The week in snippets.
Sunday. A quiet half-hour in the WithaY household, sipping tea and discussing the Vikings.
Me: Would you fancy going to Valhalla when you die?
Mr WithaY (after a thoughtful pause) I don't know. It sounds a bit raucous.
Me: So, you'd prefer a quiet corner, not one of the carousing tables?
Mr WithaY: Yes. I'd go if there was a chillout room.
Monday. Arriving at my sister's house, as previously arranged via text, to spend the evening with her and the family, and enjoy some quality family time. And a lie-in on Tuesday.
The look of shock on her face when she opened the door was a picture. Apparently she'd completely forgotten I was coming. We decided to get an Indian take-away (brave, given my recent stomach upset, but you'll be glad to know there were no ill effects) as there were apparently only 4 burgers in the fridge. Heh.
Tuesday. Watched a flustered man in a pink shirt struggle to open his box of salad to eat on the homeward journey, lose patience, jerk frustratedly at the lid, and successfully tip grated carrot, beans, couscous and salad dressing all over himself and the table. He muttered "...fuck...." sheepishly, scraped the mess up and sat there all the way to Basingstoke in a salad-dressing-smelling shirt.
Wednesday. You know, I can't remember a single event from Wednesday? Not one. Perhaps I spent the day asleep. Or locked in a cupboard. Or in another dimension. In all events, I have nothing to offer. Sorry.
Thursday. Arrived home from work, to a house with a strange smell.
me: Can I smell vinegar?
Mr WithaY: (proudly) Yes! I've been pickling!
Me: Oh. (with some trepidation) What have you pickled?
Mr WithaY: Ash keys! Look!
He ran into his study and returned triumphantly, waving a small jar with, yes, pickled ash keys and a garlic clove floating in it. Lord.
Me: Oh. Um. Well done?
Friday: Today has been all about fishwatching. We've had seven fatalities so far in the last week - two of the new samurai gourami, two tiger barbs, a leopard cory and two neon tetras. It may just be unfortunate coincidence, but Mr WithaY will be checking the water chemistry tomorrow to see if something has gone badly wrong. Over a year with no sad, last, long flushings, and now seven. In a week! Gah.
Oh, and I had a guitar lesson which - forgive the term - ROCKED. We played Sweet Child of Mine AND Freebird.
Fucking rock and roll, man.
Rock and roll.
Showing posts with label I hate trains. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I hate trains. Show all posts
Friday, 13 May 2011
Saturday, 9 April 2011
Serious vs. Normal
Blimey I'm tired. Yes, yes. I know it's Saturday morning, and the sun is out, and the birds are tweeting cheerfully. I should be bursting forth into the world with a spring in my step and a song on my lips. But really. No. Just no.
I wish I had a dazzling array of adventures to relate, explanations for being so exhausted, but I've got nothing. NOTHING. It's all down to work, boringly. And train fuckwittery, so nothing new there.
As a result of me being asked to help out with a couple of short term projects, I had to change my working pattern, and go up to London for 3 days in a row. I hate doing that. My working week is usually 2 days in London, a day working at home, another day in London, then the final day at home. I can cope with that reasonably well, although by the end of the second day in London I am washed out. Having to get up at 5.45, do my usual 3 hour commute to the office, do some pretty intensive stuff all day long, then travel 3 hours home, only to get up and do it again for 3 days in a row was a stretch.
Things weren't helped by the massive - yes I mean MASSIVE - fuck up on the trains on Wednesday night. I got to Waterloo in time to hop onto the 1750 train, which usually gets me home by 8pm, all being well.
All was not well.
On arrival at the bustling concourse* I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of hundreds, possibly thousands, hell, maybe a million people, all standing transfixed like zombies, staring up at the array of screens. Usually the screens are populated with information about which train is going where and when, all that stuff. Wednesday night, however, was different. Only three of the boards were populated, and they showed local trains. The other dozen or so were ominously blank.
The little teeny TV screen in the middle of the board had a scrolling message, running in an endless, heartbreaking loop.
"Anyone who wishes to travel to the West of England, please take the first train to Basingstoke and change there."
Well arse biscuits.
I ran** onto the platform where the Basingstoke train was parked, and then walked along the entire length of the platform, agog at the number of people who had crammed themselves into the train. It looked like those pictures of the Tokyo Underground, where guards with peaked caps and big hands force everyone in so the doors will close. I decided not to try and wedge myself in, rather to wait for the next train and hopefully find a bit more space.
There was another train waiting on a different platform, far less crowded, so I hopped aboard and found a place to stand. All the seats were full, but there was a fair bit of standing room. Plus the train had air conditioning which was working intermittently, so it wasn't all bad.
Well, that trip to Basingstoke seemed to take weeks. We trundled along at a casual pace, stopping frequently, I assume at signals, although it may have been the driver simply wishing to admire the view. Every now and again the guard's voice crackled through the intercom, apologising profusely for the disruption to everyone's journeys.
At one point he explained that the reason for all the chaos was "a serious fatality at Surbiton." I am sorry to say, readers, that this provoked an unseemly outbreak of laughter in the carriage as everyone tried to understand how a serious fatality differed from a normal fatality.
At length, we made it to Basingstoke, and the train terminated. Everyone got off, and milled about on the platform, peering anxiously up at the information screens. These were not informative.
An announcement told us to go to Platform Two, where a train to Exeter was waiting. Hurrah! The mob surged across the platform, down the stairs, along the tunnel, UP the stairs and onto Platform Two. There was indeed a train, but it was going back to London. A few people got on, then hastily off again.
The electronic board told us that the train was going to Exeter, but we didn't believe it. Sure enough, after a few minutes it headed off, towards London.
A chap next to me sighed, and said sadly "When I was a child, my grandad used to tell me if I was naughty I'd be sent to Basingstoke. And here I am."
We agreed that he must have been very naughty that day.
It got quite pally, all of us standing there on the platform in the sun, watching wasps buzzing about in the roof. Announcements kept scrolling along the electronic board, bearing no relation to either the time, or the number of trains coming and going. After another lengthy delay, someone told us over the loudspeaker that the Exeter train was on Platform FOUR, and would be leaving shortly.
Once more the mob surged down the stairs, along the tunnel and back up the stairs. Everyone, as if choreographed, clambered aboard the train and wedged themselves in.
I got home by about 9.15, having left the office just after 5, in time to have supper, watch half a TV programme, and then crash out so I could get up at 5.45 and do it all again the next day.
Did I mention that I am leaving my job next month?
Other news: Following the appalling tie-dye debacle, I bought some new bedlinen on the Internet. It's lovely, and needs no half-arsed titivation from me.
Yesterday I had my first ever singing lesson. Apparently I have a two and a half octave range, but I have no idea if this is average, more than average, less than average, or what. Anyway, the teacher seemed to think I sounded ok, and I am going back next week for another lesson. I want to learn how to breathe properly, so that if and when I ever get round to performing in public I can get through a few songs without singing myself hoarse or running out of puff.
*I'm trying my hand at travel guide writing. I'll be unemployed soon, I need to get some money somehow.
**Artistic license
I wish I had a dazzling array of adventures to relate, explanations for being so exhausted, but I've got nothing. NOTHING. It's all down to work, boringly. And train fuckwittery, so nothing new there.
As a result of me being asked to help out with a couple of short term projects, I had to change my working pattern, and go up to London for 3 days in a row. I hate doing that. My working week is usually 2 days in London, a day working at home, another day in London, then the final day at home. I can cope with that reasonably well, although by the end of the second day in London I am washed out. Having to get up at 5.45, do my usual 3 hour commute to the office, do some pretty intensive stuff all day long, then travel 3 hours home, only to get up and do it again for 3 days in a row was a stretch.
Things weren't helped by the massive - yes I mean MASSIVE - fuck up on the trains on Wednesday night. I got to Waterloo in time to hop onto the 1750 train, which usually gets me home by 8pm, all being well.
All was not well.
On arrival at the bustling concourse* I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of hundreds, possibly thousands, hell, maybe a million people, all standing transfixed like zombies, staring up at the array of screens. Usually the screens are populated with information about which train is going where and when, all that stuff. Wednesday night, however, was different. Only three of the boards were populated, and they showed local trains. The other dozen or so were ominously blank.
The little teeny TV screen in the middle of the board had a scrolling message, running in an endless, heartbreaking loop.
"Anyone who wishes to travel to the West of England, please take the first train to Basingstoke and change there."
Well arse biscuits.
I ran** onto the platform where the Basingstoke train was parked, and then walked along the entire length of the platform, agog at the number of people who had crammed themselves into the train. It looked like those pictures of the Tokyo Underground, where guards with peaked caps and big hands force everyone in so the doors will close. I decided not to try and wedge myself in, rather to wait for the next train and hopefully find a bit more space.
There was another train waiting on a different platform, far less crowded, so I hopped aboard and found a place to stand. All the seats were full, but there was a fair bit of standing room. Plus the train had air conditioning which was working intermittently, so it wasn't all bad.
Well, that trip to Basingstoke seemed to take weeks. We trundled along at a casual pace, stopping frequently, I assume at signals, although it may have been the driver simply wishing to admire the view. Every now and again the guard's voice crackled through the intercom, apologising profusely for the disruption to everyone's journeys.
