Okay, so no Keane. They have decided to cancel their concert in Princes Street Gardens on account of exhaustion. Big bunch of girls. I prefer Snow Patrol anyway - so there!
This week has been busy but not necessarily with anything particularly exciting. For that reason I should probably stop this entry right here. But I won't because, well, it's never stopped me in the past and I'm here now - writing stuff.
Work has been good. Very busy, which keeps my mind off fun things and my eyes off the clock. I've designed a suite of posters to promote the marketing department internally. I wanted to get across the idea that the department now had the staff and the time to do some proper marketing. That we are 'open for business again', so to speak.
The first poster I came up with said 'Back again' with a nice smiley picture of Jesus. I loved it and think Jesus is an underused marketing tool in the financial services sector. However, I opted for self-censorship and relegated 'Jesu' to my drawer. He has now been replaced by Dirty Den in one poster and Bobby from Dallas in another. Quality.
I was asked to come up with some creative ideas for a short movie file promoting pensions. I'm actually quite excited about this, which is now depressing me. How bad must it be when I'm excited by pensions? I think I'll go slash my wrists with my Coldplay CD. (Repeat to self: my job pays the bills!)
Leanne and I had dinner at David Bann on Tuesday night. It was so good we didn't bother going to see a Festival show as planned. Instead, we ordered the Amaretto Marscarpone cheesecake and took our time over it. It was an excellent night made more so by the realisation that food, wine and chat with a good friend is preferable to a professional comedian.
On Thursday evening, I endured my first hockey training session. Two hours, three minor injuries and a static wheeze later I hobbled home. Truly knackered, I immediately drew a hot bubble bath and indulged my desperate muscles. Hopefully, the addition of fitness training on Tuesdays will mean the sessions get easier. I live in hope.
I treated myself to an afternoon showing of 'Easy Living' at the Filmhouse during my lunch hour on Friday. I expected it to be quite empty, but Cinema 1 was rammed. It was top-quality screwball and I loved every minute of it. When the boy and the girl get together at the end, his long disapproving father gives him a job. He tells the girl she has a job too - "cooking my breakfast." What a proposal! I returned to work in a delightful mood for the rest of the day.
The office summer BBQ on Friday night was really quite pish. It was pouring with rain, there was a poor turnout, I was about the only one dancing and I left my umbrella in the club at the end of the night.
Saturday was much better. Another great film at the Filmhouse (The Laughing Policeman) and dinner with Sinead afterwards. I was ravenous and longing for a steak, so we eventually ended up at the Smokestack in Leith. My medium-rare fillet steak and chips went down an absolute treat. We chatted deeply for hours until we realised that Sinead might miss the last train. A taxi to Waverely meant she was just in time for her rowdy journey home.
Today I depressed myself by reading all about the Horn of Africa. (How much for that Russian AK-47? Why sir, that'll set you back three cows. And the US M-16? Oh, that'll be five cows. Well I'll take that then since there's no vegetaion to feed my cows and an M-16 will do a better job of shifting the 6,000 desperate souls who are sleeping on my football field-sized plot of land. Maybe it'll convince them to head for the port and try to secure passage to the Yemen in a death-trap steel container on a rickety ship that's likely to sink with the loss of all life before the appearance of the Yemeni officials forces the smugglers to toss their human cargo into the carnivore-infested waters or maybe they'll join me in a war with the Ethiopians across the desert. That Bin Laden guy sure speaks a lot of sense.) It's a mire of such complete desolate hopelessness that I don't think there's even the hint of a solution. Governments aren't talking about it - not so much because they don't care (which they don't), but more so because their shocking impotence would be laid bare for all to see. The Middle East is child's play compared to this.
But that's too depressing a note on which to end this entry. Sinead said to me last night: "When something doesn't go to plan, people have a tendency to set themselves in a pessimistic frame of mind. They think things can only ever be worse, but a lot of the time things turn out better than they could have imagined." From the long list of personal success stories I've been acquiring, I know that's true. She was talking in the context of a personal issue rather than a global one, but it would be pretty damn skippy if the world got a break too.
Showing posts with label Jesus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jesus. Show all posts
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Monday, April 10, 2006
My dead beat life
Yesterday I did something really cool and interesting. I spent two hours exploring Warriston cemetery.
Now I realise that this might not be everyone's cup of chai, but I have always loved cemeteries. Yes, I am still in possession of a morbid fascination with death. Yes, even more so if it's an exciting/intriguing death. And yes, especially so if the death involves someone of position/breeding/fame/notoriety. A combination of all four and someone better fetch the smelling salts.
