Back in 1996 when I was almost fourteen I went to see Toy Story at the cinema. I sat there and had a wondrous thought. “Someone does this for a living. Their job is to make animated movies. That’s what I want to do!” Coincidentally a couple of months later my mum heard something on the radio about animation and the National Centre of Computer Animation at Bournemouth University.

That was that. Before I’d started my GCSEs I knew what I was going to study at university and where I was going to study it. By the time I was choosing my A-Levels I’d been in touch with Phill Allen, course leader at the time, for advice on which subjects to go for. I applied to Bournemouth, had my interview, got my offer. Then I got my place and down to the south coast I went.

It scares me now that by the age of 14 I had decided that five years I would be in a lecture theatre at Bournemouth University studying Computer Visualisation & Animation. No wonder people who’ve known me that long think I know where I’m going in life.

For those of you that would like to see it, below is ‘Animus’ (or here if the video below has mysteriously disappeared) my major project from the final year of my degree. If you would to like browse other work from students visit the NCCA archive. My favourite two projects from the class of 2004 are Damian Hook East End Zombies and David Basalla The Capital

After more than four years of being so determined to do this degree, and then another three of studying and producing work, why am I not in a post-production company somewhere alongside my friends getting credits on The Dark Knight, Quantum of Solace or Harry Potter And The Half-Blood Prince?

Quite simply because I didn’t want to spend my days stuck in front of a computer. I love people. I’m not a detail person. I would have been the worst SFX artist in the world (that is an exaggeration but you know what I mean). I did want to be a producer. I think I have all the qualities that would have made me an amazing producer. But to do that straight out of uni I would have had to climb the ladder. Starting as a runner, earning minimum wage in central London and living in a cardboard box on Wardour Street in the few hours I had off. Not a sacrifice I was willing to make.

One company came very close to offering me exactly what I wanted back at the end of 2007. Starting off in HR and moving over to production. But unfortunately there are some bastards out there. After a number of promising emails and meetings over a couple of months, one day the offer simply vanished into thin air. The last I heard was that I would be receiving a contract within the fortnight to sign and return. But they got cold feet, my phone calls and emails went unanswered. To be honest I think I probably had a lucky escape.

I haven’t ruled out a return to film production or post-production in the future. It’s an exciting and interesting world. It’s also hard work and ruthless at times. Even after five years I can spot dodgy effects a mile off. An error of lighting or texture or simply bad animation annoys me. But I also get great joy when something is absolutely amazing. Visual effects and animation are in my blood, they always will be.

I will always love CGI and all that goes with it. One of my dreams is still to visit the Pixar studios. I’d love to spend a week there just watching people work and taking it all in.

Someone once told me that places at the NCCA were so sought after that I had wasted mine by not wanting to be a special effects artist when I finished. I disagree completely. I learned so much, I made amazing friends and to this day I still love visual effects. I don’t think it’s a waste at all.

That balance is what has made the decision to write this particular post so hard. I’m know people who read my blog vary from close friends to colleagues to complete strangers. I also know that there are certain things that one shouldn’t mention for fear of it destroying career prospects and/or reputation, not to mention people suddenly judging you and treating you differently because they have some additional information about you. Ultimately though for me I like to be as honest as I possibly can. And with the hope that my career will result in being paid to write in various capacities, then being ‘me’ shouldn’t hinder that too much.

Depression is part of my life. Whoosh… there you go, it’s out there. It’s a big part. I have to manage it (which I think I do a damn good job of most of the time considering most people aren’t aware it’s an affliction I have). At times it is a right royal pain in the backside, both for me and those close to me. But at the same time it’s been with me for half of my life (probably more but my first significant memory is when I was 13) and it’s shaped who I am today. In fact rather than a weakness it’s a strength. When I do have an episode the slippery slope down to the bottom can be a bit unpredictable and drawn out, but once I hit that lowest point I have the fastest turn around in history.

