Only Boring People Get Bored

Yeahno. We don’t live in a Hollywood action movie.

I remember seeing the sentiment on a Radio Times coaster: ‘I refuse to be bored because I’m not boring.’ At the time, I agreed with it. Later, I got to thinking more on it, and I was no longer so sure.

You see, everyday life is boring. There are thrilling events for everyone, bigger and smaller ones, those that carry us away willy-nilly and those that we may miss if we’re not observant. But they are the exceptions, not the rule, and there’s plenty of downtime in between. There’s tons of opportunity to be bored at work, or doing chores at home. Boredom is a thing of the mind, and one doesn’t need to be idle in order to be bored. Go do housework, and you will know what I mean.

So it’s obvious that having a boring job doesn’t make you a boring person – only a bored person. I’m not sure how the fallacy arose, but I can imagine it being a creation of the entertainment business; a gimmick to sell more ‘exciting things to do or see’. The Radio Times occurrence certainly supports such an assumption. I shudder to think what we would be like if we were stimulated all the time. Watching kids at a birthday party and, more importantly, at home right afterwards, can give you an idea. We’d blow our fuses in no time.

There’s not much one can do for boredom on the job. I used to go for the evening shifts in the office, when all I had to worry about, from halfway into the shift onwards, was the odd phone call, and got tons of writing done in the quiet hours; during the daytime open hours, workload could fluctuate wildly, and I couldn’t get away with anything fun while I had to be on call. Household chores can be made bearable with music – there’s no reason I can’t scrub and sing or shimmy at the same time!

The internet is another matter altogether, though. One would think it’s impossible to be bored while on the net, not with the tons of places to be and things to see/watch/listen to. This is largely right, although the extent depends on what everyone likes doing on the net. I’m not really into games or streaming shows; most of my time is spent on Elliquiy and WEaT, writing and socialising, and there are definitely slow times – when the writing muse, mine or my partners’, is not cooperating, or when nobody is around to talk to. In such cases, reading is once more my rescue. I don’t like reading on-screen, though I can do it for short periods of time, but the Kindle, or any physical book or magazine lying around (and there are many of those!) can oblige.

Come to think about it, boring people, whatever their flavour, are not good with words – they don’t read, don’t write, don’t have anything to talk about. Words, going in or coming out, one’s own or others’, are always a way out of the bog.

On the Fence

I may not be a Texan, but the local saying that, if you can see your neighbour’s chimney smoke, you’re too close, finds me rather in agreement.

Next Door Neighbor for rent

Understand, now: I didn’t grow up in particularly neighbourly circumstances. Blocks of flats don’t exactly foster community spirit.

I remember nothing, naturally, about the block where I was born and spent my first 18 months, nor the one in Ioannina, where we lived for the next two and a half years. When we came back, we settled in a rented place for 12 years. In that time, I learned the names of those who lived in the other flats, could even recognise most of them by sight, we exchanged greetings when we met in the lobby, but that was about it. It wasn’t just me, either. People didn’t knock on each other’s doors to borrow something, or for a coffee and chat. It just wasn’t done. It didn’t help that there were virtually no families with children around my age. The block engineer’s family, whose third child became my best friend, lived three floors higher up, and even we called for arrangements before either of us would take the lift up or down. Playdates before they were fashionable.

When we moved again, to another rented place, where my mum still lives, we found ourselves in a much smaller block, owned by a family. One side of it, our side, was owned by the couple who lived just beneath us; one of their sons moved into the flat just above us, a few years later. The other side belonged to our landlady’s sister, who had partitioned it into smaller flats and let them out, to students and immigrant families. Those moved in and out so often that I never got to know who was in – a parade of unfamiliar faces and a removal van around every couple of months at least. Our side was much more stable, of course, and up to my dad’s death, there was a lot of visiting, afternoon coffees, and exchanges of baked goods.

My parents enjoyed it, as they came from smaller, more ‘communal’ communities. I found the contact amusing sometimes; intrusive more often, especially as I grew older. I didn’t care to watch what I was wearing, or regulate my music, or get off the TV whenever there were visitors around. And I certainly didn’t care to have them peek at my mail or my own visitors.

