Many of our regular customers in the shop wear what is loosely termed "Country Attire." This may consist of a filthy pair of John Deere overalls, or ancient Wellington boots over waterproof trousers, or rigger boots and moleskins. A lot of them wear shooting breeches, as they are involved with one of the local shoots. Many customers are keepers, or beaters, or even guns on the shoots, so it makes sense.
Last weekend I was at work, serving a very elegant lady. She was in raptures over the local honey, and the fact that we sell part-baked baguettes. As I packed her stuff and took her money we chatted about this and that. Whilst this was happening, one of the regular customers came in, and I handed him his newspaper from beneath the counter. He smiled and said thank you and walked away.
I apologised to the lady for having interrupted our conversation, but realised she was staring in wide-eyed amazement at the departing customer, who was walking back to his car.
"Are you alright?" I asked her.
"I'm fine," she said, then she laughed. "Did you see his TROUSERS?"
I glanced out of the window at the chap, who was sporting a fine pair of tweed breeks, which probably cost a fortune.
"Um. Yes." I looked at her, she was still laughing.
"I didn't think anyone actually wore clothes like that!" She was genuinely amused.
I asked her where she was from.
London.
Mmmmhmmmm.
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Thursday, 29 January 2015
Wednesday, 18 May 2011
Crests
I am having a whale of a time at the moment. I think I've been out for lunch almost every day that I've been in London for the last fortnight, and was also wined and dined on Monday night in the heart of the West End.
My lovely mate Tall Richard took me to the RAF Club for dinner.
Well.
It was marvellous.
There are many beautiful paintings of aircraft, as you'd expect. Also chandeliers and brass fittings everywhere. And flunkies, guarding the door, and minding your rucksack if you happen to have come straight from work. Mine was much admired. Apparently they don't see many pink flowery ones.
I was particularly taken with the huge stained glass window. As I had completely forgotten to pack my camera, I took a few fuzzy snaps on my phone:
Please note the professional almost-joining of the two halves.
You're welcome.
There is a long corridor lined with original artwork from the Royal College of Heralds, one for each Squadron (I think), all very lovely.
Here's one up close.
But my very favourite thing about the place was that everything - everything - at dinner was emblazoned with the club crest. I bet if you conducted an intimate examination of the staff, they'd all have it tattooed on them somewhere.
The coffee cups.
The wine glasses.
The wine. And very nice it was too, by the way.
Even the after-dinner chocolates.
Excellent.
Tall Richard and I ate a huge and marvellous meal, got a Death Race 2000 taxi back to his flat, then walked to the Prospect of Whitby pub for a cheeky late night drink. And then back to the flat for port. I think it was almost 2am when I got to bed.
Work the next day is something of a hazy blur. Clearly I am too old to be out partying on a work night.
Tomorrow I am going out for lunch, and then our Gloucestershire mates are coming over in the evening (hopefully minus the garden-trashing spaniels) so I will have to knock off early to get home in time to see them.
And then, after that, it's my last day EVER on Monday next week. Blimey.
Other news: We've got a fucking mole in the garden.
Not in the lawn. Not in the flowerbeds. Not even in the bit behind the shed. No. He has made his little moley home in the middle of our flourishing vegetable bed.
Bastard.
He's been disrupting our radishes.
His days are numbered.
My lovely mate Tall Richard took me to the RAF Club for dinner.
Well.
It was marvellous.
There are many beautiful paintings of aircraft, as you'd expect. Also chandeliers and brass fittings everywhere. And flunkies, guarding the door, and minding your rucksack if you happen to have come straight from work. Mine was much admired. Apparently they don't see many pink flowery ones.
I was particularly taken with the huge stained glass window. As I had completely forgotten to pack my camera, I took a few fuzzy snaps on my phone:
Please note the professional almost-joining of the two halves.
You're welcome.
There is a long corridor lined with original artwork from the Royal College of Heralds, one for each Squadron (I think), all very lovely.
But my very favourite thing about the place was that everything - everything - at dinner was emblazoned with the club crest. I bet if you conducted an intimate examination of the staff, they'd all have it tattooed on them somewhere.
The wine glasses.
The wine. And very nice it was too, by the way.
Even the after-dinner chocolates.
Excellent.
Tall Richard and I ate a huge and marvellous meal, got a Death Race 2000 taxi back to his flat, then walked to the Prospect of Whitby pub for a cheeky late night drink. And then back to the flat for port. I think it was almost 2am when I got to bed.
Work the next day is something of a hazy blur. Clearly I am too old to be out partying on a work night.
Tomorrow I am going out for lunch, and then our Gloucestershire mates are coming over in the evening (hopefully minus the garden-trashing spaniels) so I will have to knock off early to get home in time to see them.
And then, after that, it's my last day EVER on Monday next week. Blimey.
Other news: We've got a fucking mole in the garden.
Not in the lawn. Not in the flowerbeds. Not even in the bit behind the shed. No. He has made his little moley home in the middle of our flourishing vegetable bed.
Bastard.
He's been disrupting our radishes.
His days are numbered.
Friday, 13 May 2011
Glimpses of life
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.
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.
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
Friday, 14 January 2011
In the bag
Whilst travelling to the office the other morning, I was interested to see this going on:
They're updating the big "4" outside the Channel 4 TV studios. I shall take another picture when it's finished. I bet you can't wait.
As I was getting off the train last night, my attention was caught by a lady with many bags and bundles and cases. She was dressed rather eccentrically, plenty of draped shawls and artistic scarves and things, her long grey hair in plaits like something out of Little House on the Prairie.
She was fussing and chattering as one of the other commuters helped her with her bags, handing them to her and then stepping down onto the platform himself. He was still carrying a strange green wicker basket - clearly not his own - as they walked towards the car park. She was chuntering away at him, he was trying to hand her the basket and walk off to get to his car, too polite to just shove it into her be-mittened hands and stride into the darkness while she was still talking to him.
I was stuck walking behind them, as she was quite slow, and her suitcase on wheels was giving her trouble, taking up the entire width of the path as it swung back and forth behind her. To be honest, she struck me as someone whose things would always give her trouble.
Anyhoo. The polite commuter kept trying to hand her the green basket, and she resolutely ignored it, chattering away at him as she wrapped her shawls and scarves around herself in the rain, struggling to keep her suitcase in a semi-straight line.
"Gosh," I thought. "She's making that kind man carry her basket all the way back to her car."
As we all got into the car park, several waiting cars with engines running and headlights helpfully blinding everyone, another man ran up to the bag lady and her unwilling escort.
"Here!" he called, breatheless and flustered. "Here! Wait!"
Everyone turned round, and he said: "That's my basket! Give it back!"
The kind commuter was horrified. "I thought it was hers!" he said, gesticulating at the bag lady with his briefcase, as the flustered man grabbed the green basket from his other hand.
"No! It's mine! I saw you pick it up from the luggage rack and was trying to stop you!"
Heh.
The bag lady then turned her attention to the breathless man, and the polite commuter made good his escape, running across the car park to his car and making a tyre-screeching exit.
By the time I had walked to my car, they were out of earshot but it looked like a huge row was brewing as she waved her arms at him, and he flailed about with his green basket. A smartly-dressed man in a waiting car was beeping his horn and shouting out of his car window, trying to claim the bag lady, but she was enjoying herself far too much.
They're updating the big "4" outside the Channel 4 TV studios. I shall take another picture when it's finished. I bet you can't wait.
As I was getting off the train last night, my attention was caught by a lady with many bags and bundles and cases. She was dressed rather eccentrically, plenty of draped shawls and artistic scarves and things, her long grey hair in plaits like something out of Little House on the Prairie.
She was fussing and chattering as one of the other commuters helped her with her bags, handing them to her and then stepping down onto the platform himself. He was still carrying a strange green wicker basket - clearly not his own - as they walked towards the car park. She was chuntering away at him, he was trying to hand her the basket and walk off to get to his car, too polite to just shove it into her be-mittened hands and stride into the darkness while she was still talking to him.
I was stuck walking behind them, as she was quite slow, and her suitcase on wheels was giving her trouble, taking up the entire width of the path as it swung back and forth behind her. To be honest, she struck me as someone whose things would always give her trouble.
Anyhoo. The polite commuter kept trying to hand her the green basket, and she resolutely ignored it, chattering away at him as she wrapped her shawls and scarves around herself in the rain, struggling to keep her suitcase in a semi-straight line.
"Gosh," I thought. "She's making that kind man carry her basket all the way back to her car."
As we all got into the car park, several waiting cars with engines running and headlights helpfully blinding everyone, another man ran up to the bag lady and her unwilling escort.
"Here!" he called, breatheless and flustered. "Here! Wait!"
