As news stories go, this one is pretty splendid:
Frozen 18kg kebab stolen from Trowbridge takeaway
Astonishingly, it's not from our local paper, either...it's from the BBC website. Honest. Take a look.
The description of the kebab made me snort tea out of my nose. No charge for that image, blog fans.
"How big was the kebab, sir? We need a description for the Wanted posters."
"Hmm...pretty big, officer. Yeah, pretty big, I'd say."
"Pretty big? Can you be more specific at all, sir?"
"It was massive. And made of meat."
"Massive...meat... Ok, sir, got that. Anything else? Any distinguishing features?"
"Let me think...it was sort of meat-coloured I suppose. And massive. Did I already say that?"
"Yes, you did, sir."
"Oooh! It had a metal skewer through it. A massive one. Metal coloured."
"Excellent, thank you sir. We'll get that description out immediately. If you receive a ransom demand, please let us know."
I also love the idea that people might be offered "kebab meat in suspicious circumstances." You mean, other than at 2am from a food-vending caravan staffed by a sweaty man who has giant vats of chilli sauce close at hand?
Friday, 25 March 2011
Saturday, 19 March 2011
Craft WIN
To take away the shame and chagrin of The Terrible Tie-Dye Incident, I finished making my new notice board today.
Ta- daaa:
It began life as a skanky old cork pinboard.
Ugh. Please note the faded patches where it's been hanging in my study for SO LONG.
I used wadding, fabric, ribbons and buttons, cunningly held in place with a combination of terrifyingly sticky spray glue, staples and prolific (and fluent) swearing to create a new thing of beauty from the ashes of the old.
Aren't we posh? Fruit on the sideboard and nobody ill.
I did iron the fabric before I stapled it in place. This is just to give the general idea.
If you look closely, you may notice that the diamonds are not all exactly the same size. If that sort of thing matters to you, sorry. I measured by eye; next time I make one I shall use a tape measure I think.
The worst part was hand sewing all the buttons on at each intersection of the ribbon. I think there were about 40 in total, and it took fucking hours. HOURS. Next time I might use a staplegun to hold the ribbon in place, and then carefully (and lazily) glue the buttons on to disguise the staples.
So now I have a rather lovely fabric notice board, on which the Village Fete PRIZE certificate from Belgian Waffle sits in pride of place, among the Sherlock Holmes film cards and foreign receipts.
The shark postcard is from Mr WithaY's Great White Shark tagging expedition to Mexico a couple of years ago. He went away for two weeks to poke huge sharks with a stick. Impressively, he also came back again.
Now I feel less artistically inept. Plus it makes my study feel more organised, which is encouraging.
Time for a celebratory cup of tea, I think.
Ta- daaa:
It began life as a skanky old cork pinboard.
Ugh. Please note the faded patches where it's been hanging in my study for SO LONG.
I used wadding, fabric, ribbons and buttons, cunningly held in place with a combination of terrifyingly sticky spray glue, staples and prolific (and fluent) swearing to create a new thing of beauty from the ashes of the old.
Aren't we posh? Fruit on the sideboard and nobody ill.
I did iron the fabric before I stapled it in place. This is just to give the general idea.
If you look closely, you may notice that the diamonds are not all exactly the same size. If that sort of thing matters to you, sorry. I measured by eye; next time I make one I shall use a tape measure I think.
The worst part was hand sewing all the buttons on at each intersection of the ribbon. I think there were about 40 in total, and it took fucking hours. HOURS. Next time I might use a staplegun to hold the ribbon in place, and then carefully (and lazily) glue the buttons on to disguise the staples.
So now I have a rather lovely fabric notice board, on which the Village Fete PRIZE certificate from Belgian Waffle sits in pride of place, among the Sherlock Holmes film cards and foreign receipts.
The shark postcard is from Mr WithaY's Great White Shark tagging expedition to Mexico a couple of years ago. He went away for two weeks to poke huge sharks with a stick. Impressively, he also came back again.
Now I feel less artistically inept. Plus it makes my study feel more organised, which is encouraging.
Time for a celebratory cup of tea, I think.
Craft FAIL
Remember I was banging on about how unsuccessful that tie-dye experiment was? And how ghastly the bedding looked after I'd finished dicking about with it?
I wasn't kidding.
You can just about make out the unpleasant bruise-like quality of the colour mix. Please note the enhancing effect of the sickly yellow circles.
Mmm. Sweet dreams. Do the yellow circles look like unfortunate stains to you? They do to me.
Is that a patch of paler green in the top right hand corner? Why yes, I believe it is. What a delicious colour contrast.
Perhaps the pillowcases will look a bit better.
Or perhaps they won't.
The whole lot was discreetly wrapped in a bag and placed in the village clothing and fabric recycling bin while nobody was about.
I hope that someone, somewhere gets some use from them, although frankly I can imagine frozen Third World rough-sleeping beggars turning up their noses at the whole sorry mess.
I wasn't kidding.
You can just about make out the unpleasant bruise-like quality of the colour mix. Please note the enhancing effect of the sickly yellow circles.
