Puppetwithoutstrings

They stopped the chimes of Big Ben for a day.

Tourists were left confused as they anticipated the dull drone coming from St. Stephen’s Tower and Bell. There they were gazing up to the clocktower at Westminster, watching and waiting. Then there was only silence.

A couple of people actually checked their watches to see if they had the right time. Was the famed British clock late? Nothing wrong there, really.  They just decided to do some maintenance and repairs. But it sure got a lot of people confused.

Seems fitting that we all try to make the most of our time, but we seem to take it for granted. Then we end up wishing we had more time.

For once, today, we got that.

Well, at least an extra hour. In the winter, daylight savings means the clocks go back an hour. Simple really, but a lot of people forget to do this and actually show up early for work for once.

It’s easy to take the extra hour for granted. But look at it closely, that’s 60 minutes. 3600 seconds. Each in itself is a moment added to a day in the world. Another instance to shape our lifetime. What do you do in that hour?

And yes, I was still running late for work.

Large glasses.

Terrible trousers.

Dodgy haircut.

The era of nerdness.

It is difficult to run from your past, much less get away from its scars. You tend to pick up a lot of them in life. The problem is not only working on your present, but trying to re-educate people. Its had work, if not impossible.

You can lose the glasses, buy a new wardrobe and rescult your hair easily. It’s still you in the mirror. And it haunts you. Until you learn to look beyond it and start appreciating you.

Except…

Soemthimes there are things from the old days that come back. Sometimes they are nice things. Good thoughts and memories.

Now, there’s the dilemna.

Do you effectively move on from those days?

or are some memories worth revisiting?

Somehow, the guy in the mirror is wearing a dodgy haircut again.

I live right next to the London Underground tube/traintrack.  My window faces the tracks, which means I see the trains everyday from the beginning of service till they go towards their garages. My mom hates it actually. I on the other hand find it intriguing.

I guess there is a voyeuristic element to it. Here I am, everyday looking into the world of everyone who begins their day. Who are they? Why do they start their day so early? Where are they headed? Why do they go home so late? What life are they leaving? What life are they going to?

Here from my tower, I see these people, see the faces of strangers, who for a moment have to start their day with me. Here I stay, wondering what becomes of them during the day,wondering what they are looking for this day. Than I wonder, if they have found what they are looking for. Finally as the day ends, they hang their heads, as they pass by. Tomorrow they search anew.

Maybe I envy them. Sometimes I feel as this has always been my place. Here I am beside the railway, waving and cheering friends and family on. Praying they are safe on their journey. Hoping they find what they look for. Wondering if I’ll be remembered.

There is that selfish part in us all that wants us to mean more to others. Who, after all, would want to be a footnote in someone’s life. Being referred to as " the nameless individual who was present at said time, but is unimportant to be kept on record, " is not exactly the stuff of legend. In the lives of people, we want to be spoken of in volumes. Most of us barely make a sentence.

The last train is coming in. Someone’s day has come to an end. I wonder if I was part of their day? Was one of them a stranger who I showed a moment of kindness? Or someone who I offended in passing? 

What part of their lives will I play part of? Or am I merely just another face looking out the window, watching the trains go by?

Sometimes, life can feel like it’s in slow motion.

You get locked into such a routine, no day really feels any different from the other. You get up, go to work, have a few laghts, retire for the day and end the day with little more accomplished than that which was necessary. No real highs, but no lows either. It’s a safe existance.

But that’s all it really becomes, safe.

Last time I ever felt "safe," was three years ago. It involved me getting up at nine each day, settling for a boring breakfast, watching boring tv until I was bored enough to have a boring shower. Then, if I was brave enough, I ventured outside, only to indulge in sensible activities like going to the library, or pay some bills or by whatever was needed for the house. Then home again, to watch some more boring tv, for the sake of it.

There is another word for that sort of safety.

It’s called unemployment. It’s uncomplicated. It’s stress free. Above all, why worry, let the government bail you out with social welfare cheques. Hey, you paid your dues, didn’t you? Let somebody pay for your change of status.

Right?

Worst time of my life.

We can be afraid to take that step forward. Taking that extra risk seems folly at times. Why not play it safe? No harm there. No one gets hurt. You mind your own business.

Do that and you end up alone, huddle in the corner with only dispair as your companion.

In life, there will always be an intersection. But the longer you contemplate what to do at the stoplight, you end up nowhere. And behind you, your holding up the traffic.

Step on the gas.

There’s a greenlight ahead.

Don’t you have somewhere to get to?

Now here in the UK, we don’t actually have the "tiangge."

Well, actually we do have market days, but they are not really the place to get the real bargains. What we have here is the "boot sale," or for the more American English inclined, the "flea market."

