An all too familiar pattern emerged over the following 24 hours. The combined factors being: the end of the working week; the nearest wine bar - The Fine Line; and alcohol. Most weeks, excuses for not attending were common. Reasons generally cited the other half, or some other commitment that was allegedly more important. Me? I was always in a position to stay.
Once at The Fine Line, I began drinking enormous glasses of Chardonnay. This was, without doubt, the best way to celebrate the end of the week, particularly on an empty stomach.
The Friday night buzz kicked in nicely as I keenly surveyed my surroundings for promising looking men. Sadly no suitors existed within my group, at least not any single ones. However, fooling around with someone from the office was likely to end up being awkward at best, so it wasn’t a problem really. There were generally a few lookers about though and tonight I felt a real sense of promise. I just needed to bump up alongside one of them, preferably whilst ordering at the bar...
By 18.15 I was one glass down, more than merry and having an absolute scream with my work-mates. There had been no signs of flirtation afoot, but having been there for only 40 minutes it was still early days. By 19.00, another glass down, I was certifiably pissed and although I’d managed to pinpoint a couple of nice looking guys, I’d failed to catch them at the bar. By 19.30 both guys had begun talking to other women, and I was starting to tire of the conversation around me. By 20.00, now three glasses down, the once potential suitors and their lady-friends now appeared to be joined at the hip. Also, most of my group had gone home, leaving me with Mike, Andy and Phil - mildly-interesting computer programmers.
In some ways it was the perfect time to end the evening, because: a) I would finish on a high note; and b) I would then cook myself a decent meal at home, taking sufficient time to sober up before retiring to bed. However, I was still single - so would the note really have been high? And honestly, would I really place a home-cooked meal above the opportunity of meeting someone? What was I, an idiot? The night was still young wasn’t it? So, I stayed and forced myself to have conversations about computer viruses and software patches in the hope that a gorgeous man would suddenly float my way.
By closing time I was absolutely out of my tree and there was still no status change.
What had gone wrong? I’d been chatting, smiling, and laughing all evening - even throughout the computer guff although I don’t know quite how. I mean, if anyone were to have looked over they would’ve seen I was a good laugh and obviously popular. Someone must have looked over at some point surely. So why hadn’t anyone tried to chat me up? Why hadn’t anyone offered to buy me a drink? There had been nothing all evening. Not even a moment’s eye-contact. Not even from the man widely known as Betty - the fattest, spottiest, most sweat-stained bloke in Bristol. No, not even from him. It was worse than usual. What the hell was wrong with me? Why didn’t anyone fancy me?
As the bar was closing I stood with Mike, Andy and Phil on the pavement outside, watching various groups fanning out in different directions in search of further entertainment. I was now in grave danger of ending the night on a real low note, so I quickly launched a rescue attempt.
“Let’s go clubbing,” I said.
“Actually, I’m going to head off,” Mike replied, as a taxi pulled up to the kerb.
“What about you two?” I turned to Phil and Andy. “I really wanna dance.”
“Nah,” Phil slurred in reply, looking at Andy. “We’re going back to mine to play Grand Theft Auto.”
“How about getting some chips?” Andy suggested.
At first it seemed a very poor offer, but then I quickly realised there was a possibility of meeting some other people along the way. Perhaps someone rather attractive would be hanging around outside a takeaway joint, waiting to rescue me from the hopeless Game-Boy-Geeks. Anything could happen - it was always worth being optimistic. So I was duly escorted to a chip-shop-cum-kebab-house on the triangle, where we queued behind a couple of suited drunks.
Roughly five minutes later I sorely regretted accepting their invitation: the nerdy computer boffins just couldn’t stop sniggering and snorting, spraying masticated potato onto the pavement - it was terribly embarrassing. All because my words became muddled when I asked for a jumbo sausage with chips. They were behaving like it was the funniest thing since comedy was invented, running around in a circle, imitating a plane and shouting ‘Jimbo!’.
And if that wasn’t humiliating enough...
“Alright love! Going home on your own then?” one of the suited drunks hollered.
“Eh?” I looked a them blankly.
“With that nice big sausage!”
