Et In Arcadia Ego

Why are my dreams no longer on my side?

So I'm walking along with this "leutnant" and his Nazi band. I'm not a solider - for some reason I'm just along for the ride. I'm not with them, I don't approve, but bizzarely enough I am "with" this friend, who is protecting me and keeping me safe. Friend seems a strange word to use, but you'll see what I mean.

Anyway, we were travelling through this big, old Georgian area near a cliff-face. My friend peppering the building with some sort of mortar. He asked me what I thought. I told him that, if I didn't know what it signified, the formalism of the straight lines of windows shattering could even be beautiful. In the dream, that was a bit of a porky, and he looked dubious; but it sounds perfectly like something I would think. His band picking up any survivors and stragglers and loading them onto a train. You can see where this is going. Train wasn't the cattle-car of legend, it was actually more like the Bakerloo line, with all the shabby comfort that implies. In the carriage we were in, there was a spare seat - my friend was pointedly standing, in his awkward, squeakily-parodic SS leather trenchcoat, so I was standing too - totally on my best behavior. After all, I wasn't on the train so to speak; I was with the soldiers. One of the women asked why he didn't sit down - an older, crotchety woman. He sneered something about standards. Then she asked me. I looked around awkwardly, didn't want to seem to be copying, and then perched on the edge of the seat, hoping that hadn't blotted my copybook too far.

The train journey was magical. It lead us through the underbelly of a city, all neon and saturation - but high up, so we could see the dark streets both above and below. Beautiful. Then we came out at another cliff face, with another huge, forbidding castle, or more properly, concentration camp on it. If Auswitz had really been that glam, it might have been worth a four-star stay. My friend left me right next to the gates, with instructions to stay there. Then the regular grunts started loading people through, about eight at a time, and lining them up in a dark building. One of them was the love of my life. By this point I'd morphed into a simple village lad, with sleeves and a tattered waistcoat. So she was wearing a plain shift, and a black crochet shawl et al, and was beautiful in a natural, wholesome, "I want to sell you milk chocolates" sort of a way. A line of soldiers calmly shot them, and then brought the next group through.

At this point, I decided I didn't really trust my friend's agenda. Which was fair enough, as I still don't know why I was there, or why I was safe. I said something kickass, and before anyone could stop me, took a running jump over the cliff edge. Fell a very long way, close to the rocks, into the sea.

I'm not sure at that moment I really had a plan - swimming to safety and death both retrospectively seemed like good ideas. Bobbed around unconscious for a bit. And then there were people, ragged people helping me to shore. I'd been rescued by the resistance! I'm not sure how they knew I was there, or why they thought I was worth rescuing. Like the other dream, I was some sort of special which excused me from guilt. Perhaps I was undercover; or some sort of angelic agent monitoring both sides. They took me back to the city, and hid me with a false identity. I thought "yay! I get to explore the streets!", although like all things in dreams, it didn't make sense when seen close up. Instead, my mind filled it with contemporary Acton pawn shops. "well typical", I said in the dream. Which does create a bizzare set of kicks for you. I had enough autonomy in the dream to despair of a Jewish quarter made up of pawn shops as cliche, but not enough to build a better quarter.

After that, things just got increasingly pleasant. I was one of the people they were sneaking out before the soldiers targeted the city. We got out in a little boat, periodically going under the water. And then it turned out we were extras in a movie, albeit very traumatised ones - a young Natalie Portman was in tears, because it had all been so intense. We were heading to the set exit - which we found, eventually, although we had to travel a lot of dark streets to get there.

Well gee! Thanks brain! Boy, do I want to dream about Pol Pot tomorrow! Then I'll have the whole set! As I write it out, some elements make sense. All the same. I feel like the NAZI COLLABORATOR DREAM is a special, memorable event.

Friend 1 and I

Anyway, I was walking through a city and I came across a small student protest behind a little fence. A Libya protest - I explained I couldn't take part because it was too dangerous. I- and S- were among them - I gave them each a massive hug and a kiss on the cheek which was, retrospectively, a sensible thing to do. Kept walking. Came across another, smaller protest. Of all the people, Friend 7 was in this one. Kept walking through darker streets. All of a sudden, there were a small group of streetsoldiers running across the end of the street, who threw an "IED" in our direction.

So. Not London. And note for the military nerd - the thing my brain labelled "IED" looked like one of those long, pipe grenades, had a blast radius of about six metres and just about enough time for them to be outrun if you were paying attention. I screamed for the other people in the area to run also - I was safely out of the blast, they were a bit more Bond ("SLO MO JUMP!").