Mmm. Sweet dreams. Do the yellow circles look like unfortunate stains to you? They do to me.
Is that a patch of paler green in the top right hand corner? Why yes, I believe it is. What a delicious colour contrast.
Perhaps the pillowcases will look a bit better.
Or perhaps they won't.
The whole lot was discreetly wrapped in a bag and placed in the village clothing and fabric recycling bin while nobody was about.
I hope that someone, somewhere gets some use from them, although frankly I can imagine frozen Third World rough-sleeping beggars turning up their noses at the whole sorry mess.
Saturday, 12 March 2011
Mellow yellow
Yesterday was astonishing. I sat and watched the BBC news reports from Japan with horror, which got deeper and deeper as time went on. Waking up today to news of nuclear reactors exploding just seems unreal somehow.
The footage of that enormous whirlpool way out at sea, with the fishing boat fighting to get out of it was like something out of a disaster movie.
To try and raise my spirits, I thought I'd try to do something a bit creative today, what with my developing life plan to become a creative dynamo and all.
The other day as I was performing some unrelenting domestic drudgery, I found a set of bedlinen that looked a bit drab.
Plain white, a duvet cover and four matching pillowcases, all trimmed with sort of broiderie anglais stuff around the edges. Pretty in an uninspiring kind of way. Also, it was looking a bit tired somehow. Clean, and everything, but just not living the bedlinen dream any more.
Mr WithaY and I had already decided to go to Salisbury this morning, so I thought I'd pick up some fabric dye and attempt to tie-dye it. The bedlinen, not Salisbury.
What was I thinking?
We packed away the traditional brunch of Eggs Benedict in Patisserie Valerie, performed a rapid synchronised scoot round several shops to pick up various essentials, and then hey ho to the fabric shop. Mr WithaY needed to buy some orange fabric to make armbands.
Don't ask. I promise to take photos when all can be revealed.
While he was speculatively examining every roll of fabric in the shop, I decided to get some wadding, fabric and ribbon to make a posh notice board out of a scabby old cork board. That's my plan for tomorrow. If it works I will take gloating photos.
I also decided to get some fabric dye for my tie-dye experiment. How hard can it be? Hippies manage it, after all.
I bought a box of yellow, and a box of vibrant blue. My plan, such as it was, was to tie up the bedding, dye it yellow, undo the ties, re-tie it all slightly differently, dye it blue, and thus end up with a gorgeous mixture of white, yellow, blue and ahahahahahaaaaa GREEN in a random yet stylish pattern all over it.
The first part went ok. I spent bloody ages tying multiple bits of string artfully around the pillowcases and the duvet cover, then bunged them in the washing machine with the yellow dye and half a kilo of salt. I even had to make a special trip over to the garage to buy extra salt. That's how seriously I was taking this.
Mr WithaY was busily making armbands on the kitchen table, so we both had a cup of tea and watched the bright, bright yellow water in the washing machine.
The washing machine finished, beeping at me bossily. I took out the gorgeous yellow bedding. I untied the string, waiting to see the lovely patterns, and there was nothing. Nada. Zilch. Fuck all. The entirety of the fabric was bright yellow. Mr WithaY squinted helpfully, trying to be encouraging.
"I think there's a sort of paler bit there in the corner."
"Really? Where?"
"Right in the bottom corner...oh. Now you've moved it I can't see it any more. Is that a circle of white in the middle there, though?"
"Might be...maybe...."
I sighed sadly and put the beautiful blue dye and yet more salt in the washing machine, then spent at least seventeen hours (maybe longer) unpicking the wet string and re-tying it into careful patterns. I was hoping that where there were some paler white-ish bits, the dye would be blue, and where it was nice and yellow, there would be green, and where the string was, would stay yellow.
I remember having to spend ages in art at school dicking about with colour wheels and so on. Yellow and blue make green. Definitely.
I wasn't very good at art, mind.
I am now the proud owner of a set of khaki bedding, spotted with distressing yellow circles, much like little rings of sickly toadstools here and there on the forest floor.
Fuck it.
The footage of that enormous whirlpool way out at sea, with the fishing boat fighting to get out of it was like something out of a disaster movie.
To try and raise my spirits, I thought I'd try to do something a bit creative today, what with my developing life plan to become a creative dynamo and all.
The other day as I was performing some unrelenting domestic drudgery, I found a set of bedlinen that looked a bit drab.
Plain white, a duvet cover and four matching pillowcases, all trimmed with sort of broiderie anglais stuff around the edges. Pretty in an uninspiring kind of way. Also, it was looking a bit tired somehow. Clean, and everything, but just not living the bedlinen dream any more.
Mr WithaY and I had already decided to go to Salisbury this morning, so I thought I'd pick up some fabric dye and attempt to tie-dye it. The bedlinen, not Salisbury.
What was I thinking?
We packed away the traditional brunch of Eggs Benedict in Patisserie Valerie, performed a rapid synchronised scoot round several shops to pick up various essentials, and then hey ho to the fabric shop. Mr WithaY needed to buy some orange fabric to make armbands.
