The opening number

Sometimes, you can get very confused by trying to be a lot of different people at the same time.  The bottom line is that, barring schizophrenia, I really am only one person.  So instead of restricting myself to a ‘political blog’ or the cringingly embarrassing over-personal revelations of livejournal, I figured it might be time to just put a public face on my writing, and leave it here for anyone with the time to read it.

This has become an amalgamation of my previous, short-lived, forays into ‘real’ blogging, and with every keystroke, the actual word blog becomes infinitely more annoying.  I think this might work best if I just chunter on about whatever strikes me as being worthy of discussion, rather than trying to be so achingly edgy and fascinating.

Who am I?  What is this about?  Is there a point?

In short: Lola. Who knows? Definitely not.

The longer versions will come out in time, and I’m reluctant to jump in now, mired as I am in one of those periodic existential crises that last until I’m distracted by something suitably shiny.  Do I want to be defined by my mature student status (Arabic and Politics, since you ask)?  Should I stick instead to the seemingly incompatible passions that fill up my time: from devouring short stories, through the rabble of supporting football teams (Motherwell and Liverpool), through to the often scorned spectacle of a stunning West End musical?  Do the apparently impressive number of countries I’ve visited make me a better person, or only marginally more interesting?  Should anyone care who I sleep with, whether my cats are insane, or if I’ve bothered to do the work in the garden that’s been bugging me since November?

London is the backdrop, from the gay Bloomsbury squares that fill my days, to the Barratt identikit suburbian homes that line my route home.  What pulses through my headphones at a Tube-defying volume is eclectic at best and incoherent at worst.  My politics veer in different directions depending on the country we’re discussing, and my approach to most of life’s greatest arguments is willing everyone to just shut up and stop being so bloody petty (cf. the Middle East, Northern Ireland, Scottish Nationalism etc etc).  Of course, I know it’s more complex and important than a glib remark, but if you don’t recognise that as my default response, you’re probably not going to get me at all.

Sleep is a rare phenomenon these days, and so when I’m awake at 4am this may well become the place where I empty my ultimately unimportant thoughts on anything from teabags to torture.

That should do for now, let’s see where it takes me.

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5 responses to “The opening number

  1. I care who you bl00dy sleep with.

  2. I meant I wouldn’t be defined by it, LOVER.

  3. You know, I know it was ‘vague’ but it was kinda nice to read this little catch-up post on you.

  4. It feels like forever since I actually *told* people things – I sort of expect everyone to get it by implication. But it’s very nice to be back in the same sort of orbit, dear hooligan!

  5. But it’s very nice to be back in the same sort of orbit…

    Amen, sista!

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