I kept going. Went through a tunnel. Came to a grassy valley, thinly lined on either side by protestors who meant business. The mood was far more Les Miserables down here, although I still recognised many of the protestors, including Samir who turned out to be quite the quantum boyfriend* in the dream. I gave him a hug and a I'm-Never-Going-To-See-You-Again kiss too. Oh dear me. I gave them some news - the newspapers up top were saying they weren't organised enough to win, so they really needed to organise. I don't know by what power I was just a floating rambler, but I guess I'd made the decision not to die. I don't know, though - everyone I met seemed to be aware and supportive of me not being heroically massacred. I carried on through a building where the coordinators were planning. They seemed really quite dour about their chances. They also informed me there was no way out this way, and that heading south was my only chance. So, back north the way I'd came, then south by a different route.

*had I a hundred billion lives, quantum boyfriends are people I'd quite like to date. As it stands, they are people I like a lot and am curious about the experience and what the rest of my life would look like. But not sufficiently in-love-with-and-attracted-to to actually be bothered with the trouble of asking in this life. Not so much because it'll be trouble for me, but trouble for them - it seems I feel bad dumping all my emotional issues on people I like unless they've explicitly asked me to. So the attraction remains more a cerebral one. Pity, though. As I'm sure I'll feel a tad mifffed if any of them ever found anyone else. I'm basically just posessive. And greedy.

When I got outside it was dark. I tried to stick to the deeper shadows back through the valley, but when I got to the tunnel there were lines of armed soldiers running towards the defenders in the valley. I nipped into an abandoned house. Became a camera for a while. In the cafe, the owners who had run away to avoid the fighting had returned a few days later, more in optimism I think although it was true - the fighting wasn't heavy here. More like mopping up. They discovered the dog they had abandoned was still alive, and feral - attempting to attack and eat them. Like any dream, they got several attempts to contain the dog before they were eaten. They failed, all three times - the mother got munched, but the little girl survived. What sort of survival is this, thought my camera eye? I floated up the side of the valley, where the protestors were in dugouts and being efficiently butchered by passing troops. One group was actually a tour group from the future whose bubble failed and was picked off with the rest of them (with an exception of one member, who was an archangel).

"I" returned, back where I'd started near the first protest. Near the river. OK, going south. I ran across the bridge - it was morning now - ignoring the rather large group of protestors posessing it. When I was nearing the end, another one of those "IED"'s struck, and I regret not doing the sensible thing - chucking it over into the water - instead of outrunning it to the other side again. It's quieter down here. So I move between buildings, all very Southbank. When I turn, the bridge has been destroyed - it's easing itself into the water, then crashing, and then a ridiculous amount of screaming as everyone falls, then flounders, then drowns.

Eventually, I get to an area which can not be passed. Lots of people bumbling around. We passed into more of a dreamstate again here. Fortunately, the Doctor was there to figure out how to traverse. He and Amy rigged up little rafts across the floor, to an area where there was supplies - joy of joys. I followed, so did a few others. We were trapped there. Oh, and one of our companions turned out to be Gadaffi's son, the poor wretch. I say "poor wretch", because being trapped with a bunch of angry escapees isn't anything an ex-evil-dictator wants, and some very PG-level, Doctor-approved torture took place with the items we had around - including eggs. Note to self - G jr. has a serious allergy to eggs. We persuaded him into releasing a regime-approved carriage and boat, with which we could escape from the building. The Doctor told Amy to drive with G jr. ahead in the carriage. Like, an expression of trust thing. The rest would follow through the canal to the river in the green boat.

Amy took the carriage out of the front. Well, yeah. The building was totally surrounded, as if for a state procession. Hundreds of joyful supporters cheered as it left the building. With that distraction, the Doctor and the other survivors slipped out carefully to the river. G jr. reached his own boat, but he had been so - wait for it - touched by the Doctor's kindness (egg-torture ignored?), and trust in leaving Amy with him that he allowed them to escape in the boat in exchange for releasing him. As his state boat sailed away, he was looking quizzicaly joygul in a totally implied change of heart sort of a way.

Which is the type of thing which happens when you let Doctor Who do real world events. Libya gets a happy ending.

There were some other bits, more unpleasant bits, including yet another my-house-is-under-attack dream. That was interesting by virtue of Steel being its central character - an angry Steel, whose Sapphire had gone missing, and was attacked in Horned hallway by two equally strong villains, who he despatched with great difficulty, firearms, and serious wounds afterwards. I can make sense of most of the fragments - the dog, the archangel, the whole shebang. But I'd rather just leave it for you as a fabulous little string-of-dream-sausages. Good morning, world!

