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This weblog contains the life ::, rants ##, poems "" and scribblings *) of Nivelan.

:: back to life

It's an elongated weekend. My back is completely buggered since Thursday evening, and though I got to work on Friday I went home soon after. Sitting down at my desk was excruciating. While I can grin and bear a bit, it seemed the callers did mind my groaning and muffled swearing. At home, I've noticed a combination of lying down a lot, then trying to remain upright or walking otherwise, helps a lot. But even though my back might untwist enough, and I expect I'll be back at work tomorrow, it's provided food for thought. This is the second time this year my back's been a mess, and I know all the reasons. It's about time to eliminate these reasons one by one.

So, when I do start my job at Westhoughton, closer to home, why not visit a gym twice a week and work on core strength especially? I might even go swimming. Cycling used to do it for me, but I don't know if I'll ever be back on the bike in this country. Not because of the weather, I don't mind that. It's the cursed potholes and patchwork asphalt they call roads round 'ere. Fast roundabouts you're expected to circumnavigate round the outside, the filtering, the attitude of car drivers.. If it's not exactly lethal so long as you know what you're doing, still there's no fun in it at all. Nah I've got my scooter, on which at least I can accelerate away from trouble. I've done over two thousand miles on it already. But of course I've got no exercise at all. Working at a help desk isn't back breaking work exactly. Though, excuse the pun, perhaps it is. I'm sat down far too often. It's irritating me.

I'm not excited about switching jobs. From the contract and related materials it's quite clear I'll be working at yet another hellish desk, taking more phone calls than sanity allows and being constrained of course - an internet usage policy, health and safety policies, precise start times, call handling minutes, first call resolution time.. It's sickening how used I am to this sort of tripe, and with that in mind I've blown new life into a plan to build a call centre of my own. With such a difference it can wipe the floor with EDS, SNT, Stream International and all such mind-numbingly process-driven companies. My own little Queen Anne's Revenge, aye, arrr! I'm going to have a few chats with current and past colleagues. Already I have plenty of revolutionary ideas - gracias seƱor Guevara - but a few people to tell me what can and cannot be done would come in handy. "Welcome aboard mateys, now stop ye whining and after that slave ship on't horizon! We'll have her!"

Also, my wee sister mailed me a few days ago, asking if I wouldn't be interested in creating a website for her new creative project. I saw through it immediately. She's worried I don't spend enough time continuing my once blossoming creative prospects in poetry, theatre and such. She has a point, but I mailed back I had enough to do, that I'm not brilliant at creating websites anyway and blah blah. At which point she saw fit to write back if perhaps I was staying in England because I had wanted to leave her and the family behind. And what a loss I am to her plans in opening poetry up to everyone, and other plans. I understood, because I have missed it and we worked together so well that I'm sure she misses it too.. But the very suggestion I had left my family behind with the motive of getting rid of them hurt. So I wrote back in a bit of anger, reminding her I had moved across the North Sea too often already and how I relished building myself up from nought in England. Every time I move, from Netherlands to the UK or back, I seem to leave a lot behind and surely a lot is lost. I tried to explain why I couldn't move back. I haven't heard from her in days now. I'll write back after my next glass of Baileys.

But she does have a valid point. Perhaps I haven't enough poems to get me started in England; I'll write a few more. What would stop me then going to a Bolton pub, an open-mic night, and wow the crowd? Combine my own works with a bit of Jacques Brel, whom I have a slight resemblance to, and whose style I love? A few translated poems, or Dutch ones, who'd notice, from Jean-Pierre Rawie whose sonnets I've always aspired to.. And could I add tidbits from local genius Jim Cartwright perhaps to strike a chord.. I can do it, so why don't I? Answers on a postcard, or below.

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