Notes From A Training Workshop

At some point soon today, I’m sure that doodling will commence. What you doodle supposedly says a lot about your personality and outlook on life.

Pictures of an axe entering someone’s head with brain and blood flying everywhere is probably not a good sign, although I’d argue that a picture of that happening is much better than actually enacting such a scene in real life.

Flowers on the other hand are probably better, especially as there is ample opportunity for adding to them. A head spurting blood on the other hand, well there’s only so much elaboration you can do.

I like to doodle geometric shapes or rows of dots coloured in with the pen. Certain pens are better for doing this and if you’re not careful you end up with a smudge of ink all the way up your hand, most annoying.

What I should have done is bought some of my own paper. Colouring in the letters on the hand-outs and squeezing your artistic creations into the margins just doesn’t cut the mustard.

The buses are going past at fairly regular intervals, sometimes they shake the tree directly outside. I’m watching the tree closly, trying to ascertain what the wind is like out there. The weather is very “close” at the moment, with the worse of both worlds being warm and uncomfortable, with a tendency to starting raining very hard, often in the middle of the night when I have the window open and scare me, making me sit bold upright in bed, realising it’s the middle of the night and it’s still a few hours before I’m due to get up and head for work.

Lorries shake things considerably more, namely the light fitting, a little bit. But it doesn’t more dramatic to say “shake considerably more” as I’m sure I’ll agree.

The temperature in the room is less than what I’m used to, but in a good way. Sitting in a certain place gets a nice breeze of air conditioned air on the back of my neck. Most pleasant.

I can see people walking past fairly often, although the frosting effect on the window means only people of a certain height and then only certain bits of them: oooh shoes and some hair, oh a shoulder, an arm raised aloft; that kind of thing.

I can’t help thinking, I wonder what would happen if some crazed killer smashed the window and brutally murdered everyone present, before turning the gun on himself, as you do.

But that didn’t happen, obviously. Or I wouldn’t be writing this now.