Here's a story of adverity and triumph...
I wrote this longhand this morning between 0900 and 1030. I wanted to get my thoughts down as they were fresh.
My regular readers might remember that about two days ago I bought myself an A4 Box File thingo from WH Smith. I think that at the time I wrote that I wanted to be more organised with important personal documents, but I didn’t elaborate.
Two reasons for that: firstly, I was pressed for time. Secondly, I was feeling rather ashamed.
I have found it now, but for three days, give or take, I could not find the letter with my National Insurance Number on it. It arrived a few weeks ago, and after leaving it on the left side of my bed with all my other stuff (some novels, a few magazines etc) I decided that it was hight time that I put it in a safe place.
And I did. So safe that when I went looking for it on Tuesday Evening, I couldn’t find it again.
I was sure that I had put it into the peach coloured Slim Pick Wallet that used to house some of my important documents. IE my rental agreement, some old CVs and some Banking Stuff. It wasn’t there. This worried me.
I turned out all of the contents on my pillow to make sure that it wasn’t there. And turned up a fat Goose Egg.
Next I tossed through all the stuff on the left side of my bed, just to make sure that I hadn’t actually imagined putting it somewhere safe and that it wasn’t still sitting on the left side of my bed. Nope, not there either.
I’m sure that my self-esteem issues are worse than tedious to those that care about me, but when your life often becomes a daily battle to convince yourself that you are more than a terminal fuckup, too stupid to survive, losing an important piece of information does not help. Especially when you could have very easily copied said piece of information into a book which would be easier to recognise and harder to lose.
Ergo I was determined to find it. I had dim recollection of my NI Number being on a purple paper card, cased in a white envelope. So I scoured my room looking for one. I gathered all visible envelopes into a pile on my bed. I threw as much superfluous crap into my bin. I bought the file box to put all the official documents into. Payslips, BT letters, my Rental Agreement, Rent Paid-In Slips, P45 and P60, Bank Statements, Printouts of the Reviews that I’ve written, NHS Documents and so on.
I knew that it was locking the gate after the horse had bolted (as my Mother is often given to saying), but I figured that filing my stuff was what I should have done in the first place. Besides which, getting it out of the way in this fashion saved me from repeatedly trawling through the same pile of paper.
I reconciled myself to the possibility that it had fallen out of the A4 slim pick wallet when I had paid my rent at the bank on Tuesday, so I made time to go up to Stratford to ask if they had seen it. And I used the phone number on one of the documents I had found to call a service centre and ask if they could post the form out again.
They told me that I needed to go to my nearest Job Centre with two pieces of ID (including something with my address on it) and ask them to run a search. I did that, and the folk at Leytonstone Job Centre told me that I would have to return the next day, fill in a form and they would still only run the search if I was either working or if I had an offeer of work. This frustrated me. If I already had employment coming, I wouldn’t have time to make appointments, fill in forms or sit around while dedicated staff ran searches.
I did learn that my NI No. would also be on a plastic card, which usually arrived between four and eight weeks after the letter I had mislaid. But I couldn’t wait that long. I really needed that number because I wanted to take it to my agencies as soon as possible, but more than that I wanted to silence the voice inside me calling me a fuckup, as mentioned above.
In a ‘What Would Robin Hobb Do?’ moment, I reminded myself of the advice that Burrich the Stablemaster gave to Fitz, the protagonist somewhere in the Farseer Trilogy: ‘The fight ain’t over till you’ve won.’
And I was going to beat this Personal Demon.
I kept cleaning my room. I found more envelopes and payslips and bankslips and the like. I looked under clothes, magazines and anything else that would camoflage the envelope I was looking for. I even applied my Personal Finding Strategy for Finding Stuff That Refuses to be Found: look where you know that it won’t be. Chances are, that’s where it will be.
Some time late Friday afternoon I grabbed one of my white wifebeater vests from my cupboard, when I realised that underneath them was a couple of bits and pieces I hadn’t properly examined. In the pile was some comic books issues, some more banking crap, a map of Brighton and Hove (hmm, would have come in useful last Tuesday). And my NI Number. On a white sheet of A4, in a BROWN envelope (funny how the mind plays tricks on you).
I couldn’t believe it. Not letting go of the piece of paper, I copied the number into my A4 Diary, then I filed the letter in the Box File.
