Tomorrow could be boring

Chemicals and mind-crushes

Isn't the picture Grant drew adorable? It makes more sense if you read my new column at Basenotes. This is the second in the series, entitled "A Very English Problem".

I've also got a new mind-crush in the form of Dara O'Briain. His rant about homeopathy and nutritionists is brilliant. Best quote: "Science knows it doesn't know everything or it would have stopped."

I brought back a toxic book from the library: "Toxic Beauty: How Hidden Chemicals in Cosmetics Harm You." It's written by a Reiki-healer who is convinced she knows what she's talking about, a bit like an astrologer might be convinced she knows better about heavenly bodies after talking to some people at NASA. I would despair, but luckily I've built up some resistance to this by now and my own chemistry studies are adding a whole new backbone to the way I view these scare-mongering messages nowadays. Once I finish my course I should really focus on the book I've been researching for the past few years and get it out there. It's time people stopped worrying about insignificant things and started worrying about stuff that could cause real harm instead. To themselves, to the environment and ultimately to the existence of human life itself. Trust me, whether we ingest a bit of lipstick isn't on that list.

Comfort zone

There is something deeply satisfying about what my boss calls "grunt-work" - seeing the results of your handiwork in some kind of tangible form, reaching for measurable targets, feeling physically tired after work and as though you've really done something with your body.

That's one of the sorts of things I've been getting up to recently, working in our factory and learning about yet another aspect of our business. I love it. It's like a sanctuary. But I know I'd get restless within a week if I had to work there every day.

I seem to be on top form and in the zone on a fairly narrow lane between what most hard workers and multitaskers would consider a normal level of pressure and some kind of fast lane where you're constantly a bit scared that the next task you undertake will be the undoing of you and you'll fail in some sort of spectacular way.

My comfort zone. It's pushing just beyond what I think I can actually do; looking at a challenge and thinking "shit, there is no way I can do this" and then, reflecting on it, digesting the information, learning - and doing it anyway.

Again, the above is probably fairly common. Most people seem to produce their best work when they're pushed just beyond what they think they can do.

But there's a risk of over-doing it (and for me in particular, there's a risk of over-committing myself to too many projects because I need a variety of things in order to be happy) and then the pleasurable pressure turns into unhealthy stress.

I'm super-sensitive to stress, much more so now I'm older. I'm very slowly beginning to learn when to stop before I drop. I did accidentally over-do it a few weeks ago and that was a bit humiliating. I should know better. Anyway, I've had a holiday since then and have landed rather softly back at work this time, which is quite different from when I worked in retail.

I've finally absorbed the meaning of my new job role as a trainee perfumer. I say finally, because since this April when I made the change, I've had only a level of patchy acceptance of my good fortune, not to mention the scope and responsibility of the job at hand.

The factory work has helped. The physical act of rolling up your sleeves and getting on with it was like the final piece of the puzzle.

Living out of bags

I once read somewhere that Bobbi Brown keeps pre-packed bags ready for all occasions. That sounds so wonderful to me right now; I want to do that when we have enough room to keep pre-packed bags in. The flat is officially on the market and we've got the first person coming to view it this Friday. Half our posessions are already sitting in Timo's mum's garage, waiting for us to find a proper home to settle down in.

Recently I've been travelling a little bit more again; back and forth between Surrey and Poole, London and Leeds, mostly. Just came back from Leeds this evening. I'm tired, but over-tired so that it's difficult to stop thinking.

When I was younger (a phrase that immediately conjures up an image of a wrinkled old prune, which, I hasten to add, I am not, though occasionally feel like), I travelled with a much less conscious awareness of the little discomforts and nuisances one encounters. The wonderful child-like way of experiencing the nasty stuff as it happens rather than worrying about it in advance or getting unduly stressed out about it afterwards. Although I did get my first ever migraine on a trip to France when I was 18. It was such a frightening experience and then I had a very long train journey to La Rochelle the next day, which felt like torture. I was scared because I'd never felt so ill (but as a true testament to how laissez-faire I was about that sort of stuff back then, I didn't actually go to the doctor until back home in Finland some weeks later!).