Everyone turned round, and he said: "That's my basket! Give it back!"
The kind commuter was horrified. "I thought it was hers!" he said, gesticulating at the bag lady with his briefcase, as the flustered man grabbed the green basket from his other hand.
"No! It's mine! I saw you pick it up from the luggage rack and was trying to stop you!"
Heh.
The bag lady then turned her attention to the breathless man, and the polite commuter made good his escape, running across the car park to his car and making a tyre-screeching exit.
By the time I had walked to my car, they were out of earshot but it looked like a huge row was brewing as she waved her arms at him, and he flailed about with his green basket. A smartly-dressed man in a waiting car was beeping his horn and shouting out of his car window, trying to claim the bag lady, but she was enjoying herself far too much.
Sunday, 19 September 2010
Careful now
Another week without a post. Oh dear. I was lying in bed this morning, wide awake at 0700, listening to the alternating rumble of huge lorries heading for the coast and the deep, penetrating barking of next door's dogs, pondering why this happened.
I mean I was pondering. I don't think the dogs do much pondering. Is it lack of material? That's never stopped me before, admittedly.
Lack of time? Yes, possibly. I am spending far longer than I used to at work, I don't post on here while I am in the office (which I did sometimes times when I worked locally, and had "proper" lunch breaks) and I find the hit-and-miss posting from an iPhone on the train too annoying. I have, on a few occasions, drafted a post which I thought was mildly amusing, tried to upload it and lost it completely. It's probably got more to do with my technical ineptitude and an intermittent 3G connection than with my iPhone deliberately trying to sabotage me, but even so, it pissed me right off.
Lack of inspiration? Yes, at times. Sometimes I have a brilliant, yes, I said it, brilliant idea for a blog post, but by the time I get home and onto my PC, the initial excitement has faded and I end up with yet another "What I did on my holidays" style post. Not satisfactory.
Lack of enthusiasm? Hmm, yes. When I do sit down to write a post, I enjoy doing it. I tend to bash it out in one go, check for obvious spelling mistakes and then press the "fire and forget" button. I don't make heavy weather of it, once I get on with it. It's the getting round to doing it that makes me go "hurrr" and wave my arms about like Kevin the Teenager. Procrastination and all that. I have been thinking about what to do about it, and other than taking a break from blogging to recharge my creative batteries, I can't really come up with any suggestions. And, when all's said and done, a week without a post is a little break, I suppose.
I don't fancy making a slightly drama-queeny "I'm stopping blogging for a while" announcement, because that seems to be asking for people to comment and tell you how much they love your work, or how much they'd miss you, or that reading your blog is the only thing that drags them back from the abyss of despair on a regular basis, much like a child threatening to run away from home just so that someone will stop them.
Anyway, I love the fact that people I don't even know read this, and sometimes they bother to comment. It really does make my day when I get a comment or two, and I like knowing that other people are enjoying the stuff that comes out of my head. And, when I started blogging it was just for me, so it oughtn't to matter how often I post, really.
Was there a point to this? I can't remember.
Other news: My cold is better, my ankle is mending nicely, and work is still interesting.
The physiotherapist told me this week that my ankle WAS fractured after all. She can tell that because when she put the ultrasound thingy on it, I went "Gaaahhhhhhhhh!" This week she had turned it up on high power, so it hurt. Last week it was on low power, and didn't. So, it turns out that when I fell over, I broke my ankle, damaged most of the ligaments in my foot AND made a fool of myself. Now that's what I call falling over. I make sure I get my money's worth, me.
Oh, and I didn't see the Pope. I saw all the crash barriers, and the stage they put up outside Westminster Cathedral, but no pontiff. Plus I had to get the Tube to Waterloo on Friday as my bus was cancelled in honour of his visit, or something. This is why religion causes wars.
Is it just me, or did anyone else keep having Father Ted flashbacks every time the Pope was on TV?
I mean I was pondering. I don't think the dogs do much pondering. Is it lack of material? That's never stopped me before, admittedly.
Lack of time? Yes, possibly. I am spending far longer than I used to at work, I don't post on here while I am in the office (which I did sometimes times when I worked locally, and had "proper" lunch breaks) and I find the hit-and-miss posting from an iPhone on the train too annoying. I have, on a few occasions, drafted a post which I thought was mildly amusing, tried to upload it and lost it completely. It's probably got more to do with my technical ineptitude and an intermittent 3G connection than with my iPhone deliberately trying to sabotage me, but even so, it pissed me right off.
Lack of inspiration? Yes, at times. Sometimes I have a brilliant, yes, I said it, brilliant idea for a blog post, but by the time I get home and onto my PC, the initial excitement has faded and I end up with yet another "What I did on my holidays" style post. Not satisfactory.
Lack of enthusiasm? Hmm, yes. When I do sit down to write a post, I enjoy doing it. I tend to bash it out in one go, check for obvious spelling mistakes and then press the "fire and forget" button. I don't make heavy weather of it, once I get on with it. It's the getting round to doing it that makes me go "hurrr" and wave my arms about like Kevin the Teenager. Procrastination and all that. I have been thinking about what to do about it, and other than taking a break from blogging to recharge my creative batteries, I can't really come up with any suggestions. And, when all's said and done, a week without a post is a little break, I suppose.
I don't fancy making a slightly drama-queeny "I'm stopping blogging for a while" announcement, because that seems to be asking for people to comment and tell you how much they love your work, or how much they'd miss you, or that reading your blog is the only thing that drags them back from the abyss of despair on a regular basis, much like a child threatening to run away from home just so that someone will stop them.
Anyway, I love the fact that people I don't even know read this, and sometimes they bother to comment. It really does make my day when I get a comment or two, and I like knowing that other people are enjoying the stuff that comes out of my head. And, when I started blogging it was just for me, so it oughtn't to matter how often I post, really.
Was there a point to this? I can't remember.
Other news: My cold is better, my ankle is mending nicely, and work is still interesting.
The physiotherapist told me this week that my ankle WAS fractured after all. She can tell that because when she put the ultrasound thingy on it, I went "Gaaahhhhhhhhh!" This week she had turned it up on high power, so it hurt. Last week it was on low power, and didn't. So, it turns out that when I fell over, I broke my ankle, damaged most of the ligaments in my foot AND made a fool of myself. Now that's what I call falling over. I make sure I get my money's worth, me.
Oh, and I didn't see the Pope. I saw all the crash barriers, and the stage they put up outside Westminster Cathedral, but no pontiff. Plus I had to get the Tube to Waterloo on Friday as my bus was cancelled in honour of his visit, or something. This is why religion causes wars.
Is it just me, or did anyone else keep having Father Ted flashbacks every time the Pope was on TV?
Thursday, 9 September 2010
Recovering
I have discovered the bus, of late. It's much easier than the Tube and MUCH cheaper than a taxi. And, also, I can hop off and walk the remainder of the way to the office down Victoria Street, which is helping to keep my ankle on the road to recovery.
So, yeah, the ankle. I went to see the doctor about it a week ago, as it was still swollen and tender, much like an unpleasant fleshy grapefruit. Also, when I went downstairs first thing in the morning, stabbing pains assailed me, making me stop in my tracks and shout "Ow! Fuck it!"
Not a great start to the day.
So. back to the doctor I waddled. He was very nice, poked my foot, commented on how swollen it was compared to my non-mutant foot, and told me to get some physiotherapy. I had the choice of waiting for a referral to an NHS physio (free but probably several weeks wait) or paying for a private session that I could have very soon (ooo-er matron). I went private.
The phyiso told me that I have severely damaged two of the three main ankle ligaments, although not the one she was expecting to be damaged, also the ligaments that go across the front of my foot, out to the toes. That explains all the bruising and swelling of that bit of my foot, then. She's shown me some exercise to do that will help to break up the scar tissue on my ligaments (ugh), build up the "wasted" muscles on one bit of my calf (ewww) and improve bloodflow to the "inflamed joint" (ack).
Oh, and she rubbed gel on my foot and did ultrasound. That's like normal sound, but for SUPERHEROES. She has strapped me up with gaffer tape (or the medical equivalent) to encourage me to walk around more. I might post photos if I can work out how to take some at a non-terrifying angle.
Anyway, it's all mending and I am not limping any more. The physio showed me how not to, and I have told everyone at work that if they see me doing it, they are to tell me off.
So far, so good.
Other news: I've had a FANTASTIC idea for a film. It's about a group of people in transit in a confined space, unable to get out or away, with a terrifying, venomous creature (or creatures) in there with them. The working title is "Wasps on a Bus!", and I think Samuel L Jackson ought to be involved.
So, yeah, the ankle. I went to see the doctor about it a week ago, as it was still swollen and tender, much like an unpleasant fleshy grapefruit. Also, when I went downstairs first thing in the morning, stabbing pains assailed me, making me stop in my tracks and shout "Ow! Fuck it!"
