I am so sick of writing documentation specs at work that no one ever reads that I am seriously contemplating leaving this sentence in, and seeing if anyone even notices:
“Essentially, the desired functionality would be to allow the user to copy, rename and move cf files without T fuking it up.”
Tempting… very tempting…
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Sunday, May 04, 2008
What the fuck did you do London
I go away for 9 days and London FUCKS up the political landscape?? BORIS FUCKING JOHNSON? what the fuck happened?
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
"Get off my god damned land"
Me, standing in my yard, gun in hand, pointing at the offender. I stare, eyes squinted, and say in a low voice "get off of my god damn land" and bam! Pull the trigger. SQUIRT. Warm, soapy water goes all over the branches hanging over into my yard from my neighbours massive rose bush, which is covered in black aphids. And when I say covered, I mean, the branches, the leaves, the shoots, everything is covered in little black crawling insects. And NOW they are migrating into my yard. They've gone over my walls, onto my balcony, on to my door frame, all over the pots, everywhere. And since I watched a movie about killer ants that, well, kill everything and everyone they come in contact with, as a child, I have a horrid distates for little insects. They make my skin crawl. EEK.
I've read that squirting soapy water is a pretty good way of killing aphids.. apparently it clogs up their breathing apartus and they suffocate. I've also read that ladybirds are a good way to get rid of them, but they are £25 for 25, and there is no guarantee that they'll stay on the plants... And I don't much fancy having to make 25 little leashes to chain up my ladybird slaves...
I hate gardening. I kill every plant I touch, and even when you think it'll all be ok, you get an invading army of aphids running amock in your garden. Will it never, ever end???
I've read that squirting soapy water is a pretty good way of killing aphids.. apparently it clogs up their breathing apartus and they suffocate. I've also read that ladybirds are a good way to get rid of them, but they are £25 for 25, and there is no guarantee that they'll stay on the plants... And I don't much fancy having to make 25 little leashes to chain up my ladybird slaves...
I hate gardening. I kill every plant I touch, and even when you think it'll all be ok, you get an invading army of aphids running amock in your garden. Will it never, ever end???
Friday, March 28, 2008
Your Friday Moment of Zen: Being patronised the 1940's way
Why oh why did I go to Le Cordon Bleu school? All I needed to do was be patronised by this 1940s film made by the Home Economics Department at the University of Kansas. "Cooking Terms and What They Mean" is intended for young, newly wed white women and attempts to teach them how to interpret recipe instructions. "While the premise seems benign, it is delivered in such a way that puts the films main character, a twenty-something newly wed woman, on so low an intellectual echelon as to say she is incapable of divining meaning from common cooking terms."
In the film, Margie and Tim are just back from their honeymoon. Tim, being a man, heads off to work in the morning, while Margie stays at home, touching all her new appliences in the kitchen trying to decide what to make Tim for dinner. Will she be able to make Tim all the food he likes just like his mother?? What they don't show you is that after she makes a disasterous cake because she doesn't know what "cream the butter" means, she'll probably realise she can't keep Tim happy with her food, only use her kitchen as a place to drink sherry by the gallon, and sit around wondering why the fuck she didn't go off to university so she could be the one out at work and leave Tim at home to fuck up the cooking. And what will happen to Tim? Why he'll go out on the piss every night with his co-workers and try to pick up girls from the typing pool at the office of course.
Ahh the 1940's. Where the little lady was expected to stay at home and baby their hubby's just like mum. Watch this and enjoy. Enjoy the fact that us women are not expected to do this anymore. Unfortunately I actually know women who are still like this. And they're around my age.
In the film, Margie and Tim are just back from their honeymoon. Tim, being a man, heads off to work in the morning, while Margie stays at home, touching all her new appliences in the kitchen trying to decide what to make Tim for dinner. Will she be able to make Tim all the food he likes just like his mother?? What they don't show you is that after she makes a disasterous cake because she doesn't know what "cream the butter" means, she'll probably realise she can't keep Tim happy with her food, only use her kitchen as a place to drink sherry by the gallon, and sit around wondering why the fuck she didn't go off to university so she could be the one out at work and leave Tim at home to fuck up the cooking. And what will happen to Tim? Why he'll go out on the piss every night with his co-workers and try to pick up girls from the typing pool at the office of course.
Ahh the 1940's. Where the little lady was expected to stay at home and baby their hubby's just like mum. Watch this and enjoy. Enjoy the fact that us women are not expected to do this anymore. Unfortunately I actually know women who are still like this. And they're around my age.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Holiday Ruination - Thy name is Alitalia
"You know, this holiday reminds me of when we went to Italy last time in '98. Hey, thank god we don't have to wash our undies in the sink with shampoo eh!"
"Yeah, thank god".
So where the have I been for the last 3 weeks? C and I went to Italy for 10 days for a Christmas holiday with my parents, who came all the way from Australia. We went to Naples, met my folks in Rome, then travelled north to the South Tirol Alps in Italy, for a bit of Christmas cheer, a visit to the Vatican to see old Popey and to try our hands at skiiing.
But fate, Alitalia and BAA it would seem would have none of it.
