Gone fishing.

I've been writing my little heart out for the past week or so, working on some stuff for the business, hence the somewhat slower than usual blogging.

In fact, I've temporarily relocated to a quiet spot in Ireland, in an effort to concentrate on my words, which, it turns out, was something of a deft move, since I can't understand most of those uttered by the locals anyway.

My business partner and I just had dinner in Kinsale and nodded politely through the specials menu, which we're pretty sure was mostly fish; she had lobster (something I vowed to never do again) and last night we saw a movie called The Squid and the Whale.

It's been like a fishing trip so far. I'm back on dry land next week - expect more stories then!

Underwear still a big drawer

Picturing a crowd in its underwear is the worst possible advice to give someone nervous about addressing a classroom full of school children. Still, it's the advice I received a couple of years ago, right before I spoke at the Priory School in Shrewsbury.

It's also the advice I chose to ignore this afternoon, when I returned to the same school and to the same children - all grown up, their voices and bra straps having broken under the full force of puberty. With their lip gloss and their lethargy they were almost unrecognisable. And surprising in their intellect.

I was there to teach them about business, but - as per the cliché - they ended up teaching me. One girl told me how she'd secured the rights to all the pin boards in the school and that if anybody wanted to hang a poster they'd have to pay her for the privilege.

"It's premium ad space," she said.
"It's a monopoly." said another.

The kids were 14!

At that age I didn't know what was or wasn't 'premium ad space', nor that 'monopoly' was anything other than a board game - and a boring one at that.

I guess I was too busy picturing people in their underwear to care. Not much has changed in that respect.

Not dead.

If this blog is my life "approximately", then I died about two weeks ago. And only three of you were concerned (only one left a comment - thank you, Nyssa). What's with that?

Well, when I ended the last post with a health scare and the words, 'The End', I had intended on writing sooner to explain. But the truth is, my life - not death - needed some serious examination. And I've spent the last week or so doing just that - getting it back on track; evaluating my work, my relationships, and my health.

Of course, none are really the better for it, but at least I have a clearer perspective on things. Even if my absense, these days, is harder to maintain.

In web 2.0, it's hard to play dead.

You can blog your own death, sure. But keeping a low profile on the Internet is a much harder thing. Visiting MySpace, for example, the online equivalent of popping into a Starbucks (albeit one full of emo kids pouting at camera phones), lets other members know when you last logged in.

And if you're slow on your old keyboard shortcuts, your instant messenger of choice might automatically sign you in as 'online', or as I like to set it, 'out for lunch' (which is the most likely).

These signs, and the recent changes to my web site, I imagine, put the most observant of my readers at ease. For the other three, rest assured, I am not dead.

The future's bright. The future's useless.

After two days of presentations and for the most part being asked "is television dead?", Emma and I decided to leave the 'Buzz Hall' of Cross Media Week's main conference building for the 'Tree House', and a line-up of speakers and presentations very much more alive.

'New Interfaces - How to interact with a connected world' presented the studies and developments of four scientists working in the field of advanced media interfaces.

The most impressive was John Underkoffler, inventor of g-speak gestural interface technology and advisor to Steven Spielberg. G-speak replaces a conventional computer mouse with a glove that allows the user to point, push, pull and grab objects within a 3D graphical user interface.

If John de Mol was right yesterday and "the meaning is in the use," what followed was impressive but mostly meaningless presentations. Dr. Emile Aarts from Philips Research Laboratories premiered LED technology that lit a room according to scenes in a film, placing the viewer in an immersive environment; a collaborative canvas on which two children could virtually paint together and thus, to quote Dr. Aarts, "be kept off the streets, and from smacking one another"; and, the most useless of all, LED fabric apparently best demonstrated by a soft cushion that bore a pink glowing heart.

Though I won't be running out to buy one of those, if Jo Reid from HP Labs gets her way school children will be running from creatures great and small as she subjects them to what she calls, "Virtual Experience Environments" - or what anyone else might call, "placing small children in horrifying situations." The technology allows schools to advance their pupils by allowing them to walk around existing environments, such as playgrounds and parks, and make them virtual by attaching audio and video feeds of scenes from the Discovery Channel: riots in Northern Ireland, hunting in the Savannah, the Second World War.