Not a great start to the day.
So. back to the doctor I waddled. He was very nice, poked my foot, commented on how swollen it was compared to my non-mutant foot, and told me to get some physiotherapy. I had the choice of waiting for a referral to an NHS physio (free but probably several weeks wait) or paying for a private session that I could have very soon (ooo-er matron). I went private.
The phyiso told me that I have severely damaged two of the three main ankle ligaments, although not the one she was expecting to be damaged, also the ligaments that go across the front of my foot, out to the toes. That explains all the bruising and swelling of that bit of my foot, then. She's shown me some exercise to do that will help to break up the scar tissue on my ligaments (ugh), build up the "wasted" muscles on one bit of my calf (ewww) and improve bloodflow to the "inflamed joint" (ack).
Oh, and she rubbed gel on my foot and did ultrasound. That's like normal sound, but for SUPERHEROES. She has strapped me up with gaffer tape (or the medical equivalent) to encourage me to walk around more. I might post photos if I can work out how to take some at a non-terrifying angle.
Anyway, it's all mending and I am not limping any more. The physio showed me how not to, and I have told everyone at work that if they see me doing it, they are to tell me off.
So far, so good.
Other news: I've had a FANTASTIC idea for a film. It's about a group of people in transit in a confined space, unable to get out or away, with a terrifying, venomous creature (or creatures) in there with them. The working title is "Wasps on a Bus!", and I think Samuel L Jackson ought to be involved.
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.
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
Expensive lesson
I was up in London yesterday, as I usually am on a Tuesday. Well, they expect me to turn up at the office, seeing that they pay me and all. The train journey was surprisingly pleasant, the air conditioning has been working during the last few days of "warm spell" weather, so it's been comfortable*.
As an aside, I overheard two of the train staff chatting the other day. One of them was telling the other: "When it's too cold, everything breaks. When it's too hot, everything breaks. Just accept it."
Anyhoo. I managed to get half an hour of not-too-interrupted snoozing, so was in a good mood when I got to Waterloo. I strolled down the platform, and on impulse decided to get a cab to the office. It was a nice day, the Tube was bound to be stinky, stuffy and hellish, and I couldn't be arsed to walk. I had a new pair of sandals on and was keen not to get blisters early in the day**.
There was an unusually long queue at the taxi rank. I joined it, waiting for it to be my turn to do the "Which number do I stand next to?" dance. I love that. People who are unfamiliar with the system stand stupidly at the head of the queue, glaring at those who walk past them to the numbers further along the rank, completely missing the fact that they ought to be doing the same thing. Fools.
Anyway. My turn came, I hopped into a cab with a nice young cabbie, and we set off for Victoria. It's about a mile and a half, and usually takes about 10 minutes in a taxi, and costs about £6. Now that I am bringing my lunch to work I feel that paying for a taxi is allowable, as I am not spending the equivalent of Ghana's GDP in Marks and Spencer on sandwiches, socks and cardigans***.
Now, apart from it being one of my In The Office days, what else was happening on Tuesday? Hmm? That's right. The State Opening of Parliament, one of our many rich, ancient traditions, beloved by all.
Beloved by all, except taxi drivers. And bus drivers. And anyone trying to drive around South London, actually.
The police had closed Westminster Bridge, so the cabbie apologised and said he'd go via Lambeth Bridge. American readers (in fact, anyone who doesn't know that part of London) may wish to get a map and draw a thick red line along the route we took, possibly using a crayon.
We inched painfully along the south bank of the Thames, nose to tail in a dreadful traffic jam. Eventually we got to the roundabout at Lambeth Bridge. The cabbie was looking anxious, and as we drove onto the roundabout he said "I don't fucking believe it!"
Me: What?
Cabbie: I'm really sorry about the language, love, but they've closed the fucking bridge!
Me: Fuck!
Cabbie: I know! Fuck it!
Me: So where can we go?
Cabbie: Hmmmm, I could try getting along to Vauxhall Bridge...what do you think?
Me: I have no idea....I'm not very familiar with London. (Which is why I am paying you to get me where I want to go, Cockney poltroon.)
That last bit in brackets was in my head, by the way.
We crept along another half a mile, still nose to tail in the traffic, sucking up thick clouds of bus fumes, cyclists and scooters weaving in and out around us. I watched the meter glumly. It clicked past the £10 mark and we were still a loooooooong way from Victoria. If I'd had any kind of idea where we were I would probably have hopped out and taken my chances walking the rest of the way, but I know what I am like. I'd have been lost, lost, hopelessly lost within moments. And probably either fallen in the Thames or down a hole in the road, never to be seen again.
I wish I was kidding.
The cabbie swore fluently and quietly under his breath, in between engaging me in cheerful chat about how shocking the traffic was. We made it to Vauxhall Bridge, sweeping across it at 5 miles an hour, then headed into the quieter roads heading up to Victoria Street. There were, of course, roadworks on several of the routes we took, making the cabbie perform U-turns and unexpected diversions. He apologised each time, suggesting that I might in fact prefer to go back to Waterloo and just go home.
Reader, I was tempted.
We eventually got to Rochester Row, and as he turned the cab into the street, he had to stop to allow two shaven-headed men to saunter across the road. Neither of them made any effort to speed up, or get out of the way, or even acknowledge that they were holding up traffic. I know pedestrians have right of way, but the were deliberately being dicks. And they got dickier.
The cabbie shouted, "Don't worry mate, I'll just drive on the pavement, shall I?"
I thought it was a mildly amusing bit of banter. I expected a similar riposte from the two road-crossing guys, maybe a V-sign, or similar. But no.
The older of the two stopped dead in front of the cab and yelled at the top of his voice: "Get out of that fucking cab! Get out here right now! Fucking get out of that fucking cab! Come on!" His mate stood beside him, also red-faced and belligerent, obviously enjoying being part of the unfolding drama.
The driver declined.
We drove around the purple-faced yelling nutcase and his simian companion and continued on our way, somewhat chagrined. Finally, after what felt like about a week, I spotted Victoria Street away in the distance, the other side of yet another building-site roadblock, and asked the driver to drop me off so I could walk the rest of the way. He agreed, although I did see him check the mirrors to make sure the mad shouty man wasn't running after us before he stopped.
He apologised again and again for the time it had taken to get almost to where I wanted to go. I said it was alright, he'd done his best. The cabbie suggested that the State Opening of Parliament should be a Bank Holiday. I nodded politely, but secretly thought that might be a bit excessive for everyone who isn't affected by the traffic chaos. Which would be everyone NOT in South London.
Anyway. I paid the taxi fare. £28. Twenty Eight Pounds. It had taken 55 minutes and cost me the price of a nice Chinese, but I had made it to work. Nearly. Plus I was almost involved in a huge fight.
When I got to my desk, half an hour late, people asked me how my journey had been. "Oh, fine," I lied.
Other news: I have lost another pound. It is slow, but mostly steady, and I have had several people at work say "You look nice today!" and then "Have you lost some weight?" which is very encouraging.
Mr WithaY is being supportive, in his own manner. I mentioned to him that I was wearing new knickers, a size smaller than my other ones. He looked at me fondly and said "Oh? I wondered what that squeaking noise was."
*As comfortable as it ever is on the Sardine Express
**Also, I am lazy
***You know how it is. You pop in for some lunch and come out with an outfit. And lunch.
As an aside, I overheard two of the train staff chatting the other day. One of them was telling the other: "When it's too cold, everything breaks. When it's too hot, everything breaks. Just accept it."
Anyhoo. I managed to get half an hour of not-too-interrupted snoozing, so was in a good mood when I got to Waterloo. I strolled down the platform, and on impulse decided to get a cab to the office. It was a nice day, the Tube was bound to be stinky, stuffy and hellish, and I couldn't be arsed to walk. I had a new pair of sandals on and was keen not to get blisters early in the day**.
There was an unusually long queue at the taxi rank. I joined it, waiting for it to be my turn to do the "Which number do I stand next to?" dance. I love that. People who are unfamiliar with the system stand stupidly at the head of the queue, glaring at those who walk past them to the numbers further along the rank, completely missing the fact that they ought to be doing the same thing. Fools.
Anyway. My turn came, I hopped into a cab with a nice young cabbie, and we set off for Victoria. It's about a mile and a half, and usually takes about 10 minutes in a taxi, and costs about £6. Now that I am bringing my lunch to work I feel that paying for a taxi is allowable, as I am not spending the equivalent of Ghana's GDP in Marks and Spencer on sandwiches, socks and cardigans***.
