*breathes a sigh of relief*

Well the past week felt like a lot longer to me – did it to you?

For everyone who has tried to access Bright Meadow for the past week and has been greeted with a WordPress error page, I got stung with the arse end of Fasthosts security breeches and crap efforts at customer service. You have my biggest possible apologies – if I had known something was going to happen, I would have told y’all and got my backup plan running in time.

As it was, those of you who read the site through RSS, or follow me on Twitter, Facebook, Flickr or 9rules (or cornered me in the office) stood a passing chance of knowing what was going on and followed me to the temporary site of brightmeadow.wordpress.com. The rest of you, I can only say sorry some more!

I’ve still got some things to sort out here around the Meadow, so till further notice, I recommend everyone pays attention to brightmeadow.wordpress.com – the RSS feed still directs there if nothing else!

Please bear with me a little while longer whilst I get things sorted!

I have a dream and that is something that is really rather scary for me to admit. For the longest time I haven’t had any dreams. I made a few plans but always I opted for the path of least resistance and sort of drifted through my late teens and early twenties.

The last time I can remember having a dream, a real, honest to god, burning lamp of a dream that focused my entire being was when I was twelve and determined to be a vet. For as far back as I can remember being focused on these things (I’m not counting childish desires to be a princess or walk on the moon) I wanted to work with animals. I was always a practical child so the dream of becoming a dog breeder was put to one side and I focused all my energy on getting into veterinary school.

This is something that is very hard to do in the UK as there are only six universities that do the course and you need to be freakishly bright to even stand a chance. Well, I am freakishly bright as it turns out, so why the hell not? I won my scholarship to Hogwarts which meant I was best placed to get the best (and most appropriate) GSCEs. I got spankingly good grades in them, which meant I could go and do the A levels I wanted to do. Or rather, the A levels I needed to do, but as want/need were one and the same at this point, I didn’t mind doing the three sciences.

I even enjoyed it.

But thank whatever made me choose a fourth (Archaeology) as a way to leaven the mix of Biology, Chemistry and Physics, because I didn’t make it into any of my four choices for university. I’m not saying I failed at interview stage either. Oh no. I wasn’t even invited to interview.

Which sucked some what.

What sucked more was that my best friend got an interview from all four universities, got an offer from two, and is (as I type) a practicing vet. But I’m not bitter.

I don’t really remember much of the rest of that year at college. I know I finished the year and I still got good grades, and at some point I made the decision to go to do Archaeology somewhere (leading to the true story of choosing my undergraduate university by sticking a pin in a list). But how or when that decision got made I have no clear idea even to this day.

With the complete failure of my veterinary dream – and, I will admit, a healthy dollup of severe depression for several years – I just started coasting. Get a sparklingly brilliant BSc? Cool. Go do an MSc somewhere. In what? Well, you’ve enjoyed Archaeology so far, why not continue? Can’t decide what to research – there could be worse things than something your supervisor mentions over a cup of tea. Need a job? Work for the local authority because they pay reasonably well and the interview to get on the temp pool wasn’t exactly stringent.

Even the job I am doing at the moment, which I enjoy immensely and give everything to, just kinda… happened. Bright Meadow kinda… happened. Everything for the past five years has just kinda… happened, without any input on my part.

I’ve enjoyed it all and really couldn’t think of things I would rather have been doing along the way, but by no stretch of the imagination has any of it been part of a dream.

Till now.

Now my brain has hooked onto the whole London/publishing/editing thing and refuses to let go. It excites me. I am starting to plan for it. I am starting to dream about it.

Which scares ten kinds of shit out of me because the things I dream of, plan for, and look forward to have a disastrous tendency to fall flat on their face and (on one particularly memorable occasion) have even ended up with me in hospital.

At the same time, the very fact I can dream again is a brilliant sign.

I do not want to be one of those people who coasts through life. I cannot be happy as that person. I talk to people with no drive or desire to change their lot on a day-to-day basis, and at some level I just do not understand that. One of my friends recently decided not to go to university to pursue his teaching dream, choosing instead to get a temp job doing something or other menial that doesn’t use his brain. I accept not everyone is suited to university, but I cannot understand someone who lets their dream float on by because it might be “a little hard”.

