Very quick one today as I'm supposed to be working really and have a meeting in 23 mins, but I wanted to drop a note in to say the I'm installed in Dublin and about to embark on this project proper.
After getting up at 0445 yesterday morning and flying over here, we got straight into the client's offices and went through all the admin stuff you have to do when working on a client site; security passes, laptop access etc and went through a series of project kick off meetings, resulting in a very tired and head-spun me stumbling off to the hotel later that afternoon in no mood for anything except a hot bath and a big soft bed.
Bit clearer this morning having had some sleep, went for a run down the Liffey for an hour or so at 0600 and very lovely it was too on this sunny, crisp morning. I got thinking about river cities on the way out and back, the Liffey's a very quiet, slow river, very calm and inky black and so still you can see the insects rippling the surface in places. Compared to the churning, milky, rolling Seine or the purposeful power of the Thames it's really quite sleepy and village-like. Got me wondering if you can define the sense of a city through the character of its river, which is the sort of not-entirely-nonsense-but-nearly I'm prone to dreaming up whilst running.
I know I've only been here a day, but I've not really got the measure of this town yet (it's my first time here). Architecturally it's a weird mish-mash of styles which don't really compliment each other at all; this feeling carries on into every aspect of the place creating a sense of laissez-faire and general lack of aesthetics which I'm not finding too endearing at the moment. Perhaps I'm being too harsh, but it still feels like a bit of a frontier town, with everyone building their own thing regardless of context - don't they have town planners here?
Anyway, I'll have more of a wander round later in the week. Everyone says this place is wonderful; I'm never one to take the received view without finding out for myself though. The client is great though, very welcoming, very forthcoming and supportive, and in many ways we've a totally blank sheet to work from, and a 7th floor office with a gorgeous view to work in. Fingers crossed this could turn out to be a very cool project to work on... although four days a week without my Kiwi is a very high price to pay.
Tuesday, 17 July 2007
Saturday, 14 July 2007
Oh, and another thing
I should point out two more things:
1. This particular pigeon actually looked in fairly good nick, unlike some of the scabbier ones you get in London. It is Kensington after all.
2. Said pigeon has been perched on the ledge outside out kitchen window glaring at the Kiwi and fixing her with 'that look' all morning. Evil little bugger's really freaking her out.
1. This particular pigeon actually looked in fairly good nick, unlike some of the scabbier ones you get in London. It is Kensington after all.
2. Said pigeon has been perched on the ledge outside out kitchen window glaring at the Kiwi and fixing her with 'that look' all morning. Evil little bugger's really freaking her out.
The Incident With The Pigeon
Well, what a busy morning we've had. Picture the scene - I'm still in bed, reading a truly awful bit of chick-lit I found under the bed for want of anything better to read. The Kiwi's on the phone to her dad in Australia. We hear a bit of a commotion going on in the kitchen and, still on the phone, the Kiwi wanders through to find out what's going on. I remain in bed, pondering quite how chivalrous it is for me to leave her to investigate the goings on in our kitchen.
Cue reentry of the Kiwi into our bedroom, wide-eyed, screaming and generally in a state of abject terror, poor father on the other end of the phone and the other side of the world wondering what the dickens is going on.
"OHMYGODTHERESAPIGEONINTHEKITCHENGETRIDOFITGETRIDOFIT"
Now, as I think I've mentioned before, we live on the third floor. Our kitchen window is a sash, and looks out onto the back of the building and that of the building in the next street over. The sash was open this morning, and a great stupid flying rat had managed to get itself into our kitchen and was perched awkwardly on the top of the bottom sash, which was raised up to more or less the top of the window.
Those who know the Kiwi well will know that she has a bit of a thing about birds. For me, this is the first time I've actually encountered a genuine phobia up close. The difference between a mild dislike (oh, I don't care much for birds) and a phobia (running away, shaking, tears) is quite striking. It's a fairly serious and alarming thing to see someone you care about in such distress and I hope this doesn't come across as poking fun at it.
Anyway, back to the story. Still in a complete state, I shut the Kiwi in the bedroom where I think her dad tried to talk her down a bit. Got a dressing gown on and went through to the kitchen where the poor thing was perching on the sash, supporting itself against the window with its wing and eyeing me nervously. A bit of armwaving and verbal abuse later (from me, directed at the bird) and a few headlong flights into the window pane (the bird, not me), it was off.
So the Kiwi is calmed, stops quaking a few minutes later. Finishes conversation with father. I get in the shower to shave my head, as I tend to do of a Saturday morning. 1 minute in, knock on the door. Woeful face appears through it.