Now, apart from it being one of my In The Office days, what else was happening on Tuesday? Hmm? That's right. The State Opening of Parliament, one of our many rich, ancient traditions, beloved by all.
Beloved by all, except taxi drivers. And bus drivers. And anyone trying to drive around South London, actually.
The police had closed Westminster Bridge, so the cabbie apologised and said he'd go via Lambeth Bridge. American readers (in fact, anyone who doesn't know that part of London) may wish to get a map and draw a thick red line along the route we took, possibly using a crayon.
We inched painfully along the south bank of the Thames, nose to tail in a dreadful traffic jam. Eventually we got to the roundabout at Lambeth Bridge. The cabbie was looking anxious, and as we drove onto the roundabout he said "I don't fucking believe it!"
Me: What?
Cabbie: I'm really sorry about the language, love, but they've closed the fucking bridge!
Me: Fuck!
Cabbie: I know! Fuck it!
Me: So where can we go?
Cabbie: Hmmmm, I could try getting along to Vauxhall Bridge...what do you think?
Me: I have no idea....I'm not very familiar with London. (Which is why I am paying you to get me where I want to go, Cockney poltroon.)
That last bit in brackets was in my head, by the way.
We crept along another half a mile, still nose to tail in the traffic, sucking up thick clouds of bus fumes, cyclists and scooters weaving in and out around us. I watched the meter glumly. It clicked past the £10 mark and we were still a loooooooong way from Victoria. If I'd had any kind of idea where we were I would probably have hopped out and taken my chances walking the rest of the way, but I know what I am like. I'd have been lost, lost, hopelessly lost within moments. And probably either fallen in the Thames or down a hole in the road, never to be seen again.
I wish I was kidding.
The cabbie swore fluently and quietly under his breath, in between engaging me in cheerful chat about how shocking the traffic was. We made it to Vauxhall Bridge, sweeping across it at 5 miles an hour, then headed into the quieter roads heading up to Victoria Street. There were, of course, roadworks on several of the routes we took, making the cabbie perform U-turns and unexpected diversions. He apologised each time, suggesting that I might in fact prefer to go back to Waterloo and just go home.
Reader, I was tempted.
We eventually got to Rochester Row, and as he turned the cab into the street, he had to stop to allow two shaven-headed men to saunter across the road. Neither of them made any effort to speed up, or get out of the way, or even acknowledge that they were holding up traffic. I know pedestrians have right of way, but the were deliberately being dicks. And they got dickier.
The cabbie shouted, "Don't worry mate, I'll just drive on the pavement, shall I?"
I thought it was a mildly amusing bit of banter. I expected a similar riposte from the two road-crossing guys, maybe a V-sign, or similar. But no.
The older of the two stopped dead in front of the cab and yelled at the top of his voice: "Get out of that fucking cab! Get out here right now! Fucking get out of that fucking cab! Come on!" His mate stood beside him, also red-faced and belligerent, obviously enjoying being part of the unfolding drama.
The driver declined.
We drove around the purple-faced yelling nutcase and his simian companion and continued on our way, somewhat chagrined. Finally, after what felt like about a week, I spotted Victoria Street away in the distance, the other side of yet another building-site roadblock, and asked the driver to drop me off so I could walk the rest of the way. He agreed, although I did see him check the mirrors to make sure the mad shouty man wasn't running after us before he stopped.
He apologised again and again for the time it had taken to get almost to where I wanted to go. I said it was alright, he'd done his best. The cabbie suggested that the State Opening of Parliament should be a Bank Holiday. I nodded politely, but secretly thought that might be a bit excessive for everyone who isn't affected by the traffic chaos. Which would be everyone NOT in South London.
Anyway. I paid the taxi fare. £28. Twenty Eight Pounds. It had taken 55 minutes and cost me the price of a nice Chinese, but I had made it to work. Nearly. Plus I was almost involved in a huge fight.
When I got to my desk, half an hour late, people asked me how my journey had been. "Oh, fine," I lied.
Other news: I have lost another pound. It is slow, but mostly steady, and I have had several people at work say "You look nice today!" and then "Have you lost some weight?" which is very encouraging.
Mr WithaY is being supportive, in his own manner. I mentioned to him that I was wearing new knickers, a size smaller than my other ones. He looked at me fondly and said "Oh? I wondered what that squeaking noise was."
*As comfortable as it ever is on the Sardine Express
**Also, I am lazy
***You know how it is. You pop in for some lunch and come out with an outfit. And lunch.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
It's not Lupus
Still here, still coughing like I am about to turn myself inside-out. It's just lovely.
Oh, please feel free to skip this bit if you are easily distressed, or suffer from a snot phobia, by the way. Or pretend this is an episode of House. Whatever.
Actually, if Dr House could spare me a couple of hours, I'd be very grateful.
Anyhoo. As a change today, the previously fluorescent yellow matter emerging from every single hole in my head has turned pink, streaked with blood. I am assuming that this is normal.
The doctor listened to my rattly chest yesterday. He said: "Ugh. Well, you've sounded worse," and prescribed me a week's worth of huge antibiotic horse pills. On closer examination of the leaflet that came in the box with them, I discover that I am potentially being treated for:
1) Acne
2) Lung and chest infections
3) Syphillis
Or, of course, a combination of all three.
The pharmacist came out to talk to me confidentially when I picked up my prescription (almost £8! Per item! Free medical care my arse!) to whisper that if I am taking contraceptive pills, I need to take "additional precautions" for 2 weeks. "Additional precautions" on top of the blood-streaked snot and hacking 90-year-old-man cough, you mean?
What virile chap could resist that? Especially if the snotty, wheezing, grumpy temptress is sitting on the sofa wearing a huge fluffy pink bathrobe and an expression of sour misery?
Yeah, you're wishing I had a webcam now, ain'tcha?
I could charge people to listen to my chest rattle. Hot phlegm action, £8 per 3 minutes. Well, I have to cover the prescription costs somehow.
Other news: Father-in-law is still in hospital, but slightly more comfortable today, whatever the hell that means. We're going to go and see him tomorrow, although in reality it will probably be me sitting outside the ward trying not to spread contagion while Mr WithaY goes to see his dad.
Also, have lost another 3 pounds this week. That makes 16 pounds in 12 weeks, which I am really pleased about. If I keep it up for another 36 weeks I will be 64 pounds lighter, or 4.5 stone. Which will be marvellous.
Last week I put on a pair of plain black trousers to wear to the office, as I usually do. I did them up and they were a bit loose. But, one pair of my black work trousers has always been a bit loose, despite being the same size as the others so I didn't worry about it.
I got to the station, got on the train, got to London. All was well with the world. However, as I started walking across Waterloo Station concourse, I realised with horror that my trousers were heading South.
I grabbed the waistband (through my coat, very chic) and walked ve-e-e-e-ery carefully to the taxi rank. Well, I didn't dare risk the Underground. Once safely in the office I begged a safety pin from a helpful colleague and did a MacGyver-esque job of reducing the waist of my trousers temporarily. Had the trousers been designed with belt loops I'd have nipped over to Marks and Spencer and bought a belt, but of course they didn't.
They are now folded up neatly in a drawer, waiting for the day when I can put them on over the top of another pair of trousers and pose for Before and After pictures. That day will come.
Oh, please feel free to skip this bit if you are easily distressed, or suffer from a snot phobia, by the way. Or pretend this is an episode of House. Whatever.
Actually, if Dr House could spare me a couple of hours, I'd be very grateful.
Anyhoo. As a change today, the previously fluorescent yellow matter emerging from every single hole in my head has turned pink, streaked with blood. I am assuming that this is normal.
The doctor listened to my rattly chest yesterday. He said: "Ugh. Well, you've sounded worse," and prescribed me a week's worth of huge antibiotic horse pills. On closer examination of the leaflet that came in the box with them, I discover that I am potentially being treated for:
1) Acne
2) Lung and chest infections
3) Syphillis
Or, of course, a combination of all three.
The pharmacist came out to talk to me confidentially when I picked up my prescription (almost £8! Per item! Free medical care my arse!) to whisper that if I am taking contraceptive pills, I need to take "additional precautions" for 2 weeks. "Additional precautions" on top of the blood-streaked snot and hacking 90-year-old-man cough, you mean?
What virile chap could resist that? Especially if the snotty, wheezing, grumpy temptress is sitting on the sofa wearing a huge fluffy pink bathrobe and an expression of sour misery?
Yeah, you're wishing I had a webcam now, ain'tcha?
I could charge people to listen to my chest rattle. Hot phlegm action, £8 per 3 minutes. Well, I have to cover the prescription costs somehow.
Other news: Father-in-law is still in hospital, but slightly more comfortable today, whatever the hell that means. We're going to go and see him tomorrow, although in reality it will probably be me sitting outside the ward trying not to spread contagion while Mr WithaY goes to see his dad.
