Book lovers never go to bed alone

Funny how I return to books I've read before. To gobble up as many titles in my life has been seen as an achievement I must gain. Do I actually take the time to absorb the novels I read? It's quite possible that the more times I read a particular title, the more I gain from it.

This week I finished off Terry Pratchett's Mort. A book I've read several times. Each time I get through it quicker than the last. Each time I pick up elements I didn't previously.

Like The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy I laugh every time I read various Pratchett books.

Also this week I took a look at my book shelf and had a small rush of thoughts which I can only see returning. A question arose.

Am I using novels to replace the lack of a possible love in my life?

Anyone who knows me is bound to be tired of the tales concerning me and Dark Lords who feed upon my naivety. It was around May 2009 when I decreed;

'I'm staying away from boys for a long time'. Even though they were just my attempts at gaining a relationship, it was certainly an activity that I kept up. But putting forward a statement such as that above, I knew there'd have to be something else to fill the void. In this case, it was books.

I'm lucky. I know books are valuable, a treat, a luxury, a source of joy and even comfort. However, of late I wonder if I'm giving each title the right recognition. So many would agree with me that to sit for a few hours on end and read a novel would be a luxury that is both free and difficult to obtain. Trying to find that amount of time to read is hard.

With two jobs I manage to get around eight pages on a bus ride, feeling that I'm in a bigger Capital City than Belfast really is. One remembers seeing commuters in London reading on their way down the escalator, no doubt them squeezing an extra few words in the thirty seconds it takes them to reach the platform.

With the coming up year I promised myself not to be swayed by what everyone else is reading, and what dominates the best seller list only because half of them are showing in cinema screens. What I read will be done so at my discretion. Hopefully this will be a step to appreciating the words and stories that novelists wanted to be read.

I suppose what I worry about is the fact that there's no human connection - that I don't have that 'someone'. I'm much better at handling it now. In fact there are times when I smile that I haven't got 'someone', because if I did, I think of all those books I won't be able to get through.

Does that make my soul yearn for something more certain?

It won't surprise you to know that at the end of the day, when I slip between my two duvet covers, I'll always have whatever book I'm reading sitting in between my pillow and digital radio. Books seem a fair substitute for what I've been denied. And in that respect, I try to count myself lucky.

My Voice Could Go. My Substance Won't.

While I work, I talk. Soon enough there won't be enough voice to use for my upselling tasks.

And not every person I meet is happy to see me so cheery. The opposite in fact. The eccentricities I refuse to give up are now making me a subject of humiliation. For those who pass and laugh at me, because I don't have their bags of high market brand products, or the perfect partner on my arm, I feel nothing for them. There's no hint of feeling sorry for them, and to be honest, I'd be happier focusing on toast and jam rather than their immaturity.

'There's nothing spectacular happening in my life right now,' I said. 'But I'm happy, because of what I'm doing. And what I have done.'

'You seem to be composed of emotions and ideas,' said Tina. 'Instead of desires.'

'Yeah,' I replied. 'It feels amazing.'

Bus Girl?

The traffic lights on the way home do take around an hour to let free the Green man. There are four directions that the traffic can come. So I suppose I should expect a long wait.

At 17.56pm today, I looked to my left and saw a bus. Through its darkened window I saw a girl, seated on one of the raised seats at towards the back of the low deck. She was reading a book.

In my head I thought, 'I do that. Books are my friends.' Then I played with the tassels on my new hat, tickling my nose with one of them.

Due to the long traffic, the bus had not moved. I try to see what book the girl on the bus is reading. I narrow my eyes. No such luck. It has a dark cover. Yet it's not what the other girls are reading. I try wishing I can get closer. Again, no such luck.

Then it's her hair I notice. Black, straightened, with a cute fringe. Pale skin, noticeable even through the filter of the window. And eyes that are, even from this view, quite big. Could it be...?

If indeed she is the Bus Girl I came across before, I have made my mind about her. She has the look of Zooey Deschanel. She reads books on a bus. In these brain cells and heart of mine that have been messed about before, I have come to a sensible conclusion.

I'm in love with her.

Welcome to the Dream Factory

'Would you kindly follow me?' I said, being sure to have a twinkle in my eye.

'You're very cheery,' said the girl.

'It's my first day. I felt if I acted like Willy Wonka, I'd be sure to make an impression.'

This of course means that at one point, I could show that I care less for the miserable fates for those who thoroughly deserve it.

My first day working at a cinema. It isn't as cold as I thought. There are many codes to remember. I have nerves still when starting a shift. Yet...

