm searching for? A life without meaning is a long and pointless one.

Ah, how pretentious that last paragraph is! You see what I mean? Where has my mocking tone gone, why is it eluding me? Perhaps my brain has finally been cooked by the perpetual rays I seek.

I'm going to force myself to write something on here as frequently as internet access allows, inflict some more godawful posts on you poor readers, and hopefully in a few days' time I will write something once more that will make you furrow your brow in earnest, or lean back in your swivelling office chair and laugh out loud. I am so far from the suited and booted world it is hard to comprehend that most of you reading this will be doing so from an air conditioned cell, bright pink post-it notes dotted hurriedly around the edges of your screens, desk calendar staring you in the face reminding you of Time and its paramount importance.

Get out of your office. Go find the real world - the place beyond coffee breaks, conference calls, and overbearing bosses. It was emphatically proved last year how temporary and how fragile the world of capitalist making really is: before you get bogged down in debt and self-created responsibilities, come free yourself. Live a little. Experience everything. You get one shot at life, and spending that parked behind a formica desk is surely not what is intended for us.

“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”

Attacks in Mumbai

It has been a while since I've posted on here - oh, not because I have been rantless, but rather because I have been feeling dubiously listless of late. All my rants seemed to lack a certain punch.

But today, I have one. Terrorists have attacked Mumbai and in doing so, have attacked me personally. My lovely, kind and gentle friend Harnish is currently lying in a hospital somewhere in the city, having received multiple gunshot wounds to his legs and back. His family will be with him shortly, and I hope he is rapidly evacuated from the area.

There is little point in bothering to try and describe just how I feel about the terrorists right now, not least because I am numb to the very core. How dare anyone hurt Harnish? What the hell has he ever done to anyone?

It puts all my rants somewhat into perspective, I have to say. Suddenly my frustrations are the pathetic mewlings of someone cursed with such tragedies as too much freedom and liberty and choice. A stark reminder of how fragile our lives are, and how quickly they can be taken away.

Harnish is out of danger; he will apparently be 'okay'. I fear my definition of 'okay' may be somewhat at odds with the doctors right now, but nevertheless he will survive. I'm not a religious person, I never have been and it would be hypocritical of me to start today. I don't see anything wrong, however, in appealing to my blog readers to pray for him, ask your God to keep him safe and make him well. Nobody deserves for their life to be shattered in this manner - how many more attacks is it going to take for the world to sit up and take note?

Boredom...

Have plenty of sensible things to say - or rather, plenty of angry observations to make - but am borrowing this from Kat's blog to fill a few moments of boredom.

20 Years Ago (1988):
1) 6 years old, life was about chocolate, maths, and playing Elastics at school
2) I was a Brownie who hated being a Brownie, and regularly escaped over the wall to play in a friend's garden
3) My teacher was Mrs Fewings. We had 'nap time' after lunch. I miss nap time.
4) I inherited my brother's denim jacket and wore it endlessly

10 Years Ago (1998):
1) 16 years old, life was about chocolate, maths, and playing Hockey at school
2) I discovered, thanks to GCSE design and technology, that I was good at woodwork. And useless at sewing.
3) I wanted to go to King's College, Cambridge, and study Maths.
4) I wore enormous glasses and the beach-style surfer's clothes

5 Years Ago (2003):
1) 21 years old, life was about chocolate, literature, and rowing at university
2) I discovered South America and promptly fell in love
3) I reviewed hotels and apartments in London and was paid for the efforts
4) I wore black. A lot. Including a particularly awesome black tailcoat.

3 Years Ago (2005):
1) I was 23, life was about chocolate, literature, and rowing at university
2) Deciding I needed to do something with my life, I went to Oxford for a Masters. In Women's Studies. Hm.
3) Bought tickets for the Monaco F1 GP but never went
4) I lived in my Linacre hoodie.

1 Year Ago (2007):
1) I was 25, life was about chocolate, literature, and dreaming about the Philippines
2) I discovered the Philippines and promptly fell in love
3) I took a job in Hong Kong in order to be near the Philippines, and get some stability in my life
4) Being around beaches for much of the year, I wore bikinis. A lot.