At one point he explained that the reason for all the chaos was "a serious fatality at Surbiton." I am sorry to say, readers, that this provoked an unseemly outbreak of laughter in the carriage as everyone tried to understand how a serious fatality differed from a normal fatality.
At length, we made it to Basingstoke, and the train terminated. Everyone got off, and milled about on the platform, peering anxiously up at the information screens. These were not informative.
An announcement told us to go to Platform Two, where a train to Exeter was waiting. Hurrah! The mob surged across the platform, down the stairs, along the tunnel, UP the stairs and onto Platform Two. There was indeed a train, but it was going back to London. A few people got on, then hastily off again.
The electronic board told us that the train was going to Exeter, but we didn't believe it. Sure enough, after a few minutes it headed off, towards London.
A chap next to me sighed, and said sadly "When I was a child, my grandad used to tell me if I was naughty I'd be sent to Basingstoke. And here I am."
We agreed that he must have been very naughty that day.
It got quite pally, all of us standing there on the platform in the sun, watching wasps buzzing about in the roof. Announcements kept scrolling along the electronic board, bearing no relation to either the time, or the number of trains coming and going. After another lengthy delay, someone told us over the loudspeaker that the Exeter train was on Platform FOUR, and would be leaving shortly.
Once more the mob surged down the stairs, along the tunnel and back up the stairs. Everyone, as if choreographed, clambered aboard the train and wedged themselves in.
I got home by about 9.15, having left the office just after 5, in time to have supper, watch half a TV programme, and then crash out so I could get up at 5.45 and do it all again the next day.
Did I mention that I am leaving my job next month?
Other news: Following the appalling tie-dye debacle, I bought some new bedlinen on the Internet. It's lovely, and needs no half-arsed titivation from me.
Yesterday I had my first ever singing lesson. Apparently I have a two and a half octave range, but I have no idea if this is average, more than average, less than average, or what. Anyway, the teacher seemed to think I sounded ok, and I am going back next week for another lesson. I want to learn how to breathe properly, so that if and when I ever get round to performing in public I can get through a few songs without singing myself hoarse or running out of puff.
*I'm trying my hand at travel guide writing. I'll be unemployed soon, I need to get some money somehow.
**Artistic license
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, 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, 9 January 2011
Heroics 101
Ah, London. Still too noisy, too crowded, too filthy. But I was glad to be back at work last week. We have a new Big Boss now as a result of the huge changes taking place across our Department, so it will be interesting to see how things change under his leadership.
It was a short week, what with last Monday being a Bank Holiday, but even so by Friday lunchtime I was KNACKERED. And that was after two days working at home, and only two where I had to travel to the office. The trains were pleasantly under-crowded, I guess a lot of people were still on holiday. Monday will be different.
There has been a new and delightful addition to the usual carriage-full of exhausted and grumpy commuters, though. I shall call him Adenoid Man. He sleeps the entire way to London, mouth agape, snorting and gruntling to himself in his own little private dreamworld for two hours. If I ever have to sit next to him, there WILL be a recording made, I promise. And photographs. Well, if you fall asleep on public transport, what do you expect? Honestly.
I'm sitting in my study this afternoon with the window open, blue sky, sunshine and birds singing. It's like a little foretaste of spring in between the cold and rain of January. Lovely. There's no sign of any of the Spring bulbs coming up in the garden yet, I expect the snow and ice of December impeded them. Another few weeks though, hopefully, and there will be crocuses. Crocii? Croca?
Anyhoo, it won't be long before we get some flowers making an appearance.
In other news: I made a cake yesterday. First cake I've made in about ten months, I think. I bought myself a cook book and decided to try out one of the recipes. I made the ginger and marmalade loaf, and it was marvellous. Mr WithaY had been out shooting all day (one cartridge fired, nothing hit, not a good day) so when he got home he was cold and a bit grumpy; a nice cup of tea and a bit of cake was just the ticket.
God, I'm so British.
The success of that recipe has encouraged me to have a go at some of the others, so I will probably make another cake next weekend.
In not entirely unrelated news, I think I've put on about 5 pounds since my last trip to the slimming group, waaaaay back at the end of November. In my defence, I had a month of Black Lung, and then Christmas, so I will go along in a positive frame of mind next week ready to start again. I'm still 2 stone lighter and 2 dress sizes smaller than I was this time last year. Onwards and upwards.
Also, Mr WithaY presented me with my Christmas present this week. It is (and I am sorry if this repulses you) the official companion book to the new World of Warcraft Cataclysm expansion pack. Yes, I know, I know. Shut up. I was thrilled.
He still maintains that we agreed not to do Christmas gifts. I have no recollection of any such agreement. I have taken the precaution of noting my birthday on the calendar later this month, and have casually mentioned several time that we ARE doing birthday presents. Just to be on the safe side, you understand.
I've been reading some more pulp adventure books on my iPhone on the train this week. Edgar Rice Burroughs' science fiction, to be exact. My word but it's formulaic. I can't decide if it's formulaic because it's derivative, or because it is what everyone else copied.
Either way, I think I boiled the basics down as follows:
1) Hero is a strapping Earthman who has found himself on an alien planet, Mars or Venus probably. Meets and falls for gorgeous high-ranking local bird. Probably a princess.
2) Hero and bird embroiled in complicated and unconvincing mishap which forces them to flee the city in a flying machine. No other people on the alien planet should have flying machines, or if they do, theirs are outclassed by the Earthman's. Oh, plus the Earthman has a weapon that nobody else has, which allows him to mow them down in their dozens without risk of injury to himself or his bird. Insert partonising paragraph about how bird is eventually trained to use either the weapon or to fly the aircraft semi-competently here.
3) Tedious and idiotic adventures follow, usually as a result of the Earthman's own stupidity. This should entail trying to travel back to safety, seeing a city down below, and deciding to go and take a closer look despite the protestations of his bird and/or any other assorted companions he has acquired. Flying machine is then somehow lured down or incapacitated by missile fire due to crap piloting or flat disregard of common sense.
4) Earthman and companions all imprisoned and thrown into Pits. Insert horrible and detailed descriptions of natives and their vile cannibalistic/torturing/human sacrificing behaviour, sometimes with gratuitous sexual typecasting here. There may well be an unflattering description of males of another species who are not "manly" enough.
5) Unlikely series of coincidences and serendipity allows Earthman and companions to escape. During long-winded escape, hero and his companions must do at least 3 of the following:
I don't think I'll read any more.
Not a patch on Conan.
It was a short week, what with last Monday being a Bank Holiday, but even so by Friday lunchtime I was KNACKERED. And that was after two days working at home, and only two where I had to travel to the office. The trains were pleasantly under-crowded, I guess a lot of people were still on holiday. Monday will be different.
There has been a new and delightful addition to the usual carriage-full of exhausted and grumpy commuters, though. I shall call him Adenoid Man. He sleeps the entire way to London, mouth agape, snorting and gruntling to himself in his own little private dreamworld for two hours. If I ever have to sit next to him, there WILL be a recording made, I promise. And photographs. Well, if you fall asleep on public transport, what do you expect? Honestly.
I'm sitting in my study this afternoon with the window open, blue sky, sunshine and birds singing. It's like a little foretaste of spring in between the cold and rain of January. Lovely. There's no sign of any of the Spring bulbs coming up in the garden yet, I expect the snow and ice of December impeded them. Another few weeks though, hopefully, and there will be crocuses. Crocii? Croca?
Anyhoo, it won't be long before we get some flowers making an appearance.
In other news: I made a cake yesterday. First cake I've made in about ten months, I think. I bought myself a cook book and decided to try out one of the recipes. I made the ginger and marmalade loaf, and it was marvellous. Mr WithaY had been out shooting all day (one cartridge fired, nothing hit, not a good day) so when he got home he was cold and a bit grumpy; a nice cup of tea and a bit of cake was just the ticket.
God, I'm so British.
The success of that recipe has encouraged me to have a go at some of the others, so I will probably make another cake next weekend.
In not entirely unrelated news, I think I've put on about 5 pounds since my last trip to the slimming group, waaaaay back at the end of November. In my defence, I had a month of Black Lung, and then Christmas, so I will go along in a positive frame of mind next week ready to start again. I'm still 2 stone lighter and 2 dress sizes smaller than I was this time last year. Onwards and upwards.
Also, Mr WithaY presented me with my Christmas present this week. It is (and I am sorry if this repulses you) the official companion book to the new World of Warcraft Cataclysm expansion pack. Yes, I know, I know. Shut up. I was thrilled.
He still maintains that we agreed not to do Christmas gifts. I have no recollection of any such agreement. I have taken the precaution of noting my birthday on the calendar later this month, and have casually mentioned several time that we ARE doing birthday presents. Just to be on the safe side, you understand.
I've been reading some more pulp adventure books on my iPhone on the train this week. Edgar Rice Burroughs' science fiction, to be exact. My word but it's formulaic. I can't decide if it's formulaic because it's derivative, or because it is what everyone else copied.
