Last seen – Positivus.

A young teenager spends his days busking on the main tourist street in Vilnius. He is dedicated and persistent. He is also awful. For the three days I was in Vilnius I only ever heard him play one song, very badly. Auld Lang Syne dribbled out of his recorder at various tempos, none at which it was ever meant to be played. The old adage that practice makes perfect was definitely not on display here.

On my first day in Vilnius I wandered through the Basilian gates and was quickly intercepted by a man. Before he even spoke I new instantly that he wanted money, which is something I’ve never been instantly good at giving. He cycled through a few languages before it became clear that english was the only one that worked. Dabbing his dry eyes with a tissue he pleaded with me to pay for his hospital bills. Confused and defensive I instantly refused. He then lifted up his pants and revealed his right leg. It was very swollen and completely bandaged from knee to ankle. Next he started pulling the bandages off. Underneath was a rotting and grotesque piece of human flesh. It was pitted with open seeping wounds. Shocked and completely uncomfotable I again refused and quickly walked away. As I turned my back he told me to go and fuck myself. I had only been in Vilnius a few hours.

Back at my hostel I asked about this unsettling encounter. In my mind and through my experience I couldn’t believe that the injury was real. Lithuania was not a third world country with an inadequte health care system. But if the injury turned out to be genuine and he was unable to get it treated then I was honestly thinking about taking him to the hospital and paying the cost. A cost which if he was to be believed was less than $100. As it turns out the injury was real, but his motive for money was false. The hostel employee rolled her eyes as soon as I mentioned the man. He has lived in the town for many years and has had the injury for a long time. All the locals know him. But instead of getting his injury fixed he uses it to fleece tourists of money. The hostel lady alleged that this money is then used for drugs. I was also informed that not only is begging illegal but giving money to a beggar is also illegal and would result in a fine if I was caught. His con was very well practiced, if only he’d spent his time using a recorder instead.

My sympathy and empathy levels are pretty low at the moment. Completely non-existent for people who exploit their injuries as this guy did. It was shortly after this encounter that I named the two newly independent bodies floating around in my knees. I’ve had a few weeks to get to know them now. Ninja HI! lives in my left knee and attacks with speed and precision. Ninja HI! attacks me when I least expect it and leaves me stumbling and panting for breath. Ploddy lives in my right knee and politely always gives me a moments notice before he wedges himself between my joints. Ploddy is stubborn and will stay in my joint for long periods of time. I have gotten used to the uncomfortable pressure he exerts when plodding through my joint. If Ploddy causes too much pain I am able to shake him out. But Ploddy being Ploddy he always finds his way back pretty soon. Combined, Ninja HI! and Ploddy are making traveling for a month more difficult than I would have hoped. Planes, trains, buses, lack of sleep, to much partying and not enough rehabilitate exercise has also meant that my damaged nerve is playing up badly. I am a picture of health.

Today I’m heading off to a two day music festival. I will be camping and it’s pretty wet. Due to my health problems I almost didn’t go. But like Ploddy I’m a stubborn bastard.

Riga is having a summer music festival in the city at the moment. When I get back here in a few days I intend to buy a recorder and try my luck.

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Sticky!

Earlier today while wondering through central London I visited a specialty liquor store and purchased a beautiful bottle of honey vodka. As of yet I’ve been unable to find it in Australia. The proprietor wrapped it nicely and then handed it to me in a plastic bag. The intention was to bring it back to Sydney with me, although secretly I doubted it would survive that long.

Within 2hrs the bottle was empty. A large portion of it is now spread between Selfridges in Tottenham court rd and Green park tube station. As I left Selfridges my bag brushed gently against the door. I am still dumbfounded that this could have broken the bottle, but nothing else of consequence happened.

It was while waiting for a train that I noticed a puddle forming beside me. This discovery and my subsequent confused and jerky arm waving led to my feet and hands being covered in vodka. My jumper, which had been with the bag is now crawling around on the floor with no pants and slurring its words.

I am ashamed to say that my first desperate thought was how to save the remaining golden liquid that was still sloshing around in the bottom of the defective dipping plastic bag. After a quick vote and subsequent tally of the results my mouth was selected as the most viable replacement receptacle.

I did start to lift the bag in preparation, but whether it was the judgement I feared from the occupants of the crowded tube station or the niggling feeling that shards of glass didn’t feature in the food pyramid, I somehow resisted the impulse beaten into me since my uni days – ‘GOON, SHERRY OR PASSION POP, THOU SHALT NOT WASTE A DROP!’.