So Far this Year:
1) Life is about chocolate, literature, and escaping Hong Kong
2) I spend most of my days dreaming about where I could go in the future - Russia and Uganda currently top the list
3) I am as single as I was when I was 6 years old
4) I am trying to start work as a writer, after thinking about doing this since I was 6 years old

Yesterday:
1) I went into work, and the loathed the very core of everybody related to the office
2) I coughed and wheezed my way through a friend's 30th birthday, and ate far too much carrot cake
3) I cooked gnocchi for the first time ever
4) I read about Mongolia and Kazakhstan and had wonderful dreams

Today:
1) I took the day off work before I killed one of the blighters I have to teach
2) Cleaned the apartment thoroughly for the first time in weeks
3) Held an adorable fluffy black puppy and thought of the day I will have one
4) Panicked because when writing my 'to do' list I ran out of paper


In the next year:
1) I will find a purpose for my existence
2) Go to Africa - ideally Uganda - and, after a year of utter fakeness in HK, rediscover reality
3) Give up on ever finding a guy I can put up with
4) Live life. Because what else is one to do with it.

RantingJane is suspended until further notice.

It seems people are incapable of reading my disclaimer - 'not to be taken seriously' - and I'm fed up with having arguments about what I write here. I write in jest or to pass a dull moment; to entertain or to ponder a point. I don't write to have my words used against me in the future.

Apologies to those of you who took the blog in the spirit with which it was originally intended to be taken. I'll be back here when I've recovered from recent virtual beatings.

So, am I judgemental?

I've used that title principally because I rather like the image of readers around the world spraying their computer screen with cornflakes as they wake up to such a ridiculous, entirely rhetorical, question. Essentially, a somewhat frustrated surveyor of this blog made the slightly irate comment that I was far too judgemental and, well, should learn not to be. I think that was the general suggestion, anyhow - I guess that is what was being implied.

I have no trouble in admitting that on this blog, and I guess in general conversation, I probably come across as the person most ready and eager to pass judgement on my fellow citizens of this idly spinning orb of ours. I see nothing wrong with observing that a girl is sporting a particularly impressive muffin top, if said girl is never going to hear my comment and the person I am sitting with is tipsy enough to find my witticism remotely entertaining. Okay, so it is a joke at the expense of somebody else - but hang on, aren't pretty much all jokes?

Again, I have no qualms about mocking what somebody is wearing: a guy clad in a skin tight pink tshirt is practically asking for a verbal lashing from me. (Come on, since when did I ever look presentable, or indeed endeavour to make myself presentable? I couldn't care less if somebody went past wearing a pink tutu as they rode on the back of an elephant, but what is wrong with making an entirely tongue in cheek comment?) Or if someone attempts to reach above their intellectual capabilities, I see nothing wrong in raising an enquiring eyebrow (in my mind only - unfortunately, this is an action I can't actually carry out; attempting to raise a single eyebrow leaves me looking worried rather than sceptical) or indeed informing them outright that they are a blithering idiot of the highest order, and should be shot at dawn.

Why shouldn't I roll my eyes in despair when a student informs me they've never heard of Dickens or Austen or Hardy? And why shouldn't I mentally slap someone for making remarks born out of ignorance? What is wrong with watching couples go by and making a rapid assessment as to how long a relationship is going to last, when the girl is constantly nagging the guy and the guy has the definitive Roaming Eye?

Of course I am judgemental - it is part of who I am, making snap decisions about people and situations, occasionally based on remarkably little evidence. If someone chooses to take all my comments seriously, I dare to judge that perhaps they don't know me as well as they ought...

I see nothing wrong with being judgemental, because I am my own harshest critic. Nobody can say or think anything derogatory toward me that I wont have already thought of a hundred times over. Physically, trust me, I know my multiple flaws. And no, I don't need them pointing out - if I can live with this nose, I guess you can, too. And mentally, I know my limitations. 'Wisest is he who knows he does not know', and believe me, every single day I have a further epiphany and realise that there is a vast sprawling desert of knowledge waiting for me to meander about on it. I delve online to find the answer to one question, and discover a dozen more. Oh, and yes, I also know my character flaws, such as the fact I am stubborn to a fault. I know that in many ways I am busy idling away my life, I don't need this pointing out to me.

Until a few years ago, it would have been true to say that I am judgemental - in truth, as well as in jest. But I distinctly remember a scene in Romania, a country I visited six years ago. I went with the intention of seeing the world, having reality thrust under my nose, learning for myself rather than from yet another news bulletin that yes, hell really does exist on earth. Standing in a dark and dirty corner of Bucharest was a tiny, much wrinkled old man. He wore a collection of rags held together by scotch tape and faith, and in his hand was clasped a bright green bunch of parsley. I remember this so vividly because the green was etched so clearly against the dull background. The old man, I was informed by my translator, had walked five miles that morning to bring his parsley into the city to sell.

