As far as possible these days, I’m trying to keep politics out of this blog.
But I couldn’t let the following pass uncommented, as it does touch upon the subject of publishing. Former British Prime Minister Tony Blair has written his memoirs. They are released today. Today also sees the day that the party he used to lead, Labour, sends out ballot papers to party members for election of a new leader in the wake of Gordon Brown’s resignation following Labour’s defeat in the general election at May.
Up to speed so far? Right. The Guardian is one of the few centre-left/liberal papers left in the UK. One of its columnists, Polly Toynbee, is an odd sort. After spending the better part of the 1990s and 2000s telling us how good New Labour and Blair were, she rounded on Blair in his final days, lionised Brown, only to round on him following the election. Now in the run up to the leadership election she is telling us how monumentally bad New Labour was. So she blows hot and cold on most issues concerning Labour.
On Monday she published a column generally lambasting Blair & Mandelson, the architects of New Labour. So far, so Toynbee. But this comment has been picked out, and is being reported quite a lot:
At the same time he [leadership candidate David Milliband] should publicly rebuke him [Tony Blair] for the appalling timing of his book this week as an act of selfish disregard for the Labour party, to whom he owes everything.
Yes ladies and gentlemen. In Polly Toynbee’s mind Tony wrote his memoirs, found a publisher, got them published, publicised, serialised, and publicity tours set up, all within the past three months. This leadership election only happened because Gordon Brown resigned as Labour leader on 11 May. That only happened because Labour lost the election held on 6 May. An election only announced on 6 April.
It takes time to write memoirs, to gain legal clearance, to print, distribute and publicise them. Random House likely chose late 2010, as this summer was the latest that a general election could be held. That way, they would avoid clashing with it. Indeed, in the wake of Blair’s resignation it was expected that Brown would call a snap election and win it comfortably, given the lead Labour had over the Conservatives at that point. Brown would be comfortably in the middle of his term, and Blair’s memoirs would be neither here nor there.
But no, Random House clearly selfishly decided to disrupt a leadership contest nobody predicted, at a time nobody expected. Of course they did Polly.
Could they have moved it? Sure, at great expense and the logistical nightmare of rescheduling promotional appearances. Should they have? No. Random House are not the Labour party. They’re not any political party. They don’t owe favours to any political mechanism. The timing is unfortunate, but calling Blair “selfish” on this issue is grossly unfair.
And that’s about the one and only time you’ll hear me defend Tony Blair.
Consider if you will the following: I’m Lord Vader, T-Mobile is Admiral Ozzel, and an as yet undecided UK mobile phone network steps into the shoes of Admiral Piett. That’s pretty much been my weekend so far.
T-Mobile have, for the second time in 3 months, managed to let me down badly, completely waste my time, and then tell me I need to give up yet another day of my time in the future in order to rectify their errors. Well screw that.
T-Mobile customer service have said they’ll see what kind of “goodwill” gesture they can make. Unless that goodwill gesture involves them travelling back in time to the morning of August 28th to personally hand deliver my phone, thus giving me back my Saturday and the Tuesday I’m having to give them, the I fear their “goodwill” gesture won’t cut it. Because at the moment I’ve wasted two days, and I have to pay them for the privilege of wasting those days.
So I’m angry. And I’m also upset. And humiliated, because I shouldn’t be either of those things. And this is the shitty thing about being depressed. This was just a mild screw up, and I’ve taken it personally, and invested my pride into it. I’ve done nothing I planned to do today, like go for a run, or work on eMergent stuff. So I feel fat & unfit, that I’m never going to be able to run a half-marathon, that I’m untalented, can’t write, can’t paint, will never get the eMergent ebooks published in time, will never get the paperbacks sorted out in time, and that everything I do is doomed to failure.
All because a sodding stupid bit of electronics that, in the grand scheme of things I don’t really need, didn’t get delivered today.
My dreams are frequently… odd. This one is no exception, and Julia practically begged me to share it with you this morning, so here is a little vignette that gives you an idea of my dreamscape.
The dream was about a movie. Sometimes I dream I’m watching movies, sometimes I dream about “reality”, but sometimes I’m aware that the dream is a movie, and this was one of those dreams.
It starred Ben Affleck, and I was Ben. I wasn’t seeing through his eyes, I was watching in the third person, as you would with a movie, nonetheless I was Ben Affleck.