Don't ask. I promise to take photos when all can be revealed.
While he was speculatively examining every roll of fabric in the shop, I decided to get some wadding, fabric and ribbon to make a posh notice board out of a scabby old cork board. That's my plan for tomorrow. If it works I will take gloating photos.
I also decided to get some fabric dye for my tie-dye experiment. How hard can it be? Hippies manage it, after all.
I bought a box of yellow, and a box of vibrant blue. My plan, such as it was, was to tie up the bedding, dye it yellow, undo the ties, re-tie it all slightly differently, dye it blue, and thus end up with a gorgeous mixture of white, yellow, blue and ahahahahahaaaaa GREEN in a random yet stylish pattern all over it.
The first part went ok. I spent bloody ages tying multiple bits of string artfully around the pillowcases and the duvet cover, then bunged them in the washing machine with the yellow dye and half a kilo of salt. I even had to make a special trip over to the garage to buy extra salt. That's how seriously I was taking this.
Mr WithaY was busily making armbands on the kitchen table, so we both had a cup of tea and watched the bright, bright yellow water in the washing machine.
The washing machine finished, beeping at me bossily. I took out the gorgeous yellow bedding. I untied the string, waiting to see the lovely patterns, and there was nothing. Nada. Zilch. Fuck all. The entirety of the fabric was bright yellow. Mr WithaY squinted helpfully, trying to be encouraging.
"I think there's a sort of paler bit there in the corner."
"Really? Where?"
"Right in the bottom corner...oh. Now you've moved it I can't see it any more. Is that a circle of white in the middle there, though?"
"Might be...maybe...."
I sighed sadly and put the beautiful blue dye and yet more salt in the washing machine, then spent at least seventeen hours (maybe longer) unpicking the wet string and re-tying it into careful patterns. I was hoping that where there were some paler white-ish bits, the dye would be blue, and where it was nice and yellow, there would be green, and where the string was, would stay yellow.
I remember having to spend ages in art at school dicking about with colour wheels and so on. Yellow and blue make green. Definitely.
I wasn't very good at art, mind.
I am now the proud owner of a set of khaki bedding, spotted with distressing yellow circles, much like little rings of sickly toadstools here and there on the forest floor.
Fuck it.
Friday, 11 March 2011
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."
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
Newspaper review
The local paper has been most informative of late.
Outcry Over Regalia Cost is a story all about the mayor having a new chain of office, and people getting grumpy because it will be expensive. Over £1,200 to be exact. That's a lot of chain. But there's more to it than that... The mayor has asked for a new chain because the old one is too heavy. She wants "a lighter chain attached to a collar," a request which has provoked "fury" from some of her colleagues. One of them was quoted as saying "People in the town have heard what has happened...and are furious. The Westbury online forums are full of comments."
Excellent.
That should stop those pesky chain-buyers...a bunch of ranting Westbury dwellers on a variety of forums (fora? forii?) arguing the toss in cyberspace. Yeah.
The thing that has particularly caught my attention, other than the idea that a good pet shop could probably provide a nice light collar and chain for about £12, is the fact that there is more than one forum for the people of Westbury to vent their fury on. Who'd have though it?
Historic Monocle Unearthed makes you think there's an Indiana Jones-stylee story coming, maybe involving the undead guardians of some forgotten tomb, or a bunch of fanatical ninja priest warriors, all sneaking round West Wiltshire in pursuit of the Monocle of Doom. But no. It's a bit of photography kit used by William Fox Talbot, "found" at Lacock Abbey, where he lived and worked. So not so much "unearthed" as "moved a few things and there it was, right where he left it. " How disappointing.
Post Office To Fish Shop Plan is a collection of words which, when put together, make no sense whatsoever. When you read the supporting paragraph, all becomes clearer. It's a planning application. Dull.
Other headlines to spark mental images:
Pavement to be widened
Thief Disturbed
Bingo Fun
Census Plea
Accordian Night
Spinning Fun
Historians Meet
This week, though, the prize for "non news item" goes to this, which I make no apology for repeating in full:
Parked car block. A poorly-parked Honda 4x4 blocked Kingsfield in Bradford-on-Avon from 10am for several hours on Friday before being towed away by police.
Fantastic.
Wiltshire. Where no news really is good news.
Other news: We had a call from the police this afternoon. The thieving bastards who robbed the garage at the weekend have pleaded guilty to the charges and are due to be sentenced in the Crown Court soon. Excellent. The police rang to thank us and to say that "your call was extremely valid" which was nice of them. Also the lovely people at the garage have given us some wine as a thank you for being helpful and community-spirited.
I think we should get capes and masks.
And utility belts.
Outcry Over Regalia Cost is a story all about the mayor having a new chain of office, and people getting grumpy because it will be expensive. Over £1,200 to be exact. That's a lot of chain. But there's more to it than that... The mayor has asked for a new chain because the old one is too heavy. She wants "a lighter chain attached to a collar," a request which has provoked "fury" from some of her colleagues. One of them was quoted as saying "People in the town have heard what has happened...and are furious. The Westbury online forums are full of comments."