And I still, six years on, have tears forming as I recall this image. He was just living, just trying to get by. Who the hell am I, was what I realised at this point, to pass judgement on anyone? For all the beauty there is in the world - a beauty that I spend my life in constant pursuit of - there is a sharp dose of cruelty and unutterable despair. Everyone is just stumbling along, trying to get through their seventy odd years by some means or other.

Accusing me of meaning all the criticisms I pass on other people is essentially the equivalent of saying I am cold, uncaring and somewhat malicious in my mind-set. I think that is a judgement I shouldn't have to live with.

“We can never judge the lives of others, because each person knows only their own pain and renunciation. It's one thing to feel that you are on the right path, but it's another to think that yours is the only path.” (Paulo Coehlo)

On Burning Man

I was forging an article in my mind a few days ago, something to do with arguing - in a very much tongue in cheek manner - that Burning Man is actually the ultimate feminist experience. Not only are half the art pieces so obviously a statement of the metaphorically castrated male of the twenty-first century (for example, the SWARM project that I know of because of a friend's loose involvement, is a bunch of guys essentially saying, 'Yes, I have enormous balls of steel, and they will pester the hell out of you as you innocently walk by') but the concluding saga of burning the figure of a quite literally de-membered man who stands on top of a spire as proudly phallic as the Washington Monument is the defining gesture of male defeat.

Generally speaking, I actually feel sorry for guys in this day and age: their purpose of centuries has been removed, and they are now only important as a fashion accessory. The more glitzy and glamorous your guy, the better. I am not arguing that endless years of the oppression of women was acceptable either, but this fervent endeavour to prove women are just like men is utterly fruitless and futile. It is a fact which defines this planet of ours: we have men, we have women, and they are fundamentally different - celebrate those differences, rather than try to deny them.

I did my best to keep an open mind about this Burning Man event; I approached google with a vengeance, found videos and blog entries, read from both sides of the story. It certainly means different things to different people - whereas to some it is the opportunity to 'radically self express' themselves, for others it is the chance to have a dangerous cocktail of sex and drugs and loss of inhibitions; I am sure that a few go for the art pieces themselves, enormous structures that in some cases must have cost millions of dollars to produce. I would say it is pretty accurate to say, though, that the vast majority of Burners (as I believe they are known) are desperately unhappy people, searching for some modicum of meaning in their tedious existences. If the purpose of BM is to demonstrate the effects of consumerism and capitalism on individuals, then it does that spectacularly - although not necessarily in the way in which organisers originally intended, I suspect. People are so constrained by their own lives that when they have an opportunity to break free, ridiculous extremes are sought. I suggest that nobody genuinely wants to spend their whole time wandering around half naked, their body speckled liberally with glitter in a suggestive manner, sporting perhaps a dog collar and a bowler hat for good measure. When the consequences of your actions are so limited, people will inevitably push boundaries: it seems everyone is vying to be the most dramatic, the most intense, the most noticed.

The 'energy' people keep speaking of in their videos is the energy of an angry, frustrated people. There was one place where you could go and, to the encouraging shouts of black-clad aggressive-sounding women, beat the living daylights out of your friend. I was supposed to go paintballing a few months ago and the event was called off due to torrential rain: I was inwardly rather glad, because I severely doubted my ability to shoot at someone, even with a paint capsule. Does nobody else see how this brutal stage could get so terribly out of hand? Many years ago, my brother was approached by a total stranger and hit squarely in the face a few times. For those who don't know him: Robin is a tall, broad, and exceptionally powerful individual. He is a mountaineer who is toughened by his experiences; if anybody could look after themselves in a fight, he could. His response? To stand there dumbfounded and watch the other guy laugh before walking away. Aggression is something we don't understand, I guess because we don't have to.

We've been brought up to follow the adage, 'know thyself, accept thyself, be thyself'. It seems that people attending BM are all searching for something, some meaning in their meaningless lives. I suggest that if the event went on for much longer than a week, trouble would break out. Human nature would eventually seep to the surface and the barely disguised anger, self-loathing and confusion would rise brutally to the surface. The effect would be catastrophic. (Try reading either Jose Saramago's 'Blindness' or J G Ballard's 'Super-Cannes' for a look below that violent surface.)