After nearly 20 years of migraines, I'd never really considered that they could be treated because nothing I'd ever been given had worked. And there could be a huge gap, even 6 months when I wouldn't get a full-blown migraine, so I'd slowly start to think "pff, it's not so bad, maybe I won't get one again" until the next one would hit and I wanted to head back to France, but via time-travel, back to the guillotine days and have them chop my head off. The pain and nausea is indescribable and half of my face sort of paralyses, a bit like in a stroke. Then, providing all goes well, I pass out and wake up feeling groggy, sore, disoriented and craving something sweet. If all doesn't go well, you don't want to know.

Anyway, as an almost incidental aside into investigating why since last summer I've had benign, but annoying vertigo, my consultant sent me to a neurologist.

The neurologist turned out to be a lovely chap who'd been to Finland (I always find that a good sign, haha, only half-joking) and prescribed topiramate, one small dose to be taken daily. Possibly for the rest of my life. Depends if it works and depends if I get side-effects.

Now the trouble about side-effects is that technically you should read them to be aware of them, but in reality, it's sort of better not to, because you could accidentally create the side-effects by having suggested to yourself that they could occur.

But I'm pretty sure that before topiramate I would not have lost my return ticket from Leeds, accidentally packed the remote control from the hotel room I stayed in (!), or spent a whole half an hour on the phone to a colleague last week, convinced it was one weekday when it was in fact, another. One of the side-effects has to do with short-term memory. I don't think there is anything wrong with my memory, but something has made me even more scatter-brained than normal. This should be entertaining. As if travelling wasn't stressful enough.

Or it could be the stress of selling this property. I don't feel it on a conscious level. I just feel this diluted sense of "home". As though the concept of a core safe-haven is eroding from underneath me without a replacement in sight. One of the things I really need to stay healthy is a private, secure, cosy nest. Now this has turned into a show home - to a place people will be coming to "view" and evaluate, somewhere that isn't our home any more and we must begin to say our goodbyes to. And I have no idea how long this process will take and when we'll be moving and where to. At least we have a rough idea of the general area, but that's it.

I've toyed with the idea of getting a caravan for a few months. It would certainly solve the bag problem.

What is the difference between 15/km2 and 392/km2, other than 377?

Finns are drowning, getting drunk and crashing their cars this weekend. They are also building big bonfires, eating sausages, swimming naked in the sea or in one of the 155.000 lakes, heating up saunas - and some might even be collecting wild flowers and putting them under their pillows based on old love spells.

It's Juhannus (Midsummer) in Finland and I feel homesick. I miss some of the above. Not the drunken, drowning part. I miss the odd, golden haze of Finnish summer evenings. I miss Puffet ice cream sandwiches. I miss the way supermarket cash register staff don't look at you in the eyes and how you have to pay for your plastic bags. I miss the cheesy Finnish soap operas and reading old, yellowing Aku Ankka (Donald Duck) pocketbooks at the summer house. I miss having space to move around, even in the cities, without feeling suffocated.

I would love to go for a midnight swim, or for a stroll in the forest.

When I moved to England over 16 years ago, one of the many things I didn't quite realise was that I'd be swapping space for crowds.

Today the population density of Finland is 15/km² and the population density of England is 392/km². Even the numbers tell you that one place is crowded and the other one is not, but I made an image to illustrate the difference. Whilst the figures would have changed in 16 years, the ratio would have remained similar.

Of course one has to take non-arable land into consideration (there are all those lakes in Finland after all. And when you take a birds-eye view, the whole country looks like a giant forest, splattered about with water and the odd field and town). Most of Finns live in the cities and down the south. There is a tendency for city-dwelling Finns to huddle together for warmth and resources; it is normal and expected for people from all sorts of backgrounds to live in blocks of flats. Sharing the heat, sauna and laundry facilities makes sense in the harsh conditions that are the norm for majority of the year.

The Finnish summer is bittersweet; heart-breakingly beautiful, but so fleeting that half of it is spent recovering from the winter and the other half anticipating its return.

Even keeping all of the above in mind, one place is crowded the other one is not. There is a difference in how it feels to be here and how it feels to be over there.

But here's the real catch: I've grown accustomed to having lots of people everywhere. Visiting Finland makes me feel a little uneasy. Where is everybody?