It's possible that I'm looking forward to the texture of events that will occur at each shift. On the way to and from work there will be various goings on. My observational skills will come in use. If only to make myself feel better than I'm doing all I can. And that I'm not the only human in this world who maybe got a short straw.

A Tired Life Leads to More Dreams

Where I've spent the greater part of my spare time in cinemas and cafés, don't you think it's interesting that I now work for them. This week I start my new job in an Odeon cinema. Perfect. Meeting film buffs, getting to help them see films, aiding them with their munchies, shouting at kids who don't shut up during films...I'm quite looking forward to it.

This for me is the stuff dreams are made of. Where my household holds no magic, unless produced by myself, I now get to tire myself out by working in places I love.

However, I didn't get up this morning until just before 1pm. This week has been pretty heavy on me concerning work. Church will have to do without me. I feel selfish. But I also feel tired. The latter won.

Within the next year I'll be in a place of my own. Where my plushie of L and I can hang, watch films, read book...and have Peppermint Creams after dinner on Sundays.

Unchanging Childhood

'There's thirty six of them,' said the little boy.

I looked at the sachets he had in front of him. All laid out, set into their groups.

Ketchup. Brown Sauce. Vinegar.

'Ohh? You counted them?' I asked.

'Yeah.'

'Even the salt ones?'

The small salt sachets were lined at the edge of the table.

'Yeah,' and the little boy smiled.

'But what happens if you press them too tightly?'

'They go splurge.'

'Do they?'

'Yeah! You squeeze them and they all go up.'

'And they'll be messy.'

'They all go intogether.'

'Yes. They become a big Sauce Cloud.'

'Yeah!'

'And the Sauce Cloud starts to rain salt.'

'Like a Dust Cloud?'

'Well...a Dust Cloud would be dangerous.'

'It would go into your eyes. You wouldn't see anything.'

'No. No you wouldn't.'

'You'd be walking around like this.' Here the boy tightened his eyes and started reaching out, moving his arms about, making them search through the air.

'And everyone else would be as well,' I said. 'Let's hope we don't get a Dust Cloud then. A Sauce Cloud would be so much better.'

'Yaay! I can have chips with it.'

Last night I ended up watching The Life and Death of Peter Sellers. There was a moment towards the end where Mr Sellers is filming his penultimate film Being There. One line spoke struck me.

'You're always gonna be a little boy...'

Often I'm criticised for being a 'big kid'. That I prefer watching cartoons to repeated 'comedies' on Sky channels. That I have a small plushie dog toy on my bed. That I read children's stories because their easier on my head that literary fiction. The adult world is crazy and nasty...at least with being a child I can distinguish between right and wrong much more easily. Not to mention that the world is coated in much more sugar.

Every day I walk out off my house and I see the same sight.

Or do I?

Everyone else saw the old lady across the street throwing bread to the birds from her apartment landing.

I saw a number of seagulls crying and screaming for their lives as chucks of bakery products where falling upon them.

So for someone who has been shown a world where I can drink, attempt to seek out sex, dabble in music and flirting and where drama is rampant, I say, 'I'm always going to be a little boy.' That way I can probably be counted as 'crazy' in this highly structured and normal world.

Tiffin

Tiffin. I'll spend whatever money I have left on Tiffin. The move getting up from my seat, walking to the store will be enough to take of around 4% of the calories a bar of Tiffin will provide.

My Funny (and not 'Funny haha') Friday Feeling

Friday. The day of hope, excitement, smiles and a feeling that Cadbury's felt they had captured within their own Crunchie bar.

If my feeling was placed in any candy today, it'd be sold in a discount store and would have been out of date for several months. However...

Even now I'm getting delightful shivers up my spine. A person, behind a counter, gave a me a little word to dwell in. Where headlines everywhere seem to point to limited possibilities and probably total damnation for students and graduates, it was a comfort to know that another person recognises this. Instead of standing at the side and tutting, 'Isn't it awful?' this one lady, a bank clerk said to me something that helped.

'All you need is an idea,' she said when I told her there's a desire to sit at home and write my novel, instead of trying too hard to earn a wage. With all the books I've read, people often think I'm held within my own dream world. Instead I believe I have a firmer grasp of reality than I should. And because of this, I'm motivated to try to earn a wage. Fear of falling into a stronger debt runs through me, seeing that I don't want to be in a tight situation at any time. Could this lead to me not spending anything forever? Most likely.

Trying to value the small things in life isn't just a necessity in difficult times, to keep hope in view, but it's a skill. To keep the ball going, to keep focus strong, to keep a head above water is something that needs extraordinary patience and knowledge.

One could even risk placing it on a CV if they manage it well enough.