Last time it happened was the final straw in making my decision to leave my old job and leave London. I’d been a bit of a nightmare for weeks, but was still going to work and functioning until eventually one evening I just collapsed under the weight of it all. However within 24-48 hours I was dragging myself back out of it. Heading off to the doctors to find a way to deal with it and applying for jobs (the first job I applied for I got!)

So why the question of to tell or not to tell? Whilst I could probably go along and avoid a majority of people in my life knowing about it, I hate the pressure of amending and editing what I say about the past and present so that I don’t mention the ‘D’ word. I’m fed up of mysteriously turning up late for work once a fortnight because of a doctors appointment (I’m currently seeing a counsellor) or not being able to turn around and go ‘I’m sorry. I’m just having a crap day’.

I am aware that having now told the world (or the tiny weeny proportion of the world that reads this) that some people might decide to treat me differently or suddenly think I am incapable of doing something because of it. I won’t lie, there are lots of times when life isn’t easy and I have to battle with an overwhelming feeling of being too tired or having no motivation whatsoever. But throughout my life I have achieved a hell of a lot and it depression has never stopped me doing something that was really important to me, or that really had to be done.

If I had a physical disability it would be out there for everyone to see. I wouldn’t have to make this choice. Even if I suffered from dyslexia or ADHD it would probably seem more acceptable as these are now mainstream conditions that are spoken about in every day life. I shouldn’t have to keep this a secret, like I felt I had to for the three years in my previous job (apart from Occupational Health) but if I had been open about it I don’t think I would have had the opportunities I did. Perceptions of depression need to change. I think a lot of people (including myself at times) are put in situations that make the depression worse by being unable to speak about it or being discriminated because of it.

Finally I am able to get support through counselling, and hopefully other therapies now I’m out of London (where the NHS is so overstretched there is no money for therapy, only drugs.) I am also in a position to realise that I am fed up of trying to fit in with the world and ‘normality’ (which is a myth that doesn’t really exist anyway!) instead I am day by day working away to find out how I can be myself and make the most of my abilities in this crazy diverse abnormal world!

Stills from my an animation project in 2003 as part of the 2nd year of my degree (BA Hons Computer Visualisation & Animation from the NCCA at Bournemouth University) following a bad bout of depression

I have always been proud of my completely geeky and random interest in the most abstract of things. Even when the thirst for knowledge strikes me in the middle of the night (I once got up at 3am because I HAD to know whether Bournemouth got it name because it was the mouth of the River Bourne. It is.)

Yesterday when I discovered Wolfram Alpha I was far too excited, the excitement lasted longer than my rant about National Express seat charges, though won’t quite beat shopping at DVF in New York last year. Every time I have been on Wolfram Alpha in the past 24 hours (I have probably ramped up their visitor stats!) I have become more and more amazed at the kind of information I can find… things I never thought I needed to know are fascinating. I will never have to go without data and statistics again!

I’ve already discovered that I am 9492 days old today (who’s up for celebrating my 10000th day on Saturday 9th October 2010?) and that Southport has over twice the population of Durham.

Last week I was so annoyed with the over hyped Swine Flu issue I wanted to find out the deaths from Swine Flu vs. Malaria, to make a point about how ridiculous the ‘pandemic’ fear was, but even with the power of Google I couldn’t. Now thanks to Wolfram Alpha I know it’s 910707 per year… that’s 341827 deaths from malaria to date in 2009 compared to 69 deaths from Swine Flu.

I better curb the amount of time I spend on the site otherwise I’ll find myself ditching fiction to entertain people with numbers and facts instead!

Once in Bournemouth, after a quick shower and change, we headed out for Tapas and I started really relaxing (wine and sangria does that for you) and then onto Godskitchen at the BIC.

Now I was slightly concerned that I wouldn’t be able to hack a night of dancing, it had been five years since my last night of this type (House, trance that kind of stuff) and I was not sure I still had the stamina for it. Secondly I had been up since ridiculously early, and I would be expected to still be dancing nearly twenty-four hours since I had last seen a bed! As soon as I got in there the music sorted me out, I felt five years younger! However I was aware that the tiredness might creep in at any point so I decided to swap the alcohol for water, as ending up hunched over a toilet later on in the evening was not the desired outcome of the night.

