09.30 ENCHANTING OAKS

Ages ago, an area of Sherwood Forest was bulldozed to plot the land I now live on. Indeed, deforestation and regeneration of Robin's 'hood has been taking place for centuries. During medieval times, 100,000 acres of oak and birch included designated 'Forest' and the region's valuable timber and game was protected by Royal Law. Today, patches of forestland remain, scattered across only 450 acres of the Birklands.

A great deal of logging during wartime and replantation of foreign trees, including Pine contributes to the changed landscape. It is a shame. And what remains is starkly less enchanting than I had hoped because of its lack of depth. It is hard to get lost in unless you tap into your inner child and really put your imagination to work.

A area of conservation set aside today holds the most ancient portion of Sherwood Forest and is home to the Major Oak, famed because of its girth and age. The tree is over 800 years old and has grown rather decrepit. A 10 metre waistline feeding arteries of thick branches no longer supports the thickened 28 metre spread. Today the heaviest limbs rest on a system of timber crutches.

Watching the tree draws out the tie-dye wearing, granola-eater in me. It could use a therapeutic hug.

Several hundred ancient oaks cover the remaining land of Sherwood. I was especially impressed by this one. The enchanted forest may have lost its lustre, but each individual tree, its branches turning and twisted, reaching out to you is remarkable. A facade of rings and hollows distinguish each bark, mouth wide open, eyes spying. The thinned forest is penetrated by a breeze that rustles the leavy limbs, breathing life back into the old oak.

09.29 OLD MARKET SQUARE

You might agree with the old adage that, all roads lead to Rome, until you visit Nottingham. Its city centre is impossible to miss, with nearly a dozen arteries feeding it from every direction. It seems every direction I take brings me back to the Old Market Square, home to the grandiose city council building and a newly renovated open space where I have spent many afternoons reading the Notts Evening Post under the unlikely British Sun.

Somehow this picture reveals an especially gloomy day. It looks almost the grey of winter, naked trees and all. But it really has been quite mild. Pleasant. Can't complain. And the forecast promises another week's supply of Vitamin D.

On those days when the sun is glaring, the market square is rammed with dropped shoppers, procrastinating students and business people breaking for lunch on the pavement. The atmosphere is great and has succeeded in providing a gathering place for locals. Here we can be social without even socializing; we can watch people people-watching; we can escape the shadows of tall buildings to hide under a cloudy sky. It is a gathering place because it is empty space. That's the irony. But it works.

09.28 MIGHTY HEART

It's a rainy day and I am stuck with a sinus cold. So I decided to have a lazy night and hit the show. I made my way to the Broadway Theatre, appropriately named since it is located on Broad Street, just across the street from a trendy vegetarian restaurant. The theatre is cozy, with cushioned double seats and enough leg room that you can't even rest your legs on the chair ahead of you.

The listing rotates mostly independent and award winning films, and I bought myself a ticket to tongights screening of, A Mighty Heart. Produced by Brad Pitt, its no surprise Angelina is the star of this one. Regardless of any casting bias, her role as Mariana Pearl, the wife of abducted American Journalist David Pearl, had me all choked up by the end.

But I don't cry at movies. Not even the ones based on real life stories.

Those sniffles you heard - yeah, that was the Tylenol Sinus wearing off.

09.27 TASTE TESTER

I have learned from my dad the patience to give solicitors the time of day, to hear them out, let them do their job, because a frustrating occupation it must be to harrass people for personal details and information.

I have learned from my research studies to give solicitors the time of day, because I was one of them.

Today I was asked my a woman working for a market analyst to sample dairy and soya milk products. What's in it for me? Free milk and a couple quid for 15 minutes of my time. She had interuppted my en route to the grocery store for the very purpose of picking up milk.

I get a kick out of participating in this sort of research. Looking too far into the research, I assumed that the milk cartons before me were disguised under the incorrect labels. They can't fool me, I thought. At the end of the study, she informed me that indeed, each product was in its correct container. Maybe deceit would have lead to ethical liabilities.

Nauseated from the sampling, at the end of the study I resolved to survive on calcium supplements for the next few days, looking forward to dry breakfast cereal and black coffee for a while. But the researcher sent me away with four containers of milk products, which would otherwise have gone to total waste. I lugged these home hoping my housemate drinks milk, loves life.

09.26 JAKE

This is Jake. He joined me at 14 Premier last night. It was good to arrive from London to a not-so-empty pad. One of five other photography students who I will be living with this year, Jake is the traditionalist, a film-hungry still-cameraman who wants to escape to the earths extremities to find the money shot. He loves the fundamental art of photography, processing film, being in the darkroom, and just glares with excitement when he gets into the subject. His excitement is contagious and he's promised to show me the tricks of the trade this year.