Yet in my heart I crave space. The wonderful duality of expat psyche.

Finns are, generally speaking, rather homogeneous. There is the same stuff in the shops, the same aesthetic preferences, the same morals, the same political leanings. When viewed from the outside, that is. And when generalising rather broadly. Nevertheless, the homogeneousness is noticeable from this angle and is perhaps one of the other reasons why, after a while, staying in Finland makes me feel like I've been sealed in Tupperware. You have to get out and take a deep breath. And of course, living away from it all, I fill my home with reminders from Finland. The same stuff, the same aesthetic preferences, the same morals, the same political leanings. I finally found a guy with whom a relationship seemed easy and right. His mother is half-Finnish. Etc, etc, etc.

There is a deep comfort in being among people who, without any effort, think and feel like you do. Living abroad is a constant daily mental effort; I once assumed that this would be eliminated over time, but I'm not so sure any more. On the surface (spoken language, body language, writing, appearance, manners, rituals...) one can become very well adapted; almost indistinguishable from the real deal. A bit of an accent in everything you say or do, but almost, almost. I think and dream in English. I no longer accidentally offend people quite so often (reading "Watching the English" helped with that). I blend in locally, in London and almost anywhere in England and the UK as a whole. There are so many different types of people living over here anyway that this is relatively easy.

But your deepest feelings, memories and psyche remain rooted in where you came from. Ironically, when I lived in Finland, I never felt I belonged there either. Only once I'd moved away, I gradually realised just how Finnish I really am.

The summer holiday season will soon be over. The Juhannus-celebration marks the start of the real Finnish summer. This year I may be able to pop over in September, but by then, I won't find fresh berries on the market stalls or get to swim in a lake. But this year is different - my best friend is becoming a mother and her baby is due then. She only recently came to visit London with her mum, but I miss her already. And, as I've mentioned before, she's the only reason it truly sucks to be away. With everything else, one can make do.

Driving, the deadly dance

Driving on the motorway is like a deadly dance where one must instinctively know all the possible steps. There is no choreography - only intuition and reactions. The focus it takes to move confidently and safely in fast traffic creates an odd sense of serenity. A layer of my brain; perhaps the one that's normally occupied by irrelevant distractions and damaging over-thinking, gets sucked into keeping me alive instead. (My macabre side now expects that saying this out loud means I will one day get seriously injured or die in a road traffic accident. Let's hope not).

I'm not talking about over-confidence. Far from it. The resources demanded seem to free something up; like removing all the background interference. And that's where the thoughts start flowing. The landscape, cars, noise (and the music I'm listening to) all merge into a symphony of focus and clarity. I can't be the only one this happens to: I seem to get some of my best ideas and best thoughts - and do some of my best problem solving when I'm driving at breakneck speed. (This certainly does not apply to juddering in an endless queue on the M25).

Given that at 70 mph my Smart starts to rattle a bit and at 80 mph (which of course I wouldn't actually admit to reaching because that'd be over the speed limit, so let's say, theoretically, at 80 mph) you get a real sense of driving a toy car mounted on a turbo engine, it's a little crazy that this is when I feel the least anxious, worried or jittery. Only when there are bad cross-winds do I snap fully into "oh crap, better slow down and keep this thing on the road", and out blows the meditative state.

The way I've come to call this meditative state in my head is "singing". It feels as if there is a release from the mundane; as if at all other times, the world and I are out of sync, but when everything is whooshing past, suddenly my thought waves and surroundings are aligned. And the road and everything around me is light; and my mind is singing.

I refuse to choose

The only thing I would change about how my world works is time. It's such a linear bugger; limited and irritating concept. Nevertheless, it's slightly less of a problem now I've worked out how to seemingly squeeze more out of it than most people. (Granted, this ability comes at some costs).

I want to challenge some assumptions. "People tend to be either good at art or science". I call bullshit. I want to be good at both. I'm still traumatised by my school-experiences of maths*, but I am now getting excited about mathematics, statistics, chemistry and science in general. Today I realised that I've already done two of the named courses for an analytical sciences foundation degree. I was looking for the timetable for the next course from the Open University. Not sure if I will be able to fit it in until I finish the IFEAT perfumery diploma, so it'll take a little while until I register. I have also earmarked OpenLearn for brushing up on study skills and for other useful bite-sized courses.

