Dear all,
Tonight I have had an experience that has made me think of all of my friends, my move abroad, my motives, and the people who now surround me as a sort of chosen family.
Tonight I have been judged for the way I speak, for the life I have led, and for the way in which I behave in front of others; a way in which I was led to believe was both normal, and indeed the done thing.
I arrived in Lugo with very little, I was a student, had nowhere to live and had no-one to call a friend or even to call an acquaintance at that time. Within five minutes of being in the front door of the school I was assigned to I was invited to the house of the person dealing with me, I was taken under his wing and given his total hospitality with not the slightest question asked. Roberto and Marta took me under their wing, gave me their house, their hospitality and their love without ever questioning anything I did or anything I said. They have continued to give me their friendship and their unadultarated love and respect despite never having done anything to deserve such friendship.
When my contract was running out and my landlady was about to let my room again I was talking to the mother of one of the kids I was teaching guitar to, and she let me a room for two months in a three bedroom flat that her brother had been using for as little as 45 Euros. When I had nowhere to live I was immediately offered respite and refuge with people that had nothing to do with me, I was given meal by those who least had to look after me, and that will always be remembered
I then come back to my home town and am slated for many things that the person in question couldn't have possibly known about me. Conjecture led to a ridiculous conversation based on their idea before they had even spoken to me. If ever I have appreciated those who have been kind to me when least expected it has been now, and precisely for that I extend my most heartfelt gratitude and love to you all, please excuse the rant, B xxx
viernes 15 de julio de 2011
jueves 16 de junio de 2011
Sex, God and Politics
Despite the title, I'm not going to discuss any of the three, just the resulting conversation from having been polite enough to stop for an elderly and very infirm lady to give her a bottle top, which she wanted for some reason that was never explained to me.
So.
Routine demands that some menial tasks are carried out so that we can eat, sleep, get the children to the right place at the right time so on and so forth ad infinitum. On one such trip to the local equivalent of the Kwiki-Mart I found myself engaged in conversation by one of the most elderly of the local community.
As is common in Spain she was quite direct, asking me if I could give her the top to the Coke bottle I was drinking, to which I answered that of course she could take it. I recognised her very quickly, as she sells the lottery tickets, has had a very difficult life and is really in need of some attention and a bit of care would certainly not go amiss. What could have potentially been a quick exchange of bottle tops and the usual "turned out nice again" discussion turned quickly to my voting habits and to my belief in God. Again a topic not entirely unheard of locally, and certainly a common platform for debate of all kinds.
Suddenly I felt quite violated. Perhaps this is just the uptight Englishman speaking, perhaps it's just common manners I'm not quite sure, but I felt the urgent need to say to this woman - "I don't really know you well enough to discuss my politics or my religious beliefs as that's really rather personal." I was always taught that certain kinds of conversation leave you totally bear before the person you are talking to, and to be found in that situation with someone not really known to me felt quite embarrassing. I was glad that she had found someone to talk to, glad that she felt that she could talk easily to me, but a bit worried about the questioning.
I don't think I have ever openly discussed my political or religious opinions clearly or openly with anyone that I didn't feel very close to indeed. In fact I an even go so far as to say that it's a topic I don't even discuss very often with Sonia, though we certainly coincide in more than the odd viewpoint, it is seen by both as something personal.
The weather changes, as does the date, as does your body, time and even existence on this planet, but someone's political or religious values are very unlikely to change. So I suppose that it's a futile area to talk about really. No devout ...ist is ever going to change from their ism. No devout believer in ... is ever going to change either, thus there seems little point in using it as a conversation point, other than to comment on something like a religious or political version of the weather.
After being embroiled with this woman for well over half an hour, and having made some evasive answers that would have made the most gruesome of politicians proud, I finally found myself free of the person in question, but with a lot of other questions still floating around in my head. Perhaps it may be better every now and again to keep some thing to yourself, I'm not into diatribe, but that equally well doesn't mean I don't have my beliefs, I just don't feel like sharing them with everyone.
I'll end with a quote attributed to my dear parents - "Speaking about religion of politics is like having sex, if you're going to do it in public, make *damn* sure of your audience first"
So.
Routine demands that some menial tasks are carried out so that we can eat, sleep, get the children to the right place at the right time so on and so forth ad infinitum. On one such trip to the local equivalent of the Kwiki-Mart I found myself engaged in conversation by one of the most elderly of the local community.