Also, have lost another 3 pounds this week. That makes 16 pounds in 12 weeks, which I am really pleased about. If I keep it up for another 36 weeks I will be 64 pounds lighter, or 4.5 stone. Which will be marvellous.
Last week I put on a pair of plain black trousers to wear to the office, as I usually do. I did them up and they were a bit loose. But, one pair of my black work trousers has always been a bit loose, despite being the same size as the others so I didn't worry about it.
I got to the station, got on the train, got to London. All was well with the world. However, as I started walking across Waterloo Station concourse, I realised with horror that my trousers were heading South.
I grabbed the waistband (through my coat, very chic) and walked ve-e-e-e-ery carefully to the taxi rank. Well, I didn't dare risk the Underground. Once safely in the office I begged a safety pin from a helpful colleague and did a MacGyver-esque job of reducing the waist of my trousers temporarily. Had the trousers been designed with belt loops I'd have nipped over to Marks and Spencer and bought a belt, but of course they didn't.
They are now folded up neatly in a drawer, waiting for the day when I can put them on over the top of another pair of trousers and pose for Before and After pictures. That day will come.
Monday, 19 April 2010
That'll do nicely
Today was interesting. Mr WithaY and I were up at the US Embassy for our visa interview, to see if we would be allowed to go on the holiday we booked before realising we now* need a visa to go anywhere even slightly exotic.
We've spent several hours over the last few weeks negotiating the obstacle course that you must complete to get as far as the Embassy. I'm fairly sure it was designed by the same people who develop those logic/warfare computer games, where you have to solve complex riddles and hack scaly monsters with cleavers to progress and achieve points.
There are confusing electronic forms that you have to fill in, after which you wait for a reply to let you continue to the next level of form-filling. If you tick certain boxes they send you links to more forms to fill in.
You send them scanned copies of relevant documentation so that they can decide if you are allowed to continue the process.
You have long, long telephone conversations with them (at £1.20 a minute) during which they tell you to do more, different, form-filling. During these conversations you have to go into painful detail about the reason why you now need a visa. They are not unsympathetic, they probably hear stuff like that dozens of times a year, but it still smarts to have to justify yourself to a stranger as if you are a criminal.
Degrading. That's what it is.
One of the forms you fill in has to include a scanned passport photograph. They decide online, as you are filling it in, if the photo is acceptable or not, and if it is you get to submit the whole thing. If it isn't, I assume that they send a painful electric shock through your keyboard while a disembodied voice tells you to start again at Level 1, back with the smaller monsters and slightly easier riddles.
Finally, FINALLY, they email you and tell you to phone them (still £1.20 a minute, remember) to arrange a date for your interview. You do so, and the fact that it clashes with a long-planned training course that your husband has been booked to attend for the last three months is a mere bagatelle. He arranges to arrive at the training event a day late, and you both book a day off work to trek up to London** for the interview.
The US Embassy has VERY strict rules about what you are allowed to take into the building. You can't take mobile phones, Blackberries, iPods, laptops, or keyfobs with electronic clickety things to open your car while you stand far away***. We assumed that guns, knives and sharp sticks would also be frowned upon, so left all those at home.
If you turn up with any of the banned items, you will NOT be allowed in and your interview will be CANCELLED. You will LOSE your fee of $131 (about £80) and have to make a NEW appointment which you will have to pay for AGAIN.
They use a lot of CAPITAL LETTERS to make this point in the emails they send you.
What they don't do is send you a list of what you need to take. That would be handy, if any of the Embassy staff are reading this. A checklist of everything, all the various forms, passports, associated documentation and additional passport photos would be helpful. Oh, and please ask the reception and security staff to use the same terminology when they talk about the forms, that would avoid a lot of confusion when they ask you if you have brought them with you.
Anyhoo. We arrived at the Embassy building, a veritable fortress in the heart of London, and went through the first two perimeter checkpoints. Unfortunately, when they put my handbag through the x-ray machine they saw my headphones, which I had forgotten were in there. The list of BANNED items didn't mention headphones. But they are banned, apparently. What made it especially annoying was the fact that we had already travelled halfway across London to my office to drop off the car keys and my iPhone in my locker, to ensure we complied with the rules.
I was within an ace of saying "Just throw the fucking things in the bin then," as I was exasperated and stressed to the eyeballs, but the security guard told me that there was a pharmacy down the road which offers storage for contraband (for a small fee). I legged it down there, handed over my headphones, got a cloakroom ticket in return and made it back in time for the 11am appointment.
That pharmacy must make a small fortune renting locker space.
The lady on the main reception desk told us we only needed one appointment ticket as we had an appointment for both of us at the same time, so we took it, and skipped upstairs cheerfully.
That didn't last long.
When you open the scarily heavy door to the Visa Room, there are about 400 chairs set out in rows on either side of the room, facing the screens in the middle. It's like a very, very depressing cinema, or a squalid airport departure lounge from the 1960s. It also made me think of something out of Brave New World, or possibly 1984. There is a palpable atmosphere of despair and anxiety. I felt myself ageing by the second.
They were announcing ticket number 274 as we walked in. We were number 440. Fuck.
We sat and waited till they called our number, then went to the bullet-proof, axe-proof, dragon-breath-proof window. The girl there checked our documents and said "Can I have your additional passport photos please?"
What? Seriously?
We hadn't brought additional passport photos, as the online application process had said our pictures were fine. But no. They weren't fine at all, so we had to pay another £4 each to have new pictures from their machine. She then told us we needed another ticket, which Mr WithaY ran down to reception to fetch, and we were asked to go and sit down again and wait to be called to the next stage of the interview process.
She gave us another form to fill in, in case we were getting bored.
The form she gave us warned that we should expect a wait of "some hours" for this next part of the process to pass. Fuuuuuck. We sat on the horrible hard chairs, along with dozens of other stressed, nervous, miserable people, and we waited. And waited. And waited.
One bright spot was a chap who had just bought some food from the snack vending stall at the back of the room. He had been there a fair while, the same as us, and had obviously decided to have some lunch. He had literally only just started to unwrap his Cornetto****, and they called his number. He walked out laughing to himself, his Cornetto in his hand.
I hope he sat and ate it while they interviewed him.
So. The long day wore on; we eventually got summoned to the Room of Delinquents and Scamps to explain to a very nice young American chap exactly why we needed a visa. That was lovely, as you can imagine.
He was very professional and polite, and very very thorough. After we had explained all the horrible, depressing, nasty circumstances he said "I am not going to punish you for this, it doesn't seem fair, so I am authorising your visas."
I could have hugged him. If the bullet-proof, axe-proof etc glass hadn't been there.
We had to queue up in yet another long line, and do a bit more paperwork before we were allowed to leave, but the end result is that we should be getting our envisa-ed passports back in the next few days, and will be able to go on holiday as planned in June.
Hoo-fucking-ray.
This week I am mostly going to be looking for a lawyer. I think the police ought to be footing the bill for all this, at least the money we have had to spend, if not the additional time, anxiety and indignity of it all. I'll let you know how I get on.
*Thanks to the Shitstorm From Hades
**To be fair, they did also offer us Belfast. Very helpful.
***I forget the technical term
****That's not a euphamism. A Cornetto is a type of ice-cream in a wrapper, non British readers.
We've spent several hours over the last few weeks negotiating the obstacle course that you must complete to get as far as the Embassy. I'm fairly sure it was designed by the same people who develop those logic/warfare computer games, where you have to solve complex riddles and hack scaly monsters with cleavers to progress and achieve points.
There are confusing electronic forms that you have to fill in, after which you wait for a reply to let you continue to the next level of form-filling. If you tick certain boxes they send you links to more forms to fill in.
You send them scanned copies of relevant documentation so that they can decide if you are allowed to continue the process.
You have long, long telephone conversations with them (at £1.20 a minute) during which they tell you to do more, different, form-filling. During these conversations you have to go into painful detail about the reason why you now need a visa. They are not unsympathetic, they probably hear stuff like that dozens of times a year, but it still smarts to have to justify yourself to a stranger as if you are a criminal.
Degrading. That's what it is.
One of the forms you fill in has to include a scanned passport photograph. They decide online, as you are filling it in, if the photo is acceptable or not, and if it is you get to submit the whole thing. If it isn't, I assume that they send a painful electric shock through your keyboard while a disembodied voice tells you to start again at Level 1, back with the smaller monsters and slightly easier riddles.
Finally, FINALLY, they email you and tell you to phone them (still £1.20 a minute, remember) to arrange a date for your interview. You do so, and the fact that it clashes with a long-planned training course that your husband has been booked to attend for the last three months is a mere bagatelle. He arranges to arrive at the training event a day late, and you both book a day off work to trek up to London** for the interview.
