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Timber's Multicoloured Personality Disorders

To celebrate a year of Timberblog (which is outrageously moot because it's not like I blog every day and indeed I nonchalantly missed August last year and anyone who celebrates their blog's birthday should have their reproductive organs removed) I have taken a personality disorder test.

The fact that I took it at 5am while trying to get to sleep probably tells you more about any personality disorders I might have than my replies to any of the questions in the test.

Behold the results:

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid Disorder:	Moderate
Schizoid Disorder:	Moderate
Schizotypal Disorder:	Moderate
Antisocial Disorder:	Low
Borderline Disorder:	Low
Histrionic Disorder:	Low
Narcissistic Disorder:	High
Avoidant Disorder:	Low
Dependent Disorder:	Low
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder:	Low
-- Personality Disorder Test - Take It! -- -- Personality Disorders --

Hurrah! On reflection, this is unlikely to surprise anyone who visited me while I was living at TimberFlat IV.*

* There's a reason why the word "reflection" appears in this sentence.

Unending fame and fortune

This week I have taken several steps towards realising my ambitions in several fields, and hence have created in myself a feeling of dynamism and going-places that in turn allows me to project a greater impression of healthy self-worth among my associate employee contemporaries. I predict this will last until at least half past three tomorrow afternoon.

Here's a photo I took on the way to the pub.
This shows that Paris is better than Woodley Industrial Estate.

Firstly, I managed to get myself published in the Guardian. Well, the online version of the Guardian. It wasn't exactly an article, and as such I suppose you'd be stretching things to call it journalism. And they did cut more than half of my contribution. But there it was, my name in a national newspaper, and a glorious 34 words penned (ok, typed) by my fair hand. Hey, it's a start.

Secondly, I also found myself on the receiving end of journalism, being interviewed for the Paris Times (I think the article is to be printed next month). Now ok, the Paris Times is a nothing paper, a monthly freebee with about 7 readers, but... Hey, it's a start.

Thirdly and finally, Eddy the crooner has finally got himself a website. At the moment it is, frankly, a complete mess, which will more than likely crash your computer if you're not careful, so I fully suggest you don't visit it. I did, and despite a bout of Windows system capitulations, I managed to look at most of the pages, leading to the rather disturbing discovery that Nicolas, otherwise known as celui qui m'ouvre les portes (that is to say, the dude who is investing in our series of concerts this June), is none other than weirdo politician, stocks 'n shares genius, and convicted fraudster Nicolas Miguet.

So that's all good and raises no moral issues at all.

A Really Bad Interview

There are many things that can go wrong in a job interview, and this morning at La Défense most of them did. So why do you want to be a teacher, she asked. (I don't.) What made you apply here, she asked. (The advert for receptionist work). What makes a good teacher, she asked. A good teacher needs to be interesting and communicative, I informed her. (I am currently feeling as charismatic as a funeral and as coherent as the sentence of this end.)

Things to bear in mind for next time:

(a) You generally give a better account of yourself when you've slept more than 4 hours. Memo: hit head with brick 8hrs before next pre-noon interview.
(b) Ties go better with v-neck sweaters - this oversight not unrelated to point (a).
(c) Being interviewed for the post they are looking to fill, rather than job that you applied for, Puts You At A Certain Disadvantage.
(d) Though 100% genuine, the excuse "sorry I'm late, but just as I was leaving my flat I received a phone call from a company explaining they wanted me to teach business English in friggin Nogent-sur-Marne at half two this afternoon" is not going to create sympathy when you've just turned up 10 minutes late... for a post teaching business English.
(e) If the interviewer says, "so, what would your ideal job be? Obviously it's not working at [this establishment]," it's time to leave. Even if she did agree with me.

So I got out and caught the train back across Paris, and out the other end, as far as Nogent-sur-Marne. This was hence the fourth in the series of Timber's Weekend Excursions, and our first venture into the wilderness of zone 3. Arrived quite early and found it is a typical sleepy suburb, with the kind of houses you find absolutely everywhere in France, so nabbed myself some provisions from a boulangerie and sat on a bench to munch, and admire the view. And what I saw was this:

Nogent-sur-Marne, ville fleurie
The Nogent Tourist Office is situated directly opposite this lovely car park.

Two birthdays in one evening

Beave is a certified April fool, born on a sunny 1st April in the early 80s. So Saturday evening was reserved for partyage. Saturday afternoon had already gone pretty well, what with (well come on, I had to mention it) Reading sealing the Championship title with a 5-0 dismissal of Derby County. I have so far resisted sending Sarah the Derby supporter a message about this, but it is difficult. When I first met her she remarked that she wasn't aware Reading even had a football team. Perhaps I will direct her to many joyous Reading videos I found archived here.

It was also time for another birthday on Saturday, with a further member of my Sarah collection, Chief Leaf, holding a swish cocktail party in the XVIe. This was kicking off at 9pm and I had promised to drop in before my coach turned back into a pumpkin. Slightly worrying then - what with Beave's capacity for pre-meal alcohol, Ruth's decision to crack open the champagne, and Georgie's sudden uncontrollable desire to become a nibbles waitress - that we didn't even get to the Indian restaurant (reservation: 8pm) until half nine.

Being the suave and sophisticated man of the world that you know and love*, I elected against rushing my almondy chicken thing, but time was ticking away and spurning the Chief would result in certain death. I have seen first-hand what happens if you cross her and my word it's scary.

* Product may differ slightly from illustration. Again.

Unfortunately I had already made a fatal error. While it was just about feasible to catch a line 6 train at half eleven, knock on the door of the party at midnight, politely leave two minutes later, and still be back at the hotel for half midnight, I had left my bag at Beave's flat before the restaurant. Now Beave's flat is on the 7th floor. In the wrong direction. And this is after much beer, champagne, wine, and a shot of what some of us identified as whisky, apart from the two girls who appeared to have received shots of peach juice in its place. (Perhaps they'd run out of whisky and hoped we wouldn't notice.)

I gave up at Châtelet and went home. I have subsequently received a smoke signal from Chief Leaf ominously informing me "You are very bad. If there's one thing I do distinctly remember about my party, it was your absence."

Oops.