Excellent.
That should stop those pesky chain-buyers...a bunch of ranting Westbury dwellers on a variety of forums (fora? forii?) arguing the toss in cyberspace. Yeah.
The thing that has particularly caught my attention, other than the idea that a good pet shop could probably provide a nice light collar and chain for about £12, is the fact that there is more than one forum for the people of Westbury to vent their fury on. Who'd have though it?
Historic Monocle Unearthed makes you think there's an Indiana Jones-stylee story coming, maybe involving the undead guardians of some forgotten tomb, or a bunch of fanatical ninja priest warriors, all sneaking round West Wiltshire in pursuit of the Monocle of Doom. But no. It's a bit of photography kit used by William Fox Talbot, "found" at Lacock Abbey, where he lived and worked. So not so much "unearthed" as "moved a few things and there it was, right where he left it. " How disappointing.
Post Office To Fish Shop Plan is a collection of words which, when put together, make no sense whatsoever. When you read the supporting paragraph, all becomes clearer. It's a planning application. Dull.
Other headlines to spark mental images:
Pavement to be widened
Thief Disturbed
Bingo Fun
Census Plea
Accordian Night
Spinning Fun
Historians Meet
This week, though, the prize for "non news item" goes to this, which I make no apology for repeating in full:
Parked car block. A poorly-parked Honda 4x4 blocked Kingsfield in Bradford-on-Avon from 10am for several hours on Friday before being towed away by police.
Fantastic.
Wiltshire. Where no news really is good news.
Other news: We had a call from the police this afternoon. The thieving bastards who robbed the garage at the weekend have pleaded guilty to the charges and are due to be sentenced in the Crown Court soon. Excellent. The police rang to thank us and to say that "your call was extremely valid" which was nice of them. Also the lovely people at the garage have given us some wine as a thank you for being helpful and community-spirited.
I think we should get capes and masks.
And utility belts.
Sunday, 27 February 2011
Police Camera Action
Well, what a night we've just had.
It all started rather well with a few friends over for dinner. Mr WithaY made us all cocktails ...or aperitifs...I'm not certain what they actually were, other than hugely alcoholic. It was a mixture of some odd French strawberry liqueur liberated from Father in law WithaY's house, 16 percent proof I think, mixed with Bison grass vodka. And ice.
Gah.
By the time the food was ready, the hilarity meter was registering HIGH. We ate, we drank some more, we laughed a lot, and by the time our guests left we were stuffed, exhausted, pissed and ready for bed. Mr WithaY announced that he was going to sleep the sleep of the dead.
No. No he wasn't.
At about half past 3, maybe quarter to four, we were woken by a dull rhythmic thumping sound.
Not a loud car stereo heading past the house.
Not a very, very fat person walking home.
Not a dinosaur on a rampage* through West Wiltshire.
No.
It was two thieving scroats, smashing their way through the front door of the petrol station with a sledgehammer.
Well, what would you have done?
My first instinct was to get tooled up with shooters and go out to Stop Them In Their Tracks, in the manner of some vengeful American cop out for Justice.
However, what with me not being a cop, American or otherwise, I decided that was a bit of a crap idea, so Mr WithaY went to call the police instead. He was able to give the police a running commentary on what was happening, looking out of the bedroom window, watching a crime in progress.
The vile little toads were in through the smashed door incredibly quickly.
They used, as well as the sledgehammer, a large concrete block which was sat outside a neighbour's garage, usually deployed as a hefty doorstop. We watched them pulling the broken glass out of the doorframe, then scramble through the door into the garage, smash open the locked cabinet full of cigarettes, and pretty much strip it bare. All this took about 4 minutes.
They ran out of the garage to a car parked in the dark by the recycling bins, and hared off along the main road towards town with no lights on.
Thrilling.
Mr WithaY and I continued to peek out of the window as the garage owners arrived, then the police. Mr WithaY got dressed and went out to tell them what we'd seen. He was gone for over an hour. Apparently they were making cups of tea and everything.
While he was over there, drinking tea and discussing the state of the nation with the police, reports came through on the radio that the robbers had been apprehended. Apparently the police had spotted them (no lights, speeding, probably driving like thieves in a getaway vehicle), given chase through several local villages, and finally collared them.
When searched, the sledgehammer, a huge sack of fags and a change of clothes for both perps were found in the car. Bang to rights, I'd say.
Turns out, our garage was the fourth one to be robbed that night. I can only assume that the crime statistics for West Wiltshire will be looking a little better after this. Assuming that the thieves in question aren't simply slapped on the wrist and released back into the loving arms of the local community, of course.
Mr WithaY enjoyed watching the robbery on the garage's CCTV recordings while he had his 5am tea.
Other news: There is, apparently, a "West Country Burlesque Artist" coming to perform in Frome. We may have to get tickets, it sounds too weird to miss.
I hope her costumes involve baler twine and feed sacks.
*It will happen one day, mark my words.