Affleck played a scientist, studying Cetaceans – whales to you and me. There was a whale in the lab, and I’ve figured out it was likely a Beluga whale. Anyway, Affleck and the Beluga whale were in love. Did I mention the film was a romantic comedy? It’s a romantic comedy, with a kind of Romeo & Juliet theme, except instead of warring families, it concerns wholly incompatible and inappropriate species.
Anyway, the whale and Affleck decide to be togther for ever. How, you may ask?
And this is where it gets weird. Well, weirder.
The logical answer is, of course, to slice the top of the whale’s head open and create a sort of removable canopy, so that Affleck can climb inside, then do likewise with his own head, then hard wire their brains together so that Affleck and the whale can become one. See, told you it was logical.
Ben Affleck then proceeded to drive his whale into town, so that they could go shopping. In Kingston-upon-Thames.
The end, fade to black.
Trust me, it all made sense at 3am on a Wednesday morning.
Yesterday I atteded an interview at A Well Known Law Firm in Central London. This was my first set of interviews since being made redundant at the end of February. It went well. Very well.
On the train home I sent a series of tweets, which at the time were quite cryptic, but related to the whole job situation. I had a choice to make. I could take the job. The firm is well regarded. The people I interviewed with were great. The money was good. But it would mean returning to work in law firms, and giving up on things I had decided to try for.
Or I could turn them down, keep my dreams alive, whilst disappointing the recruiter who set up the meeting, the people I interviewed with, and leaving myself in the awkward position of still being out of work, continuing to struggle along.
So I came home, and I talked things over with Julia. She got me out of the house, to walk around Kew Gardens in the sunshine, surrounded by nature, to gather my thoughts. I came home and talked things over with my mum, but I had already made my decision.
Whilst out I had received a phone call, offering me the job. And this morning, I declined the offer.
I’ve spent five years working in law firms. I’ve met some great people. But I’ve never felt fulfilled by the work. Over the years I’ve come to dread the work. The environment of law firms does not suit me, and is contributory to my depressive moods (again, no slight against law firms, this is just my temperament).
I’ve realised, I don’t ever want to work in a law firm again. I can’t take it anymore.
So there you go. The very last vestige of my legal career gone at last. From studying law, to working in law firms and now I’m walking away. And I don’t feel bad about it, not anymore. For the first time in a long time I’m being honest with myself and true to who I am. I could get a job in a law firm, because I was very good at what I did. But I was not happy. So for the good of my mental health, it’s time to walk away.
So what now? I still have my writing. I still have eMergent Publishing. Neither will pay the bills, not right now. I have my painting and drawing. And there lies possible career number one. The more I realise I enjoy painting, and enjoy being out in nature, the more I wonder about combining the two. So why not botanical art? There are a number of courses, and I’m spoiled by having Kew Gardens and RHS Gardens Wisley within close vicinity, not to mention Jurassic Park just outside.
The second possible career requires returning to university to gain a post-graduate qualification. It’s something I never thought about, but has been mentioned to me several times this year, something that would be rewarding and fulfilling, something I could feel passionate about, something that makes a difference. I would like to retrain as a social worker. Social work courses are oversubscribed, but there is a dearth of male social workers.
So, there you go. I’m still out of work, but I’m happier for knowing what I don’t want to do, and what I do.
And if you see me going for an interview at a law firm in the future, you have my permission to shoot me.
Now I’m going to head out and spend some time indulging in my first love, with my true love.
I’ve been seriously neglectful of my running schedule, and with only sixty days to go until the Royal Parks Foundation Half Marathon, I have to get back into the swing of things.
So I ran. I ran without contact lenses and so the questioning looks of passersby went unacknowledged. I ran with headphones in and music turned up and so the sarcasm of pedestrians went unheeded. I ran against myself and with myself.
It rained as I began, a misty drizzle in the gloom of twilight. The further I ran, the heavier the rain fell. Perhaps this was the source of scorn for those observing me. I didn’t care. I welcomed the rain, the cold droplets pounding against my arms, legs and head, rivulets running into my eyes, almost blinding me.
I welcomed the rain as an old friend. Some may be put off running in the rain, but I enjoy it. When I ran the BUPA 10,000 in 2008 it rained hard for the whole race, and I loved it.
Running is my confession, the crucible that burns away my doubts, fears and iniquities. And the rain is my baptism, cleansing me of my sins and bringing me wholeness and peace.
There is no-one else when I run, there is only me, one step after the other, feet pounding off the hard asphalt, legs becoming heavier, lungs burning, the road stretching out ahead with only the clock and my own will to beat.
