At the rate I'm updating I might as well not, but I felt compelled to declare to the three or so of you that I'm alive and kicking. Things have been good in the past two months or so, and I shouldn't complain, although I occasionally do given my insatiable nature.
The house is good, quirky housemates and quirky me have taken to each other well, and the town is old, bare and rustic, perfect for the absolute change in environment I needed. I haven't mentioned this much, but I tend to think of my life as being cut up in a small number of distinct, very different chapters, maybe seven or ten of them. The school years were probably the first, the time from college to university was second, and I'd like to think this would kick of the third. If you don't know what I'm on about it's because you're not quirky enough and would probably not fit into my house.
It gets strange though when people ask me about whether I love my work. I never know how to answer. I do like it and all - it's probably as good as it gets at my level - but love implies that I'd forsake sleeping in under the warm cosy duvet for it, and because of this I'm unlikely to ever love any manifestation of work. Happily though, my colleagues, after a drinking binge, reveal themselves to be a what-has-my-life-come-to
fataslistic, self-depreciating bunch with a pitch-black dark sense of humour, much like myself. I love it!