Author: Maleghast (Page 32 of 38)

Merry Christmas, from the Godbys…

With apologies to KatQ, PaulS, Uncle Manamar, Jamie Amy and Mal, DT, Tansy, Louise Rob and Rhufon, Ysharros, Anne and Col M, Pete and Helen, MelB, Matt Heath, Steph, Tom and Ellie, Franny and Sanza and MANY MANY more that I am remembering every time I think about this, like Paul and Penny and Karen, Ewan and offspring…

Here is my Christmas Card to all of you and one of you all at once. If you are trapped at work you can pass nearly half an hour laughing at me as I try to remember to wish every last person in my life a Merry Christmas, like a demented Generation Game contestant screaming ‘Cuddly Toy!’ at every opportunity (well not quite, but you get the gist)

You know next year it might be easier to spend the money on cards and not worry about the environmental wastage that would be my sending out 200-300 of the things… 😉

A Christmas Card From Me to ALL OF YOU! from Oliver Godby on Vimeo.

These days I seem to be remembering my dreams more and more, whereas in the past I can barely remember being able to recall even the slightest detail about my night-time imaginings, I seem to remember something in great detail once or twice a week at the moment…

For example, last week I had a dream that I was at Eleanor’s grandparents’ bungalow in a little suburb of Harwich (I can’t remember what it’s called) when I saw a helicopter ditch in the shallows of the sea.  I rushed down to the beach to find that the pilot had clearly been able to effect a ‘soft” auto rotation landing and the aforementioned whirlybird was standing in about 3 feet of water with a rather shaken pilot sitting on the beach looking at his craft.  I wandered over to talk to him only to discover that it was in fact Marcus Brigstocke(sp?), at least in looks, but he had a non-descript voice and he kept going on and on about the water that had gotten onto his thigh-pad that had smudged his notes from the flight, as if the helicopter falling out of the sky was not actually that much of a problem.

Seriously, wtf?

Then last night I had a really odd dream about being asked to go and assist on a professional photoshoot, only to discover that the photographer I was going to be assisting was Philip Wilkinson – the chap behind Crowdstorm that I used to work for.  Now, please don’t misunderstand that this freaks me out in my waking / normal mode; Phil is a great guy and despite the fact that me working with him did not work out I have a ton of time for the guy, but he really is no photographer, you know?  In my dream he had this amazing state-of-the-art studio space in Hoxton, and a bundle of spiffy cameras and a bunch of great work (of his own) on the walls in the reception, and he was shooting for Chanel and YSL etc.  The shoot was a series of ‘editorial’ style shots for The Pussycat Dolls – I MEAN OMG!

I know that dreams are rarely any more mysterious than the unconscious sorting stuff out and filing thoughts and memories while we sleep, but these two really do stand out as weird…

…and I __actually__ laughed out loud…

That's How I Roll...

There are new pictures in the “Kruger 2008” photoalbum, click here to see…

In case you want a sneak preview:

More to follow…

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EOT

Here’s the thing, housework is not something that I am __good__ at; not even remotely.  I ought to be good at it – my parents are both accomplished cleaners, and I am not going for laughs here, I mean it.  Amongst their many talents they are both very good at cleaning up.  Certainly their profession is one with a reputation for cleanliness, at least in certain environments, and even though they have both mellowed a little in these last few years, toilets and kitchens are still places that shine and sparkle in their homes.  Not only has their influence been strong in the shaping of who I am, but I also went to a British, boys’ boarding school.  Have no illusions, the money that was spent on my education was spent wisely, on talented and interesting teachers, excellent books and equipment, but as anyone who went to my school will tell you, a good half of all the domestic cleaning was done by the boys.  On looking back this was also a good thing, it taught us how to sweep and mop a hardwood floor, or clean a bath – I don’t think that it was a bad thing at all…

So why is it that now, as an ‘adult’, with a job and a flat and (some) spare time on my hands, I find it __so__ hard to keep my living quarters clean and tidy?  I mean is it as simple an equation as there are no longer other people with more authority telling me what to do and when to do it?  Am I in fact a victim of my own lazy, idle tendencies, and without someone who can send me on a run up a hill before breakfast or who can keep me in on a Saturday night, re-doing my French homework I am in fact merely a slob?

In my own defence I do work a full-time job, and when I’m not doing that I am trying to maintain an active social life, write a piece of short fiction every day and work on three concurrent artistic projects, not to mention other random blogging (like this) and occasional meals and trips to the bathroom.  More to the point, after eight hours at work, doing a job that is not all bad, but by God could be a LOT more exciting, and spending __some__ time getting back into Reading through the unaccountably awful evening traffic, the VERY LAST thing that I want to do is empty the bin, wash the floors, sort the laundry, clean the toilet and do the washing up.  Am I alone in this?  I have a feeling that I’m not, but the very fact that (currently) I am not sharing my living space with another human being means that the only person who actually suffers is me, and insidious though it may be, at first it seems to be worth it.

I have recently got back on top of the cleaning situation in my flat, thanks in no small part to two friends who wanted to give me an Xmas present that they didn’t have to buy.  They came up with the suggestion, it went a little like this:

“You know how you do from time to time complain about how awful the state of your flat is, but then you never do anything about it?”

“Yeah…”

“Well how about we help you get started on it as a Christmas Present from us to you?”

I’ll be honest with you, I was not initially excited about the prospect of letting even such close friends into my flat to see my shame – I mean don’t misunderstand, it was not a health risk or anything, but I had not let things go quite so badly downhill since I’d been a student, and there was a part of me that was indeed very ashamed.  They cajoled and persuaded for a little while and I relented as long as they would take a gift of some wine that was left over from my exhibition opening as a return gift, basically to assuage my guilt.  They agreed and last weekend they came around at the appointed hour and the cleaning began.

I am writing this now from a clutter free desk in a tidy and clean flat – well I still need to sort out my bedroom, but I feel confident that that will be dealt with by the end of Sunday – and I like being here again.  It was so lliberating, I cannot even begin to tell you; I have learned the hard way that the trade-off in terms of mood is so pernicious that I can never let it get out of hand like that again.

So here’s the problem, I’m still working full-time, and will be for the forseeable future; I am never going to be comfortable with the inconvenience that housework represents, and yet if I let it slide I risk letting the dirty demon back in, and I know now that sadness and shame lie down that road.  What to do?  Well I suppose the lesson of my youth, cloistered far from the bright lights of the city and from the delights of the opposite sex, would be to just buckle down and do it.  Does anyone think that is likely?  No.  What I __am__ going to do is retain a cleaner, and join the ranks, finally, not only of the middle-class, but also the middle aged.

I can afford a cleaner, particularly for this tiny flat where a pro should only need three to four hours a week to keep the situation under control.  There is a secret agenda here that panders to my own self-knowledge as well…  If I am paying for a cleaner to come and do the bathroom, kitchen and the floors and what-have-you, then I will want value for money, and I will only get that if at my end of the bargain I do two things that will ensure that whoever I retain can quickly and easily clean the flat.  As long as I keep the place de-cluttered, and the washing-up done, then a professional cleaner can make this place shine in a couple of hours – I have no doubt.  It’s a little pathetic that I have to rely on my own northern heritage and ability to wring all of the life out of any service that I pay for to encourage myself to carry out the mundanest of tasks, but if it works it works…

At least in days and weeks to come I will be able to say that I got some help, and the help, helped… 😉

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EOT