Either way, I think I boiled the basics down as follows:
1) Hero is a strapping Earthman who has found himself on an alien planet, Mars or Venus probably. Meets and falls for gorgeous high-ranking local bird. Probably a princess.
2) Hero and bird embroiled in complicated and unconvincing mishap which forces them to flee the city in a flying machine. No other people on the alien planet should have flying machines, or if they do, theirs are outclassed by the Earthman's. Oh, plus the Earthman has a weapon that nobody else has, which allows him to mow them down in their dozens without risk of injury to himself or his bird. Insert partonising paragraph about how bird is eventually trained to use either the weapon or to fly the aircraft semi-competently here.
3) Tedious and idiotic adventures follow, usually as a result of the Earthman's own stupidity. This should entail trying to travel back to safety, seeing a city down below, and deciding to go and take a closer look despite the protestations of his bird and/or any other assorted companions he has acquired. Flying machine is then somehow lured down or incapacitated by missile fire due to crap piloting or flat disregard of common sense.
4) Earthman and companions all imprisoned and thrown into Pits. Insert horrible and detailed descriptions of natives and their vile cannibalistic/torturing/human sacrificing behaviour, sometimes with gratuitous sexual typecasting here. There may well be an unflattering description of males of another species who are not "manly" enough.
5) Unlikely series of coincidences and serendipity allows Earthman and companions to escape. During long-winded escape, hero and his companions must do at least 3 of the following:
- find long-lost city now ruled by hideous monsters
- uncover huge assassination plot
- fight alien tigers
- encounter wise but dying creature
- encounter vile but redeemable creature
- spurn the love of beautiful but unprincipled woman
- reunite ruler of city with heir, presumed dead all these years
- discover hidden treasure
- explore parts of the world nobody else has ever discovered
- find missing civilisation
I don't think I'll read any more.
Not a patch on Conan.
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.
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
Observations on travel
1) London cabbies love to listen to talk radio. They love it. Football, politics, recipes, world news; it's all good, dawg.
Know why?
So they can then retail that information to their passengers over the course of the day. It's like instant conversation magic dust...sprinkle some into a cab and there will be some conversation. The cabbie I met yesterday, however, wins the award for Telling Me Something That Will Give Me Nightmares. Outright.
Cabbie: (as we pass some roadworks) Lots of building work going on in the City at the moment, love. Lots.
Me: (dicking about with my phone, not really listening) Oh yes?
Cabbie: Yeerrrrrs. They've been demolishing this big building. Right in the City. Right in the middle. Can't use dynamite on it though. Too many buildings around. Too crowded.
Me: No? Tsk tsk tsk.
Cabbie: (warming to his theme) Yeah...know what they used to demolish it? Instead of dynamite?
Me: Um. No. (expectant pause) What?
Cabbie: A giant machine that ATE it. Like a huge dinosaur, with HUGE jaws. Just ate all the way down the building till it was gone. (Makes "giant machine eating a building" gestures with both hands - luckily we are stopped at a traffic light for this.)
Me: (Listening properly now) What? A machine that eats buildings? That sounds terrifying!
Cabbie: Yeah, like a giant dinosaur. The pressure in those jaws must be immense. Immense. Can you imagine? Eating the whole building, concrete, steel, the lot.
Me: (imagining all too clearly) Christ, yes.
So thanks for that, Mr steel-jaw dinosaur man.
2) Many people are no respectors of an injured woman's slowness. I am trying to walk further now, but I am still struggling, particularly at the end of the day when my ankle has swollen up like a fleshy grapefruit, and I am limping like some sort of unconvincing ham actor auditioning for the Hunchback of Notre Dame. And, I have discovered, when you are limping along slowly, for example across the concourse at Waterloo Station, heading for your train, people are really rude.
Bastards!
So far this week I have been tutted at, jostled and asked to "step aside please" to allow a fat sweaty man with too many bags to waddle down the platform three steps ahead of me. I had the last laugh, however. Being a wily long-term commuter, I simply hopped onto the other end of the carriage he was aiming for and made my way quickly to the prime spot in the middle, leaving him to take the scabby seat by the door where everyone whacks you with their luggage as they come in and out. Ha.
3) People have no idea how to dress for the weather at the moment. Today, for example, I have seen people wearing the following:
flipflops
shorts
t shirts
overcoats
fleecy jackets
jeans
opaque woollen tights
scarves
summer dresses
formal suits
sarongs
Many of the people wearing those outfits were also carrying umbrellas. Either the weather or our fashion sense is playing cruel tricks on us.
Tomorrow is a work at home day for me. I intend to listen to Planet Rock, limp around the house as slowly as I please, and wear pyjamas all day.
Take that, society.
Know why?
So they can then retail that information to their passengers over the course of the day. It's like instant conversation magic dust...sprinkle some into a cab and there will be some conversation. The cabbie I met yesterday, however, wins the award for Telling Me Something That Will Give Me Nightmares. Outright.
Cabbie: (as we pass some roadworks) Lots of building work going on in the City at the moment, love. Lots.
Me: (dicking about with my phone, not really listening) Oh yes?
Cabbie: Yeerrrrrs. They've been demolishing this big building. Right in the City. Right in the middle. Can't use dynamite on it though. Too many buildings around. Too crowded.
Me: No? Tsk tsk tsk.
Cabbie: (warming to his theme) Yeah...know what they used to demolish it? Instead of dynamite?
Me: Um. No. (expectant pause) What?
Cabbie: A giant machine that ATE it. Like a huge dinosaur, with HUGE jaws. Just ate all the way down the building till it was gone. (Makes "giant machine eating a building" gestures with both hands - luckily we are stopped at a traffic light for this.)
Me: (Listening properly now) What? A machine that eats buildings? That sounds terrifying!
Cabbie: Yeah, like a giant dinosaur. The pressure in those jaws must be immense. Immense. Can you imagine? Eating the whole building, concrete, steel, the lot.
Me: (imagining all too clearly) Christ, yes.
So thanks for that, Mr steel-jaw dinosaur man.
2) Many people are no respectors of an injured woman's slowness. I am trying to walk further now, but I am still struggling, particularly at the end of the day when my ankle has swollen up like a fleshy grapefruit, and I am limping like some sort of unconvincing ham actor auditioning for the Hunchback of Notre Dame. And, I have discovered, when you are limping along slowly, for example across the concourse at Waterloo Station, heading for your train, people are really rude.
Bastards!
So far this week I have been tutted at, jostled and asked to "step aside please" to allow a fat sweaty man with too many bags to waddle down the platform three steps ahead of me. I had the last laugh, however. Being a wily long-term commuter, I simply hopped onto the other end of the carriage he was aiming for and made my way quickly to the prime spot in the middle, leaving him to take the scabby seat by the door where everyone whacks you with their luggage as they come in and out. Ha.
3) People have no idea how to dress for the weather at the moment. Today, for example, I have seen people wearing the following:
flipflops
shorts
t shirts
overcoats
fleecy jackets
jeans
opaque woollen tights
scarves
summer dresses
formal suits
sarongs
Many of the people wearing those outfits were also carrying umbrellas. Either the weather or our fashion sense is playing cruel tricks on us.
Tomorrow is a work at home day for me. I intend to listen to Planet Rock, limp around the house as slowly as I please, and wear pyjamas all day.
Take that, society.
Saturday, 21 August 2010
Smash and grab
Saturday already, eh? How the days fly by when you are at work, rather than sitting at home whining about having a (probably) fractured ankle, unable to drive anywhere.
The new job is going alright so far, but it's early days, of course. Plenty of time for monumental fuck-ups and general chaos. It's still a bit of a shock to the system doing the commute. I'd forgotten how exhausting it is, and how little time and energy I have for anything else. On the days when I am in London I am up before 6am, and don't get home much before 8pm, so once the mechanics of showering, eating and sleeping are out of the way, there's not much space for anything else.
I've been trying to wean myself off the Conan books this week, and have reverted to trashy science fiction short stories, downloaded onto my iPhone from Stanza for free. Some of them are excellent, some are less great, and some are just plain weird.
I was taken with the one called "After London" by Richard Jefferies. Who, it turns out, was from Wiltshire! Who knew?
It's set in the future, but as it was written in 1885, it is actually probably set in the past*, and depicts Britain as a fallen power, rural and wild, run by feudal barons who obey the law only as it suits them. It tails off a bit at the end, just at the point where I thought "Aha, now the story really gets going," but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
I think one of the things I love about old science fiction is that I understand most of the science. It's all about valves and electrodes and copper wire, which I can just about get my head round. And in this case, longbows and canoes. Nice and simple.
While we were on holiday, I read "The Book of Dave" by Will Self. I like Will Self's stuff, although he can be a bit tiresome and pretentious, and once I got over my initial "Gah, this is hard to read!" reaction, I liked the book very much. Mr WithaY was less charitable, and although he finished the book as well, decided it was a bit too weird for his tastes.
I also read Bill Bryson's "At Home" which was excellent, I thought. It was less folksy and twee than some of his other stuff I've read, and as a lot of the historical facts he talked about were relevant to the part of the US where we were staying, it felt immediate and interesting.
