Monday, March 17, 2003
Motivation? Helleah? Christ, my last post was last August, I can't even muster the motivation to drone on about myself. Things must be bad. Actually things aren't that bad, aside from the usual dark night of the soul the dog ate my career stuff that is constantly getting under my feet. Nice house, albeit one with so much stainless steel all over the poncy place that we are constantly getting electric shocks and shrieking. Nice bloke, albeit one who seems to look at an inordinate amount of porn on the net. Nice hair, for once - not that it's a priority but damn, I'm not quite ready to succumb to Joplinitis yet. Mustn't grumble. Of course, though, I shall.
Pollution, expense, stress and the increased possibility of something awful happening (thanks, Tony) are making me yearn to flee London. After all that time yearning to flee Brighouse West Yorkshire. Hey ho. Naturally beetling off to West Sussex yesterday, driving through leafy bird-haunted countryside and having dinner at a leafy bird-haunted pub, didn't help matters. I'm a hopeless fantasiser and will never learn. Also I can barely muster the enthusiasm required to be a music journalist. I'm not sure if I'm just pathologically idle, or if this just isn't what I was built for. Or indeed if it's just the usual moan groan I hate my job malaise that everyone has, especially spoilt-rotten smart bastards who need to use their brain and personality in their work. (It is draining in a very specific, soul-sapping sort of way.) Whichever, I'm fed up. A fairly ordinary interview to transcribe and feature to write this week, somehow to be spiced up and made interesting without resorting to speculative, gossipy hackery. The prospect fills me with something like dull dread. One way or another, as I've been saying for what feels like a very very long time, I gotta get outta here.
Pollution, expense, stress and the increased possibility of something awful happening (thanks, Tony) are making me yearn to flee London. After all that time yearning to flee Brighouse West Yorkshire. Hey ho. Naturally beetling off to West Sussex yesterday, driving through leafy bird-haunted countryside and having dinner at a leafy bird-haunted pub, didn't help matters. I'm a hopeless fantasiser and will never learn. Also I can barely muster the enthusiasm required to be a music journalist. I'm not sure if I'm just pathologically idle, or if this just isn't what I was built for. Or indeed if it's just the usual moan groan I hate my job malaise that everyone has, especially spoilt-rotten smart bastards who need to use their brain and personality in their work. (It is draining in a very specific, soul-sapping sort of way.) Whichever, I'm fed up. A fairly ordinary interview to transcribe and feature to write this week, somehow to be spiced up and made interesting without resorting to speculative, gossipy hackery. The prospect fills me with something like dull dread. One way or another, as I've been saying for what feels like a very very long time, I gotta get outta here.