I've a funny feeling that Ruby is going to be my little savior.

I think my medication is finally working, which is brilliant and awful in equal measure.

To be honest, it makes me think of Bevenita. She'd been on something similar for something like three years as they passed her around different docs and waiting lists. Now, she had some seriously impressive problems - I'm just a good ole' melancholic invert, while I gather she had the whole hog of voices and pyromania. Proper problems. She expressed frustration that her emotions were trapped, and she was just drugged up instead of being cured.

At this point, I can't tell whether it's the symptom or cure - depression causes a feeling of detachment and unenthusiasm; but the drugs are designed to numb everything down and limit extreme emotion. I feel like I'm trapped in a glass bubble about 2 metre in diameter, and because the sensation is new I'm guessing it's the dopey pills.

Depression saps your motivation and leaves you unable to do anything. The drugs have a similar effect. A good example would be eating. I eat pretty well, but on bad days I simply cannot be bothered to make food happen. If I'm sitting somewhere well, it'll have to wait - it's a very negative, rather petty bit of braincode that loops until I really am very hungry. Whereas the drugs are a bit more like pax or bliss (from Serenity and Doctor Who respectively), inducing a general feeling of wellbeing and contentment in which food is a rather academic possibility. Depression kills your memory and attention span. But I'm pretty sure it's the drugs which make other things seem so far away that attention is difficult, and so lacking in definition that they fall out of my brain.

I'm not complaining. Or at least, I am because it's an awful sensation, but only in a logical sense. I know that I am wrong, but I don't feel wrong. I am indifferent to people. I'm not really feeling enjoyment, or guilt, or anything much. My Cleggface has improved, because I can no longer effectively link up words and feelings. I've observed a beautiful ice-cold unthrillability - whether that to be to my sister swerving the car, or ridiculously huge stressful situations which I could put to one side as I might ignore the last few peas on a plate. For example, my flight back to Sarnia on Wednesday was scuppered by fog - we got all the way there, but couldn't land, and went all the way back. At Gatwick, we hung around for 20 minutes for our luggage, then some 45 for hotels to be booked, then at least another hour in the cold for a taxi, and then at 5am the next day we did it all again. Wasn't really bothered at any point. I know I'm customarily unflappable, but I also know that being stranded away from home and trying to do public transport are two of my big triggers, and all this with an inimicus scholarum as my only companion.

I've a lifetime of morality which is aware that this renders me effectively inhuman.

I feel OK. Not happy, but OK. Nice. All the adjectival thrust that the metatron of the English Tongue can conjure with the majestic word: nice. For example, today was mother's day and I didn't get a card.I forgot. Or rather, I had a marvellous idea for something at the beginning of the week, but time lapsed. Oceanic got her two bunches of flowers and a massive card in a box. I knew I felt awful, and I knew that I had hurt people's feelings and that this too made me feel awful - but a soap half glimpsed would have yanked my heartstrings more, and the only thing that really bothered me was the fact it wasn't really bothering me. It's still on my mind. But I'd be lying if I said I actually "felt" bad, in the strictest sense of the verb. I can still be sad, but it's a sadness inside the bubble - it condenses then drips back around my feet. I'm worried to overstate it as the effect of the happy pills, because I recognise this as similar to Mortimer's mental state and modus operandi. It feels different, though, to his, and I've not got the enthusiasm or his characteristic directness of purpose. I also feel like my reaction times have slowed. Or more strictly, my perception times - once I've percieved, my reactions are fine.

One good thing is that my imagination is still around. It takes a bit of serious concentration, and I'm even less likely to be producing anything concrete than usual. But I can still delve down to my clubhouse, and I've just written some very exciting scenes. Another interesting side effect is that my dreams make far more sense - more cause-and-effect. My dreams used to be notorious for starting an interesting plot, and then getting sidetracked.

As little as I like it, it's a really helpful support. I am fairly sure I'm safe now, which I haven't been for a while. That is good. But I know I'm not better. Like Bevenita did, I know I've just been put into hibernate mode. And while this gives me a very high-walled sandbox to throw my toys around in, it's almost like using that sandbox to figure out glass-blowing in. I feel like I'm cut off from the pain and misery which I'm actually going to need to be able to access. Which is why sportsmen shun painkillers.

Still, I'm not complaining too much for now. I'm cultivating patience instead. And learning Ruby which, as I said, may turn out to be my little savior.