Jake is a country boy, from the south. His long locks are nearly dreaded from wear, his jeans worn and safety pinned at the knees; wear and tear. He plays the piano, longs to get his hands on some ivory and jam. In the meantime, his CD doesn't skip a beat. He's got loads of albums, a varied mix from folk to indie to theatre. He had The Lion King soundtrack cranked all day. Not your typical uni bloke.

He drinks more tea than anybody I know. Even more than Casey. He has an oversized ceramic pot and a massive mug to match and just chugs. He likes his beer too. The cheaper the better. Starting to sound more like your typical uni bloke yet? I thought so, until he came home with toilet cleaner and a stash of hand soap.

Score. We're gonna get a long just fine.

09.25 CAMDEN MARKET

There are tons of great markets in London. I hit up Camden's this morning...and found myself still there in the afternoon. The Camden Lock area is host to some great vintage and rare shopping along with various artisan stands and plenty of delicious food kiosks.

I did some back to school shopping, had myself a bite to eat, and snapped this photo in the meantime before heading back to the city to say farewell to Fleet Street and catch a train to Nottingham.

09.24 FRONTLINE CLUB

In the Paddington district, just a few paces and around one corner from the train station, you will find the Frontline Club. The dimly lit dining room, shadowed by the orange streetlights of Norfolk Street goes unnoticed, until the corner of my eye is called to attention by the subtle gestures of three men occupying a table by the window.

I nearly walk right past the place. But I recognize the courier letters spelling Frontline horizontally down the stucco wall; this must be it. But where's the door?

I feel like I'm entering a secret society when I finally find the side door - which is the front door to the club. A sign, hung hurriedly on a slant, asks me to buzz for entry. My finger barely touches the bell and the door is opened before me by a young man, the convenor of this evening's screening of, A Crude Awakening.

The film, produced and directed by two European artists documents the inevitable emptying of the planet's oil reserves, the underground stores of this non-renewable resource dwindling as we consume at alarming rates.

In a successful attempt to shock the audience, but without deluding our understanding of the gravity of this issue, the film predicts a regression toward a simplified lifestyle, devoid of the plentiful luxuries of oil-based products. In other words, we will be hitting the highways in horse-drawn buggies and cooking on open fires if technology doesn't advance in time to harness energy from alternative sources, like wind and sun, before the last drop of oil is used. Scientists admit we are already far behind.

The Frontline Club is a gathering place for individuals who value independent and free media. It honours journalists and camerapersons who have risked and lost their lives on the frontlines and provides ongoing screenings, like this evening's, as well as panel discussions on media-related issues and stories that have fallen into the shadows of mainstream news.

Tonight's screening was a warm up to the world I will be immersed in for the next year. I attended out of interest in the topic but also to explore the club, network, and get thinking like a journalist. The session concluded with questions open to the director, followed by some intermingling as we finished our drinks and until I found myself coralled out the door among a small group of filmmakers and journalists energized by he film's powerful message. The chatter continued on the darkened corner of Norfolk, my excitement barely visible under the dim light of the orange streetlamp across the street.

09.23 TATE MODERN

A gorgeous view of the millennium bridge and Saint Paul's Cathedral can be found across the Thames at the Tate Modern. I visited the historic art museum this evening realizing that I prefer classical art to the abstractions and symbolic depth of modern methods. Some of the pieces were intriguing and aesthetically palatable while other artwork tired or stressed me out.

On the other hand most of you will know the amateur achievements when my paintbrush and canvas collide. Most of these efforts have proven abstract art forms despite my efforts for something that is at least less vague than the impressionists.

In any event, the Tate Modern was worth the visit. At the very least the ingenuity of the artwork on display, in particular the pieces that use mediums other than canvas and oils are pretty fascinating. One artist manipulated the canvas itself to challenge the traditional use of this material, slashing and framing it with other materials in a way that gives the canvas life and depth. Gets the wheels turning.

Anyhow, here is the view. Not the greatest photo. Another one of my "abstractions."

You'll just have to come and see it for yourself.

09.22 PORTOBELLO MARKET

Portobello Market is the place to be on a Saturday morning. This Notting Hill haven for antiquists and foodies was especially packed when the sun came out this afternoon. Maybe the rays make the bronze glitter and the china sparkle more than usual.