As is common in Spain she was quite direct, asking me if I could give her the top to the Coke bottle I was drinking, to which I answered that of course she could take it. I recognised her very quickly, as she sells the lottery tickets, has had a very difficult life and is really in need of some attention and a bit of care would certainly not go amiss. What could have potentially been a quick exchange of bottle tops and the usual "turned out nice again" discussion turned quickly to my voting habits and to my belief in God. Again a topic not entirely unheard of locally, and certainly a common platform for debate of all kinds.
Suddenly I felt quite violated. Perhaps this is just the uptight Englishman speaking, perhaps it's just common manners I'm not quite sure, but I felt the urgent need to say to this woman - "I don't really know you well enough to discuss my politics or my religious beliefs as that's really rather personal." I was always taught that certain kinds of conversation leave you totally bear before the person you are talking to, and to be found in that situation with someone not really known to me felt quite embarrassing. I was glad that she had found someone to talk to, glad that she felt that she could talk easily to me, but a bit worried about the questioning.
I don't think I have ever openly discussed my political or religious opinions clearly or openly with anyone that I didn't feel very close to indeed. In fact I an even go so far as to say that it's a topic I don't even discuss very often with Sonia, though we certainly coincide in more than the odd viewpoint, it is seen by both as something personal.
The weather changes, as does the date, as does your body, time and even existence on this planet, but someone's political or religious values are very unlikely to change. So I suppose that it's a futile area to talk about really. No devout ...ist is ever going to change from their ism. No devout believer in ... is ever going to change either, thus there seems little point in using it as a conversation point, other than to comment on something like a religious or political version of the weather.
After being embroiled with this woman for well over half an hour, and having made some evasive answers that would have made the most gruesome of politicians proud, I finally found myself free of the person in question, but with a lot of other questions still floating around in my head. Perhaps it may be better every now and again to keep some thing to yourself, I'm not into diatribe, but that equally well doesn't mean I don't have my beliefs, I just don't feel like sharing them with everyone.
I'll end with a quote attributed to my dear parents - "Speaking about religion of politics is like having sex, if you're going to do it in public, make *damn* sure of your audience first"
viernes 25 de junio de 2010
The death and resurrection show.
A long time ago in the refectory of a college, eating a cheese and pickle sandwich, a thought came to mind. “Sometimes there is no option other than to be an unmitigated bastard”, and then Diana died a few weeks later. Not that the event in itself particularly affected me, though I was really upset when told, as there was a woman that worked with me called Diana and I thought all the fuss was over her and not the princess; nascent seeds were being sown.
The press that one week before had been calling her a slut, the worst princess to have ever disgraced the monarchy, the cheater, the deserter, the one who should lose her title and stop bringing so much shame to the country and so on and so forth, all of a sudden had a revelation. She wasn't really an attention seeking whore at all, or even a disgrace of a person, and how on earth could the monarchy be so cruel to someone who was obviously a saint?
Here I choose to sit firmly on the fence. It is sad when someone dies, particularly the mother of two young children, and even more so when it was due to abject stupidity as in this case. It is sad when it is someone who has done charitable work, who has represented causes and brought them to the attention of the masses. It is also true that public figures need to be careful about what they say and what they do, as this is a part of the duty that comes with the enormous amount of wealth left at their disposal. Many of their actions are staged, and many are being told what to do at different times and on different occasions. It is probably also a large part of the reason that we are so shocked when we find someone away from the public eye captured doing things that other human beings do, and receive no criticism for doing. It isn't rare for someone to have an affair, or for someone to do one thing and say another, but it suddenly becomes a lot more important when that person is famous or a public figure of great responsibility.
Where there is no sense at all is in the reaction of the press (both gutter and broadsheet) at one moment calling the woman the devil incarnate, and the next using “English rose” as a description. People who one week were calling Diana a whore were in the same breath, and not more than two days later, calling her the greatest woman ever to grace the royal family.
Never had this been more apparent than today, one year after the death of Michael Jackson. Once again we are looking at a public figure who was at one moment accused of being a child molesting freak who drugged and raped children under the guise of love and affection: upon his premature death in very sad circumstances society all of a sudden re-crown him the King of Pop, adulate him, love him again and recognise all of his genius with an “I knew the truth all along” attitude.