Other news: Guitar lessons have begun again, and I am trying to get over my "I'll never be a lead guitarist" phobia. I'll let you know how that goes. This week I am mostly murdering Tom Petty and Thin Lizzy.
Also, filthy thieving bastards, probably from Bristol, they're like that up there, robbed the garage in the village. Again. Two grand's worth of cigarettes were stolen this time, and the shop door has been covered in hardboard till the glass gets fixed. It's like living in inner-city Chicago**.
*Keep up. Think of Back to the Future if you're confused. Or not.
**No, it really isn't.
The new job is going alright so far, but it's early days, of course. Plenty of time for monumental fuck-ups and general chaos. It's still a bit of a shock to the system doing the commute. I'd forgotten how exhausting it is, and how little time and energy I have for anything else. On the days when I am in London I am up before 6am, and don't get home much before 8pm, so once the mechanics of showering, eating and sleeping are out of the way, there's not much space for anything else.
I've been trying to wean myself off the Conan books this week, and have reverted to trashy science fiction short stories, downloaded onto my iPhone from Stanza for free. Some of them are excellent, some are less great, and some are just plain weird.
I was taken with the one called "After London" by Richard Jefferies. Who, it turns out, was from Wiltshire! Who knew?
It's set in the future, but as it was written in 1885, it is actually probably set in the past*, and depicts Britain as a fallen power, rural and wild, run by feudal barons who obey the law only as it suits them. It tails off a bit at the end, just at the point where I thought "Aha, now the story really gets going," but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
I think one of the things I love about old science fiction is that I understand most of the science. It's all about valves and electrodes and copper wire, which I can just about get my head round. And in this case, longbows and canoes. Nice and simple.
While we were on holiday, I read "The Book of Dave" by Will Self. I like Will Self's stuff, although he can be a bit tiresome and pretentious, and once I got over my initial "Gah, this is hard to read!" reaction, I liked the book very much. Mr WithaY was less charitable, and although he finished the book as well, decided it was a bit too weird for his tastes.
I also read Bill Bryson's "At Home" which was excellent, I thought. It was less folksy and twee than some of his other stuff I've read, and as a lot of the historical facts he talked about were relevant to the part of the US where we were staying, it felt immediate and interesting.
Other news: Guitar lessons have begun again, and I am trying to get over my "I'll never be a lead guitarist" phobia. I'll let you know how that goes. This week I am mostly murdering Tom Petty and Thin Lizzy.
Also, filthy thieving bastards, probably from Bristol, they're like that up there, robbed the garage in the village. Again. Two grand's worth of cigarettes were stolen this time, and the shop door has been covered in hardboard till the glass gets fixed. It's like living in inner-city Chicago**.
*Keep up. Think of Back to the Future if you're confused. Or not.
**No, it really isn't.
Monday, 16 August 2010
Disappointment
ConanWatch. Day 8.
So far, no sign of a huge, thickly-muscled, black-haired bronzed barbarian hero padding up behind me on silent sandalled feet. Damn it.
Maybe I should try wearing flimsier clothing. And more ornate jewels.
Maybe I should try becoming some sort of undead goddess. Or an eternally-beautiful queen of a remote tribe. Or a rebellious yet vulnerable dancing girl with flashing eyes and a passionate heart.
I'm not sure Conan would even be on the Waterloo to Yeovil train on a Monday night, and if he was, that he would have understood the booking system, so he would have to slay the guard and all the other passengers in a bloodlust frenzy when asked to produce his ticket.
It's never going to work, really.
Maybe I can persuade Mr WithaY to wear a leather loincloth and headband and shout "Crom!" from time to time.
So far, no sign of a huge, thickly-muscled, black-haired bronzed barbarian hero padding up behind me on silent sandalled feet. Damn it.
Maybe I should try wearing flimsier clothing. And more ornate jewels.
Maybe I should try becoming some sort of undead goddess. Or an eternally-beautiful queen of a remote tribe. Or a rebellious yet vulnerable dancing girl with flashing eyes and a passionate heart.
I'm not sure Conan would even be on the Waterloo to Yeovil train on a Monday night, and if he was, that he would have understood the booking system, so he would have to slay the guard and all the other passengers in a bloodlust frenzy when asked to produce his ticket.
It's never going to work, really.
Maybe I can persuade Mr WithaY to wear a leather loincloth and headband and shout "Crom!" from time to time.
Friday, 16 April 2010
Sheesh, kebabs
You know trains? You know how they can be a bit, well, not to put too fine a point on it, stinky?
Quite aside from the stale air, massed humanity, dirty upholstery and lord knows what being trodden into the floor, I discovered another offender.
Kebabs.
Yes, you heard me. Keeee-babs.
This epicure was tucking into one on the train home last night. He was having a high old time, picking out every scrap of salad, or anything that might contain a vitamin and casting it aside, alternating with dangling long floppity dripping shreds of meat (origin unknown) into his gaping maw.
Pasties, I can tolerate, although the smell makes me hungry. Chips, the same. Pizza, burgers and now added to the list, kebabs, no. Just, no.
If you want to eat that stuff, at least have the decency to sit in the "restaurant" where they shovel it into the customers. Failing that, sit on a bench at the bus stop outside and lap it out of the styrofoam bucket. Don't get into a train where all the doors and windows are closed for fucking hours on end and pollute the entire carriage with your greasy stench. You bastards.
I think I'd almost prefer people to be smoking.
Talking of food, well, sort of, I had a slight setback at my slimming group this week. Despite having been mostly good, I put ON 4.5lbs. I mean, wtf? Heavier clothes? Lead earrings? Diving boots? Gah. Still, I am half a stone lighter than I was at the start, so I am not giving way to despair.
Our group leader was giving out some salad recipes for us to try, and told us we ought to try "mango towt". I had to read the list of ingredients before I worked out she meant mange tout. Bless.
Other news: Met up with my mate Spence last night for a meal after work, which was very pleasant. We were discussing money-making schemes using our combined talents of blogging and cartooning.
Blogtooning.
Hey, it might catch on.
Quite aside from the stale air, massed humanity, dirty upholstery and lord knows what being trodden into the floor, I discovered another offender.
Kebabs.
Yes, you heard me. Keeee-babs.
This epicure was tucking into one on the train home last night. He was having a high old time, picking out every scrap of salad, or anything that might contain a vitamin and casting it aside, alternating with dangling long floppity dripping shreds of meat (origin unknown) into his gaping maw.
Pasties, I can tolerate, although the smell makes me hungry. Chips, the same. Pizza, burgers and now added to the list, kebabs, no. Just, no.
If you want to eat that stuff, at least have the decency to sit in the "restaurant" where they shovel it into the customers. Failing that, sit on a bench at the bus stop outside and lap it out of the styrofoam bucket. Don't get into a train where all the doors and windows are closed for fucking hours on end and pollute the entire carriage with your greasy stench. You bastards.
I think I'd almost prefer people to be smoking.
Talking of food, well, sort of, I had a slight setback at my slimming group this week. Despite having been mostly good, I put ON 4.5lbs. I mean, wtf? Heavier clothes? Lead earrings? Diving boots? Gah. Still, I am half a stone lighter than I was at the start, so I am not giving way to despair.
Our group leader was giving out some salad recipes for us to try, and told us we ought to try "mango towt". I had to read the list of ingredients before I worked out she meant mange tout. Bless.
Other news: Met up with my mate Spence last night for a meal after work, which was very pleasant. We were discussing money-making schemes using our combined talents of blogging and cartooning.
Blogtooning.
Hey, it might catch on.
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
Cracking fun
It's been a week of trains. Trains, trains, trains. Interspersed with the Tube.
Things I have seen on my travels of late include:
Two very excited West Ham fans on the Tube. As the journey progressed they donned more and more kit - hats, scarves, shirts. By the time I got off they were eagerly examining one anothers tickets for the match, and talking loudly about what a great night they were about to have. They both looked very young, and were clearly having the time of their lives. One of them gave up his seat to a lady, which I thought was polite. Although, now I think about it, she was very attractive, and neither of them gave up their seat to a much less attractive lady later in the trip. So, maybe an ulterior motive there.
As an aside, I often see people offering up seats on the Tube. It's less common to see someone ofering up a seat on the train out of Waterloo, but that would mean standing up for the bet part of an hour at least, so I can understand the reluctance.
I saw this on Tuesday night. A man got on the train at Salisbury and proceeded to eat his way through a whole pack of chocolate mini rolls. I have seldom seen anyone get less enjoyment out of food; he looked as though it was an exercise in energy restoration and nothing else.
I also took some pictures of Mr WithaY's crack. So to speak.
It was HUGE. It's all been fixed now, but it was exciting while it lasted.
Thanks a lot, Police State UK (TM).
I'm still very angry about it all. When I have stopped being so angry I might even blog about it, but not yet. Too painful.
Things I have seen on my travels of late include:
Two very excited West Ham fans on the Tube. As the journey progressed they donned more and more kit - hats, scarves, shirts. By the time I got off they were eagerly examining one anothers tickets for the match, and talking loudly about what a great night they were about to have. They both looked very young, and were clearly having the time of their lives. One of them gave up his seat to a lady, which I thought was polite. Although, now I think about it, she was very attractive, and neither of them gave up their seat to a much less attractive lady later in the trip. So, maybe an ulterior motive there.
