I am in a period of adjustment. I finished at work on Monday, and am now on leave until the end of the month, when my employment officially ends.
How does it feel?
It feels weird, mostly. I don't think it will actually sink in for a couple of weeks that I no longer have a job. I'm trying to resist the temptation to either panic or completely freak out*, both of which have threatened in the last couple of days. Instead, I am slowly sorting out my study, and emptying my handbag and rucksack of stuff I don't need to carry around any more every day.
I took my season ticket back to the railway station on Tuesday morning. The nice man who offered to make us tea was on duty.
"Morning," I said. "Can I cash in my season ticket please?"
"Ooh!" he said. "Have you left your job now?"
"Yes I have! Yay!" I did a little dance of joy. The ticket man did a little dance of joy behind the glass screen. His young trainee emerged from round the back somewhere and did a little dance of joy with us too.
An old lady walked in and we all stopped, embarrassed. The young trainee vanished round the back, never to be seen again.
I had to fill in many complicated forms, and hand over my season ticket - still with about £2500 left on it - and my long term parking ticket, and was assured that I would be told by the end of the week how much I was going to get refunded. I hope it's loads. Well, I'm practically unemployed now.
The last day in the office was very strange too.
I'd organised a farewell lunch at the local Wagamamas for some of my colleagues, and most of them were able to come along, including one or two who left the Department a while back, which was lovely. Before lunch I did a bit of desultory work-related stuff, chatted to people and emptied out my locker. Lunch was prolonged and animated, so I thoroughly enjoyed it, then back to the office for the last couple of hours before I could decently head home.
I was down on the first floor, chatting to a colleague, who had very kindly got me a farewell gift. As we sat there, one of my colleagues from the sixth floor, where I sat, came rushing through, looking for me. She was in a bit of a tizz.
I waved to her and she came over, all out of breath and anxious.
"You need to come back upstairs!" she said.
"Oh? What's the matter?"
"Um...you just need to come back upstairs." Bless.
Sure enough, when I arrived back at my desk, the entire team were assembled, waiting for me. The boss quickly came back from his end of the office and gave a flattering, if embarrassing, speech about how much help I'd been and how much I'd be missed. Always nice to hear. Then they gave me a huge bag of loot. How splendid.
I managed to say thank you and good luck and goodbye (I think, I actually can't really remember much of what I said) without blubbing like a great big girl, which had been a bit of a worry.
And then I went home. Handed in my security pass - first time in 23 years I haven't had one of those in my handbag - and my laptop, and left the building.
Mr WithaY had sorted out a very fine supper and a bottle of Champagne** so we sat together and drank that, and I showed him all my fab gifts, and told him how nice everyone had been.
And now I am looking at what to do next. Apart from stabbing futiley at molehills with a garden fork, I mean. Bastard.
Tell you one thing though. I am LOVING not getting up before 6am to catch the train. Oh yes indeedy.
*that's when I run in circles like Daffy Duck with his hair on fire, shrieking. It's not pretty.
**Lidl's finest - can't go wrong
Showing posts with label tiresome work drudgery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tiresome work drudgery. Show all posts
Thursday, 26 May 2011
Saturday, 21 May 2011
Countdown
I have only one more day of work left. Well, one more day - Monday - in the office, and then I am on leave until the end of the month, when my employment with Her Majesty ends officially.
Yesterday I was almost entirely lazy, dealing with a couple of minor issues via email, and spending the rest of my time electronically filing stuff where other people will be able to find it after I've gone. At about half past three, I logged off, shut down my laptop, and then packed it back in its case, ready to be returned to the office on Monday.
I may have heaved a deep, satisfied sigh as I did so.
After that, while waiting for my gorgeous guitar teacher to arrive, I tidied and rearranged my study, which feels much bigger now that the work ephemera is gone. I've chucked out* all the work-related papers I had kicking around, and the draft copies of legislation that I used to have to refer to. And hey, there's loads of space on the shelves all of a sudden.
I've also packed my Rickenbacker into its case and stashed it under the bed, freeing up a large gap in here. I will, of course, soon fill that gap with other stuff, but just for today I am enjoying the sense of light and air that has been manifest in here since I put my laptop away.
Today I also cleaned under our bed. Brrrr. That's a task you face with a steely determination and a recently-emptied hoover, I can tell you.
The things I found included:
Mr WithaY's scuba gear was also under there, but I am terrified of his air tanks so I never touch those. He moved them all out so I could hoover.
It's all been cleaned, sorted and replaced or removed, and there is also room for my posh guitar and stand under there now. Marvellous.
Tonight, to celebrate, we have some friends coming over for dinner. It was supposed to be a casual supper but, as is our wont, it has escalated into something resembling a Fifteenth Century Venetian banquet. With port.
Other news: My iPhone is buggered. I need to replace it but a new handset will cost me over £100. Is it worth biting the bullet and getting an iPhone 4? Suggestions welcome.
*Burned. I'm not leaving work stuff in the bins where just anyone could find it and sell it to the tabloids.
Yesterday I was almost entirely lazy, dealing with a couple of minor issues via email, and spending the rest of my time electronically filing stuff where other people will be able to find it after I've gone. At about half past three, I logged off, shut down my laptop, and then packed it back in its case, ready to be returned to the office on Monday.
I may have heaved a deep, satisfied sigh as I did so.
After that, while waiting for my gorgeous guitar teacher to arrive, I tidied and rearranged my study, which feels much bigger now that the work ephemera is gone. I've chucked out* all the work-related papers I had kicking around, and the draft copies of legislation that I used to have to refer to. And hey, there's loads of space on the shelves all of a sudden.
I've also packed my Rickenbacker into its case and stashed it under the bed, freeing up a large gap in here. I will, of course, soon fill that gap with other stuff, but just for today I am enjoying the sense of light and air that has been manifest in here since I put my laptop away.
Today I also cleaned under our bed. Brrrr. That's a task you face with a steely determination and a recently-emptied hoover, I can tell you.
The things I found included:
- A box full of scarves, bags and evening gloves
- A yoga mat
- A box of assorted hair implements - velcro rollers, clips, hairdryer attachements for hairdryers I don't own
- A pair of funky sandals I had forgotten I owned, probably bought the last time we were in America
- Three rucksacks of varying sizes, all grey and fluffy with dust
Mr WithaY's scuba gear was also under there, but I am terrified of his air tanks so I never touch those. He moved them all out so I could hoover.
It's all been cleaned, sorted and replaced or removed, and there is also room for my posh guitar and stand under there now. Marvellous.
Tonight, to celebrate, we have some friends coming over for dinner. It was supposed to be a casual supper but, as is our wont, it has escalated into something resembling a Fifteenth Century Venetian banquet. With port.
Other news: My iPhone is buggered. I need to replace it but a new handset will cost me over £100. Is it worth biting the bullet and getting an iPhone 4? Suggestions welcome.
*Burned. I'm not leaving work stuff in the bins where just anyone could find it and sell it to the tabloids.
Saturday, 5 March 2011
The times they are a-changing
It's all change here at the moment. I found out this week that my request for early release from work has been approved by the powers that be, and that the end of May will therefore see me leaving the Civil Service.
I am SO excited.
Inspired by this, and also by the fact that his own job has become increasingly tiresome over the last couple of years, Mr WithaY has thrown caution to the winds, his hat into the ring and his fate upon the bosom of the gods, and applied for early release as well.
He finds out in July, as there are about 100 times more people being hoofed out of his Department than out of mine, so the process will take much longer. If successful he will be plodding forth into the snowy wastes with his little bindle on his shoulder in October.
But where will we go? What will we do? Will we be begging for scraps outside the pub of a lunchtime, and busking for small change in Bath city centre on a Saturday?
Quite possibly, yes.
However, my immediate plan is to take the summer off - I can't wait - and take some time to consider what I want to do with myself. I have already started looking at what jobs are around and trying not to automatically consider all the stuff that is exactly like what I'm already doing.
It's like shoe shopping. Whenever I go shoe shopping, I end up buying a pair of shoes very much like the ones I am already wearing. I can't help it. And it seems that job window-shopping is the same.
I reckon I could find a job pretty quickly, I always have in the past, and am usually pretty fortunate at interviews. I've never been unemployed, so perhaps I am over-complacent. I could get a temping job somewhere, doing office-y admin-y stuff, but I want to change direction. I went into the Civil Service more or less by accident, as a "well, I need a job and this will do for now" stopgap, and then stayed there for years. And years. And years.
This is my chance to change my life in a big way. I am grabbing it with both hands. And all my feet.
We were discussing it the other night, and Mr WithaY made the point that unless we ever won the lottery (a remote prospect at best) we'll never be in a position where we have a reasonable lump sum come into our possession. So, how marvellous, how exciting, how fortunate, that we can ask ourselves "what would we like to do?" and not "What do we have to do?"
Of course things would be different if we had children to think about, or huge debts to manage, or fears about being able to provide for ourselves in the future, but we don't, so we can both face whatever is coming our way with excitement, not anxiety.
I am loving it. For the first time in a very long time - since I left home to go to college I think - I feel as though things are going to change in a big way, anything is possible, a new vista is opening up for me. God. It is fucking brilliant.
Other news: Mr WithaY made the local paper this week, as a "member of the public" who called the police when the garage was being robbed. Fame at last.
Also, today we bought a cold frame at Lidl. It has been assembled in the back garden and we are planning to plant aubergines. Or maybe sweet peppers. Something tasty will be grown in there. We also bought seeds for the vegetable garden, mostly French beans, courgettes and squashes. Or is it squash? Anyhoo. I wanted carrot seeds but Lidl was disappointingly short in the carrot department*. I shall go to the garden centre tomorrow and get a packet or two.
This week has seen the worst train chaos I have had to deal with since I started working in London. I left work early on Monday night, wanting to scamper home to tell Mr WithaY that I had my release date. I got to Waterloo thinking I would be in time to catch the 4:50 train...it was cancelled.
Ah well, I could get the 5:20. Cancelled. Fuck.
Trying to be clever, I got on a train that was headed for Basingstoke, according to the information board, thinking I could get a local train to Salisbury from there and then either get Mr WithaY to come and pick me up, or get the train back to where my car was parked. Lateral thinker, me.
The commuter chaps around me were very helpful, finding me a seat and helping me stow my bags and coat. I settled down and smiled at them, asking what time we were due at Basingstoke.
"We're not going to Basingstoke, love."
"No...first stop is Winchester."
I was horrified, and had to gather up all my stuff and get OFF the train in a rush, for fear of ending up halfway across the country from where I needed to be. Gah. They were lovely, though, asking me if I wanted them to save my seat in case I came back. I declined. I have a feeling we'd all be planning a holiday together by now if I'd said yes.
Back to the concourse, to look sadly at the Board Of Many Delays.
O-kay...the 5:50? Delayed. But on the platform. I got aboard and settled in grimly, waiting for the train to leave, or death, whichever came first.
The train left.
I got home at almost 9pm, having left the office just after 4. Almost five fucking hours.
I worked at home on Tuesday and Wednesday, then up to London again on Thursday. The train was on time, but the further along the journey we went, the slower it got. Eventually, at the time we were supposed to be arriving at Waterloo, we got to Surbiton. The guard told us the train was terminating there, and we all had to get out. Fucks sake.
Twenty minutes of standing on a bleak platform, icy winds blowing through from Siberia, followed. Several trains chugged through without stopping, until a local train halted. Everyone piled aboard, and we made our way painfully slowly into Waterloo, stopping at every signal along the way. We got there an over hour late, which meant I got to work over four hours after leaving home, cold, stressed, grumpy and tousled.
I am unutterably happy that this will end in a few short weeks.
*That sounds like a euphemism: "He's a nice bloke, but disappointingly short in the carrot department."
I am SO excited.
Inspired by this, and also by the fact that his own job has become increasingly tiresome over the last couple of years, Mr WithaY has thrown caution to the winds, his hat into the ring and his fate upon the bosom of the gods, and applied for early release as well.
He finds out in July, as there are about 100 times more people being hoofed out of his Department than out of mine, so the process will take much longer. If successful he will be plodding forth into the snowy wastes with his little bindle on his shoulder in October.
But where will we go? What will we do? Will we be begging for scraps outside the pub of a lunchtime, and busking for small change in Bath city centre on a Saturday?
Quite possibly, yes.
However, my immediate plan is to take the summer off - I can't wait - and take some time to consider what I want to do with myself. I have already started looking at what jobs are around and trying not to automatically consider all the stuff that is exactly like what I'm already doing.
It's like shoe shopping. Whenever I go shoe shopping, I end up buying a pair of shoes very much like the ones I am already wearing. I can't help it. And it seems that job window-shopping is the same.
I reckon I could find a job pretty quickly, I always have in the past, and am usually pretty fortunate at interviews. I've never been unemployed, so perhaps I am over-complacent. I could get a temping job somewhere, doing office-y admin-y stuff, but I want to change direction. I went into the Civil Service more or less by accident, as a "well, I need a job and this will do for now" stopgap, and then stayed there for years. And years. And years.