“In your face, personal demon!’ I cheered in my head. ‘This hopeless loser has found what he lost! I’d like to that Robin Hobb for the sweeping motto delivered by a stubborn fictional character that gave me the tunnel vision I needed to find this, I’d like to thank the staff of the Leytonstone Job Centre for being bureaucratic and obtuse when I could have really used a quick solution, but most of all I’d like to thank my own tenacity and dogged determination to find this pesky piece of paper, hammering some long-overdue kinks out of my life in the process.”
Of course, later I would arrive at the Underworld, having totally missed the set by Hilary’s band (Jason Arrives Late Demon) and later still I would realise that while I was sitting at home watching House on Thursday Night, I should have been at Cthulu Rising, an event involving readings, art and a lecture by my friend Dr Patricia MacCormack all centred around HP Lovecraft (Jason didn’t read his diary and thus totally forgot to go to an event he had been planning to attend for weeks Demon).
So I still have work to do and Demons to slay. Mental note: make demon list. Keep it light. Maybe draw demons. Then slay them.
Anyways, I am proud that the ‘Jason’s Important Documents are in a Shocking State of Disarray and He Really Should Know Better Demon’ is down for the count. And not a minute before time. Of course, I’ll have to be vigilant to make sure that he doesn’t rise again, but a ritual banishing of loose documents into the Box of Eternal Organisation should keep Total Disaster Manifestations of this type at bay.
A strange postscript to this personal journey occurred this morning.
I’d arrived home with quietly mixed feelings. Roughly okay, just above melancholic. Blondie on my iPod washing away most of a black cloud brewing inside me. I might explain more at some other point.
In any case, I was packing away some groceries I had bought on the way home when I heard the mail slot creak. Two envelopes had come through. One for my Landlady, and a brown envelope addressed to me.
Inside was a letter from HM Revenue and Customs. Attached was a blue plastic card with my NI# punched through, like on an old bank card. I put the card straight into my slimmed down wallet (I had cleaned all the superfluous crap out of it last night) and filed the letter in the Box with the rest of the government stuff.
It might just be sleep deprivation, but times like this I confess I do feel the hand of a higher power, the one that sends you messages and lessons when it thinks you are ready to receive them (this is in no way intended to diminish the very real people in my life who frequently help me out in very tangible ways).
For now I am musing on the lesson/message that said higher power has sent me this time.
***
Other news: it isn’t confirmed yet, but the acting editor of Fasterlouder.com.au has just offered me a Face to Face interview with AFI next month. Of course, it does have to do with me being the only FL scribe on the ground in London, but I’m sure the five reviews I put in over the last four weeks hasn’t hurt either.
I’m pretty stoked.
***
Post Post Scriptum:
After sitting down and writing this somewhat overly expositional Hey-Look-I'm-getting-my-shit-together piece, I stepped outside with the my USB Key in my pocket, but without my phone or my door keys.
I haven't done that in a year.
Since I've been doing bar-bells my forearms are too stocky to fit through the mail-slot enough for me to flip the latch.
I think this is going on the list...
***
Making an Long Post even Longer:
The weird mood I mentioned was due to a combination of things. Sometimes I just feel lonely, like no-one understands me etc. Emo bullshit, but sometimes it gets to me.
Getting to The Underworld and completely missing the Adastreia set was a sure mood suck. Hilary is never impressed when I'm late. I shouldn't care, but it just seems such bad form.
The members of To-mera gave me free beer (some of which was from the Adastreia rider), and lightweight that I am, I got surprisingly tipsy scandalously fast and might have said some stuff I shouldn't have to various people. Nothing really bad springs to mind, just the post tipsy suspicion that I was way more obnoxious than I thought I was.
Still, I had a great conversation with Tom from To Mera. And Julia took one look at me and asked if I had any more clever suggestions for the name of their first album. It's flattering to be remembered, even if she did later call me weird (Julia is Hungarian, and I suspect she was looking for a different word... maybe).
I didn't actually watch most of Epica's set, because the Underworld was so densely packed that I couldn't actually see anything without craning my neck. As such, I felt really disconnected. And Epic Goth Metal is the kind of music that really sucks unless you in a position to be swept up.