As an aside, I often see people offering up seats on the Tube. It's less common to see someone ofering up a seat on the train out of Waterloo, but that would mean standing up for the bet part of an hour at least, so I can understand the reluctance.
I saw this on Tuesday night. A man got on the train at Salisbury and proceeded to eat his way through a whole pack of chocolate mini rolls. I have seldom seen anyone get less enjoyment out of food; he looked as though it was an exercise in energy restoration and nothing else.
If you look closely you will see the reflection of the naughty photographer in the window behind him.
Heh.I also took some pictures of Mr WithaY's crack. So to speak.
It was HUGE. It's all been fixed now, but it was exciting while it lasted.
This one looks like an arty album cover.
This one makes it look like we live in Bavaria. We don't.
Other news: I have been partaking of some Culture. We watched The Hurt Locker the other weekend. It was ok, felt more like a documentary than anything else, but without any kind of editorial focus. I'm not sure why it won so many Oscars. I didn't engage with any of the characters and thought it was far too long. Maybe that was the point, I dunno.
Also watched District 9 last weekend which I thoroughly enjoyed. Much bleaker and sadder than I expected, and a lot more interesting to me. I daresay that tells a story about my psyche, but frankly I don't give a rat's arse, amateur psychologists. Ha!
A colleague lent me a book called Stasiland by Anna Funder which I read on the train, and thought it was excellent. It's all about life behind the Berlin Wall. The author is a lovely writer and a damn fine journalist. I recommend it.
I'd love to go back to Berlin. We lived there when I was little and went back for a visit a few years later when we went and looked at the Wall. It made a big impression.
I am waiting for some v important paperwork to show up this week, and when it does I need to book Mr WithaY and I an appointment at the American Embassy. Thanks to the SSFH* of last summer, we are no longer eligible for the Visa Waiver Programme, and need to get a tourist visa from the Embassy. In person.
So, $131 each for the interview (which is about £80), plus the cost of the train, plus £70 each (the cost of the Official Stuff from the police) on top of that...almost £300. And if we want to go to Canada, or Australia or South Africa, or America again, we go through it all each time.
Thanks a lot, Police State UK (TM).
I'm still very angry about it all. When I have stopped being so angry I might even blog about it, but not yet. Too painful.
Tra la laaaaaa.
Still on the weight loss plan, but annoyingly have put a pound and a half back on, which is not the right way round. I will stick with it though, I am determined to lose at least another stone before we go on holiday**.
*Shit Storm From Hades
**Assuming we get a fucking visa, of course. Gah.
Friday, 12 March 2010
Train times
Ah, trains. Trains, trains, trains.
There was a family of trolls on the train home earlier this week. It was a commuter train, packed to the roof with tired grey-faced business types, all trying to sleep or read or faff about on their laptops.
There was a family of trolls on the train home earlier this week. It was a commuter train, packed to the roof with tired grey-faced business types, all trying to sleep or read or faff about on their laptops.
Sleeping is difficult. For a start there isn't much space, so you can't relax physically. I am quite tall, so end up with my legs squashed against the back of the seat in front if I don't pick my position carefully. Then there is the head issue. What do you do with it? If you just lean back on the seat (a challenge in itself if you are at all fastidious about rubbing your hair in unknown filth) you may start drooling or snorting. If you let it loll forwards you run the risk of waking up with a loud grunt every ten minutes.
Such a problem.
Such a problem.
So, if I can get a seat by the window I do, and then try to lean on it and doze as best I can. However, every time a train goes past in the opposite direction it makes the window go "Whooomph!" which wakes me up. Sometimes the shock is sufficient to bounce my head on the glass with an audible clonking noise. I have to then either pretend to still be asleep to hide my chagrin, or just wake up and brazen it out by pretending that I'm not bovvered.
Luckily I have a great internal voice which lies to me. It usually says "It's ok, nobody noticed." It says that a lot. I have to pretend to believe it.
Anyway. The trolls. There were many of them. Oh, soooo many. They got on at (I think) Basingstoke, in a huddled chattery gang, dragging enormous bundles and cases with them. The lead troll, a woman of indeterminate age with bright ginger hair, was organising them. She fussed and chattered without stopping for about 45 minutes.
"Come on, sit here. Sit down, just here. No, HERE. Where's your bag? *tch* Give it here. I said GIVE IT HERE. I'll put it away for you."
She'd then stagger down the carriage dragging the bag, walloping people with it as she went, stuff it into the luggage area, then make her unsteady way back to her shuffling, fidgeting troll bretheren. Then it would all start again with the next one.
"You sit here. No you can't sit over there. There's someone already sat there. Yes there is. Look, there. THERE. That man there *pointing at some crimson-faced inoffensive commuter trying to read his book* You can't sit there. Just sit down here. SIT DOWN."
I can only assume it was some sort of outing for the Terminally Bewildered.
And so the long journey wore on.
Things took a different turn yesterday. My, what a day that was.
As we approached Basingstoke, the loudspeaker crackled:
"This is the driver speaking. Would the guard please make their way to the driver immediately. Immediately please."
Everyone perked up, wondering what was going on. Had we been hijacked? Was a crazed gun-toting desperado trying to take the train to Cuba? I for one hoped so.
After a few minutes there was another announcement from the driver.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to tell you that this train is now cancelled. We will be terminating this train at Basingstoke."
Arse.
There then followed a long and detailed itinerary of all the other trains which were going to London from Basingstoke, what times they'd be running, what platforms they'd be using, and how many stops they were going to make before getting to Waterloo.
Few people even pretended to be paying attention, they were fighting to get their coats on, and pack up all their stuff. When the train stopped, we all got off and stood stupidly on the platform. I was half expecting a few railway employees with large brooms to come and shoo us away.
"Come along now *tchook tchook* Off to Platform Three with you..."
There was a disagreeable 20 minute wait in the cold, then a small local sprinter type train pulled up and we all crammed aboard. There were very few seats, so most of us stood crammed together in the middle of the carriage, pretending not to mind. I was lucky enough to grab a seat at Woking when some people disembarked, but even so it was very unpleasant.
I arrived into the office almost an hour late, which is impressive given that I don't usually get there till half nine anyway. I checked the train times online every hour or so as the day went on, ready to leg it out the door if there looked like being any more problems. Fortunately, ther problem, whatever it was, had been resolved by mid-afternoon. I left the office at about 5, planning to saunter back to the station and catch the ten to six train. The Tube gods were on my side though, and I made it in time to leap aboard the twenty past five with two minutes to spare.
What a schoolboy error that was.
Of course, there was not a seat to be had. Even the little fold-down seats in the corridors were all fully occupied, and I ended up standing in the gap between two carriages, along with half a dozen other people, all trying to keep our feet as the train joggled along.
It alternated between baking hot and stuffy, and chill winds blowing through the rubber seals, bringing plenty of diesel fumes with them. Nice.
After half an hour or so of this I realised that I was feeling dizzy, and of course, as soon as I realised that, I felt worse and worse. I got queasy, and trembly. Cold sweat began to make itself felt, and I knew if I didn't sit down I would probably swoon dramatically all over the annoying yuppies to my right.
There was absolutely nowhere to sit, so I just slid down onto the floor, filthy as it was, and hoped I'd feel better. It helped, but I was still feeling ropy when we got to the first stop and a few people got off the train. I was able to grab one of the little fold down seats and perched there for another 45 minutes or so. Finally I was able to sit on a proper seat for the last half an hour of the journey, and was still feeling shaky when I got off the train.
I pay almost five thousand pounds a year for this.
Aren't I lucky?
Luckily I have a great internal voice which lies to me. It usually says "It's ok, nobody noticed." It says that a lot. I have to pretend to believe it.
Anyway. The trolls. There were many of them. Oh, soooo many. They got on at (I think) Basingstoke, in a huddled chattery gang, dragging enormous bundles and cases with them. The lead troll, a woman of indeterminate age with bright ginger hair, was organising them. She fussed and chattered without stopping for about 45 minutes.
"Come on, sit here. Sit down, just here. No, HERE. Where's your bag? *tch* Give it here. I said GIVE IT HERE. I'll put it away for you."
She'd then stagger down the carriage dragging the bag, walloping people with it as she went, stuff it into the luggage area, then make her unsteady way back to her shuffling, fidgeting troll bretheren. Then it would all start again with the next one.
"You sit here. No you can't sit over there. There's someone already sat there. Yes there is. Look, there. THERE. That man there *pointing at some crimson-faced inoffensive commuter trying to read his book* You can't sit there. Just sit down here. SIT DOWN."
I can only assume it was some sort of outing for the Terminally Bewildered.
And so the long journey wore on.
Things took a different turn yesterday. My, what a day that was.
As we approached Basingstoke, the loudspeaker crackled:
"This is the driver speaking. Would the guard please make their way to the driver immediately. Immediately please."
Everyone perked up, wondering what was going on. Had we been hijacked? Was a crazed gun-toting desperado trying to take the train to Cuba? I for one hoped so.
After a few minutes there was another announcement from the driver.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to tell you that this train is now cancelled. We will be terminating this train at Basingstoke."