The US Embassy has VERY strict rules about what you are allowed to take into the building. You can't take mobile phones, Blackberries, iPods, laptops, or keyfobs with electronic clickety things to open your car while you stand far away***. We assumed that guns, knives and sharp sticks would also be frowned upon, so left all those at home.
If you turn up with any of the banned items, you will NOT be allowed in and your interview will be CANCELLED. You will LOSE your fee of $131 (about £80) and have to make a NEW appointment which you will have to pay for AGAIN.
They use a lot of CAPITAL LETTERS to make this point in the emails they send you.
What they don't do is send you a list of what you need to take. That would be handy, if any of the Embassy staff are reading this. A checklist of everything, all the various forms, passports, associated documentation and additional passport photos would be helpful. Oh, and please ask the reception and security staff to use the same terminology when they talk about the forms, that would avoid a lot of confusion when they ask you if you have brought them with you.
Anyhoo. We arrived at the Embassy building, a veritable fortress in the heart of London, and went through the first two perimeter checkpoints. Unfortunately, when they put my handbag through the x-ray machine they saw my headphones, which I had forgotten were in there. The list of BANNED items didn't mention headphones. But they are banned, apparently. What made it especially annoying was the fact that we had already travelled halfway across London to my office to drop off the car keys and my iPhone in my locker, to ensure we complied with the rules.
I was within an ace of saying "Just throw the fucking things in the bin then," as I was exasperated and stressed to the eyeballs, but the security guard told me that there was a pharmacy down the road which offers storage for contraband (for a small fee). I legged it down there, handed over my headphones, got a cloakroom ticket in return and made it back in time for the 11am appointment.
That pharmacy must make a small fortune renting locker space.
The lady on the main reception desk told us we only needed one appointment ticket as we had an appointment for both of us at the same time, so we took it, and skipped upstairs cheerfully.
That didn't last long.
When you open the scarily heavy door to the Visa Room, there are about 400 chairs set out in rows on either side of the room, facing the screens in the middle. It's like a very, very depressing cinema, or a squalid airport departure lounge from the 1960s. It also made me think of something out of Brave New World, or possibly 1984. There is a palpable atmosphere of despair and anxiety. I felt myself ageing by the second.
They were announcing ticket number 274 as we walked in. We were number 440. Fuck.
We sat and waited till they called our number, then went to the bullet-proof, axe-proof, dragon-breath-proof window. The girl there checked our documents and said "Can I have your additional passport photos please?"
What? Seriously?
We hadn't brought additional passport photos, as the online application process had said our pictures were fine. But no. They weren't fine at all, so we had to pay another £4 each to have new pictures from their machine. She then told us we needed another ticket, which Mr WithaY ran down to reception to fetch, and we were asked to go and sit down again and wait to be called to the next stage of the interview process.
She gave us another form to fill in, in case we were getting bored.
The form she gave us warned that we should expect a wait of "some hours" for this next part of the process to pass. Fuuuuuck. We sat on the horrible hard chairs, along with dozens of other stressed, nervous, miserable people, and we waited. And waited. And waited.
One bright spot was a chap who had just bought some food from the snack vending stall at the back of the room. He had been there a fair while, the same as us, and had obviously decided to have some lunch. He had literally only just started to unwrap his Cornetto****, and they called his number. He walked out laughing to himself, his Cornetto in his hand.
I hope he sat and ate it while they interviewed him.
So. The long day wore on; we eventually got summoned to the Room of Delinquents and Scamps to explain to a very nice young American chap exactly why we needed a visa. That was lovely, as you can imagine.
He was very professional and polite, and very very thorough. After we had explained all the horrible, depressing, nasty circumstances he said "I am not going to punish you for this, it doesn't seem fair, so I am authorising your visas."
I could have hugged him. If the bullet-proof, axe-proof etc glass hadn't been there.
We had to queue up in yet another long line, and do a bit more paperwork before we were allowed to leave, but the end result is that we should be getting our envisa-ed passports back in the next few days, and will be able to go on holiday as planned in June.
Hoo-fucking-ray.
This week I am mostly going to be looking for a lawyer. I think the police ought to be footing the bill for all this, at least the money we have had to spend, if not the additional time, anxiety and indignity of it all. I'll let you know how I get on.
*Thanks to the Shitstorm From Hades
**To be fair, they did also offer us Belfast. Very helpful.
***I forget the technical term
****That's not a euphamism. A Cornetto is a type of ice-cream in a wrapper, non British readers.
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
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
Case in point
In Waterloo concourse this morning, I was party to a conversation between two chaps who were nearby.
Chap 1 was relating a tale of how crowded his train had been. All the way from Winchester, apparently.
"People were stood up in the aisles all the way from Basingstoke. Basingstoke! Well, nobody gets off till London, do they?"
"Naaaaa," agreed his companion.
"And there was a bloke sat in front of me with a case. A big case, mind, on the seat next to him, and another bloke walked up and said "Can you move that so I can sit down, mate?" A really big case. A two week case. Not a weekend bag.
"Right," said the other chap. He seemed an agreeable sort.
"Anyway, the bloke with the case said "But then what will I do with this?" Pointing at his big case. A really big case, it was."
The chap telling the story gesticulated to show how big the case was. Looked pretty big to me, too.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Anyway, the bloke who wanted to sit down said "Well, that's not really my fucking problem, is it mate?" And the bloke with the big case had to sit with it on his lap all the rest of the way."
They both laughed uproariously. I love London sometimes.
Other news: We are enjoying All The Weathers Known To Man this week. So far we've had:
For example, you'd come indoors dripping wet and claim a point for Heavy Rain. Or covered in ice, and claim for Really Cold Out There. If your hair was wildly dishevelled and full of twigs and leaves you could claim High Wind. If you came in on a stretcher you could claim Deceptively Icy On The Roads. If you phoned in your claim from 200 miles away you could claim for Tornado.
I think Tornado would be the trump card, and the player who used it automatically gets extra points.
This could catch on.
Chap 1 was relating a tale of how crowded his train had been. All the way from Winchester, apparently.
"People were stood up in the aisles all the way from Basingstoke. Basingstoke! Well, nobody gets off till London, do they?"
"Naaaaa," agreed his companion.
"And there was a bloke sat in front of me with a case. A big case, mind, on the seat next to him, and another bloke walked up and said "Can you move that so I can sit down, mate?" A really big case. A two week case. Not a weekend bag.
"Right," said the other chap. He seemed an agreeable sort.
"Anyway, the bloke with the case said "But then what will I do with this?" Pointing at his big case. A really big case, it was."
The chap telling the story gesticulated to show how big the case was. Looked pretty big to me, too.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Anyway, the bloke who wanted to sit down said "Well, that's not really my fucking problem, is it mate?" And the bloke with the big case had to sit with it on his lap all the rest of the way."
They both laughed uproariously. I love London sometimes.
Other news: We are enjoying All The Weathers Known To Man this week. So far we've had:
- snow (yesterday morning as I drove to the station at 6.30, ugh)
- dense fog (tonight, driving home from the station, making it even more like a trip through Middle Earth than normal)
- torrential rain (most of yesterday)
- bloody freezing clear cold (tonight)
For example, you'd come indoors dripping wet and claim a point for Heavy Rain. Or covered in ice, and claim for Really Cold Out There. If your hair was wildly dishevelled and full of twigs and leaves you could claim High Wind. If you came in on a stretcher you could claim Deceptively Icy On The Roads. If you phoned in your claim from 200 miles away you could claim for Tornado.
I think Tornado would be the trump card, and the player who used it automatically gets extra points.
This could catch on.
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.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Travellers' tales
I'm still afflicted with Lurgy.
Bloody London germs, with their sneaky infectious ways. In general, I am careful about avoiding people who are obviously sickly...you know, covered in boils and scabs and oozing pustules. Also about washing my hands before I eat anything, and not licking the handrails on the Underground escalators, but you can't be too careful, it seems.
It seems to be passing off a bit, but I had a high temperature for a couple of days (and nights) and a headache which has only just eased off. I feel wiped out, tired, weepy, listless and grumpy. I must be a joy to be around.
As I am feeling less pathetic than I have been since the weekend, here are some pictures of London. Mostly taken from high up in the London Eye, which was most impressive. It's a fantastic bit of engineering.
There were no creepy blokes clinging to the outside asking us if we wanted to go faster, which was disappointing. I'd have thought they'd have at least spun the car around a few times to make us scream.
I was intrigued by this sign:
Bloody London germs, with their sneaky infectious ways. In general, I am careful about avoiding people who are obviously sickly...you know, covered in boils and scabs and oozing pustules. Also about washing my hands before I eat anything, and not licking the handrails on the Underground escalators, but you can't be too careful, it seems.