Ruby is a programming language, chiefly popular for building web-things but it's also possible to build proper program-things in it as well. The learning curve is simultaneously shallow and steep. On the one hand, programming is pretty darn simple at it's most basic level. However, the amount of assumed knowledge is immense - for example, I downloaded the language then floundered for a few hours until I pieced together how you did anything with it. Now I can make it do very simple things, I'm floundering at finding a program which lets me create a pretty user interface. I am sure I am ultimately going to flounder a third time when I try to turn my code into an actual program. The information is out there, but not in one place. And I'm still using phrases like "web-things" and "program-things".

By some luck, I happen to have picked upon a programming language which is universally lauded as fun, clear, even beautiful. One of the most vocal proponants of the language is a mad genius, who created zine-style instruction leaflets filled with cartoon foxes, before mysteriously disappearing. Even better, the syntax seems to me very much like Latin in places - subjects, objects, verbs. Just the way you identify the parts of the sentence, and read what they are doing. Ruby, like Latin, has immense periods filled with innumerable parenthesis and subclauses. Cicero would be proud.

Why? Oh, I'm easily amused by learning random new skills I'll never follow through on. But it's making me happier than I expected. Like, smiling and everything. More than once! It's worse than Avon in series four. I'm having difficulty moving, motivating. I enjoyed not having the web because the web is the perfect outlet for what "I" crave - numb, vaguely involving nothingness. The internet is much like dreaming - pictures you don't have to focus on, and the dreamlike logic of links which chains one to TVTropes for hour upon hour. Programming is sedentry and fairly repetitive, so it actually performs the same task pretty well.

But unlike the web, it helps as well as hinders. What I need is my mind to be constantly stimulated. I find myself dozing and drifting during nonchallenging conversation. People have got to be asking questions, disagreeing, debating - if they're just conveying information then I find it hard to pay attention. Yeah I know, I always do that. But I'm trying extra hard to right now, and it still won't stick. Same goes with dull movies, music, whatever. And programming needs sharp thinkining as well as persistance. A perfect combination! It suckers my time lazily, while feeding my brain with pintacs. Plus, it's also really satisfying, because I'm smart and it's easy (at present) so it's nice getting the gratification. But not under pressure. It's different to the gratification of a good mark: the success is mine and mine alone, and for it's own sake.

What I've done so far is very minor. I'm able to program 1970s level computer games and that's it. I designed one based on the story of Echo and Narcissus, which I'm regarding more as art than anything else. You are Echo. And another one with the Prisoner startup spiel. Where am I? In the village! Basic nonsense, it's quite fun.

while Emily !=recovered
Ruby.learn
end

Recovery can wait.

I am so excited about real physics right now. I wasted my morning productively by looking up Mars on Wikipedia, and the various plans and ideas for a manned space mission. A subject it is actually satisfyingly thorough on.

Musings: I wonder what the rights issues are with planets? Have space-faring countries signed a deal, or is it the property of whoever gets there first? If a space mission colonised Mars, and sold minerals back to Earth, whose would the profit be? Earth corporations are evil and without conscience, and inherently exploitative. I don't know science, but I am a bleeding heart liberal and everyone is talking about the practical issues, and none the ethical/legal frameworks. A best case scenario would be if the minerals were the property of the colonists - the profits would be cost-covering, and they could use them to trade for supplies. That way an economny would get going. We would need to prevent a scenario where a single business had financial interest in the minerals, and exploited the settlers - as the settlers would depend on Earth supplies for maybe hundreds of generations, their priceless minerals could be effectively extorted in exchange for basic survival kit. (Doctor Who's brilliantly nasty Vengeance on Varos posits a similar situation, where Varos intensely rare natural mineral is bought for peanuts by an evil company, because the Varosians are unaware of its value, and so poor that they are forced to accept low prices)

Under whose jurusdiction would the people there be - would they have rights? There would have to be some sort of declaration of their civil rights - could they form a union, or strike? How would they get their voice heard on Earth? Looking far ahead, but would there be a project for their independance? Struggles for independance in our history have been bloody and vicious - Friend 4's dad is from Guyana, and what America and Britain did to that nation is appalling, fixing the independant elections so a dictator who would support our interests was in power, instead of a brilliant and politically savvy chap, crippling the country, y'know, ever since. Or the problems still faced by African nations. How would the world relate to an independant Mars - would it be like Guernsey in the Commonwealth, where we have our own government but are still closely linked to England both culturally and legally. Alice asks "would the Martians pay international uni fees?" Or more like America and England, where America is wholly separate nowadays but has a sort of shared interest and "special friendship" with England. Both of these strike me as bad.