It's been my intention to visit Warriston cemetery for a good few years now, and for a number of reasons. The cemetery dates from 1843 so it's old, but not so old that the writing on the headstones is illegible. It's like 20 minutes' walk from my flat. It's not too vast and the layout makes for an interesting amble. But best of all, it plays host to the remains of James Young Simpson (Mr Anaesthesia himself), the John Menzies, a recipient of the Victoria Cross and at least one Count. Pretty cool huh?
I arrived at the cemetery gates around 11am, pushed them open and walked in. The sun was shining brightly and thus lessened the fright factor of my being the only person in there. I spent the next two hours walking around the upper part of the cemetery. The lower part of the cemetery has been particularly neglected/vandalised with severely overgrown grass in some areas and almost total erosion in others. There's a cool gothic style railway bridge at one end of the cemetery through which I've been told the Leith Railway used to run.
There are many reasons why I find cemeteries so damn fascinating; from the differing styles of headstones, through the make-up of families and the ages at which people died. One of the main differences between pre and post war headstones is in how people are measured or remembered. For instance, If I died tomorrow and my headstone were being prepared it would probably read something like this:
Pretty darn boring isn't it? But seriously, that's the way most modern headstones are written. What use is that to the historians of tomorrow I ask you? Future scenario:
My esteemed colleagues, from my research into the history of Edinburgh in the early part of the millennium I have discovered that people lived on average to approximately 82 years of age. A significant number were the sole occupants of the grave. Of those graves interring two or more people, a significant number were of the same sex or heterosexual couplings not sharing the same surname. And that ... er ... is all.
Now, you may recall my entry on the lack of burial space (see 'No room to bury-all). Well, if this is all we have to say about ourselves we should have no complaint at being ground into murky dust and funneled into a cheap and nasty urn. We certainly don't deserve to fester beneath a slab of marble if we (or our relatives) can't think of something a little more interesting and worthwhile to say. I accept the point that some people just don't have anything to say and all that can be hoped for them is that they are truly mortified by their boring headstone and decide to do it differently in the next life.
Now that's more like it. Lot more poetic, wee bit more to say for myself. Except it wouldn't say that at all. Oh no. For I am but a humble woman.
That was one of the other things I noticed as I wandered round the cemetery. Women were defined only by their husbands or fathers and, on occasion, by their husbands and their fathers. I know it shouldn't surprise me and it really doesn't (in fact, that hat is so old it was last seen atop someone riding a penny farthing), but it still jumped out and smacked me on the head. The men were risen to lofty heights, not on account of any academic or social achievements particularly, but by their jobs. Which begs the question, why don't people mention their jobs these days?
And the answer to that is because jobs today are really shit and even more boring than they are shit. And what do they really say about us anyway? My job says nothing about me (other than possibly that I'm a corporate whore just doing it for the money). As I wandered round Warriston I spotted at least five writers to the Signet. I want to be a writer to the Signet (well maybe, if I really knew what it was and the pension scheme was attractive enough. Oh yeah, and they offered subsidised lunches). There was also buried a 'Poet and Essayist'. I've written loads of poems and more than my fair share of essays - can I have that written on my headstone? One guy was even the auditor for the East Indian Imperial Railway or something!
Which leads me to the following point. Colonialism had its faults, I won't argue with you there. And the vast majority of it was undoubtedly wanky nonsense, but hell, at least they had cool job titles and something a little more interesting to say on their headstones.
If nothing else, colonialism has made history more interesting, which in turn brightens up many a cemetery.
(Tune in next week for the silver linings of the Holocaust.)
Now I realise that this might not be everyone's cup of chai, but I have always loved cemeteries. Yes, I am still in possession of a morbid fascination with death. Yes, even more so if it's an exciting/intriguing death. And yes, especially so if the death involves someone of position/breeding/fame/notoriety. A combination of all four and someone better fetch the smelling salts.
It's been my intention to visit Warriston cemetery for a good few years now, and for a number of reasons. The cemetery dates from 1843 so it's old, but not so old that the writing on the headstones is illegible. It's like 20 minutes' walk from my flat. It's not too vast and the layout makes for an interesting amble. But best of all, it plays host to the remains of James Young Simpson (Mr Anaesthesia himself), the John Menzies, a recipient of the Victoria Cross and at least one Count. Pretty cool huh?