Defeated, I sought out a tube employee and enquired as to where the closest bin was. She informed me that there wasn’t one and then kindly pointed out that my bag was dripping.

Taking stock – living with injury

The pain was excruciating. I collapsed to the ground as the soccer game came to an abrupt and confused halt around me. An ambulance was called. Unable to bear my own weight I was lifted onto a stretcher and rolled into the vehicle. Due to bad advice, a lack of information and a deficient public health care system my recovery was slow. As a result, within a few months I found myself on a surgeon’s table. At fifteen I had my first knee operation. The surgeon decided to perform a lateral release while he was poking around in there. A lateral release is now considered by many surgeons as an outdated and barbaric form of torture.

Hindsight and experience have made me extremely bitter about my first knee operation. A scared and confused young kid just needed good advice and physiotherapy to fully recover. The operation was completely unnecessary.

The pass was fast and accurate. I snatched the ball from the air, landed, pivoted and prepared to shoot. An explosion of pain radiated out from my left knee. My opposing team member had failed to stop in time. The angle of impact was such that his weight forced my knee to dislocate. As I stumbled in pain to the side of the court I promised my team that everything would be ok and I’d be back on in a few minutes. A few minutes later it was clear that I was full of shit.

That evening, while massaging my sore and swollen knee I felt solid floating pieces flicking out and moving around under the pressure of my fingers. I had shattered something in my knee. The follow day I had a snowboarding trip booked with my housemate. Fully aware that I’d already need a knee operation I decided against all common sense to still go. My good friend had an articulated metal knee brace that I borrowed. An oft-prescribed medical treatment for new injuries is R-I-C-E (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation). I figured I had these four elements pretty much covered. I rested my leg on the 3hrs drive there and back as well as on the chair lifts. I was surrounded by ice – like all day! I had a heavy duty knee brace that offered good compression. And the elevation was a bit of a no brainer, being up a mountain and all. A lot of painkillers helped as well. I survived the day intact.

My operation was booked with a Canberra surgeon. We had set the date two weeks before I was to go on a trip through South East Asia. My surgeon assured me how simple the operation would be and that I’d be fine for my holiday. I would be walking unassisted out of the hospital… Not quite… I woke up in a full leg brace. When the surgeon eventually visited me he stood as far from my bed as he could. There had been a complication. While day dreaming about his golf game later in the day (I am not kidding about the golf game) he slipped and cut something that was not meant to be cut. My meniscus then needed to be sown back up. After the surgeon had dropped his bombshell and hurriedly left (his caddy in toe) I broke down, crying uncontrollably. The following morning, the nurse leaving me naked and helpless in the hospital bathroom is, well, is an embarrassing story for another time.

Five weeks in a full leg brace with no weight loading on my leg and over a year in rehab to build my leg muscle back up was the result of my surgeons simple slip. Suffice to say I never made my holiday, a holiday I had paid for in full. No refund was given, although after I expressed my anger very vocally at my surgeon he was kind enough to lower his fee.

Two years later my right knee finally got sick of having to do all the heavy lifting and gave in. This time I did a lot of research on surgeons and found a fantastic one in Sydney. I treated it like a project to manage. I took emotion out of the equation. The surgeon was impressed by the damage I had done. I had shattered the underneath of my kneecap. He removed over twenty floating pieces. I limped out of the hospital. I was driving my car the next day. I was back at work within a week. And, in the recovery process I completely forgot how to run.

Because the damage was under my knee cap and a lot of the cartilage shock absorber had been removed this meant that running was very painful. My brain’s natural protection mode was to disengage my quad muscle to prevent the pain, resulting in my leg buckling everytime I tried to run. Eventually I went to see a physio who trained me how to run again. Running is something that most people take for granted. The concept of having to re-teach my body to run again was a very strange experience.

Two years later I hurt my right knee again. This time from standing up from a chair. A frayed piece of cartilage was sheared off. This piece would get stuck in the joint when I walked, causing horrible sharp pain. After my last knee operation my surgeon had warned me that I may need a clean up operation in a few years due to the extensive damage I had done. I was in London at the time and quickly discovered how deficient the English health care system could be. It would be at least four to six months to get an appointment with a surgeon and at least six months after that for surgery. I had an upcoming trip home to Australia for a wedding. I rang my previous surgeon in Sydney and booked in my operation during the week I was visiting the east coast. Upon arriving in Australia I visited a GP to get the necessary referral for an operation I had already organised.