Many of us dream of being remembered for many years after our death, for people to still talk about us, for people to still wonder at our great works – (Ozymandias anyone?) and many would like to be permitted into the pantheon of the never forgotten heroes that will survive in popular memory for as long as memory permits. I would suggest, however, that perhaps some people deserve to be remembered whilst still alive. That in this age where information is so available worldwide, not just local backwater press where Mrs Dunstable's prize winning marrows are all anyone can talk about, we need to be more informed, to perhaps let the crimes be sorted by professionals, and maybe recognise talent where it exists and when it is still in existence.
Human beings are precisely that. Human. Just because someone is capable of doing incredible things, doesn't mean they're a nice person to know, or a person you can admire for their grand personality. Equally well, it doesn't mean that they are walking examples for contraception. None of us are totally evil, nor are we saints; we all fall pretty much in between the two, though there are obviously exceptions (I suppose even Jeffrey Dhamer's mum thought he was a lovely boy).
So, just maybe, sometimes, there is indeed no other option to be an unmitigated bastard,
“Oh how ingenious the centuries of lies,
Ezekiel's chariots streak across the skies.
Holy books and history texts forget,
Because we know,
Souls are resurrected in the death and resurrection show.” (Killing Joke)
The press that one week before had been calling her a slut, the worst princess to have ever disgraced the monarchy, the cheater, the deserter, the one who should lose her title and stop bringing so much shame to the country and so on and so forth, all of a sudden had a revelation. She wasn't really an attention seeking whore at all, or even a disgrace of a person, and how on earth could the monarchy be so cruel to someone who was obviously a saint?
Here I choose to sit firmly on the fence. It is sad when someone dies, particularly the mother of two young children, and even more so when it was due to abject stupidity as in this case. It is sad when it is someone who has done charitable work, who has represented causes and brought them to the attention of the masses. It is also true that public figures need to be careful about what they say and what they do, as this is a part of the duty that comes with the enormous amount of wealth left at their disposal. Many of their actions are staged, and many are being told what to do at different times and on different occasions. It is probably also a large part of the reason that we are so shocked when we find someone away from the public eye captured doing things that other human beings do, and receive no criticism for doing. It isn't rare for someone to have an affair, or for someone to do one thing and say another, but it suddenly becomes a lot more important when that person is famous or a public figure of great responsibility.
Where there is no sense at all is in the reaction of the press (both gutter and broadsheet) at one moment calling the woman the devil incarnate, and the next using “English rose” as a description. People who one week were calling Diana a whore were in the same breath, and not more than two days later, calling her the greatest woman ever to grace the royal family.
Never had this been more apparent than today, one year after the death of Michael Jackson. Once again we are looking at a public figure who was at one moment accused of being a child molesting freak who drugged and raped children under the guise of love and affection: upon his premature death in very sad circumstances society all of a sudden re-crown him the King of Pop, adulate him, love him again and recognise all of his genius with an “I knew the truth all along” attitude.
Many of us dream of being remembered for many years after our death, for people to still talk about us, for people to still wonder at our great works – (Ozymandias anyone?) and many would like to be permitted into the pantheon of the never forgotten heroes that will survive in popular memory for as long as memory permits. I would suggest, however, that perhaps some people deserve to be remembered whilst still alive. That in this age where information is so available worldwide, not just local backwater press where Mrs Dunstable's prize winning marrows are all anyone can talk about, we need to be more informed, to perhaps let the crimes be sorted by professionals, and maybe recognise talent where it exists and when it is still in existence.
Human beings are precisely that. Human. Just because someone is capable of doing incredible things, doesn't mean they're a nice person to know, or a person you can admire for their grand personality. Equally well, it doesn't mean that they are walking examples for contraception. None of us are totally evil, nor are we saints; we all fall pretty much in between the two, though there are obviously exceptions (I suppose even Jeffrey Dhamer's mum thought he was a lovely boy).
So, just maybe, sometimes, there is indeed no other option to be an unmitigated bastard,
“Oh how ingenious the centuries of lies,
Ezekiel's chariots streak across the skies.
Holy books and history texts forget,
Because we know,
Souls are resurrected in the death and resurrection show.” (Killing Joke)
lunes 21 de junio de 2010
Wisps and feathers
Dreams are really an unrealistic expectation. Through popular sayings, refrains and the different idioms we are regularly told that this night time hallucination is one of the most important things in our lives. "Dare to Dream" shouts out the television with the latest advertising jargon. “Drive the car of your dreams”, “dreams will come true”, “a dream is a wish your heart makes”. All of this sold to us through one hundred thousand different ideas and concepts to make us think that this supposed substance which runs through our heads, this stream of consciousness, perhaps the closest anyone ever has to a religious experience these days, is something that can be attained and held on to, some sort of tangible cloud that we can skip on to and get down from at will.