Of all things, why the hell did I order a sausage - let alone a “jimbo” one?
“Nice legs!” the other one commented, chortling into his tray of chips.
Yeah, and it was also worth being realistic, ie. I couldn’t speak properly, had immature idiots for friends, horrible legs and very poor taste in food.
What planet was I on? Why would anyone be interested in that? Clearly returning home alone, with a skin-full and a large sausage, was all I deserved.
Once I got inside my front door I was suddenly overcome with tiredness and fell straight into bed, unfortunately bypassing both the kitchen and bathroom. Saturday was therefore doomed.
Download Chapter 1 for free...
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
Crisis Point - scene 3
By lunchtime my chore was done and I was in need of a drink. Fortunately my friend and colleague Sabrina was available for lunch. We met up in reception and walked down the road to Brown’s restaurant. It was the first real opportunity I’d had to tell someone all about my eventful morning, so I seized it with both hands.
“Boring!” she butted in before I’d finished.
“It’s hardly an every day occurrence.”
“Sure, but you’re describing it as if it’s the event of the year,” she replied in an accusing tone, with a facial expression to match. “What else have you been up to lately?”
The question appeared to fly straight out of left field, smashing me right between the eyes - the second thing to do so that day. My mind was a complete blank; she’d rendered me totally speechless. What had I been doing? Evidently nothing worth mentioning.
“And I can’t believe you had the opportunity to reconsider your outfit, and you came to work in.... that!”
Says she, who was, come to think of it, the same colour from top-to-toe. Her hair was always bright red, but she’d gone somewhat overboard by teaming it with a red suit, shoes, bag, nails... and sunburn.
And what have you come as today? I wanted to ask her. The Devil? But I never said things like that aloud, I just thought them.
“No bloke’s going to talk to me if I don’t show a bit of leg and cleavage, are they?” I said.
“Someone with a bit of taste might.”
Fat chance. Nobody had shown the slightest bit of interest in a long time, proof that, if nothing else, one needed to try harder. Presenting oneself provocatively was a tried and tested method of attracting attention wasn’t it? Why else did girls wear skimpy outfits all year round?
“There’s such a thing as subtle you know,” she said.
What? I was being subtle. By means of wearing a short-ish skirt with a figure-hugging top. It wasn’t as if my arse was hanging out, or I was flaunting a bust crack one could park their bike in. And what the hell was going on anyway? I’d been banking on the usual innocuous chit-chat, not a slagging off. Sabrina was always very opinionated, but she’d never let rip on me before. Obviously I should’ve seen the excessive rouge get-up as a stern warning - red symbolising danger.
“I’ve been single for about a year now and frankly, I’m starting to despair.”
“That’s no excuse for looking desperate!”
It was alright for her. She lived with someone. She didn’t have a clue what it was like to be single and live alone. In fact I didn’t know anyone that endured the kind of empty, lonely existence that I did.
“OK,” Sabrina continued, getting serious. “This is exactly why we need to talk.”
The conversation was put on hold as we arrived at the restaurant and were shown a table.
“I’m really worried about you Madeleine,” she went on as we took our seats.
I didn’t regard Sabrina as a close friend, more of a lunch partner really, so her apparent concern was somewhat over-familiar, and really annoying.
“You don’t appear to have much of a life at the moment. You’re not seeing anyone. You don’t go out much. You don’t…”
“I go swimming sometimes,” I said, cringing at how futile it sounded.
“On your own!”
Yep, she was the Devil alright. Far from rushing to my aid, she was just attacking me. Seeking out my weak points and prodding them viciously with her sharp, red pitchfork. Why was she making me feel like Billy-no-mates, a social outcast? And what made her think she knew me so well? We’d never spoken in depth about anything.
“I just think you could do with a bit more social interaction.” She pulled out a Marlborough Light, lit it and took a drag. “A bit more adventure.”
“I’m quite happy you know,” I lied, maintaining my defence.
“No you’re not,” she muttered, as she artfully created smoke-rings, examining them as they drifted towards the ceiling.
If this ear-bashing was to continue I needed more than alcohol for comfort.
“Give us one of those will you?” I motioned towards the cigarettes.