These are images from my right knee arthroscopy in 2010. The soft fibrous parts in these photos are signs of degenerative damage. These areas are meant to be smooth. Unfortunately this is not repairable.

My recovery from this operation was strange. Each day I was waking up in more pain. My calf muscle was in agony and seemed to be getting worse. Walking was getting harder. I contacted my surgeon and he demanded that I immediately have scans to check for a blood clot. What I was describing was an emergency situation. If it was a blood clot it could easily travel to my brain.

A lot of money and stress later it turned out that my calf muscle had been torn in surgery. This was supposedly not an uncommon occurrence. Although how this happened I am sure has more to do with the doctor and nurses bending my legs over my head and taking photos of me in compromising positions while I was unconscious…

Within a week I was on a plane to China. Injections of Clexane (a blood thinner) and wearing sexy circulation socks were required to ensure that I didn’t actually develop a clot during the flight. I wasn’t allowed to sleep either. It was a terrible journey. When I arrived in Hong Kong my lower calf and foot were swollen and bruised black. Keeping calm took all my mental capacity.

A week into my China trip I visited a famous Chinese doctor who sucked the bad blood out of my leg. This was an excruciating experience in which she hammered hundreds of holes into the bruised area and then used bamboo cups to suck the blood out. I cried a little bit. I’m still doubtful that this was beneficial at all.

Over the next few days the simple joy of hiring a bicycle and riding around Yangshou, then later climbing to the top of Emei mountain and walking one of the harder stretches of the great wall of China within weeks of my operation was liberating. Probably also slightly stupid… Conversely the most humiliating and horrible experiences in China revolved around squat toilets. Never for an instant did this factor into my planning, but it became one of the biggest challenges of my trip as I was unable to squat at all. Overnight trains were the worst due to the movement and lack of cleanliness. In some instances sitting directly on top of the crude hole was my only option. Thank god for hand sanitizer.

Since my last operation in 2010 I have regular scares with my knees and sometime have severe pain that can last weeks. I’m highly restricted in what I can do and always have problems with my right knee. The energetic dance moves of my early twenties are a distant memory and quietly I am resigned to the fact that eventually I will damage one of my knees enough again that I’ll require another operation. It’s a depressing mental state, but a reality that I live with. A goal of 2011 was to be able to run again. I missed my target by two months but I am now able to jog short distances. I also still snowboard as often as I can.

Fast forward to March 2012 and I find myself struggling with a completely different but equally debilitating injury. After moving back to Australia in mid 2011 I quickly found myself fulltime employed and working 50-60 hr weeks in a stressful environment. A combination of severely bad ergonomics, long hours, static position and poor posture culminated in an injury I am struggling to deal with. Each time I have damaged my knee its been a clear case of having an operation followed by physio, exercise and a easily trackable graph of recovery.

It started with my wrists becoming very painful while working. Over the years I’ve had wrist problems from repetitive strain injuries but never both at the same time and never both acting up so badly. I’ve also managed my wrist pain pretty well over the years. But then the pain moved into a localised area in my left forearm muscle. Initially I ignored this and continued working through it. In my weekends it would get better and I’d be fine for work again the following week. My wrists started to settle down but my forearm muscle pain got worse. Then it hit a threshold and my left arm became virtually unusable. This was accompanied by strange nerve sensations down my left arm. By this stage I was seeing a doctor, a specialist, a physio and a chiro. It became a work cover issue within a month of onset. By the end of December I was getting shooting electric shocks down both arms and was struggling to work. I was still on probation at my new job and was highly stressed about this fact. Soon I was reduced to only 5hrs a day of work. Even this proved difficult.

As time progressed I was getting more and more muscle problems with my right forearm as well, although the nerve sensations were mostly limited to my left arm. This injury affected every aspect of my life. Simple daily tasks became harder. Shopping baskets hurt to carry so I used trolleys and carried home everything in a backpack. Using my laptop at home became painful. Doing a lot of other normal activities now seemed like too much hard work or would aggravate the problem. Drinking more alcohol and sitting on the couch watching TV became default. I was more withdrawn and less social. I found acknowledging the injury at work hard, especially as I was still on probation. I needed my job but through my job I had sustained this injury and by continuing at my job I was ensuring that it would take longer to heal.