Arse.
There then followed a long and detailed itinerary of all the other trains which were going to London from Basingstoke, what times they'd be running, what platforms they'd be using, and how many stops they were going to make before getting to Waterloo.
Few people even pretended to be paying attention, they were fighting to get their coats on, and pack up all their stuff. When the train stopped, we all got off and stood stupidly on the platform. I was half expecting a few railway employees with large brooms to come and shoo us away.
"Come along now *tchook tchook* Off to Platform Three with you..."
There was a disagreeable 20 minute wait in the cold, then a small local sprinter type train pulled up and we all crammed aboard. There were very few seats, so most of us stood crammed together in the middle of the carriage, pretending not to mind. I was lucky enough to grab a seat at Woking when some people disembarked, but even so it was very unpleasant.
I arrived into the office almost an hour late, which is impressive given that I don't usually get there till half nine anyway. I checked the train times online every hour or so as the day went on, ready to leg it out the door if there looked like being any more problems. Fortunately, ther problem, whatever it was, had been resolved by mid-afternoon. I left the office at about 5, planning to saunter back to the station and catch the ten to six train. The Tube gods were on my side though, and I made it in time to leap aboard the twenty past five with two minutes to spare.
What a schoolboy error that was.
Of course, there was not a seat to be had. Even the little fold-down seats in the corridors were all fully occupied, and I ended up standing in the gap between two carriages, along with half a dozen other people, all trying to keep our feet as the train joggled along.
It alternated between baking hot and stuffy, and chill winds blowing through the rubber seals, bringing plenty of diesel fumes with them. Nice.
After half an hour or so of this I realised that I was feeling dizzy, and of course, as soon as I realised that, I felt worse and worse. I got queasy, and trembly. Cold sweat began to make itself felt, and I knew if I didn't sit down I would probably swoon dramatically all over the annoying yuppies to my right.
There was absolutely nowhere to sit, so I just slid down onto the floor, filthy as it was, and hoped I'd feel better. It helped, but I was still feeling ropy when we got to the first stop and a few people got off the train. I was able to grab one of the little fold down seats and perched there for another 45 minutes or so. Finally I was able to sit on a proper seat for the last half an hour of the journey, and was still feeling shaky when I got off the train.
I pay almost five thousand pounds a year for this.
Aren't I lucky?
Thursday, 4 March 2010
Important Announcements
Ah, trains. Specifically, SouthWest trains. How I love them, and all their myriad charming little ways.
The train I catch from Waterloo to home is a great big long one, which splits in half at Salisbury. I'm not entirely sure what happens to the other half most days.
Maybe it gets dragged into the sidings and ceremonially vacuumed* by the High Priestesses of Rail Travel.
Maybe it gets broken down and turned into spare parts to keep the other trains running for a few more days.
Maybe the mechanics and train wranglers spend the night making sure that none of the heating works in carriage two, or that the internal doors keep opening and closing every 30 seconds for no reason for the entire journey.
Maybe the back end driver just says "Ah, fuck it" and gets out, abandoning his half of the train at the platform for the remainder of the night, till the day shift get in and park it up out of the way.
I really don't know.
One of the reasons I don't know is because SouthWest trains don't share any of the back story with the passengers. Take this evening, for example.
I met my lovely mate Spencer after work for a long-delayed catch-up chat, so was on a later train home than usual. All was well, I had a good seat** and it wasn't too crowded. Even though my posh headphones have stopped working properly, and music only comes out of the right earpiece at the proper volume, the left one mysteriously reduced to a tinny whisper, I plugged myself in and enjoyed some music.
The train gradually emptied, so I was able to squirm round and make myself more comfortable. Then the guard's voice came onto the tannoy system.
"Hello there," he said, chummily. "This is your guard speaking with an important announcement. Please listen." I took my one functioning earpiece out of my ear and perked up, wondering if they were going to tell us that a member of the Royal Family was getting on at the next stop and could we all please brush our hair and polish our shoes.
No.
"This train will be arriving in Salisbury shortly, where it will divide. The rear coaches will continue on to Bristol, the front coaches will terminate."
What? Hello? That's not what usually happens. Usually the rear coaches terminate, or sometimes go off jauntering around the West Country, but the front coaches continue their creaky progress to Exeter or Yeovil.
"All passengers who wish to continue their journey beyond Salisbury, please get off the train here and make your way to Platform 4," the guard continued. I could tell he was grinning as he said that.
There then followed complex instructions how to get to Platform 4. It involved several ramps, an underpass and some strategic shoving. The train we had to get on was already full, the passengers watching our arrival in smug comfort as we re-enacted Napoleon's retreat from Moscow, huddled in our coats against the bitter cold, laden with baggage and packages. The bastards.
Two minutes from my station, a dishevelled-looking bloke approached me. He stared intently at me, saying "Excuse me...I want you to do me a favour." I looked at him doubtfully, the moment uncomfortably prolonged by the man with the refreshment trolley passing between us.
The dishevelled bloke then launched into a long, confusing story about how he had just arrived in the UK that morning (he looked as though he'd been travelling for some time), was due to meet his parents at Crewkerne station, but he didn't have a UK mobile phone, and would I lend him mine, he'd pay for the call, it would literally only take one minute. He had a handful of change, jingling it as he spoke.
Rather than pushing him away with a long pointy stick, as was my first impulse, I said no, I was getting off the train at the next stop, and we were due to pull into the platform in less than a minute. He looked disappointed and said "It'll take less than a minute, are you sure you won't lend me your phone?"
Yes, I was quite sure.
As I left the train, I heard him asking the old chap sat in front of me the same thing. I can only assume he kept asking till somebody gave in and let him make his call. Or let him leg it with their phone.
Other news: Spencer and I saw some interesting sights in London this evening. One of them was a heavily-pierced man wearing a multi-coloured hat, carrying a giant backpack with several pairs of shoes hanging off it, and long khaki shorts, much like Lofty in "It Ain't Half Hot, Mum".
The other was this gentleman:
Also: Went to Fat Club on Wednesday and have lost another 3.5lbs, therefore have lost half a stone in the last 3 weeks. As a reward I have made an appointment to get my hair cut at the posh saloon in Salisbury. Yeee-haw.
*Unlikely, given the filth in every crevice and cranny
**As good as they get in filthy cramped standard class, at least
The train I catch from Waterloo to home is a great big long one, which splits in half at Salisbury. I'm not entirely sure what happens to the other half most days.
Maybe it gets dragged into the sidings and ceremonially vacuumed* by the High Priestesses of Rail Travel.
Maybe it gets broken down and turned into spare parts to keep the other trains running for a few more days.
Maybe the mechanics and train wranglers spend the night making sure that none of the heating works in carriage two, or that the internal doors keep opening and closing every 30 seconds for no reason for the entire journey.
Maybe the back end driver just says "Ah, fuck it" and gets out, abandoning his half of the train at the platform for the remainder of the night, till the day shift get in and park it up out of the way.
I really don't know.
One of the reasons I don't know is because SouthWest trains don't share any of the back story with the passengers. Take this evening, for example.
I met my lovely mate Spencer after work for a long-delayed catch-up chat, so was on a later train home than usual. All was well, I had a good seat** and it wasn't too crowded. Even though my posh headphones have stopped working properly, and music only comes out of the right earpiece at the proper volume, the left one mysteriously reduced to a tinny whisper, I plugged myself in and enjoyed some music.
The train gradually emptied, so I was able to squirm round and make myself more comfortable. Then the guard's voice came onto the tannoy system.
"Hello there," he said, chummily. "This is your guard speaking with an important announcement. Please listen." I took my one functioning earpiece out of my ear and perked up, wondering if they were going to tell us that a member of the Royal Family was getting on at the next stop and could we all please brush our hair and polish our shoes.
No.
"This train will be arriving in Salisbury shortly, where it will divide. The rear coaches will continue on to Bristol, the front coaches will terminate."
What? Hello? That's not what usually happens. Usually the rear coaches terminate, or sometimes go off jauntering around the West Country, but the front coaches continue their creaky progress to Exeter or Yeovil.
"All passengers who wish to continue their journey beyond Salisbury, please get off the train here and make your way to Platform 4," the guard continued. I could tell he was grinning as he said that.
There then followed complex instructions how to get to Platform 4. It involved several ramps, an underpass and some strategic shoving. The train we had to get on was already full, the passengers watching our arrival in smug comfort as we re-enacted Napoleon's retreat from Moscow, huddled in our coats against the bitter cold, laden with baggage and packages. The bastards.
Two minutes from my station, a dishevelled-looking bloke approached me. He stared intently at me, saying "Excuse me...I want you to do me a favour." I looked at him doubtfully, the moment uncomfortably prolonged by the man with the refreshment trolley passing between us.
The dishevelled bloke then launched into a long, confusing story about how he had just arrived in the UK that morning (he looked as though he'd been travelling for some time), was due to meet his parents at Crewkerne station, but he didn't have a UK mobile phone, and would I lend him mine, he'd pay for the call, it would literally only take one minute. He had a handful of change, jingling it as he spoke.
