yikes

Photography takes an instant out of time, altering life by holding it still

If there’s one thing I really [really] hate, it’s having my picture taken.  Having somebody shove a camera in my face not only irks me, but also makes me want to run a mile.  Filming is just as bad.  The fact that my whole walk along the high street every morning, and every afternoon, can be caught on three different CCTVs is something I try not to think about …

However, taking pictures of other people is something I enjoy.  Even more so, I really enjoy taking pictures of anything [within reason, and perfectly legal of course, and because I know how horrid it is I would never take a picture of somebody who hated having their picture taken].  I’m not particularly good at it, as you can judge for yourself if you toddle along to my Flickr site, and I will never be as good a photographer as The Baby Brother, who takes the most amazing pictures with his squillion cameras and lenses [and perhaps contributed to me starting to enjoy photography and seeing it as more than simply pointing and clicking], but it’s something I like, a way of me being creative.  I am not a creative person; I only got an F in my GCSE Art exam, for goshness sake! 

Tomorrow I’m off on a course to learn how to use my our Canon EOS 400D.  It’s a course specifically for the camera.  I shall have to spend the day talking to folk I don’t know [yikes!] and I shall spend the journey there panicking about this, and I won’t sleep tonight because I’ll be worrying that the other people there will know more than me … *sigh*

But there was an article on the BBC Magazine page that made me wonder if the course is worth the money The Blokey is spending on it. 

People take pictures all the time.  It used to be mainly tourists and media/journalist types [and trainspotters], but now that cameras are cheaper and smaller, and now that we have them as standard on most mobile phones, nearly everybody takes pictures.  They take them in pubs, at events, in schools, even just whilst walking down the street.  See something you like?  Just whip out your camera, point and click, and the moment is captured for you to keep forever, or for as long as you want.  In the digital age you can delete it immediately if you hate it and if you want to keep it you can have it stored somewhere on your PC before the person next to you can utter the words, That’s cool!  Let’s put it on Facebook!

But the freedom of photography comes with a price sometimes; society judges you.  If I take a photograph in a public place it isn’t because I have an unhealthy interest in children.  Nor is it because I plan to bomb a building in order to cause chaos.  It’s certainly not because I’m stalking you.  It’s simply because I want to capture that moment/place/scene, which I’ll probably never be able to capture again. 

As a society we’ve developed an unhealthy paranoia in everything:  the world is a worse place than it was thirty years ago, everybody is a potential criminal, and nobody has morals anymore.  Because of these unfounded views children don’t play out in the streets like they used to, strangers look at you warily if you try to strike up conversation and anybody wearing a hoody/baseball cap is automatically categorised in our minds as a thug and we cross the road to avoid them.

And obviously, if you cart a camera around you’re either a terrorist or a paedophile.  

But it is legal to take photographs in public places.  And photographers [whether amateur or professional] have rights.  I think I’ll be printing them out and carrying a copy in my camera bag lest I ever get accosted by some inexperienced policeman just out of nappies.   

Bloody idiots.

please God bless this paranoid society xxx Elsabeth

Plainly; Men Suck.

PMS makes everything more intense in my world.

Everything.

I can munch my way through the contents of the fridge, finishing the gluttonous deed by licking my fingers and moaning with delight and/or guilt.  My moods become, well … moodier.  Where one moment I can be happily giggling because of something The Blokey is doing or saying, within nanoseconds I can be haughtily telling him that it ain’t funny, quit it!  I don’t mean to hurt him.  My body and mind become more lethargic than usual, and I tense up.  I open iTunes and find myself listening to Justin Timberlake or Avril Lavigne, through no fault of my own.  Sometimes my fingers may as well be doing their own thing, ignoring any signals from my brain.

At the best of times my concentration and memory are absolutely appalling, but when PMS toddles by they may as well be non-existent.

This Blog Now! page has been open all day.  And I do mean all day

So, I’m the person who regularly walks into a room and has to immediately walk out again because the reason for entering the room slipped my mind.  In truth, this often happens on Xanga too.   Opening a page and staring blankly at it for a while is not particularly entertaining, but my mind seems to think it is, such is the frequency with which it occurs.  I start doing one thing and often turn my mind to something else, which frustrates The Blokey.

I’m quite a stickler for routine.  It’s incredibly important to me that my days are mapped out – none of this impulsive behaviour for me, no thanks – and that everything is put in its rightful place [even if I’m the only person who is aware of the rightful place].  I also have OCD tendencies.  If the floor needs hoovering, it must be done NOW!  If we’ve watched a programme that was recorded through Sky+ it must be deleted off the box post haste or it looks messy and somehow that gets into my head.  I did lock the door didn’t I?  I can’t let The Blokey clean and tidy and cook and make the bed and hoover and dust and everything else, because he wouldn’t do it right.  He wouldn’t [and besides, he’s not complaining]!

