From The Centrifuge

I've just spent two hours (not unpleasant hours I must admit, thanks in no small part to Death in Vegas ) fiddling with profile options on Live Journal , trying to get them just right, like the fuel / air mix on an airplane or the pH of a swimming pool, so that I have the most fecund environment into which I could cast the seeds of my imagination. Little tweaks here - do I want all comments uploaded to Twitter and likewise, all Twitter postings captured here? - little permissions denied there - NO FB links, thanks - and just when the time had come to finally stop procrastinating and get stuck in, virtual pen in hand and coffee with chocolate digestive at a convenient distance (not too close to the laptop, not so far away that I might need to stretch), all I could see was the vast empty space of the Internet. Sometimes you eat the abyss and sometimes... All that directionless but febrile activity has burned out the synapses. At least, that's a good excuse for now. I genuinel

Cleaning up the old FB inbox, I came across a message (see below) from a chum who reminded me how indifferent the Universe can be to the trials of mere mortals.   Firstly, my name isn't Chris (although Mark may have been protecting my identity - no need old bean!) and secondly, I'm not sure The Hayes Island Snack Bar sells pies... Still, on the first point, Ninjah (residents of Cardiff will know exactly which 7 foot bin-thumping rap star I'm talking about) called me Nick for ten years, and the lovely Lisa from Jazzy Jackets in the market insisted my name was Matt. When set straight they were respectively mystifyingly unperturbed (Ninjah didn't care - he preferred Nick to Gareth), and embarrassingly forgetful (I became instead "Maaaaa - shit! - Gar!")   Anyway, I have no idea about how genuine this extract courtesy of Mark Thomas may be, but it warms my cockles nonetheless. Enjoy.   13 November 2008     Mark Thomas can't remember things the way they happene

It seems that in this life (as opposed to which other life? Or is that a question for another, perhaps less sober enquiry?), no matter how professional, perky or enthusiastic you are, how polite and efficient you may be, whether at work or in your personal life, there is always going to be someone or something that quickly and effortlessly, possibly even disinterestedly, turns up and makes you look like a buffoon. I can point to innumerable examples in both scenarios mentioned, not least and most recently having striven to set up a project workshop, against all the odds and fervent opposition from nearly everyone who may have become involved, scraping and bowing and making ludicrously rash promises which, in true heroic style, I had to keep or else, only for the turd who was delivering it to forget to show up. Quel bouffon . But when it comes to the intellectual life (a life I can only wish I had and therefore one unlikely to show me up in public) it is doubly galling to find that wh