We would have to have some sort of universal world government, like the Terran Federation in Star Trek or the UN, but an effective and non-rubbish UN,in which the Mars Colony had the same sort of voice as every other nation. For that to work, and for Mars not to be like a little chunk of whatever nation got their first, the Mars mission would have to be like the International Space Station - multinational and multicultural.

I also wondered about the plans they have to "terraform" Mars - making it enough like Earth to live there. Cool, but a bit evil? You are basically setting out to destroy a natural, totally unique enviroment with no idea of the consequences.If you're interested in whether Martian bacteria have rights, this article is excellent: http://www.users.globalnet.co.uk/~mfogg/EthicsDTP.pdf

Actually, I've never been happier.

Media - movies, novels and "true life narratives" - give drugs a pretty bad rap. My favourite of them is probably Harvey, a charming fifties comedy about a woman whose attempts to marry off her ward well are continually scuppered by her mad alcoholic uncle and his invisible rabbit friend. Presumably the link between bohemians, depression and creation means that most creative enterprises would naturally champion an unhappy individuality over dull contentment.
Perhaps this is accurate - I've heard mixed reviews from real people too.

...the thing is, at present, I'm not really enjoying anything, I don't have the motivation to work either at uni or on my own projects and I keep feeling unmotivatedly tense and threatened when out with friends and family. All things I've experienced fairly more often than I'd like throughout my life, but over the past few months I've had all three at once and pretty constantly. Once you've got work, play and socialisation out of the window, then I'm willing to give anything a go regardless of what the cinema says. This is especially true when you think my antipathy towards chemical solutions extends as far as paracetemol.

I think the "talking treatment" is very useful, especially for me in particular whose main problem is being bad at talking to people - peverse, I know! Perhaps "bad at communicating" would be a more accurate, Personal Life Skills way of expressing it. The problem is, after a point all it can do is shift these horrific soul-destroying feelings onto someone you care about ("It is the fault of X and Y, because...") or at you personally ("I'm sorry, you simply can't cope with leaving the house because that's just what you're like.") Now, perhaps I'm an inherently useless person and all my friends and family are heinous harpies - but it doesn't seem likely. And even if that is the case, it's hardly a positive step in the right direction. Encouragingly, my GP also seemed to think that three years of counselling was too long without a practical boost as well.

So if you were to ask me when the last time I felt really, really happy I'd actually say recieving a nice shiney box of Citalopram yesterday afternoon. Which testifies to placebo power if nothing else - it's always easier to feel better about anything when you're working towards a solution. Hope is good enough, in the absence of Better.

Mind you, I'm having second thoughts since seeing the side effects list which, as my doctor warned me, is "as long as my arm". Not quite true. It's as long as my elbow to my fingertips, which is still pretty damn long.

In some cases, there's nothing to worry about. 1 in 10 patients experience:

• sleepiness, difficulty sleeping
• reduction in weight, gain in weight
• increased appetite, loss of appetite

Just so long as I get all six. Additionally, there is less than a 1 in 10 chance I will experience
menstrual pain. Impressively, there is also a 1 in 10 chance I will suffer impotence or erectile disfunction - frankly a miracle of modern science, as that's statistically far higher than me suffering either at present.

Of course, it's not all good news. There is only less than 1 in 100 chance that I will experience:

• a state of optimism, cheerfulness and well-being (euphoria)
  

and then only as a side effect, which is rather demoralising when you think about it. 1 in 100 people also experience a "general feeling of being unwell", although how that's not already covered by the previous six paragraphs of runny nose, fits and tics, ringing ears, slowing heartbeat, liver problems, coughing, muscle pain, allergic reaction, headache, dizziness, swearing, lethargy, weird dreams, memory loss e.t.c. I'm not sure.

On the rarest end of the spectrum - less than 1 in 10,000 - I may experience "loss of contact with my own personal reality". What that might do to me in particular I daren't speculate. Possibly relocate my own personal reality, profile stalk and invite it out for an awkward catchup coffee...

One of the coolest things about Christmas isn't aquiring loads of stuff, it's looking at it all at the same time and thinking "yes, this is who I am - all my different interests represented in one place". This is possibly even worse, as it suggests things about being trapped in a consumer society where it is pleasurable to define myself through material items. I don't know.

It was also kinda satisfying to be getting this stuff while my sister was aquiring new make-up brushes, perfume, and the rest, and feeling all smug about getting the best set of presents, which is of course what tends to happens when people have picked things for you in particular.

For posterity, here is a map of my stash. Very indulgent of me. But only self-indulgent people keep blogs anyway...