It all started rather well with a few friends over for dinner. Mr WithaY made us all cocktails ...or aperitifs...I'm not certain what they actually were, other than hugely alcoholic. It was a mixture of some odd French strawberry liqueur liberated from Father in law WithaY's house, 16 percent proof I think, mixed with Bison grass vodka. And ice.
Gah.
By the time the food was ready, the hilarity meter was registering HIGH. We ate, we drank some more, we laughed a lot, and by the time our guests left we were stuffed, exhausted, pissed and ready for bed. Mr WithaY announced that he was going to sleep the sleep of the dead.
No. No he wasn't.
At about half past 3, maybe quarter to four, we were woken by a dull rhythmic thumping sound.
Not a loud car stereo heading past the house.
Not a very, very fat person walking home.
Not a dinosaur on a rampage* through West Wiltshire.
No.
It was two thieving scroats, smashing their way through the front door of the petrol station with a sledgehammer.
Well, what would you have done?
My first instinct was to get tooled up with shooters and go out to Stop Them In Their Tracks, in the manner of some vengeful American cop out for Justice.
However, what with me not being a cop, American or otherwise, I decided that was a bit of a crap idea, so Mr WithaY went to call the police instead. He was able to give the police a running commentary on what was happening, looking out of the bedroom window, watching a crime in progress.
The vile little toads were in through the smashed door incredibly quickly.
They used, as well as the sledgehammer, a large concrete block which was sat outside a neighbour's garage, usually deployed as a hefty doorstop. We watched them pulling the broken glass out of the doorframe, then scramble through the door into the garage, smash open the locked cabinet full of cigarettes, and pretty much strip it bare. All this took about 4 minutes.
They ran out of the garage to a car parked in the dark by the recycling bins, and hared off along the main road towards town with no lights on.
Thrilling.
Mr WithaY and I continued to peek out of the window as the garage owners arrived, then the police. Mr WithaY got dressed and went out to tell them what we'd seen. He was gone for over an hour. Apparently they were making cups of tea and everything.
While he was over there, drinking tea and discussing the state of the nation with the police, reports came through on the radio that the robbers had been apprehended. Apparently the police had spotted them (no lights, speeding, probably driving like thieves in a getaway vehicle), given chase through several local villages, and finally collared them.
When searched, the sledgehammer, a huge sack of fags and a change of clothes for both perps were found in the car. Bang to rights, I'd say.
Turns out, our garage was the fourth one to be robbed that night. I can only assume that the crime statistics for West Wiltshire will be looking a little better after this. Assuming that the thieves in question aren't simply slapped on the wrist and released back into the loving arms of the local community, of course.
Mr WithaY enjoyed watching the robbery on the garage's CCTV recordings while he had his 5am tea.
Other news: There is, apparently, a "West Country Burlesque Artist" coming to perform in Frome. We may have to get tickets, it sounds too weird to miss.
I hope her costumes involve baler twine and feed sacks.
*It will happen one day, mark my words.
Thursday, 17 February 2011
Lighting up time
It's almost 7am. I've been up for just over an hour, and am currently sitting on the train heading for London.
So far, so ordinary.
What has made today a little bit different is light. When I left the house at 6.30, I could not only see my car, but I could also see the hills over in the distance. There was a pale band of sky which allowed me to see the shape of the hills, the few trees on the skyline, and the lowest clouds.
Spring is definitely springing.
Added to that, once I arrived at the station with a couple of minutes to spare, I could stand in Platform 1* and listen to the dawn chorus.
For the last few months, the only birdsong I have heard at that time of day has come from the owls who live in the woods around the station.
We have many purple crocuses in flower in the garden, snowdrops all over the back garden, and the pink heather in the tub under the rose arch is in flower.
I feel as though I ought to don a white robe and leaf garland, and skip round the village giving libations to everyone. Perhaps living in Wiltshire has got to me.
*The only platform. They could name it anything if they wanted to.
So far, so ordinary.
What has made today a little bit different is light. When I left the house at 6.30, I could not only see my car, but I could also see the hills over in the distance. There was a pale band of sky which allowed me to see the shape of the hills, the few trees on the skyline, and the lowest clouds.
Spring is definitely springing.
Added to that, once I arrived at the station with a couple of minutes to spare, I could stand in Platform 1* and listen to the dawn chorus.
For the last few months, the only birdsong I have heard at that time of day has come from the owls who live in the woods around the station.
We have many purple crocuses in flower in the garden, snowdrops all over the back garden, and the pink heather in the tub under the rose arch is in flower.
I feel as though I ought to don a white robe and leaf garland, and skip round the village giving libations to everyone. Perhaps living in Wiltshire has got to me.
*The only platform. They could name it anything if they wanted to.
Sunday, 13 February 2011
Lonely heart
Ooh, I've had a v dodgy email via Facebook from "Anderson Brookes" who is apparently a widower with two young sons. He wants us to be friends, at least to begin with.
He doesn't sound at all like some random scammer, and I will be emailing him my credit card details later today.
He's from Ontario, according to his (almost blank) Facebook profile, but I have a feeling he's really in Nigeria, or possibly China.
Fuckwit.
