Unexpected.

It's been a heteromorphic, heady cocktail of varying mental states over the past few weeks.


To summarise: 


I was noted as a 'twat of the tram' on this blog 'Priority Seat Thieves' (May 24 entry).
A someone saccharine start to a courtship soured.
I turned 24. Celebrated it at The Grill on New York Street. Nothing like a slab of rib eye flesh to man up over certain situations.
Lost my car keys (to this date, they remain lost)
Went to Rome for a 6 days. 


I don't tan. I turn into a human dot-to-dot. & with 37 degree heat, my abundance of freckles multiplied to wild proportions. Apparently they're quite endearing, I'm impartial to such views, naturally. 


In a non-cliched act of relaying, I'll be narrating my interval in Italy, omitting the snorefest facts, and presenting my own chateaubriand of calamities. 


The spread will present:


Fashion scar(e)s
Mothers quest to find tea, with milk, and hot
Orienteering skills (lack of)
and inappropriate literature at the Vatican


We'll call the following extract, merely part of the Bernaise. 
Michelangeo once described Rome as his tormenting lover and with sights like this, I'm inclined to agree.


Male sightseeing (top 3):

This sonny jim was just minding his own business at Il Fico. 

This chap was a man of few words. English words that is. 

Cheeky spot at the Vatican whilst waiting for Benny boy.

It's all culturally uphill from here. Ish.

Chalkboard.

Slid on a slush-puppie left from Mother Nature on the trudge home from the tube last night. First sight of London in 10 days, evidently missed.

My time at home (Manchester) threw one or two realities at me;

I drink 2 pints of skimmed milk a day. Minimum.
I can't stand eating alongside people who either chew with their mouth open or make a peep whilst chewing.
There's a group called overeaters anonymous. I should join. It's unnatural eating all this cereal & slurping all this milk.
My mother is a feeder. No joke. (I either blame her for or accuse her of all of the above)
Technology of the modern age is wasted on the majority of those aged 50+.

I'm being a negative nancy.

True friends are like family, but you can pick them. Rather than sour, shriveled blueberries whose taste can be sugarcoated temporarily (family party, once a year), my buddies are juicy, pack a punch and liven up an otherwise mediocre cocktail. Pals.

Mother is simply the nicest lady I've ever met. I could gush about her super-powers for a while, but that's a snore and to be honest she bugs the fluff out of me regularly.

I love tea. Northern tea. Last Tuesday I had 12 mugs, slip me on a building site.

Here's the quandary. I live in the capital & work as part of management in a retail environment. I'm not passionate about it, not by a long chalk. I'm energised by the branding, marketing and PR side of retail. I'm not sure how I've boxed myself off into this role. Like every Tom, Dick & Harry, I've done my fair share of internships. Most dire, some life enhancing and its those that fall into the latter that motivate me to carry on to achieve a f/t paid role.

THUD. I've gotten through to the final few in several prolific companies. Keep catching my ankle on the last hurdle. Must raise game.

I'm drained of energy, revenue and passion.

It's clear that if I were to undertake another unpaid internship I'd walk the next interview. Scratch cards aren't playing ball. Mothers bank balance is rouge tainted. Spiraling into retail disillusion.

I'm considering moving home. Bosom of the North. Re-think things; Centre my yang (?), escape to the country (ish) and admit defeat.

My mind resembles this, head/heart spiel;

I'd consider yoga to relax, but last time I went I got asked to leave (inflexibility is a distraction).

Manipulating the words slightly, I think David Attenborough is suggesting I move home, or become a nomadic herdsman;

'An understanding of the natural world and what's in it is a source of not only a great curiosity but great fulfillment'

Then again, I have read The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Life is heavy. But he was a bloody surgeon, at least that's a profession.

Fickle, me?

iPlayer.

Looking at the news, strands of social media and overhearing the local titter I can't help but think it's a repeat.

Life has become indistinguishable from BBC iPlayer. You've a section for everything, a time for everything; Eastenders & Corrie are still at war pre watershed, Tony Blackburn is still banging on about Pick of the Pops (I love it really) & fashion has turned into Dr Who - metallics are back in.

People say they live for the weekend, when really they live to laze. I'm as guilty of this as the next tweenager, but when you spend each day in a cycle of job applications, awaiting automated rejection & thinking you're better than a single room it's pretty dim.

I'm a communicator, I like to learn & then regurgitate.

A few geriatrics told me this is the time of my life. Jesus, if this is the prime I dread to think what's round the corner.

Still, off to a Tea & Coffee festival. I shant actually be sampling these tipples. Much like an Italian refusing to try frozen yoghurt, I cannot bring myself to trying anything other than breakfast tea.

You can take the girl out of the North ...