So, you can imagine what life must be like in the World of Katiefinger in the run up to The Bloody Massacre.  Take a teaspoon of poor concentration, a dash of memory loss and a pinch of too much routine, shake it all up, and then wait for it to explode spectacularly.  Let the bedlam commence!

It’s pure torture.  I lost my rings on Friday afternoon.  I took them off to do the gardening, and they weren’t where they should have been when I went to put them back on.  After fifteen minutes of panic we found them in a place I never would have put them in a sane moment.  Yesterday morning I lost my phone.  It takes a long time and a huge amount of panic to find a phone that’s been hiding in Gym’s bag for two nights. 

It sounds trivial.  It sounds normal.  And in my world, it is normal.  But the intensity with which I lose things, both objects and memory, and the rate at which I forget something I did only three minutes ago, and the scary way I let my routine suffer … it’s bloody freaky.  Surreal.  I can’t even begin to explain it, really.  Still, at least it only happens for one week in every four.  And the other three weeks?  I can just about cope with the way my mind works …

Of course, drinking lots of wine doesn’t really help.

please God bless my memory xxx Elsabeth

The post with a point.

I changed my name [legally] when I was sixteen.  The Father had bequeathed to me a terrible surname of the kind which just invites rib-taking, and I didn’t want to spend my [maiden] life stuck with it.  What if I was a maiden for ever!? Crikey! 

Changing my name at sixteen meant that I didn’t need to ask The Father for his permission.  Not that he could have denied me really considering he changed his the year before, also changing the name of The Littlest Brother in the process because – heavens! – he might be subjected to rib-taking in school.  Of course, all the hassle could have been avoided if only The Father had changed his name as a young man.  He would have done, allegedly, but he was worried about what my nana [-with the long garden] would say.  The fact that she, by all accounts, was never really in love with my grandad [who died when The Father was a young teenager] might have suggested that she wouldn’t be totally bothered, and would probably have come round in the end.  But no. So my fate was sealed. 

It was a good time to change my name.  I’d just completed my GCSEs at one secondary school and was moving to another to study for A’Levels.  I made lots of new friends who were happy to call me Lizzy rather than <annoying nickname derived from surname>.  Those friends that came with me from one school to the other were quick to forget that I had once had an annoyingly horrid surname.  Life was good.

I’ve always been a tad fickle when it comes to friendship.  I’m not a good friendship keeper.  I do not a good friend make.  I am shite.  I easily get bored, or paranoid, or start to find fault.  As a child/teenager, although I had some exceedingly close friends, they were always spaced out among different groups.  Those groups inter-mingled on occasion, but generally they were separate, and I liked that I could move amongst ‘my’ groups depending on my mood and my needs. But I lost contact with many of them as university and then work [and new friends] took over my life. 

There is a point to this post.

I value my privacy.  Very much.  That’s why you won’t find me mentioning such trivialities as where I live or work.  It’s why I don’t mention the names of friends or family.  It’s why I sometimes even keep people guessing when it comes to my first name. 

It’s why I prefer MySpace to Facebook.  MySpace allows me my privacy.  MySpace is young and flirty.  MySpace is cute and adorable.  Facebook has always appeared staid and dull in comparison.  It’s like a pervy old man attempting to entice with sweets [applications]. 

But in the last week I’ve realised that I can use Facebook in a totally different way to how I use MySpace.  Facebook not only gives me the opportunity to stalk folk, but it also allows me to catch up with past friends. 

Whilst searching for one past friend I chanced, instead, upon her brother.  I only met her brother three times, when I was about fourteen.  He went to boarding school and I fancied the pants off him.  We wrote to each other a couple of times and he sent me a Valentine card, but I was fickle and his sister was a nutcase so contact disappeared and I forgot about him.  At first I just made sure he was who I thought he was.  Asked after his sister.  We messaged a couple of times.  Then I asked him to say hi to his sister for me and I was going to leave it at that.  He then said something along the lines of If you’re who I think you are it was nice chatting to you.  Who do you think I am? I asked him.  Surname was ***** I think, he replied.  Bloody hell, said I.  Some things in your life you just remember well, you’re one of mine, was his response to that. 

Yikes!  And that’s Yikes! in a good way.  It’s nice to know that when I was a mere fourteen years old I made such an impression on a fifteen year old boy [and all we ever did was watch scary films in the dark after his parents had gone to bed!] that eighteen years later [Yikes! (bad Yikes!)] he still remembers me.  Granted, it spooked me a little, but hey!  It’s almost a good spooked. 

So now I like Facebook … just a little bit.  Now I can be a child/teenager again and have separate groups of ‘friends’ to flit between depending upon my mood and needs.  MySpace for flirty, Facebook for stalking and Xanga for hiding the real me [or for being the real me, whichever way you want to look at it]. 

And Tabatha likes me liking it because she now has a profile on it too.  Bless her!

I told you there was a point to this post.

please God bless me for i have sinned xxx Elsabeth