A bit about me and Corby Glen

I'm back in Corby for a few weeks while I train in Peterborough, to do my job in London. I lived in Corby for the first 18 years of my life, before I moved to London to study, and so it's packed full of (mostly) happy memories and emotional significance. While this sort of post is probably akin to posts of people's cats (yes, your cat is lovely to you, but why do I have to look at it?) I thought it'd be a nice departure from the "I did this, I did that, then the next day I did this" that my posts seem to generally follow. So here's a few snaps of the village and a bit of chat about what it means to me.

	This is my parents' house. It was built in or around 1988, by my father, in nearly every aspect. It was later propped back up again when it started sinking into the garden. In 1997 I had two excellent parties here, much to the concern of our immediate neighbours. The lawn on either side provided me with hours of diversion as a young teenager, and I learned to drive a car when I was about 13 or 14 on the back garden.
	Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, moved 150 years ago from the Irnham Estate, stone by stone in a bunch of wheelbarrows. I was the altar boy here every week for many years, and played flute with my aunt for the services for years after that. Now they have one service monthly on a Thursday evening. Many of my relatives from decades before I was born, are buried in the grounds.
	The Glaziers Arms, no longer trading, is where I drank and played pool for many years, and later celebrated my 18th birthday there, with my younger brother. There's one in every village, and this was the one. One evening, we were almost thrown out for singing Radiohead on the karaoke machine. When my grandfather died, one of the locals headbutted my cousin Howard for no apparent reason, and I still liked the place. Very odd.
	The Fighting Cocks. Usually more stringent with its age limits. Not so many memories from this one. My brother is in there a lot though.
	This lane runs from Bourne Road down to the Marketplace. I used to use it as a go-kart track. Most of my shoes from that time had a triangular wedge worn out of the soles at the back, from where I'd used them to brake. I don't remember ever being hurt, but I bet I was.
	The Methodist chapel. Home of many services relating to the Scouts, also choir rehearsals at one stage, and the local Guide troop.
	My old Primary School. I used to hopscotch just underneath the big window on the left.
	The Green. Home of one of Lincolnshire's best slides. Not that one, it's rubbish, the old one. As a child the swings seemed to hold a strange fascination. As an adolescent I was more fascinated by bottles of cider and chatting rubbish until midnight. On the swings, mind.
	Derelict building just outside the village. I don't know what it was for, nor have I ever asked. One day I'll go and have a closer look (without wrecking too many of the wheat plants, I hope).
	As you can see, we're well situated for several small towns, and a much better pub than either of the Corby ones, in the next village across.
	Corby from the top of the hill. The two tall trees on the left mark the back of my parents' garden, or they did until they sold the plot at the top of the garden. This is the view that I usually woke up to, when we would come back from long caravan holidays in France.
	The Coachman - formerly the Woodhouse Arms, or simply the Woodhouse. Once home to a transvestite, swingers-party-organising landlord with an oven in the back you could roast a whole pig in. Now, much more normal, and much duller for it. But allegedly a good place for a meal and a bed for the night. We didn't go here much.
	The Willoughby Gallery. In the Easter holidays as a student, I would occasionally study in the library here. It's a lovely building, well-maintained, and worth a visit if you're in the area.
	The Ron Dawson Memorial Hall. I once went camping with someone called Dawson, but I don't think it was Ron. Either way, this is where my uncle had his wedding reception, and to this day is the only place I've got properly off the ground with one of my kites.
	St John's Church and the old Village Hall. From the age of two, or something like that, I attended playgroup here. This is also where I correctly identified the village's Santa as being my grandfather in disguise. The real Santa was busy, he said later.
	The Fire Station. My father and brother are retained firefighters here. I once borrowed Dad's uniform for a New Year's Eve party, which I recommend to any young man for fancy dress. There's no pole, which I think is a shame.

Well, that wasn't nearly as soppy as I thought it would be. It's a nice place, and I'm glad to have been raised here. And I reckon there'll be some sort of family tie to the village for the rest of my life, so I had better like it!

Workin' 9 to half-5, what a way to make a livin'

I got a job. I'm a database analyst for one of the nation's leading magazine publishers, and currently based in the Peterborough area. I'll be back in London in a month. The people in the office are friendly and cheerful, and my boss is a man who recently did a skydive in a mankini. For charity, it should be noted. If I don't say that it was for charity, people have generally been concerned for my welfare. I've just finished my third day, and I'm beginning to feel useful and to understand what the company does, and what it expects of me.

In other news, my band (or rather, Esther's band, of which I am a member) played a gig at the Bull and Gate on Monday night, to a rapturous reception from an audience largely comprised of close friends. But you can tell when people are saying "No, you were really good" just to be nice, so I'm pretty sure we did ok. There will be video footage at some stage, and some good-quality photography seemed to be going on during the show too, so I look forward to seeing and sharing both.

In the meantime, here are a handful of lo-res band shots to give you a flavour of what we're doing.

I'm still here!

I've not written anything for about a month, and nothing worth reading for much longer - since I got back really. I am planning to write lots here, when I get my camera working again, when I know what's going on with my life. Almost as notes to myself for the future, but so you know what's happening, I've just been offered a job (through an agency, so I still don't know the details), I've joined a band with my excellent friend Esther, I've just got back from a weekend in the Alps, my forehead injury is now almost invisible, and I'm sat watching a programme about Stephen Fry, and my affection and admiration for the man is increasing minute by minute.

"He's going to do everything - I mean he'll end up running the UN, won't he?" Emma Thompson.
"Who knows? I mean, male prostitution is always an option?" Unidentified male.
"I think this country's incredibly lucky to have someone like Stephen" Prince Charles.
"He's a national treasure, and a personal treasure too. I share him with the nation" Hugh Laurie.

Rove McManus, the Australian talk show host, always asks his guests who they'd turn gay for. I'd turn gay for Stephen Fry, not through any attraction, but just because if he wanted, er, that sort of thing, I wouldn't want to deny him.