The future's bright, I thought to myself. It's also a little bit useless.

The Week that Lies Ahead

On the journey from Shrewsbury to Amsterdam my boss, Emma, asked what I had hoped to see in the week that lay ahead. I thought for a moment and answered, "clogs...drugs...and whores."
"Right," she responded. "I sort of meant at the conference...?"
"Yeah, of course," I said, sheepishly. "Um..."

We're here for Picnic '06, Amsterdam's annual event for people interested and involved in cross media content and technology. It's part of Cross Media Week and, by the looks of its programme (which includes keynote presentations from MTV, Pixar, and craigslist.org) should be fantastic.

In the spirit of 'cross media', 'web 2.0' and other sort of faddish buzzwords, I'll be keeping you updated via my blog and my Flickr, bringing you highlights of the conference and whatever else I might see in the week that lies ahead.

Blog Author for Sale

In my last post, pointless though it was, I asked whether my trip to California had changed me. The question plagued me for, oh, fifteen minutes. I had just as soon forgotten it when Vodafone, my mobile phone provider, called with an answer.

If I had changed since my trip it was financially. Whilst out there, it seems, I made a number of calls, resulting in a bill of £360. I have changed. I’m broke.

Hotel reservations, e-mail checking, booty calls have cost me more than my car rental. Hell, they’ve cost me more than my flight! And now, I need to find a way to recoup my costs.

First to go is my match.com subscription. I’m not going to find love within six months and I don’t even qualify for the guarantee. I haven’t organised enough dates, or rather, dates haven’t always shown up.

Next, are the extravagant Marks & Spencer ready meals. No more Char-Grilled Chicken Linguini with Salsa Verde for me. I bought a sack of potatoes today.

And I’m drastically cutting my shoe budget. – gasp –

Saving money is one thing. Making money is another. And I’ve been thinking of ways to do so with as little effort as possible. See the ads above? Now click.

I figure, with my site statistics, I should make an easy...15c per week. To supplement that I’ve also gone into publishing. Self-publishing, rather, with Lulu. No, not the famed 60's singer (though my books and my prices will make you want to shout! – that’s going on the cover).

Lulu is a free self-publishing site that prints and ships each order as it’s bought. You keep your rights, design, price and 80% of the profits. And, since I thought that I have a much smaller percentage of free time available to write books, let alone paltry blog entries, I decided to publish some of my earlier works. Namely, a university paper, The Thrills: Michael Jackson, MTV and Multi-platinum Success; my dissertation, The Funk: A Cultural Response to the Disappointments of Post-Civil Rights Era America; and, slightly less academic and, arguably, less entertaining than Michael Jackson, MTV and funk music, a compilation of my best blog entries.

And, as a final measure, and perhaps to compensate for having to cancel my match.com subscription, I researched online escort agencies. (This is part of a money-making scheme, mind you, not just a way to blow my remaining money on some good company.) Ideal Escorts can help you make £500 per night. And, I figure, I’d be killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. Well, hopefully, no girls will have to die. But they would be helping a worthy cause. We both would be.

And you can help too. Click an ad, order a book, order me!

Assembly Line

Trying to imagine the crowd in its underwear, as the age-old trick has it, complicates matters by several orders of magnitude, I discovered, when addressing 160 children last Friday. “Know your audience” would have been better advice. Instead, adult themed jokes fell on the young ears of disturbingly Y-front clad small boys as I spoke at a school assembly.

“A funny thing happened on the way to school gym hall today,” I started.

Jerry Maguire 2

Hello. Of all American romantic comedies, Jerry Maguire is probably the least likely to spawn a sequel. That is, of course, unless Tom Cruise and Renée Zellweger were to reprise their roles for a decidedly downbeat divorce drama. (Can you imagine? Jerry Maguire 2: “Show me the child support!”)

Still, I delivered a memo with such veracity last night that it left me feeling, and not for the first time, like our chisel-jawed hero. Short of taking the gold fish with me (I do hope you’ve seen the film), I outlined my idea to revolutionise business to a somewhat panic-stricken company director.