“I thought you’d given up, haven’t seen you smoking for ages.”
I had given up some months ago, given up for something like the eleventh or twelfth time. So perhaps it was truer to say I’d just taken a break.
I lit the cigarette, took a puff, and bravely endured the initial vile taste, head-rush and surge of guilt.
“I’ve got something up my sleeve that’ll sort you out.” Looking very pleased with herself, Sabrina watched me intently. I looked at her blankly.
“You could pretend to be a bit interested?”
“Go on then.” I stubbed out my cigarette and took another mouthful of wine.
“Are you ready to order?” enquired an alarmingly handsome waiter.
“Give us a couple of minutes would you?” I asked, trying to make eye-contact with him. To no avail I might add, despite much craning of the neck.
“Chicken salad please,” said Sabrina. “Come on Maddy, what do you want.”
He took our orders and walked off in the direction of the kitchen.
“Nice arse!” Sabrina exclaimed, vocalising my thoughts.
“Yeah he’s nice.”
“You wouldn’t be his type.”
“Why not?”
“Too old.”
“I’ve just turned 29.”
“Exactly!”
Jesus! Not only was I socially-challenged, and a strumpet, I was also shockingly way past my sell-by-date - all without me having the faintest idea. Suddenly feeling rather exposed, I pulled my jacket off the back of my chair and placed it across my lap.
“Whereas the little gem I’ve earmarked for you would be perfect.”
Wearily resting my head in my hands, I dreaded to think what she’d conjured up.
“Do you remember John Lewis?”
“Owner of a rather large shop?”
“Predictable as ever.” She was clearly unimpressed that my playful sarcasm might dare to compete with her serious matchmaking.
“John’s one of Steve’s friends. He was at my birthday party in January. He’s about five foot ten, blonde, brown eyes, lovely smile,” she explained hopefully.
“Was he with a pretty girl with long brown hair? A bit quiet?” I asked, gesturing excessively as I was talking - in order to appear as vivacious as possible, just in case the waiter was looking in my direction.
“Probably,” she said. “They were both a bit quiet that night.”
“Think I know who you mean.”
I remembered exactly who he was. I remembered him as being pretty forgettable in every way.
“Well he’s single now. He was round at ours the other night - him and Steve were having a few beers to help him drown his sorrows. We were going through a list of potential girlfriends and your name came up. He said he liked the sound of you and I put in a good word for you of course.”
I wasn’t sure whether to feel grateful or pathetic. On the one hand it was always nice to be pointed out as an attractive option. On the other, she made it sound as if I was literally desperate. It was like waving a banner with the slogan ‘Madeleine‘s always a good bet, she’s ALWAYS single.’ How unappealing can one be?
“Oh, but John’s lovely. He’s so sweet,” she purred, tipping her head to one side.
Why are you purring? You’re the Devil, not some cute pussycat.
“I don’t really go for sweet guys though,” I said, praying that would bring the conversation to a neat and timely conclusion, since I was determined to enjoy my lunch without getting indigestion. I mean, the proposal of a man you’d never contemplate could be far more depressing than no man at all.
“I don’t think you’re in a position to be fussy.”
Hang on a minute... I thought friends were supposed to be sensitive, helpful and positive, not tell you the truth without sugar-coating. Her wild and abrasive statements were making me feel completely miserable.
“I didn’t fancy him Sabrina.”
“You would if you got to know him.”
Yeah, I know she was trying to help, in her own special, insensitive way, but I wasn’t quite ready to accept paltry hand-outs. I wanted to find love the normal way, like everyone else.
Download Chapter 1 for free...
“Boring!” she butted in before I’d finished.
“It’s hardly an every day occurrence.”
“Sure, but you’re describing it as if it’s the event of the year,” she replied in an accusing tone, with a facial expression to match. “What else have you been up to lately?”
The question appeared to fly straight out of left field, smashing me right between the eyes - the second thing to do so that day. My mind was a complete blank; she’d rendered me totally speechless. What had I been doing? Evidently nothing worth mentioning.
“And I can’t believe you had the opportunity to reconsider your outfit, and you came to work in.... that!”