"Why boot market?" you might ask. Well, it does necessarily stand for a piece of footwear but it’s British for a car’s trunk or rear compartment. Most people who sell items at these markets carry and display their wares from the back of their vehicles. Hence the term boot sale. Selling, straight from the "boot. "

The whole concept started from people wishing to dispose or offload unwanted personal items. Americans would be more inclined to a yard sale, which is pretty good, of you know your neighbors. Here though, the boot sale usually takes place in an empty lot, sometimes a piece of farmland during the summer months. Oh, and mostly on weekends, for obvious reasons.

Now before, it used to be simple. Old toys, books, pieces of furniture, the odd coat or two. But now as retailers on the high street (um, high street meaning the big shops) tend to push prices to ridiculous levels, this has become the black market. No, nothing illegal here. Even the pirated software has been evicted form the premises. But here, money made is all cash in hand.

Is it worth it? Take for example basic household items like soap, shampoo and alike. Can be purchased in the local shop, no problem. But if you’re the enterprising fellow, you can buy these wholesale in continental Europe, or even in some factory outlets for a quarter of the RRP and sell for half, still making significant profit.

And there are still the second hand items that are worth a look or two. Book lover? Going to the big book shop, you may shell out £ 8.99 for a copy of Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones’s Diary. Go boot sale, grab it for £0.20! Or you like cooking? Grab a Tefal Frying pan worth £ 4.00 for £1!

How about if you’re a student, struggling with reference books that in total cost would be more that your semester’s fee. Pounce on a former student’s misfortune and relieve him/her of their books for a fraction of the price.

Of course there are the odd outrageous items. "Hand crafted guitar(?)" for £199.00. Rare hardbound 1st edition copy of Harry Potter? Would have fooled me, if it didn’t say reprint in the inner sleeve.

Anyway, its a fun use of time. Even if you end up buying nothing. Take a look at what everyone else is grabbing. Women buying tops too small. Men buying coats too big. Kids wondering what in the world a "MASK" toy is. Grannies gleefully showing off their new walking cane.

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure indeed. 

It lingers, softly.

Tempting.

But without passion.

All the radiance is an illusion.

As it promises only snowfall

and chapped lips.

Looking at walls

Till they look like ceilings.

Only to realise it’s the other way round.

Not a state of consciousness.

More like sleeping with your eyes open

But dead to the world.

Existing in the embrace of shadows.

I have a bad habit. (No, not that. And not that either. Perhaps that, but that’s a topic for another day.)

I love books. I love reading them, studying them, just plain looking at them. I sometimes even like judging books by their cover. Its fun! Notice how all business books have such a corporate feel to them. As if the information could not be serious enough. Then there are the medical books that look so neat and clean as if you may get sick if a sentence was laid out crookedly. Yes, person suffers severe trauma due to mistake in grammar. News at 9.

Anyway, my problem is that I always run out of shelf space. I try arranging them by importance or by popularity and fail in the attempt. Each at the time purchased or acquired was worth the time taken to read. They may not all be popular, but they sure are bedside reading for me. Where else can you find GG Marquez right next to Roald Dahl? (By the way, in this discussion we will not even begin to speak of my comic collection. Yes, COMIC COLLECTION. Graphic novel or not, they are comics. Darn it, I learned to read Filipino because of a rag called Funny Komiks so there!)

If we are reflected in the books on our shelves, what would I be seen as?

Stuck in the past perhaps? (Rubicon by Tom Holland, a study in the rise and fall of the Roman republic.)

The hopeless romantic? (Bridget Jones’s Diary  by Helen Fielding, popular novel of female mis-adventures, made even more popular by movie of same title.)

Stuck in second childhood? (The BFG by Roald Dahl, strange tale of a young girl who finds out that giants are real. And they eat people. )

Guilty conscience? (Confessions of a Sinner by St Augustine, a dissertation of faith and moral conscience.)

Alcoholic. (The Sainsbury Book of Wine by C. Fielden, a book about… wine.)

Give me a month, a several more books will be added to the shelf. I will then struggle to find boxes to store a good number of them away, never to see the light of day until , as my father says, I end up with a library. But still I acquire.

Perhaps I have a disease. Or that I just love books. They smell brilliant. They are like old friends who wait patiently to be seen. What a nerd, eh? Such a liability, but perhaps a future investment.

Who am I kidding? I’m killing trees here! May be I should go into that e-books thing. But it just doesn’t feel the same. You can’t bring your PDA to the bathtub now can you?

I sometimes find these late shifts amusing. I guess this only applies to the winter months. In this industry (gambling for the ill-informed), this period is a lot quieter, which means most people would rather turn in early and close shop. I actually don’t mind covering the late shift. I get the work done early, i.e. any leftover software problems ad reports, and I get a whole night of free TV viewing. PAID!

I guess most people would prefer to have the whole evening free to indulge in the nightlife. Been there, done that and picked up the rediculously large tab. A couple of chapters nailed down from my latest carried novel, a few extra paragraphs written and more cash left over in my wallet. Shway!