"One is either feminine or successful in business/work". Rubbish. You don't have to sweat testosterone to make your mark.

Someone (an area manager for a retail chain) once said to me: "Wow, you actually have a brain in that pretty little head of yours." Yes, I hope so. Thank you for the compliment (you cow). One can be considered attractive AND smart. Why do people assume intelligence has anything to do with looks, either way? Rhetorical question. Ironic, considering that my self-esteem is a bit wobbly in the looks-department. My mother was trying to toughen me up by calling me fat and various other things when I was growing up. Bless. She meant well, but it was a bit of a crap strategy.

When I was starting out as a make-up artist, my first agency appointment went like this: "You have both fashion and theatre in your portfolio. You have to pick one or the other; you can't do both." I told her that I liked working in both. Why should I limit myself? I didn't pursue agents after that and just went pure freelance. Since the make-up artist job, I worked for a fragrance distributor, for a software developer and in retail. Now, years later, I've finally found an organisation in which I've been able to (first tentatively and lately at full force) unleash my full Scanner-nature. It feels like unfurling scrunched-up parts of your body that you knew were there, but had gone numb. I've been allowed to - and even encouraged to - work in a way that suits me perfectly. I've been doggedly and persistently pursuing self-study "outside work" to enable some of this (outside work in quotation marks because that's an artificial concept for me. A few years ago I realised that I should stop even trying to separate work-head and me-head. I need to allow myself to get absorbed and work across all concepts, personal or professional in a mind-map-like way. Time and clockwatching doesn't come into it).

At first, yes, there were some questions: "...yes, but that's not a job description - which department would you like to work under?" Luckily they didn't last long. I suppose I had to take some risks, but in the end I am so glad I did - by showing that I could work cross-departments on various projects at the same time. I'm now so happy at work and with how things are going that the old "yikes, what's going to go wrong now?" -nerves are here. This is so great that every day I pause at some point simply to marvel. (Marvel is such a ridiculous word, but it's the only one that seemed just right. Perhaps I also wish to convey exactly how ridiculous this all still seems. I can't believe my luck and I'm nervous that I will now go a head and mess it up somehow. I've still got to learn how to stop worrying).

Meanwhile, I have just drawn up one of my re-focus plans. This time it's a mind-map with a stick figure-me in the middle with lines and boxes coming off it. I may have mentioned various planning tools before, but for as long as I can remember, I've periodically taken stock of where I am and what I am focusing on. Usually once a year, but sometimes more often. Turns out that under the "Strengths Finder" method of trying to fit us into some kind of classification system, one of my dominant strengths is "focus". (The others are "strategic", "ideation" and "activator").

There is a fair amount of writing on that focus page, quite a few projects, goals and categories, but it seems manageable. What Barbara's book "What do I do when I want to do everything?" helped me realise is that I don't have to choose, but that I needed to develop ways in which to focus on one thing at a time, then swivel the wheel of interests and activities 'round like a revolving spice rack and pick up the next flavour, focus on that for a while, rinse and repeat. Simple, but brilliant. When it works, you feel as if everyone else is scuttling around at normal speed and your time has just gone into Hollywood blockbuster slow-mo. They run the rat race; you do your thing... and another thing...and another...

*Being repeatedly humiliated in front of the class, called a fat cannonball, and having things thrown at you by your teacher tends to do that.

Things and how to use them, part 1*

I used to really love writing lists. Then I wrote so many of them about so many things that they started to feel strangulating. And the tool became the point. Luckily, I was able to go on a Time Manager International course (I don't work for them, no, really, I actually found a corporate-sounding course genuinely helpful) and decided to have a go at NOT writing lists (and using their methods instead). So I stopped writing lists for a bit.

When I say I used to write lists, I'm not sure if the extent to which this habit had been ingrained into every aspect of my life is clear from the deceptively simple word "list".

The course tutor didn't know how to arrange his face when I explained the system I had developed to cope with my juggling. (I really like having a variety of things on the go at once, but I do have an upper limit to how many plates I can spin. The older I get the better I get at noticing when I'm reaching that limit before I drop any plates).