This is my chance to change my life in a big way. I am grabbing it with both hands. And all my feet.
We were discussing it the other night, and Mr WithaY made the point that unless we ever won the lottery (a remote prospect at best) we'll never be in a position where we have a reasonable lump sum come into our possession. So, how marvellous, how exciting, how fortunate, that we can ask ourselves "what would we like to do?" and not "What do we have to do?"
Of course things would be different if we had children to think about, or huge debts to manage, or fears about being able to provide for ourselves in the future, but we don't, so we can both face whatever is coming our way with excitement, not anxiety.
I am loving it. For the first time in a very long time - since I left home to go to college I think - I feel as though things are going to change in a big way, anything is possible, a new vista is opening up for me. God. It is fucking brilliant.
Other news: Mr WithaY made the local paper this week, as a "member of the public" who called the police when the garage was being robbed. Fame at last.
Also, today we bought a cold frame at Lidl. It has been assembled in the back garden and we are planning to plant aubergines. Or maybe sweet peppers. Something tasty will be grown in there. We also bought seeds for the vegetable garden, mostly French beans, courgettes and squashes. Or is it squash? Anyhoo. I wanted carrot seeds but Lidl was disappointingly short in the carrot department*. I shall go to the garden centre tomorrow and get a packet or two.
This week has seen the worst train chaos I have had to deal with since I started working in London. I left work early on Monday night, wanting to scamper home to tell Mr WithaY that I had my release date. I got to Waterloo thinking I would be in time to catch the 4:50 train...it was cancelled.
Ah well, I could get the 5:20. Cancelled. Fuck.
Trying to be clever, I got on a train that was headed for Basingstoke, according to the information board, thinking I could get a local train to Salisbury from there and then either get Mr WithaY to come and pick me up, or get the train back to where my car was parked. Lateral thinker, me.
The commuter chaps around me were very helpful, finding me a seat and helping me stow my bags and coat. I settled down and smiled at them, asking what time we were due at Basingstoke.
"We're not going to Basingstoke, love."
"No...first stop is Winchester."
I was horrified, and had to gather up all my stuff and get OFF the train in a rush, for fear of ending up halfway across the country from where I needed to be. Gah. They were lovely, though, asking me if I wanted them to save my seat in case I came back. I declined. I have a feeling we'd all be planning a holiday together by now if I'd said yes.
Back to the concourse, to look sadly at the Board Of Many Delays.
O-kay...the 5:50? Delayed. But on the platform. I got aboard and settled in grimly, waiting for the train to leave, or death, whichever came first.
The train left.
I got home at almost 9pm, having left the office just after 4. Almost five fucking hours.
I worked at home on Tuesday and Wednesday, then up to London again on Thursday. The train was on time, but the further along the journey we went, the slower it got. Eventually, at the time we were supposed to be arriving at Waterloo, we got to Surbiton. The guard told us the train was terminating there, and we all had to get out. Fucks sake.
Twenty minutes of standing on a bleak platform, icy winds blowing through from Siberia, followed. Several trains chugged through without stopping, until a local train halted. Everyone piled aboard, and we made our way painfully slowly into Waterloo, stopping at every signal along the way. We got there an over hour late, which meant I got to work over four hours after leaving home, cold, stressed, grumpy and tousled.
I am unutterably happy that this will end in a few short weeks.
*That sounds like a euphemism: "He's a nice bloke, but disappointingly short in the carrot department."
Thursday, 3 February 2011
Tired and emotional
I'm writing this from my sickbed, for a nice change. Mr WithaY has emigrated into the spare room so he can have his very own sickbed. In fact, in a bizarre one-upmanship stunt, he was actually sick a little while ago, while I am merely laid low with a blinding headache, intermittent chills and an increasing amount of snot.
It's lovely at our house. I can feel your envy from here. Or is that just another temperature spike?
I was feeling a bit weird earlier in the week, but put it down to tiredness and intellectual burnout, as I had been dealing with huge terrifying spreadsheets for days.
As an aside, how did I end up doing scary finance, exactly? I have, more than once, mentioned my maths blind spot on this blog. If the whole country crashes deeper into the depths of depression, possibly exploding in a huge fireball of even more debt, I have a nagging fear it might be all my fault. Those pesky spreadsheets.
Anyway. Whining about ailments aside, it's been an action-packed week so far.
Monday went like this. I have abbreviated it for you, so as to spare you the unrelenting tedium that is my average working day.
Oh fuck no is that the time drive drive drive train train train train bus work work work spreadsheets work complicated formulae work work meetings work lunch from M&S work work TUBE gah! train lovely Middle Sis's house for dinner.
They're doing something complicated to the escalators at Victoria station. Apparently we should "avoid the station between 4pm and 8pm" i.e. throughout the entire evening commute. Yeah right. There's a one way system in place for the weary travellers. You have to join the end of a massive snake of people, through the booking hall, across past the barriers, up the stairs, through the main overground part of the station, down some other stairs, back past the barriers but on the other side, then finally through the ticket barriers and down to the underground platforms. It took about 15 minutes, all told.
I'm jolly glad I don't have to endure that every day.
I was going to brag about the pie I made for dinner, but since Mr WithaY was sick I've rather lost heart.
I hope we both feel better tomorrow.
It's lovely at our house. I can feel your envy from here. Or is that just another temperature spike?
I was feeling a bit weird earlier in the week, but put it down to tiredness and intellectual burnout, as I had been dealing with huge terrifying spreadsheets for days.
As an aside, how did I end up doing scary finance, exactly? I have, more than once, mentioned my maths blind spot on this blog. If the whole country crashes deeper into the depths of depression, possibly exploding in a huge fireball of even more debt, I have a nagging fear it might be all my fault. Those pesky spreadsheets.
Anyway. Whining about ailments aside, it's been an action-packed week so far.
Monday went like this. I have abbreviated it for you, so as to spare you the unrelenting tedium that is my average working day.
Oh fuck no is that the time drive drive drive train train train train bus work work work spreadsheets work complicated formulae work work meetings work lunch from M&S work work TUBE gah! train lovely Middle Sis's house for dinner.
They're doing something complicated to the escalators at Victoria station. Apparently we should "avoid the station between 4pm and 8pm" i.e. throughout the entire evening commute. Yeah right. There's a one way system in place for the weary travellers. You have to join the end of a massive snake of people, through the booking hall, across past the barriers, up the stairs, through the main overground part of the station, down some other stairs, back past the barriers but on the other side, then finally through the ticket barriers and down to the underground platforms. It took about 15 minutes, all told.
I'm jolly glad I don't have to endure that every day.
I was going to brag about the pie I made for dinner, but since Mr WithaY was sick I've rather lost heart.
I hope we both feel better tomorrow.
Sunday, 30 January 2011
Running Free
An interesting few days, recently. To summarise:
1) Work. I have submitted an application for early release from my job as part of the HUGE cuts to the public sector that the Government is implementing. If my application is accepted, I will, on May 31st this year, leave Her Majesty's employ after twenty two and a half years, and be released back into the wild. I am tremendously excited at the prospect.
I joined the Department of Secrecy a few months after I graduated, having taken the Civil Service entrance exam the week after my finals, and then worked like a SLAVE for them for twenty years. Twenty. Jesus.
Two years ago, as regular longstanding readers will already know, I transferred to the Department of Less Secrecy and More Cement up in London, to see what working in a Whitehall job was like.
I can report that it's busy, demanding, interesting and sometimes a bit scary. Plus you see Ministers in the lifts, and there are some fab shops really close to the office.
However, the last two years have, coincidentally, been crammed with some very bad stuff, including the (now-resolved) SSFH. We also had Mr WithaY's horrible finger-lopping accident, several loved ones being very ill indeed, and me having the Black Lung on and off for what felt like the entire time.
Dealing with all of that, as well as a 3 hour each-way commute to the office is proving to be just too much, and as a result my sick record for the last 2 years is appalling. I honestly think the early mornings and hellish travelling will kill me, so it's time for a change. This is the perfect opportunity.
Fingers crossed that I get gently coaxed out of the cage in May, and am set free to scamper into the woods, wagging my tail and sniffing at the warm Spring air.
I have no idea what I will do with my life when I stop being a corporate drone, by the way.
Suggestions are welcome.
2) Family. Mother in law WithaY was here for a visit last weekend. She had to go to a funeral, sadly, so was over from her chic pad in the South of France for a few days. It was nice to see her, as we don't get to visit as often as we'd like. She was bored after a few hours, and took to wandering into the kitchen while I was making dinner, demanding some ironing to do. I ordered her back to the sofa with a cup of tea, but it was a close-run thing. At one point I thought I might have to use a broom to shoo her away.
Yesterday I went down to Sussex to visit my lovely Mum, and also saw Youngest Sis and the two younger nephews. We all went out for a Chinese lunch, to the same place we went to for the big birthday celebration almost a year ago. There was a flyer on the table advertising a forthcoming Chinese New Year evening there, which included a Lion Dance among the cabaret attractions. It's not a very big restaurant. I'd love to see how they manage it in the space available.
3) Birthday celebrations. Yes, today is my birthday. Again.
Following the slight gift-giving hiccup on Christmas Day, Mr WithaY has gone to a lot of trouble to make today very special for me. He told me yesterday evening that he had invited some of our friends over for "birthday tea" this afternoon. I asked what I needed to bake. I was told "You don't have to do anything. It's all organised." And it was. He had bought the ingredients to make:
Smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches
Marmite and watercress sandwiches
Scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream
Hot buttered crumpets
But the piece de resistance was the cake. A huge, chocolate, fuck-off, surprise birthday cake.
Look...
I was so impressed by this that I had to deploy my shiny cake stand for the scones. Magnificent, no?
And, hey, is that a CAKE there in the foreground?
The little house behind the flowers was a birthday gift from Mother in law WithaY. It's a bumble bee house, and when the weather gets warmer I will find a sunny sheltered spot in the garden, put it out there, and hopefully attract bumble bees to nest in it. She was puzzled when she found out that I was given an annual membership to the Bumble Bee Conservation Trust last year as a gift, but was keen to join in I think, hence the house.
And tomorrow night I am visiting Middle Sister, who has hinted there may be baklava. Wonder how things will go at the weigh-in this week. Heh.
Other news: I met a nice elderly lady on the bus last week who was wearing a huge, gorgeous fur coat and hat.
Me: That coat looks lovely and warm.
Nice elderly lady: Yes. I've been to a funeral down in Brighton all afternoon, and it was freezing cold, so it was the perfect thing to wear.
Me: I can imagine. And it's such a lovely colour. Do people ever comment on it?
Nice elderly lady: Yes, I have had people tell me I shouldn't wear fur. I tell them it's not real.
Me: Ha! Do they believe you?
Nice elderly lady: Well, it isn't real. It's not WILD mink.
She was a card.
1) Work. I have submitted an application for early release from my job as part of the HUGE cuts to the public sector that the Government is implementing. If my application is accepted, I will, on May 31st this year, leave Her Majesty's employ after twenty two and a half years, and be released back into the wild. I am tremendously excited at the prospect.
I joined the Department of Secrecy a few months after I graduated, having taken the Civil Service entrance exam the week after my finals, and then worked like a SLAVE for them for twenty years. Twenty. Jesus.
Two years ago, as regular longstanding readers will already know, I transferred to the Department of Less Secrecy and More Cement up in London, to see what working in a Whitehall job was like.
I can report that it's busy, demanding, interesting and sometimes a bit scary. Plus you see Ministers in the lifts, and there are some fab shops really close to the office.
However, the last two years have, coincidentally, been crammed with some very bad stuff, including the (now-resolved) SSFH. We also had Mr WithaY's horrible finger-lopping accident, several loved ones being very ill indeed, and me having the Black Lung on and off for what felt like the entire time.
Dealing with all of that, as well as a 3 hour each-way commute to the office is proving to be just too much, and as a result my sick record for the last 2 years is appalling. I honestly think the early mornings and hellish travelling will kill me, so it's time for a change. This is the perfect opportunity.
Fingers crossed that I get gently coaxed out of the cage in May, and am set free to scamper into the woods, wagging my tail and sniffing at the warm Spring air.
I have no idea what I will do with my life when I stop being a corporate drone, by the way.
Suggestions are welcome.
2) Family. Mother in law WithaY was here for a visit last weekend. She had to go to a funeral, sadly, so was over from her chic pad in the South of France for a few days. It was nice to see her, as we don't get to visit as often as we'd like. She was bored after a few hours, and took to wandering into the kitchen while I was making dinner, demanding some ironing to do. I ordered her back to the sofa with a cup of tea, but it was a close-run thing. At one point I thought I might have to use a broom to shoo her away.
Yesterday I went down to Sussex to visit my lovely Mum, and also saw Youngest Sis and the two younger nephews. We all went out for a Chinese lunch, to the same place we went to for the big birthday celebration almost a year ago. There was a flyer on the table advertising a forthcoming Chinese New Year evening there, which included a Lion Dance among the cabaret attractions. It's not a very big restaurant. I'd love to see how they manage it in the space available.