Says she, who was, come to think of it, the same colour from top-to-toe. Her hair was always bright red, but she’d gone somewhat overboard by teaming it with a red suit, shoes, bag, nails... and sunburn.
And what have you come as today? I wanted to ask her. The Devil? But I never said things like that aloud, I just thought them.
“No bloke’s going to talk to me if I don’t show a bit of leg and cleavage, are they?” I said.
“Someone with a bit of taste might.”
Fat chance. Nobody had shown the slightest bit of interest in a long time, proof that, if nothing else, one needed to try harder. Presenting oneself provocatively was a tried and tested method of attracting attention wasn’t it? Why else did girls wear skimpy outfits all year round?
“There’s such a thing as subtle you know,” she said.
What? I was being subtle. By means of wearing a short-ish skirt with a figure-hugging top. It wasn’t as if my arse was hanging out, or I was flaunting a bust crack one could park their bike in. And what the hell was going on anyway? I’d been banking on the usual innocuous chit-chat, not a slagging off. Sabrina was always very opinionated, but she’d never let rip on me before. Obviously I should’ve seen the excessive rouge get-up as a stern warning - red symbolising danger.
“I’ve been single for about a year now and frankly, I’m starting to despair.”
“That’s no excuse for looking desperate!”
It was alright for her. She lived with someone. She didn’t have a clue what it was like to be single and live alone. In fact I didn’t know anyone that endured the kind of empty, lonely existence that I did.
“OK,” Sabrina continued, getting serious. “This is exactly why we need to talk.”
The conversation was put on hold as we arrived at the restaurant and were shown a table.
“I’m really worried about you Madeleine,” she went on as we took our seats.
I didn’t regard Sabrina as a close friend, more of a lunch partner really, so her apparent concern was somewhat over-familiar, and really annoying.
“You don’t appear to have much of a life at the moment. You’re not seeing anyone. You don’t go out much. You don’t…”
“I go swimming sometimes,” I said, cringing at how futile it sounded.
“On your own!”
Yep, she was the Devil alright. Far from rushing to my aid, she was just attacking me. Seeking out my weak points and prodding them viciously with her sharp, red pitchfork. Why was she making me feel like Billy-no-mates, a social outcast? And what made her think she knew me so well? We’d never spoken in depth about anything.
“I just think you could do with a bit more social interaction.” She pulled out a Marlborough Light, lit it and took a drag. “A bit more adventure.”
“I’m quite happy you know,” I lied, maintaining my defence.
“No you’re not,” she muttered, as she artfully created smoke-rings, examining them as they drifted towards the ceiling.
If this ear-bashing was to continue I needed more than alcohol for comfort.
“Give us one of those will you?” I motioned towards the cigarettes.
“I thought you’d given up, haven’t seen you smoking for ages.”
I had given up some months ago, given up for something like the eleventh or twelfth time. So perhaps it was truer to say I’d just taken a break.
I lit the cigarette, took a puff, and bravely endured the initial vile taste, head-rush and surge of guilt.
“I’ve got something up my sleeve that’ll sort you out.” Looking very pleased with herself, Sabrina watched me intently. I looked at her blankly.
“You could pretend to be a bit interested?”
“Go on then.” I stubbed out my cigarette and took another mouthful of wine.
“Are you ready to order?” enquired an alarmingly handsome waiter.
“Give us a couple of minutes would you?” I asked, trying to make eye-contact with him. To no avail I might add, despite much craning of the neck.
“Chicken salad please,” said Sabrina. “Come on Maddy, what do you want.”
He took our orders and walked off in the direction of the kitchen.
“Nice arse!” Sabrina exclaimed, vocalising my thoughts.
“Yeah he’s nice.”
“You wouldn’t be his type.”
“Why not?”
“Too old.”
“I’ve just turned 29.”
“Exactly!”
Jesus! Not only was I socially-challenged, and a strumpet, I was also shockingly way past my sell-by-date - all without me having the faintest idea. Suddenly feeling rather exposed, I pulled my jacket off the back of my chair and placed it across my lap.
“Whereas the little gem I’ve earmarked for you would be perfect.”