The warm weather had me lingering under the canopies of fruit stalls and pastry tables, my appetite mounting along the gradual climb uphill. My Hungry Eyes (you can thank me later for getting Eric Carmen's Dirty Dancing hit stuck in your head for the day) were led astray only by the competing smell of old books. Leather bound titles and twentieth century editions by classic British authors had me drooling more than the fresh figs and foccacia loafs.

At Demetzy Books, I got lost in the memoir of an early British migrant who settled in back country Quebec. In this detailed account, the author noted the idiosyncrasies of the locals, describing their relaxed nature and her disbelief when the Canadian's actually ran out of tea. No back up supply of tea? That was the culture shock of her day and age.

I put the book down only to chat briefly with the bookseller himself and another patron who was an avid book collecter and father of a reporter for the Washington Post. We got wrapped up in a discussion about the future of the real-life, hand-held book because of the present wave in electronic versions. I think they were both relieved to find a twenty-something someone with an appreciation for the real thing.

I was relieved to find a bookseller who didn't look at me curiously when I stuck my nose in the flyleaf and sighed, smiling, intoxicated by the musty smell.

09.21 THIS DAILY BREAD

A tour of Buckingham Palace left me to wonder who frequents the 40+ seats at the dining table, adorned with lavish gold-plated silverware, and a menu approved by the Queen herself. She finalizes every detail, right down to the spelling of the menu items with the head waiter before the kitchen is even warmed up.

My stomach growls.

After the tour, I made my way to a cafe, with the palpable name, EAT. A spiced chicken sandwich on wholegrain caught my Hungry Eye (there it is again), though I can't imagine even the most decadent sandwich served to a bunch of diplomats on one of Queen Betty's silver platters.

Satisfied, nevertheless, I continued along my way on a shopping binge along Oxford Street, where after hours of circling the streets, I finally found the perfect pair of boots. The only problem was their ambiguous colour.

"Is this a shade of grey? Or brown?" I ask the saleswoman.

After a curious look at the leather, she determines its the colour of a mushroom.

My stomach growls. Mushroom. I've been so consumed by the shopaholic environment that I haven't realized how long its been since lunch. Hunger strikes.

It beckons, but I am diverted from the pangs by a bookstore. Go figure.

I promise myself to take only moments to browse the shelves. Many moments later, I walk out with a book called, Hunger, by Sharman Apt Russell.

Laughing to myself, I wonder if the title of choice was influnced by the fact that its well past dinnertime now. Book in hand, I make my way to a cafe appropriately called, La Pain Quotidien.

I have my daily bread, and then some, at the same time endulging in my new book. It will prove a good read, angled broadly on the topic from scientific, anthropological, and historical perspectives at once. Over the next week, it will prove to influence my eating patterns. At times, I barely get through a chapter without grabbing a snack. Otherwise, it leaves me feeling like a glutton after only a single bite of food.

With my stomach full, and my mushroom boots nearly broken in already, I consider hunger. I have felt it before, but not like some. I imagine the circumstance of those who have never eaten a mushroom, and barely meet the caloric equivalent of a bowl of mushroom soup in a day, let alone have the resources to spend on a pair of boots modeled off this plant.

I look around at the ready available food in this big city and feel a pang, but it isn't hunger.

09.20 TOWER OF LONDON

I took a tour of the city by bus today. A Big Bus. It was a flexible hop-on hop-off route that basically provided transport to the main city sites, and I didn't feel like too much of a Contiki tourist.

I stopped at Picadilly Circus where I made a romantic demand of the statue of Eros, moved along to Buckingham Palace where I took a walking tour of the Royal Palaces and watched, from behind the scenes, the Changing of the Guard (no, this doesn't include good-looking Bobbys in their briefs. For that you will have to head to Leicester Square by night). I hopped back onto the bus toward Parliament Square to check out Big Ben and Westminster Abbey and made my way along to St. Paul's Cathedral and its massive, glittering dome.

Finally I continued west over the relatively driveling London Bridge to the more impressive Tower Bridge and on to the London Tower, which was probably the highlight of the day. This picture shows the side of the 11th century fortressed tower which imprisoned hundreds of criminals, many of whom were dissident members of the aristocracy and church. The tower remains home to the Royal Jewels including the First and Second Jewels of Africa, the two largest diamonds in the world. It is also home to a group of present day Beefeaters and their families, who have met The Queen's rigorous stipulations in order to become official citizens of the Tower of London. Their responsibility to guard the Jewels requires that they and their resident families are locked into the fortressed pseudo-city on a ten o'clock curfew each night.

One of these gentleman Beefeaters, who only somewhat sarcastically describes his home as "the best place in the world to raise a teenage daughter," provided an animated tour of the tower with stories of women and men who were imprisoned and tortured here centuries ago. The history was phenomenal.