3) Birthday celebrations. Yes, today is my birthday. Again.
Following the slight gift-giving hiccup on Christmas Day, Mr WithaY has gone to a lot of trouble to make today very special for me. He told me yesterday evening that he had invited some of our friends over for "birthday tea" this afternoon. I asked what I needed to bake. I was told "You don't have to do anything. It's all organised." And it was. He had bought the ingredients to make:
Smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches
Marmite and watercress sandwiches
Scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream
Hot buttered crumpets
But the piece de resistance was the cake. A huge, chocolate, fuck-off, surprise birthday cake.
Look...
I was so impressed by this that I had to deploy my shiny cake stand for the scones. Magnificent, no?
I also had a bunch of beautiful flowers that a friend* gave me last weekend, which had opened up for today. Perfect timing.
And, hey, is that a CAKE there in the foreground?
The little house behind the flowers was a birthday gift from Mother in law WithaY. It's a bumble bee house, and when the weather gets warmer I will find a sunny sheltered spot in the garden, put it out there, and hopefully attract bumble bees to nest in it. She was puzzled when she found out that I was given an annual membership to the Bumble Bee Conservation Trust last year as a gift, but was keen to join in I think, hence the house.
And tomorrow night I am visiting Middle Sister, who has hinted there may be baklava. Wonder how things will go at the weigh-in this week. Heh.
Other news: I met a nice elderly lady on the bus last week who was wearing a huge, gorgeous fur coat and hat.
Me: That coat looks lovely and warm.
Nice elderly lady: Yes. I've been to a funeral down in Brighton all afternoon, and it was freezing cold, so it was the perfect thing to wear.
Me: I can imagine. And it's such a lovely colour. Do people ever comment on it?
Nice elderly lady: Yes, I have had people tell me I shouldn't wear fur. I tell them it's not real.
Me: Ha! Do they believe you?
Nice elderly lady: Well, it isn't real. It's not WILD mink.
She was a card.
*Hello Sarah!
Wednesday, 5 January 2011
Busted
I thought I'd do another one of those "what are people using to find me in search engines" things.
Rather wishing I hadn't now, to be honest.
1) for everything that is worth our lifes are fragile to dark, and when we got When we got what? What? I must know. I Googled it myself and it seems to be a poor interpretation of a song lyric by Nine Inch Nails, a band I am only vaguely aquainted with. Musically, I mean. I've never met any of them to my knowledge. I haven't dared to trawl through the 89 pages of search results to see where my blog appears. Somewhere near the bottom, I expect.
2) big snow, little snow This is a consistent appearer in the list, some weeks it is the ONLY phrase, in a variety of configurations. It seems to be luring readers to their doom here though, so I am pleased. I still haven't found any kind of verification that it is an "old Indian saying" other than Mr WithaY nodding at me sagely and telling me It's All True, Honest.
As an aside, he is a LIAR.
Example:
We were in Salisbury the other weekend. There was a marquee thing beside the river and I commented on it.
Me: Ooh, look, a big tent!
Mr WithaY: The circus is in town!
Me: Really?? Shall we go?
Mr WithaY: No...it isn't.
He then had to walk bent double for laughing, occasionally jabbing me in the ribs and calling me gullible. Bastard.
The marquee contained a portable ice rink, if you were wondering.
3) sensitive new age cowpersons Hurrah! An excellent band, now defunct I believe, but worth a listen if you like (a) rock music (b) banjos (c) Australians. We saw them at a festival several years ago and they were hilarious, as well as excellent musicians. Bastards.
4) so kiss me and cry for me This is another one that comes up pretty often. I think it picks up my blog as I have the tiresome affectation of using song titles as blog titles when I can think of something suitable. Sorry about that, lyric seekers. Must be very annoying if you're looking for the words to a song and all you get is photographs of cakes and ranting about fuckwits.
5) ankle flare This is in itself a weird thing to seach for. I like to imagine a bunch of textile design students trying to find helpful and relevant information about trouser making, and instead they get gruesome photos of mysprained fractured ankle. Mwahahahahaaaaa.
Other news: Back to work this week, along with many other sad, sad people. It struck me that people on the bus looked really sad. Not just grumpy, or stressed, but actually sad. Also shabby. I hope it was just a symptom of post-Christmas despair, rather than the start of a long spell of ragged-trousered philanthropist-style poverty for all of us.
The exception to this were the two young men who got thrown off the bus as I was getting onto it. The bus came to a halt a few yards from the bus stop and the doors opened. I hopped aboard, then stopped in my tracks as the driver was shouting "Get off my bus! Off!"
It took me a second to realise he wasn't talking to me, and I sat down to watch the show.
They were sitting on the back seat, where all the bad boys sit, and there was a sort of Mexican standoff as they tried to stay in their seats and look cool and dangerous. Unfortunately for them, they looked like twats. It took them a few moments to work out that the bus driver could simply sit there all evening until they got off the bus, or until the police showed up.
So they stood up, shouting abuse at the driver and sauntering slowly down the aisle while all the other passengers glared at them, one large black lady making that excellent disparaging "tsssss" noise as they walked past her, which was the perfect response.
And so we continued to Waterloo, leaving the ejectees out in the rain. Twats.
I am still not loving getting up before 6am to go to work, but I had a constructive first day back. Waiting to see what the application for voluntary redundancy process will look like now. Fingers crossed., eh.
Rather wishing I hadn't now, to be honest.
1) for everything that is worth our lifes are fragile to dark, and when we got When we got what? What? I must know. I Googled it myself and it seems to be a poor interpretation of a song lyric by Nine Inch Nails, a band I am only vaguely aquainted with. Musically, I mean. I've never met any of them to my knowledge. I haven't dared to trawl through the 89 pages of search results to see where my blog appears. Somewhere near the bottom, I expect.
2) big snow, little snow This is a consistent appearer in the list, some weeks it is the ONLY phrase, in a variety of configurations. It seems to be luring readers to their doom here though, so I am pleased. I still haven't found any kind of verification that it is an "old Indian saying" other than Mr WithaY nodding at me sagely and telling me It's All True, Honest.
As an aside, he is a LIAR.
Example:
We were in Salisbury the other weekend. There was a marquee thing beside the river and I commented on it.
Me: Ooh, look, a big tent!
Mr WithaY: The circus is in town!
Me: Really?? Shall we go?
Mr WithaY: No...it isn't.
He then had to walk bent double for laughing, occasionally jabbing me in the ribs and calling me gullible. Bastard.
The marquee contained a portable ice rink, if you were wondering.
3) sensitive new age cowpersons Hurrah! An excellent band, now defunct I believe, but worth a listen if you like (a) rock music (b) banjos (c) Australians. We saw them at a festival several years ago and they were hilarious, as well as excellent musicians. Bastards.
4) so kiss me and cry for me This is another one that comes up pretty often. I think it picks up my blog as I have the tiresome affectation of using song titles as blog titles when I can think of something suitable. Sorry about that, lyric seekers. Must be very annoying if you're looking for the words to a song and all you get is photographs of cakes and ranting about fuckwits.
5) ankle flare This is in itself a weird thing to seach for. I like to imagine a bunch of textile design students trying to find helpful and relevant information about trouser making, and instead they get gruesome photos of my
Other news: Back to work this week, along with many other sad, sad people. It struck me that people on the bus looked really sad. Not just grumpy, or stressed, but actually sad. Also shabby. I hope it was just a symptom of post-Christmas despair, rather than the start of a long spell of ragged-trousered philanthropist-style poverty for all of us.
The exception to this were the two young men who got thrown off the bus as I was getting onto it. The bus came to a halt a few yards from the bus stop and the doors opened. I hopped aboard, then stopped in my tracks as the driver was shouting "Get off my bus! Off!"
It took me a second to realise he wasn't talking to me, and I sat down to watch the show.
They were sitting on the back seat, where all the bad boys sit, and there was a sort of Mexican standoff as they tried to stay in their seats and look cool and dangerous. Unfortunately for them, they looked like twats. It took them a few moments to work out that the bus driver could simply sit there all evening until they got off the bus, or until the police showed up.
So they stood up, shouting abuse at the driver and sauntering slowly down the aisle while all the other passengers glared at them, one large black lady making that excellent disparaging "tsssss" noise as they walked past her, which was the perfect response.
And so we continued to Waterloo, leaving the ejectees out in the rain. Twats.
I am still not loving getting up before 6am to go to work, but I had a constructive first day back. Waiting to see what the application for voluntary redundancy process will look like now. Fingers crossed., eh.
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
May I take your trident, sir?
Having been made aware of the "stats" part of Blogger, including the "Who uses what phrases to find this blog" feature, I was rather alarmed to find that someone located me by googling this phrase:
"is cavity insulatyion appropriate by the seaside"
Reader, if you're out there, I have no clue. Not a scooby. Also, why, WHY do you need to know? Are you planning on insulating a sandcastle? Are you a hermit crab who feels a bit chilly? My advice is to use seaweed.
The last week has been a bit emotional, and completely exhausting, hence yet another long hiatus between posts.
The still-ongoing SSFH* fallout continues. Mr WithaY and I had a meeting with our local MP on Friday, which was interesting, if a bit stressful. He was extremely kind, and is going to help us as much as he can.
We were early, so were invited in to sit in the bar of the Conservative Club to wait. An elderly gentleman was sat at a table, smart in a blazer and cravat, waiting to see the MP too. He was chatting to one of the staff there. He was ANGRY about many things. And loud.
"People speeding - that's so antisocial. They should be stopped on sight by the police." (I think he said "stopped" - he may have said "shot". Either seemed appropriate, given his outrage.)
The barman chappie nodded politely, clearly not very interested. Encouraged, the old gentleman expanded on his theme.
"Littering! That's another thing! People who litter are the lowest of the low! It should be a criminal offence!" (I think it might be, actually, but he was on a roll...nobody was going to try to stop him.)
"And people who litter from cars! Throwing rubbish out of the windows! They should be stopped on sight and fined - a hundred pounds. For a first offence." I was intrigued as to where his scale of fines had come from. He'd obviously given it some thought.
The barman nodded again, rearranging crisps in a silent and discouraging manner.
"And for a second offence...." the cravat-wearer paused, thinking what would be suitable punishment for a second offence, then triumphantly came up with: "They should have their car confiscated. On the spot. And then crushed."
Yes, crushing cars is an ideal way to prevent littering. Just don't chuck the crushed cars in the river afterwards.
In sombre work-related news, I found out on Friday that our Department is planning to shed between 30 and 40 percent of staff over the next two years. I have to say, the thought of being paid off is rather appealing at the moment. It would save me 6 hours travelling a day on the 3 days a week I am in London, would save me £5000-ish a year on my train ticket, plus the bus fares etcetera etcetera etcetera** and would save me a lot of stress.
Of course, having no money coming in would open up a whole new world of different stress, but at least I'd be doing that in the comfort of my own home.
It's definitely something to consider.
I was sat at my desk on Tuesday, eating my lunch, when I realised what I was doing.
Yes, dear readers, I was eating apple sauce with a spoon.
When did I turn into Ruprecht?
Better news though, possibly as a result of the apple sauce. I put on one of my suits for the meeting on Friday. I did the trousers up. The trousers fell straight back down again, in approved Carry On Film stylee. If Mr WithaY had been playing a Swanee whistle, it would have been perfect.
I tried on a different suit. Those trousers fell down.
I tried on all my suits, including one that I bought two years ago, tried on, was too fat for, so hung in the wardrobe and forgot about***. All of them were too big.
Inspired, I then tried on the outfit I wore when we got married, 16 long, long, oh so very long years ago. I wouldn't wear it if I was going out for a big dinner, but it was perfectly wearable. So hurrah.
But I need some new suits. Bugger.
*Shit Storm From Hades. I promise to be less crypic once it's all over.
**(c) King of Siam
***because clearly I wasn't going to go to all the bother of sending it back, was I?
"is cavity insulatyion appropriate by the seaside"
Reader, if you're out there, I have no clue. Not a scooby. Also, why, WHY do you need to know? Are you planning on insulating a sandcastle? Are you a hermit crab who feels a bit chilly? My advice is to use seaweed.
The last week has been a bit emotional, and completely exhausting, hence yet another long hiatus between posts.
The still-ongoing SSFH* fallout continues. Mr WithaY and I had a meeting with our local MP on Friday, which was interesting, if a bit stressful. He was extremely kind, and is going to help us as much as he can.
We were early, so were invited in to sit in the bar of the Conservative Club to wait. An elderly gentleman was sat at a table, smart in a blazer and cravat, waiting to see the MP too. He was chatting to one of the staff there. He was ANGRY about many things. And loud.
"People speeding - that's so antisocial. They should be stopped on sight by the police." (I think he said "stopped" - he may have said "shot". Either seemed appropriate, given his outrage.)
The barman chappie nodded politely, clearly not very interested. Encouraged, the old gentleman expanded on his theme.