Wearily resting my head in my hands, I dreaded to think what she’d conjured up.
“Do you remember John Lewis?”
“Owner of a rather large shop?”
“Predictable as ever.” She was clearly unimpressed that my playful sarcasm might dare to compete with her serious matchmaking.
“John’s one of Steve’s friends. He was at my birthday party in January. He’s about five foot ten, blonde, brown eyes, lovely smile,” she explained hopefully.
“Was he with a pretty girl with long brown hair? A bit quiet?” I asked, gesturing excessively as I was talking - in order to appear as vivacious as possible, just in case the waiter was looking in my direction.
“Probably,” she said. “They were both a bit quiet that night.”
“Think I know who you mean.”
I remembered exactly who he was. I remembered him as being pretty forgettable in every way.
“Well he’s single now. He was round at ours the other night - him and Steve were having a few beers to help him drown his sorrows. We were going through a list of potential girlfriends and your name came up. He said he liked the sound of you and I put in a good word for you of course.”
I wasn’t sure whether to feel grateful or pathetic. On the one hand it was always nice to be pointed out as an attractive option. On the other, she made it sound as if I was literally desperate. It was like waving a banner with the slogan ‘Madeleine‘s always a good bet, she’s ALWAYS single.’ How unappealing can one be?
“Oh, but John’s lovely. He’s so sweet,” she purred, tipping her head to one side.
Why are you purring? You’re the Devil, not some cute pussycat.
“I don’t really go for sweet guys though,” I said, praying that would bring the conversation to a neat and timely conclusion, since I was determined to enjoy my lunch without getting indigestion. I mean, the proposal of a man you’d never contemplate could be far more depressing than no man at all.
“I don’t think you’re in a position to be fussy.”
Hang on a minute... I thought friends were supposed to be sensitive, helpful and positive, not tell you the truth without sugar-coating. Her wild and abrasive statements were making me feel completely miserable.
“I didn’t fancy him Sabrina.”
“You would if you got to know him.”
Yeah, I know she was trying to help, in her own special, insensitive way, but I wasn’t quite ready to accept paltry hand-outs. I wanted to find love the normal way, like everyone else.
Download Chapter 1 for free...
Crisis Point - scene 2
I caught up with Karen just as everyone was filing out of the meeting room.
“Really sorry... you won’t believe what happened but I was on the bus and...”
“I don’t have time to talk about this now. I’m extremely busy,” Karen responded without making eye-contact. She was only disconnecting her laptop from the overhead projector - hardly extremely busy. She’d always claimed to be an outstanding multi-tasker, so put your money where your mouth is I say.
“Did they like my chart?” I said.
“What?”
“The chart I did for your presentation - the one that took me a whole day to put together.”
“Oh yes that one. Despite the pretty colours most of the figures were totally inaccurate.”
She ceased unplugging for a moment, in order to eyeball me with an irritating, condescending look. It was an expression of contempt that was all too familiar me and my female counterparts. The men, however, saw a very different side to her personality - all eyes, tits and teeth. One might think she was exercising her sexuality; but I think she was trying to exorcise her masculinity, basically because she looked like a bloke. In some departments she was even referred to as ‘Tranny’. She was so uptight it was obvious she hadn’t had a shag for ages, which I found very funny indeed (despite my own considerable dry-patch).
“We need a version that accurately reflects spend in the last quarter, and is preferably just black and white,” she said eventually, after glaring for a full 60 seconds. “Please attend to that this morning as a matter of urgency, and deliver it to my desk by noon.”
Download chapter 1 for free...
“Really sorry... you won’t believe what happened but I was on the bus and...”
“I don’t have time to talk about this now. I’m extremely busy,” Karen responded without making eye-contact. She was only disconnecting her laptop from the overhead projector - hardly extremely busy. She’d always claimed to be an outstanding multi-tasker, so put your money where your mouth is I say.
“Did they like my chart?” I said.
“What?”
“The chart I did for your presentation - the one that took me a whole day to put together.”
“Oh yes that one. Despite the pretty colours most of the figures were totally inaccurate.”