The system went like this: Normal Word document with a 3-column (multi-row) table. Each type of task was categorised a little bit like one might categorise blog topics: "homelife", "reading list", "health & fitness", "project name blahblah", "project..." etc. Each of these categories had its own colour. I had matching colour set in mini pens too; so any notes I made after I'd printed the current list could be made in the same colour.

The columns were: TASK (written in the appropriate colour, so I'd know by just looking at it whether it was work-stuff, my own stuff or other stuff), STARTED and FINISHED.

I would update the list about once a month. I'd print it off for the rest of the time and update things by hand (here's where the coloured pens became relevant) as I went along, so I always knew where I was with everything.

Obviously I still used a diary too, plus I had a year-planner where I could see at a glance what was going on.

What made that quite good is that it minimised post-it-notes and separate bits of paper. What made it quite clumsy is that updating it on my computer took too much time and it wasn't that easy to update on the go (despite the coloured pens). Plus, by the time I really started juggling (i.e., I started my current job and became even more of a plate-spinner), the list would get several pages long and it was beginning to seem like a millstone rather than a helpful tool.

Then there was the annual list. Now this, I'd been doing for years, at least for 10 years if not more - and it consists of just a simple A4 typed list of all the boxes I want to tick that year. It would include things like "finish X course" or "read X book" or "change address at X" and bigger things too; goals that might transfer from one year to the next.

I could also talk about cataloguing because it relates, but that's another topic. I have a feeling that all geeks like cataloguing things (and it's a really slippery slope - once you've catalogued your current reading list & written cute little book reviews for everything you read, then what's to stop you from cataloguing your entire book collection, or CDs or...).

Anyway, so after the Time Manager course, I put my lists to one side and really tried to survive without them. In the beginning I found it quite difficult, but not impossible. In fact, I had been expecting the transition to be harder. It would have been, but the new style of organiser was awesome - and completely suited to the whole plate-spinning way of life (working parents might enjoy this, or anyone running their own business, or working freelance on multiple projects): each main area of your life/work has its own numbered category. Each category has its own segment at the back of the organiser and what makes this superior to my list system is that you can react immediately if some new info becomes available. You can just put it in the right section - and the next time you are dealing with that topic/person/project, you just open at the right section and ta-dah, you pick up where you left off last time. No more trying to hold too much stuff in your head, or finding where you wrote that important bit of information.

It also has sections for "ideas" and "notes", which is lovely for those yet-to-be-categorised things on the run. The diary segments are awesome too; much more room to schedule your days and weeks than in any other organiser I've seen.

The downside? It's HUGE (I needed the larger size to fit everything in). But - you can just remove relevant bits (mini diary which is detachable & notepad) & take them with you on trips or to meetings. Though that then puts you back into the whole updating in one big chunk, rather than on the move. Still; small price to pay for the awesome tool. I now really rely on this and it almost feels like a Personal Assistant.

I've thought about electronic personal organisers, but so far, none have grabbed me. I also really hate the inability to "leaf through" stuff in a natural papery way. There is something necessary about paper in these for me.

The Annual List has stuck with me. I thought about what I was using it for and realised that it was still serving a purpose. It's a nice, reassuring, focusing, self-motivating, anti-flapping tool I will probably continue to use forever. I just tore up the 2008 list (only 4 things on it I didn't tick off; pretty good) and wrote up the 2009 list. The biggest item on the 2009 list is "Sell property/buy property/move house?". That's the aim, but who the hell knows what's going to happen. Luckily there are lots of other things on there that I can get done. The moving house thing might be a bit more complicated.

So now I'm friends with lists again, but in a new way. Our relationship has been re-defined. So far so good. And luckily, there's always Facebook and its list-writing-bandwagon for when I get cravings.

* This in no way implies there will be future parts to this series, though there may be, depending on circumstances and availability of loose thoughts in need of a home

Bimbo day

I sent off my assessment for the nutrition course this week and finished a big report for work. Today is the first day in months where I've not had something hanging over me and I feel empty-headed and bimboish in a good way.