Perhaps with time I'm becoming nihilistic, a sociopathic disgruntled misanthropist, and thus the reason for the making of this move towards the destruction of one of the more beautiful things that happens to us all. Though again, writing this I find myself torn between the imagery and the basic fact that this is no great unifying experience, because the entire human race has blood, skin and bones, but this has never stopped anyone going for an all out annihilation of their friends, Romans and countrymen after their ears have metaphorically been lent to whomsoever should be speaking.
There is no unifying force in a dream; a dream is just that, a dream. A late night trip through the brain's murkier areas, where the small ray of hope says 'just maybe'. Though, the barriers are ever changing and ever moving. I once hoped to be taken seriously as a musician or a writer. These days it would be nice just to be taken seriously; and so the dream moves on.
As the barriers move, so does the expectation of the person at the other end of it all. So their thoughts and feelings are continually expressed through what they have in their head, or at least the four cheese pizza leads them to believe that there are talking snails riding the backs of unicorns and all of them conveniently living under the office photocopier.
Mine left a long time ago and I don't dream any more, though perhaps that may change again, given the nature of the beast at hand. Don't expect anything from a confessional other than a confession, a dream is a wisp of smoke and no matter how hard you try to keep it, the smoke dissipates even in the smallest of glass bottles.
Goodnight everyone. Sweet dreams
Perhaps with time I'm becoming nihilistic, a sociopathic disgruntled misanthropist, and thus the reason for the making of this move towards the destruction of one of the more beautiful things that happens to us all. Though again, writing this I find myself torn between the imagery and the basic fact that this is no great unifying experience, because the entire human race has blood, skin and bones, but this has never stopped anyone going for an all out annihilation of their friends, Romans and countrymen after their ears have metaphorically been lent to whomsoever should be speaking.
There is no unifying force in a dream; a dream is just that, a dream. A late night trip through the brain's murkier areas, where the small ray of hope says 'just maybe'. Though, the barriers are ever changing and ever moving. I once hoped to be taken seriously as a musician or a writer. These days it would be nice just to be taken seriously; and so the dream moves on.
As the barriers move, so does the expectation of the person at the other end of it all. So their thoughts and feelings are continually expressed through what they have in their head, or at least the four cheese pizza leads them to believe that there are talking snails riding the backs of unicorns and all of them conveniently living under the office photocopier.
Mine left a long time ago and I don't dream any more, though perhaps that may change again, given the nature of the beast at hand. Don't expect anything from a confessional other than a confession, a dream is a wisp of smoke and no matter how hard you try to keep it, the smoke dissipates even in the smallest of glass bottles.
Goodnight everyone. Sweet dreams
miércoles 3 de marzo de 2010
Don't mind him, he's English...
MP3 player set firmly on shuffle, I'm currently being rather weirded out by a Skeletal Family version of Stand By Me. I'm not sure what to think, and that really sets the tone for yet another entry into the world that surrounds me.
To be here is to be odd. In general anything English is considered slightly eccentric, a jarring note in the general smooth running of a very chaotic society. All of my weirdness is excused under the moniker of 'Don't mind him, he's English'. In fact, in the first few weeks of living here, and still in full flung weirdy beardy, I often heard the set phrase of 'No, he isn't a druggie / rapist / murderer / leper, he's English' to which there was a standard reply of a deep and understanding 'Ahhh'.
People here are fascinated by everything that comes from outside, as Spain hasn't, at least in recent history, been a place of mass migrations, they aren't really used to having anyone from outside living and integrated here. There is a running myth that everything that is from outside has to be much better (thanks to very many years as a very poor country living under a dictator) and they are very intensely interested in everything that you do, and how you do it. The funny thing is that there is almost a sort of expectation of being slightly weird, and people almost seem let down if it isn't there. I am supposed to drink copious amounts of tea, and the fact that I prefer coffee is often greeted with surprise and almost disappointment by some. They are really shocked when I say that there are things here I really love, and they love the fact that someone can be so overtly happy with the thought of something they really wouldn't pay any attention to. Compliments are often met with strange looks, there really does seem to be incomprehension at why you would want to learn Gallego, why would you want to go and sit in a bar full of old people and have a chat? Why would you get excited about a plate of lentejas? First it is surprise, and then delight that someone is appreciating the things that are here, when the people who are here often criticise them and don't think they are worth anything at all.