"Littering! That's another thing! People who litter are the lowest of the low! It should be a criminal offence!" (I think it might be, actually, but he was on a roll...nobody was going to try to stop him.)
"And people who litter from cars! Throwing rubbish out of the windows! They should be stopped on sight and fined - a hundred pounds. For a first offence." I was intrigued as to where his scale of fines had come from. He'd obviously given it some thought.
The barman nodded again, rearranging crisps in a silent and discouraging manner.
"And for a second offence...." the cravat-wearer paused, thinking what would be suitable punishment for a second offence, then triumphantly came up with: "They should have their car confiscated. On the spot. And then crushed."
Yes, crushing cars is an ideal way to prevent littering. Just don't chuck the crushed cars in the river afterwards.
In sombre work-related news, I found out on Friday that our Department is planning to shed between 30 and 40 percent of staff over the next two years. I have to say, the thought of being paid off is rather appealing at the moment. It would save me 6 hours travelling a day on the 3 days a week I am in London, would save me £5000-ish a year on my train ticket, plus the bus fares etcetera etcetera etcetera** and would save me a lot of stress.
Of course, having no money coming in would open up a whole new world of different stress, but at least I'd be doing that in the comfort of my own home.
It's definitely something to consider.
I was sat at my desk on Tuesday, eating my lunch, when I realised what I was doing.
Yes, dear readers, I was eating apple sauce with a spoon.
When did I turn into Ruprecht?
Better news though, possibly as a result of the apple sauce. I put on one of my suits for the meeting on Friday. I did the trousers up. The trousers fell straight back down again, in approved Carry On Film stylee. If Mr WithaY had been playing a Swanee whistle, it would have been perfect.
I tried on a different suit. Those trousers fell down.
I tried on all my suits, including one that I bought two years ago, tried on, was too fat for, so hung in the wardrobe and forgot about***. All of them were too big.
Inspired, I then tried on the outfit I wore when we got married, 16 long, long, oh so very long years ago. I wouldn't wear it if I was going out for a big dinner, but it was perfectly wearable. So hurrah.
But I need some new suits. Bugger.
*Shit Storm From Hades. I promise to be less crypic once it's all over.
**(c) King of Siam
***because clearly I wasn't going to go to all the bother of sending it back, was I?
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
Cars
I discovered the "Stats" thingy on Blogger recently. What larks. It shows me where all my readers are at any given moment, and which posts they are looking at.
Sadly, this has simply notified me that a lot of my traffic is from people who are looking at very old posts, mostly in Russia, the spamming bastards. At least the word verification seems to have put paid to their antics. Ah well. As long as I don't analyse the stats too carefully I can pretend it's really people who are keen to read the words, and not just post adverts to their dodgy websites. Bastards.
Today has been a bit like a traditional Whitehall farce, despite me not being in Whitehall. I had a lot of complicated time-consuming work stuff to get through, so my laptop decided to re-enact a good old-fashioned go-slow. Added to this, every 20 minutes or so it crashed whichever application I was using at the time, varying between Word, Excel and Powerpoint to keep me guessing.
Mr WithaY arrived home unexpectedly mid morning as he had someone coming over to look at his old Landrover, languishing unloved since he got the new one. There was a degree of arseing about as he fetched keys, and found paperwork, but then he scooted off again, returning a while later to meet the potential buyer. The potential buyer turned into an actual buyer, but when he came back to collect the vehicle, Mr WithaY had gone back to work and the bloody thing wouldn't start.
He rang the doorbell and asked me if there was "any special technique" to starting it. I said no, you just turn the key and off it goes. He looked at me. I looked at him. We both looked at the Landrover, bonnet up while his wife fiddled about uselessly with the steering wheel. I was already tetchy, due to the IT failures mentioned above, and also due to my ankle being painful after my latest trip to the physio, so I rang Mr WithaY at work and suggested he come home to sort this crisis out. I was a trifle terse, I believe.
There was an awkward silence as the farmer and his wife looked at each other, and at the Landrover sitting on the drive, silent and unmoving. A brainwave struck me, and I mentioned that it had an immobiliser. The farmer's face lit up. He dicked about with the key, then tried to start it, and hey presto, it roared into life.
I went back into the house and rang Mr WithaY again, telling him not to come home after all.
The farmer, his wife, and the landrover eventually left, allowing me to go back up to my study to get on with my work.
Five minutes later, Kevin the Decorator arrived.
Ten minutes after that, the phone downstairs rang, someone from Talk Talk who cut himself off, the fuckwit. .
And so the long day wore on.
Tomorrow I am going into London for some peace and quiet.
Sadly, this has simply notified me that a lot of my traffic is from people who are looking at very old posts, mostly in Russia, the spamming bastards. At least the word verification seems to have put paid to their antics. Ah well. As long as I don't analyse the stats too carefully I can pretend it's really people who are keen to read the words, and not just post adverts to their dodgy websites. Bastards.
Today has been a bit like a traditional Whitehall farce, despite me not being in Whitehall. I had a lot of complicated time-consuming work stuff to get through, so my laptop decided to re-enact a good old-fashioned go-slow. Added to this, every 20 minutes or so it crashed whichever application I was using at the time, varying between Word, Excel and Powerpoint to keep me guessing.
Mr WithaY arrived home unexpectedly mid morning as he had someone coming over to look at his old Landrover, languishing unloved since he got the new one. There was a degree of arseing about as he fetched keys, and found paperwork, but then he scooted off again, returning a while later to meet the potential buyer. The potential buyer turned into an actual buyer, but when he came back to collect the vehicle, Mr WithaY had gone back to work and the bloody thing wouldn't start.
He rang the doorbell and asked me if there was "any special technique" to starting it. I said no, you just turn the key and off it goes. He looked at me. I looked at him. We both looked at the Landrover, bonnet up while his wife fiddled about uselessly with the steering wheel. I was already tetchy, due to the IT failures mentioned above, and also due to my ankle being painful after my latest trip to the physio, so I rang Mr WithaY at work and suggested he come home to sort this crisis out. I was a trifle terse, I believe.
There was an awkward silence as the farmer and his wife looked at each other, and at the Landrover sitting on the drive, silent and unmoving. A brainwave struck me, and I mentioned that it had an immobiliser. The farmer's face lit up. He dicked about with the key, then tried to start it, and hey presto, it roared into life.
I went back into the house and rang Mr WithaY again, telling him not to come home after all.
The farmer, his wife, and the landrover eventually left, allowing me to go back up to my study to get on with my work.
Five minutes later, Kevin the Decorator arrived.
Ten minutes after that, the phone downstairs rang, someone from Talk Talk who cut himself off, the fuckwit. .
And so the long day wore on.
Tomorrow I am going into London for some peace and quiet.
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
Exits
If I was going to make a dramatic exit from my job, how would I do it, I wonder?
This guy seems to have already taken the best option. I think as dramatic resignations go, swearing at people who were being abusive, then leaping out of an aircraft using the emergency slide has got to be up on the top five. Oh, and grabbing some beer on the way out. He was channelling the spirit of John Belushi for that one.
So. Assuming not all of us have access to an emergency aircraft slide, how could we leave a job in a similarly stylish manner?
Office drone: Deliberately misplace the decimal points in a long term costs projection to cause maximum disruption in the future, hoik the muffins from the hospitality basket and slide down the corridor on your laptop like a luge sled, smashing through the lift doors to freedom.
Farmer: Mow the word "Arse" into the wheat, steal all the baler twine to sell on the black market, then crash your combine harvester through the hedge and head for the bright lights and the big city. At 7 miles an hour.
Surgeon: Get to the end of a tricky triple bypass operation, then throw your scalpel at the wall so it sticks, juddering loudly, stuff all the cotton wool balls into your pockets and roar off into the distance in your Ferrari.
Zookeeper: Release the bonobo monkeys into the King penguin enclosure, then roar off into the distance on a stolen lion.
Yeah, that's not as easy as I thought it would be. I'll stop there.
Other news: The bathroom is finished, and once it has a new coat of paint it will be lovely once again. I am particularly pleased with the grab rail over the bath. I no longer feel as though I am taking my life in my hands when I get in and out.
Also, properly started (finally!) my new job, and have been up in London this week. I'd forgotten what an absurdly long journey it is. I must be mental. MENTAL. I've not risked the Tube yet, so I have been taking taxis to and from the office and Waterloo Station. It's expensive but at least I feel safe, and not likely to topple down an escalator due to my ongoing ankle instability.
This week I have mostly been reading Conan the Barbarian ebooks on my phone on the train. I wish I was a barbarian. I really do. I'd be great at it. I could shout "Crom!" and have iron thews. I just need a bit of training. Maybe a barbarian mentor.
He could wear a leather 3-piece suit and carry his sword under his arm like a rolled up umbrella.
This guy seems to have already taken the best option. I think as dramatic resignations go, swearing at people who were being abusive, then leaping out of an aircraft using the emergency slide has got to be up on the top five. Oh, and grabbing some beer on the way out. He was channelling the spirit of John Belushi for that one.
So. Assuming not all of us have access to an emergency aircraft slide, how could we leave a job in a similarly stylish manner?
Office drone: Deliberately misplace the decimal points in a long term costs projection to cause maximum disruption in the future, hoik the muffins from the hospitality basket and slide down the corridor on your laptop like a luge sled, smashing through the lift doors to freedom.
Farmer: Mow the word "Arse" into the wheat, steal all the baler twine to sell on the black market, then crash your combine harvester through the hedge and head for the bright lights and the big city. At 7 miles an hour.
Surgeon: Get to the end of a tricky triple bypass operation, then throw your scalpel at the wall so it sticks, juddering loudly, stuff all the cotton wool balls into your pockets and roar off into the distance in your Ferrari.
Zookeeper: Release the bonobo monkeys into the King penguin enclosure, then roar off into the distance on a stolen lion.
Yeah, that's not as easy as I thought it would be. I'll stop there.
Other news: The bathroom is finished, and once it has a new coat of paint it will be lovely once again. I am particularly pleased with the grab rail over the bath. I no longer feel as though I am taking my life in my hands when I get in and out.
Also, properly started (finally!) my new job, and have been up in London this week. I'd forgotten what an absurdly long journey it is. I must be mental. MENTAL. I've not risked the Tube yet, so I have been taking taxis to and from the office and Waterloo Station. It's expensive but at least I feel safe, and not likely to topple down an escalator due to my ongoing ankle instability.
This week I have mostly been reading Conan the Barbarian ebooks on my phone on the train. I wish I was a barbarian. I really do. I'd be great at it. I could shout "Crom!" and have iron thews. I just need a bit of training. Maybe a barbarian mentor.
He could wear a leather 3-piece suit and carry his sword under his arm like a rolled up umbrella.
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
Expensive lesson
I was up in London yesterday, as I usually am on a Tuesday. Well, they expect me to turn up at the office, seeing that they pay me and all. The train journey was surprisingly pleasant, the air conditioning has been working during the last few days of "warm spell" weather, so it's been comfortable*.
As an aside, I overheard two of the train staff chatting the other day. One of them was telling the other: "When it's too cold, everything breaks. When it's too hot, everything breaks. Just accept it."
Anyhoo. I managed to get half an hour of not-too-interrupted snoozing, so was in a good mood when I got to Waterloo. I strolled down the platform, and on impulse decided to get a cab to the office. It was a nice day, the Tube was bound to be stinky, stuffy and hellish, and I couldn't be arsed to walk. I had a new pair of sandals on and was keen not to get blisters early in the day**.
There was an unusually long queue at the taxi rank. I joined it, waiting for it to be my turn to do the "Which number do I stand next to?" dance. I love that. People who are unfamiliar with the system stand stupidly at the head of the queue, glaring at those who walk past them to the numbers further along the rank, completely missing the fact that they ought to be doing the same thing. Fools.
Anyway. My turn came, I hopped into a cab with a nice young cabbie, and we set off for Victoria. It's about a mile and a half, and usually takes about 10 minutes in a taxi, and costs about £6. Now that I am bringing my lunch to work I feel that paying for a taxi is allowable, as I am not spending the equivalent of Ghana's GDP in Marks and Spencer on sandwiches, socks and cardigans***.
Now, apart from it being one of my In The Office days, what else was happening on Tuesday? Hmm? That's right. The State Opening of Parliament, one of our many rich, ancient traditions, beloved by all.
Beloved by all, except taxi drivers. And bus drivers. And anyone trying to drive around South London, actually.
The police had closed Westminster Bridge, so the cabbie apologised and said he'd go via Lambeth Bridge. American readers (in fact, anyone who doesn't know that part of London) may wish to get a map and draw a thick red line along the route we took, possibly using a crayon.
We inched painfully along the south bank of the Thames, nose to tail in a dreadful traffic jam. Eventually we got to the roundabout at Lambeth Bridge. The cabbie was looking anxious, and as we drove onto the roundabout he said "I don't fucking believe it!"
Me: What?
Cabbie: I'm really sorry about the language, love, but they've closed the fucking bridge!
Me: Fuck!