Brains, Age, Strength - it's useless if you're not pretty

It's a month after I've left the student lifestyle. Late Sundays with coffee, reading in the sun (if there was any), getting through DVDs I've watched before, but need the mind numbing effect of pretty visuals.

At home in Belfast, I'm expected to attend church. Well, 'expected' may seem a strong word. In the past I would have been 'expected', but now I do what I choose. I'm holding down two jobs at the moment. To make this transition of being relaxed all the time to constantly working, I'm feeling drained. Yet because of my body clock within my Belfast home, I find myself up each morning at around 9am. This morning, I found myself watching a Studio Ghibli film. The second Sunday in a row I've done this. Could Studio Ghibli provide more spiritual awareness than church does? Last week was the appropriately titled Spirited Away. This week was probably the best non Miyazaki film, Pom Poko. When I first watched it last year, my family were giving me a tough time. After dealing with getting over someone who I thought liked me, Studio Ghibli's colours and unusual stories helped give my imagination some hope.

Apparently Pom Poko was released during a recession in Japan. Surely there may have been some relevance that we in the UK could take - but at its core it deals with getting back to the countryside. This is Northern Ireland. I believe the countryside has to stay by law to ensure it's still Northern Ireland.

Last night was a trip to the cinema to see Eclipse. Not bad, however I may reserve myself for the next instalment at home. It felt like watching some fantasy version of Jerry Springer, where each and every time one of the good looking guys appears, many 'whoooos' and swooning was to happen. There was much applauding when the main Edward Cullen character defeated the female villain. I don't remember Dumbledore getting an applause when banishing an army of Inferi. I don't recall Gandalf getting any shouts when he sent a Balrog down. One wishes to pitch this vegetarian vampire against these types and see how he fairs. Although, he's in love with the main character, so maybe that unleashes some super strength.

Maybe with my own experience, it's just a nuisance that the pretty ones get more praise than those with a few brains. Something both church and Studio Ghibli have been good with. Except Howl, he's gorgeous.

There is no money. There is value.

During work the radio was generous. Kill Hannah's Strobe Lights and Thirty Second's to Mars' This Is War was played. On a sunny evening, where certain problems feel more distant than usual, this was good. My thoughts flew faster than my feelings. My imagination soared, maybe not with scenes of the fantastical, but with notes of what can happen to characters.

In the morning I had watched Spirited Away. All this fantasy, all the collections of colourful goings on that can happen in a world where anything is possible got me excited. Dreams are good, but they may not be enough. Carefully thought out tales and goings on are what make me most proud, that I can invent, discover and play with characters that I needed to have.

It means that I can write. My writing, the personal story I've wanted to complete for years; I can do it. The problem I thought I'd face would be that I wouldn't be able to write after frantically typing so many stories and essays for University.

Already this week there has been encouragement from two sources. From a friend's mother. And a customer. After serving her coffee and a small meal, I got chatting with her about FREE things. The things that I need to seek out, considering what little money I have. I told her of me facing a world that was laid out for me to lust after. There were mentions of who I've fallen in love with. And finally how I may have become a stronger person.

She hugged me.

The notion of FREE material is very much strong with me. This hug cost this customer nothing. Instead it demonstrated her recognition that a human being was in front of her. Different to what I sometimes see myself as - a collection of stories.

It was much more reassuring and valuable than any tip I had received.

Insecurities vs. Chocolate

Chris could sleep. Chris could dream. Chris could hide himself from the world at times, so he doesn't have to face the 'Perfection' of others, thereby rendering himself downward. Surely at this time, when I've been through so much, I'd know that others' 'Perfection' is a myth.

The problem is, insecurities may not be as apparent in me now, but they certainly bubble on occasion. Perhaps the Curly Wurly I got at church this morning will be comforting.

Do I 'Party On' the way I normally do?

Twice was I mistaken for Garth from Wayne's World. Only you have to remember that how I 'Party On' includes Apple & Blueberry tea and Kill Hannah playing in the background, reminding me that maybe those teenage years I missed out on are actually still with me.

After several hours of pressuring work (sunny days are always the worst) and an episode of Doctor Who, one took himself to the nearby Rosetta Bar. A place I've been in, but a situation I've not faced since I was eighteen.

The upstairs room holds a small venue for bands to perform. A work colleague, Chris, had his band play. At the side of the stage there was a small fan, something to allow windswept hair to be had when huge solo guitar rifts would be performed.

Amusing in one sense as Sorcha, a friend of both the band and myself, disappeared two songs into their act. How gutted do you think the band were when they announced that their final song was for her?

I had a Budweiser. I sat alone, feet up on the small wood bar stuck to the legs of the table. The band playing at that moment were doing a rendition of Judas Priests' Breaking the Law. Feet up on the furniture is probably as far as I'm heading with any rule breaking.