Wanted to do my nails, but I've ran out of nail polish remover. Oh well. Have been watching silly films and not doing a lot. It's hard not to start listing all of the next big things to do (because there are plenty), but like grandma said "work doesn't disappear by doing it".

Is kitchen table a luxury?

Or a kitchen, for that matter? What about a bedroom?

The other day Timo and I were trying to see the silver lining to our extended stay in the studio flat. (We didn't plan to stay here long after we got married, but that demented brand of breakfast cereal called Credit Crunch made us pause and hold until house prices might come down to something approaching normal).

Timo said: "Well, look at it this way. It must say something about our relationship that we've been able to live in a studio for this long and we're still together."

He's right. We're very happy and very much in love. Every day I have a moment or two when I stop to think how lucky I am. I have had my share of absolutely abysmal and simply disappointing relationships so perhaps it's about time. Still, nobody is born entitled to anything, and just because you go through some shit doesn't then store that in the Karma bank (sorry Buddhists), so I still count myself lucky.

For my entire life up until I met Timo I was deeply suspicious of the "and then they lived happily ever after". And until we do, I obviously won't be in any position to guess whether we will. But I had reached a point where I didn't believe I was ever going to dare take a deep enough emotional risk to have a go. Timo changed that.

We'd love to live in a nice house with more than one room. Preferably at least two bedrooms. For a real dash of luxury, I'd love a spare room to set up as a home office and workshop. My work stuff and project stuff sort of needs its own place. There is something charming about how we live now, literally surrounded by stuff (I saw this documentary where they interviewed a mad professor and our flat looks not too dissimilar to his live-in library with piles of newspaper cuttings and bottles and magazines and books and computers). But charming quickly turns into an euphemism when you have to live it. You know the old saying "Oh, I love kids as long as I can hand them back." Kind of like that.

I'd also love to have an actual kitchen - not just a kitchenette. I'd love a kitchen table; a long, old-fashioned kind on which I could roll out pulla (bun) dough with a rolling pin. For a couple of years now I've gone to the trouble of making traditional imelletty lanttulaatikko (swede casserole) and perunalaatikko (potato casserole) from scratch. The process takes 2 days and in our tiny kitchenette, I haven't got enough room, so I have to juggle dishes and trays in and out to the main living area. They end up on chairs, our bed, on the tiny little table next to our TV. I also make Finnish star tarts (tähtitorttu) filled with plum jam. I cheat and buy the puff pastry and plum jam from the annual Finn-Guild Christmas fair at Rotherhithe.

Maybe next year we could move. Maybe we could spend next Christmas in an actual house. I already tried that once, but with the wrong guy. Even at the time, I kept worrying that it could all be snatched away.

What about this time? We live in an eccentric over-filled little love nest. We're happy here, but as Timo keeps saying: "I do look forward to the day I won't bump into your chair every time I come out of the kitchen."

What if we are stuck here for an indefinite length of time? Can we stay happy? Or what if we find a nice place, but we lose the magic? Or could it be that one day we might be lucky enough to have a proper home and a happy relationship? It seems like too much to hope for. I'm allowed, right?

When something feels like a Schroedinger's soap bubble

You know when there's something you've been only dreaming about, then daring to actually hope for and then it finally happens? And you're left with a surreal feeling of "if I examine it closely and really allow myself to accept that it's real, then by simply by doing so, I might make this lovely thing cease to exist."

Or maybe it's just me.

There are some stories about how person X did Y and due to sheer effort and perseverance they "got there in the end". I've cynically often wondered how much of such narrative is re-writing history after the event for the sake of nice storytelling.

The thing is; I might be on my way to becoming one of those stories. I just can't quite accept that yet, just in case. It feels very odd. Like I've crossed some previously invisible boundary.

I must immediately start adding bits of fascinating back-story. But before I have the chance to do that, here's the first related post, Why I think I'm a Nose, posted in 2005, and its follow-up Perfume; the book, the film and my obsession, posted about a year ago, in February 2007.

Last summer, I was given permission to hijack one of the existing product developers from the company I work for to help me - and we spent a week making prototypes (and back last summer I was still based part in the shops/working on projects, so that felt so amazing and surreal...and wonderful).