Cabbie: I know! Fuck it!
Me: So where can we go?
Cabbie: Hmmmm, I could try getting along to Vauxhall Bridge...what do you think?
Me: I have no idea....I'm not very familiar with London. (Which is why I am paying you to get me where I want to go, Cockney poltroon.)
That last bit in brackets was in my head, by the way.
We crept along another half a mile, still nose to tail in the traffic, sucking up thick clouds of bus fumes, cyclists and scooters weaving in and out around us. I watched the meter glumly. It clicked past the £10 mark and we were still a loooooooong way from Victoria. If I'd had any kind of idea where we were I would probably have hopped out and taken my chances walking the rest of the way, but I know what I am like. I'd have been lost, lost, hopelessly lost within moments. And probably either fallen in the Thames or down a hole in the road, never to be seen again.
I wish I was kidding.
The cabbie swore fluently and quietly under his breath, in between engaging me in cheerful chat about how shocking the traffic was. We made it to Vauxhall Bridge, sweeping across it at 5 miles an hour, then headed into the quieter roads heading up to Victoria Street. There were, of course, roadworks on several of the routes we took, making the cabbie perform U-turns and unexpected diversions. He apologised each time, suggesting that I might in fact prefer to go back to Waterloo and just go home.
Reader, I was tempted.
We eventually got to Rochester Row, and as he turned the cab into the street, he had to stop to allow two shaven-headed men to saunter across the road. Neither of them made any effort to speed up, or get out of the way, or even acknowledge that they were holding up traffic. I know pedestrians have right of way, but the were deliberately being dicks. And they got dickier.
The cabbie shouted, "Don't worry mate, I'll just drive on the pavement, shall I?"
I thought it was a mildly amusing bit of banter. I expected a similar riposte from the two road-crossing guys, maybe a V-sign, or similar. But no.
The older of the two stopped dead in front of the cab and yelled at the top of his voice: "Get out of that fucking cab! Get out here right now! Fucking get out of that fucking cab! Come on!" His mate stood beside him, also red-faced and belligerent, obviously enjoying being part of the unfolding drama.
The driver declined.
We drove around the purple-faced yelling nutcase and his simian companion and continued on our way, somewhat chagrined. Finally, after what felt like about a week, I spotted Victoria Street away in the distance, the other side of yet another building-site roadblock, and asked the driver to drop me off so I could walk the rest of the way. He agreed, although I did see him check the mirrors to make sure the mad shouty man wasn't running after us before he stopped.
He apologised again and again for the time it had taken to get almost to where I wanted to go. I said it was alright, he'd done his best. The cabbie suggested that the State Opening of Parliament should be a Bank Holiday. I nodded politely, but secretly thought that might be a bit excessive for everyone who isn't affected by the traffic chaos. Which would be everyone NOT in South London.
Anyway. I paid the taxi fare. £28. Twenty Eight Pounds. It had taken 55 minutes and cost me the price of a nice Chinese, but I had made it to work. Nearly. Plus I was almost involved in a huge fight.
When I got to my desk, half an hour late, people asked me how my journey had been. "Oh, fine," I lied.
Other news: I have lost another pound. It is slow, but mostly steady, and I have had several people at work say "You look nice today!" and then "Have you lost some weight?" which is very encouraging.
Mr WithaY is being supportive, in his own manner. I mentioned to him that I was wearing new knickers, a size smaller than my other ones. He looked at me fondly and said "Oh? I wondered what that squeaking noise was."
*As comfortable as it ever is on the Sardine Express
**Also, I am lazy
***You know how it is. You pop in for some lunch and come out with an outfit. And lunch.
As an aside, I overheard two of the train staff chatting the other day. One of them was telling the other: "When it's too cold, everything breaks. When it's too hot, everything breaks. Just accept it."
Anyhoo. I managed to get half an hour of not-too-interrupted snoozing, so was in a good mood when I got to Waterloo. I strolled down the platform, and on impulse decided to get a cab to the office. It was a nice day, the Tube was bound to be stinky, stuffy and hellish, and I couldn't be arsed to walk. I had a new pair of sandals on and was keen not to get blisters early in the day**.
There was an unusually long queue at the taxi rank. I joined it, waiting for it to be my turn to do the "Which number do I stand next to?" dance. I love that. People who are unfamiliar with the system stand stupidly at the head of the queue, glaring at those who walk past them to the numbers further along the rank, completely missing the fact that they ought to be doing the same thing. Fools.
Anyway. My turn came, I hopped into a cab with a nice young cabbie, and we set off for Victoria. It's about a mile and a half, and usually takes about 10 minutes in a taxi, and costs about £6. Now that I am bringing my lunch to work I feel that paying for a taxi is allowable, as I am not spending the equivalent of Ghana's GDP in Marks and Spencer on sandwiches, socks and cardigans***.
Now, apart from it being one of my In The Office days, what else was happening on Tuesday? Hmm? That's right. The State Opening of Parliament, one of our many rich, ancient traditions, beloved by all.
Beloved by all, except taxi drivers. And bus drivers. And anyone trying to drive around South London, actually.
The police had closed Westminster Bridge, so the cabbie apologised and said he'd go via Lambeth Bridge. American readers (in fact, anyone who doesn't know that part of London) may wish to get a map and draw a thick red line along the route we took, possibly using a crayon.
We inched painfully along the south bank of the Thames, nose to tail in a dreadful traffic jam. Eventually we got to the roundabout at Lambeth Bridge. The cabbie was looking anxious, and as we drove onto the roundabout he said "I don't fucking believe it!"
Me: What?
Cabbie: I'm really sorry about the language, love, but they've closed the fucking bridge!
Me: Fuck!
Cabbie: I know! Fuck it!
Me: So where can we go?
Cabbie: Hmmmm, I could try getting along to Vauxhall Bridge...what do you think?
Me: I have no idea....I'm not very familiar with London. (Which is why I am paying you to get me where I want to go, Cockney poltroon.)
That last bit in brackets was in my head, by the way.
We crept along another half a mile, still nose to tail in the traffic, sucking up thick clouds of bus fumes, cyclists and scooters weaving in and out around us. I watched the meter glumly. It clicked past the £10 mark and we were still a loooooooong way from Victoria. If I'd had any kind of idea where we were I would probably have hopped out and taken my chances walking the rest of the way, but I know what I am like. I'd have been lost, lost, hopelessly lost within moments. And probably either fallen in the Thames or down a hole in the road, never to be seen again.
I wish I was kidding.
The cabbie swore fluently and quietly under his breath, in between engaging me in cheerful chat about how shocking the traffic was. We made it to Vauxhall Bridge, sweeping across it at 5 miles an hour, then headed into the quieter roads heading up to Victoria Street. There were, of course, roadworks on several of the routes we took, making the cabbie perform U-turns and unexpected diversions. He apologised each time, suggesting that I might in fact prefer to go back to Waterloo and just go home.
Reader, I was tempted.
We eventually got to Rochester Row, and as he turned the cab into the street, he had to stop to allow two shaven-headed men to saunter across the road. Neither of them made any effort to speed up, or get out of the way, or even acknowledge that they were holding up traffic. I know pedestrians have right of way, but the were deliberately being dicks. And they got dickier.
The cabbie shouted, "Don't worry mate, I'll just drive on the pavement, shall I?"
I thought it was a mildly amusing bit of banter. I expected a similar riposte from the two road-crossing guys, maybe a V-sign, or similar. But no.
The older of the two stopped dead in front of the cab and yelled at the top of his voice: "Get out of that fucking cab! Get out here right now! Fucking get out of that fucking cab! Come on!" His mate stood beside him, also red-faced and belligerent, obviously enjoying being part of the unfolding drama.
The driver declined.
We drove around the purple-faced yelling nutcase and his simian companion and continued on our way, somewhat chagrined. Finally, after what felt like about a week, I spotted Victoria Street away in the distance, the other side of yet another building-site roadblock, and asked the driver to drop me off so I could walk the rest of the way. He agreed, although I did see him check the mirrors to make sure the mad shouty man wasn't running after us before he stopped.
He apologised again and again for the time it had taken to get almost to where I wanted to go. I said it was alright, he'd done his best. The cabbie suggested that the State Opening of Parliament should be a Bank Holiday. I nodded politely, but secretly thought that might be a bit excessive for everyone who isn't affected by the traffic chaos. Which would be everyone NOT in South London.
Anyway. I paid the taxi fare. £28. Twenty Eight Pounds. It had taken 55 minutes and cost me the price of a nice Chinese, but I had made it to work. Nearly. Plus I was almost involved in a huge fight.
When I got to my desk, half an hour late, people asked me how my journey had been. "Oh, fine," I lied.
Other news: I have lost another pound. It is slow, but mostly steady, and I have had several people at work say "You look nice today!" and then "Have you lost some weight?" which is very encouraging.
Mr WithaY is being supportive, in his own manner. I mentioned to him that I was wearing new knickers, a size smaller than my other ones. He looked at me fondly and said "Oh? I wondered what that squeaking noise was."
*As comfortable as it ever is on the Sardine Express
**Also, I am lazy
***You know how it is. You pop in for some lunch and come out with an outfit. And lunch.
Monday, 12 October 2009
Starstruck
Back up in London today, after what feels like years, what with my time off work and the recent trips to Bristol. It was tiring, but no more so than I expected, and I felt far more able to deal with work stuff than I have for a long time. I even managed to consider some knotty work problems without deciding I ought to write a letter of resignation. So, progress.
And, as a bonus, when I left the house this morning, there was a glorious bright moon, and a sky full of stars. Lovely.
Which brings me neatly to what I wanted to tell you about: an iPhones application called Planets. It shows you which planets in our solar system are visible at night - if you look at it during the day it just shows the Sun. The two bright stars I saw low in the sky this morning were Jupiter and Venus, I learned.
If you look at the Globe option, it shows you the Earth as it looks at that moment - right now it is dark over Europe and you can see all the lights on the continents. The Americas are currently in daylight. It's fascinating, and I love it. You can also see photos (from giant space telescopes, I assume) of the planets, and rotate them around with your fingertip to see how they look from all angles. It's hugely pleasing.
Other, sad news. Youngest Sis's lovely little dog Charlie passed away unexpectedly yesterday. He was a charmer, and will be missed.
And, as a bonus, when I left the house this morning, there was a glorious bright moon, and a sky full of stars. Lovely.
Which brings me neatly to what I wanted to tell you about: an iPhones application called Planets. It shows you which planets in our solar system are visible at night - if you look at it during the day it just shows the Sun. The two bright stars I saw low in the sky this morning were Jupiter and Venus, I learned.
If you look at the Globe option, it shows you the Earth as it looks at that moment - right now it is dark over Europe and you can see all the lights on the continents. The Americas are currently in daylight. It's fascinating, and I love it. You can also see photos (from giant space telescopes, I assume) of the planets, and rotate them around with your fingertip to see how they look from all angles. It's hugely pleasing.
Other, sad news. Youngest Sis's lovely little dog Charlie passed away unexpectedly yesterday. He was a charmer, and will be missed.
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
Rolling rocks
Clearly this is going to be a difficult week. It's only Monday (well, for another 15 minutes) and it already feels as though the days have been dragging on endlessly, running into each other like headless chickens on a windy day*.
I spent much of the weekend weeping and swearing, the aftermath of a trying day on Friday, related to the recent SSFH** stuff. Things are slowly being resolved but boy is it hard to deal with while it all happens. And, of course, with Mr WithaY away and unreachable on his luxury dive boat*** in the Red Sea, it's all felt far harder than I expected it to.
So. How am I dealing with all this, you ask? I managed to get through to the doctor's surgery on the phone eventually this afternoon and made an appointment. A week on Friday. I couldn't bring myself to lie and say I was an emergency, but having to wait 10 days to see the doctor is pretty poor I think.
Anyhoo, I am going to ask him to refer me to a psychiatrist/counsellor again. It helped the last time I went bonkers, so hopefully it will help get me through this particular episode of stress and horror. I have hardly slept since Thursday last week, so I decided not to go into London today, as originally planned.
Instead, I had a long and embarrassingly tearful telephone conversation with my colleague (who is an absolute star), then went through my email with the laptop, and then went off for a restorative cup of tea and sandwich at lunchtime. I came back to a message telling my that my password had expired and I need to login to a different machine to set a new one. Fucking great. So I need to try and call the system administrator tomorrow and ask them to sort it out remotely for me.
But their phone number is on the computer. Which I can't login to. But I need to login to get the number to call the help desk to tell them I can't login.
There's a hole in my bucket.
Actually no. I feel like that bloke who had to roll the giant rock up the mountain every day, then watch it roll back to the bottom every night. Who was that? Except my particular rock at the moment is made of cat shit and broken glass****.
*I know it doesn't make much sense but it's a great image.
**Shit Storm From Hades.
***It has a hot tub. In my book that equates to luxury.
****Worst combination ever.
I spent much of the weekend weeping and swearing, the aftermath of a trying day on Friday, related to the recent SSFH** stuff. Things are slowly being resolved but boy is it hard to deal with while it all happens. And, of course, with Mr WithaY away and unreachable on his luxury dive boat*** in the Red Sea, it's all felt far harder than I expected it to.