“Oh God. What is that?” She asked, pointing at page three of the memo.
“That...that is a sketch of my brain.”
“Right.”
“It delineates how much of it I use for each task…”
“Was there a need for the blood?”
“I thought it would add...effect.” Then, standing suddenly, I shouted, “who’s with me?!”
“San, there’s no-one else in the room.”

And so the meeting continued. She pointed at indecipherable sketches; I explained my intentions; all the while, skating the underside of thin-ice, aware that at any point – and I almost expected it at the page headed, “Don't Chase Money” – she might present me with a box of my belongings (which is always the way people are fired in movies. Have you noticed?).

Instead, she went very quiet, gathering her thoughts, I guess, and the memo that lay strewn across the table. And in the silence, I pictured a box somewhere, filling with executive toys, issues of NME, an assortment of biscuits, and whatever else I have on my office desk (overdue work probably).

It’s unlikely that I will be fired. But, if I did have to go, it would be nice to have a fish or a Renée Zellweger to take with me. And you, of course. Though I had you at ‘hello,’ right?

Sorry for the Delay

Sorry for the delay…Man, I start a lot of sentences that way.
“Sorry for the delay in replying…”
“Sorry for the delay getting here…”
“Sorry for the delay in child support, Little Jimmy (which is what we’ve called him)...”

I am sorry for not having written sooner. Although, to be fair, I have been writing – but it’s been so sub-standard that I’ve had to lock it away in a safe. Perhaps one day it’ll appear as a bootleg at a book fair. (Do authors have bootlegs? This is how much I read.)

This lack of anything interesting to write about, I’m sure, comes from a lack of doing anything interesting. You don’t want to know what I’ve been doing. Although, now I feel obliged to tell you, before you draw your own – very sinister – conclusions.

I’m currently fifteen miles (and five years) from my flat, and in the town where I spent my formative years, house-sitting for my parents while they sit on a Balearic Island, soaking up the sun. And since I’m unable to compromise the life of comfort and convenience that I have become accustomed to at the flat, I find myself driving between my two residences several times a day.

All this is very tiring. So much so that I’m getting my chores all mixed up and have started watering the dog and walking the plants. This is one reason for my delay in writing. Another is that things are particularly busy at work. I don’t imagine if I worked day and night that I’d get everything done. And so, when I’m wide awake, and less busy, I’ll write more. I am really sorry for the delay.

The Company I Keep

It’s not unusual in my line of work to find myself in the company of “grown-ups”. At 22, a director of a company, and a darling of local press, I am the Doogie Howser of the Shropshire business network. I expect at least a ten year gap either side whenever I sit at a business dinner. Imagine my surprise then tonight, when I found myself sandwiched between two high school girls.

Emma Jordan from Bridgnorth and Lucy Fairweather from Shrewsbury were tonight representing their schools at a Shropshire Young Enterprise Awards dinner and I, the middle-man, was there to lend a hand – or two, actually - applauding the names in envelopes.

Having only been in television audiences for the Oscars, Grammies and Randies (the Porn Awards), I hadn’t realised what long and laborious things they can be. Obviously, I don’t applaud the winners from my sofa at home (I may have cheered at Ron Jeremy’s Lifetime Achievement Award), but tonight I was pretty exhausted from all the clapping. I decided mid-way to clap only once per winner, which others at my table thought was sort of rude, and otherwise reserved my energy for the girls either side.

Conversation however, was no less laborious.

“So…do you have any nicknames, Emma?”
“Yes,” she said, rather timidly. “HP.”
“Ah…big fan of brown sauce?”
“No.”
“IT solutions company?” I scratched my head. “Harry Potter?”
I never did find out. Instead I turned to Lucy. “So…do you like brown sauce?”

When I come to think of it, I don’t think I got more than one word responses from either the entire night. And so it dragged on, one syllable at a time. And I thought to myself how rarely I sit beside someone my own age. It’s either one word or long words. If I could take the average age of the company I keep I might find someone who speaks with the right amount of syllables – someone my own age, at least.

“Now for the award we’ve all been waiting for,” the compare announced. “The award for best written report.”

And then it dawned on me, I’m looking for them in all the wrong places.