One guy approached me asking did I want to join his group. How could I resist such a friendly offer? It turned out he and his friends were studying Media exactly where I did. Though they appeared to be drinking a lot more than my class did. It wasn't until I entered University that I found the masses of young folk doing the student thing properly. My class never got any real training in that department. Not unless you count one tutor skipping a class and having us play pool in canteen.

Now this morning I've decided not to straighten my hair. If there was any film character I'd like to be mistaken for, it would be Luke Skywalker. Though my hair is too fluffy for that Zac Efron type style.

Instead, I'll wear an extra colourful bracelet. Surely that amount of expression is permitted at church?

Bus Girl

Last night I got closer to understanding my brother. I watched The Big Lebowski. Now one has visions that during his dreams, Jonny finds himself flying high above Belfast's city skyline.

Fingers crossed for some cooling weather. Sun is great, but there is only so much reading I can do in the back garden before my eyes need a new glasses prescription. At the moment Leicester have the Riverside Festival. Belfast hasn't got much. And my search for Liefmanns' beer has been unsuccessful.

Continuous job hunting and now interviews are appearing. I wish to make an impression. Primark will be consulted for smart clothing. Knowing perfectly well that Saturday's Primark scene is busy, I still nonetheless waited for the weekend to take the trip. Between children screaming and chavs arguing, I tried to busy myself by looking at clothes that are either crap, useless, expensive, not required and generally ugly. Only once did I have to say sorry to the chavs for sliding past them.

The big decision was between black shoes or navy shoes. I stopped one employee.

'Excuse me,' I said, 'but are you any good with colour?'

'Colour?' asked the girl.

'Yeah.'

'Kinda.'

'Do you mind if I test something out on you?'

'No, go ahead.'

'Well, would you believe these navy shoes would go well with these grey trousers?'

'Just be aware that black and navy clash. So the grey trousers would be fine.'

'Thank you, that's settled. You don't have a name,' I said looking at the blank space on her name tag.

'It's Ashliegh,' she said.

'Thank you Ashliegh, that's great.'

So on Ashliegh's advice, I've made the shoe decision. On my own initiative, I've got a bigger size of shirt. The smallest had a grip around my neck. Who else believes it's a good idea to be able to breath? Especially during an interview.

Treated like dirt on the bus by the driver. Why should he be pleasant? He's only in charge of a huge vehicle which carries a number of human beings from one place to another, and he has a job during a shrinking job market. This would cause much celebration. Except not in his case.

Sitting on a seat was a girl. She had eyes and a smile much like Zooey Deschanel's. Bus Girl I will call her. Her decision to even show me her smile with me felt beautiful. However I sat behind her and forgot all about her. When I stood up to catch my stop, the bottle of water I had between my legs fell down and rolled under the seat of the Bus Girl. She caught it, smiled and handed it to me. I return the smile, said, 'Thank you' as childishly as I could and felt a little flutter within me that hasn't happened for a long time. Now I had missed my stop, not making it in time for the ignorant prick of a driver's speed. So what's the silver lining? I get a teeny bit more exercise. And a chance to smile one last time at Bus Girl when passing the windows of the vehicle.

She smiled back.

(Someone may be right that I'm not totally gay. I'm learning, for myself and not as a concept, that it may be the person themselves I like, regardless of their gender. In that case, I don't want to identify as gay any more. I want to identify as Chris Gray - and not even he knows what goes on with the feelings he has. Or will have.)

Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining. Even the ones my delayed plane ran through.

Several children patted their teddy bears as they passed through the airport. One tiny girl had a luggage just big enough for her to sit on and have her tired mother pull it along. Her mother didn't mind. You could tell with the excitement in her voice when she said, 'We're going on holiday.' I suppose with her children being exceptionally young, their family could probably manage holidays during term time, taking advantage of cheaper fares.

Me on the other hand, I was returning from a final term of University. In fact, the final moment of University. Strictly speaking I'm still a student until the end of my Graduation ceremony. But it's one thing to think of the sorrow I'm feeling at saying good bye to my times at University.

The airport wouldn't allow me to dwell on sorrow. Instead they'll give me much more frightening things to worry about. Such as the excess baggage charge which has increased doubly since I last was charged. Should I cry? No. We don't want the security staff thinking that I've been crying because I've been saying goodbye to some strange relative who I've finally come to understand.

Overpriced food - the airport was easily cashing in on the those who've skipped breakfast to make it to the only flight available on a Saturday. There's a sceptical streak in me thinking that this is where all the money is made.