I’m an intensely private person, and I don’t care to share aspects of life that are nobody else’s business. I don’t believe I need to be friendly with someone just because we happen to live close by. Neighbours can be friends, but don’t have to, and most friendships flourish better when there’s at least a little distance. Elbow room, so to speak.

Here, where we live in houses rather than flats, I don’t feel so intruded upon. I know who lives on either side of us, I’ve collected parcels for the midwife next door, who works the night shift and is never there in the daytime, I know where the pensioner couple with the puppy live and what the woman across the court, the one with the silver Maine Coon, does. There are nods and hellos exchanged in the street and at the supermarket, and the odd parking lot chat. I could give a hand with something, if asked, and chip in for a neighbourhood barbecue, as Tom suggested in summer, but I won’t have the kettle on at the drop of a hat, nor expect others to do the same. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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Oh Happy Day

Eleven (just to buck the trend) things, people, and ideas that make my life worth it. The list is by no means exhaustive…

My husband
We fell in love without even realising it, at a junction in life when things couldn’t possibly look less favourable. We pulled through that, got together, built a family, and we look forward to growing old together. Things are far from easy, but that’s when one gets to appreciate the people who matter: those who support you despite everything.

My son
He’s a toddler (smack in the middle of his Terrible Twos, actually) and a handful on a good day, but for each time he gets my pulse racing he knows to counter it with a big dimpled grin, or by climbing into my lap to snuggle and watch TV, or by feeding me bits of his food, or by the cuteness overload he is when asleep, or by surprising me with a new word.

Chocolate
Is there anything in this world that doesn’t look or feel better through the lens of a good chocolate fix? The ultimate feel-good food, not even the workouts I need to keep it off my hips can make me give it up. Moderate, yes. But hell would be forbidding it me for the rest of my life. So don’t do it. This means you.

Baby animals
Even those beasts that grow up to be ugly or scary manage to be cute as babies. If we talk about fluffy kitties or frisky puppies, I challenge anyone out there not to have their spirits lifted; or a belly laugh at the very least. That’s why CuteOverload.com has been in my bookmarks for nigh on eight years.

Fashion
I don’t mean anything expensive or bleeding-edge fashionable. But there’s no resisting a pretty tone-on-tone embroidered coat or dress, or a pair of soft ballet slippers or jazz boots. Such items make me feel pretty, sexy, and distinctive at the same time. Epic win!

Crisp clear days
The best weather to walk out in. I enjoy wrapping myself warmly, but not needing to thaw out uncovered bits when I get back, and to be as certain as possible that it’s not going to rain. There are no two months better suited to long hikes than April and October.

Music
It’s what makes a long drive or walk fly by. It’s what gets me in the mood for writing, or provides inspiration. Discovering a new artist I like is like receiving a gift for no reason.

BookMooch
Books I want to read coming through the letterbox, without me having to pay a penny for them. Nicely broken in books, vibrating with the life of having been read and enjoyed. Chances to get rid of books I otherwise wouldn’t know what to do with. Thanks, Trip, for alerting me to this wonderful thing.

The Body Shop
When I was a penniless student, and later equally penniless unemployed, I used to trot over to my local branch when depression struck and go around sniffing products until my mood improved. The whirl of colour and gorgeous smells is still effective – last time I was there, I let my son have a sniff at their new orange body butter and his response was, ‘Yummy!’

Words
Whether I read them or write them, whether they’re books, blogs, roleplaying games… the sheer creativity that is creating vibrant worlds and living people out of a handful of squiggles is irresistible.

The internet
A few clicks here and there are enough for me to find information, entertainment, socialisation, everything. I don’t really know how I managed before I found it, and if I were to lose it, I’d feel bereft without my online communities.

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Pen and Paper, Upgraded

The internet is not for porn, it is for wasting time… Porn is just the excuse.

Laptop and working lunch. An outside table with a silver laptop, coffee and a sandwich on it.

You know, I can hardly believe myself that I’ve only been on the internet for nine years (since 27 December 2001, to be precise), and only the last five of them on a broadband connection. I feel like I’ve been online forever, and I wouldn’t even be able to imagine my life without being permanently hooked up. Addicted, me? Well… just a little.

Mind you, I don’t just waste time on the ‘net. I don’t do social networks, so no hours on Farmville. Despite the suggestions up there in the intro, porn is not my thing either. When I first got a computer, I was a bit worried that I’d be consumed by games. I needn’t have worried, in that respect. I never took to gaming; instead, when I discovered how much free reading material there is out there, ready to be downloaded, there was no stopping. So much that I hardly leave myself time to actually read the material I get. Irony much?