The Gathering (Doctor Who audio play, woo, with Five and Tegan)

"Conspiracy Theories" (Jamie King) - A short paperback encyclopedia with all the famous theories broadly stroked in two short pages. Especially satisfying watching them dodge potential libel claims ("A certain Japanese animated children's show caused epileptic fits when a major animal character emitted electricity..."). Not thorough, but a nice interest-piquer that keeps tempting me towards the web for - snort - proper indepth research

An "Emily" car-style plate - I'm sure I'll find a use for it somewhere. For now, I'm mostly interested that both mine and Oceanic's are pink. One wonders, had we been named Dylan and Boris, whether they would have been blue...

The Indispensable Book of Practical Life Skills - oh hahahahahahhahaha. Ha. Ironically, the tips on getting heat stains out of wood have already mentally come in handy for the mess on the Acton dining room table. I also find the baby-care chapter encouraging: the models are both male and female. Incidentally, not to sound like a Livejournal polemic or anything, but the only public place I've ever found with baby-change facilities in the men's toilets is the V&A.

Origami to Astonish and Amuse - a.k.a. the book I haven't shut up about since borrowing last month. I'm loving my very own copy :)

A hat - not just any hat. A multicoloured neon rasta-hat. Oh yeah. You're all going to be begging me to appear in public with you with this hat.

A kinder-egg santa - who's actually still in his wrapping because he got a bit crushed in the sleigh.

Total Film - all worth it for two tiny promo-pictures that confirm yes, Holmes 2 is a go. Well, one tiny promo picture repeated twice. Sucker Punch is on the cover, and I once again have to wrestle with conflicting emotions about it. A young girl in the 50s is trying to escape an asylum before she is lobotomised, with the help of four friends, an overactive imagination and buckets of carnage. I love films about all those things, and particularly ones which trouble the fantasy/reality line. Unfortunately, the central cast look like this:...which makes me hope it won't be as potentially misogynistic as it looks. Director Zack Snyder, of Watchmen and 300, isn't known for his progressive gender relations. And my feminist objectivity is a bit complicated by the cast - Carla Gugino, Jena Malone and Emily Browning playing ("Babydoll"), hell, even Vanessa Hutchens...in short, skimpy objectification couldn't happen to a nicer bunch of actresses. I'll wait for the first reviews, I think.

By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept (Elizabeth Smart) - George Barker was married, he had an affair with Elizabeth Smart. It went horribly wrong, and they both wrote novels about it. Marvellous literary bitch-off! It's looking pretty pretentious, and is encouragingly short :)

Doctors 9, 10, 11 and the Master in metal miniature - I have all the Doctors for my game now! Charmingly, they also popped a drumstick lollypop into the box.

The Picture of Dorian Gray - in English, but from South Africa.

Classical Film Violence - A great, great book. I borrowed it from the Maughan, but I like having my own copy for reference. I have problems reading the spoilery sections, so I can go back to it as I watch through the films.

Woodwork Jet Fighter - punishment, I think, for trying to get the equipment to carve a dragon after reading a beginner's-guide. Looks awesome! The box claims that age 5-7 "I may need some help!" but 8-12 "I can do it!". I wonder what tips they have for 21?

Adam Adamant Lives! - Victorian Adventurer Revived Fights Crime In The 60s. Nuff said. Probably a disaster waiting to happen, as just so much of it is missing as 1960s television tends to be. It's like actually presenting your heart to be broken. But...he has a sword cane <3

As for the rest:

Grandma - slippers (Servalan style), scarf and hat + a contribution to the piano fund

Grandad - one of those electronic photo-frames. I've always wanted one, but never quite enough to get one so having the excuse is wonderful. I'm thinking of ripping some avant-garde and looping it, as it also plays music and film. Plus a Lord of the Rings, at long last my own copy, in lieu for my birthday.

Oceanic - a harmonica! She has expressed a worry that everyone else is going to hate her now, which could be correct - I love playing it, and have nowhere to practice. Unsurprisingly as even good harmonica players sound like noise. Even better: it's a C-major harmonica, which for the non-music-savvy, means it can't play anything sinister, sad or the Stella Artois theme tune i.e. anything with a bit of subtelty or tact. No, it's major songs only - pop goes the weasel, anything by Bob Dylan. Jaunty, chirpy, irritating noise. I love it! Can already play The Times They Are A Changing, Three Blind Mice, Blowin' in the Wind and, my fave, Dixie. Also a box of "tiddly dark choc reindeers", as she accurately mentioned I like dark chocolate, but only in very small doses.