So I'm much lighter in my account. Around me the screens in the airport are telling me that my flight has been delayed, I whip out my laptop to listen to music. Battery power goes down. I must resort to reading. But being up since 4.30am ensures that my concentration levels are not there. Imagine how much of an idiot I looked when going to the rear of the plane and the door was closed. Despite being told twice by low cost airline staff that I'm to use the rear entrance.

The cinnamon biscuit was a delight though. The airport is the only place on Earth I've found them. Is that alone worth catching a plane every once in a while?

Should I shed a tear?

Due to excessive research into the job market, my conclusion has been to return to my native Belfast a month earlier. So this has been my last Saturday in Leicester with my time at De Montfort University. As I type, my mind is trying to throw all those images and memories of laughter, disappointment, anger, fun, sentimentality and whatever else I experienced here.

Now I've had one drink at around 8.00pm. So maybe that's hitting my head. But it's past midnight now. And these thoughts have been with me throughout my stay here. Questions of what could have happened and did I take every opportunity are playing. Of course I didn't monopolise every chance I could have had. And what happened did work out for the best.

However I know I always did what I thought was the right thing. That at least keeps me content, knowing I can at least do that. Some people would consider that nobility and pride-swallowing are signs of weakness. To a degree, they're right. However, do they have the strength to do it? And do they get the same results that I do? Where hatred isn't kept and a chance for looking at my life is more important. Not too sure how relevant, but as Roosevelt said, 'It's better to light a candle than to curse the darkness'.

There are things I wish I had. A relationship at times would be nice, knowing that they are in the realms of possibility for others. Why not me? I'm a good person, I'm smart, caring, loving, hard working...I could rhyme off all my good traits, and bad, and it still won't get me closer to what I believe I deserve. Terry Pratchett wrote words to this effect; that people don't get what they want, or what they deserve; they get what they're given.

I could place this train of thought on the fact that it's my last week in Leicester. I've learnt a lot here. My interest and skills in writing have improved and I'm a lot more aware of people's surroundings, knowing that different backgrounds and personalities face all sorts of things.

So if I shed a tear, don't be surprised. I've had a lot go on. And I've stayed true to myself. In a world where being the most beautiful person around, having a steady relationship, being successful in your job and finances seem to account for nearly everything, it's the comforting thoughts that I have to ensure I know I have a degree of value in the world.

Outdoor Reading

As one who desires to read all material around him, one who wishes to own a suitable book collection, one who wants to rhyme authors and titles of by heart, you would think that running to park areas to read would be a constant activity in my life.

Yet it's only twice I've ran to a park to do so. Once in May 2008 when I had a copy of Philip Pullman's The Amber Spyglass to finish. It was the third time I had gone through it and the first time I properly absorbed it.

My second time in a park was today. Along with Genevieve, we sat on a grassy area that no one else in Leicester seemed to know about. I had Bertolt Brecht and Charles Baudelaire. Both of them translations. Like novels, translations feel a lot more appealing to the 'intellect vibe' readers wish to harness. Maybe the notion of words in a different language will make the subject matter more exciting. A translation supposedly transports this lyrical or aesthetic way of writing to our own language so that we can all admire the work. This probably works doubly so with poetry.

Onward with my point. Normally I'd be reading a novel. Only this week I finished Jasper Fforde's The Eyre Affair. Being somewhat a Terry Pratchett fan, I thought this would be perfect. It's much better than most of the Pratchett copy-cats. In fact if anything, it's wonderful. Funny, fast, inventive, colourful...even the cover matched the clothing and Pepsi tins I drink. Maybe my only problem was that I was writing two essays for the past two weeks and I haven't read Jane Eyre. Some jokes may have been lost on me.

Any other time I've been telling myself to sit up in bed, sit on a steady seat in the kitchen, run to the library and all manner of places and ways of sitting to get through monster novels. I've not tried doing it on my head yet.

Today I read poetry. Originally I was going to spend some time writing poetry, but it's difficult. The pleasure of it for me seems to be in the reading. And the darker, the better. For being a Marilyn Manson fan, I imagine him singing it (in his late 90's voice, not his current voice) with heavy metal music in the background. If not him, Ville Valo. It is my belief that Edgar Allen Poe realised how powerful a force love is and is now channelling this through Valo.

For the short time I'm left in Leicester, this somewhat private area should be consulted for reading the three novels I've got to get through. With no classes, no essays and no money, this reading activity may become the main source of entertainment. When you consider for the majority of the past three years, it's been the main source of research, influence and late nights.

So around us were a couple of squirrels we tried to entice, a sun beating pleasurably on our backs, an All-American Boy with straight white teeth who I drooled over (before remembering the pretty ones are the worst) and someone else reading a huge book. I tried to decipher it.

