Raising the goblet

I have been at the National School of Government this week. It's like the School of Rock. But with less rock. And more government.

They have very severe views on car parking.



But on the plus side they have excellent blossom trees in between the classrooms, which made walking around the site in glorious sunshine an absolute pleasure.



I was so impressed I took a close-up.



Lovely.

We had an exam yesterday afternoon, marring an otherwise relaxing couple of days. The tutor had been telling us all how straightforward it would be if we just used our common sense, and how we'd all worked so hard that we'd be fine.

Lies.

LIES!

It was really hard and we all staggered out afterwards like the survivors of some hideous disaster where people had had to eat each other to survive. Many of us were ashen.

I actually finished early, and was able to flee the exam room, stepping outside with a sigh of relief. This quickly turned to dismay when I realised I had left all my course notes in there, and would have to wait outside till everyone else finished.

Arse.

So, I waited till the others came out and then we all did that stupid "I put this for question 3, what did you put?" thing that you do, as if it ever helps.

No idea when we get the results, hopefully it's not too long to wait. The pass mark is about 60 percent, and if I can't get that then I am a complete dolt. But it has been known for me to demonstrate primo doltage before now.

The drive home, which I expected to be a complete nightmare as it was slap bang on 5pm when I left, was fast, tranquil and beautiful. The junction from the M3 onto the A303 is completely covered in primroses. Go and see it. Really - the whole cutting is bright acid yellow with them, and it's lovely.

Other news: While I was down at my lovely Mum's the other week the local news programme was running a story about a windmill. Said windmill used to belong to famous writer Hilaire Bollock, according the the presenter.

Festive. Not feet-ive

So, how has everyone been?

I really didn't feel much like blogging for a few days, but luckily the commute to and from London has stirred my bile duct sufficiently to type out a few sentences. And I am writing this on the train home, listening to the Alabama 3 at the same time.

This new iPhone is bloody excellent and I heartily endorse it. And if Apple want to send wads of cash in return for my praise, I will probably get ever more effusive.

Work has been really hectic. I went back yesterday after the Easter break, and was delighted to once again witness the Tamils protesting vehemently outside the Houses of Parliament.

I'm away from the office tomorrow and Thursday on a training course, so have been frantically getting all my deliverables to the people I promised them to. Managed it, too. Yay me.

I was supposed to be at home this afternoon, and head over to Bestest Mate's house this evening. The cunning plan was to stay there tonight and leave v early tomorrow to get to my course. Sadly Bestest Mate has succumbed to Lurgy and is apparently snotty and grumpy, so instead I will be getting up at Oh FFS Hours tomorrow and going from home.

Right. My hand's getting cramp.

Might tell you about the outrageous scallop-fest when I get home. If I can stay awake.

Shocked

Had a lovely day down at my Mum's yesterday, all sunshine and Spring blossom, which was great.

Arrived home at about 9pm-ish to be greeted by Mr Withay looking very sombre.

When I asked what was the matter, he told me about this:

This



Charlie was a friend of ours, and a former neighbour. He ran a little but very successful business doing fine art restoration and picture framing. Most of the pictures on the walls in our house were framed by him. He would usually refuse to take money for the work, so we traded him venison sausages.

He only moved out to the Philippines a few months ago and was loving his new life.

He came into the pub a few weeks back on a visit to the UK, and looked like a new man - slimmer, browner, happier.

He was telling us all about his home in Bohol, how he was going scuba diving several times a week, how he'd just bought a new "tractor" - an ox of some sort - to help him with the work on his land, how he was zipping around on a little motorbike with his friends and neighbours all piled on the back.


I can't believe this has happened.

Captain, I'm sensing claws...

Once again, the police state the bleedin' obvious. To be fair, it is the Berlin police this time , but even so.

My favourite part of the story is the reaction from the police spokesman.

"The woman has proved herself to be careless by jumping into the enclosure," a police spokesman said afterwards. "Logic tells us that polar bears will do this type of thing in this situation."


I like to imagine him sighing deeply, and shaking his head sadly at the woman's carelessness.

Tired and emotional

I am writing this post on my v funky new phone, which I am already hopelessly smitten by.

Yes I know it's sad.

Cold

As is traditional with a holiday coming up, I have gone down with a cold. Arse*. I woke up on Tuesday with a really sore throat, but put it down to my extensive muttering about protestors making me miss my train.

Yesterday I felt tired and chilly, but assumed I was just well, tired and chilly.

Today, however, I have a proper cold. Headache, shivery, sore throat, slightly snotty in a kind of "Oh you just wait till you try to go to sleep" kind of way.