Now five months into having a damaged nerve it’s clear that getting better is a long way off. Consistently I am having more ‘better’ days, but for every good day I still have a lot of bad ones. In the past few months I have spent more time seeing and being treated by specialists and professional in relevant fields than at any other time in my life. The worst part has been the mental strain and depression. I am rethinking my entire career. I’m trying to comprehend how at 31 I am meant to spend the next 30 to 40 years of my life working in this industry if I am having these problems at such a young age. The growing realisation that I sustained this injury while doing something I no longer feel any connection with, nor have passion or love for is sobering – and it’s been hard to sober me up lately. I am now stuck in a position where leaving my current job would be pure stupidity as I am being supported very well by my work and also by the government’s work injury scheme. Yet at the same time it is only when I am working in that environment that my symptoms and pain significantly flare up. And it is only when I am away from that environment and work that my symptoms dissipate. Each and every doctor, specialist and treating physician I have seen have all quietly informed me on the side that at the least I should be entertaining the possibility of a new job if not an entire career change. What has been startling about this is that it hasn’t been just an isolated medical professional advising me this, but every single damn one of them.

My list of alignments and injuries seems to grow exponentially. In 2009 I was involved in a car crash where a car went straight through a red light and collected me. I was rushed to hospital, my own car was written off. The point of impact on my body was my hip. The phone in my pocket was crushed between my hipbone and my car door. My groin and hip area still get sore every once in a while and I’m now a prime candidate for early onset osteoporosis in that area. The list continues, but seems pointless to reiterate all of them here. I have a good friend who goes to the doctor once every few years, he continually struggles with his weight, but apart from that is basically never sick or injured. He is baffled by my fragility while I am equally baffled by his seeming imperviousness. At least I can eat cheesecake to my hearts content!

I was kept in hospital for a few hours after the car accident. They did every scan possible while I was there. The female driver of the other car was in a hospital bed beside me, appologising profusely. That is until her chest started swelling uncontrollably, she started moaning in agony and suddenly all the curtains were drawn, nurses and doctors ran to her aid and then she was rushed to an emergency surgery theatre...

The worst aspect of all this is that I have become resigned to injury. Resigned to the regularity of seeing doctors and specialist and resigned to a constant cycle of injury, treatment and rehabilitation. The perverse flip side to this is my need to then push my limits, to prove to myself that an injury does not define me or restrict me. This recent period has been harder than previous ones to look at the positives and work towards them. It’s been harder not to succumb to the destructive and darker thoughts that ravage your motivation, stunt personal growth and damage your sense of self worth. Things have not been going to plan since returning to Australia. I have some tough choices ahead.

The slump

Three weeks in and I haven’t actually achieved much more than some mild weight gain.  A diet of shortbread biscuits, homemade strawberry and apple crumble, quality cellared wine and copious lashings of marbled Aussie bacon should not be held accountable.  Nor should my intensive daily exercise regime of shuffling from my bed to the lounge, back to bed, over to chair, bed, lounge, floor, followed by some accidental droolage and then back to bed.  In truth, I firmly believe that my weight gain is a direct consequence of climate change.  Carbon made me fat! Hence I pledge my support to the labour government and their bold carbon tax plan in the hope that the new tax breaks will enable me to afford more shortbread – and a bigger bed.

My list of achievements for the last few weeks is available via gamescore.  That’s a joke for the geeks…

This week I’ve had a phone conversation regarding two weeks of good work and a separate informal meet up regarding possible future work.  Both did not go as well as I would have hoped.  During the phone conversation I completely undersold my skills and had a mini panic attack at the idea of having to do real work again.  The planned follow up phone conversation and meeting with the project leaders, which was meant to happen on Friday, never happened.   My meeting with a different company was another case of underselling my awesomeness. Combined, the two instances reminded me of my first interview in London.  Upon arriving in London my friends told me it would take me months to get an interview or any work.  I had an interview with a great company within three weeks.  This boosted my confidence and ego to stratospheric levels.  Unfortunately it was all hot air and I couldn’t afford the electricity.  I deflated within ten minutes and left the interview rather bewildered.  But they did ask to see some further work of mine, so it wasn’t completely a lost cause.  Later I emailed through what they had requested and then followed that up with a phone call.  The receptionist put me through to the interviewers voicemail.  After leaving a polite and professional message I put my mobile phone down on my lap and then let out an earth shatteringly loud and intensely satisfying fart.  Basking in scent-de-Simon I looked down at my phone and realised that I hadn’t ended the phone call.  I never heard back from them.