She ceased unplugging for a moment, in order to eyeball me with an irritating, condescending look. It was an expression of contempt that was all too familiar me and my female counterparts. The men, however, saw a very different side to her personality - all eyes, tits and teeth. One might think she was exercising her sexuality; but I think she was trying to exorcise her masculinity, basically because she looked like a bloke. In some departments she was even referred to as ‘Tranny’. She was so uptight it was obvious she hadn’t had a shag for ages, which I found very funny indeed (despite my own considerable dry-patch).
“We need a version that accurately reflects spend in the last quarter, and is preferably just black and white,” she said eventually, after glaring for a full 60 seconds. “Please attend to that this morning as a matter of urgency, and deliver it to my desk by noon.”
Download chapter 1 for free...
Chapter 1 - Crisis Point
Everything started with an egg. I couldn’t say if it was free range or not, it was in pieces by the time it reached me. In fact, it smashed the moment we made contact. I was sitting next to an open window on a bus at the time, on my way to work.
But how lucky was I? Because I’d been racking my brains for an excuse to make me late for an important meeting. Late - as in to miss it altogether. Rather than unfashionably, unforgivably late as I had been before the egg struck.
I was often late - this time was due to indecision about what to wear. The specific dilemma having been conservative versus provocative. A mite shallow? Perhaps so. However, my reasoning was rooted in the serious and profound, since there was no man in my life and I wanted that to change. It was a Friday, and that meant I would be socialising straight after work. Who was going to notice me if I was wearing dull office attire? Nobody. Not when my competition were parading around with their tits hanging out.
My thoughts had gone as follows: Shall I go as Madeleine-the-Office-Clerk - to comply with the dress-code for the management meeting? Or shall I dress more if-you-want-it-here-it-is-come-and-get-it, to attract the most attention possible at the local wine bar after work?
The latter was the preferable option, however there was a risk attached. Karen, my boss, wouldn’t appreciate Mad-the-Floozy traipsing into the high profile meeting. The skirt of choice tended to rise up considerably when I sat down, and as I’d booked the meeting room I knew there was no table to hide beneath. All hell would’ve broken loose if my skirt’s interior got more attention than Karen’s presentation. Eventually, the fear of her wrath had won over, and I’d reluctantly plumped for the conservative option.
So you see, despite having egg on my face (and down my jacket), the young lad - who’d simply launched one at a bus - had done me a huge favour. It was fate. I duly returned home on another bus and got changed into my pulling gear...
To read more visit the Profusion website
But how lucky was I? Because I’d been racking my brains for an excuse to make me late for an important meeting. Late - as in to miss it altogether. Rather than unfashionably, unforgivably late as I had been before the egg struck.
I was often late - this time was due to indecision about what to wear. The specific dilemma having been conservative versus provocative. A mite shallow? Perhaps so. However, my reasoning was rooted in the serious and profound, since there was no man in my life and I wanted that to change. It was a Friday, and that meant I would be socialising straight after work. Who was going to notice me if I was wearing dull office attire? Nobody. Not when my competition were parading around with their tits hanging out.
My thoughts had gone as follows: Shall I go as Madeleine-the-Office-Clerk - to comply with the dress-code for the management meeting? Or shall I dress more if-you-want-it-here-it-is-come-and-get-it, to attract the most attention possible at the local wine bar after work?
The latter was the preferable option, however there was a risk attached. Karen, my boss, wouldn’t appreciate Mad-the-Floozy traipsing into the high profile meeting. The skirt of choice tended to rise up considerably when I sat down, and as I’d booked the meeting room I knew there was no table to hide beneath. All hell would’ve broken loose if my skirt’s interior got more attention than Karen’s presentation. Eventually, the fear of her wrath had won over, and I’d reluctantly plumped for the conservative option.
So you see, despite having egg on my face (and down my jacket), the young lad - who’d simply launched one at a bus - had done me a huge favour. It was fate. I duly returned home on another bus and got changed into my pulling gear...
To read more visit the Profusion website
Thursday, 19 February 2009
Prologue
Some might say it was a quixotic venture. Some might say, What the hell does quixotic mean?
I'm not being pretentious or attempting high-brow prose, quixotic is merely the perfect word to describe my quest. In other words: idealistic, unrealistic or essentially, impossible.