And I still only have half a mobile. I can receive text messages but for some reason am unable to make or receive phone calls. I shall have to call the helpdesk tomorrow if it doesn't resolve itself overnight.





*Not a cold arse. I have one of those too, being a girly, but a cold. Arse.

Tiger feet

Today I am mostly in between mobile phones.

I bit the bullet and got myself a new phone, because my little old Nokia was being erratic about battery charge life. Also, because I am used to the 2-hours-on-the-train-each-way madness now, I need something to amuse myself on the journey.

I have tried reading work stuff, but that can be dull, plus I don't get paid for an extra four hours work a day. I have issues about reading work stuff on trains anyway, because I know I always look at what the person next to me is reading, and I don't really want random strangers knowing what I am up to.

I have tried reading fiction, but I dislike my books getting squashed and bashed around in my rucksack.

I listen to music on my iPod, but that isn't sufficient to keep me entertained.

I have become a bit of a backgammon demon, as I found the game on my phone, and was beating the computer regularly on the Difficult level. However, the final straw came last week when the game threw up numerous javascript errors and failed to load. So. Time for a new phone.

I then ummed and ahhed about getting a little teeny laptop and a dongle to pick up internet access so I could waste yet more of my life on the internet. But I'd still need a phone. And an iPod.

What to do? What to do?

I decided to be a complete techno-geek, and I bought an iPhone. A pay as you go one, I didn't fancy being locked into a contract for two years. I will see how much it costs me per month, and whether it's worth it. The Apps store had better have a backgammon game.

Other news: I got caught up in the Tamil demonstration on Monday evening, which was interesting. I was walking to Waterloo from the office, as it was a nice sunny afternoon, and got to Parliament Square, where there were many, many police riot vans. Also horseshit, which indicated to my fine mind that police horses had recently been in the area.

I kept walking briskly, because I didn't want to miss my train. I knew that if I got stuck on the pedestrian crossings it could take me ten minutes to get round the square and onto Westminster Bridge.

I rounded the corner next to Big Ben, and there were hordes of angry flag-waving Sri Lankans sitting in the road, shouting stuff I couldn't decipher through megaphones. I kept walking, still determined not to miss my train, and ended up having to shoulder* through the crowd quite forcefully, as there were so many of them.

Finally I got to Westminster Bridge, hot, flustered and increasingly grumpy. A tape line was across the bridge, preventing people from crossing it, and many unsmiling policemen stood there.

"You can't cross here " they told me.

I looked at the people walking up and down on the other side of the tape and said "But I need to get to Waterloo station."

"Sorry madam, you must walk down to the next bridge."

So. I had to shoulder my way back through the protesters, down the steps, along the Embankment and across Hungerford Bridge. Took me bloody miles out of my way and meant I missed my train. Gah.

Too much bloody democracy, if you ask me.

Another thing. It is an illegal protest, given that there had been no notice sent to the police. Why, therefore, has it been it allowed to run for three days (and counting)?



*My shoulders, the top of most of their heads - they are quite a petite people, it seems

Doing It Ourselves

It's been a big day in the WithaY household. Possibly one of those days that everyone remembers in years to come as The Big Day, in capital letters.

We own our very own proper lawnmower. Not a strimmer. Not a Flymo. Not an electric one. It's a proper petrol-driven, grown-up, lean, mean grasscutting machine.

As soon as we got back from the DIY shop, Mr WithaY went out and cut the front and back lawns, then stood looking out of the windows in all parts of the house to admire his handiwork. Every now and again he would sigh contentedly and say "Have you looked at the lawns yet?" in case I had missed the beauty that was The Cut Grass.

I tried to join in by pulling up some weeds, but got bored and left the two of them alone together, roaring round the garden in a mist of grass cuttings and fumes.

We also bought shitloads of paint to decorate our hall and stairs. We decorated them in a bit of a hurry when we first moved in, because it was all so depressing. The walls were covered with what had once been rather nice paper, but over the 30 years it had been up, it had got discoloured and filthy. The paintwork was pale brown from years of heavy smoking in the house, and everything was slightly sticky.

So, we stripped the walls, scrubbed the paintwork, which was actually white (mostly), put up thick lining paper and slapped on a couple of coats of pale pink emulsion. Worked a treat, and really warmed up the place.

Eight years on, the rest of the house has been decorated to a much higher standard, usually by professionals, and the hall and stairs now look, frankly, shit.

There is now a collection of tins of paint, new brushes and rollers waiting to be deployed. The plan was that Mr WithaY and I would do it* over Easter.