My 5 'til 9

I am lucky, I realise, to have a career that never quite rears off into the cold shoulder of predictability. The daily commute into the fast lane however is made more comfortable with some on board snacks, as I tend to sandwich my work day with hours of bread and butter and banality, enjoying the reliability of my morning, noon and nightly routine.

In the morning before heading to the office I listen to Radio 1, have a bowl of Choco Hoops and watch one half of Will & Grace (meaning the first 15 minutes – not just Debra Messing). At lunchtime I come back to the flat, make myself a cheese and pickle sandwich and watch Neighbours. It's all very mundane. And then something special happens.

Some time after 5pm I leave the world of work for a galaxy far, far removed from reality, an indoor shopping centre named after Charles Darwin, in which only the fittest survive the January sales. Now, in March, I'm certainly in good company and every weeknight trip for my microwave meal is as pleasant as it is necessary.

Marks & Spencers, I've noticed, is something of a hotbed for attractive, affluent, middle-aged women, and the security guard has noticed it too. He stands by the automatic doors, leering in his mock militaristic outfit of authority, more Village People than city cop, and occasionally radios his colleague – over and out – when the hotbed heat up.

I pass them both and sneer before making my way to the food hall, only accessible by way of the women's underwear section. In a store layout designed by someone who, one can only imagine, is having a laugh, the frozen foods section is just beyond the g-strings and d-cups. Occasionally the thoroughfare is blocked and I make a face, the best I can, of a man buying for his wife. It is always my fear that in that situation a clerk might offer her assistance, in which case my course of action would be to, a) say that I was "only looking," b) ask for something in my size, or c) buy the lingerie and find a wife.

Luckily tonight that didn't happen, and I'm comforted by the thought that it probably never will. And so I picked up my microwave meal, as I always do, and thought to myself that while my 9 'til 5 might never be the same there are some things in life I can always rely on. I headed for the automatic doors and the leering guards, now watching the lingerie section with vigilance, and smiled.

The San Also Rises

Hemmingway's The Sun Also Rises, known in this country as Fiesta, was written, or at least I’d like to believe, in Parisian cafés and bars with its author, a voice of a Lost Generation, penning his acute post-wartime observations in a Moleskin Notebook. Similarly, I write this, with handwriting recognition software and an HP PocketPC, in a greasy spoon café at Barrow Railway Station. I'm in the glamorous North West, or at least for the next 37 minutes until my train arrives, on business and spending company money (so sue me – actually, please don't) on breakfast.

It's one of those cafés where if there were music playing rather than regional talk radio it would stop at my entrance. Nevertheless greasy spoons and heads dropped and turned as I walked in, holding a red leather briefcase in one hand and quickly unfastening a white flower brooch from my lapel with the other. During my brief stay in Barrow I'd met one other person of colour, who incidentally had been bottled when out the night before. (And by bottled I don't mean scooped up lovingly and packaged for consumption.)

I felt eyes on my back as I walked to the counter and, holding a Microsoft Publisher produced menu, asked for a Big Breakfast. "American?" The lady asked. "Um...I spent a year in California." I replied, wondering what she meant. "Er no," she sighed. "Do you want Black Pudding with that or sausage?" "Oh right! American then." I laughed. "I assume the sausage is American." Then, realising that I sounded completely stupid, and as though I expected imported sausage, stopped talking, settled the bill and thought twice about asking for a Grande Café Mocha.

Time and Company

As a man, working in a predominantly urban environment it was with great surprise that I received my complimentary ticket to this year's WiRE Conference (WiRE standing for Women in Rural Enterprise). Particularly surprised - and I imagine, somewhat annoyed - was my boss, Fay Easton, who had to buy a £50 ticket in order to drive me there.

Once inside the Country Living Magazine sponsored marquee however my surprise turned quickly to delight when I realised that it had been quite some time since I'd shared a tent with 600 women. Eagerly, I found my seat at the very front row before motivational speaker, Abigail Cooke, greeted the crowd with a minimal, "ladies," and my delight, just as quickly, returned to embarrassment. Nevertheless, I was suitably moved by Ms Cooke's speech and left the first session believing that I was indeed "a strong, confident woman."