So. How am I dealing with all this, you ask? I managed to get through to the doctor's surgery on the phone eventually this afternoon and made an appointment. A week on Friday. I couldn't bring myself to lie and say I was an emergency, but having to wait 10 days to see the doctor is pretty poor I think.
Anyhoo, I am going to ask him to refer me to a psychiatrist/counsellor again. It helped the last time I went bonkers, so hopefully it will help get me through this particular episode of stress and horror. I have hardly slept since Thursday last week, so I decided not to go into London today, as originally planned.
Instead, I had a long and embarrassingly tearful telephone conversation with my colleague (who is an absolute star), then went through my email with the laptop, and then went off for a restorative cup of tea and sandwich at lunchtime. I came back to a message telling my that my password had expired and I need to login to a different machine to set a new one. Fucking great. So I need to try and call the system administrator tomorrow and ask them to sort it out remotely for me.
But their phone number is on the computer. Which I can't login to. But I need to login to get the number to call the help desk to tell them I can't login.
There's a hole in my bucket.
Actually no. I feel like that bloke who had to roll the giant rock up the mountain every day, then watch it roll back to the bottom every night. Who was that? Except my particular rock at the moment is made of cat shit and broken glass****.
*I know it doesn't make much sense but it's a great image.
**Shit Storm From Hades.
***It has a hot tub. In my book that equates to luxury.
****Worst combination ever.
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
Cocktails
Today has been a long and rather tiresome day, in the main.
This morning it took me 40 minutes to get my work laptop up, running, online and with all the emails etc downloaded, which was annoying. There have been complaints at work that the desktop machines are equally, if not more, slow, but my laptop has been pretty good up till now.
I am trying to get my head round a whole new chunk of work that I have taken on from a colleague who left last week, which is interesting. Trouble is, even after a couple of days of reading and re-reading I still feel like a bit of a halfwit. It'll come, but it's all a bit of a struggle, especially at the moment where my brain is still not quite all there yet.
I'm back in the office tomorrow, and I see from my sloooow inbox that we are having a summer party at the end of the afternoon, in the conference room.
Aah, nothing says Summer quite like corporate furniture. I'm not completely sure, but I think it's more likely to be a few drinks and nibbles and speeches by the top of the shop about how well everyone has done, rather than a wild drink-fuelled orgy of destruction. Not a real party.
Speaking of which...
We had a bit of a hoolie last weekend. On the spur of the moment we invited some of our lovely neighbours over for dinner on Saturday night, after a Friday night pub discussion about how we weren't doing anything much for the weekend.
I wanted to make cocktails. We watched some TV show in the week where they were drinking cocktails from proper martini glasses, and I thought "We've got some glasses like that! We should make martinis! Why don't we do that*?"
And from that, it is but a short step to having a few mates round for dinner.
Mr WithaY and I are trying to make space in the freezer, as we are expecting to take delivery of a lamb (dead, butchered, to be frozen, in case you were wondering) from some friends who have been rearing them this Spring, so we've been eating Meals That Time Forgot over the last few weeks.
We have also been unearthing some rather great stuff, like sea bass that Mr WithaY caught when he went sea fishing a while back. And frozen octopus. It made a rather fine seafood salad, a grand end to a glittering career. Sorry Spence.
I made some mini bread rolls, from a recipe on Nigella Lawson's website, which were, though I say it myself, bloody great. I also made chocolate truffle cake, and shortbread to have with strawberries for pudding. My plan was to offer our lovely guests a choice of things in an elegant restrained manner, but by the time we got round to eating we were all off our heads on martinis, and I think everyone had some of everything, possibly all on the same plate at the same time.
Cocktails, though. Don't they get you drunk fast?
We started with the classic gin martini: Bombay Sapphire gin and dry Martini, shaken with ice, served with an olive. Mmmmm-mmm. Goes surprisingly well with chicken flavour crisps. You're welcome.
Then we made Vodka martinis. Sadly, thanks to the gin martinis, I was unable to follow the recipe and ended up mixing together vanilla vodka and Bombay Sapphire gin, completely leaving out the dry martini. Again, shaken with ice, served with an olive, and then later with an additional splash of martini when we remembered. Not nearly as bad as you might expect.
Obviously, that was before dinner. With dinner we had some** truly splendid white wine.
The evening is a bit hazy after the second cocktail, but I'm pretty sure there was a lot of laughing, shouting, eating of fine food, and the gracious hostess falling asleep on the sitting room rug as her guests departed to crash through the garden hedge, as is traditional after a WithaY dinner party.
Sunday was a quiet day.
*The whiny small child that lives in my head tends not to demand sweets and comics these days, but opulent cocktails and expensive jewellery instead.
**a lot
This morning it took me 40 minutes to get my work laptop up, running, online and with all the emails etc downloaded, which was annoying. There have been complaints at work that the desktop machines are equally, if not more, slow, but my laptop has been pretty good up till now.
I am trying to get my head round a whole new chunk of work that I have taken on from a colleague who left last week, which is interesting. Trouble is, even after a couple of days of reading and re-reading I still feel like a bit of a halfwit. It'll come, but it's all a bit of a struggle, especially at the moment where my brain is still not quite all there yet.
I'm back in the office tomorrow, and I see from my sloooow inbox that we are having a summer party at the end of the afternoon, in the conference room.
Aah, nothing says Summer quite like corporate furniture. I'm not completely sure, but I think it's more likely to be a few drinks and nibbles and speeches by the top of the shop about how well everyone has done, rather than a wild drink-fuelled orgy of destruction. Not a real party.
Speaking of which...
We had a bit of a hoolie last weekend. On the spur of the moment we invited some of our lovely neighbours over for dinner on Saturday night, after a Friday night pub discussion about how we weren't doing anything much for the weekend.
I wanted to make cocktails. We watched some TV show in the week where they were drinking cocktails from proper martini glasses, and I thought "We've got some glasses like that! We should make martinis! Why don't we do that*?"
And from that, it is but a short step to having a few mates round for dinner.
Mr WithaY and I are trying to make space in the freezer, as we are expecting to take delivery of a lamb (dead, butchered, to be frozen, in case you were wondering) from some friends who have been rearing them this Spring, so we've been eating Meals That Time Forgot over the last few weeks.
We have also been unearthing some rather great stuff, like sea bass that Mr WithaY caught when he went sea fishing a while back. And frozen octopus. It made a rather fine seafood salad, a grand end to a glittering career. Sorry Spence.
I made some mini bread rolls, from a recipe on Nigella Lawson's website, which were, though I say it myself, bloody great. I also made chocolate truffle cake, and shortbread to have with strawberries for pudding. My plan was to offer our lovely guests a choice of things in an elegant restrained manner, but by the time we got round to eating we were all off our heads on martinis, and I think everyone had some of everything, possibly all on the same plate at the same time.
Cocktails, though. Don't they get you drunk fast?
We started with the classic gin martini: Bombay Sapphire gin and dry Martini, shaken with ice, served with an olive. Mmmmm-mmm. Goes surprisingly well with chicken flavour crisps. You're welcome.
Then we made Vodka martinis. Sadly, thanks to the gin martinis, I was unable to follow the recipe and ended up mixing together vanilla vodka and Bombay Sapphire gin, completely leaving out the dry martini. Again, shaken with ice, served with an olive, and then later with an additional splash of martini when we remembered. Not nearly as bad as you might expect.
Obviously, that was before dinner. With dinner we had some** truly splendid white wine.
The evening is a bit hazy after the second cocktail, but I'm pretty sure there was a lot of laughing, shouting, eating of fine food, and the gracious hostess falling asleep on the sitting room rug as her guests departed to crash through the garden hedge, as is traditional after a WithaY dinner party.
Sunday was a quiet day.
*The whiny small child that lives in my head tends not to demand sweets and comics these days, but opulent cocktails and expensive jewellery instead.
**a lot
Friday, 17 July 2009
Walking back to happiness
So, the end of my first week back at work in ages. How do I feel? Just a bit tired, really, and that's perfectly copeable-with. I went up to London on Thursday, slept on the train on the way up, walked from Waterloo to Victoria in the sunshine, which felt like a bit of an achievement, and had a reasonable day trying to remember what it is exactly* they pay me for.
I'm still not a fan of the new flexi-desk arrangement. Disappointingly, this is not a series of special magical desks that you can bend and stretch to fit the number of people, like a special effect from a Harry Potter film.
No.
It's a limited number of desks into which a larger number of people have to try and fit on any given day. Inevitably, there are people who get into work a little later, and then can't find anywhere to sit.
We have these little personal box thingies that we keep in our lockers that we carry around till we find an empty desk, then decant all our work rubbish all over it for the day. We look like squalid bag ladies (and bag men, I suppose) with all our worldy goods lugged from pillar to post each day.
I haven't seen some members of the team all week because I have no idea where they are sitting. We communicate via email, because people also forget to set up their phone to pick up their extension, and therefore can't take calls.
Ah, progress.
I look forward to it.
Other news: One of our mates came round last night for dinner, and we had a rather splendid time eating our own weight in roast pork, bought from the highly persuasive butcher we met at the Bath and West show earlier this year. He was right to brag about the quality of his meat, it was superb.
We also watched Tropic Thunder on DVD, which is very funny. Lots (and lots) of bad language, so not for everyone, but it still makes me laugh out loud in parts. And Tom Cruise is just inspired.
There's an extra on the DVD entitled "Blowing shit up". Says it all really. Check out the website, you can machine gun stuff with your mouse.
*Still struggling with that a bit, to be honest. It'll come back to me.
I'm still not a fan of the new flexi-desk arrangement. Disappointingly, this is not a series of special magical desks that you can bend and stretch to fit the number of people, like a special effect from a Harry Potter film.
No.
It's a limited number of desks into which a larger number of people have to try and fit on any given day. Inevitably, there are people who get into work a little later, and then can't find anywhere to sit.
We have these little personal box thingies that we keep in our lockers that we carry around till we find an empty desk, then decant all our work rubbish all over it for the day. We look like squalid bag ladies (and bag men, I suppose) with all our worldy goods lugged from pillar to post each day.
I haven't seen some members of the team all week because I have no idea where they are sitting. We communicate via email, because people also forget to set up their phone to pick up their extension, and therefore can't take calls.
Ah, progress.
I look forward to it.
Other news: One of our mates came round last night for dinner, and we had a rather splendid time eating our own weight in roast pork, bought from the highly persuasive butcher we met at the Bath and West show earlier this year. He was right to brag about the quality of his meat, it was superb.
We also watched Tropic Thunder on DVD, which is very funny. Lots (and lots) of bad language, so not for everyone, but it still makes me laugh out loud in parts. And Tom Cruise is just inspired.
There's an extra on the DVD entitled "Blowing shit up". Says it all really. Check out the website, you can machine gun stuff with your mouse.
*Still struggling with that a bit, to be honest. It'll come back to me.
Wednesday, 15 July 2009
Restoration
This week I have been back at work. I have been out for just over 4 weeks, and it felt very odd going back up to London. The journey was ok though, I listened to the excellent Chris and Thomas on my iPhone on the way up, and slept, and looked out of the window and played solitaire.
I started walking from Waterloo, but by the time I got to Westminster I had lost my enthusiasm and hopped on the Tube the rest of the way.
In the time I've been away, we have moved back down to the first floor (Second Floor, American readers...the one up the stairs from the Ground floor. There's a clue in the name.) The new accommodation is cramped, noisy, hot and lacking in storage space. Just like the place I left last year then. Fan-tas-tic.
Everyone hates it, there is nowhere to put anything (paperless office my arse) and the coffee machine is nowhere to be found.
I don't actually drink coffee very much but it is still distressing to see colleagues wandering around the floorplate forlornly, mugs in hand, whimpering sadly as they go through caffeine withdrawal.
On my boss' advice I phoned up the departmental counsellor, who kindly agreed to see me that afternoon. That was tough. She was very kind though, and helpful, and gave me leaflets on Coping With Shite* and I am going back to see her next week. If it helps, I'm all for it.
I fell asleep on the train and slept all the way home, waking up in a panic in Salisbury wondering if I'd missed my stop and was halfway to Exeter.
I have worked at home today and yesterday and am back into London tomorrow. Work have been marvellous, but my God they must be tired of me by now. I feel like every week has provided a new, freakishly horrible, drama to disrupt life and add to the huge hot bale of stress I am now carrying around on the back of my neck. Which is nice.
Other news: The cleaning team came on Friday and did a good job. They were apologising as they left that they hadn't got round to doing the ironing, but to be fair they had slaved over the vile filth in the kitchen and bathroom, both of which were left spotless.
One of them said to me "Once we get on top of the place we'll have time to do some extra jobs." This got me thinking of stuff to ask them to do**. Excellent. I have come up with a few ideas, but more would be nice. Suggestions welcomed, obviously.