However, today, during the course of a visit to Father-in-Law WithaY, Mr WithaY mentioned ever-so-casually that he was going fishing all day on Friday. Oh, and diving all day on Sunday. And he is away for work on Thursday evening.

Hmmm.

So, looks like I will be getting on with the decorating on my own, which is a bit of a shame, because I am of the "fuck it, near enough" school of decorating, and Mr WithaY belongs to the "micro-millimetre perfect" school of decorating.





*fnar

Flower power

In my last post I meant to talk about my big night out, but got sidetracked by the whole phone idiocy thing.

So.

What with the lighter evenings, my newfound confidence in finding my way when walking around London, and a bit less stress and anxiety in general, a mid-week social life seemed to be a good idea.

Monday nights are now officially "stay in Chelsea" nights, with my lovely mate, but things aren't ending there. No, indeed.

I had a call from a former colleague who was in London for a couple of days, suggesting we meet for a chat and a catch-up after work. So we did. And it was lovely. We met, went to a pub, had a drink, caught up on all the stuff that is going on in our work lives respectively, then I dashed off to catch my train and he headed off to a late meeting. How civilised.

When we were arranging where to meet he said "I'll wear a red carnation." Sure enough, when I arrived, he had a flower in his lapel, albeit a rose, not a carnation. Anyway, he gave it to me, once the joke was over.

I walked back to Waterloo Station admiring the lovely riverside views, and smelling my flower, which has kept the scent right up till now. I think it's the same variety as one we have in the garden, which lasts for ages and smells wonderful.

The old chap sat next to me on the train noticed it, so I let him have a sniff*.

When he showed his ticket to the conductor there was a lot of banter. He had used an automatic ticket machine, and pressed the Young Person button instead of the Senior button. The conductor asked him for evidence that he was under 25. It was all very good-natured, and made people smile.

But oh lordy, that conductor liked the sound of his own voice. He made announcements over the intercom system roughly every five minutes, detailing what the next station stop was, where you could go from there, what the chief local attractions were, who he knew that used to live there. It went on for bloody ever.

The train divides at Salisbury. The front half half continues trundling on to Exeter, the rest of the train gets detached and stays in Salisbury. It's not complicated.

We had every single possible permutation of that information that you can imagine over the 90 minutes between Waterloo and Salisbury. At least ten times.

Other news: Mr WithaY and one of our neighbours were moving a shed** around this afternoon, which was awkward, so they apparently ended up "turning it into a sedan chair." Now they think they have the basis for a sound business venture - sedan chairs to take you home from the pub.

I'll let you know if they make a million on the back of that.




*That's not something you get to say every day.

**"It's liftable by two people, but not by one" was how it was described over the phone. I am guessing that appies to most sheds, surely? If one person can lift it, it's a playhouse. A small one.

Blockbuster

Yesterday, in the course of my usual work duties, I had reason to call a number in Scotland. I dialled 0 for an outside line, then started to dial the phone number. Halfway through, the number started ringing, before I had finished dialling it.

How odd.

I hung up and dialled again. Same thing happened. I tried a third time, and this time I got cut off before I finished dialling. Hmmm.

I used my mobile to check that it was actually a valid number. Yes, it was.

What do we do when we have a phone/IT issue in the office? We call the helpdesk. A very nice chap called Andy answered, and I explained the problem. He thought about it, and said he'd have an engineer check my extension number and make sure there was no technical fault. He said he'd call me back later and let me know.

Later, Andy rang me.

"There seems to be nothing wring with the line" he explained. "You need to email the technical team in *Elsewhere in London* to get them to check that your phone isn't blocked."

"Blocked?"

"Yeah, it could be that the extension you use is blocked from calling numbers abroad."

"Abroad? Scotland? Oh, and Wales, yesterday, when the same thing happened."

"Yeah, you need to get the phone unblocked. Call me back and let me know how you get on."

Gah.

So. I emailed the address he gave me, and within 15 minutes I had a reply. The reply told me, in no uncertain terms, that trying to call a number that began with 090 was not allowed, as they are usually premium rate chat lines and comptetion lines. However, if I sent them the full number and confirmed that it was a valid work requirement, they would unblock my phone so I could call it.

What the sodding arse was he on about? An 090 number? What? Who mentioned that? I hadn't told him what the number I was trying to dial was, where did he get 090 from? I was stumped.

A while later, as I composed another email, having put the phone fiasco temporarily on hold* I realised where they'd got the 090 from.