So why did I set off on an impossible journey in the first place? Simple - I was in search of happiness. Back in 2002, I hated life. I was bored, dissatisfied and directionless, whilst everybody else seemed to be perfectly happy. I couldn't understand what was wrong with me - why I couldn't be happy. In my mind I visualised a paradise island where everyone lived in a state of bliss. I wanted to live there too, so I set out to find it.
I constructed a boat and promptly set sail - destination: Isle of Glee. However, it transpired that my boat wasn't particularly seaworthy and I lacked navigational skills and, unsurprisingly you might think, I encountered unpredictable waters... but I was determined to get there, whatever it took.
Come to think of it, forget quixotic... it was a karmic venture. Many things are said about karma: you reap what you sow, what goes around comes around, etc. When I set out on my journey I knew very little about karma. As things began to go wrong karma emerged as the reason why. It was little comfort however, particularly when tragedy struck. You see, someone's life was irreversibly ruined...
Since that time I have embarked upon many hours of analysis, trying to work out if it was my fault. Was my quest for happiness really the trigger? Because, you know, I didn't mean to cause the devastation. It wasn't intentional. And ultimately, was I the perpetrator, or actually the victim? Because as far as I could see, I encountered much of the suffering that did the rounds. And... does any of it really matter? We are born, and sometime later we die. Everything in between is karma.
Karma is unpredictable. Life is unpredictable. Life is karma.
To read on visit http://www.profusionuk.com/pages/bookstore/fiction.php
I'm not being pretentious or attempting high-brow prose, quixotic is merely the perfect word to describe my quest. In other words: idealistic, unrealistic or essentially, impossible.
So why did I set off on an impossible journey in the first place? Simple - I was in search of happiness. Back in 2002, I hated life. I was bored, dissatisfied and directionless, whilst everybody else seemed to be perfectly happy. I couldn't understand what was wrong with me - why I couldn't be happy. In my mind I visualised a paradise island where everyone lived in a state of bliss. I wanted to live there too, so I set out to find it.
I constructed a boat and promptly set sail - destination: Isle of Glee. However, it transpired that my boat wasn't particularly seaworthy and I lacked navigational skills and, unsurprisingly you might think, I encountered unpredictable waters... but I was determined to get there, whatever it took.
Come to think of it, forget quixotic... it was a karmic venture. Many things are said about karma: you reap what you sow, what goes around comes around, etc. When I set out on my journey I knew very little about karma. As things began to go wrong karma emerged as the reason why. It was little comfort however, particularly when tragedy struck. You see, someone's life was irreversibly ruined...
Since that time I have embarked upon many hours of analysis, trying to work out if it was my fault. Was my quest for happiness really the trigger? Because, you know, I didn't mean to cause the devastation. It wasn't intentional. And ultimately, was I the perpetrator, or actually the victim? Because as far as I could see, I encountered much of the suffering that did the rounds. And... does any of it really matter? We are born, and sometime later we die. Everything in between is karma.
Karma is unpredictable. Life is unpredictable. Life is karma.
To read on visit http://www.profusionuk.com/pages/bookstore/fiction.php
Introduction to True Colours
True Colours is about a woman's journey of self-discovery. Both the characters and aspects of the story were influenced by people and events that I came across and/or heard about during my 20s. In particular the subjects of personal responsibility, self-identity, morality and karma are central to the plot.
The novel has been written in the style of a memoir in order to explore in depth the thoughts and emotions of a woman trying to make her way in a world dominated by consumerism, media and the pursuit of affluence. The aim was to expose the innermost thoughts of someone struggling to find their own identity and has been written in a particular way in order to be entertaining, thought-provoking and sometimes shocking.
Prologue to follow...
KD
The novel has been written in the style of a memoir in order to explore in depth the thoughts and emotions of a woman trying to make her way in a world dominated by consumerism, media and the pursuit of affluence. The aim was to expose the innermost thoughts of someone struggling to find their own identity and has been written in a particular way in order to be entertaining, thought-provoking and sometimes shocking.
Prologue to follow...
KD
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