I arrived at the cemetery gates around 11am, pushed them open and walked in. The sun was shining brightly and thus lessened the fright factor of my being the only person in there. I spent the next two hours walking around the upper part of the cemetery. The lower part of the cemetery has been particularly neglected/vandalised with severely overgrown grass in some areas and almost total erosion in others. There's a cool gothic style railway bridge at one end of the cemetery through which I've been told the Leith Railway used to run.
There are many reasons why I find cemeteries so damn fascinating; from the differing styles of headstones, through the make-up of families and the ages at which people died. One of the main differences between pre and post war headstones is in how people are measured or remembered. For instance, If I died tomorrow and my headstone were being prepared it would probably read something like this:
In loving memory of Lisa
Born 20/10/1979
Died 10/04/2006
(insert some religious passage (or preferably) amusing epitaph)
Pretty darn boring isn't it? But seriously, that's the way most modern headstones are written. What use is that to the historians of tomorrow I ask you? Future scenario:
My esteemed colleagues, from my research into the history of Edinburgh in the early part of the millennium I have discovered that people lived on average to approximately 82 years of age. A significant number were the sole occupants of the grave. Of those graves interring two or more people, a significant number were of the same sex or heterosexual couplings not sharing the same surname. And that ... er ... is all.
Now, you may recall my entry on the lack of burial space (see 'No room to bury-all). Well, if this is all we have to say about ourselves we should have no complaint at being ground into murky dust and funneled into a cheap and nasty urn. We certainly don't deserve to fester beneath a slab of marble if we (or our relatives) can't think of something a little more interesting and worthwhile to say. I accept the point that some people just don't have anything to say and all that can be hoped for them is that they are truly mortified by their boring headstone and decide to do it differently in the next life.
The way that families chose to allude to the death of their loved one was also interesting. One headstone said: 'who departed this life to be with Christ', which is somewhat misleading as it makes it sound like she had a choice in the matter. Or maybe she did and it's really some Victorian euphemism for the fact that she committed suicide, which would count as an exciting/intriguing death. Bonus. Another grave had the truly bizarre phrasing: 'who fell asleep in Christ.' Hell, if the whole J.C. and Mary Magdalene thing caused a stooshie, then this could blow the roof right off. I'm calling Dan Brown right now. Forget 'What if God was one of us?', start singing 'What if God was really gay. Couldn't help it, was just his way. Just a man who couldn't say. Trying to find a true love, not just a doctor with a glove, someone who'd prefer to go above, or maybe do it with a dove.' I swear, if I wasn't already there I'd be going striaght to Hell.
Anyway, taking all that into account, if I had died in, hmm ... let's say, 1927. This is what my headstone would probably declare:
MA (Hons), Marketing Communications Consultant.
Born on the twentieth day of October in the year of our lord nineteen hundred and two.
Died on the tenth day of April in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and twenty seven as a result of coughing blood into a handkerchief following contraction of the galloping consumption.
May wing-ed angelorum speed you to the arms of Christ and forever hold you safe in sleep.
Now that's more like it. Lot more poetic, wee bit more to say for myself. Except it wouldn't say that at all. Oh no. For I am but a humble woman.
That was one of the other things I noticed as I wandered round the cemetery. Women were defined only by their husbands or fathers and, on occasion, by their husbands and their fathers. I know it shouldn't surprise me and it really doesn't (in fact, that hat is so old it was last seen atop someone riding a penny farthing), but it still jumped out and smacked me on the head. The men were risen to lofty heights, not on account of any academic or social achievements particularly, but by their jobs. Which begs the question, why don't people mention their jobs these days?
And the answer to that is because jobs today are really shit and even more boring than they are shit. And what do they really say about us anyway? My job says nothing about me (other than possibly that I'm a corporate whore just doing it for the money). As I wandered round Warriston I spotted at least five writers to the Signet. I want to be a writer to the Signet (well maybe, if I really knew what it was and the pension scheme was attractive enough. Oh yeah, and they offered subsidised lunches). There was also buried a 'Poet and Essayist'. I've written loads of poems and more than my fair share of essays - can I have that written on my headstone? One guy was even the auditor for the East Indian Imperial Railway or something!
Which leads me to the following point. Colonialism had its faults, I won't argue with you there. And the vast majority of it was undoubtedly wanky nonsense, but hell, at least they had cool job titles and something a little more interesting to say on their headstones.
If nothing else, colonialism has made history more interesting, which in turn brightens up many a cemetery.
(Tune in next week for the silver linings of the Holocaust.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)