In everything I do, I am myself. I am consistently honest and true to the person I am - by what I wear, the places I go, how I speak with others and moreover what I say to others. I am not suggesting that the world would be a better place populated by Jane-Clones (my word, it would be horrifying), but I do know it woud certainly be happier if everyone figured out who they were and got on with being that person. Everyone has negative experiences and internalises them, becoming affected by others who interrupt their peace: the trick is to move away from such people and separate yourself. I know how difficult this is, and sometimes I fail temporarily, but I refuse to let some weak individual who has sought to destroy me have a lasting effect on my life.

With all my flaws and failings, at least I know that I can stand up and say that yes, I am I. I seriously doubt that something such as BM will help anyone achieve this peaceful status.

Are you who you want to be?

“When we are unable to find tranquility within ourselves, it is useless to seek it elsewhere”. ( François de la Rochefoucauld)

Three borrowed snippets

The following are three snippets that have struck a chord somewhere over the past week. I'll open with a D H Lawrence poem:

Sick

I am sick, because I have given myself away.
I have given myself to the people when they came
so cultured, even bringing little gifts,
so they pecked a shred of my life, and flew off with a croak
of sneaking exultance.
So now I have lost too much, and am sick.

I am trying now to learn never
to give of my life to the dead
never, not the tiniest shred.


From John Keats', 'The Eve of St Agnes':

'As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again'

Thomas Hardy's, 'Far From the Madding Crowd' is a worthy classic, a veritable work of inspired art. I love this section, where the dashing Sergeant Troy proposes to the beautiful Bathsheba Everdene that her charms are in fact injurous to society at large. Excellent concept:

'Ah, well, Miss Everdene, you are - pardon my blunt way - you are rather an injury to our race than otherwise.'

`How - indeed?' she said, opening her eyes.

`O, it is true enough. I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb (an old country saying, not of much account, but it will do for a rough soldier), and so I will speak my mind, regardless of your pleasure, and without hoping or intending to get your pardon. Why, Miss Everdene, it is in this manner that your good looks may do more harm than good in the world.' The sergeant looked down the mead in critical abstraction. `Probably some one man on an average falls in love with each ordinary woman. She can marry him: he is content, and leads a useful life. Such women as you a hundred men always covet - your eyes will bewitch scores on scores into an unavailing fancy for you - you can only marry one of that many. Out of these say twenty will endeavour to drown the bitterness of despised love in drink; twenty more will mope away their lives without a wish or attempt to make a mark in the world, because they have no ambition apart from their attachment to you; twenty more - the susceptible person myself possibly among them - will be always draggling after you, getting where they may just sec you, doing desperate things. Men are such constant fools! The rest may try to get over their passion with more or less success. But all these men will be saddened. And not only those ninety-nine men, but the ninety-nine women they might have married are saddened with them. There's my tale. That's why I say that a woman so charming as yourself, Miss Everdene, is hardly a blessing to her race.'

On poppies and pausing for thought

I passed a spare hour a few days ago floating on the sea - somewhere I'm to be found with increasing frequency of late - thinking of significant events in my life. I tried to recall something from every year, excluding the first few which I think I can be forgiven for not quite recalling with perfect clarity... As too many memories starting vying for attention I endeavoured to order them into different categories: academic achievements, friends, countries visited, dreams created or shattered or realised.

And at some point, I started thinking of world events from the past twenty-six years. Why is it that those which are so memorable are also those which are so terrible? I can remember exactly where I was when I heard that Princess Diana had been killed; I know every moment of the afternoon where I sat and watched, transfixed, as planes crashed into New York's World Trade Centre. The year of the tsunami, I passed a sombre Christmas in Buenos Aires; a few months previously in Argentina, I know exactly how I lay as I saw the news of the Russian school siege. I remember thinking how lucky my brother was, hidden away somewhere in the mountains of Kazakhstan, no contact with the outside world and one of the few who was fortunate enough not to know of the horrors unfolding.