Somewhere not too long after midnight I started to flail, I was really tired and about to give up when thankfully my positive mental attitude kicked in (it’s good like that). I was determined to get through the tiredness, and that I did. By the time Paul Van Dyk hit the decks I was back on the dancefloor, glowsticks being flung in every direction in full force.

Around 4am I decided that it would probably be most sensible to head back to the hotel, we had to be out of our room by 10am and then I would be spending a couple of days with S’s parents, as it was I was likely to be in a half human state but I’d rather turn up like that then completely zombified. Three of us headed back, and I slept soundly (apart from being woken up to let the other three in an hour and a half later) until 9.45am when I woke up and realised I had slept through my alarm and only had 15 minutes to get out of the room!

Funnily enough that didn’t happen. But we did get out by 10.30am and the hotel manager didn’t mind too much. Before Southampton I had made a request to S that I get at least half an hour on the beach having missed out on the opportunity the day before. So the three of us, S, her friend Jim and I headed down to the beach for a bit of sunshine (and in Jim’s case a chance for a few more minutes of sleep!). It was only my second time in Bournemouth since I had moved away, but the first time I actually felt like a tourist. As we walked down to the beach it looked amazing, whilst we stood above the cliffs of Westbourne I looked at the bay, with the sunshine (and not too many tourists) it was absolutely beautiful. After admiring the view the next touristy thing I did was buy my housemate a present. I was feeling very guilty, as I had promised to do the washing up before I left, and with work and all I hadn’t had time. I knew it was lame but I was hoping that a brightly coloured kids beach windmill thingy and a stick of rock (along with the promise of doing washing up all week) would earn me some forgiveness.

We settled on the beach, with our cans fosters (yes I know it was 11am, but there’s nothing like hair of the dog to cure lack of sleep) and had a good natter whilst Jim slept. We also had a little paddle (the sea was bloody freezing though!) and after 45 minutes decided to head off as I was becoming a not very attractive pink colour. If only I tanned!

On to Southampton, where we were greeted with a BBQ prepared by S’s parents, which was exactly what we needed. Being Easter weekend her parents did Easter egg distribution (they’d even bought one for me, so nice of them!) and then S’s birthday presents. Oh yes, I forgot that bit, the whole reason I had organised to spend this weekend with S was because it was her birthday and in the past I have made a regular habit of managing to miss birthday celebrations of any kind for her. I had bought her the inspired gift of ‘How to Walk in High Heels’… a nod to a slip up she’d had in Piccadilly Circus a few weeks earlier that had resulted in a trip to A&E the following day (and a diagnosis of severely sprained ankle!!!). I also hoped it might educate her a bit in the likes of Manolo Blahnik so that we could have meaningful shoe conversations one day in the future.

Monday was equally as lovely, with some more of S’s family coming for a roast dinner, which was absolutely divine. The only down point was that I couldn’t drink because of the drive home, but I did have a small glass of champagne as it would just have been rude to say no to that! Dinner was finished off with homemade profiteroles… a mountain of them, which I ate far too many of, but they were delicious. I had never considered making profiteroles before (they come out of boxes from supermarkets don’t they?!) but I may try it out myself (after many many gym sessions working off the last lot!)

Eventually I headed back to London, and visited my first service station (well ok, I have been to lots in my time, but I have never been the one driving!). I had forgotten to go to the toilet before I left, but as a result discovered the joys of driving by yourself, you can stop when you want and spend as much time having a cup of tea as you want without anyone moaning that ‘we really should be moving again by now’.

I returned in one piece and immediately did the washing up, so when my housemate got in there was a clean kitchen and silly beach presents. I am pleased to say I have been forgiven (although I don’t think she was in a mood with me about it anyway, I must have just had paranoia from my own guilt!)