"It's pooed."
Histrionics begin again, quietened down and sent to the shop to get breakfast whilst I 'deal with it'.
And so out of the shower, looking like I'm about to have brain surgery with about a quarter of my head shaven and a towel wrapped round me, disinfecting the kitchen. Mentally jacking up my brownie point score.
I think we're ok now - post-breakfast, showered, reading paper and with a kitchen that even C-Difficile wouldn't survive in. I'm off to Dublin next week with work (FOR A MONTH), so you should expect a fair bit of bloggage during that time as I'll be lonely and bored. I'm back for weekends though, so it's not too bad and I'm sort of excited despite being a bit terrified. More on that later - it's lunchtime and I'm hungry again.
Cue reentry of the Kiwi into our bedroom, wide-eyed, screaming and generally in a state of abject terror, poor father on the other end of the phone and the other side of the world wondering what the dickens is going on.
"OHMYGODTHERESAPIGEONINTHEKITCHENGETRIDOFITGETRIDOFIT"
Now, as I think I've mentioned before, we live on the third floor. Our kitchen window is a sash, and looks out onto the back of the building and that of the building in the next street over. The sash was open this morning, and a great stupid flying rat had managed to get itself into our kitchen and was perched awkwardly on the top of the bottom sash, which was raised up to more or less the top of the window.
Those who know the Kiwi well will know that she has a bit of a thing about birds. For me, this is the first time I've actually encountered a genuine phobia up close. The difference between a mild dislike (oh, I don't care much for birds) and a phobia (running away, shaking, tears) is quite striking. It's a fairly serious and alarming thing to see someone you care about in such distress and I hope this doesn't come across as poking fun at it.
Anyway, back to the story. Still in a complete state, I shut the Kiwi in the bedroom where I think her dad tried to talk her down a bit. Got a dressing gown on and went through to the kitchen where the poor thing was perching on the sash, supporting itself against the window with its wing and eyeing me nervously. A bit of armwaving and verbal abuse later (from me, directed at the bird) and a few headlong flights into the window pane (the bird, not me), it was off.
So the Kiwi is calmed, stops quaking a few minutes later. Finishes conversation with father. I get in the shower to shave my head, as I tend to do of a Saturday morning. 1 minute in, knock on the door. Woeful face appears through it.
"It's pooed."
Histrionics begin again, quietened down and sent to the shop to get breakfast whilst I 'deal with it'.
And so out of the shower, looking like I'm about to have brain surgery with about a quarter of my head shaven and a towel wrapped round me, disinfecting the kitchen. Mentally jacking up my brownie point score.
I think we're ok now - post-breakfast, showered, reading paper and with a kitchen that even C-Difficile wouldn't survive in. I'm off to Dublin next week with work (FOR A MONTH), so you should expect a fair bit of bloggage during that time as I'll be lonely and bored. I'm back for weekends though, so it's not too bad and I'm sort of excited despite being a bit terrified. More on that later - it's lunchtime and I'm hungry again.
Sunday, 8 July 2007
Eh?
Weird. Really really weird. You know how I've been building up for the past 7 weeks to this earth-shatteringly important presentation which was supposed to happen last Thursday? Well, it didn't happen. Things all went, in the words of our MD: 'a bit Roald Dahl'. Took me a while to work out the 'Tales of the Unexpected' link but there you go, pay attention, 007.
What went on, basically, is that whilst we've been beavering away working on a spanky retail solution for a media entity, said media entity was considering alternative options itself. And as happens has decided to go down a completely different route from the one we were working on. This isn't entirely a bad thing, as they're still keen to work with us on whatever it turns out to be, but it's still mildly galling to have worked on something for ages and have it all turn to custard in the final couple of days.
So, the poor Project Manager will be on this for a week longer than she expected, whilst I go on to start work on a really-quite-exciting project for a bunch of chaps in Ireland. Being sanguine about it for a minute I suppose it was a good first project - plenty of experience gained but as nothing was actually produced, nothing to be judged by in months to come. And we did get paid for it, so it'll all count at bonus time.
The Kiwi and I have been dead cultured this weekend. Friday evening we went to the much talked about Anthony Gormley exhibition at the Hayward, 'Blind Light'. Now I've always been a bit of a Gormley fan, ever since I first saw 1991's 'Field'. I'm not sure what it is about his stuff that attracts me - his writings on his work always leave me cold, but the work itself really gets me in quite an alarming way.