So people, I invite you all to come and appreciate a country where no one sleeps, where people still touch each other, where no one flinches about overt smooching in the street, where you can still put your arm around someone and fool around and the pressure is all off, where an arm around you, a hug, two kisses is the rule and not the exception.
If no one else sings your glory, then let me sing it for you, even though it's sad that it had to come from 'el güiri'.
To be here is to be odd. In general anything English is considered slightly eccentric, a jarring note in the general smooth running of a very chaotic society. All of my weirdness is excused under the moniker of 'Don't mind him, he's English'. In fact, in the first few weeks of living here, and still in full flung weirdy beardy, I often heard the set phrase of 'No, he isn't a druggie / rapist / murderer / leper, he's English' to which there was a standard reply of a deep and understanding 'Ahhh'.
People here are fascinated by everything that comes from outside, as Spain hasn't, at least in recent history, been a place of mass migrations, they aren't really used to having anyone from outside living and integrated here. There is a running myth that everything that is from outside has to be much better (thanks to very many years as a very poor country living under a dictator) and they are very intensely interested in everything that you do, and how you do it. The funny thing is that there is almost a sort of expectation of being slightly weird, and people almost seem let down if it isn't there. I am supposed to drink copious amounts of tea, and the fact that I prefer coffee is often greeted with surprise and almost disappointment by some. They are really shocked when I say that there are things here I really love, and they love the fact that someone can be so overtly happy with the thought of something they really wouldn't pay any attention to. Compliments are often met with strange looks, there really does seem to be incomprehension at why you would want to learn Gallego, why would you want to go and sit in a bar full of old people and have a chat? Why would you get excited about a plate of lentejas? First it is surprise, and then delight that someone is appreciating the things that are here, when the people who are here often criticise them and don't think they are worth anything at all.
So people, I invite you all to come and appreciate a country where no one sleeps, where people still touch each other, where no one flinches about overt smooching in the street, where you can still put your arm around someone and fool around and the pressure is all off, where an arm around you, a hug, two kisses is the rule and not the exception.
If no one else sings your glory, then let me sing it for you, even though it's sad that it had to come from 'el güiri'.
viernes 27 de noviembre de 2009
I am here
They wouldn't treat a dog the same way. Tubes in the nose, mouth, front and rear, seeping painful wounds, abcesses and a scar from neck to navel. There you have it. Humanity, a hypocritically hypocratic oath which could probably better be described as an attempt to extend a painful existence to its most horrendous and torturous end.
So there we are, this is where we have arrived after a month in the same situation. The doctor's only words - "Well if he hadn't been so fit he would have died a long time ago." Please forgive me for saying this, but I thought we lived in an age of reason, an age where we understood how people think and feel, and where we take innordinate care over everything we say and do as we are aware of the infinite number of possibilities that are affected by our actions.
Apparently not. We have a society where the quick fix, the throwaway feelings, the young and instable desires have come to mean everything. Once you have passed that stage then you are no more than an old written off car that has to be crushed and dumped on to the nearest heap. Added to which, a large helping of suffering is administered to remind you of the crime of having survived so long, and having forced many innocent young poeple to work so hard for so long to support you.
Suicide has always seemed like the cheap way out to me,like the escape route, the way you go when you can't handle the cards you've been dealt. So help me god, someone shoot me.
As with all things in this world, it isn't like we haven't had warning. George Orwell has given a pretty scarily accurate account of what life is slowly becoming and Aldous Huxley wasn't far behind where we are now with the 'Brave New World' we are living in. Nobody reads any more, and actually using your intellect is looked down upon. My students don't even understand how to open a book, and their only leisure activity is shooting moving objects. Is someone out there laughing?
Perhaps if we had bothered to take note of the many people with a vision to what was our most likely future and what was happening around us, we might have been able to keep those days when we were able to live comfortably with what we had. Loved our elders instead of viewing them as a carcass ready to throw out, challenged without disrespecting, and had some notion of what it is to love another human being rather than just looking for the next cheap fix. Two world wars and the megalomaniac has got his way after all. A society obsessed with image, that recoils at the old, that hates all it doesn't understand, has a warped love for the little it does, has no notion of its own heritage, and has lost all common sense a paragraph or two ago.