I did manage to get confirmation that my tall friend Alex is in fact Alexander Milas from Kerrang.
And trying to explain Gabba to the keyboard player in ToMera while still half cut was amusing.
Not to mention running into Hai Fung, the metal loving vietnamese law-student (I haven't seen him since Paradise Lost, I think).
After the show I met up with Hilary, Nick and Nick's flatmate Liam. Nick and Liam are currently obsessed with the first two Godfather movies. Hilary disapproves and doesn't understand their constant quoting. I tried to explain to her that it is a male thing, and that girls will just never understand why the Godfather is great. She disagreed.
Ordinarily I don't agree with the whole Boy-Thing/Girl-Thing dichotomy. I know girls that love Grand Theft Auto (not mentioning any names, Elea), and I personally hate football and love black and white love-story movies.
But The Godfather is different. It operates at a chromosomal level, because the themes twisted into the two movies are about Paternal-Filial relationships, the bond between father and son.
I could have argued the point, but I wasn't in the mood to argue, so I just joined in on the Godfather Quoting. (Towards the end of the night I did miss out on a great chance for a 'Why you always got to hurt me? You know I've been loyal?' but I didn't think of it til later.)
Anways, a bus ride took us from Camden to King's Cross, to Synthetic Culture.
Synthetic Culture: Lots of dancing. Chatted to a Red-haired, blue-eyed German girl, then lost her in the crowd. Found her again as she was leaving. Chatted to some nascent metal girls about the best live bands we've seen. They had a high opinion of Avenged Sevenfold, but we all agreed that Dillinger Escape Plan are amazing (frankly, that's just a given, and anyone who disagrees doesn't know what a good live band is.)
Danced more.
Hilary, Nick and Liam bugged out early. Lightweights.
I stayed til the end, mostly because that meant I could ride the tube home.
Felt a little lonely, did too much thinking at the club. Thinking too much can be dangerous for me in certain company and situations. If I start thinking wrong I start to mope. Must not mope. Must never mope.
Came home meaning to write one thing and wound up writing the story that heads this post.
And what a long post it is.
I've been here a while. Hopefully somebody can let me into the flat now.
So I'm going to post this and be damned.
Over and out again.
J
My regular readers might remember that about two days ago I bought myself an A4 Box File thingo from WH Smith. I think that at the time I wrote that I wanted to be more organised with important personal documents, but I didn’t elaborate.
Two reasons for that: firstly, I was pressed for time. Secondly, I was feeling rather ashamed.
I have found it now, but for three days, give or take, I could not find the letter with my National Insurance Number on it. It arrived a few weeks ago, and after leaving it on the left side of my bed with all my other stuff (some novels, a few magazines etc) I decided that it was hight time that I put it in a safe place.
And I did. So safe that when I went looking for it on Tuesday Evening, I couldn’t find it again.
I was sure that I had put it into the peach coloured Slim Pick Wallet that used to house some of my important documents. IE my rental agreement, some old CVs and some Banking Stuff. It wasn’t there. This worried me.
I turned out all of the contents on my pillow to make sure that it wasn’t there. And turned up a fat Goose Egg.
Next I tossed through all the stuff on the left side of my bed, just to make sure that I hadn’t actually imagined putting it somewhere safe and that it wasn’t still sitting on the left side of my bed. Nope, not there either.
I’m sure that my self-esteem issues are worse than tedious to those that care about me, but when your life often becomes a daily battle to convince yourself that you are more than a terminal fuckup, too stupid to survive, losing an important piece of information does not help. Especially when you could have very easily copied said piece of information into a book which would be easier to recognise and harder to lose.
Ergo I was determined to find it. I had dim recollection of my NI Number being on a purple paper card, cased in a white envelope. So I scoured my room looking for one. I gathered all visible envelopes into a pile on my bed. I threw as much superfluous crap into my bin. I bought the file box to put all the official documents into. Payslips, BT letters, my Rental Agreement, Rent Paid-In Slips, P45 and P60, Bank Statements, Printouts of the Reviews that I’ve written, NHS Documents and so on.
I knew that it was locking the gate after the horse had bolted (as my Mother is often given to saying), but I figured that filing my stuff was what I should have done in the first place. Besides which, getting it out of the way in this fashion saved me from repeatedly trawling through the same pile of paper.