'Blind Light' is no exception. The titular piece is quite astounding (the glass box filled with a thick white fog, into which you walk), a genuinely unique and extremely disorientating experience. Visibility is about 18 inches, so you can see about to your waist once you're right in there. It's strangely calming and I really quite enjoyed it. I'm not sure what to draw from it though, the novelty factor sort of overwhelms any deeper reading, which is a criticism I sometimes do have about showy installation work.
The other bits of the show were also typically brilliant, although overshadowed by the party piece. I was absolutely transfixed by 'Event Horizon', which consisted of a number of casts of Gormley's body placed on top of buildings within a 1.5km square from the gallery. Once you're outside on one of the gallery's sculpture terraces, you begin noticing the figures, all of which are turned to face the terrace that you're on (there are a few of them). There's this really eerie sense of being watched, of a silent army of witnesses impassively staring at you.
There's also something incredibly melancholy about these chaps all lonely and exposed on the tops of buildings - in a way the sympathy this stirs up cancels out the unease they generate, leaving an odd but delicious confusion and mixed sentiment. It's also great to be able to see this piece from all around that part of London - every now and then you'll notice one brooding down at you from a rooftop and some of the initial wonder and excitement you experienced on the first view will briefly come creeping back.
There must be something in the air at the moment. Yesterday afternoon whilst drinking a bit more rum than was decent (Havana Club 7yo though, so it's sort of allowed) in a cuban bar off Kensington High Street I got transfixed by a snippet of Shelley in an article in the Guardian and properly went off on one to the Kiwi who presumably thought I'd finally gone entirely mad.
And that's the lot of late - we spent most of today in Kew Gardens at a gentle family event laid on by work, which was lovely and sunny, now I'm blogging from the kitchen (I'm so cutting edge) whilst roasting a chicken and trying to remember how to make cauliflower cheese. On the whole, stuff is good.
What went on, basically, is that whilst we've been beavering away working on a spanky retail solution for a media entity, said media entity was considering alternative options itself. And as happens has decided to go down a completely different route from the one we were working on. This isn't entirely a bad thing, as they're still keen to work with us on whatever it turns out to be, but it's still mildly galling to have worked on something for ages and have it all turn to custard in the final couple of days.
So, the poor Project Manager will be on this for a week longer than she expected, whilst I go on to start work on a really-quite-exciting project for a bunch of chaps in Ireland. Being sanguine about it for a minute I suppose it was a good first project - plenty of experience gained but as nothing was actually produced, nothing to be judged by in months to come. And we did get paid for it, so it'll all count at bonus time.
The Kiwi and I have been dead cultured this weekend. Friday evening we went to the much talked about Anthony Gormley exhibition at the Hayward, 'Blind Light'. Now I've always been a bit of a Gormley fan, ever since I first saw 1991's 'Field'. I'm not sure what it is about his stuff that attracts me - his writings on his work always leave me cold, but the work itself really gets me in quite an alarming way.
'Blind Light' is no exception. The titular piece is quite astounding (the glass box filled with a thick white fog, into which you walk), a genuinely unique and extremely disorientating experience. Visibility is about 18 inches, so you can see about to your waist once you're right in there. It's strangely calming and I really quite enjoyed it. I'm not sure what to draw from it though, the novelty factor sort of overwhelms any deeper reading, which is a criticism I sometimes do have about showy installation work.
The other bits of the show were also typically brilliant, although overshadowed by the party piece. I was absolutely transfixed by 'Event Horizon', which consisted of a number of casts of Gormley's body placed on top of buildings within a 1.5km square from the gallery. Once you're outside on one of the gallery's sculpture terraces, you begin noticing the figures, all of which are turned to face the terrace that you're on (there are a few of them). There's this really eerie sense of being watched, of a silent army of witnesses impassively staring at you.
There's also something incredibly melancholy about these chaps all lonely and exposed on the tops of buildings - in a way the sympathy this stirs up cancels out the unease they generate, leaving an odd but delicious confusion and mixed sentiment. It's also great to be able to see this piece from all around that part of London - every now and then you'll notice one brooding down at you from a rooftop and some of the initial wonder and excitement you experienced on the first view will briefly come creeping back.
There must be something in the air at the moment. Yesterday afternoon whilst drinking a bit more rum than was decent (Havana Club 7yo though, so it's sort of allowed) in a cuban bar off Kensington High Street I got transfixed by a snippet of Shelley in an article in the Guardian and properly went off on one to the Kiwi who presumably thought I'd finally gone entirely mad.