When we write an email, we have to put the date first so that we can find things in the filing system. I had titled my email 090402_Bloody Useless Telephone System (or something similar.)

They had looked at my email and assumed that I was trying to dial 0902402. Fuckwits.

"Hello? Is that 090402?"

"No, sorry, this is 090327 - you've got the wrong date."

"Damn, I keep dialling the past, I do apologise."

*click*





*See what I did there?

I don't want to go to Chelsea

That's a lie. Chelsea seems to be rather nice. The bits of it I have seen so far, anyway.

Wednesday already. Where does the time go, eh? Well, stopping up in London certainly made the first two days of the week fly by.

I stayed at my mate's lovely Chelsea flat again on Monday. It is great to be able to actually enjoy a bit of a social life after work, rather than spending hours on the train. I even managed to walk to and from her flat without having to admit defeat and call a cab, which was nice.

We went out for an Italian meal, and had the most fantastic HUGE wooden board covered with antipasti, which was a meal in itself. However, being brave girls, we scarfed it all down and then managed to cram in a main course each too.

They sell pizza by the metre at this place, with one person's portion being a 25cm size. So if four of you order a pizza, you get a metre long pizza delivered to your table. What a great idea. All food should be sold that way.

"I'll have 2.5 metres of cheese please...we're having a fondue party."

"Hm, just 25cm of eggs this week, I'm not making any cakes."

"How much spaghetti do we need? 10 metres? Really? Ok..."

I ordered a calzone with ricotta cheese, ham, and whole teeny tomatoes in it, and the bloody thing was bigger than my head. Which is pretty big, let me tell you. I managed about two thirds of it, then had to admit defeat.

Should have got a doggy bag, I could fancy it now.

Mr WithaY and I are planning a trip up there later in the month, and I will have to take him to this place and see what he thinks of it.

Other news: Had some cabin hooks fitted to the French doors in the kitchen, so when they are open in the summer they won't slam back and knacker the hinges.

When we had the doors put in, I asked if they were going to fit hooks, and they said "Ooh no love, you won't need hooks! These doors'll stay where you put them."

What utter bollocks.

First sunny day we had the doors open, a gust of wind slammed them back against the wall and the hinges were distorted so badly that the doors wouldn't lock again. Mr WithaY had to spend bloody ages with a screwdriver tweaking them back to normality.

So, now they have hooks.

We finished the lovely dinner party goulash tonight. Mmmm. Beef.

Right. Bedtime, as I have to be up at 0-ffs-hours tomorrow.

The wages of sin

Boy did I have a hangover this morning.

As a result, I have spent much of today staring blankly at my PC screen, in between drinking glasses of water and pegging out washing in the sunshine.

We had some mates round for dinner last night; I didn't think I'd had a huge amount to drink, but apparently I fell asleep on the sofa as soon as they left, and had to be woken by Mr WithaY to go to bed. I seem to recall that I ran up the stairs, loudly stating that I was sleeping in the spare room, and then crashed out gracelessly until 4am, when I woke up with the hot and cold shivers and the feeling that I was about to throw up. I didn't, but was too sleepy/pissed to get up and go to the bathroom just in case, so lay awake, feeling queasy and sweaty by turns.

Bet you wish you'd been there, eh?

Oh, and the clocks changed overnight so I now have no idea what time it is, adding to the whole surreal experience.

Anyway. Before the evening developed into a near-death experience, it was all very nice. I made a cherry clafoutis for dessert, which I hadn't attempted before. Was bloody great, and remarkably easy.

It's basically a deep buttered dish filled with a sweet pancake style batter with a load of cherries spread through it, baked in the oven for an hour or so. The batter rises a bit and surrounds the fruit, and the whole thing is pleasingly light yet soggy. Or maybe that was just my cooking.

It's been a beautiful day, although bloody cold in the late afternoon when I was bringing in the washing. But, now that I think about it, maybe that was just me, being tired and a bit queasy still.

I am far too bloody old to get that drunk. It takes me 24 hours just to start feeling normal again! Gah.

Making your mind up

In the end I went with jeans, green, not traditional blue denim, and wore a smart-ish top and accessorising scarf, so it was a sort of compromise between usual work formality and weekend clothes. Needn't have worried, as almost everyone else (including my boss) was wearing jeans anyway.

We were at the Royal Academy of Engineering for the day, which is a beautiful building off The Mall, which we could see out of the windows. I should think the Queen likes the view from her place, it is very attractive, and there are always loads of people about to watch.

The flagpoles with crowns and tassels on top were particularly appealing. I might get one for my front garden. Get a load of different flags for when various friends and family come to stay.