In fact, I felt so guilty at the thought of them having to tackle the appalling mountain of WithaY ironing that I spent an hour and a half yesterday evening doing a load of it, whilst watching reruns of "How Clean Is Your House". Some people really do live like pigs.
There was a couple who were repeatedly described as "former London high-fliers" who now run a farm in Kent. They both looked like leftover hippies, and their house was ankle deep in shit. Literally. The floors (and they were carpeted floors at that) were encrusted with mud, hair and dung. Lovely. Even their bedroom floor. And these were allegedly intelligent people. Fuckwits.
I was outraged, which is a good state of mind to be ironing in.
The weather today has taken a turn for the Apocalyptic. High winds, driving rain and the constant sound of squealing tyres and blaring car horns all combine for a relaxing background ambiance as I try to read the 450 emails in my work inbox.
Ah well. Could be worse. And when it is, I will let you know.
*I think. I'd need to look at it again to confirm the title
**Top of the list is repainting the dog shed, followed by chopping kindling, then clearing out the garage. I'm not sure our contract covers that, I'll need to check.
I started walking from Waterloo, but by the time I got to Westminster I had lost my enthusiasm and hopped on the Tube the rest of the way.
In the time I've been away, we have moved back down to the first floor (Second Floor, American readers...the one up the stairs from the Ground floor. There's a clue in the name.) The new accommodation is cramped, noisy, hot and lacking in storage space. Just like the place I left last year then. Fan-tas-tic.
Everyone hates it, there is nowhere to put anything (paperless office my arse) and the coffee machine is nowhere to be found.
I don't actually drink coffee very much but it is still distressing to see colleagues wandering around the floorplate forlornly, mugs in hand, whimpering sadly as they go through caffeine withdrawal.
On my boss' advice I phoned up the departmental counsellor, who kindly agreed to see me that afternoon. That was tough. She was very kind though, and helpful, and gave me leaflets on Coping With Shite* and I am going back to see her next week. If it helps, I'm all for it.
I fell asleep on the train and slept all the way home, waking up in a panic in Salisbury wondering if I'd missed my stop and was halfway to Exeter.
I have worked at home today and yesterday and am back into London tomorrow. Work have been marvellous, but my God they must be tired of me by now. I feel like every week has provided a new, freakishly horrible, drama to disrupt life and add to the huge hot bale of stress I am now carrying around on the back of my neck. Which is nice.
Other news: The cleaning team came on Friday and did a good job. They were apologising as they left that they hadn't got round to doing the ironing, but to be fair they had slaved over the vile filth in the kitchen and bathroom, both of which were left spotless.
One of them said to me "Once we get on top of the place we'll have time to do some extra jobs." This got me thinking of stuff to ask them to do**. Excellent. I have come up with a few ideas, but more would be nice. Suggestions welcomed, obviously.
In fact, I felt so guilty at the thought of them having to tackle the appalling mountain of WithaY ironing that I spent an hour and a half yesterday evening doing a load of it, whilst watching reruns of "How Clean Is Your House". Some people really do live like pigs.
There was a couple who were repeatedly described as "former London high-fliers" who now run a farm in Kent. They both looked like leftover hippies, and their house was ankle deep in shit. Literally. The floors (and they were carpeted floors at that) were encrusted with mud, hair and dung. Lovely. Even their bedroom floor. And these were allegedly intelligent people. Fuckwits.
I was outraged, which is a good state of mind to be ironing in.
The weather today has taken a turn for the Apocalyptic. High winds, driving rain and the constant sound of squealing tyres and blaring car horns all combine for a relaxing background ambiance as I try to read the 450 emails in my work inbox.
Ah well. Could be worse. And when it is, I will let you know.
*I think. I'd need to look at it again to confirm the title
**Top of the list is repainting the dog shed, followed by chopping kindling, then clearing out the garage. I'm not sure our contract covers that, I'll need to check.
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Back on the chain gang
Today I am working at home.
It's a glorious day, the washing is on the line, the vegetables have been watered, my work laptop is connecting to the network. All is well.
Meanwhile, outside, they are digging up the road, scraping the tarmac about with giant Transformer-stylee machines, hammering it flat, and then having a shouting contest to celebrate.
Bastards.
It's a glorious day, the washing is on the line, the vegetables have been watered, my work laptop is connecting to the network. All is well.
Meanwhile, outside, they are digging up the road, scraping the tarmac about with giant Transformer-stylee machines, hammering it flat, and then having a shouting contest to celebrate.
Bastards.
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
Mad scientists
Hello! Gosh, look, Wednesday already and I'm only just posting. I'd apologise, but as I know it will happen again it seems redundant.
Let's all just accept that I am posting less than I was, but with no corresponding increase in quality, and leave it at that, shall we? Then we can all get on with our lives.
Today, despite it being one of my "sitting at home and swearing at my laptop" days, I was in London.
Again!
I know!
How much more of this excitement can we stand?
London was looking nice in the sunshine today. And yesterday, when I walked back to Waterloo enjoying the scenery. I took some arty photos, when I am less tired I will upload them and share.
There were more police than I have ever seen in my life around Parliament Square, and when I saw the BBC website about the removal of the Tamil sit-down protest in the small hours, I realised why. It's all been remarkably low-key on the news; I can only assume that the BBC are trying not to raise the profile of the protesters by not mentioning it much.
I was at the Royal Society today, where the door handles are made of magical crystal with DNA helixes (helices? Spiral-type thingies anyway) embedded inside them.
It was an interesting seminar and a fine lunch, and I got to walk back to the office through St James' Park looking at the squirrels and birds. Not half bad.
But now I have to go to bed as I am up at 6 again tomorrow. I will of course have been awake since 4.30 but hey, at least it's light.
Let's all just accept that I am posting less than I was, but with no corresponding increase in quality, and leave it at that, shall we? Then we can all get on with our lives.
Today, despite it being one of my "sitting at home and swearing at my laptop" days, I was in London.
Again!
I know!
How much more of this excitement can we stand?
London was looking nice in the sunshine today. And yesterday, when I walked back to Waterloo enjoying the scenery. I took some arty photos, when I am less tired I will upload them and share.
There were more police than I have ever seen in my life around Parliament Square, and when I saw the BBC website about the removal of the Tamil sit-down protest in the small hours, I realised why. It's all been remarkably low-key on the news; I can only assume that the BBC are trying not to raise the profile of the protesters by not mentioning it much.
I was at the Royal Society today, where the door handles are made of magical crystal with DNA helixes (helices? Spiral-type thingies anyway) embedded inside them.
It was an interesting seminar and a fine lunch, and I got to walk back to the office through St James' Park looking at the squirrels and birds. Not half bad.
But now I have to go to bed as I am up at 6 again tomorrow. I will of course have been awake since 4.30 but hey, at least it's light.
Sunday, 17 May 2009
Boldly going
I was quite taken aback when I looked at the blog and realised that I only posted twice last week. That's a poor average for me, and even worse when you consider how little I actually had to say that wasn't all about yet more medical emergencies*.
Let me explain.
I have had a very busy week. Not with fun stuff like going to country shows, or shopping for gifts with a huge unexpected legacy, or learning to drive a monster truck, or anything like that.
No.
It's been All About Work this week. I'd bore you with the details but I think I'd probably get the sack, so best not, really. Suffice to say it's been very busy and as a result I am waking up at 4am with a rising sense of panic most days.
It's not big and it's not clever, and it certainly isn't doing much for my appearance. I have developed huge dark rings under my eyes, an interesting pallor and lumpy flaky skin. Mmmmm-mmm.
When it hasn't been All About Work, it's been All About Fretting About Mr WithaY. Fretting is my own particular specialism in the field of domestic nursing. I am rubbish at the practical stuff, but boy can I fret myself into a tizz whilst not actually helping anyone.
So, well done me for that.
To be fair to myself, I am pretty handy in an emergency. I don't faint at the sight of blood, I can keep calm and sort stuff out, I can plan contingency stuff to mitigate the situation (sorry, this sounds like work again), I can even deal with hospital staff without clinging to their lapels and shrieking. But once things start to settle down and I am back home, I am frankly a bit crap.
The good news is that Mr WithaY is much better. His hand is slowly losing the swelling, and with a bit of luck when we go and see the plastic surgery people at the hospital tomorrow they will be able to tell him how soon he can go back to work, drive, play the bongos etcetera.
Fingers crossed. Heh.
Other news: Whilst on the train home on Thursday, I sat next to an elderly lady. She was very sweet, and we exchanged a few pleasantries as we got settled for the journey. It was a sunny-ish evening, and the carriage was a little warm, but one of the windows at the far end was open so now and again a gentle breeze could be felt. The sweet old lady was reading a book, or looking out of the window. I was listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd and playing solitaire on my lovely, lovely iPhone. Not too bad at all.
All that was to change.
The guard, a large, cheerful chap, came stumping through, checking our tickets. He got to the group of people sitting around a table a couple of rows in front of me, and leaned across to open their window with his special key, announcing "You'll be wanting this open! It's very warm in here!" They didn't argue, probably because it was all done in a flash, and after all, having the window open is a bit of a change on the train.
The window fell wide open with a thud, and he clumped on his merry way, obviously feeling that he had done us all a favour.
The second the window opened fully, a howling gale whipped through the carriage, making my hair fly about wildly, and flicking the pages of the old lady's book over as she tried to read. She looked up at me sadly, and I smiled back in my "Ah well, mustn't grumble" way.
I put my hair up in a clip and tried to ignore the strong draught now wrapping itself around my neck. I looked along the carriage. People were putting coats on, huddling down in their seats, closing their books as they gave up trying to read. It was also incredibly noisy; now and again the stench of diesel fumes rolled in. Very nice.
When the guard came back, 20 minutes or so later, the sun had gone in and everyone I could see was wrapped in coats, red-eyed, shivering, clearly miserable.
Me: Excuse me....can you please close the window there again? It's very cold and draughty now. We're getting blown to bits here.
Cheerful Guard: It is a bit breezy, but if I close the window there's no ventilation. How far are you going?
Me: Past Salisbury. (we were approaching Basingstoke at this point, still well over an hour to go.)
Cheerful Guard: (patting my arm chummily) Well, you can go and sit in the front carriage. That has air conditioning.
Ah of course. Good plan. I will leave my seat and walk through the train to the front carriage, where I imagine there are also no empty seats, and people are sitting in the luggage racks. Just like in this carriage, in fact. And all the other carriages that other people have been trying before they gave up and came and squatted in the wind tunnel of despair here.
The old lady looked up at the guard, her hair whipped into a birds nest, her eyes red from the dust and wind, her book abandoned.
Old lady: (tremulously) It is very cold in here.
Cheerful Guard: (now stroking my arm in a rather offputting manner) Well, I am sorry, but there's nothing I can do.
Exit guard, still smiling with the sense of a job well done.
What? WHAT? Of course there is something you can do, you stompy, grinning, shiny-faced galoot. You can go and shut the bloody window again.
The people sitting at the table where the window had been opened had tried to close it a couple of times, but it kept falling open. Clearly it could only be closed by someone with a key to lock it back in place.
Other, other news: Mr WithaY and I went to Salisbury yesterday to go and see the new Star Trek film.
Loved it. I now have a deeply inappropriate crush on Mr Spock, and want to join Starfleet. It's just like being 12 again.
*I could write scripts for Casualty now.
Let me explain.
I have had a very busy week. Not with fun stuff like going to country shows, or shopping for gifts with a huge unexpected legacy, or learning to drive a monster truck, or anything like that.
No.
It's been All About Work this week. I'd bore you with the details but I think I'd probably get the sack, so best not, really. Suffice to say it's been very busy and as a result I am waking up at 4am with a rising sense of panic most days.
It's not big and it's not clever, and it certainly isn't doing much for my appearance. I have developed huge dark rings under my eyes, an interesting pallor and lumpy flaky skin. Mmmmm-mmm.
When it hasn't been All About Work, it's been All About Fretting About Mr WithaY. Fretting is my own particular specialism in the field of domestic nursing. I am rubbish at the practical stuff, but boy can I fret myself into a tizz whilst not actually helping anyone.
So, well done me for that.
To be fair to myself, I am pretty handy in an emergency. I don't faint at the sight of blood, I can keep calm and sort stuff out, I can plan contingency stuff to mitigate the situation (sorry, this sounds like work again), I can even deal with hospital staff without clinging to their lapels and shrieking. But once things start to settle down and I am back home, I am frankly a bit crap.
The good news is that Mr WithaY is much better. His hand is slowly losing the swelling, and with a bit of luck when we go and see the plastic surgery people at the hospital tomorrow they will be able to tell him how soon he can go back to work, drive, play the bongos etcetera.
Fingers crossed. Heh.
Other news: Whilst on the train home on Thursday, I sat next to an elderly lady. She was very sweet, and we exchanged a few pleasantries as we got settled for the journey. It was a sunny-ish evening, and the carriage was a little warm, but one of the windows at the far end was open so now and again a gentle breeze could be felt. The sweet old lady was reading a book, or looking out of the window. I was listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd and playing solitaire on my lovely, lovely iPhone. Not too bad at all.