And that's the lot of late - we spent most of today in Kew Gardens at a gentle family event laid on by work, which was lovely and sunny, now I'm blogging from the kitchen (I'm so cutting edge) whilst roasting a chicken and trying to remember how to make cauliflower cheese. On the whole, stuff is good.
Saturday, 30 June 2007
Final week
Six weeks have flown by in a whirl of new people, places, numbers, processes and clothes. I'm not totally sure I'd really looked this far into the future when I started (even seeing the end of the first week was a struggle), so everything's seeming like it's all becoming very real all of a sudden. I suppose this is the reality of consulting; we'll deliver the multi-million pound business model to the client at the end of next week (Thursday morning, to be precise) and then I'll be onto something else, another client, another site, another project.
Provided our proposal's taken up, the development elves will take our place, filling the client's offices with computers, wires and gadgetry whilst they build the shiny new commerce platform we've been sketching out in Visio. While all this happens, I'll be somewhere else dreaming up big dreams for another client.
I know this sounds like a dead cert for Pseud's Corner, but the thought struck me whilst walking along the river yesterday and the sunset was colouring a damp Embankment that sort of nicotine yellow and Ryan Adams' new album was playing (specifically 'Two') and for a few minutes everything seemed silent and calm - in these sort of moments things seem to fall into sharp relief, and I noticed the somewhat nebulous quality of my role. Still, pays the bills and keeps me out of trouble I suppose. And I do enjoy it, very much.
So, the reason I was wandering thataways was that I was en route to meet my old boss in a bar in the Oxo Tower, who spectacularly failed to turn up (not that I was that surprised as he'd been somewhat cryptic about whether he would or not). Not to worry, enjoyed the sunset overlooking the Thames with a couple of Peronis and chuckled at the typically splenetic Evening Standard until the Kiwi arrived. Dinner at a so-so pizza place on Gabriel's Wharf, quick look round the newly refurbed Royal Festival Hall (considering membership, decided to probably not), then a final pint in a horrid pub on Villiers St as the lovely Gordon's was rammed and then home.
So, today I'm doing a bit of work, nothing strenuous, then off to drop in briefly on a birthday party and tomorrow's lunch in Sarf London with the family who so kindly put me up for the first few months of me living in London. Writing this has also reminded me that I really should be looking around for something else to work on post-next week. I'm not sure how this works but something tells me I'd better find out pretty quickly...
Provided our proposal's taken up, the development elves will take our place, filling the client's offices with computers, wires and gadgetry whilst they build the shiny new commerce platform we've been sketching out in Visio. While all this happens, I'll be somewhere else dreaming up big dreams for another client.
I know this sounds like a dead cert for Pseud's Corner, but the thought struck me whilst walking along the river yesterday and the sunset was colouring a damp Embankment that sort of nicotine yellow and Ryan Adams' new album was playing (specifically 'Two') and for a few minutes everything seemed silent and calm - in these sort of moments things seem to fall into sharp relief, and I noticed the somewhat nebulous quality of my role. Still, pays the bills and keeps me out of trouble I suppose. And I do enjoy it, very much.
So, the reason I was wandering thataways was that I was en route to meet my old boss in a bar in the Oxo Tower, who spectacularly failed to turn up (not that I was that surprised as he'd been somewhat cryptic about whether he would or not). Not to worry, enjoyed the sunset overlooking the Thames with a couple of Peronis and chuckled at the typically splenetic Evening Standard until the Kiwi arrived. Dinner at a so-so pizza place on Gabriel's Wharf, quick look round the newly refurbed Royal Festival Hall (considering membership, decided to probably not), then a final pint in a horrid pub on Villiers St as the lovely Gordon's was rammed and then home.
So, today I'm doing a bit of work, nothing strenuous, then off to drop in briefly on a birthday party and tomorrow's lunch in Sarf London with the family who so kindly put me up for the first few months of me living in London. Writing this has also reminded me that I really should be looking around for something else to work on post-next week. I'm not sure how this works but something tells me I'd better find out pretty quickly...
Tuesday, 26 June 2007
'Normality' returns
From what the Kiwi's told me, New York is a rather splendid place which apparently I'd lurve, must pencil that one in for a sneaky work trip or something. My new masters do have an office there, or so I hear. One can dream....
It's good to have her back. Apart from the empty fridge and full washing baskets, I really was starting to miss her and so on - I'm sure you picked up on that so I'll not go into it all over again. Anyway, weekend was lovely, did a wine tasting for some friends of friends on Saturday which was predictably raucous - these things always descend into anarchy some time around the fourth or fifth wine. I'm available for hire should anyone fancy trying it on themselves.
