K. (infinitemonkeys) wrote,

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An exercise in nostalgic self-indulgence...

I've often thought about doing this meme when it comes around but this month marks the seventh (!) year I have had this LJ. The reason it came to mind is because of the date today, which always gives me chills.

The first entry, on July 28 2001 read:
And so, with tedious inevitability, I get a livejournal. I held out for as long as I could but I need somewhere to spew out meaningless shite about my life or lack thereof. It's a psycho-loco bored exhibitionist thing.

I was about to buy a house -- completed on September 13. None of us had any idea what was coming in a little over two months and how the echoes are still deafening today. This was the year my dad nearly died. I had a wretched birthday: worse because it was a marquee number. I moved jobs to one I absolutely hated, but was fortunate enough to have the good sense and luck to switch back -- one of the luckiest events of my life. I was honestly a different person back then.

I had planned to lurk about mostly, but as you all know, I didn't. My first ever comment was from coffeeandink

* * *
By 2002, I was writing infrequent screeds, but still had time to read and post at work. That July I was talking about my dream before my aunt visited. It was the last time I would see Tor-Inge. I still had no furniture. On July 9, the nearest entry, I wrote:
It's weird how I don't mind reading about people's dreams on LJ whereas if someone tried to analyse their dreams in the pub I would run a mile. When we're all in the lift going down to hell, we'll be trapped with four people, one of whom is picking his nose and eating it, one of whom has B.O. that would stun a wildebeest at 50 yards and one of whom is humming Celine Dion. And the fourth looks kinda normal and sound, and isn't wearing scary clothes and doesn't have that knife-glint grin of the unhinged, so you turn to him and say "hello" and he smiles gently, and says "let me tell you about this dream I had last night..."

This entry also contains one of my favourite news stories *ever*, about the arse-reading clairvoyant of Meldorf, who scries your future by feeling your buttocks.

* * *
In 2003, I wrote on July 8th. I'd been up north looking after my mum (and my domestically pointless dad) for a couple of weeks. I'd also just been to see Sexual Perversity in Chicago with the magnificent T. It starred Hank Azaria, Matthew Perry and Minnie Driver. I wrote:
Matthew Perry... hmmm. He's a stiff actor when he's trying too hard not to be Chandler, and his role is mostly a thankless one. I noticed this in The West Wing this year. It's as if every muscle in his body is straining to sing "Look! Not Chandler! I have range! See me move in a non-Chandlerish way!"

* * *
2004, and I was pissed off about some fannish arsery but the trouble with being all discreet and circumspect is that I now have absolutely no memory at all of what it was. I was also watching Big Brother, which I was embarrassed about at the time, but it turned out to be an excellent decision: it was the year of Nadia Almada, the Portuguese transexual whose reaction when she won made me cry, and the jungle cats. It was the last honestly good BB.

Shut up.

* * *
And now we come to the reason I thought about this: July 7 2005.

That was the weirdest week: Saturday was Live 8; preparation for the G8 summit in Scotland (which, of course, is why the bombers picked that day to attack: the police effort was focused on other things); Monday was the day London won the Olympics when Paris was expected to triumph -- huge euphoria. Then on Tuesday the bombing.

It's the strangeness of the day I remember best. The strangeness and the bad jokes and the way that people were kind to each other.

I remember waking up to Radio 5 and hearing them talk about an electrical explosion on the Tube, and then it was two, then it was a terrorist attack; then suddenly a bus bomb. The news got progressively getting worse and worse. Realising that if I didn't set off for work right away (two hours early) I wasn't going to get there. Taking the packed bus as people actually talked to each other for once, swapping stories about what might have happened. The bloke who kept saying "but I've got to get to Old Street, I've got an exam", almost as though his brain was fixated on that. The number of people who joked "I didn't realise the French were that pissed off." The constant noise of sirens. Walking the three or so miles from Mile End to where I work, with streams of ashen people all walking the other way.

I was almost completely untouched by 7/7 but not everyone else was. Time for me to spare a thought for them tonight.

This is the entry from the day after, which tells it better than I can here.

* * *
2006, and proof that nothing ever bloody changes, on July 8 I was complaining about the Doctor Who finale. In this case, Doomsday. Didn't know when I was bloody well off, did I? *g*

* * *
July 3 is the nearest entry for 2007. I was all Buh?!!?!11eleventy because we'd just had a press release in the office, timed to miss first edition, which said Catherine Tate was going to be the new companion on Doctor Who. I think the words I used were "a return to JNT's pantomime stunt casting circus of horrors". I was completely totally and unutterably wrong. (I have to stop using the word "unutterably". I use it all the time)

Also, I posted that information without a spoiler cut. I'd like to apologise extremely belatedly for that too.

* * *
And now, I have a date with the 51st century. Love to all. You know who you are.

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