I am being judgmental and I shouldn’t because I love the boy dearly, but it escapes me. I don’t understand settling for something. If I am being very honest here, I am afraid of settling for something. I can very easily see myself ten years down the line, settled in a job similar to what I am doing now, sunk into the malaise that seems to pervade long-term employees of my organisation. Not that they mind it, really. It’s easy. They’ve settled. They’ve given up on the dream.

When you act on your dreams you have to step outside what is safe. You run the risk of getting hurt in ways you can’t even imagine. Yes, I am scared it will all go horribly wrong, but I’ve tried easy. I’ve tried safe. Safe and easy bore me. Give me something that stretches me. Give me something to reach for. In my dreams I shine – Heaven help me, but I’ve got my ability to dream back. Don’t let me watch the opportunity fly past my office cubicle window, please?

I am in semi-hermit mode at the moment. I know I should be writing things for your delectation, but somehow the muse is not descending. Rather than have you all staring at a blank blog for days on end, I will share with you something from a conversation I just had with my lovely mother (Curly Durly).

The conversation worked it’s way round to dating, men and prospective son-in-laws as these conversations can do. I think I’ve already established elsewhere that my family aren’t exactly run-of-the-mill. Curly Durly tends to take it to the next level, especially when trying to convince her ever loving daughter to get out of the house and live a little…

Comment number one that had me in hysterics:
“Who cares what he looks like darling? He could be dynamite between the sheets!”

A gem which was rapidly followed by her exhorting me to, quite simply, sleep around some more:
“But window shopping is the most fun! And you just have to try before you buy!”

My mother, ladies and gentlemen. It’s amazing I turned out as respectable as I did.

For the last few weeks – it might be longer than that actually if I’m being truthful – I’ve eschewed my carefully ergonomically set up workstation in favour of just the PocketCalculator on the living/dining room table. Well, WiFi means I can browse anywhere in Meadow Towers and there is a power socket near the table, so why not? I can be merrily computing away whilst Moose is watching something on the TV just a few feet away – companionable, but separate. Perfect.

Plus, the living room is a bit warmer.

OK, the main reason I haven’t been sitting at my desk lately is that I can’t actually see my desk for the mounds of crap that have accumulated all over it. I’m not sure which came first, the not using the desk, or the mounds of crap, but right now it’s gonna take a concerted effort, with backup teams of sherpas and medics standing by at base camp, just to find my keyboard, second screen and laptop stand under all the mess, and frankly sitting in the living room is just nicer.

I am seriously contemplating putting my computing life back where it belongs however, if only because Moose wants to make a cover for the sofa this weekend, and needs to set the sewing machine up where the PocketCalculator currently resides. Plus, you know, RSI is no laughing matter, and I’m just courting disaster with the setup I am using at this moment. And it might be nice to be able to eat dinner at the table without having to push my desk-crap to one side every time.

But… Well, here’s the rub. I have realised that I don’t like to write on the fancy duel screen set up, with the full sized keyboard and mouse. It doesn’t feel right to write like that. I much prefer the intimacy… no, intimacy is the wrong word… immediacy, of using just the laptop. I’m right there. Just my fingers on the keypad and the words appearing on the blue screen right in front of me. No distractions (when I’ve got the second screen up, it’s invariably the ‘browser’ window). Just me and the words. There’s more to it than that, I know, but at the root of it, the feel is just wrong. I never used to feel that way, then I spent a week writing, just me and the laptop, and realised that this was my preferred writing method. There wasn’t anything wrong with the other way and I demonstrably can work that way, but…

I’m not expressing myself very well.

I’m thinking back to that piece the Guardian did a while ago about different writers and their workspaces. Some people took away from that how different writers can/can’t work with computers and hailed it as the death knell of one form or the other. What I took away from it is that I’m not the only remarkably territorial writer out there. Everyone of them had a workspace that was uniquely theirs. It had to be set up just so, so they could write their best. Now, I’m not saying that what I’m bashing out in my spare time is even remotely decent or will ever see the light of day, but I do write. It’s inescapable. Writing, I have come to realise, is my thing. When I can’t do it I feel grumpy. When I don’t do it I feel grumpy. And when it’s not going well (for however you measure ‘well’), I feel grumpy.