Week 6 begins with sheer, full-on panic. This project's reaching fever pitch and I'm starting to adopt a sort of pained, hunted expression most of the time and am constantly fretting about having missed out a number or something. A proper assessment of how it's really gone won't be available until it's finished though, so watch this space pop pickers.
In answer to Tingo, the fashion thing went very well thanks - got some hot insider info from a friend on Thursday night so could be reasonably smug on Friday - I think I might be asked to properly present to the whole biz at some point. Am also angling to get onto one of the several clothing-related projects we're working on too.
Right - to work. Bah. I'm slightly hungover from meeting up with an ex-colleague last night in Covent Garden. Which was ace - The Cove Bar is a little haven of normality in the tourist hell that is the piazza.
It's good to have her back. Apart from the empty fridge and full washing baskets, I really was starting to miss her and so on - I'm sure you picked up on that so I'll not go into it all over again. Anyway, weekend was lovely, did a wine tasting for some friends of friends on Saturday which was predictably raucous - these things always descend into anarchy some time around the fourth or fifth wine. I'm available for hire should anyone fancy trying it on themselves.
Week 6 begins with sheer, full-on panic. This project's reaching fever pitch and I'm starting to adopt a sort of pained, hunted expression most of the time and am constantly fretting about having missed out a number or something. A proper assessment of how it's really gone won't be available until it's finished though, so watch this space pop pickers.
In answer to Tingo, the fashion thing went very well thanks - got some hot insider info from a friend on Thursday night so could be reasonably smug on Friday - I think I might be asked to properly present to the whole biz at some point. Am also angling to get onto one of the several clothing-related projects we're working on too.
Right - to work. Bah. I'm slightly hungover from meeting up with an ex-colleague last night in Covent Garden. Which was ace - The Cove Bar is a little haven of normality in the tourist hell that is the piazza.
Friday, 22 June 2007
Quickie
A few quick words before bed (remember, that timestamp isn't accurate for some reason - it's actually 00:45 on Friday morning, have been up chatting on MSN for hours).
SHE'S BACK TOMORROW! And once again all will be well - can't tell you how much I'm looking forwards to seeing her again - I've tried to downplay it a bit for the sake of a less sugary blog read but there you go - sugary warts and all. Ewww. So my beloved will be on a plane right about now, heading for touchdown about the time I wake up tomorrow.
This week has seemed reasonably productive, in the way that a month spent prising a teeny diamond out of solid rock seems productive. It's been mighty intense, tricky and we feel like we're moving forwards in measurements of millimetres, but at least we're moving forwards. Final presentation minus two weeks.
Marigold update: they're now such monsters they're falling over in light breezes. I've had to wedge the pot up with the Kiwi's herb trough. I'm a victim of my own success, I think.
Other stuff - had two significantly ego-puncturing moments recently:
1. Walking down High St Kensington with the Kiwi, woman strides up to her thrusting a leaflet and says "do you need your eyes testing, love?"
2. Bought two pairs of trousers later that day, the only two out of several my size I tried on to fit me. Later noted that both pairs have no fewer than four (four!) trusses and fastenings intended to keep my burgeoning beer baby in check.
My only conclusion: I *am* the rightful heir to Jabba the Hutt's throne. Might as well learn to wash myself with a rag on a stick right now.
SHE'S BACK TOMORROW! And once again all will be well - can't tell you how much I'm looking forwards to seeing her again - I've tried to downplay it a bit for the sake of a less sugary blog read but there you go - sugary warts and all. Ewww. So my beloved will be on a plane right about now, heading for touchdown about the time I wake up tomorrow.
This week has seemed reasonably productive, in the way that a month spent prising a teeny diamond out of solid rock seems productive. It's been mighty intense, tricky and we feel like we're moving forwards in measurements of millimetres, but at least we're moving forwards. Final presentation minus two weeks.
Marigold update: they're now such monsters they're falling over in light breezes. I've had to wedge the pot up with the Kiwi's herb trough. I'm a victim of my own success, I think.
Other stuff - had two significantly ego-puncturing moments recently:
1. Walking down High St Kensington with the Kiwi, woman strides up to her thrusting a leaflet and says "do you need your eyes testing, love?"
2. Bought two pairs of trousers later that day, the only two out of several my size I tried on to fit me. Later noted that both pairs have no fewer than four (four!) trusses and fastenings intended to keep my burgeoning beer baby in check.
My only conclusion: I *am* the rightful heir to Jabba the Hutt's throne. Might as well learn to wash myself with a rag on a stick right now.
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