I reconciled myself to the possibility that it had fallen out of the A4 slim pick wallet when I had paid my rent at the bank on Tuesday, so I made time to go up to Stratford to ask if they had seen it. And I used the phone number on one of the documents I had found to call a service centre and ask if they could post the form out again.
They told me that I needed to go to my nearest Job Centre with two pieces of ID (including something with my address on it) and ask them to run a search. I did that, and the folk at Leytonstone Job Centre told me that I would have to return the next day, fill in a form and they would still only run the search if I was either working or if I had an offeer of work. This frustrated me. If I already had employment coming, I wouldn’t have time to make appointments, fill in forms or sit around while dedicated staff ran searches.
I did learn that my NI No. would also be on a plastic card, which usually arrived between four and eight weeks after the letter I had mislaid. But I couldn’t wait that long. I really needed that number because I wanted to take it to my agencies as soon as possible, but more than that I wanted to silence the voice inside me calling me a fuckup, as mentioned above.
In a ‘What Would Robin Hobb Do?’ moment, I reminded myself of the advice that Burrich the Stablemaster gave to Fitz, the protagonist somewhere in the Farseer Trilogy: ‘The fight ain’t over till you’ve won.’
And I was going to beat this Personal Demon.
I kept cleaning my room. I found more envelopes and payslips and bankslips and the like. I looked under clothes, magazines and anything else that would camoflage the envelope I was looking for. I even applied my Personal Finding Strategy for Finding Stuff That Refuses to be Found: look where you know that it won’t be. Chances are, that’s where it will be.
Some time late Friday afternoon I grabbed one of my white wifebeater vests from my cupboard, when I realised that underneath them was a couple of bits and pieces I hadn’t properly examined. In the pile was some comic books issues, some more banking crap, a map of Brighton and Hove (hmm, would have come in useful last Tuesday). And my NI Number. On a white sheet of A4, in a BROWN envelope (funny how the mind plays tricks on you).
I couldn’t believe it. Not letting go of the piece of paper, I copied the number into my A4 Diary, then I filed the letter in the Box File.
“In your face, personal demon!’ I cheered in my head. ‘This hopeless loser has found what he lost! I’d like to that Robin Hobb for the sweeping motto delivered by a stubborn fictional character that gave me the tunnel vision I needed to find this, I’d like to thank the staff of the Leytonstone Job Centre for being bureaucratic and obtuse when I could have really used a quick solution, but most of all I’d like to thank my own tenacity and dogged determination to find this pesky piece of paper, hammering some long-overdue kinks out of my life in the process.”
Of course, later I would arrive at the Underworld, having totally missed the set by Hilary’s band (Jason Arrives Late Demon) and later still I would realise that while I was sitting at home watching House on Thursday Night, I should have been at Cthulu Rising, an event involving readings, art and a lecture by my friend Dr Patricia MacCormack all centred around HP Lovecraft (Jason didn’t read his diary and thus totally forgot to go to an event he had been planning to attend for weeks Demon).
So I still have work to do and Demons to slay. Mental note: make demon list. Keep it light. Maybe draw demons. Then slay them.
Anyways, I am proud that the ‘Jason’s Important Documents are in a Shocking State of Disarray and He Really Should Know Better Demon’ is down for the count. And not a minute before time. Of course, I’ll have to be vigilant to make sure that he doesn’t rise again, but a ritual banishing of loose documents into the Box of Eternal Organisation should keep Total Disaster Manifestations of this type at bay.
A strange postscript to this personal journey occurred this morning.
I’d arrived home with quietly mixed feelings. Roughly okay, just above melancholic. Blondie on my iPod washing away most of a black cloud brewing inside me. I might explain more at some other point.
In any case, I was packing away some groceries I had bought on the way home when I heard the mail slot creak. Two envelopes had come through. One for my Landlady, and a brown envelope addressed to me.
Inside was a letter from HM Revenue and Customs. Attached was a blue plastic card with my NI# punched through, like on an old bank card. I put the card straight into my slimmed down wallet (I had cleaned all the superfluous crap out of it last night) and filed the letter in the Box with the rest of the government stuff.