Parents - a bum bag. Laugh all you like, but I've wanted one for ages. Shall be packing it with essentials - a London map, a spoon ("Make you look like a heroin addict," mum has commented). Plus a donation to the piano fund, which stands at:

50 (parents)
41 (aunts birthday)
60 (grandma birthday and xmas)
= 150, towards aquiring, moving and tuning a piano. I especially love the actual voucher itself -the silhouetted pianist looks just like me - swooping hair, and a natty jacket complete with huge ruffles.

Boif - a pack of lindor chocolates-with-chocolate. He provided the present of the day, probably, in a huge teddy for Oceanic.

Wonderful year!

Best Hamlet ever.

I mean, he's not "my Hamlet", not wholly. If I could act, and the stage was mine, then my Hamlet would be ruthlessly intelligent, incisive, cruel, a scholar out of his depth in events he couldn't rationalise, and always, the only person laughing at his own jokes. And also, a pretty, gangly indie-boy of some sort. I'm not sure Rory Kinnear would obviously tick any of those boxes - he doesn't even find his jokes funny - and perhaps that's indicative of the differences between how Hamlet is percieved as a character, and how he is on the page.

I've just been to the National Theatre, within spitting-distance of the stage, and am about to give a nauseatingly positive review. I'm also about to try and defend that statement above, which wasn't true until I started writing, and discovered it absolutley was.

Often in Hamlet, an individual scene will fail because it just doesn't gel with the actor's interpretation. They'll be subtle, upset, cold - the early scenes offer an almost unlimited range. Unfortunately, that's not true of the second act, so you'll get them suddenly ramping up to 200MPH because the script seems to demand anger - the nunnery, the closet, and the crocodile scenes particularly. It seems jarring and forced in comparison to what has come before.

The graveside most of all: Hamlet has just come back from England in disguise and stumbled on Ophelia's funeral. He abandons his secrecy to pick a fight with Laertes, her brother, because he's pissed off that Laertes is sad. It's inconsiderate - of course Laertes is unhappy that his sister is dead. It's unmotivated - who exactly is he angry at here? It doesn't necessarily tally with the information we've been given - like, no other evidence at all that he cares for Ophelia at all. It's unforgiveably rude - Hamlet has killed Laertes' father, and also been the two chief factors in Ophelia's death. Plus, it's a weird scene which involves the two leads leaping into a grave and playing tug-o-war over a body, with one of them claiming he could eat a crocodile like it's the biggest boast of manliness instead of just a bizzare mental image.

In short, it always makes Hamlet look like a shit and it always comes off as out of character and weird. And that's the problem with gangly indie-boys - unless that's already a note in their character, they seem out of it. Not Kinnear. He's just so unhappy and angry, pain and supressed rage all the way through, that for the first time ever, this scene hasn't seemed terrible in every way. Instead, Laertes just becomes a cathexis for his misdirected rage, just as Polonius, Ophelia and Gertrude have in those other awkward scenes. And they all work so well because those other, early scenes in which others have depicted him struggling to cope merely with despair, he was trying to find a way to bear his anger. Indeed, I'd go as far as to say that the soliloquies were for once the weak spots, compared to how wonderful the ensemble scenes were. Even "oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!", where it is textual fact that Hamlet flies into a rage at himself, and then is ashamed of his inability to control his emotions, too often comes off as the exception (I'm suddenly ANGRY! And now normal service has been resumed) instead of the rule (I'M ANGRY I'M ANGRY, AND SUDDENLY I'M SO ANGRY I CAN'T COPE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA CALM - I'M JUST ANGRY).

This doesn't make it in any way one-note, I mean this is a properly awesome and subtle rage that works alongside the character's melancholy, and intelligence, and humour, but that also works textually without having to jettison anything as part of a perfect character. And that makes the show as a whole more downbeat, because you are never in any doubt of just how much pain he is in. He has the most wonderful fake smile that's almost worse: the humour is properly humourless. A few people tried laughing at the gravediggers' scene, but only because they thought they should.

It's also the first time in some time I've seen a properly cracky Hamlet, and this also works. I like subtle Hamlets, but it's always too obvious that they are calculating and sane - the jokes too funny, the audience too in cahoots in comparison with the oblivious fellow characters. Many Hamlets are just too civilised to "go full retard"; and also, to be properly evil. I rarely believe it when he coldly sends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern off to their deaths, but this production in particular he's unreasonable enough that I understand why it would seem reasonable.

With all that seething anger, you'd wonder how he managed to stretch revenge out to 3-hours-30, so it's time to introduce this production's other ace: the design. Aaaah, beautiful - almost chronologically, I've seen more and more emphasis put on the paranoia of Elsinore, and this is the best I've ever seen. A band of suited security men haunt the stage; in the background during soliloquies, hanging about when Hamlet is trying to talk plans with friends. He is constantly being watched, guarded or followed, and the same is true of the Ophelia and everyone else. The stark sets were topped off with CCTV cameras. The oft-cut scene where Polonius engages Reynaldo to go to France and spy on his son seemed suddenly at home in this horrific context. It's clearly impossible for Hamlet to get anywhere near Claudius.

