Cloud Atlas

I went to see Cloud Atlas at the weekend. I suspect I am performing precisely the role allotted me by whoever sat down, planned out the likely audience for this movie and said: "Yeah, what it needs is more romance. And some happy endings. And people running around having super-cool fights with laser guns and ropes that turn into walkways fifty stories up in the air and Hugo Weaving dressed as a woman". (Well, he's got form for it.)

Because I absolutely loved it. I also absolutely loved the book, which is in several key ways different, but equally I do think the changes worked. The only way I could end the book without sniffling a lot was to think of it as a lesson: as the stories slowly nest into each other, going back through time to the beginning, David Mitchell shows us the worst of how things could be, then takes us back to the start, implicitly allowing us to hope; we have seen how thing could be, but we have another chance to begin again.

The film is much more strongly positive, albeit not without heartbreak. It also made me realise something I'd been stupid not to see before: it's the same story six times, in six different ways.

To conform to the norm, or to reject what appears to be the inevitable order of things? It's no accident that Mitchell chose to end with his earliest character [SPOILER] devoting his life to the abolition of the slave trade.

Unexpected Guest

So, I was clearing out the garden today...

Garden may be overstating it somewhat. I have a back yard which was overgrown with ivy, and a bit at the front which is largely inhabited by a Triffid. It's actually a Yucca Plant, but no-one calls it that. It is so big that before buying my flat, I actually asked the estate agent to confirm that I would own the front garden, so that Triffid-removal could take place unimpeded. Its sole advantage is that it's impossible for people to miss my flat when visiting for the first time: "Look for the Triffid on the left" always seems to work.

Having always lived in shared houses with little in the way of gardens, I know slightly less than naff-all about gardening. Fortunately, help was on hand in the form of the Best Friend, the Best Friend's Husband, and the Best Friend's Adorable Cute Baby. The latter was no use at all at gardening, but extremely good at being cute and entertaining. (Although he has developed the ability to roll off things, rather than staying put, which adds to that feeling of slight worry I always feel when encountering a small cute child - along the lines of "Please don't injure yourself if I turn my eyes away for a millisecond".)

They arrived with secateurs, a couple of buckets, and a fork, and attacked the overgrown ivy and honeysuckle with a will. I was using the fork to rake away chopped-up ivy and dead leaves from one of the beds at the back, when I saw something which, at first, looked like a dried-up pine cone. Then I realised it was breathing!

We had inadvertantly uncovered a hibernating hedgehog in the back garden. I had no idea the little chap was there. I'm rather glad we found him (or her) before we could start digging around, as he was so well-buried, serious injury could have occurred. I quickly inspected the little fellow to ensure I hadn't clipped him with the fork, then piled all the dead leaves back on, and labelled them for good measure.

I'll be keeping an eye on the little fellow, and rather hope that I might get a sighting when he finally decides to rejoin us.

The Crackle of the Jacket

Just a short post this week. I'm back on my bike, and happily pedalling the highways and byways of Heaton (at least, I was, until it snowed!).

Truly, I am not really happy unless I'm on the bike on a regular basis. I need the endorphin rush, and the familiarity of pulling on my gear; thermal socks, balaclava and cycling jacket in Evil Fluorescent Yellow. Hey, I'm British - we're not comfortable with leisure pursuits that don't include a certain amount of physical discomfort. (See also: diving in the North Sea).

Best of all, I have discovered a route to work that does not involve the Chillingham Road / Coast Road roundabout. No longer must I take my life in my hands twice a day. Yes!

Tax Rebate Outcome

Well, the unpleasant selection process is over, and I survived. That's "selection" as in "selection for redundancy". I survived in the sense that I wasn't selected. My boss officially confirmed that I'd been "successful" in the process, which I think both of us considered an odd word to have to choose. In other words, good news for me, but not for my five friends and colleagues who were unsuccessful. I'm reminded of the old line about getting a tax rebate: the happiness lasts as long as it takes you to remember that it was your money in the first place. Hopefully I'll be blogging a bit more often from now on. Let's hope.

Limboland

Well, following the drama of last week, here we are awaiting our results. As is ever the way with these things, nothing is ever simple; one of the interviewers (my boss, incidentally) has spent the week stuck in an industrial tribunal brought against our employer by someone who wasn't successful in the last round of interviews. Also, one of the people in the interview pool (or puddle, by now) is on sick leave and can't be interviewed until next week, so it looks like we won't know if we've got jobs until the week after next. I'm trying to resist the urge to solve this problem with alcohol.

Last week was interesting. The interview panel (my boss, the boss of the team we're merging with, who I know and work with often, and a female Director from another service who was there to add experience and gender balance to the panel) asked me the first two questions. The questions, looking back, were in the same order as on the person spec for our jobs.

Alas, this means that, for me, the first two questions were on my weakest areas. I knew this, and I rather suspect they knew this. Towards the end of the second question, I could hear myself gabbling on, and my heart was racing faster. As they asked the third question, I felt myself going light-headed, I was seeing spots in front of my eyes, and at this point it became clear that frantically telling myself "it's just nerves and they'll soon get onto the questions you can do better on" was not going to work. I said I was feeling very light-headed and could we take a few minutes? They agreed and my boss offered to accompany me outside for some fresh air. We walked out, I remember him offering me his arm, me saying "No, I'm okay", and the next time I knew I was coming round on the green carpet outside the office to the female Director asking "Does anyone know the recovery position?"

After a slight amount of debate, I persuaded them that I should go and sit on the sofas nearby, which I did. My boss made reassuring sounds and asked if I wanted to go back. At first I said yes, but then realised I was being stupid; I really didn't feel too great. He trotted off to retrieve my line manager, who appeared to escort me to Occupational Health.

Occy Health took my blood pressure, pronounced it excellent, and asked if I'd eaten. Answer: yes. (I don't function without breakfast.) They decided it was hyperventilation and advised me to drink water. A colleague of mine appeared and offered to take me over the road to Cafe Neros. I arranged with the interview panel to come back that afternoon once the other candidates had been interviewed.

A mocha and an oat and raisin cookie later, and I was back in the office with my manager sitting with me. I agreed that I'd like some company, so we sat and chatted until it was time for me to go back in. I sat outside whilst they kept me waiting for 15 minutes (this may have been unavoidable, but wasn't helpful!), then went back in.

As I'd thought, the remaining questions were better suited to me. i gave it my best shot, and walked out feeling much better.

I've done all I can. Now, we await the results.

All Done With Now

I had my interview yesterday, which was not without drama, as I fainted (literally, passed out) after the first two questions. Fortunately, they let me come back and take another run at it two hours later. I think it went well - but we'll find out for definite in a week.

If not, this may be the template I use for my leaving speech:

Thought For The Past Three Months

Says it all, really.