Rather than pushing him away with a long pointy stick, as was my first impulse, I said no, I was getting off the train at the next stop, and we were due to pull into the platform in less than a minute. He looked disappointed and said "It'll take less than a minute, are you sure you won't lend me your phone?"
Yes, I was quite sure.
As I left the train, I heard him asking the old chap sat in front of me the same thing. I can only assume he kept asking till somebody gave in and let him make his call. Or let him leg it with their phone.
Other news: Spencer and I saw some interesting sights in London this evening. One of them was a heavily-pierced man wearing a multi-coloured hat, carrying a giant backpack with several pairs of shoes hanging off it, and long khaki shorts, much like Lofty in "It Ain't Half Hot, Mum".
The other was this gentleman:
He's not shy about declaring his faith, bless him. His jacket AND his backpack.
*Unlikely, given the filth in every crevice and cranny
**As good as they get in filthy cramped standard class, at least
Friday, 29 January 2010
Scanners
Last night I did my occasional "Big Night Out In London" thing with Tall Richard. Mr WithaY and I have been mates with Mr and Mrs Tall Richard since I was a student. I think Tall Richard helped push my long-gone still-lamented first car* on several occasions when it died as we arrived at places in a cloud of black smoke and bad language. We've spent many hours drinking, singing, telling jokes, drinking, singing some more and quipping. Happy days. He is a master of the bon mot.
Their eldest son is now having a whale of a time at university; I remember him before he was born. Seeing friends' and family's children growing up is the only thing that really brings home to me how time is marching on. Ah well.
Anyway. I was meeting Tall Richard at his office after work, and was a little bit early, so I sat in the very intimidating foyer for a few minutes while I waited. The security guards looked at me, but not one of them wandered over to ask me who I was, or what I was doing, or could they see my ID in case I was a random nutjob who had wandered in off the street and was planning mischief. Strange.
They have a complicated access system, involving various airlocks, scanners and gates, as so many buildings do these days. A chap stepped into one of the tube airlock thingies, then as he waited for it to open, he downed a pint of milk from a plastic carton. Most unexpected.
Tall Richard and I scooted across to a nice little pub just off the Strand, and I amused myself by showing him some of the old pics I have scanned into the computer and uploaded onto my iPhone. Ahhh technology. I almost understand some of it.
Ate a fine Italian meal, caught up on all the gossip, and made it back to Waterloo in time for the 8:20 train home. The high life. I am reading "Starship Troopers" on my iPhone at the moment, which is pleasingly diverting on that long, long journey. Not much like the film, but so many books are very different from the screen version.
It's a bit of a bugger that the last train home leaves London before 9:30pm. It rather curtails the possibilities for a wild night out on the tiles. Unless I can beg a bed at a mate's of course. I was safe and sound at home by 11pm, and as I don't have to flog all the way to London today, was able to luxuriate in bed till gone 8 this morning. Marvellous.
Other news: I'm off to pick up me new specs this afternoon. I am very excited, it's over 2 years since I had new ones and I am mightily bored with my current pair.
Do I want an iPad? I think not, probably. It looks like a much bigger, less handy iPhone. I'm still not won over by Twitter, either. I think I might take the wise Mr Farty's advice and just use it to pimp the blog.
Also, welcome back to eloh. I was wondering where you'd got to.
*Gavin the Fiat. I loved him.
Their eldest son is now having a whale of a time at university; I remember him before he was born. Seeing friends' and family's children growing up is the only thing that really brings home to me how time is marching on. Ah well.
Anyway. I was meeting Tall Richard at his office after work, and was a little bit early, so I sat in the very intimidating foyer for a few minutes while I waited. The security guards looked at me, but not one of them wandered over to ask me who I was, or what I was doing, or could they see my ID in case I was a random nutjob who had wandered in off the street and was planning mischief. Strange.
They have a complicated access system, involving various airlocks, scanners and gates, as so many buildings do these days. A chap stepped into one of the tube airlock thingies, then as he waited for it to open, he downed a pint of milk from a plastic carton. Most unexpected.
Tall Richard and I scooted across to a nice little pub just off the Strand, and I amused myself by showing him some of the old pics I have scanned into the computer and uploaded onto my iPhone. Ahhh technology. I almost understand some of it.
Ate a fine Italian meal, caught up on all the gossip, and made it back to Waterloo in time for the 8:20 train home. The high life. I am reading "Starship Troopers" on my iPhone at the moment, which is pleasingly diverting on that long, long journey. Not much like the film, but so many books are very different from the screen version.
It's a bit of a bugger that the last train home leaves London before 9:30pm. It rather curtails the possibilities for a wild night out on the tiles. Unless I can beg a bed at a mate's of course. I was safe and sound at home by 11pm, and as I don't have to flog all the way to London today, was able to luxuriate in bed till gone 8 this morning. Marvellous.
Other news: I'm off to pick up me new specs this afternoon. I am very excited, it's over 2 years since I had new ones and I am mightily bored with my current pair.
Do I want an iPad? I think not, probably. It looks like a much bigger, less handy iPhone. I'm still not won over by Twitter, either. I think I might take the wise Mr Farty's advice and just use it to pimp the blog.
Also, welcome back to eloh. I was wondering where you'd got to.
*Gavin the Fiat. I loved him.
Monday, 2 November 2009
Slow on the uptake
I just discovered a handy feature on my iPhone. If you double tap the main button while you're listening to music, it brings up a mini iPod control panel on top of whatever else you're doing.
Playing Scrabble. Reading blogs. Checking Facebook. Following the progress of your train on-line rather than just waiting to see what the next station is.
Which is handy.
At least the train home is on time so far. Apparently this morning's delay was caused by "poor adhesion" which sounds like a modern way of saying "leaves on the line" to me.
Anyway, the problem was all West of Salisbury, so I look forward to that part of the trip. If I post from the train after 9pm, come and find me please. And bring gin.
Playing Scrabble. Reading blogs. Checking Facebook. Following the progress of your train on-line rather than just waiting to see what the next station is.
Which is handy.
At least the train home is on time so far. Apparently this morning's delay was caused by "poor adhesion" which sounds like a modern way of saying "leaves on the line" to me.
Anyway, the problem was all West of Salisbury, so I look forward to that part of the trip. If I post from the train after 9pm, come and find me please. And bring gin.
Money well spent
My train was 15 minutes late this morning, leaving a crowd of shivering pale commuters huddling in their coats on the platform. We were all clearly thinking "I could still be in bed."
Once the train arrived, and we'd all settled into our seats it became apparent why the people already on the train looked so miserable. The carriage stinks like a festival toilet on a Sunday afternoon.
So. I got up before 6am to wait in the cold for a train that smells of shit. And I'm paying just under five grand a year to do it.
Fucking great.
Once the train arrived, and we'd all settled into our seats it became apparent why the people already on the train looked so miserable. The carriage stinks like a festival toilet on a Sunday afternoon.
So. I got up before 6am to wait in the cold for a train that smells of shit. And I'm paying just under five grand a year to do it.
Fucking great.
Thursday, 15 October 2009
Wordplay
I often while away my long train journey to and from London by playing Scrabble on my iPhone. I usually win, even though it's set on the Difficult setting, which makes me feel very smug. Ooh get me, defeating a computer. One day it will of course turn on me and fire me out of the side of the train into to cold bleak emptiness of deep space. Well, maybe Basingstoke.
Anyway.
Tonight I began a game of Scrabble, or "Scrab" as we officionadoes (sp?) call it, and I noticed that my letters spelled ARRSENE.
Marvellous. If I ever get a job marketing rectal remedies, expect to see that name on an ointment tube near you.
Anyway.
Tonight I began a game of Scrabble, or "Scrab" as we officionadoes (sp?) call it, and I noticed that my letters spelled ARRSENE.
Marvellous. If I ever get a job marketing rectal remedies, expect to see that name on an ointment tube near you.
Sunday, 4 October 2009
Mixed signals
I'm still here. Just not filling this little corner of the Internet with quite as much trivia and nonsense insightful social commentary as usual.
I am, however, feeling much better than I was. I'm still going to see the doctor next week though, as I am pretty far from normal.
It has helped that the weather was glorious all week. It's colder, as you'd expect, what with being October and all, but it's been clear and bright, with the trees just starting to turn colour. Very scenic.
Bestest Mate very kindly came over and stayed for a couple of days, which was lovely, so the week didn't feel as lonely as I thought it might at the outset.
One afternoon we went out for a little walk. I wanted to show him the new bridge over the river, so we wandered down to it and stood there watching trout in the afternoon sunshine. As it was such a lovely day we decided to take a stroll round the village and enjoy the weather. We got as far as a mates' house* and decided to call in and say hello. Luckily (for us) we interrupted them having tea, so we were invited to join them. Mmmm tea.
We sat and had a cup of tea, chatting about all sorts of stuff, when our host happened to glance down at the plate of buttered malt loaf he had placed beside his chair. There was an anguished cry of "Cat! No! You're kicking the arse out of it!" as he lifted their cat off the table. It had snuck round quietly and amused itself by licking all the butter off each slice while we sat talking. Heh.