When I passed him, the book didn't have a dust cover. It did have illustrations inside which I saw from a distance.

"He's reading Sherlock Holmes," I said, recognising the black and white copies of the original etchings. There was a small spark of pride in me, knowing I spend a lot of time with books.

Not enough time however.

The Extraordinary is my Hope

All through Roald Dahl's books I get this overwhelming sense that children aren't to blame. At the same time, regardless if it's the adults who are to blame, the by-product of their children then becomes a problem for the world at large.

There were various clips of the adaptations of Matilda and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory going through my head. The noble of the children I relate with. Charlie is set in a position where not much happens - a poor family equals that he has to stick to his morals to make it through, knowing that they may actually be worth more than money could ever be. Matilda, getting all that time to read makes me envious, thinking; Why didn't I do that? at that age.

On a walk home from the Leicester town area, my head ran with thoughts of when my life actually began. From the moment I turned eighteen years old my life has had a significant pattern. And for me it's a case of trying to realise that the time where I flourish in whatever talents I have, whatever traits are held within me and whatever personality I've built, will come in use for a period that's not my childhood.

Admittedly my childhood wasn't supreme with fun. Looking back it was around 13% fighting with my brother, 28% walking around the house with nothing to do, 30% watching films and the rest dreaming of stories that I could tell...where I'd be the hero at such a young age. Lined throughout all this was a belief in God. I've not stopped believing, but I do notice it was easier to believe in Him then compared to now. Or at least, believe the way He operates.

Telling myself that I'm extraordinary, in whatever sense, is probably a starting point. Actually doing something extraordinary is much more useful. How you define extraordinary I don't know. Whether it be writing a short story where each word counts perfectly, whether it's walking down the street and seeing the world in a positive light, or maybe it's reading as much as you possibly can, treasuring all those stories (which naturally include Dahl's) to set in motion the idea that the extraordinary can happen. And be realised.

How do you get the world to seem extraordinary?

Thank the Lord of the Devil's Music

After two hours of Robert Downey Jr. making his return as Tony Stark in Iron Man 2, the audience were treated to AC (lightening bolt) DC's trademark song Highway to Hell. Behind me was a boy of around five or seven singing along. The row in front had two boys of similar age bouncing a lot. A smile was on their father's face. I could read his mind.

I've got kids who rock he was thinking.

My heavy metal days are well over. And even when they were in practise it was limited to Marilyn Manson and Ozzy Osbourne. The latter I soon realised that most of his songs sounded the same. Normally to do with looking at reflections on the other side and how mad it's driving the singer. When really all he had to do was live with his family.

I love Ozzy really. Only recently I've found repeats of The Osbournes and now see how funny they were.

Kerrang no longer exists for my family at home since my father aborted many channels. When Sky was installed, channels galore started blooping up. Kerrang was not one of them. Scuzz was. So my only connection with the Heavy Metal world is now low. Around early last year I ended up watching Metallers: A Head Banger's Journey and to be honest, didn't learn much from it. All I can really say is that I now believe Heavy Metal is worth it. I imagine a great number of Heavy Metal artists are influenced by Gothic fiction and poetry. Which worries me that in twenty years time will Meyer's frustrating Twilight series be the subject of hard rock music with lyrics that go against all what metal is about?

I guess I'm just standing up for Heavy Metal every once in a while. My brother's extremely well versed in the genre. With such emotion and, let's face it, catchy tunes, Heavy Metal must exist.

Just getting the vibe of the kids around me getting excited about heading to the Underworld was enough to have this, 'Aww, how cute,' feeling. Where maybe The X Factor garbage spewed out isn't corrupting all our young with its promise of dreams being fulfilled when everyone knows your name for one Christmas.

Spontaneity Worked.

My legs have been recovering in the past couple of days. They're catching up to the rest of my body. The twenty-one hour travelling session I had to complete left me standing and sitting upright. When I lay down on my bed, my body collapsed into a form of sighing relief.

The journey consisted of a cramped ferry journey with little choice of food and entertainment. Here the Terry Pratchett works would come in handy. Only with this Ferry there was much swaying. I wouldn't be surprised if it was due to many more passengers being present.

Three hours in Stena Line's Terminal was stupid. Although, my initial idea of travelling into the town of Stranraer felt even more dumb. So when I reached Carlisle at 10.00pm, it was my aim to make the most of it.

'Anywhere open?' asked one other traveller.

'Well it's Carlisle,' said the bus driver. 'And it's Monday. So no.'

I passed a couple of empty pubs, a scaled down Frankie & Benny's (which was closing just as I passed it) and was loosing hope. But further travels made me spot this group of young, beautiful people.

What's going on here then? I asked myself.