It seems to be passing off a bit, but I had a high temperature for a couple of days (and nights) and a headache which has only just eased off. I feel wiped out, tired, weepy, listless and grumpy. I must be a joy to be around.
As I am feeling less pathetic than I have been since the weekend, here are some pictures of London. Mostly taken from high up in the London Eye, which was most impressive. It's a fantastic bit of engineering.
There were no creepy blokes clinging to the outside asking us if we wanted to go faster, which was disappointing. I'd have thought they'd have at least spun the car around a few times to make us scream.
I like to wonder how many times they had visitors plummeting past the security guards before they thought "We really must put a sign on those doors."
It is especially pleasing that DO NOT is underlined for added emphasis. Is that in case you aren't sure why they are telling you not to lean on the doors as you slowly rise hundreds of feet above the river? And, I note, the sign is only in English. Is that because other nationalities are less likely to lean on the door? Or do the London Eye health and safety team simply not care about non-English speakers?
We must know.
Anyhoo, we were bloody high up. Look:
That's Waterloo station, from a million feet up.
Houses of Parliament. If you look carefully you can see the police raiding MPs' offices for evidence to pass to the CPS.
We also went to the Aquarium, which I enjoyed far more than I expected to. I even managed to do the Shark Walk. No, not a dance where you wriggle on the floor and bite the furniture. It was a suspended platform with a glass floor that you walk across, above this:
It's a bit blurry because NO FLASH. But that's a shark in there. Yep, a shark. There were several others too. And I walked over their heads. Ha!
I was very taken with the Ray Pool, too. Look:
They* were playing tranquil music, and we stood and watched the fish in there for ages.
Some of them stuck their noses up out of the water, which was interesting to see. People leant in and petted them, despite the many signs saying "Do not pet the fish." I didn't.
It was a pleasant way to spend a couple of hours.
The Natural History Museum was a zoo, ironically.
We sped through the minerals gallery and looked unsuccessfully for the giant tree thingy, but eventually the hordes of proles with squealing howler monkey offspring drove us back out into the rain. Bastards.
I tell you what though, I couldn't live there. London is great to visit but the traffic! The crowds! The sheer balls-ache of trying to get anywhere if you aren't near a Tube station. Gah. Sod that.
I'd rather be here, where even though you get stuck behind tractors and run off the road by combine harvesters and delayed by herds of cows, you can at least get from A to B without having to reverse the entire length of a street because there isn't room for two cars to pass**.
*The Aquarium people, not the fish. I'd have paid extra to watch the fish playing ambient chillout music.
**Although to be fair sometimes you have to reverse all the way back down a little windy lane to let a big oil tanker truck get past.
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
Fancy London ways
So, the weekend in London. Away from home, and out in the big city and all that. How was it? What did we do? What did we think of it? Was it fun?
Well, I jotted down a few points to bear in mind for the future:
1) Taxis are not cheap. Even for short journeys. Seriously. You will need far more cash than you think you will.
2) When booking a hotel online, do NOT be fooled by the short-looking distance it is from Waterloo on the map. It will in fact be fucking miles away and cost you a fortune in taxis. (See point 1.) Remember, London is much, much bigger than you think, so places can be a long way apart and yet, strangely, still be in London. It's not like Wiltshire, where there are large swathes of greenery to let you know when one place ends and another begins.
3) Check the location of Tube stations relative to the hotel. If there are no Tube stations within quarter of a mile, stay somewhere else, or Point 1 will apply. Do NOT imagine that you will walk everywhere. You don't know the area, or the way to where you are going, and anyway it will rain.
4) London is crowded. Expect this. Do not give in to the desire to fling slow-walking tourists off Westminster Bridge into the river when they impede your progress. By all means imagine doing it, and add hilarious sound effects at the same time. Do not, however, allow this to become reality.
5) If it starts raining, and it will, the Natural History Museum will be full of families trying to avoid getting wet. Do not allow this to provoke you into unbecoming displays of outrage as the children shriek and gibber like howler monkeys around the dinosaur skeletons.
6) When you tell the taxi driver (see point 1) where you want to go, and he then takes you somewhere completely different, many miles away, do not get out of the cab. Simply reiterate where you want to go, as you told him at the start of your marathon cross-London journey. Give him the exact postcode to programme into his SatNav system, then sit in silence in the back till you arrive at the correct destination. Pay him a reasonable amount and make a mental note not to use that cab firm again. A magical white London cab* will appear at the right moment to take you home. Yes it will. You just have to believe it will.
You're welcome.
We went on the London Eye (so high! So many short, squat, loud Northern women pointing out the restaurant where they had lunch yesterday, just there, just off the edge of Trafalgar Square, look, there, see it?).
We went to the Aquarium (sharks! So many fish of many different colours! So many dark corridors and small children to fall over as they blunder about, their parents transfixed by the fish.)
We went to the Natural History Museum, where we saw the ice rink out the front and admired the huge collection of sparkly, sparkly stones (so many Christmas present ideas!)
We went for a splendid dinner on Friday night at China Boulevard, overlooking the river, with a huge screen showing Celine Dion live in Las Vegas behind us. That was odd, but we put up with it because the food was great. Except for the chicken curry dish. That was weird and a bit crap, frankly, but everything else was excellent.
We had booze! At lunchtime! Unheard of, when you usually have to drive everywhere. Marvellous.
I took photos, oh so many photos, and will post some up here when I am feeling less feverish and rubbish. Because, yes! I have picked up a fancy big city Lurgy of some sort. Spent most of last night alternating between sweating profusely (usually I don't sweat much for a fat lass), and shivering as if I was in a homemade hut in the Arctic tundra, with Ray Mears mocking me from his cosy warm three bedroom semi-detached moss-lined palace.
So bollocks to London germs.
Other than that, a splendid time was had by all. The blogger/Twitter party thing on Saturday was fun. Met many lovely people, ate a million bits of chicken, drank a lot of not half bad fizz and laughed a lot. We could have done with little name badges though.
It was a bit disheartening to introduce myself to people and then watch them school their expression of "Who? I've never read a single word you've written," into "Ah yes, how charming to meet you at last."
Oh, and we got prizes! For one of the entries we submitted to the virtual Village Fete. Sadly, I have no idea which one was deemed worthy of a prize, but hey, we got a lovely** trophy and some posh Belgian chocs, so yay for us. It might even have been for this, but I doubt it. Or maybe this.
We need to get out more. Lordy.
*They are like the unicorns of the city, and only appear to the pure of heart. Mr WithaY can whistle them up like nobody's business.
**I will post a picture so all may admire its loveliness.
Well, I jotted down a few points to bear in mind for the future:
1) Taxis are not cheap. Even for short journeys. Seriously. You will need far more cash than you think you will.
2) When booking a hotel online, do NOT be fooled by the short-looking distance it is from Waterloo on the map. It will in fact be fucking miles away and cost you a fortune in taxis. (See point 1.) Remember, London is much, much bigger than you think, so places can be a long way apart and yet, strangely, still be in London. It's not like Wiltshire, where there are large swathes of greenery to let you know when one place ends and another begins.
3) Check the location of Tube stations relative to the hotel. If there are no Tube stations within quarter of a mile, stay somewhere else, or Point 1 will apply. Do NOT imagine that you will walk everywhere. You don't know the area, or the way to where you are going, and anyway it will rain.
4) London is crowded. Expect this. Do not give in to the desire to fling slow-walking tourists off Westminster Bridge into the river when they impede your progress. By all means imagine doing it, and add hilarious sound effects at the same time. Do not, however, allow this to become reality.
5) If it starts raining, and it will, the Natural History Museum will be full of families trying to avoid getting wet. Do not allow this to provoke you into unbecoming displays of outrage as the children shriek and gibber like howler monkeys around the dinosaur skeletons.
6) When you tell the taxi driver (see point 1) where you want to go, and he then takes you somewhere completely different, many miles away, do not get out of the cab. Simply reiterate where you want to go, as you told him at the start of your marathon cross-London journey. Give him the exact postcode to programme into his SatNav system, then sit in silence in the back till you arrive at the correct destination. Pay him a reasonable amount and make a mental note not to use that cab firm again. A magical white London cab* will appear at the right moment to take you home. Yes it will. You just have to believe it will.
You're welcome.
We went on the London Eye (so high! So many short, squat, loud Northern women pointing out the restaurant where they had lunch yesterday, just there, just off the edge of Trafalgar Square, look, there, see it?).
We went to the Aquarium (sharks! So many fish of many different colours! So many dark corridors and small children to fall over as they blunder about, their parents transfixed by the fish.)