That evening we went over to another mate's for dinner, which was mighty fine. Bestest Mate had to endure a whole evening of intense cross-examination**, being a comparative stranger round here. At one point our host enquired of his wife "Would you like a slightly brighter light to shine in his eyes?" which made me laugh.
Friday night there was a band playing in the pub, so I wandered over to take a peek. They were pretty good, but it was a bit of a shame there weren't more people there to enjoy them.
I left at about 11, back home to await Mr WithaY's arrival. I'd been checking flight details online throughout the day, and his was supposed to land at Gatwick at 9.30pm. Allowing about an hour for baggage, customs and car park sorting-out, two hours for the drive home, I expected to see him back here about midnight-ish.
I sat up till almost 1am, then gave up and went to bed, leaving lights on so he would at least get to see the glorious new paintwork as soon as he arrived. Apparently he actually got home at around 2.30am; his plane was very late in arriving, so he thoughtfully took himself off to the spare room rather than come crashing in and waking me up in the wee small hours.
He knows that's a bad idea.
Anyhoo. He managed a week of diving in the Red Sea without having anything bitten off by sharks. He has got some spectacular bruises from falling down a companionway, or onto a belaying pin, or into a bilge or something***.
Other news: I had to take my gorgeous Rickenbacker back to the shop to get it looked at. It was unplayable, which makes me feel better about the couple of times I tried playing it (before the string broke) and sounded shite. I think the action got lowered when it was restrung a while back. It was ok when you played a string open, but as soon as you fretted it there was just a lot of buzz, and no music at all. Bah.
Also, I have bought a digital radio for the kitchen. The signal on the old FM radio has degraded rapidly over the last couple of months, to the point where I often had to switch it off in exasperation. Bestest Mate suggested we went to Asda, as we were in Frome anyway, so we called in. I bought some new pillows, as the ones in the spare room were apparently not hypo-allergenic enough, and then looked at their electrical stuff.
Digital radios for £25! Incredible. So I bought one, and it sounds great. I can't pick up Planet Rock on it, which is a bit of a blow, but the BBC stations are fine.
Asda had the world's biggest selection of horrible Halloween shite I have ever seen, including a "joke" severed arm that actually turned my stomach. Gah.
Back to Bristol next week for a couple of days, then London on Thursday. I need to renew my season ticket. Almost five grand! Gah again.
*Hello Lynn! Hello Richard!
**It began with "So what do you do for a living?" and gradually ramped up to "So you're really not gay?"
***I'm not a sailor, but I can get by with the lingo, as you see.
I am, however, feeling much better than I was. I'm still going to see the doctor next week though, as I am pretty far from normal.
It has helped that the weather was glorious all week. It's colder, as you'd expect, what with being October and all, but it's been clear and bright, with the trees just starting to turn colour. Very scenic.
Bestest Mate very kindly came over and stayed for a couple of days, which was lovely, so the week didn't feel as lonely as I thought it might at the outset.
One afternoon we went out for a little walk. I wanted to show him the new bridge over the river, so we wandered down to it and stood there watching trout in the afternoon sunshine. As it was such a lovely day we decided to take a stroll round the village and enjoy the weather. We got as far as a mates' house* and decided to call in and say hello. Luckily (for us) we interrupted them having tea, so we were invited to join them. Mmmm tea.
We sat and had a cup of tea, chatting about all sorts of stuff, when our host happened to glance down at the plate of buttered malt loaf he had placed beside his chair. There was an anguished cry of "Cat! No! You're kicking the arse out of it!" as he lifted their cat off the table. It had snuck round quietly and amused itself by licking all the butter off each slice while we sat talking. Heh.
That evening we went over to another mate's for dinner, which was mighty fine. Bestest Mate had to endure a whole evening of intense cross-examination**, being a comparative stranger round here. At one point our host enquired of his wife "Would you like a slightly brighter light to shine in his eyes?" which made me laugh.
Friday night there was a band playing in the pub, so I wandered over to take a peek. They were pretty good, but it was a bit of a shame there weren't more people there to enjoy them.
I left at about 11, back home to await Mr WithaY's arrival. I'd been checking flight details online throughout the day, and his was supposed to land at Gatwick at 9.30pm. Allowing about an hour for baggage, customs and car park sorting-out, two hours for the drive home, I expected to see him back here about midnight-ish.
I sat up till almost 1am, then gave up and went to bed, leaving lights on so he would at least get to see the glorious new paintwork as soon as he arrived. Apparently he actually got home at around 2.30am; his plane was very late in arriving, so he thoughtfully took himself off to the spare room rather than come crashing in and waking me up in the wee small hours.
He knows that's a bad idea.
Anyhoo. He managed a week of diving in the Red Sea without having anything bitten off by sharks. He has got some spectacular bruises from falling down a companionway, or onto a belaying pin, or into a bilge or something***.
Other news: I had to take my gorgeous Rickenbacker back to the shop to get it looked at. It was unplayable, which makes me feel better about the couple of times I tried playing it (before the string broke) and sounded shite. I think the action got lowered when it was restrung a while back. It was ok when you played a string open, but as soon as you fretted it there was just a lot of buzz, and no music at all. Bah.
Also, I have bought a digital radio for the kitchen. The signal on the old FM radio has degraded rapidly over the last couple of months, to the point where I often had to switch it off in exasperation. Bestest Mate suggested we went to Asda, as we were in Frome anyway, so we called in. I bought some new pillows, as the ones in the spare room were apparently not hypo-allergenic enough, and then looked at their electrical stuff.
Digital radios for £25! Incredible. So I bought one, and it sounds great. I can't pick up Planet Rock on it, which is a bit of a blow, but the BBC stations are fine.
Asda had the world's biggest selection of horrible Halloween shite I have ever seen, including a "joke" severed arm that actually turned my stomach. Gah.
Back to Bristol next week for a couple of days, then London on Thursday. I need to renew my season ticket. Almost five grand! Gah again.
*Hello Lynn! Hello Richard!
**It began with "So what do you do for a living?" and gradually ramped up to "So you're really not gay?"
***I'm not a sailor, but I can get by with the lingo, as you see.
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
Pleased to meet you...
You know what I like most about my funky new people-counter thingy? Down on the right, keep going, bit lower, looks like an iPhone...that's the bunny. Anyway, know what I really like about it?
It tells me where all the lovely, lovely readers are.
Mostly in the UK, but far more than just my family and friends would account for, so yay for that. But the most exciting part is all the people from Other Places. Bermuda for example. Sri Lanka. Switzerland.
It's amazing. Who are you all? How did you find me? Are you a regular, or a once-only visitor? Although, clearly, if you're a once-only you won't see this post, so I'll never get an answer. Heh.
Drop me a comment and tell me, I am nosy and bored.
Thank you.
Other news: The fool who disrupted every train in the West of England apparently wasn't flattened in the accident. But his car was.
It tells me where all the lovely, lovely readers are.
Mostly in the UK, but far more than just my family and friends would account for, so yay for that. But the most exciting part is all the people from Other Places. Bermuda for example. Sri Lanka. Switzerland.
It's amazing. Who are you all? How did you find me? Are you a regular, or a once-only visitor? Although, clearly, if you're a once-only you won't see this post, so I'll never get an answer. Heh.
Drop me a comment and tell me, I am nosy and bored.
Thank you.
Other news: The fool who disrupted every train in the West of England apparently wasn't flattened in the accident. But his car was.
Friday, 28 August 2009
Food, Glorious Food
Gah. I have had a headache for the best part of a week now and am bored with it. I have been taking Ibuprofen, which helps in the short term, but it has made my stomach hurt. Apparently you are supposed to take it after food, which I haven't been doing. Doh.
I suspect that the headache is a combination of stress and eyestrain, so I am going to make an appointment to get my eyes tested in the near future.
The stress is less easy to deal with, but we are getting there. Things are getting done, and we are feeling much better about it all.
Anyhoo, whilst on the train yesterday morning, I saw this. And thought I'd share it with my lovely readers.
Enjoy.
Sorry if you were eating when that popped onto your screen, by the way.
Which reminds me. I have been made aware of these websites:
Exhibit A: Pimp That Snack - a collection of frankly mental foodstuffs to rival even the Virtual Village Fete in creativity and wonderment.
Exhibit B: This is Why You're Fat - a truly horrific, stomach-churning collection of foodstuffs that I hope were created for the purposes of taking amusing pictures. However, I have my doubts.
Is it lunchtime already?
I suspect that the headache is a combination of stress and eyestrain, so I am going to make an appointment to get my eyes tested in the near future.
The stress is less easy to deal with, but we are getting there. Things are getting done, and we are feeling much better about it all.
Anyhoo, whilst on the train yesterday morning, I saw this. And thought I'd share it with my lovely readers.
Enjoy.
Sorry if you were eating when that popped onto your screen, by the way.
Which reminds me. I have been made aware of these websites:
Exhibit A: Pimp That Snack - a collection of frankly mental foodstuffs to rival even the Virtual Village Fete in creativity and wonderment.
Exhibit B: This is Why You're Fat - a truly horrific, stomach-churning collection of foodstuffs that I hope were created for the purposes of taking amusing pictures. However, I have my doubts.
Is it lunchtime already?
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