'Excuse me,' I asked one girl outside. 'What kind of place is this?'

'It's a gay bar,' said the girl.

'Brilliant! In we go,' I cried. Paid my £1.50 and me and the suitcase went in to cause an obstruction for Gay Bar goers in Carlisle. Funnily enough, it was a gig. I got a gig for £1.50. Warm surroundings. Material to write about. A video of a band composed entirely of pretty boys. ChromoGirl is what they called themselves.

What was more important was seeing that my insecurities are becoming more dispelled for me.

Some risks like this are worth taking.

Only the next eleven hours until I returned weren't as great. I got exceptionally hot Earl Gray tea to scold my mouth and a miserable old bat of a woman who questioned me on why there are so many 'foreigners' about.

Natural Disasters spark panic, worry and Key Lime Pie

Iceland. Where Bjork comes from. However, it's anything but 'oh-so-quiet' (I've got a million of them) due to Volcanic Activity happening there.

This Volcano with an unpronounceable name, has sent tons and huge wafts of Volcanic Ash up high into the sky, flowing its way towards the UK and most of the North-West section of Europe. Now circulating in airspace, there's no such thing as a flight at the moment. With it's substance being lethal to aeroplane engines, all UK and the greater part of Europe's flights have been cancelled. A nightmare for those stranded abroad.

If this happened ten years ago, I wouldn't have battered an eyelid. Mainly because there was no way my family would be travelling abroad, using an aeroplane of any kind. Now...

I rely on Budget airlines to commute for each term at University. It was on Friday morning I was meant to return to the Midlands of England. With one flight cancelled and all news reports pointing to further delays and cancellations, it's become a constant researching battle in what I'm to do. The two most accessed websites on my laptop at the moment are The Guardian and the BBC. Hints of hope where available for a short period. Now with European winds headed back to the UK, this dangerous Volcanic Ash is set to stall itself. And with reports of a second Volcano erupting, as well as the first explosion still sending this lethal smoke into the sky, I can't help but wonder why my panic levels aren't higher.

Is it because I live in a world where the Daily Mail and Daily Express have reigned havoc on our simple minds, that now I don't wish to believe hysteria or hype until I've experienced it first hand? Last year I spent forty minutes of one morning worrying that I had Swine Flu.

At the moment, being stranded in Belfast has encouraged a lot of family bonding that I don't think even they're aware of. And I made the attempt I've been wanting to hit for a long time. Key Lime Pie. It was nice running around Sainsburys, pickinig up ingredients. Surely to buy my own Key Lime Pie would be cheaper, but mine has a thick topping - something that could comfort me while I sit through tonight's episode of Doctor Who and continue with Pratchett and Gaimen's Good Omens. Maybe a DVD. Something to stop me from panicking.

See, I've just discovered; my next flight has been cancelled.

Squeak + Bubble's Rival - Job Hunting

Handing in a CV gave me a more queesy feeling than the Squeak + Bubble ever could. Questions arise in your head. Will I get the job? Will I even get an interview? Will the people like me? Will I like them? Did I make any type of mistake on the CV? If I get the job, how long will I be stuck in it, wondering if something extra special comes along?

I leave a lot to a Higher Auhtority. Whether that be God or a deciding committee, I feel I've done my part. I can't do any more.

Forget University work. I've been doing part-time work. Extra hours of it to help me along with expenses of a FINAL term. The comforts range to chocolate eggs to the Alien DVD box set. However, even Terry Pratchett hasn't been read this Easter. That show show tired I am. My coffee intake has pretty much doubled this week.

Squeak + Bubble = Not as much discomfort as spilt Coffee

Café's in Leicester, other than the chains such as Starbucks or Costa Coffee, are rarely tread upon by me. So it was a delicious and comforting notion of visiting one with Liam earlier on a Saturday afternoon. A brunch fit for a student who has reached the end of his finances.

Wonderful though it was, I'm learning that I'm not as cultured in food stuffs as yet. Two vegetarian sausages, two free range eggs, baked beans (they're a distant memory for me), two slices of toast, two hashbrowns and something else...

'If it's on the plate Liam,' I said, 'I eat it'.

Looking at the menu, I discovered what it was.

A Bubble + Squeak. Now I had heard of this, and now I had actually had one. Supposedly it's to create a bubbled feeling in one's gut that will soon give a squeak here and there in the form of a belch. I'm not great at belching. It wasn't until around 6.30pm I felt that my tummy might give some firm reaction to the dreaded effects.

I pushed through. A trip to the cinema, some free chocolates and the new Doctor Who were suitable distractions.