Humanity has managed to disgust me once again. Will someone please turn it all off please?
So there we are, this is where we have arrived after a month in the same situation. The doctor's only words - "Well if he hadn't been so fit he would have died a long time ago." Please forgive me for saying this, but I thought we lived in an age of reason, an age where we understood how people think and feel, and where we take innordinate care over everything we say and do as we are aware of the infinite number of possibilities that are affected by our actions.
Apparently not. We have a society where the quick fix, the throwaway feelings, the young and instable desires have come to mean everything. Once you have passed that stage then you are no more than an old written off car that has to be crushed and dumped on to the nearest heap. Added to which, a large helping of suffering is administered to remind you of the crime of having survived so long, and having forced many innocent young poeple to work so hard for so long to support you.
Suicide has always seemed like the cheap way out to me,like the escape route, the way you go when you can't handle the cards you've been dealt. So help me god, someone shoot me.
As with all things in this world, it isn't like we haven't had warning. George Orwell has given a pretty scarily accurate account of what life is slowly becoming and Aldous Huxley wasn't far behind where we are now with the 'Brave New World' we are living in. Nobody reads any more, and actually using your intellect is looked down upon. My students don't even understand how to open a book, and their only leisure activity is shooting moving objects. Is someone out there laughing?
Perhaps if we had bothered to take note of the many people with a vision to what was our most likely future and what was happening around us, we might have been able to keep those days when we were able to live comfortably with what we had. Loved our elders instead of viewing them as a carcass ready to throw out, challenged without disrespecting, and had some notion of what it is to love another human being rather than just looking for the next cheap fix. Two world wars and the megalomaniac has got his way after all. A society obsessed with image, that recoils at the old, that hates all it doesn't understand, has a warped love for the little it does, has no notion of its own heritage, and has lost all common sense a paragraph or two ago.
Humanity has managed to disgust me once again. Will someone please turn it all off please?
domingo 1 de noviembre de 2009
The end of the book
After nearly three years on facebook, I have seen that it is time to leave and to go on to other things. The decision was not elitist: having a lot of people on a social networking site is hardly a surprise bearing in mind the precise reason that the whole thing was created in the first place. Though I do find it strange when people join what is essentially a networking site and then complain when lots of people join and things start getting much bigger. The site is performing precisely its function by doing this and any complaints towards the fact are just a contradiction in terms.
It all started over something silly. It isn't really significant enoguh to warrant spending text space over, but I was sufficiently hurt to make me think a lot about friendship. I realised that of several hundred people added as 'friends' I was essentially contacting the same people continually, both on and outwith the site itself. A lot of people after an initial flurry of 'It has been way too long, we really must meet and catch up, what are you doing nowadays? I'm (insert last ten years here)' were never seen or heard from again.
Thus leading me to the conclusion that perhaps just sending a person a video from time to time, the latest viral that has hit the site, or the latest fad app might actually not really be any form of friendship whatsoever.
I have made a vow to now start contacting people in a more conventional sense with an e-mail from time to time. Dedicating five minutes to them is actually thinking about a friend, taking time for someone. Perhaps this is just making some kind of luddite point, I'm not sure, but I think it will help rekindle some friendships at least, and hopefully for the better.
I hope this has gone some way to explaining my reasons for saying goodbye to the book, normal service will resume shortly,
B xx
It all started over something silly. It isn't really significant enoguh to warrant spending text space over, but I was sufficiently hurt to make me think a lot about friendship. I realised that of several hundred people added as 'friends' I was essentially contacting the same people continually, both on and outwith the site itself. A lot of people after an initial flurry of 'It has been way too long, we really must meet and catch up, what are you doing nowadays? I'm (insert last ten years here)' were never seen or heard from again.
Thus leading me to the conclusion that perhaps just sending a person a video from time to time, the latest viral that has hit the site, or the latest fad app might actually not really be any form of friendship whatsoever.
I have made a vow to now start contacting people in a more conventional sense with an e-mail from time to time. Dedicating five minutes to them is actually thinking about a friend, taking time for someone. Perhaps this is just making some kind of luddite point, I'm not sure, but I think it will help rekindle some friendships at least, and hopefully for the better.
I hope this has gone some way to explaining my reasons for saying goodbye to the book, normal service will resume shortly,
B xx
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