Day 201: I Am Being Followed By TwatBoy

Regular readers will be aware of the work of TwatBoy, my fuckwitted upstairs neighbour, and his hideous little flatmate, Fucking Cretin.

One of the many benefits of moving to Amsterdam (or so I thought), would be six weeks' respite from their endless stomping, bellowing, door slamming and crashing about. This, combined with being a good few hundred miles away from my astonishingly noisy, virtually retarded cat, would allow me to sleep for a whole night without being disturbed, possibly for the first time since TwatBoy moved in last September.

Or so I thought. But it is 5.23am and I am awake. For upstairs there lives TwatBoy's Dutch cousin, De Twat. He mainly enjoys running up and down his wooden floor (in clogs), jumping off his furniture, chasing his shrieking girlfriend around, bellowing and slamming his front door over and over again.

I have noticed a pattern. I sleep if I am in the country (French or English; either will do, although I suspect that General Countryside would be fine) or sharing a bed with a pathologist. But I can't move to the country, for I am Working In Amsterdam for a bit; pathologists are hard to come by (and pathologists I would share a bed with rare and precious indeed). Drugs are no good; warm milk and baths and all that are nice enough, but don't help much because getting off to sleep isn't a problem; I can't use earplugs, because I need to hear the alarm clock. Notes (polite or otherwise) usually serve only to exacerbate the problem, and I can't get a gun at this time of night.

I cannot be responsible for my actions. Does anyone know anything about Dutch law? I'm hoping for manslaughter on the grounds of diminished resposibility, which will be directly attributable to the fact that I HAVEN'T HAD MORE THAN THREE HOURS' SLEEP A NIGHT FOR WEEKS.

There is nothing funny about this at all. Nothing. Which is strange and unusual, and almost more disturbing than the fact that there is more than one TwatBoy in the world. I give up.

Day 200: I Am A Failure As A Blogger, But My Brother Realises That Danny De Vito Is Not Even Four Feet Tall

I have been taken off a blogroll! It is almost certainly not the first time, and yet suddenly I am curious; I am alarmed; I am (dare I say it?): Taking Myself Seriously.

I thought you were supposed to do the Hot Internet Web Log Action for fun! If the prevailing winds were favourable and delivered self-haircutting pathologists, new chums or book deals, then so much the better. (One and two: yes; fingers crossed for three!) But no! This is a Serious Business, and I am A Serious Blogger. I know this, because I write an email asking why I have been taken off a blogroll!

An immediate (and accurate) observation would be that I am in fact a knobber. But I like to think that it is a little more complex than that; that by suddenly taking myself seriously, I have Grown Up. I have Failed as a normal, cheerful sort of person with a web log who counts herself lucky to have met Canadians with American Hair and made new chums. Instead, I Am A Serious Blogger. I shall, from this moment on, care about my web stats, blogrolls, whether or not I have a publishing deal*, and what people think of me.

Simply put, that means that there is no more room for this kind of nonsense:



Meanwhile my brother, Runningmonkey (three years younger than me, despite looking older than me: a fact often remarked upon by literally everyone we know), is watching a film with Danny de Vito in it. His incisive criticism so far has included the ground-breaking observation: "Fuck me, he's really SHORT, isn't he? I had no idea he was so short! He's not even four foot tall!".

* I'd still like one though, with a picture of a monkey on the front and an advance of £10,000.

Day 199: I Watch A Shrimp On A Treadmill Listening To Curtis Mayfield

I have also watched this and teared up a bit (despite the fact that that Judi Bowker was an idiot and didn't deserve a horse like Beauty):



And this. This was REALLY good.



What is even better is this, which is a variation on the same theme. Longer, but better in so many ways. Ways I can't quite describe.

(With thanks to my brother, Runningmonkey.)

Day 199: I Am At Work

I am at work! In an office, on a canal! There are desks and people who give you big metal Apple laptops. There is also a cupboard with pencils in it and pencil sharpeners to keep your pencils as sharp as your mind must be.

It is like the United Nations! Everyone is very nice, and from a different country, but mainly the Canada, and the bit of the Canada where they speak French I do not understand. This pleases me, as it reminds me of pathologists.

This afternoon, I am to buy a bicycle and sign some documents for an "apartment", as I believe they are called here.

Now I must go and do some work (whilst remaining essentially "Non-Working" in my heart).

Day 198: I Explain (Yet Again) How It Is Possible To Be "Working" And "Non-Working" At The Same Time

Here I am, sitting in my armchair, smoking a small clay pipe, supping on a glass of absinthe and inserting my tiny little monkey paw into a packet of Hula-Hoops. That is happiness, my friends; deep happiness. A happiness you can only feel if you are Truly Non-Working (in your heart). It is not to do with unemployment, holidays, being fired, or taking a day off. It is a state of mind.

I thought I'd explained the difference between "Working" and "Non-Working" before, but no. Only this morning, JonnyB left a dramatic comment on an earlier post. "You need a new identity for your internet web log ... Otherwise you are a liar", said he, in response to the astonishing news that on my 199th day of non-working, I will be moving to Amsterdam to live in a canal and do things with advertisements.

Oh, there's no doubt that I admire JonnyB. He's everything I want to be: a popular and respected blogger; an owner of ladders; a man. But sometimes he just doesn't listen. And so, for the sake of JonnyB and anyone else who insists on tiresomely pointing out that I am, in theory, now in a state of "workingness" rather than "non-workingness", here is my final word on how being "non-working" does not preclude being employed.

What is "Non-Working"?

"Non-Working" is an international movement spearheaded by me. So far, it has spread to the front door of my plush Brixton apartment and down the road a bit. It is a state of mind; a way of seeing the world and in particular, the world of work. It is perfectly possible to go to an office every day, do a good day's work, commute a bit, have a sandwich with Colin in accounts, be paid, do your expenses, take telephone calls, wear a suit and steal stationery - in fact, do all the things that would usually add up to be "working" - and yet be "Non-Working".

In essence, it is the strong desire to do very little (unless it's something you really like doing) and be answerable to no-one, whilst understanding that working is necessary in order to get money, which we need to live. (Unless we live in communes in trees and barter things, e.g. a dog on a string for a new jerkin.)

How do I know if I am "Non-Working"?

You are "Non-Working" if you work to get enough money to live. If you do not know where you see yourself in five years' time and couldn't care less, you are almost certainly "Non-Working".

The benefits of "Non-Workingness"

Happiness usually comes with "non-workingness". Ironically, also, being "non-working" can often make people much better at their jobs. They are less irritatingly eager to please; they are less sycophantic; they are relaxed, and have time to think. They are often more creative, nicer to work with and better at stealing stationery. Strangely enough, they are often better managers because they, more than anyone, know that everything else is more important than work. As a result, they often inspire a strange and beautiful loyalty in their teams.

How do I know if I am "Working"?

Oh, you'll know. (Clue: BlackBerry.)

I suspect I may be spiritually "Working" rather than "Non-Working". How do I change?

Cretin.

And now I must put down my glass of absinthe, leave my armchair and pack my satchel for Monday morning. But my armchair won't be empty for long, for in five weeks I will be back, absinthe in hand, admiring my new clogs.



I shall post from Amsterdam about anything that is not to do with work. Despite the fact that I have decided to get a book deal, I have had no offers (yet!!!! Come on, Faber! Ring my ding-a-ling, Random House! Ooh, Penguin! I'm a Modern Classic, I'm tellin' ya!!!!), and must be Sensible.