He doesn't sound at all like some random scammer, and I will be emailing him my credit card details later today.
He's from Ontario, according to his (almost blank) Facebook profile, but I have a feeling he's really in Nigeria, or possibly China.
Fuckwit.
Saturday, 12 February 2011
Something fishy
I've had a very exciting offer arrive in my email. It is from the "Saudi Embassy in Philippines", and it goes like this:
"Last Gift
I am Dr Michael Law, a diagnosed cancer woman on bed is willing to donate her funds to help you as her last gift from God. reply to dr.michaellaw1@9.cn "
Before I compose my reply, let's examine this more closely.
From the Saudi Embassy...hints at there being some fabulously weathy Arab involved. I like this already. In the Philippines, though. Hmm, possibly one of the less affluant Saudis, then. Possibly disappointing. Not to dismiss it too soon, though, let's read on.
"Last Gift" is a nice title. Almost like a short story, or possibly a daytime movie starring someone who used to be in Dynasty, or Little House on the Prairie. Or Felicity Kendall. It has promise. Provokes a warm feeling in my heart.
The sharp inquiring feeling between my ears remains, however. Let us continue the analysis.
Dr Michael Law, a name to inspire confidence. Trust. It's reassuring. And he's a doctor, even better. Doesn't say what he is a doctor of, mind. Medicine? Political science? Media studies? Is it a made-up Internet doctorate that you can buy for £20 and a bit of form-filling? Is he, in short, someone I would allow to perform any kind of medical procedure on me?
The seeds of doubt are growing.
Then it gets even stickier. "A diagnosed cancer woman."
Sooo...she has been diagnosed with cancer? Or diagnosed as being a woman? Or diagnosed as someone who was born in late June/early July? Or maybe she has crabs?
Be more specific, Dr Law, my sympathy and interest are dwindling.
But wait..."on bed." Ahahaha. She is on bed. That makes all the difference. However, again we are left to wonder. Is it a hospital bed? A vegetable bed? The sea bed? Details, man, details.
Then comes the crux of the matter.
This crab-infested woman lying out in the garden among the cabbages wants to "donate her funds" to me for no reason whatsoever. How nice of her. I assume that "donate her funds" isn't a euphamism.
Well, Dr Law, here's what I suggest you do. Get her to transfer all of "her funds" into a British bank account, and then email me with the details. Have her sign over authority to access that bank account to me, notarised by a professionally qualified and legally certified lawyer with a current license to practice law in England, and I will pick up the funds when I have time.
Thanks.
Oh, and the email address - Chinese, I think? Idiot.
"Last Gift
I am Dr Michael Law, a diagnosed cancer woman on bed is willing to donate her funds to help you as her last gift from God. reply to dr.michaellaw1@9.cn "
Before I compose my reply, let's examine this more closely.
From the Saudi Embassy...hints at there being some fabulously weathy Arab involved. I like this already. In the Philippines, though. Hmm, possibly one of the less affluant Saudis, then. Possibly disappointing. Not to dismiss it too soon, though, let's read on.
"Last Gift" is a nice title. Almost like a short story, or possibly a daytime movie starring someone who used to be in Dynasty, or Little House on the Prairie. Or Felicity Kendall. It has promise. Provokes a warm feeling in my heart.
The sharp inquiring feeling between my ears remains, however. Let us continue the analysis.
Dr Michael Law, a name to inspire confidence. Trust. It's reassuring. And he's a doctor, even better. Doesn't say what he is a doctor of, mind. Medicine? Political science? Media studies? Is it a made-up Internet doctorate that you can buy for £20 and a bit of form-filling? Is he, in short, someone I would allow to perform any kind of medical procedure on me?
The seeds of doubt are growing.
Then it gets even stickier. "A diagnosed cancer woman."
Sooo...she has been diagnosed with cancer? Or diagnosed as being a woman? Or diagnosed as someone who was born in late June/early July? Or maybe she has crabs?
Be more specific, Dr Law, my sympathy and interest are dwindling.
But wait..."on bed." Ahahaha. She is on bed. That makes all the difference. However, again we are left to wonder. Is it a hospital bed? A vegetable bed? The sea bed? Details, man, details.
Then comes the crux of the matter.
This crab-infested woman lying out in the garden among the cabbages wants to "donate her funds" to me for no reason whatsoever. How nice of her. I assume that "donate her funds" isn't a euphamism.
Well, Dr Law, here's what I suggest you do. Get her to transfer all of "her funds" into a British bank account, and then email me with the details. Have her sign over authority to access that bank account to me, notarised by a professionally qualified and legally certified lawyer with a current license to practice law in England, and I will pick up the funds when I have time.
Thanks.
Oh, and the email address - Chinese, I think? Idiot.
Sunday, 6 February 2011
Viva Las Sulis
You'll be delighted to know that Mr WithaY and I are both still full of cold. We seem to be taking part in an unofficial sneezing contest - a sneezathon, if you will - with both of us taking turns to scare the shit out of the other one with several explosive sneezes, followed by weak half-hearted nose-blowing and gasping for air. Sometimes there will also be an apology, but it never sounds very genuine.