This evening, I watched the final episodes of the 'Celebrity Apprentice'. In my defence, I'd like to say that the DVDs were bought for me by a friend in China who acquired them at barely existent prices for my occasional amusement as a source of mockery. Piers Morgan was trying - and succeeding impressively well - to earn money for the Intrepid Fallen Heroes Fund , money going to wounded American servicemen and women to assist with their rehabilitation. I was reminded of the time when I sat up into the early hours of the morning to watch George Bush officially declare war on Iraq, and I was reminded of all the times I've made slick comments and ribald remarks about the politicians who allowed this war to take place. And I have to say, I feel thoroughly ashamed of myself this evening. I sat in Houston Airport a few years ago, watching wives saying goodbye to their husbands who they may never have the chance to see again, guys who might never see their children grow up, may never have the opportunity to be a father. I've never really had a father, not in the traditional sense of the word anyway, and it isn't something I could wish on any child.

I guess the concept of, 'Support Our Troops' finally hit home. If someone is out there being shot at from all angles in the name of Freedom - however tenuous that definition may be - then one of the last things they need is people voicing pious opinions about their presence in the occupied country.

On 11th November this year, I will be in Hong Kong. And at 11am on that day, regardless of what those about me are doing, I will pause in my tracks and think for two minutes of the millions of people who have given their lives in the last century. They make you do this in schools in England, standing upright with a paper poppy fastened loosely with a safety pin onto your uniform, no particular explanations offered as to why this requirement exists.

No, I don't agree with the principles the war in Iraq is being fought on - not now. I did to some extent when they first invaded, the concept of liberating the Iraqi people. But since then I've changed those ideas and disagree with the person I was six years ago. As long as somebody is out there, putting their life on the line because it is their job, risking themselves so that I can exist in a world with a slightly less skewed version of Freedom operating, I think I'll support them. And I suppose that, after all, teaching upper class brats isn't so very terrible a task.

'If we let people see that kind of thing, there would never again be any war.' ~Pentagon official explaining why the U.S. military censored graphic footage from the Gulf War.

Recalling Hong Kong

Whenever I eat chanterelle mushrooms, I'm reminded of wandering around a forest in Sweden, searching for the curled orange umbrellas perched on their delicate stalks. There's a certain combination of paint and methylated spirits that casts me back to the river on which I learned to row up in Lancaster; at six in the morning in the middle of a dark winter, we always knew when we were nearing the end of our stretch by the pungent aromas forcing themselves to the back of our throats as we passed by the factory. Considering most of my diet in Cuba consisted of salted plantano chips, my mind wanders back there whenever these appear in my world; tequila sees me on a beach in Mexico, and a particular piece of music whisks me to a club in Buenos Aires drunkenly whirling the night away with a delectable porteno.

I was wondering the other day what would remind me of Hong Kong when I left, or indeed what memories I'll take with me - how I'll remember the city. I guess whenever I see one of those movies that starts off with the camera zooming around city skyscrapers heading towards people beetling off to work in all directions I'll be reminded of walking through the IFC mall early in the morning: the music that plays in each circumstance is one and the same. People walk through the IFC with a jaunty step as if on their way to a movie-set, and indeed in some ways I guess they are.

There are the shops that I daily pass without having a clue what the products are. Neither have I any intention of finding out as the smells emitting from these establishments are toe-curling in their hideousness; strips of dried meat and fish hang stiffly above plastic buckets of alien fruits, dehydrated out of all recognition.

The slightly surreal evenings when I floated calmly on the surface of a luke-warm sea, counting the stars that dotted the sky above a gently glowing power-station - paying particular attention, of course, to the manner in which the staircase wends it way around the building in a curve particularly interesting to those of us who are mathematically minded... And I'll remember walking home up a dark path, leaping three feet in the air every time a leaf rustles beside me as I anticipate a python the size of a tree trunk whipping out to swallow me whole. And I haven't forgotten the evening I plunged headlong into the water, such niceties as bikinis forgone.

Many of my memories are related to the sea. My first sea-rowing experiences, my first outrigging attempts - being tipped unceremoniously into the water as I leaned out too far... Dragonboating while wearing a tshirt so pink it dyed my body for days after. Hundreds of hours spent sitting on ferries followed by the mad stampede to get off them, a stampede that is imitated on all forms of public transport here but unfortunately not emulated on the pavements: people here have developed the art of walking slowly and taking up an entire pavement, however diminutive they may be.

I guess I'll just remember Hong Kong as being the city I never intended on visiting, let alone living in, and how my Lamma retreat helped me survive the unmitigated, frenetic chaos of Central. I came here looking for stability and security and instead found my freedom curtailed, my character restrained, my mind stultified at times. I leave here at the end of November and I can honestly say that I'll have few regrets about abandoning the city that will have been my home for a year. There is too wide a world out there with too many permutations and variations for me to restrict myself to being in one place for such a duration.