It might just be sleep deprivation, but times like this I confess I do feel the hand of a higher power, the one that sends you messages and lessons when it thinks you are ready to receive them (this is in no way intended to diminish the very real people in my life who frequently help me out in very tangible ways).
For now I am musing on the lesson/message that said higher power has sent me this time.
***
Other news: it isn’t confirmed yet, but the acting editor of Fasterlouder.com.au has just offered me a Face to Face interview with AFI next month. Of course, it does have to do with me being the only FL scribe on the ground in London, but I’m sure the five reviews I put in over the last four weeks hasn’t hurt either.
I’m pretty stoked.
***
Post Post Scriptum:
After sitting down and writing this somewhat overly expositional Hey-Look-I'm-getting-my-shit-together piece, I stepped outside with the my USB Key in my pocket, but without my phone or my door keys.
I haven't done that in a year.
Since I've been doing bar-bells my forearms are too stocky to fit through the mail-slot enough for me to flip the latch.
I think this is going on the list...
***
Making an Long Post even Longer:
The weird mood I mentioned was due to a combination of things. Sometimes I just feel lonely, like no-one understands me etc. Emo bullshit, but sometimes it gets to me.
Getting to The Underworld and completely missing the Adastreia set was a sure mood suck. Hilary is never impressed when I'm late. I shouldn't care, but it just seems such bad form.
The members of To-mera gave me free beer (some of which was from the Adastreia rider), and lightweight that I am, I got surprisingly tipsy scandalously fast and might have said some stuff I shouldn't have to various people. Nothing really bad springs to mind, just the post tipsy suspicion that I was way more obnoxious than I thought I was.
Still, I had a great conversation with Tom from To Mera. And Julia took one look at me and asked if I had any more clever suggestions for the name of their first album. It's flattering to be remembered, even if she did later call me weird (Julia is Hungarian, and I suspect she was looking for a different word... maybe).
I didn't actually watch most of Epica's set, because the Underworld was so densely packed that I couldn't actually see anything without craning my neck. As such, I felt really disconnected. And Epic Goth Metal is the kind of music that really sucks unless you in a position to be swept up.
I did manage to get confirmation that my tall friend Alex is in fact Alexander Milas from Kerrang.
And trying to explain Gabba to the keyboard player in ToMera while still half cut was amusing.
Not to mention running into Hai Fung, the metal loving vietnamese law-student (I haven't seen him since Paradise Lost, I think).
After the show I met up with Hilary, Nick and Nick's flatmate Liam. Nick and Liam are currently obsessed with the first two Godfather movies. Hilary disapproves and doesn't understand their constant quoting. I tried to explain to her that it is a male thing, and that girls will just never understand why the Godfather is great. She disagreed.
Ordinarily I don't agree with the whole Boy-Thing/Girl-Thing dichotomy. I know girls that love Grand Theft Auto (not mentioning any names, Elea), and I personally hate football and love black and white love-story movies.
But The Godfather is different. It operates at a chromosomal level, because the themes twisted into the two movies are about Paternal-Filial relationships, the bond between father and son.
I could have argued the point, but I wasn't in the mood to argue, so I just joined in on the Godfather Quoting. (Towards the end of the night I did miss out on a great chance for a 'Why you always got to hurt me? You know I've been loyal?' but I didn't think of it til later.)
Anways, a bus ride took us from Camden to King's Cross, to Synthetic Culture.
Synthetic Culture: Lots of dancing. Chatted to a Red-haired, blue-eyed German girl, then lost her in the crowd. Found her again as she was leaving. Chatted to some nascent metal girls about the best live bands we've seen. They had a high opinion of Avenged Sevenfold, but we all agreed that Dillinger Escape Plan are amazing (frankly, that's just a given, and anyone who disagrees doesn't know what a good live band is.)
Danced more.
Hilary, Nick and Liam bugged out early. Lightweights.
I stayed til the end, mostly because that meant I could ride the tube home.
Felt a little lonely, did too much thinking at the club. Thinking too much can be dangerous for me in certain company and situations. If I start thinking wrong I start to mope. Must not mope. Must never mope.
Came home meaning to write one thing and wound up writing the story that heads this post.
And what a long post it is.
I've been here a while. Hopefully somebody can let me into the flat now.
So I'm going to post this and be damned.
Over and out again.
J
posted by the.exile at 11:59 am
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