I have added a painful sore throat to my repertoire, Mr WithaY is suffering with what looks like the latter stages of scurvy.
We are pasty and grumpy. More so than usual, I mean.
In an attempt to Snap Out Of It, as we are certain our respective parents would have advised, we went to Bath on Saturday. We had been planning the trip for a while. Well, it's a big deal, going to the Big City. Originally we had intended to go by train, but on the day we decided to drive; well, as we were heading off nice and early, parking would not be a problem.
Or so we thought.
There's a handy car park in Manvers Street, next to the police station, where, local urban myth has it, some naughty scamp planted cannabis in the dead of night in the big concrete flowerpots out the front of the cop shop, only to have it grow and flourish there for months. I have no idea if it's true, but I do like the story.
Anyhoo. We got to the car park by 10.30. The top level was full, so we headed down the ramp to the spacious and charming* lower level. Gah! Half of the lower level was fenced off, with no apparent reason. There was a space, but it was a bit tight to cram Mr WithaY's huuuuuuge LandRover into it. He managed, avoiding all the parked cars around him AND the concrete pillar.
The agenda for the day was as follows:
1) Scour all the charity shops in Bath for appropriate 1940s-style menswear that would fit Mr WithaY. Don't ask.
2) Have lunch out somewhere nice, possibly after meeting our mate Ed, to whom Mr WithaY needed to pay some money**.
3) More charity shop scouring. There are a lot of charity shops in Bath.
4) Visit Long Tall Sally (the clothes shop, not the person) and see if there was anything nice in their sale.
5) Take a peek in the guitar shop just out of interest, not to buy anything, no honestly, I'll only be in there a minute.
6) Go to Habitat, to try and Get With The Trends.
7) Finally wend our weary way back to the car, laden with the fruits of our shopping expedition, exhausted and happy, and hopefully thoroughly snapped out of our colds.
The reality was somewhat different.
Once the car was safely parked and the EXTORTIONATE parking ticket bought, we headed into town. The very first charity shop, almost the very first shop, that we found, delivered everything we needed and more. Mr WithaY acquired two pairs of sturdy woollen trousers, suitably voluminous and pleated, and a dark green corduroy jacket which he is seriously considering wearing to work "because it's really nice." All for under £25.
They go with his new patterned tank top that he had already bought (online without my knowledge, honestly that man's a constant fount of startlement) a treat.
I found a copy of Bill Bryson's "A Short History of Nearly Everything" which I have been meaning to buy for ages, and only had to pay £2.50 for it. Result.
So, we were two hours from meeting our mate, and had already completed the bulk of the day's mission. What to do...what to do?
Aha! There's a Patisserie Valerie in Bath. Where they sell Eggs Benedict. Nom nom nom. We had a late breakfast, and admired our bargains.
Suitably sustained, we headed back out to see what adventures Bath held.
In the covered market, I found this. Elvis. But in Lion form!
I honestly thought my heart would stop - it is so perfect. Look at the sneer on him!
And the attention to detail...well...
I had to be led away by Mr WithaY.
Remember the Bath Pigs, a while ago? I was really hoping this would be the first of many leonine interpretations of rock legends, but he seemed to be a one-off.
Also, this man wins the There Must Be Easier Ways To Make A Living Award:
It was raining! So...on a tightrope, playing the fiddle, in the rain. For (I looked*** in his hat) about 8 quid.
Lunch. Ah yes, lunch. We went to the Hall and Woodhouse. It's a strange place, almost a pub, almost a giant waiting room, almost a bistro, not quite anything entirely. It was very busy, but we found somewhere to sit, and I ordered an egg mayonnaise sandwich.
It arrived, presented disarmingly in what looks like a swabs dish from a Stalinist military hospital.
Mmmmm. Appetising.
To be fair, it wasn't a bad sandwich, despite having lettuce in it when the menu had only mentioned cress, and arriving with a portion of chips on the side which, again, the menu failed to mention.
I should write restaurant reviews.
Lunch completed, we scooted back out into the rain to complete the remaining missions on our list. Long Tall Sally had moved, so we walked up and down a while till we found the new shop, where I bought a couple of tops in the sale. It's great being slightly less obese. You have so much more choice in clothes shops.
Then, as we were in the area, we called into the guitar shop.
What a sack of arse that was.
It is staffed - as most guitar shops in my experience seem to be - by aloof young men with complicated hair and achingly hip rock-god clothing styles. In this place, though, there is no elder guitar statesman to manage them, and rein in their sneering when a middle-aged woman wanders in off the street. I shan't be buying anything from them, even if I do decide to sell my Rickenbacker and invest in something else in the future.
Bastards.
I was tempted to steal a quote from Ab Fab's Patsy - "You can drop the attitude, you only work in a shop you know."
*Dank, piss-smelling dungeon. With pay machines.
**The money payment is related to the clothes purchasing at point (1) above. It's all very bizarre complicated, but if things pan out, I promise to provide a full report later in the year.