Freelancing is hard when you’ve been out of the game for a while.  Freelancing requires you to walk into a job and perform.  There is no introduction week and there is no three-month probation period.  Some jobs book you for a day, and if you’re lucky, some book you for a few weeks.  On the shorter jobs if you don’t smash it out of the park then you don’t get called back for more work.  On the longer jobs you at least normally get a little bit more breathing room.  It’s no surprise then that it’s easy to lose your confidence when you aren’t utilising your skills everyday.  It’s also easy to get stuck in a cycle of doubting your skills due to an extended hiatus.  And it’s especially easy to consciously reinforce that cycle of doubt and use it as an excuse to not act and to not move forward.  In one sense I am struggling for the sake of struggling and causing myself grief and stress for no other reason than to cause more grief and stress.

On the flip side I need to remember that I’ve bloody well only been back in the country for three weeks. That it’s ok to take a while to collect myself and find my feet in Sydney.  That it’s ok to become a hermit, grow a beard and lie around all day in my food-stained pyjamas.  That it’s ok to watch an entire series of television in one sitting.  And that baked beans are unreal.

Becoming an uncle

To be honest I didn’t really have to do too much.  Although my right arm is still aching from the whooping cough immunisation injection that I was required to get before being allowed within wheezing distance of the new born.  A whooping cough injection is combined with Diphtheria and Tetanus in Australia.  In the UK you can’t get whooping cough injections unless you’re a six-week-old baby.  I had had my booster dip/tet injection in London before my trip started in Feb.  To get whooping cough immunity in Aus I had to have a second dip/tet booster within a few months.  This turns out to be a painfully bad idea.  When I turned up for my injection the nurse had to organise a private consultation with a doctor before giving me the shot.  The doctor required my verbal consent to the injection after she informed me of the complications and pain associated with having two booster injections so close together.  Being Man-Tough* I shrugged off the warnings, bared my right arm and told them to stick me! Since then I haven’t really been shrugging off any other warnings, not due to a lack of shrug worthy warnings, but more due to an inability to perform the well known shrug move.  One shoulder shrugs just don’t cut it.  Whimpering while attempting a shrug also greatly invalidates the nonverbal communicative meaning of the intended shrug.  As a result my right arm has spent the week only being good for undertaking activities below waist level.

Jamie Alexander burst into the light on Tuesday at 1701.  Burst is perhaps the incorrect verb to use.  Emerged maybe? How about I try that sentence again with a bit more drama.

As consciousness slowly came to Jamie Alexander he was overcome with the foreign sensations of haste and impending fate.  Darkness surrounded him as the familiar walls of his nine-month incarceration heaved and contracted. A blurred pinprick of light appeared and with a sudden sense of purpose Jamie reached forward and strove for freedom.  Muffled noise and vibration assaulted him from every side as inch by inch the light grew until it filled his world and he was blinded by its brilliance.  As Jamie tore himself towards freedom the cacophony of noise resolved itself into a blaring alarm klaxon and the sounds of battle.  Naked and covered in a soup of bioengineered nutrient fluid Jamie Alexander emerged gasping from The Hive womb prison.  Around him hundreds of similar bioorganic stasis containment units were ejecting their captives.  Memory returned quickly as the effects of the BSCU chemical dampeners dissipated.  They had come for them!  For him! Overcome with the rush of returning memory and emotion Jamie collapsed to floor, tears rolling freely down his face…

I was right in thinking that ‘emerged’ was a better verb to use than burst.

My nephew is now over sixty hours old.  His parents are besotted.  The extended family is overjoyed.  Four new titles of Grandparent, two of Aunt and one of Uncle have been duly handed out.  We are still squabbling over who gets which.  In the meantime I’ve left Bathurst and come back to Sydney.  The main reason for coming back to Sydney sooner than expected is to ensure that I get the most out of my bloody whooping cough immunisation injection.  The other reason is it that I’m meant to be getting serious about this whole getting a job and earning a living thing in order to pay for all the smokin’ and drinkin’ and cussin’ I’m going to be doing around little Jamie.  The cussin’ comes for free.