In fact, this production seems to have addressed my usual quibbles with an almost terrifying accuracy. In the second act, they pack Hamlet off stage for about eight scenes. He's such a driving force, and the scenes he's absent for are so...unspecial, that I never really enjoy Act II as much. Laertes returns and shouts, Ophelia spends two awful scenes going mad, Gertrude delivers an overly-famous speech which always seems forced, and then there's the crocodile scene.

It zipped by! That was helped by the most perfect, wonderful Laertes - a character who too often defaults to "prat", and is then an irritating companion the entire time our hero is out of the way. I can't put my finger on what was so special about this one. Perhaps because Hamlet was so angry, Laertes couldn't be, I don't know. He came across as very sincere, properly sympathetic - a nice, straightforward guy who's completely gullible. A perfect Laertes went some way towards diminishing my Act II boredom.

The same can almost be said of Ophelia, almost. She was one of the best I have ever seen - not sanctimonious, and realistically cowed into misery by the oppressive castle atmosphere. I am now entirely convinced, however, that Ophelia is unplayable and the weakest element of an otherwise watertight play. She has no development, she's very difficult for any sane feminist to approach and totally lacks psychological realism. The relationship between her and Hamlet is a textual black hole, and we have to believe she goes properly nuts just because all her male authority figures have been taken away.

One of the remarkeable things about Shakespeare is how sophisticated and universal his writing is. His dialogue actually contains psychological depth, centuries before the actor's method was invented. Ophelia is a big exception to this: the pathos of the virgin maid singing bawdy pastorals is a 16th century sort of understanding of the human brain. When Hamlet explains:

I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me.

I'm sure we've all had days like that. And it struck me now, more than ever, how perfect so many of Hamlet's descriptions of despair are. I've never seen someone express mental illness through tragic, accusing folk tunes before - the scenes are awkward to play because they're awkwardly written, and Ophelia is treated like some sort of reverent, knowing symbol of something throughout. No, the sound of a sweet voice singing is not enough to bring me to tears. Or move me. Or anything. "Here, have a metaphor!"

Which is why I'm kinda glad they neutralised the stomach-turning description of the world's most beautiful suicide by having Ophelia secretly dragged off by security guards, and Gertrude aware that Claudius arranged to have her done away with. It was fun to see Claudius played as a downright villain again - I like him sympathetic, but this was a nice change. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern too where pretty nasty pieces of work - this too made sense in context. Gertrude was the modern performance you recognise of a frazzled career woman clutching a red wine - very good. I particularly enjoyed the closet scene - she becomes hysterical at the moment Polonius is killed and remains so for that reason because that's what murders to do people. It's so easy for the actors to forget the corpse...and I now think, in contrast with Ophelia, Polonius is impossible to play badly, perhaps because it's always the most experienced actor on stage taking on a pretty easy role. Downsides? Horatio. Wasn't special, and delivered the lines as if they were Sha-hakes-speah, but you can't win them all.

Onto the specifics: the ghost scenes are just splended! Very creepy - the actor sounded like he had reverb or something, but I knew he didn't. And spoke very quietly, but seemed to boom at the same time - most special. Hamlet's small shadow, as he slumped at the corner of the stage, dwarfed by his father's huge one. Hamlet just crying, as well you might, while the Ghost explained the circumstances of his death. And actually, every time the Ghost walked across stage, and you could see him there white against the darkness, before the lights acknowledged he was there: creepy! I've already mentioned Ophelia's unusual death; I also enjoyed the opening scene with her family, which got the level of tenderness just right - her laugh at Laertes' awkward chastity speech, Polonius pausing uncomfortably as he extols the virtues of truth. And I loved Hamlet discovering a mike hidden inside her book, and dictating to it. The closet scene featured Gertrude able to see the ghost, but lying about it: what a wonderful choice!

In fact, there's only one bad thing about this one, and that's a pretty crass attempt to sell T-shirts half way through. But let's not think about that.

Instead, let's focus on the fact that I may just have seen a perfect Hamlet. So many of my quibbles were addressed, and the tedium of the second half almost totally evaporated. Any criticism I could have left should be aimed at the play itself. Which I've fallen in love with, all over again, with a funny feeling that Mr Kinnear has just fundamentally altered the way I see it...