But the fun really began after lunch, during a 'Lean Marketing' workshop, when the tutor instructed the crowd of women (and me) to remove any unnecessary items from their handbags or purses as an excercise in 'lean living'. As I was without my handbag or purse that day I opened my wallet and pulled out a condom that was quickly approaching its expiration date.

The tutor then walked us through an excercise routine that finished with a "deep breath out" and our arms in somewhat of a twist. She asked the crowd who had finished with their left arm atop their right. I was one of three people to raise my hand. "Right," she said. "You are highly sexed people." And with that the audience laughed, the three with their hands raised went slightly red and I returned the condom to my wallet. I've still got time, I thought. And, looking around, company.

My First Birthday

It occurs to me, as I sit to write tonight's entry, that tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of this here blog. I thought then that I'd use this opportunity to look back at some of its highs and lows, but decided that, like a flashback filled episode of a sitcom, it's really a disappointment for the audience and an excuse for the writers to take the day off. But rest assured readers, I'm not resting.

In fact, as this momentous occasion approaches, I find myself anxious about a decline in quality, an anxiety brought about by the comments of a dear friend. "It's crap San," Pete said. "It’s just not that funny anymore. Where are the funny stories?" The funny stories, it seems, are fairly rampart in the months of July and August when – twice – my sexuality was mistaken (see Is there something gay about me? and De-Gay Me, both popular posts.) "You're best when you're anecdotal." Pete added, although I'd take that to mean that it's funny when bad stuff happens to me.

And so, in an effort to please my readers, and indeed escape the wrath of my friend Pete, I've been making note of those things in my day that are both funny for you and excruciatingly embarrassing for me. Take for example what happened yesterday at work.

My boss had asked me to count the number of invitees for a reception we had been organising. As I reached the last name in the list, Victoria Williams, I remembered that she had called earlier and left a message. "69..." I counted. "And that reminds me, Victoria called." And so the office fell silent. But at least with this little embarrassment it wasn't my sexuality in question.

The San Sharma Show

A post this overdue must, of course, begin with an apology. And an opening sentence that mundane should end with one too. So for both I am sincerely sorry. My life, now that I have one, has undergone a transformation of the nip/tuck kind. I don’t have a new nose unfortunately, but I do have a new apartment, a new 12-month contract and a new sunny outlook on life, a disposition completely at odds with the tone of this blog. Formerly a dumping ground for the malcontent, my blog has fallen silent through a period of, dare I say it, relative contentment – a good patch. Rest assured however, any grievances have been duly noted and you should expect reference to them in the ensuing posts. Without further ado I welcome myself back onto the stage and thank you, the audience, for your patience.

Pains, Trains and Polyphonic Ringtones

The 8:32 is cancelled. But I'm on time. And with forty minutes to spare (or despair) I retreat to the station's humble waiting room, in which a girl, whom by probability I assume is a hairdresser (I've met three in a week) smokes beneath a no smoking sign and a teenage boy fulfils a stereotype: trucker cap, low rider jeans, skateboard. He's listening to what sounds like The Clash. "It is," he responds, when I ask to confirm.

Our conversation, if you can call it that, is interrupted by the polyphonic ringing of his phone, which plays the theme from Indiana Jones, somewhat ironically. I see this guy five mornings a week and have concluded that unlike the Harrison Ford machine of machismo he is largely a man of inaction. He sleeps on the train and I’ve yet to see him use his skateboard. Still, the thought of him leaping aboard, whip and skateboard in hand, clutching at his trucker cap before the train door closes, passes the time and elicits a silent chuckle. You might call it a smile. It too is interrupted by a polyphonic ringtone. This time mine and a text message from my boss, Em. "Meeting at 10. Will you make it?"
"I think so," is my response. "Unfortunately."