Among the imprisoned and executed were Anne Boleyn, Henry VIII's former wife, contentiously charged and beheaded in a clean sweep for adultery, treason, and incest. She also happens to receive mention in one of my favorite tunes by Tori Amos,"Talula:"

Ran into the Henchman who severed Anne Boleyn
He did it right quickly
A merciful man
She said that one plus one is two
But Henry said
That it was three
So it was
Here I am

09.19 WELLINGTON'S BOOTS

This afternoon I arrived in "the city," the presumptuous but endearing term referring to London. After unloading my "rucksack" in my hostel dorm, I set out across town toward the West End's Apollo Theatre where I caught a performance of the muscal Wicked this evening.

Travelling by foot, I was able to catch plenty of sights. I strolled through Hyde Park and Green Park, passing pedestrian commuters speedwalking home for dinner in panythose and sneakers. Sneakers look comfortable, I thought, as I looked down at my leather boots, nearly but not quite flat. Along the way, I explored the Australian- and Canadian War Memorials and passed Buckingham Palace, where I joined a host of other solo tourists taking one another's photos in front of the Queen's pad. At the Wellington Arch, where I stopped to take this photo of the Iron Duke's memorial, I thought, "Wouldn't it be nice to have on a sturdy pair of Welly's." I looked down again at my own boots, their narrow toebox barely rooming my bunioned feet. I forged ahead through crowds at Picadilly Circus and Victoria Station and finally made it to the show. By this time, I was happy to take my cusioned seat and be still for a few hours. It was a long journey to The Apollo's Oz.

A pair of Ruby Slippers would be fine, I thought, if I could click my heels and be whirled back to the hostel. I looked down at my brown leather boots, not a glimmer of red refracting from their polished hyde. No sense clicking these heels.

After the show, my leather boots got me to the closest Underground station.
These boots weren't made for walking.

09.18 PLASTIC PACHYDERM

I felt as though I was being watched.

Cautiously, I turned away from the apple tree in my garden where I was picking some of the early ripened fruit. My eyes met this curious creature.

Standing about two feet tall on the edge of the garden is this plastic pachyderm, standing plumb with an offering of artificial daisys. The elephant's unctuous stance barely disguises a fierce gaze, its eyes projecting sideways and surveying the garden from a wide angle.

What an oddity. How did I not notice this garden gnome gone wrong before

I consider chucking an apple his way as a peace offering.
But the angry look makes you wonder what he's got in his left hoof.

A bundle of apples tucked into the front of my sweater, I grab my prize picture and make a hasty dash to the kitchen, bolting the door and hoping the suspicious lawn ornament stays firmly planted in the ground.

09.17 CURSED BY THE RAIN GODS

I walked into the grocery store this evening, sporting my shades.
By the time I had loaded my cart with bread and bananas, the sunshine was engulfed by a rain cloud. It's trails were barely hovering over the ASDA parking lot, which was puddled but half dried by the time I finished shopping.

With a smirk on my face, I discounted this as my first rainy day in England. After all, there was no evidence that the puddles had fallen from the sky. They could have hosed down the parking lot for all I know....

After two weeks, I have yet to leave the house umbrella in hand. This is my kind of England.

But then, I should know better.

The rain God's must have read my sneering mind. As I hobbled (still aching from the marathon) the half mile home from the grocery store, it was as if the winds had turned and the rain cloud was on my heels. Hamstrings-a-burning, I barely made it to my front door without getting my sunglasses wet.

My first rainy day in England after all.

09.16 RITE OF PASSAGE

Some might say that I matured as an athlete today. Part of the distance runner’s natural evolution is inherently to run a marathon. Not all runners follow the flock and make it to this distance, but many of us are lured by the unknown lurking beyond the 20 mile marker, or as in my own case, are simply peer pressured into doing it.

Alright, it wasn’t so much peer pressure as peer influence. When you’re surrounded by veteran super-athletes and motivated iron-people, running a marathon begins to seem like the kids fun run. And I was a bit curious about the so-called ‘wall’ at 20 miles that people go on about.

I lined up at the start, slapping my legs down like a sprinter, which is silly, but ritual…
At 10:05 the Sheriff of Nottingham fired the start pistol.

And we’re off. Here I was, amidst thousands of runners, all different but alike in that certain quirkiness that defines the endurance athlete. At the very least we were all sweating it out under the same sun to cross the same finish line by the end of the day. I was stoked!