So there’s my dilemma.

Put my computer back where it belongs on the shiny, ergonomic goodness that is my proper desk with the dual-screen setup; return the living room to being, well, the living room; maintain harmony at Meadow Towers; but not feel totally comfortable writing. Or stay on the living/dining table, court RSI and a pissed-off Moose, but be happy writing.

Logic would suggest that I go back to my desk and just not use the dual-screen etc, but since when have I ever been logical?

*sigh*

I’ve answered my own question really, haven’t I? It’s time to go back to the desk. Because after all, the PocketCalculator is just that – a laptop – and supremely portable. Just because I am doing the majority of my computing where I should be, it doesn’t mean I can’t make the odd excursion to the living room when the muse has descended. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to perform an archaeological investigation of my desk. If I’m not back in three hours, send in Indiana Jones will you?

So, it turns out that I’m a finalist in the 2007 Weblog Awards. Apparently I’m one of the ten best UK blogs. I’m not sure how stiff the competition is because, at the time I write, there aren’t links to anyone in my category (grrr), but I’m sure they are all glitteringly wonderful and that I stand no chance of winning. It sure is nice to be nominated however.

This news, as you might expect, has pretty much knocked me for a loop. I first saw that I’d been nominated this morning when Lifecruiser and Abi told me in the comments. Now, I was drinking my morning cup of tea at the time I read the comment. I jumped up from the table to do a little Woot! of joy, tripped over the table leg, knocked the table, split my tea (narrowly missing my computer), and then I stubbed my toe.

The pain is worth it though. It’s the first time I’ve been nominated for anything!

Clearly I got this nomination because the armies of 9rules went out and did their “nominate THIS person or you’ll regret it” thing I totally rock and rule the world 😉

Seriously, however I got it, I am ready to be bowled over by something that is very good at bowling people over. And yes, I will be bragging about it down the pub tonight! (I am that sad)

So, what can you do now? Well, the best thing you can all do, dear readers, is hike your cute little behinds over to the voting page and vote for me. You can vote once a day till the closing date, which is the 8^th November.

There are oodles of other awards which I’m not up for, but other spankingly great blogs are, so whilst you’re there I would recommend seeing if any of your other favourite blogs are included in the list.

I refuse to pick favourites, but you could do worse than voting for my One True Blog Love, Roro in the Best Individual Blogger category. (I did a genuine punch-the-air, YES! when I saw her on the list).

Come on people, I need you. Bright Meadow is only as fantastic as it is because I know y’all are out there, reading, waiting and commenting, constantly forcing me to up my game. So I need you a bit more now – vote for me.

Please? If nothing else I want to be able to go “ner-nerny-ner-ner” and stick my tongue out at my brother this Christmas for daring to say my blog is “silly”. Who said sibling rivalry can’t spur you to greatness?

It occurred to me today as I put on my New Rocks that I probably owe my mum and dad an apology for turning out as I’ve turned out. I’m not a parent, but everything I’ve read seems to point to parents being pleased if their offspring follow in their footsteps, or are at least happy.

For the longest time I wasn’t even anything remotely approaching happy. It was no one’s fault but that of my own glitchy neurochemical make-up, but it did mean that I felt a total failure to those nearest and dearest to me. I mean, how hard can it really be to just be “happy”?

Very hard as it turns out.

Now, I’ve beaten that particular demon upside the head a few times with a frying pan, so I am happy to say that it’s taken a while, but I think I’ve got there – or at least have my feet firmly on the right path.

And as for following in their footsteps? Well, pah! to that. There’s a hackneyed phrase that would be appropriate right about now. Something to do with hell getting very, very cold…

So yes, I will admit I’m probably something of a disappointment to my parents. Or if not exactly a disappointment, I’m fairly convinced that my mother at least finds it hard to get a handle on me. She’s not quite as in touch with her kooky side as you’d expect from someone who’s lived in Glastonbury for nigh on 30 years.