We went to the Natural History Museum, where we saw the ice rink out the front and admired the huge collection of sparkly, sparkly stones (so many Christmas present ideas!)
We went for a splendid dinner on Friday night at China Boulevard, overlooking the river, with a huge screen showing Celine Dion live in Las Vegas behind us. That was odd, but we put up with it because the food was great. Except for the chicken curry dish. That was weird and a bit crap, frankly, but everything else was excellent.
We had booze! At lunchtime! Unheard of, when you usually have to drive everywhere. Marvellous.
I took photos, oh so many photos, and will post some up here when I am feeling less feverish and rubbish. Because, yes! I have picked up a fancy big city Lurgy of some sort. Spent most of last night alternating between sweating profusely (usually I don't sweat much for a fat lass), and shivering as if I was in a homemade hut in the Arctic tundra, with Ray Mears mocking me from his cosy warm three bedroom semi-detached moss-lined palace.
So bollocks to London germs.
Other than that, a splendid time was had by all. The blogger/Twitter party thing on Saturday was fun. Met many lovely people, ate a million bits of chicken, drank a lot of not half bad fizz and laughed a lot. We could have done with little name badges though.
It was a bit disheartening to introduce myself to people and then watch them school their expression of "Who? I've never read a single word you've written," into "Ah yes, how charming to meet you at last."
Oh, and we got prizes! For one of the entries we submitted to the virtual Village Fete. Sadly, I have no idea which one was deemed worthy of a prize, but hey, we got a lovely** trophy and some posh Belgian chocs, so yay for us. It might even have been for this, but I doubt it. Or maybe this.
We need to get out more. Lordy.
*They are like the unicorns of the city, and only appear to the pure of heart. Mr WithaY can whistle them up like nobody's business.
**I will post a picture so all may admire its loveliness.
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Gunpowder, treason and plot
I was at the Houses of Parliament earlier this week, for a work-related thing. I'd never been there before so it was all terribly exciting.
The instructions they sent me said "allow AT LEAST 45 minutes to get through security". So I obediently got there an hour before my meeting was due to start, expecting to be queueing in the rain for ages.
No.
There was no queue.
There was a helpful security lady dishing out lanyard clippy pass-holder things outside, so that once I got in there all I had to do was clip the newly-aquired photo pass to it and hang it round my neck.
Through the security checks, into the main body of the building. Pause to gawp at fabulous architecture like the potato-headed yokel that I am, then continue through to ask another security chap where the room that my meeting is in is. Get given vague "down that way" directions. Nod sagely.
Ask if it's ok to take photos.
Yes it is, but only "down there". I go "down there" and take a couple of pictures on my iPhone (it does everything.)
She said No.
Finally, FINALLY, with 2 minutes to go, we were told it was ok to go through to the meeting room. In the confusion I lost sight of my new buddy, but followed everyone else, hung my coat up in a v posh coat cupboard, and went into the meeting room.
Helloooooo?
What's this?
Lots of information about security systems? Posters for a variety of specialist Universities? Not a soul here I recognise? How odd.
But look....there are cakes! And tea! And nice friendly staff who want me to have some!
So I had a glass of fizzy water, and stood there like a lemon, hoping someone I knew would walk in. After a few minutes, it was clear that nobody I knew was going to walk in. In fact, I was the only woman in the room, which is unusual at meetings these days.
Hmm.
I was in the wrong meeting. I could have stuck around and enlarged my woefully thin knowledge of high-tech security systems, but I thought I might have been thrown in the Thames as spy, and decided I ought to leave.
Muttering "fuckfuckfuckfuck" to myself I slunk out, sweating at the thought of wandering the Houses of Parliament like a lost soul, bleating and panicking.
Fortunately, MY meeting was in the room next door, and it was a big, informal standy-uppy affair, so I could sidle in, grab a cup of tea and pretend I had been there all the time.
The walk back to Waterloo provided a couple of nice photo opportunities:
**I don't get out much
The instructions they sent me said "allow AT LEAST 45 minutes to get through security". So I obediently got there an hour before my meeting was due to start, expecting to be queueing in the rain for ages.
No.
There was no queue.
There was a helpful security lady dishing out lanyard clippy pass-holder things outside, so that once I got in there all I had to do was clip the newly-aquired photo pass to it and hang it round my neck.
Through the security checks, into the main body of the building. Pause to gawp at fabulous architecture like the potato-headed yokel that I am, then continue through to ask another security chap where the room that my meeting is in is. Get given vague "down that way" directions. Nod sagely.
Ask if it's ok to take photos.
Yes it is, but only "down there". I go "down there" and take a couple of pictures on my iPhone (it does everything.)
After that point, no more photography, sadly.
I found where I was supposed to be, and asked the stern security lady if I could go in, bearing in mind I was over 30 minutes early (security being so much more efficient than we had been led to believe.)
She said No.
Go and wait Over There.
I went Over There and waited, admiring the beautiful painted panels on the walls. Gradually, more and more people arrived, walked through to the scary security lady, were told the same thing, and perched meekly on the leather benches to wait for the call. A cheery looking chap opposite me caught my eye and smiled. I smiled back. He came and sat next to me and struck up an amusing conversation about what would happen if we all headed for the meeting room*.
He asked me if I was going to "this thing", waving vaguely in the direction of the meeting room. I said yes, I was. Well, it was true.
The crowd of people waiting had grown, so we headed into the lobby area to be sure to hear when we got the call to go into the meeting room. It was rather exciting**.
Finally, FINALLY, with 2 minutes to go, we were told it was ok to go through to the meeting room. In the confusion I lost sight of my new buddy, but followed everyone else, hung my coat up in a v posh coat cupboard, and went into the meeting room.
Helloooooo?
What's this?
Lots of information about security systems? Posters for a variety of specialist Universities? Not a soul here I recognise? How odd.
But look....there are cakes! And tea! And nice friendly staff who want me to have some!
So I had a glass of fizzy water, and stood there like a lemon, hoping someone I knew would walk in. After a few minutes, it was clear that nobody I knew was going to walk in. In fact, I was the only woman in the room, which is unusual at meetings these days.
Hmm.
I was in the wrong meeting. I could have stuck around and enlarged my woefully thin knowledge of high-tech security systems, but I thought I might have been thrown in the Thames as spy, and decided I ought to leave.
Muttering "fuckfuckfuckfuck" to myself I slunk out, sweating at the thought of wandering the Houses of Parliament like a lost soul, bleating and panicking.
Fortunately, MY meeting was in the room next door, and it was a big, informal standy-uppy affair, so I could sidle in, grab a cup of tea and pretend I had been there all the time.
The walk back to Waterloo provided a couple of nice photo opportunities:
Please note the moon this time.
This is a profile view.
I thought it was rather nice to have been where Guy Fawkes was this week, all those years ago. Well, in the same approximate location, at least.
*We agreed that it would certainly end in a machine-gunning, and decided to stay put.
**I don't get out much
Sunday, 18 October 2009
Moon River
When I was out and about socialising with my mate Tall Richard on Thursday night, I took a few pictures of the Thames, as it was looking particularly scenic. Can't actually see the moon though. Sorry.
Look:
I like how the little bridge out to the boat is all lit up. Very pretty.
And on the left, among the blurriness and poor light levels, you can make out St Paul's Cathedral. Faaaar away in the distance.
The London Eye, all lit up and artfully bisected by a railway bridge. I'm quite the photographer.
This is the north side of the river bank. The Embankment, in fact. Again rather blurry as I was using my phone to take the picture, and more of a concept than an actual picture of scenery. The lights are pretty though.
This weekend has been very pleasant. Mr WithaY and I went over to the pub for dinner on Friday night, as he was home from his business trip rather later than anticpated, then we scooted home to watch the new Armstrong and Miller TV show, which we both found very funny. Saturday was a constructive and enjoyable day, I did laundry, ironed, baked bread rolls, and in the evening we went out for dinner with some mates in the village. Mmmmmm deicious dinner.
Today was a day of Sorting Stuff Out. We cleared out rubbish and weedsfrom the flowerbeds, Mr WithaY mowed the lawn, I pruned the roses, and we pulled up all the stuff in the vegetable bed that had finished being productive. Then, inspired by this diligence, we tidied out the garden shed and put the table and chairs away till next summer.
Very satisfying. My legs ache like hell now though. Time for a shower and getting stuff ready for my absurdly early start tomorrow.
Oh, and I can now play "She's Not There" by the Zombies. Which is one of my all-time favourite songs, so I am mighty pleased about that.
Very satisfying. My legs ache like hell now though. Time for a shower and getting stuff ready for my absurdly early start tomorrow.
Oh, and I can now play "She's Not There" by the Zombies. Which is one of my all-time favourite songs, so I am mighty pleased about that.
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