Yawn

Why oh why did i wake at 0600 when I don't have to go to work today? I'm on leave, goddamit: I've been looking forward to a lie-in for WEEKS, and instead I've been laid out, gawping at the ceiling for half an hour.

I am not good at inactivity. This may seem an amusing contradiction to many of my friends and colleagues who have come to know and love my tendency to put things off until the last minute (see posts passim) but I'm never doing nothing. I'm just doing something I enjoy rather than things I find tedious, irrelevant and frankly, disagreeable.

What i can't do is waste time. Buses? Standing still, waiting, is a waste. I'll walk the stops. Sitting in a meeting room, small talking, until everyone arrives? Wasted time. I'm there on the dot, with papers to read if I've not managed to be last. And as for laying stationary, trying to figure out if the cracks on the roof of the bedroom are getting longer: sod that, I'm up, tea-toting and finding something to do.

But the painful truth is that there really is nothing on my list of things to do that I can crack on with at this time of the morning with out straying dangerously close to an ASBO. I'm also suffering from an excess of energy brought out by an early night and - quite possibly - having huffed the remnants of yesterday's creosote odessey when I walked past the kitchen. (For the record, I don't recall cleaning brushes with white spirit being so much fun - That's now my job). And this is despite an attack of my kappa-clad neighbours singing (SINGING) at 3am.

So here I am, tapping away at this post, which doesn't really say anything, and doesn't really serve any purpose. But it does mean that I've passed the last 10 minutes producing something rather than passively soaking up nonsensical TV dross. And in two hours time I can do something worthwhile. Like turn on the lawnmower and piss off the neighbours.

Te-Riff-Ic #9

Hell. Yeah.

Panic over. First voicemail message was from consultant wondering why not returned messages from a week ago (Answer: not received) and where the promised strategy document has gotten to? (Answer: most of weekend working on it).

One short cross-leggedly panicked moment later, the next message started: It's the client asking me to call as all plans have changed.

Third Message: consultant, again, asking me to call as client has changed mind and needs to sound me out about changes to various campaigns.

And all two hundred and sixty-four emails are system messages which have somehow replicated itself backwards and.

Only one thing for it:

Prevarication Redux

Early start today. Very early start. 0530, to be exact. No particular reason, annoyingly. Meandered my way into office at 0830.

There are three messages waiting on my voicemail. And 264 new emails in my (already cramped) inbox. Bodes this well? No.

I have been staring at the little red blinking light for 25 minutes now. I have done everything I can think of to put off picking up the messages.

So, in an attempt to punctuate the end of this period of buggering about - and in tribute to their re-emergence at Reading this weekend...

When Google Ads Attack #2

Hmmph.

Karma, it seems, has a sense of humour.

Acid Reflux. ----->

Brilliant.

Te-Riff-Ic #8

Have spend the bulk of today head down in a mahoosive and very technical document, attempting to turn it into something approaching the English language. This has, frankly, scrambled what little brains I have left to me.

So in tribute to the weekend, my Friday-frazzle and the fact I’m feeling a like I’ve been been in school all day – a glorious belter of swaggering Americana to see you into the evening.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you… the mighty, mighty Stray Cats

Te-Riff-Ic #7

This post is being laboriously, and rather painfully, pecked out.

Following a fairly comic tumble down some stairs year before last, I am saddled with a duff back. One rogue vertebrae has turned my spine into an axis of evil.

Fuck me, that was a crowbar-job. Moving on...

As alluded to in yesterday's hasty effort, I am struggling with keyboards - right now a nerve thing is being pinched between two bone things and removing the feeling from several finger things of my right hand.

This is less than ideal. I am just back from the doctor, who is very kindly sending me off to hospital for scans. It's at times like this that I remember why I stopped freelancing.

Anyway, in tribute to my hooky skeletal system, here's a little track which pops into my head now and again -the opening phrase in particular. The (again, tenuous) link with my current predicament its source album, which sports a very Ameriteen Skeleton on its cover, titled Smash.

Oh come on... at least a few points for effort?

Pebbledash and Piffle

Just have to make a quick post, despite fact am not supposed to be using a keyboard (more on that at a later date).

I am filing this architectural soliloquy under W for 'Wank'. The typos have been retained for spite's sake.

'It is the culimination of the proceses her practice has been exploring throgh projects such as the Phaeno Centre, the BMW building, and the Centre for Contemporary Arts in Rome. Traditional architectural elements are dissolved, the arrangement of spaces determined by the composition. Form follows function is an antiquated concept these days, but here function is a mere conceit. Form follows more form.Form rides everything is where parametric modelling leads - an aesthetic darwinism of evolved appearances. You can see it in almost every project to come form the DRL at the AA, the farm team for Zaha Hadid Architects, and where Patrik Schumacher teaches.With this project, walls and roof are united into a sleek 'hull', transformed by parametric process which warped slice and skew the form into a sensuous, sinuous form that rises and twists it's way across the dunes. The sheer beauty of the renderings is breathtaking. I want to inhabit its spaces (virtually). I want to fly through it. I want to explore its surface, its textures and materials. But I have no intention of visiting it.'

http://www.superspatial.com/2008/06/015-night-at-opera.html