All that was to change.
The guard, a large, cheerful chap, came stumping through, checking our tickets. He got to the group of people sitting around a table a couple of rows in front of me, and leaned across to open their window with his special key, announcing "You'll be wanting this open! It's very warm in here!" They didn't argue, probably because it was all done in a flash, and after all, having the window open is a bit of a change on the train.
The window fell wide open with a thud, and he clumped on his merry way, obviously feeling that he had done us all a favour.
The second the window opened fully, a howling gale whipped through the carriage, making my hair fly about wildly, and flicking the pages of the old lady's book over as she tried to read. She looked up at me sadly, and I smiled back in my "Ah well, mustn't grumble" way.
I put my hair up in a clip and tried to ignore the strong draught now wrapping itself around my neck. I looked along the carriage. People were putting coats on, huddling down in their seats, closing their books as they gave up trying to read. It was also incredibly noisy; now and again the stench of diesel fumes rolled in. Very nice.
When the guard came back, 20 minutes or so later, the sun had gone in and everyone I could see was wrapped in coats, red-eyed, shivering, clearly miserable.
Me: Excuse me....can you please close the window there again? It's very cold and draughty now. We're getting blown to bits here.
Cheerful Guard: It is a bit breezy, but if I close the window there's no ventilation. How far are you going?
Me: Past Salisbury. (we were approaching Basingstoke at this point, still well over an hour to go.)
Cheerful Guard: (patting my arm chummily) Well, you can go and sit in the front carriage. That has air conditioning.
Ah of course. Good plan. I will leave my seat and walk through the train to the front carriage, where I imagine there are also no empty seats, and people are sitting in the luggage racks. Just like in this carriage, in fact. And all the other carriages that other people have been trying before they gave up and came and squatted in the wind tunnel of despair here.
The old lady looked up at the guard, her hair whipped into a birds nest, her eyes red from the dust and wind, her book abandoned.
Old lady: (tremulously) It is very cold in here.
Cheerful Guard: (now stroking my arm in a rather offputting manner) Well, I am sorry, but there's nothing I can do.
Exit guard, still smiling with the sense of a job well done.
What? WHAT? Of course there is something you can do, you stompy, grinning, shiny-faced galoot. You can go and shut the bloody window again.
The people sitting at the table where the window had been opened had tried to close it a couple of times, but it kept falling open. Clearly it could only be closed by someone with a key to lock it back in place.
Other, other news: Mr WithaY and I went to Salisbury yesterday to go and see the new Star Trek film.
Loved it. I now have a deeply inappropriate crush on Mr Spock, and want to join Starfleet. It's just like being 12 again.
*I could write scripts for Casualty now.
Wednesday, 6 May 2009
Accidents will happen
Been working at home today, it being Wednesday, and until about 2 minutes ago it was all going rather well. I had managed to resolve a few pressing issues that seemed insurmountable at the end of yesterday, and even made progress on some of the dull but necessary jobs that we all leave till the last minute.
Yes, you. I know you do it too.
I was on a roll, redrafting something for the scary lawyers (brrrrr brrrrrrrrr brrrrrrrrrr) when I got the message "unable to connect to shared drive...error saving file"
Fuck.
Yes, once I managed to close down Word, restart it and find my file I'd been working in, it had lost the last 15 minutes worth of changes, meaning a long a tiresome trawl back through all the associated documentation I'd been referring to, trying to remember what I'd said.
How I laughed.
Actually, what I did was swear under my breath and then shut down the laptop.
Yeah. That'll teach it, bloody thing. Hopefully by the time I get into the office tomorrow it'll all be magically fixed.
Busy day tomorrow. Got to finish all the stuff for Friday's Big Workshop, also have a meeting with my boss, incorporating a meeting with an external stakeholder who is usually very worth listening to.
Oh, and I'm meeting my mate Andy for lunch. Yay.
Other news: Popped out at lunchtime to get some groceries, drop into the doctor's for some admin, and get cash at a cashpoint that doesn't charge a bloody fortune for the privilege of getting to my own money. So much to do.
Whilst parking in town* I witnessed a nasty little accident. There was a girl parked in the space next to mine. I didn't realise she was actually in her car until she started reversing out of the space as I was pulling forward.
Unfortunately, I think she was so busy watching that she didn't scrape into my car as she went back, that she failed to notice a bloke in a van pulling into the space on the other side of her car.
She smashed into the front of his van pretty impressively, then leapt out of her car apologising. I went to get my parking ticket, and as I came back I asked if everyone was alright. The van driver nodded, the girl was in her car getting her documentation out.
"Want a witness?" I asked the van driver, who was standing in a heap of broken glass and plastic. The girl's car looked relatively undamaged but the van was a mess.
He looked at me sadly and said "Nah. No point."
It really wasn't his day.
Just had a most enjoyable lesson with my gorgeous guitar teacher, and we played the bejeebus out of The Eagles' "Outlaw Man", and Bryan Adam's "When You're Gone". I need a decent vocalist to sing that with me, so I can do all the complex harmonies though.
My fingers hurt now. Excellent.
*ha
Yes, you. I know you do it too.
I was on a roll, redrafting something for the scary lawyers (brrrrr brrrrrrrrr brrrrrrrrrr) when I got the message "unable to connect to shared drive...error saving file"
Fuck.
Yes, once I managed to close down Word, restart it and find my file I'd been working in, it had lost the last 15 minutes worth of changes, meaning a long a tiresome trawl back through all the associated documentation I'd been referring to, trying to remember what I'd said.
How I laughed.
Actually, what I did was swear under my breath and then shut down the laptop.
Yeah. That'll teach it, bloody thing. Hopefully by the time I get into the office tomorrow it'll all be magically fixed.
Busy day tomorrow. Got to finish all the stuff for Friday's Big Workshop, also have a meeting with my boss, incorporating a meeting with an external stakeholder who is usually very worth listening to.
Oh, and I'm meeting my mate Andy for lunch. Yay.
Other news: Popped out at lunchtime to get some groceries, drop into the doctor's for some admin, and get cash at a cashpoint that doesn't charge a bloody fortune for the privilege of getting to my own money. So much to do.
Whilst parking in town* I witnessed a nasty little accident. There was a girl parked in the space next to mine. I didn't realise she was actually in her car until she started reversing out of the space as I was pulling forward.
Unfortunately, I think she was so busy watching that she didn't scrape into my car as she went back, that she failed to notice a bloke in a van pulling into the space on the other side of her car.
She smashed into the front of his van pretty impressively, then leapt out of her car apologising. I went to get my parking ticket, and as I came back I asked if everyone was alright. The van driver nodded, the girl was in her car getting her documentation out.
"Want a witness?" I asked the van driver, who was standing in a heap of broken glass and plastic. The girl's car looked relatively undamaged but the van was a mess.
He looked at me sadly and said "Nah. No point."
It really wasn't his day.
Just had a most enjoyable lesson with my gorgeous guitar teacher, and we played the bejeebus out of The Eagles' "Outlaw Man", and Bryan Adam's "When You're Gone". I need a decent vocalist to sing that with me, so I can do all the complex harmonies though.
My fingers hurt now. Excellent.
*ha
Monday, 4 May 2009
Communication breakdown
I have been grumpy. I did something distressing to my back on Thursday morning as I was brushing my teeth, and had to come home from work early as it was so incredibly painful. I took as many Nurofen and paracetamol as possible but it still hurt like bejeebus.
Limping around like Igor, whimpering and muttering "ow fuckit fuckit fuckit" under your breath is ok in the privacy of your own home, but not in the office.
Anyhoo. I spent some time the other day looking at what I was doing this time last year (according to the blog). And what was I doing? Apart from whinging about work, which seems to be pretty much a constant of my life?
I was paying for my bloody car to be repaired. I know it was a long time ago, but it still rankles.
More than two and a half grand to fix a known fault with the car, and because it was reported a couple of weeks after their arbitrary cutoff point, nothing from Toyota to help meet the costs. Bastards.
Yes, yes....ranklement still strong in this one.
I was also moaning about the weather. We have already had more nice weather this year than we did for pretty much the entire summer last year. That's how it feels anyway.
Other news: We have a vegetable patch! With potential vegetables and everything! Following a conversation in the pub the other week, one of our lovely neighbours dropped round some courgette plants for us.
Mr WithaY spent HOURS preparing a nice cosy little place for them in the garden. He dug over all the soil, picked out stones, sieved it, pulled out weed roots, put home-made compost in the holes....everything he could think of. The courgettes settled in quickly, and so far have not been devoured by rats, crows, mice, jackdaws, pigeons, pheasants, sparrowhawks, herons, badgers, moles, foxes, squirrels or slugs.
Early days though. Early days.
We have planted a load of seeds in pots on the kitchen windowsill. Parsley. I think. Tomatoes. Some squashes. Basil. Some others I can't remember. If they grow, they will soon join the courgettes in the Vegetable Bed of Unimaginable Luxury.
Mr WithaY, inspired by all this green-fingery, also bought two redcurrant bushes and some pepper plants. The pepper plants are on the kitchen windowsill, hopefully about to burst into flower. The redcurrent bushes are in the garden, keeping the courgettes company.
It's quite exciting* really.
So, apart from all the burgeoning self-sufficiency stuff, we spent the Bank Holiday weekend at home. Mostly quietly. Late Friday afternoon we expected to be driving up to Gloucester to see our mates and their mad spaniels. I rang them at lunchtime to confirm what time they expected to see us.
Good job I did.
They were not expecting to see us at all, and in fact wanted to call in at our place on their way down to the South West. Arse.
Well, it was lovely to see them, and the mad spaniels managed not to trash the rosemary bush for once. We ended up eating over at the pub and our mates stayed the night, so it was a fun social evening.
Last night we went to a rather fine dinner party with mates in the village, and as a result woke up late today. Which is no bad thing on a holiday Monday.
I'm fretting about work, having had a day and a half of unintended immobility, so am going to have to work my nuts** off to meet the deadlines I have this week. A bath and an early night should help.
If not, I will be whining and crying on the train all the way into London tomorrow. Which will be nice for the other commuters.
*We don't get out much.
**Metaphorical nuts.
Limping around like Igor, whimpering and muttering "ow fuckit fuckit fuckit" under your breath is ok in the privacy of your own home, but not in the office.
Anyhoo. I spent some time the other day looking at what I was doing this time last year (according to the blog). And what was I doing? Apart from whinging about work, which seems to be pretty much a constant of my life?
I was paying for my bloody car to be repaired. I know it was a long time ago, but it still rankles.
More than two and a half grand to fix a known fault with the car, and because it was reported a couple of weeks after their arbitrary cutoff point, nothing from Toyota to help meet the costs. Bastards.
Yes, yes....ranklement still strong in this one.
I was also moaning about the weather. We have already had more nice weather this year than we did for pretty much the entire summer last year. That's how it feels anyway.
Other news: We have a vegetable patch! With potential vegetables and everything! Following a conversation in the pub the other week, one of our lovely neighbours dropped round some courgette plants for us.
Mr WithaY spent HOURS preparing a nice cosy little place for them in the garden. He dug over all the soil, picked out stones, sieved it, pulled out weed roots, put home-made compost in the holes....everything he could think of. The courgettes settled in quickly, and so far have not been devoured by rats, crows, mice, jackdaws, pigeons, pheasants, sparrowhawks, herons, badgers, moles, foxes, squirrels or slugs.
Early days though. Early days.
We have planted a load of seeds in pots on the kitchen windowsill. Parsley. I think. Tomatoes. Some squashes. Basil. Some others I can't remember. If they grow, they will soon join the courgettes in the Vegetable Bed of Unimaginable Luxury.
Mr WithaY, inspired by all this green-fingery, also bought two redcurrant bushes and some pepper plants. The pepper plants are on the kitchen windowsill, hopefully about to burst into flower. The redcurrent bushes are in the garden, keeping the courgettes company.
It's quite exciting* really.
So, apart from all the burgeoning self-sufficiency stuff, we spent the Bank Holiday weekend at home. Mostly quietly. Late Friday afternoon we expected to be driving up to Gloucester to see our mates and their mad spaniels. I rang them at lunchtime to confirm what time they expected to see us.
Good job I did.
They were not expecting to see us at all, and in fact wanted to call in at our place on their way down to the South West. Arse.
Well, it was lovely to see them, and the mad spaniels managed not to trash the rosemary bush for once. We ended up eating over at the pub and our mates stayed the night, so it was a fun social evening.
Last night we went to a rather fine dinner party with mates in the village, and as a result woke up late today. Which is no bad thing on a holiday Monday.
I'm fretting about work, having had a day and a half of unintended immobility, so am going to have to work my nuts** off to meet the deadlines I have this week. A bath and an early night should help.
If not, I will be whining and crying on the train all the way into London tomorrow. Which will be nice for the other commuters.
*We don't get out much.
**Metaphorical nuts.
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