The Expensive Handshake

Three years, eighteen classes, around £15,000, and it all boils down to one handshake. "Sandeep Kumar Sharma" Principal Roger Gould called, as I handed him my slip of paper, half-wishing that I'd altered it to read, "the Amazing...", "the Incredible...", or simply "sansharma.com". Careful not to trip, I walked slowly across the stage towards a flamboyantly dressed Pro-Chancellor and bent down to shake his hand. "Congratulations," he said. "Thank you," I returned, ready to clutch my gown and take flight. But he wouldn't let go. His chalky, white hand clasped mine and - I gasped - he went on. "What will you do now?" Well, I was actually planning on sitting down and watching the rest of the show, but I could hardly say that. "Um, a masters...probably." "Ah!" he exclaimed, perhaps more excited at the prospect than I was. "Here? At Lancaster?" "Er, no...I don't think so," I replied, not meaning to sound so condescending to the man handing me my degree. But then he wasn't. He was just shaking my hand, and as he released his grip I took one look at the crowd of proud parents and investors, and around for a scroll, a book token – something in return for my hard graft. Nothing. "Good luck," he added, before I left the stage, thinking that an actual certificate might be more attractive to employers.

Get Rich or Claim Benefit

"I'm a little worried about my future," started a pint-size Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. "I just want it to be..." And so, taller but no more assured I embark on my career, whatever that may be, with those very same words. Hopefully, like Hoffman in the Mike Nichols classic, I can look forward to a summer of casual sex with a friend of my parents'. On second thought however that's not quite as appealing as it sounds. But then neither is the job hunt that awaits me. It's a very dull and uneventful safari, looking out for a vacancy amongst the tall blades of grass, and waiting to take my best shot.

What I'm looking for however will need to provide beyond the next Student Loan instalment purely because there won’t be one. For the first time in my life school's out forever, and my next step might be on the career ladder to money, a mortgage and a Mondeo. Before I submit to suburbia and visit the local Ford dealership however I want to think about my options. Pursuing a masters and the semi-independence of University life sounds infinitely more attractive than living at home with my parents, the Martians.

I need to think of something, and fast. I'm on a train, quite literally, to a sort of Friends Reunited weekend in Edinburgh, where the question, "what are you going to do now?", will be raised as often as glasses, I imagine. "Off to Mars," I’ll say. "On a NASA scholarship." And for those similarly undecided, one word: "Plastics."

Picture This: 'Patrick Hagopian'

Having literally just - minutes ago - posed for this wonderful photograph with my professor, Dr Patrick Hagopian, in which we appear either to be holding hands or dancing, but nevertheless having some kind of fun beyond the standard teacher/student relationship, I have decided to establish a new regular feature to my blog. 'Picture This', like 'Burn It', invites you - the reader - to share with me some of my favourite sensory pleasures.

Tonight's offering was taken at the tail end of an American Studies social event, where Dr Hagopian was presented with a gift from his students. I think his appreciation, his sheer joy, comes through in these pictures. Feel free to append this photo with a caption of your choosing. There will be prizes for the best.

The Rain in Spain

I think I'll miss living on campus when I graduate in July. It might not be the best looking University, and I do wonder whether it even looked good on completion in 1963 when it was meant to resemble a Spanish village, but for last two out of three academic years it's certainly been mi pueblo - a rain drenched cluster of white, flat-roofed buildings.

Living on campus is one step towards independence, two from your parents and a mere bus ride from the real world, but very soon, I realise, I won't always have my meals taken care of, the kitchen cleaned for me or a comprehensive counselling service, should I require. And that's all courtesy of my neighbour and good friend, Beth - with whom living is one of the principle reasons to miss this place.

In a familiar configuration, we sit typing at our desks in our adjacent rooms, our doors propped open, and, turning to my right I channel my voice past our wardrobes and shout, "What should I write about on my blog?" Once we graduate, of course, we'll have to phone in such questions, but for the mean time she replies instantaneously, "whatever's on your mind."

So I scratch my head, hoping to conjur an interesting thought, a bottled genie perhaps, but instead find a pimple the size of my fist. Well, I thought, if can't write about what's on my mind, I'll at least write about what's on the side of my head. It's one of those spots you just knew was coming. I woke up this morning and realised that in a drunken stupor I'd fallen asleep on a potato chip. And now if I look up I can almost see it, it's that big. Damn Pringles. I'm going to resist the urge to pop.

The pimple incidentally, and the bad weather today, have rained off the scheduled dating show (see Country Feedback), and that's not a cop out. Perhaps the girls just need a little longer to get ready for this jelly. Then they'll see, and I've been waiting for the right time to say this since I read it on a t-shirt, that I am what Willis was talkin' about. Yeah.