'Any existence deprived of freedom is a kind of death'. Oh, how true. I'll have a plethora of memories to be fondly recalled by the time I leave Hong Kong, a moment that will reaffirm my presence on this idly spinning planet of ours. I'm looking forward to feeling alive once more.

Current annoyances (by no means an exhaustive list)

Of late, I haven't had the inclination to blog - my thoughts have been tied up elsewhere on somewhat more pressing matters. I regularly meander along the chaotic streets here or sit through yet another ferry journey into work while pondering what I could be writing on here, and indeed have written some fantastic posts. Computer geeks of the world, unite: make something that transfers my thoughts to a computer screen.

Perhaps I'll get a dictaphone. Awesome.

A pet hate of the moment? Umbrellas. I now have a monthly budget set aside for umbrellas, and I jest not. What with ridiculously high levels of humidity over here it is unreasonable to consider wearing a waterproof coat to fend off the elements and thus an umbrella is the only truly viable option; unfortunately, the majority of umbrellas are not built to withstand the forces of nature that are present in HK at this time of year. Specifically, the Rainy Season. In addition to the regular destruction of my umbrellas, I have to deal with the idiots who march along with their stadium-size brolly with an evil sharp point at one end, held parallel to the pavement and thus at a perfect height to jab me firmly in the shins. An Umbrella Proficiency Course needs to be created.

Next? Oh, which to choose? How about the fact that I have a Masters degree from one of the more prestigious universities in the world, a degree I gained by - essentially - a careful and impeccable analysis of words. Meanings, sentence structures, words omitted, words overlooked, pauses, punctuation, the whole works. I could write a dissertation based around a single postcard. It frustrates me that, despite knowing this, some people try and have their way with me by means of artful playing around with semantics. A gentle word of warning: underestimate me at your peril.

Weather. Perhaps this should have slotted in after Umbrellas, but I trust that nobody reading this is going to dare to question my judgement. Continuous rain is unutterably depressing, and we've had a good deal of it recently out here. HK even has a warning system for when the rain becomes particularly dramatic - a few weeks ago, I experienced the worst rains in the city since records began. 'Black rain', as it is referred to on the warning system, equates to time off work as it is deemed too dangerous to be outside. There comes a point, however, when walking up a hill as drenched as a person can get, that the frustration with the rain suddenly dissipates and is replaced with, for me at least, a strange sense of belonging. Every part of you has become so involved in the very business of being alive that eventually a part of my brain kicks back into action. I do some of my best thinking after prolonged periods of miserable weather- well, after I've climbed out of the initial pit of depression that it invariably induces.

It shouldn't be classified as an 'annoyance', but still: the endless knifings I keep reading about. I just glanced at the BBC website between typing paragraphs and note that a man has stormed into a police station in Shanghai and stabbed to death at least five officers. Dear God. Somewhat illogically, there is something much less brutal about murdering someone with a gunshot; at least this method is (or can be) mercifully fast and painless. Stabbing, cutting somebody's throat, repeatedly thrusting a knife into another human being - where does such anger and hatred come from? (That was entirely rhetorical, I obviously have just a few opinions on that topic.)

Yes, some people have accomplished incredible things - en masse, the human race has evolved impressively, dramatically, seemingly impossibly at times. And yet, while some leap on with technological and medical advances, others are left behind, the pawns in an elaborate game of chess played by people with ideals and theorems; people armed with a veritable mountain of statistics and data but no concept of understanding human nature. Students are constantly asking me why we bother to read some of the texts we do - why read Sophocles and Shakespeare and Hardy and Woolf? Surely they are redundant today? I tell them that one damn good reason is that we can see as we read that humans have, fundamentally, remained unchanged for centuries. Isn't that both fascinating and terrifying? We are still jealous and envious, bitter and greedy, cruel and unkind: it somehow seems irrelevant that I can write something on a computer in Hong Kong and transmit it to the entire world when such basic problems remain unsolved.

The man who created the atomic bomb petitioned to the US government to not use it: he realised the evil he had unleashed on the world. With great power comes great responsibility, and I just wish a few more people understood that concept and worked with it. Here's to hoping Barack Obama means at least half of what he says.

"Science has made us Gods even before we are worthy of being men." (Jean Rostand)