Nestlé. A company lined with a degree of corruption. So I stayed clear. Have done for around five years. So when I see that KitKat has the Fairtrade logo printed on the packet, I manage to convince myself to purchase some of their products.

Of late - Smarties Mini Eggs. A pleasure discovering that Orange Smarties contain Orange chocolate.

However, walking through the main shopping centre in Leicester, I see the Carte Noire Readers. A huge stall (by Shopping Mall stall standards) that give out free coffee and provide readings. Of books that everyone had to do in English Literature at GCSE level or higher. Bugger.

'Have you got a website?' I asked. 'I could volunteer to read.'
'We're using professional actors,' said the girl.
My head full of scorn. Professional actors? So they dress up as characters and parade around thinking this will lift them up for another BBC production. They could get me in to read pieces much better than Austen. Not necessarily my own work, though Ii wouldn't deny it to them. They'd only have themselves to blame if they let that happen.

It was here I noticed the majority of people sitting in this stall were older ladies. The ones I've come across many times, who pick up the latest no.1 seller because it's now a film and think themselves cultured.

Hollywood Wives - that's the phrase.
I'm a judgemental sod, aren't I?

What Carte Noire don't realise is that women of that age love a bit of filth. Some slap and tickle. Sodomy on the rocks and grassy stains on skin. Not much can be done with clothes on.

So I take my coffee in a paper cup so thin that my hand is scolded.
'Just give me a second,' I say to Liam. 'I'll get my glove out.'

Now because this shopping mall thinks themselves as quirky (despite being as generic as the other shopping malls in the country, thereby robbing more of the uniqueness of the city) they have these benches that are like glass blower's oblong joke. So I set my coffee upon it, paid attention to my glove, only to find this hot feeling on my left foot and a mess of coffee before me.

I hastily pick up the coffee cup and set back onto the bench - only to have it fall again. 'For feck sake,' I say outloud, not giving a damn if children are near me.

Quickly I rush to the bathroom to drench my left Converse shoe in water. Dry it. Drench it. Dry it. Tip it and empty it of water (and excess material). Dry it. Place back on foot. Pretend none of this has happened.

Maybe it's my comeback for not supporting Nestlé for so long. I did in 2007 when I was in the middle of a Peruvian desert. And last year when Odeon cinema had nothing else to provide but white chocolate. Or maybe a warning against what could happen if I do start purchasing such products from the store. The Lord works in mysterious ways. Especially when it comes to certain ethics.

Earlier I mentioned free chocolates. All Things Chocolate was our next destination. And the shock of Milkshakes not available was less than the shock of All Things Chocolate closing.

'They just told us by surprise,' said the girl behind the counter.

'Shit,' I said. 'What kinda game are they playing at?'

'I know.'

'They sound like absolute feckin' ejits,' I continued.

'Yeah. The Shopping Mall have doubled their rates. This place can't do it.'

'The higher powers are usually bastards.'

'Totally. But we were only just told.'

'Awk darling.'

In between all this Liam shows his sympathy and distress of where a good MilkShake is going to be available.

'So what can I get you?'

'I was going to have a hot chocolate, but I can have a hot chocolate and one of every loose chocolate. Seeing as I'm not getting another chance.'

'Give them to him for free,' whispered the other girl employee.

'A final one fingered salute to this place?' I asked.

'Yeah.'

'I hope it works out well,' I said. 'Best of luck to you.'

Quite sweet (no pun intended, what with chocolate being involved) of them, as this girl gave a friendly wave to Liam and I as she passed out of the store from her last shift.

Ethics are difficult to keep to. And when you find the higher power screwing the smaller people, they can't be expected not to react and maybe even sacrifice what their ethics might be. No matter how important they are to them.

April Fool's Day

Google has shown itself to be pretty useful. With the downfall of Internet Explorer and Firefox, where was I to look? Of course Apple supply Safari, yet I don't own a Mac. The more recent GoogleChrome has had its criticism from various people - though I don't have a problem using it.

Google probably know enough about my seedy life anyway - a further delve into what I research isn't going to harm my reputation with them.

At High School there was always a rumour that April Fool's Day would only occur until 12pm of that day. It's currently 2.05pm. Does this mean I've escaped it? Baring in mind that the majority of students around De Montfort University have returned home for the Easter Vacation. Which means I've no one to play pranks on.

And here's my confession.

I don't have the imagination to set up a prank.

At best, I could do the normal 'homage' and watch something. There's a horror flick somewhere called April Fool's. Then somewhere else there's a comedy called Dirty Work with Chevy Chase in the background. I've not seen either.

This is something you'll learn about me. That when it comes to a major holiday, or indeed any day of the week, my life is linked to some film. With the way reality has treated me, you can't blame me.