I soon settled comfortably into a pace just above my typical easy run and simply took in the scenery. The first half of the race was incredible, taking us through the Nottingham University Campus, off-road through undulating park trails, cross-country through pastures and past grazing horses, along the canal where rowers were coasting, and always under the shaded canopy of browning trees.

At the half-marathon marker, I had run a solid 1:37 or so, lining me up for a decent time in the full, even if I slowed substantially. And this I did.

What went first?

It wasn’t my legs.

Thanks to the power-goos I was slurping ever 5 miles or so, I was feeling strong.

It wasn’t my head.

At the pace I was comfortably holding, I was still thinking positively.

But at about 19 miles a severe pain in my right foot took me out.

It was as though I had tried to kick down the “20-mile wall” with the ball of my right foot.

Shit. Now what do I do?

I decided to walk it off for a mile or so, then hobbled in the remaining few miles, managing a decent time in the end. Still it was rather frustrating, crossing the finish line at 3:33. My half-mar split was 1:37. You do the math. Ouch. Yeah.

But in a way, I am glad I got my ass kicked. It’s sort of part of the right of passage. It was this point in the race that was most transforming, when my stamina and courage were truly challenged, and when I was attuned to other hurting athletes, just trying to make it to the end. It was here that I thought and grew and learned.

I feel a bit defeated, but this is alright.
For consolation, I dragged my insulating tin foil blanket behind me all day like Linus from Charlie Brown.
I also lined up for a leg massage from one particularly good-looking physiotherapist.

This helped too.

I also got a boost from a veteran runner I met from Liverpool, who today completed his 56th marathon. Next month he’s heading to Spain for number 57. He’s run as fast as 3:06 and as slow as 4:15. He is nearly 60 years old. He offered some consolation and was eager to encourage me, a marathon rookie to keep at it.

I marvelled at this. How inspiring! Here, a man twice my age! Even still, I found the marathon distance and the training leading up to it excruciating and have no plan to redeem myself by entering a second full marathon anytime soon. Not even during my post-race delirium, when the endorphins were high, before the legs were giving out and the chills were coming on, was my reason distorted enough to consider giving it another go.

But really deep down, I’m sure there’s another one in me.

I haven't thought about it any longer though.
First I need to recover from this one.
After the massage, I made my way home.
Ate a heaping plate of food and half a chocolate bar.
Dragged my body up thirty-one torturous stairs to my bedroom.
Had a nap.
Woke up and vomited.
Replaced the lost nutrients with a second meal and the remaining half of my chocolate bar.
Fell back asleep.

Woke up. Ate a third dinner. Wished I had saved a piece of that chocolate bar.
Admired the archer on my fancy medal.

Took a picture of it.
Thought to myself, “Holy shit, I ran a marathon.”
Hung up my runners and called it a day. A long day.

09.15 EVE OF THE MARATHON

I went into town and bought myself a copy of The Nottingham Evening Post, which features a section devoted to tomorrow’s Experian Robin Hood Marathon. Just a little something to get me psyched before the race. It can be tough when you’re going it alone.

In the evening, I attended a pre-race pasta dinner at Hoofer’s Fitness Centre, one of the race sponsors. Met a few interesting folks there, from beginners, to triathletes-turned-marathoners, to a head-shaven relay co-ed relay team who raised funds for CLIC Sargent, the same organization I am running for.

Part of the joy of running is meeting different people. Everyone has a story, a motivating factor, and a few training tips that always come in handy. After a bit of mingling, I took off early for a good nights rest, a bit more motivated by the end of the day.

09.14 VICTORIA EMBANKMENT

I made my way to the Trent River and along the Victoria Embankment for a stroll. I really shouldn’t be doing all this walking around, but I had to get over and pick up my race package for the marathon this weekend anyhow.

The skirts of the river appeared rather dirty.
This is surprising since the city itself is kept pristine.
Another dirty river to call home.

But the paths and parks alongside were beautiful and bustling.
Makes up a bit for the mess.
So does the fully stocked bike shop on the corner of the embankment.

09.13 SLUG & LETTUCE

Happy hour, once again. I made my way to the popular patio of a place called the Slug and Lettuce on Froman Street. Here I caught some vitamin D, and did some people watching from behind my shades, all the while enjoying another half (still working on my capacity) pint. This time, the choice lager is a Stella, simply because it was the only beer gurgled through the Bartender's British accent that I could understand.

Oh, and no need to panic. That’s not my dirtied ash tray in the background…

09.12 WOLLATON HALL

Just three miles from the city centre, the town of Wollaton lays claim to one of Nottinghamshire’s most remarkable castles. Wollaton hall, established in 1588, was commissioned by Sir Francis Willoughby, a naturalist and curator.