 

 

 

* Man-Tough – A common condition afflicting millions of men worldwide that is psychologically linked to an insecure and often over-exaggerated sense of masculinity.  Think of an overinflated and badly dressed balloon that once pricked with a sharp pin makes a loud noise about almost nothing at all.

Yes the balloon is badly dressed! Most probably in a pink t-shirt.

So I lied – I’m back – Kind of

It’s cold in Bathurst.  And each night, sleeping in my big empty bed, I’ve come to miss my blog.  Oh the times we’ve had together.

I’m staying with my two biggest fans, mum and dad.  Mum reads the online edition while Dad gets the paper circulation of my blog.  You see Dad doesn’t do fancy computer screens and still firmly believes that the whole computer revolution is a passing fad.  While writing this update I’m sitting at the breakfast table looking across at my target demographic and wondering if I should reduce my frequent inclusion of words such as; fuck, bastard, shit, balls and arse.  Maybe I should just ask mum.  Nah, fuck it!  Regardless, the more pungent and liberal my language the more the paper circulation of my blog ends up looking like declassified US intelligence papers that once dated a black artline marker.

Last night, Friday night, I went out to experience the Bathurst nightlife.  It’s been a while.  My partner-in-crime for the evening was my x-girlfriend from age ten.  For those that remember my first blog… Anyone?… This is the same ex that I may have traded for an icypole.  She still hasn’t forgiven me for this slight and reminded me of the fact last night.  I in return would like to thank her for reminding me and in demonstration of my appreciation will henceforth refer to her as Icypole.

So Icypole and I went out to the local Irish pub for dinner.  The menu had a lot of mutton dressed up as confused poultry. The food was nice as well.  Now maybe I’ve been overseas too long.  Maybe my horizons have broadened further than I realised.  Or maybe I’ve just become a stuck up prick who thinks he is superior to all the country folks, but god damn their Australian twangs called out to an angry primal part of me that unconsciously had me reaching out for my schooner glass to do some smashin’ and some cuttin’ and some good ol’ fashioned eye gouging.  Luckily my English grooming over the past two years came to the front and I was able to channel all my rage into a future stomach ulcer, cat bum pursed lips and a barely perceptible eye twitch.  With Dinner finished Icepole and I joined some friends as we continued on to the Eddy.

I have to interrupt my blog for a moment just to mention that my dad is out the backyard vacuuming the pavers…  That is all.

The Eddy is a local institution that has undergone many ownership changes and inferior redecorations.  Sorry, that was meant to be interior redecorations.  It’s a Bathurst pub in which alcohol shots are banned and plastic glasses are the norm.  It also now has a porn room with easy wash down couches and multi-coloured mood lighting.  The four large LCD screens playing WWF wrestling are the only things ruining the atmosphere of the porn room.  Or I suppose, enhancing the atmosphere, if WWF gets you chubbed.  Next to the porn room is the poker machine room.  Saloon doors separate the two.  Freaking saloon doors!  I love it.

Icypole and I ventured away from the slip and slide couches and joined everyone else out the back in the pool table room.  The pool table room was indoors, but is legally classified as outdoors due to the slant of the roof or some such loophole.  Due to this area being legally classified as an outdoor area everyone was smoking to their hearts content.  Not surprisingly there was no separation between the ‘indoor’ non-smoking area and the ‘outdoor’ smoking area.  Protectively clutching my plastic glass full of gin and tonic while dodging blasts of acrid smoke I took the time to look around at the overly hetro and rather meaty male crowd and couldn’t help but burst out laughing.  Lady Gaga’s gay anthem ‘Born this Way’ was being religious belted out over the speakers.  No song seemed more out of place yet strangely more appropriate.

The evening ended before Icypole and I both turned into pumpkins.  Walking home was a fun trip down memory lane as I replayed childhood adventures in my head.  Over the years I know I’ve changed a lot and so has my hometown.  Sometimes I wonder which has changed the most and if so for the better.  Although one change that I think there can be no argument about its positive ramifications is that I no longer go to my local pub dressed in my pyjamas and Ugg boots.

Hang on, I just realised that Ugg boots are actually an expensive fashion accessory now.  I was so ahead of my time!

London – A Retrospective

This post has been a while in the making.  It’s personal, introspective and long.  The content has also changed over time as I have become more distanced from events and emotions during my years in London, but the overall intent of the piece remains the same – the intent being me writing about myself…  Because of this I’ve put it on a separate page so as to ensure that only people who really want to endure my self-indulgent writing do.

London – A Retrospective