Photo by Suzi Livingstone.
Location: The Waldorf Hilton, Aldwych, Dec 24th 2006.
Preparing to write a Christmas Message, I look back at diary entries from the last few Decembers only to discover I’d not bothered with an actual Message for a couple of years. Just photos by way of a Christmas Card to you, Dear Reader, which is rather lazy. My memory is becoming so poor that this diary is fast becoming a lifeline, reminding me not only what I have or haven’t done, but who I actually appear to be.
Well, today I feel rather cat-like. So this is A Cat’s Christmas Message.
In the past year I’ve felt more than ever like a cat-like guest at the gatherings of others. Drifting from group to group, appearing uninvited, but not ejected. Indulged, praised, fed and watered like a child-substitute – often by those without children (people with offspring rarely seek to know me) – and I do my utmost to show my gratitude by appearing well-groomed. Kicked by some strangers, stroked by others. A space-wasting parasite to some, a Good Value Guest to others. A spy of sorts, though a spy who works for no one and is happy to be a calming confidante. I slip into rooms and worlds, mostly silent and keen to not be trodden on. I’m lazy, I spend far too much time asleep, and far too much time wandering aimlessly around the streets. Aloof and alone, neither happy nor sad. Thinking about things, or just content with existing. The days are as empty as I want them to be: I’m always confident I’ll get an invite to something. Today it’s Lucy Madison & Dale Shaw’s Christmas Day Drinks & Games do at their Art Deco flat in Highgate Village. I’ll go along, though not till Doctor Who finishes. Everything, even substitute cats, must stop for Doctor Who.
I prowled in and out of the real world in May, standing as a Green Party candidate for the local council elections. And I was fascinated at seeing first hand how the voting slips are counted – in a huge hall (at Alexandra Palace), by hand, with pens and paper; and not a single computer in sight. Contrast that with my other attempt to leave a dent on the real world in 2006 – appearing on a BBC1 documentary about blogging and the internet. My computerless neighbour said to me in the street the next day, ‘Saw you on the TV last night. I didn’t realise you liked computers.’
She reminded me that the Internet still only matters to those to whom it matters. And of course, the answer is I’m not a computer sort of person at all. Which is why I switched to a Mac this year – the computer for those who use the thing as a vehicle to reach a destination. Not for those who like computers per se. A means to an end, not an end in itself. These days, new computer games are made either for proper games consoles or for PCs. Which suits me.
Thomas Sutcliffe reviewed the documentary in his TV review column for the Independent:
The web itself supplies perspective. When I Googled my way to the online diary of Dickon Edwards, a cravated dandy who represents the new frontier of the blog, it turned out that he was prepared to say what [the programme] wasn’t about the chief attraction of this hi-tech form of vanity publishing: ‘The main reason I’m writing a diary online is because no one has employed me to do it in print.’
Indeed. Though that is me being a little harsh on myself: with my website statistics, I can point to thousands of regular readers who haven’t just stumbled upon these words by mistake. Vanity publishing usually has a suspected readership of one.
And yes, although I do moan about never being paid, I am still pleased to write here unfettered and unedited, able to reach people anywhere instantly, and have every past entry available to them as well. Doubtless Mr Sutcliffe was paid for his words – including the quote he lifted from my diary – but once the day of publication is past, his review could only be accessed by physically entering a public reference library which keeps old newspapers. Unlike The Guardian, The Times and the Telegraph, the Independent doesn’t archive its full content online.
It should also be noted that his TV review column appeared above a section called ‘YOU Write The Reviews’, where Independent readers are encouraged to email in their accounts of concerts they’ve been to, presumably for no payment. A sign of the times.
Ultimately, I’d rather be available to just be read, above anything else. The lack of money is a pain, but I can’t complain when I’m treated so well in all other respects. I’m regularly treated to food and drink and even clothes from kind friends and readers. I’m writing this while wearing a tie sent by a reader from Portugal.
Likewise, it’s obviously a shame I wasn’t paid for appearing on TV, or for writing a piece in the well-marketed Decadent Handbook, a piece which I’ve since discovered has been excerpted by Mojo Magazine (without asking me, though I’d have said yes). But I’m in no position to grumble. In both instances I was fed and watered and given shelter and cat treats (a bottle of absinthe and a copy of the book from Dedalus Books; taxis, tea at Maison Bertaux and a DVD of the show from the BBC). And as the cliche goes, it’s all good experience and looks good on my CV. But at the age of 35 and thus having lived a fair amount of the Vitae on my Curriculum, I do worry if the day will ever come when I stop doing unpaid work for ‘the experience’ and actually earn a living BECAUSE of my being ‘experienced’. Oh, that dreaded phrase ‘Work Experience’. Am I really still to be given Work Experience, and never be given Work? Well, of course, this means I have to pull my finger out and actually work a lot harder to prove I can deliver. I dread my gravestone reading: ‘Here Lies Dickon Edwards – Well, At Least It’s Good Experience.’
Still, the New Year includes a meeting with a TV company about new projects, so fingers and paws crossed. Till then, thank you to all those who give to this constant taker, this beggar with a choice, this lazy decorative cat that must evolve into a productive working human.
A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO YOU.
Dickon Edwards
Highgate, London.