On an invitation to his previous residence, Queen Elizabeth I had refused to step her royal foot in his home, which by her account wasn’t fit for a queen.

Who did she think she was?

In a superfluous response to her rejection, Sir Francis had this illustrious structure planted visibly on top of a hill (that I had to drag my aching legs up today) and embellished with stone work from across Europe. The interior, illuminated by hundreds of windows, was also a new trend as England entered a peaceful time and fortified homes were no longer deemed necessary.
If not already outlandish, the building drew more contesting attention by its symmetrical layout, which was a symbol of Christianity and reserved for solely for God’s house.

Who did this guy think he was?

In the end, Willoughby’s ego was satisfied by a royal visit.

09.11 THE BELL INN

The Bell Inn is one of three local pubs which lays claim to being the oldest in Britain. The property it is on was first obtained by a group of Carmelite Friars who arrived in Nottingham in 1276. During the 16th century reign of Henry VIII, it was converted to a secular alehouse, named the Angelus Bell.

I joined the public at their house this afternoon for a (half) pint. How embarrassing, I still can’t manage a full glass. I am a converting, however, from the grape to the hops, and need to begin someplace.

I ordered a Strongbow. From previous samplings, I know this British brew is a sweet cider that goes down like a glass of wine. I am also a sucker for a label and am drawn to its association with the archer. This is Robin Hood County, after all.

I noticed a number of patrons on the patio this afternoon drinking what appeared to be a red ale.
Curious, I asked the waiter.
“It’s a Snakebite,” he replied, as though this was common knowledge, “black current and lager.”
“Any kind of lager?” I asked.
“Whatever you want.” He smiled.


If you look back to my entry on July 18th, this is not the Snakebite I know.
Since I had already exposed my ignorance about the topic, I continued on with the questions for the sake of clearing my confusion.

“So what do you call Guiness and lager?”
“That’s a “Beggar’s Black Velvet…”

Now the guy is certain I’m a budget traveller.

“…And a proper Black Velvet is Guiness with champagne.”

That sounds lovely.
Here is a chance to boast my own bartending knowledge. I bet he doesn’t know about the Canadian-created Red Eye, a 50-50 combination of lager with clamato.
I pause and consider how even this is more lowly than the Beggar’s Black Velvet, and humble myself.

09.10 CULT OF THE AMATEUR

I picked up a book the other day, by Andrew Keen, called Cult of the Amateur. The book outlines the anti-democratization of internet-based information since the dawn of Web 2.0. Keen argues that without censorship, without gate keeping, the internet is enabling amateurs to gain fame and fortune at the expense of trained experts.

As a result, mainstream media is faltering at the steps of online alternatives which are not always legitimate. Unedited, user-generated, and anonymous content, like Wikipedia, YouTube, and the Blogosphere leave web surfers in the face of a tidal wave of information, most of which is useless.

The interesting twist to this issue is that this amateur content is well received. Demand for more user-generated interfaces is growing and advertising is shifting from mainstream to online media, leaving a hazardous trail of defeated magazines, newspapers, musicians, and artists in its path.

The tip of my nose has worn a dent in the pages of this book.
I keep reading because I wonder why amateur content is so popular.
Why is Wikipedia already available in ten languages?
Why is the YouTube Pick of the Day, “DrumPants Redux?”
Why do you bother to read my blog?

I agree with Keen, internet content is depreciating in its artistic quality, its useful content, and its social value. But is this truly what the majority wants? Garbage?

I consider the movie JackAss.
I never was able to watch the whole thing. But a lot of people did. And they paid to see the sequel.

My speculation is that the problem begins among youth, particularly in instances where healthy social bonds are not formed and when there is limited exposure to fine arts. In today’s generation, kids are spending more time squinting in front of a computer screen, and less exploring offline hobbies and relationships. My fear is that they don’t know any better. (There’s a SSHRC proposal if anybody needs one).

Among adults, I wish keen had given the benefit of the doubt. There are, on one hand, the uninformed and naïve who are likely misguided, searching and surfing in all the wrong places, but there are certainly those of us who know that Wikipedia - while it may provide a quick answer to a mundane question - is not something to cite at the end of a report.

I haven’t quite finished the book, and from what I gather, the issue is left unresolved.
In a sense, I disagree with the author, and trust that we will always have edited news sources, that Pulitzer-quality books will be written, and that prodigious artists will be discovered amidst the overwhelming sea of wannabes. On the other hand, I suspect that the internet is changing these processes by enabling amateurs, like me, to gain presence and power.

An interesting read if anybody is looking for one.