We made lots of different products and I developed some simple fragrances. Two days after the products had been packed up into brown cardboard boxes and left in the care of company directors I had a call from one of them (the chief perfumer and one of the founding members, no less): "I think these are lovely and you are very talented."

Somehow I still feel like I'm not allowed to say that out loud, or to think it even.

Months passed and I kept tinkering at home and filling up notebooks with more ideas.

Come January, I was completely moved out of the shops into various head office tasks, on the basis of some of the other work I'd done - and became too busy to pontificate about anything other than "when is my next flight/train/meeting/deadline". Which, by the way, was entirely a good thing, or I might have focused a little too much on wondering about what-ifs.

I decided to enrol on a basic science course at the OU to brush up on maths and chemistry. Then I rang the director of a part-time Diploma course in Cosmetic Science to discuss entry requirements (only to be told that due to my experience in the industry, they'd take me without any further questions asked. Oh).

In February, I was asked to research and write a report for the Research & Development team. I loved doing that. It felt like an unexpected, yet perfect marriage between my inner geek and outer cosmetics junkie. When I submitted the report, I was told they'd like some more in the future and this made me very happy indeed.

Couple of weeks ago, I received a short message: "You are wanted in the lab for a review of the product prototyping work you did for us last summer."

I went, and spent a day with the inventors. I didn't know what to expect, but I certainly didn't expect to be addressed throughout the day in a way that explicitly implied that I would now be allowed to conduct further experiments, work on R&D projects and help out in general.

Did I imagine all that?

In the week just gone, after coming back from Eastercon, I've suddenly had a shower of new things to work on, some of which are for the R&D department.

Right now, I would be happiest than I have ever been to date with my life and what this all implies and looks like, if it wasn't for the way I've had to store this Schroedinger's soap bubble away in a box and not look, not even peek at it, because it might just go *pop*.

--

EDIT: Find out how it all started and what happened next...

On geeks, categorising and marketing

"The more I think about it, the more geeky I realise I am," I said to Timo today. Having just returned from Eastercon, it's no wonder I've not floated down to "somewhat normal"  yet.

"What, you're surprised by that?" Timo replied.

"No, what I mean is that there are a few things I'd always taken to be my little quirks, which I now realise are traits shared with many others. This sounds so naive, but I really didn't think that there'd be so many people for whom having complete sets of things, or having such sets categorised and organised in some specific way would be as important."

I'm not a collector; not exactly. There are very narrow areas in which I'd say it's important to have the set for its own sake. Mostly that happens to me with books.

Today, whilst dusting the shelves (and looking for Timo's copy of Coraline, which Neil Gaiman's comments during the Darker than Potter panel made me want to read), I spotted a pattern.

The book series for non-SF/Fantasy fiction, say, by a Finnish crime publishing house, are uniform in colour and typeface, but don't have numbers on the spines. Same goes for "modern classics" and, upon further inspection, all other mainstream fiction series we have knocking around. Hmm.

Whereas - most of the SF/Fantasy book series are numbered. Even "...best new SF" uses this device, even though it might have made sense to print the actual year for which these are meant to be the "best" collections for. Instead they've sequenced using numbers. And the numbers are big on the spine too; it'll be really obvious if you've missed one.

I wonder if this is a deliberate attempt by marketing departments to tap into the geeky tendencies of the target audience for these books. If it is, it's working and I'm impressed.

Something else that's impressed me - Neil's business sense and his ability to use it in subtle and effective ways. Coraline did get mentioned rather a lot during the con and what do you know; it's due to be released as a film soon.  And if you're quick, you can still download a free copy of  American Gods from his website (but expect to feel the urge to buy it afterwards - the sales of this book have gone up significantly since the freebie offer).

Someone asked Neil: "Since you record and sell audio books, does it bother you that these have been made illegally available via peer-to-peer download services?"

He replied by asking how many people in the audience had found their favourite author by buying a book they knew nothing about, apart from the blurb on the cover. Some hands went up. He then asked: "How many of you found your favourite author for free; through borrowing a book, or by some other means?" A forest of arms shot up.

"See?" said Neil.