I can still remember her face the first time I walked through the door in my New Rocks. And the time I cut off all my hair and dyed the remainder purple. Or the time I came home with my first tattoo. And then the second tattoo. Her resigned patience during my long fought campaign to wear nothing but black stays in my mind. Followed by her bemused acceptance of my seemingly abrupt about turn to embrace all colours, including pink. And let’s not forget her confusion when I started wearing skirts and heels after two decades of refusing point-blank to do anything remotely “girly girl”.

For now she seems to have come to terms with the prospect of no grandchildren from either my brother (for whom the phrase “not a sodding cat in hells chance!” was probably invented) or me (a 50/50 split between no inclination and no medical ability) and is dealing remarkably well with my determination to continue the student/single/rental/no-responsbiliies life style as long as feasibly possible.

But I know deep down I know she’d rather I was at least making a move in the direction of settling down with a significant other in tow and the 2.4 on the horizon. Sorry Mum.

Really, I think my parents have only themselves to blame. They raised us to be confident in who we are and to be individuals. I’ve taken the Kemp/Buchanan pig-headed stubbornness and refusal to conform a little bit further than my brother, I will admit, but I like to think I’m being true to my upbringing. As I’ve said before, I grew up in Glastonbury which is arguably the New Age capital of the world. I hadn’t realised quite the influence the place had had on me till the day I walked out of the doctors and had to fight the urge to go buy the appropriate crystal to heal my particular ailment. Even now the smell of incense mixed with a hint of weed, and the sound of a West Country burr cut with Home Counties vowels can instantly transport me home. I think I’m relaxed then I walk down the high street and… something in me unwinds and I really am at peace.

Re-read that last section for me will you?

Really, you need no other clue as to the influence growing up in Somerset had on me. For the child of a “suit” and a bank clerk, I am more than a little… bohemian. Which, as the bohemian in this equation, I find totally cool and more than a little amusing.

We are all the products of our upbringing and I expect my upbringing was no stranger than many – in fact in many ways, it is was as “normal” as they could make it. But I grew up in a town where it’s normal for people to rush across the street and hug total strangers, crying “Happy Solstice!”. My dad lives on a narrow boat. Really, what chance did I have?

So sorry Mum. I know the chances of you ever actually understanding me are somewhere between slim to none, and I know the fact I am blogging this instead of telling you to your face will just add to the confusion, but know I love you. I wish I could be the daughter I think you secretly want but I’m what you’ve got. I am wonderful and I am that way because you gave me the space to be who I wanted to be.

Oh, and I’ve cut all my hair off again.

I got accused of sounding very Bridget Jones in my writing the other day. I can’t quote the exact line (something about battered slugs having low self-esteem), but it prompted my father to snort with laughter and then comment “How very Bridget Jones, is that what you’re aiming for?”

My response – no, I’m not trying for anything. I’m just me”. With a small huff of dignity because, popular or not, Bridget Jones is hardly what you could call classy literature. I also do have to take my father’s comment with a pinch of salt because he has a tendency to pick one pop-culture reference when he means quite another. But true or not, the analogy stung a little bit close to the bone.

I do write fluffy, inconsequential waffle. With an edge of self-deprecating humour. I do spend far too much time in my content pondering men (and my lack thereof). I obsess about my weight. I… But that’s just how I am and how I naturally write.

Oh god. I’m not Bridget Jones am I?!

Would I sound quite so Bridget Jones if the books/films had never been written. Probably? I am hardly a fan, having read it once and trashed it in disgust, but I am a fan of certain chick lit authors. I’ve got this mild addiction to the popcorn spectrum of the literary market and I read more of it than I probably should.

Though I’m also a fan of Gibson, Austin, Stephenson, Banks, Reichs…. None authors known for their “fluffyness”. What I’m trying to say is that the accent of my writing is the same as the accent of my speaking. A blend of influences with a slight chameleon tendency to colour the edges depending on what I’ve heard (or read) lately. Force-feed me Buffy and you get Valley-slang. West Wing gets you DC-politico, with a side order of biting sarcasm. Battlestar gets you frack. SG:1 gets you military wit. And so on.

You copy?

I couldn’t pick apart my genre influences if you paid me, but I’m pretty sure that Bridget Jones isn’t one of them. It would be like saying Dan Brown influenced me. Unthinkable. So there Crazy Canalman 😛