No, it’s the writing that consumes me. Both roleplaying forums I belong to are busy, and juggling my stories can be overwhelming. I’m currently involved in a couple dozen storylines in total, and although my partners and I are anything but daily posters, the owed replies can pile up very quickly if anything gets in the way of inspiration. In my case, a toddler does come in the way, very often, and gets precedence as well. I feel particularly bad if I catch myself getting impatient with him because he’s keeping me from my writing (and administrative duties, considering I’m staff at both places).

And those are without counting all the blogging. I currently maintain four blogs, all with different purposes and audiences, from personal journaling to formal writing projects – this one being something in the middle. I have another project in the sidelines, something I should have started two years ago but, as usual, I bit more than I could chew. The cherry on top is NaNoWriMo, which I could never have done without my connection.

Sometimes I feel guilty when I let things slide onto the back burner because I can’t tear myself away from the computer. I should go out more with the young one, find more socialisation options for him… but it’s so easy to put off playgroup when it looks like rain, and stay in and write instead. I don’t get twitchy if the ‘net goes down for a few hours, but I do carry my netbook with me when I go out of town, hoping to leech off some neighbour’s connection.

An indication of how much time my online writing takes up: Last time we went to visit with my mother-in-law and were unable to get a connection, I read some 600 pages in just under four incommunicado days, including a 375-pager in just over 24 hours.

When I return to gainful employment, work had better keep me damn busy, if I’m not to resort to sneak peeks or suffer withdrawal.

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Slice of Life: The Setting

Write of what you know, they say. Or at least start there. Close to home.

Stone Clad Cottage, Roseland Terrace,E11

This is a little housing estate, a decent one, in the outskirts of a solid, prosperous university town with a good chunk of history in its past. It is considered part of the village, although it’s a good walk away from the old main street with the Victorian stuccoed semi-detached cottages.

It’s just housing, and a small ‘retail park’ with a few food and home stores. There is a McD, of course – McD are everywhere – and a swish pharmacy that can do nicely as an outing venue for the girly girls, although it is always left out of the promotion event schedules that more urban branches host. There are a couple of watering holes within walking distance, handy for the times when one wants to get hammered, but the library is tucked away in a corner of the main village and all the local churches seem to be along the road that leads into town.

It’s a nice place, really, not one of the run-down estates that cater to people who depend on housing benefit to keep a roof over their heads. Most people own their houses here, whether terraced two-story dollhouse cottages, bungalows with sprawling lawns, and the odd apartment complex – ‘courts’ they call them in England. There are a few big detached houses, and the quaintly curving streets, all named after flower varieties and called Ways, Ends, Walks, Lanes, or Closes, rather than Streets, are lined with well-cared lawns and trees, but the whole is by no means posh. Just a comfortable, safe place for children to play and grow up in.

But it’s a lonely place to spend one’s days. Most of the people living there don’t work in town but actually commute to London, which means long hours away and being rarely seen going about, excluding the shops. Children stay with childminders after school, a thriving industry in the area, and the streets are empty more often than not. That can get eerie in summer, when the sun is still high in the sky but there is not a soul to be seen around.

Most of the residents, those who are to be seen, at least, are retirees, seen early in the morning walking their dogs, or semi-retirees whose children come down from university for the holidays, or frazzled stay-at-home mums schlepping around two or three kids, quite close together in age. Few dads are seen around, and those are usually the grown-up skinhead type, complete with tattoos, piercings, and white scruffy wifebeaters; the kind that might make you consider crossing the street to avoid them if they are alone, but are complete life-size teddy bears when their kids are around.

Everyone has a car, and perhaps half of everyone have two. Bus service into town is expensive and not very reliable, and it’s really much more cost-effective to drive. Cars live in driveways, and garages are invariably converted to storage units. Of a weekend morning, people can be seen sorting them out, when they’re not working in their gardens. Assuming it doesn’t rain, of course, which for half of the year is a rather bold assumption to make.

It may not be Wisteria Lane, but you can bet your bottom banknote of choice that there is more drama than you can imagine brewing behind the lace-curtained bay windows…

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