***Yes, yes, I gave him some money. Well, it's traditional.
I have added a painful sore throat to my repertoire, Mr WithaY is suffering with what looks like the latter stages of scurvy.
We are pasty and grumpy. More so than usual, I mean.
In an attempt to Snap Out Of It, as we are certain our respective parents would have advised, we went to Bath on Saturday. We had been planning the trip for a while. Well, it's a big deal, going to the Big City. Originally we had intended to go by train, but on the day we decided to drive; well, as we were heading off nice and early, parking would not be a problem.
Or so we thought.
There's a handy car park in Manvers Street, next to the police station, where, local urban myth has it, some naughty scamp planted cannabis in the dead of night in the big concrete flowerpots out the front of the cop shop, only to have it grow and flourish there for months. I have no idea if it's true, but I do like the story.
Anyhoo. We got to the car park by 10.30. The top level was full, so we headed down the ramp to the spacious and charming* lower level. Gah! Half of the lower level was fenced off, with no apparent reason. There was a space, but it was a bit tight to cram Mr WithaY's huuuuuuge LandRover into it. He managed, avoiding all the parked cars around him AND the concrete pillar.
The agenda for the day was as follows:
1) Scour all the charity shops in Bath for appropriate 1940s-style menswear that would fit Mr WithaY. Don't ask.
2) Have lunch out somewhere nice, possibly after meeting our mate Ed, to whom Mr WithaY needed to pay some money**.
3) More charity shop scouring. There are a lot of charity shops in Bath.
4) Visit Long Tall Sally (the clothes shop, not the person) and see if there was anything nice in their sale.
5) Take a peek in the guitar shop just out of interest, not to buy anything, no honestly, I'll only be in there a minute.
6) Go to Habitat, to try and Get With The Trends.
7) Finally wend our weary way back to the car, laden with the fruits of our shopping expedition, exhausted and happy, and hopefully thoroughly snapped out of our colds.
The reality was somewhat different.
Once the car was safely parked and the EXTORTIONATE parking ticket bought, we headed into town. The very first charity shop, almost the very first shop, that we found, delivered everything we needed and more. Mr WithaY acquired two pairs of sturdy woollen trousers, suitably voluminous and pleated, and a dark green corduroy jacket which he is seriously considering wearing to work "because it's really nice." All for under £25.
They go with his new patterned tank top that he had already bought (online without my knowledge, honestly that man's a constant fount of startlement) a treat.
I found a copy of Bill Bryson's "A Short History of Nearly Everything" which I have been meaning to buy for ages, and only had to pay £2.50 for it. Result.
So, we were two hours from meeting our mate, and had already completed the bulk of the day's mission. What to do...what to do?
Aha! There's a Patisserie Valerie in Bath. Where they sell Eggs Benedict. Nom nom nom. We had a late breakfast, and admired our bargains.
Suitably sustained, we headed back out to see what adventures Bath held.
In the covered market, I found this. Elvis. But in Lion form!
I honestly thought my heart would stop - it is so perfect. Look at the sneer on him!
And the attention to detail...well...
I had to be led away by Mr WithaY.
Remember the Bath Pigs, a while ago? I was really hoping this would be the first of many leonine interpretations of rock legends, but he seemed to be a one-off.
Also, this man wins the There Must Be Easier Ways To Make A Living Award:
It was raining! So...on a tightrope, playing the fiddle, in the rain. For (I looked*** in his hat) about 8 quid.
Lunch. Ah yes, lunch. We went to the Hall and Woodhouse. It's a strange place, almost a pub, almost a giant waiting room, almost a bistro, not quite anything entirely. It was very busy, but we found somewhere to sit, and I ordered an egg mayonnaise sandwich.
It arrived, presented disarmingly in what looks like a swabs dish from a Stalinist military hospital.
To be fair, it wasn't a bad sandwich, despite having lettuce in it when the menu had only mentioned cress, and arriving with a portion of chips on the side which, again, the menu failed to mention.
I should write restaurant reviews.
Lunch completed, we scooted back out into the rain to complete the remaining missions on our list. Long Tall Sally had moved, so we walked up and down a while till we found the new shop, where I bought a couple of tops in the sale. It's great being slightly less obese. You have so much more choice in clothes shops.
Then, as we were in the area, we called into the guitar shop.
What a sack of arse that was.
It is staffed - as most guitar shops in my experience seem to be - by aloof young men with complicated hair and achingly hip rock-god clothing styles. In this place, though, there is no elder guitar statesman to manage them, and rein in their sneering when a middle-aged woman wanders in off the street. I shan't be buying anything from them, even if I do decide to sell my Rickenbacker and invest in something else in the future.
Bastards.
I was tempted to steal a quote from Ab Fab's Patsy - "You can drop the attitude, you only work in a shop you know."
*Dank, piss-smelling dungeon. With pay machines.
**The money payment is related to the clothes purchasing at point (1) above. It's all very bizarre complicated, but if things pan out, I promise to provide a full report later in the year.
***Yes, yes, I gave him some money. Well, it's traditional.
Friday, 4 February 2011
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!
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