I decided not to stick around for the drinks afterwards, and by scampering back across the bridge to Waterloo at high speed, caught an early train and was home before 7.30. Result.

And now it's the weekend. Hurrah.

Paint it black

If I was his parents I think I'd have got him to come back from his trip to Brazil to clean this off. Probably why he went there in the first place.

Other news: Another glorious day! Hurrah! I have been stuck in my home office* but have looked out of the window at regular intervals.

Went to the village hall last night to watch Mr WithaY give his Talk On Sharks. It was very good, despite having heard him Talk About Sharks a lot in the last 2 years, I learned a lot.

The talk, sorry, The Talk, went on for about an hour and then we all had a ploughman's supper**. Mr WithaY celebrated by going to the pub for a pint, possibly to talk about sharks again for a bit to those people who had missed The Talk.

Also, had a guitar lesson last night after a hiatus of a few weeks, for one reason and another. Was excellent. Really good. I have not felt much like playing or singing for the last couple of months, and last night it all came together, and sounded really good. I even managed the riff in "Simple Kind of Man" whilst also playing rhythm guitar and singing. I slightly spoiled the overall "Cool Muso" effect by yelping with excitement afterwards, but I reckon I can control that if I practice enough.

Plans for this evening include ironing some smart-ish non-suit trousers, as I am up to London tomorrow for a team training event. What's the dress code? Is it casual? We're going out for a drink afterwards, so maybe. But there's a guest speaker coming along, so perhaps it needs to be formal?

Gah, fuck knows.

Normal work days I can dress for with no problem, this kind of thing does my head in.

Not looking forward to the journey home afterwards, I bet the trains will be packed like, well, trains.



*Teeny spare bedroom full of guitars and computers.

**Like a ploughman's lunch but you eat it at suppertime.

Ramble on

What a slacker, eh? No new posts since Sunday. Anyone would think I'd been really busy with my non-virtual life or something.

So. Sunday was nice. We went to a christening in the village church, where once again I knew NONE of the hymns. Honestly. I love singing, and everyone likes to get a good old hymn belted out, but these were all modern and weedy and I didn't know them. So bah.

Apart from that, it was a pleasant service, and the wee baby yelled lustily as he was christened, which is supposed to be a good thing.

Afterwards we all repaired to the village hall and stood around in the sunshine outside drinking sherry and eating fab sausages on sticks. Mmmmmm sausages.

Mr WithaY and I then wandered home through the brilliant spring weather, admiring catkins and pussy willow on the way. How rural.

Went over to a mate's house for supper with some of our lovely neighbours (hello Sarah! Hello Lynn!) which was an excellent end to the weekend, or an excellent start to the week, depending on how you look at it. Either way, it was most enjoyable.

Monday was another glorious day. Was in London, and walked from Waterloo to Victoria, did a fine (if very long) day's work, then met a girlie mate in the evening outside Buckingham Palace (what a namedropper!). We walked bloody miles through the posh end of town till we got to the King's Road, where we went and had a splendid Italian meal, then back to her amazing little flat in Chelsea where I slept on a sofabed that was actually comfy. What a result.

Apart from the FUCKING car alarms, it was remarkably quiet. After almost an hour of wailing siren/car alarm tiresomeness I put my earplugs in and slept the sleep of the just. Mind you, in a street with three new Bentleys parked in it, I suppose alarms and excursions are to be expected.

Tuesday morning, however, was a different story. I left my mate's posh flat at about 8:15, with a view to walking up to my 9:15 meeting nice and slowly, taking time to look in all the shop windows on the way. Walked all the way up the King's Road to Sloane Square, then took the wrong exit and ended up walking all the way up to Harrod's, wandering through about eight different squares as I did so, getting thoroughly turned around and lost.

By the time I arrived at Harrod's, consulted my almost-useless tourist map, and saw that I was about a mile from my meeting with less than ten minutes to go, hailing a black cab seemed like the only sensible thing to do.

Anyway, the journey in the cab was delightful, around St James' Park where all the blossom trees were in full bloom, and past the front of Buckingham Palace. London felt like a foreign city and it was all very glamorous and exciting. And I wasn't late for my meeting.

We were in an underground bunker under Whitehall, so it was a bit sad after seeing all the blossom trees to then descend into the bowels of the earth all morning, but at least it was an interesting event.

I reckon I walked about 3 miles at least. I walked steadily for an hour, before admitting defeat and taking a taxi. After that, the walk back to the office after lunch was a doddle.