09.09 THE SEVENTH DAY

It is the Sabbath. My seventh day in Nottingham, but also a Sunday by chance. Today is The Day of Rest by anglo tradition. Lately, every day seems like a day of rest for me. I’ll be moaning and groaning once this extended holiday is over.

To pass time, I meandered into town this evening hoping to find a quaint café where I could further unwind with book in hand. Along the way, I wandered past St. Peter’s Church where the evensong service was just beginning. I popped my head in to have a quick look.

I figured this must be the cornerstone on which God built his foundation. Before me was a mighty work of medieval masonry.

After a bit of research, I learned that St. Peter’s at the least serves as the cornerstone of Nottingham’s religious edifices, recognized as this town’s oldest building in continuous use.

Established during medieval times, the ancient parish, once catholic now Anglican, was rebuilt during the late 12th century after it was burned to the ground along with the rest of the town by the army of Empress Matilda.

At my feet, tombstones tile the ground, worn from centuries of traffic. I could barely decrypt their epitaphs. One described the death of a woman named Mary. Above, a nave roof made of solid oak stretches the length of the church. Etchings of the Tudor Rose reveal it was established sometime during the 15th century when artistic and emblematic enterprise was paramount.

On its own, the choir was impressive, but the acoustics in this building were at par with Sydney’s Opera House. With an opportunity to enjoy this free concert, I took a seat. A little rest on this Sunday evening.

09.08 ENGLISH BREAKFAST

I couldn't resist. I picked up some crumpets and Twinnings, the traditional English tea, for breakfast.

Thank heaven's for Mr. Twinnings, who catered a tea house for ladies back in the 18th century, enabling our sex to socialize in a refined, pinky-pointed manner while loathsome men engaged in politics over ales at public houses.

His move, with the aide of a bunch of eager women, catalysed a revolution in the image of the caffeinated cocktail. What was once a commoner's beverage now infused the elite, uniting the classes nation-wide.

Good old Mr. Twinnings. Unfortunately it takes more than tea to relieve disparity. Today, Britain is socio-economically divided socially more than ever. On average, Women receive net earnings of nearly 30% in comparison to me at the workplace and often lose ground during pregnancy. In addition, income and education status is segregated by regions across the country, but also by neighborhoods within each town.

This morning, I considered my own socio-economic status as I enjoyed my bourgeois meal. The outlook is grim when I consider my budget, my travel goals, and my previous standard of living.

I wonder how long I could live off of crumpets and tea. The thought steals a fleeting moment before I baste my british bun with preminum roasted organic peanut butter (a rare culinary fusion). I am feeling a bit like the Frugal Gourmet (that is, if you accept organic foods as essentially gourmet, or at least admit that they are in the same priceline as premium and rare foods).

Crumpets and tea. Crumpets and tea.

Relinquishing past luxuries. Reverting to student life.

I drop one more point on the socio-economic ratings.

09.07 TA-ZIFIRIN

It is Maltese tradition that each lineage carries a nickname. On my paternal grandmother’s side, it is Zifirin, meaning “Matchstick.”

A reflection of her name, my Nanna Victoria had a fiery tongue and fierce sense of humour. I would ask her if she’d like anything from the town centre, and immobilized by a recent stroke as much as by her caretaking family members, she would reply, “A package of cigarettes,” with a smirk on her face.

This morning, on the very date of her ninety-fourth birthday, she passed away. I am heartbroken. In my naivety I said goodbye last week with the expectation that she would still be by the kitchen table, listening to mass on the radio on my next visit to Gozo.

Nanna Victoria was named for the national feast of Our Lady of Victory, also the patron of her hometown, celebrated each year on September 8th. This year, her feast day will pass while she awaits burial. The church, decorated for festival services is not available until Monday.

Fireworks will light the sky over Xaghra.
Candles will light her bedside tonight.
I bought a matchbox and lit one Zifirin for my Nanna.

09.06 ROBIN HOOD COUNTY

Everywhere I look I see him. In legend, he was a forest dwelling bandit, rarely in the public eye, as hard to point out in a crowd as Waldo himself. But today Nottingham boasts home to the philanthropic stealth, Robin Hood, with icons of the sixteenth century hero nearly everywhere.

While meandering Nottingham’s Castle and surrounding caves this afternoon, I noticed this carefully pruned shrub. Some might call it blasphemous, depicting Robin as burly, stunted and awkward in archer’s form. Its tasteless position is in contrast with the natural gardenscape surrounding the figure.

After an inward laugh, I managed to capture a photo knowing local onlookers were rolling there eyes at another typical tourist falling into Robin Hood’s target.