By doing this sort of thing, he is clever on so many levels. Instead of demonising potential fans, he works with them. Instead of struggling upstream against the inevitable changes in how the market and technology is evolving, he swims with the current and uses it to his advantage.

I've got into the habit of listening to podcasts and audio books whilst sat at airports waiting for delayed flights, or trying to relax in uncomfortable hotel rooms. I found Stardust as an audio book on iTunes, narrated by Neil - and am now tempted to buy it. Can't decide whether it would be silly, considering I have it as an actual book (now also autographed; thank you very much!).

There is no way I'd use a peer-to-peer service, just in case you're wondering.

Wow, what a hard decision

Well, today's the last day of my little holiday. Had a week off to go to Finland and arrange further wedding related things. Of course, as usual when one has been overdoing things for a bit too long, the minute I stopped working, I became ill.

Sinuses filled with green glue, voice like a scratchy record (and then, very quickly, strangled squeaks, then nothing), I somehow managed to run around in Helsinki with Timo and get everything done anyway. In the evenings we were wiped out and fell asleep far earlier than we're used to.

The wonderful thing is that we now have the go-ahead for our marriage. All paperwork is in order, we've checked the venue, ordered the flowers, and have a final list of things to do (including getting the rings! Minor detail...).

Over the weekend, I have been trying to rest and get myself back to normal. I would rather not have another course of antibiotics if it can be helped! Feeling lots better, though sinuses are still giving me trouble. Part of this resting has, admittedly, happened in front of the computer...

Timo brought home World of Warcraft (WoW) trial disks. Now, we've been avoiding it because we had another MMORPG love, Final Fantasy online. Except the trouble with FF has been that the time sink required for it exceeds what we can possibly commit to. For the most part, I've been doing things like levelling various crafts or breeding giant chicken mounts (yes, really). They're called chocobos and are an integral element in all things Final Fantasy.

I love the Final Fantasy world and in the beginning, it was easy to pick up the online game and get ahead. Unfortunately majority of the game content (quests and so on) really does require you to spend hours on end playing. Sometimes in one go. Many activities are geared to be suitable for large groups only, or require the help of higher level players to complete. In order to gain commitment from others to help you, you must be available to do the same in return. It's only fair and makes sense.

However, being one of those weird gamers that actually prefers achieving things in the fabled world of RL (Real Life) as well as in-game, I don't think I have much choice in the matter of FF. I can keep on paying the monthly subscription to keep my characters and giant chickens "alive", or I can cancel the subscription. Quit. It seems bizarre to be a little bit emotionally attached to a virtual world and its inhabitants, but I've been a fan of the Final Fantasy universe for years and a player on FF online for over 2 years. So quitting seems like leaving something real behind.

How real are online gaming environments? Do they become as real as the time you have put in them? Or the people you "meet" and make friends with?

Is it all just a big waste of time? Is any social, fun activity a waste of time?

I guess when it stops being fun.

So, meanwhile, we've been trying to understand what makes World of Warcraft online such a popular game. It has millions of subscribers (over 6 million, I seem to remember seeing somewhere - sounds ludicrous! That's more than the entire population of Finland!).

WoW seems so easy to get into after FFXI. Granted, in every such game, the first 10 levels of a character are a breeze, after which things get harder. We've tried out different characters, classes and crafts. It's fun, so far. Worth getting a subscription? Not sure yet. It seems to be far better suited to people who want to play for a while, go do something else and come back again. Of course the mechanics, especially towards end game, seem to allow for overwhelming immersive playing style (there's always some Uber gear that can be perceived as a must-have and this type of gear or priviledges or imaginary in-game status always requires making the game your primary activity in life for quite a while). The key difference seems to be that this does not appear to be a requirement. It's an option.

If I'm right about the above and it's in fact possible to play WoW semi-casually, then it might be sold. Just a few more days of the trial left.

It's definitely a nice thought to have something to lose yourself in once in a while. I tried Second Life (and still have my account there), but it seems a little bit pointless. There's not an awful lot to do, unless you want to make a pretty toon and flirt. I made a dragon.

Still. Why do I feel that playing WoW instead of FF online is like cheating? And quitting FF would be like a breakup. Yet I know it seems the logical thing to do. How dorky. I'm surprised at myself actually.