09.05 SWEATSHOP

Maintaining my Wednesday night social run routine, I met up with a group of Robin Hood Marathoners at the Sweatshop, the major retail sponsor of this year’s road race. The store manager, Martin, had invited me along earlier today while I was in the shop inquiring about retrieving my race package.

This evening we covered eight an a half hilly miles together, my legs still lagged from travelling and exploring the city by foot the past few days.

From the shop we headed through the rural outskirts of the city beginning along the Trent River Trail (where incidentally a dead body had been pulled just last night), and made our way through the residential neighbourhoods of Wilson and West Bridgeford. We also wove past the Notts County and Nottingham Forest Football Clubs where I thought Martin might pause in a moment of undue veneration.

In the end, I got in couple of good up-tempo miles before next week, a tour of one end of town and a motivating boost from an evening surrounded by another bunch of crazy runners. While I do miss my old friends at the RF, it was nice to find a common thread in Nottingham’s local band of distance runners. And if they Sweatshop continue to replenish us with wine gums at the end of each run, their shop will have recruited another regular on Wednesday nights.

09.04 EVERYTHING BUT THE BATHROOM SINK

A gaping hole in the tiled ground of my bathroom remained for nearly six months after I moved into my apartment in Hamilton about three years ago. There, a pipe was put in and a custom made stainless steel sink, in the approximate shape and size of a Payless shoebox, was eventually inserted. Because of its shape it never drained properly, leaving me to manually drive frothy globs of toothpaste and soap by flooding them toward the conduit.

Although improved from the previous bathroom sink, I am again fighting off plaque half heartedly at my new home in Nottingham. In traditional British fashion, the basin receives waterfall from two sources – a cold tap on the right and a scalding hot tap on the left hand side. The cold tap is leaky, to boot.

With my hands cupped under the tap to my right until I am barely inducing a Raynaud’s attack, I brace myself to neutralize the temperature by transferring my palms to the stream of hot water that burns on my skin.

I have always been reluctant to use a proper cup in the bathroom, where germs are afloat and can accumulate beyond my naked eye. Besides this, I hate the idea of backwashing toothpaste foam into something I will reuse. It is simply a personal distaste. And I am unwilling to resort to paper which is a waste.

If anybody knows me well, I am rather ceremonial about my dental routine.
I would rather endure the burden on my hands in order to avoid further interrupting this ritual.

In a year or so, when I relocate a priority will be to test run the old Oral-B in each bathroom instead of finding in working order everything but the bathroom sink.

09.03 PREMIER ROAD

It's no Harmony Drive but Premier Road is my new home. An old refurbished Victorian split level duplex is where I will find my place in the attic. I have the place to myself for a while before my housemates arrive. I don't look forward to sharing the span of my personal space which has grown to extend the length of a football field more recently, but I'll have not choice come October. In the meantime I wouldn't mind some company. The house echoes with my footsteps and I am thankful that carpeting has been added along most hallways to mute my heavy heels, which I might soon be clicking in ruby slippers once the culture shock takes effect. At the moment, and after a long day of travelling, There's no place like Premier Road.

09.02 LOW SPEED CHASE

It will be a while before I watch the sun go down on Gozo. It’s a low speed chase as we wheel around tight corners and circle ourselves at my dad's typical Sunday-driver pace looking for the road to the westward lookout in the Zebbug. I remember getting lost in these same streetways along the same mission a year ago. In the end we were just in time to watch the sky reflect a brilliant orange hue. I’m expecting overcast skies for the next little while. Might as well soak up one last little dose of Vitamin D.

09.01 THE GENE POOL

I share a lot in common with my Nannu Julian (besides our stunning looks). For one, he studied and eventually taught physical education, the root of kinesiology. I also suspect that my slow-twitch fibres come from his lineage since he has run more marathons than I know (and still exhibits superhuman stamina for an eighty year old today). We’ll see how far the gene pool stretched when I cover 26.2 miles in Nottingham next week.

The first piano I played was in his house. I can’t say that I am as talented as he, but the shared interest is there. He is even so inclined as to have written a number of musical scores for the local and national orchestras. I don’t write music, but besides this, Nannu Julian is also a poet and essayist. My work here is not even a close reflection of the quality of his writing but I’ve still got some time to practice and catch up.

And this is what I’ll be doing in Nottingham. Tonight, by chance, I learned that a younger (not-yet-Nannu) Julian himself lived and studied in Nottingham and Loughborough. Our interests are paralleled our accomplishments not so in line. I have a lot of catching up to do. But at least I have somebody to (figuratively – and you thought I was short!) look up to.