I knew from the very first hour of my holiday that it was not going to go quite my way when I was on the Heathrow Express on my way to my flight, I went to take my travel card out of my pocket, and heard the the gut wrenching "tinkle" - the delightful sound of the key to my suitcase padlock falling into the heating grate. Calling Dr D in a giggling panic his helpful suggestions consisted of:
1) Breaking open the grate of the heater. Which would require either a blow torch or electric drill.
2) Use a sharp implement to break open the padlock. Like a screwdriver or a hacksaw. I had to then point out that "um, I'm going to THE AIRPORT. They don't let you take that sort of thing on the plane anymore you know".
Fearing for my clothes being stuck in my case for the next 10 days, I finally managed to get my spindly fingers in the grate and painfully fish out the key and believe me, never have I been so happy to see one small piece of metal before. I then got to the airport, dropped my bags off at the check-in. And that was the last time I saw my beautiful red suitcase for the next 12 days.
Ah yes, holiday ruination thy name is Alitalia.
When C & I got to Naples, Alitalia and BAA managed to not only lose C's suitcase but mine as well. And the lack of suitcases was to last pretty much the entire holiday. Like every good girl, I'd brought everything I'd ever need with me on holiday and more: my digital cameras (yes cameraS. Two), ipod charger, camera charger, phone charger, laptop charger, hair dryer, snow gear to go skiing with - gloves, pants, jumpers, scarves, beanie, my laptop, nice going out clothes, loungy night time clothes, t-shirts, shirts, underwear, shampoo, conditioner, face wash, moisturiser, hair brush, hair products, elastics, band aids, medicine, socks, cool new jeans, big long black coat, and my lovely brown boots. Everything. Gone. Vamooshed. Disappeared. Where? No one, and I mean no one in the whole of Italy could tell us.
Alitalia. My god never has an name been more cursed than Alitalia. I blame every single mini crisis/disappointment/disaster to Alitalia:
Naples
At least we got to see Pompeii. Because of Alitalia and our lost bags did we get to see any of Naples? Well yes if you count the main shopping street and the airport. Did we see the museum housing all the interesting artifacts from Pompeii? No. Did we get to go to Vesuvius? No. Sorento? Hell no. We had to spend our time shopping. For clothes. And shampoo and conditioner and face wash. C & I became bag ladies whose entire worldly possessions were encased in plastic shopping bags.
Rome
My parents met C & I in Rome. I think they got the shock of their lives when they C met them in the baggage hall. Why? We frantically followed a tip off that the bags might have come in from London to Rome that day. Did we look at any sights in Rome? Not really. Did I spend time with my parents in Rome? No not really. What did we do the rest of the time? Shop for more clothes.
Don't get me wrong. I have the 2 perfectly functioning X chromosomes. But when it comes to shopping, especially forced shopping which comes with knowing that holiday insurance will only pay £100 and the only thing I wanted to buy in Italy where leather gloves, shopping for clothes that I know I have in my lost suitcase is not a great incentive. And at the end of it all, what did I have to show for it? 3 shirts, 2 jumpers, 2 pairs of under pants, some socks. I'll tell you what though, it dide make getting dressed in the mornings a heck of a lot easier. "I think I'll wear my jeans. Again. And which of the 3 shirts do I want to wear?"
The Vatican
My mum somehow got us tickets in to St Peter's for midnight mass with the Pope. I have no idea how she did it but she did. She was so excited about this, being quite a big catholic. However, thanks to Alitalia and our lost bags C & I spent all day shopping. Which meant we were knackered when we got back to the hotel. Which meant we left the hotel late, had dinner late, got to the Vatican late, were 4 people off from being seated for midnight mass. My mum was so upset, she went to the back of the cathedral and sat on the floor. I've never seen her so angry and disappointed in my life. It didn't help that if she had waited near where they were seating people eventually we would have got a seat. She stubbornly sat at the back, refusing to listen to me. When it came for communion she was openly questioning what sort of church requires you to have VIP tickets to be seated to hear mass, and starting to doubt her faith. I had to drag her up promising it would make her feel better. Little did I know this was would turn a bad night even worse. When as she got communion she went to walk away and the official grabbed her arm and started loudly telling her off in Italian and shaking her. Apparently, you have to take communion there and then in front of the priest as they are frightened that people, I don't know, are giving the bread to non catholics? Gasp. That's surely a worse sin than murder that will get you sent straight to firey hell and damnation don't you know. Whatever the random reason, it was the last straw for my mum, and she went to the back and started crying. Which in turn was the absolute last straw for me. No one makes my mum cry. I marched up to official and started politely but very firmly telling him off. When he indicated he didn't speak English, I just ranted at him in French. He thought I was speaking bad Italian of course so he got a security guard to come over who had to very slowly translate to the official that I was demanding he apologise to my mum for making her cry. To be fair, when the official realised what he had done, he became extremely remorseful, and he, the security guard and myself all went and found my mum, where he profusely apologised. Obviously in Italian. This made her cry even more, which then made me cry, which then had the security guard try to comfort me*. In the end, the official dragged my mum from the back of St Peters, forced everyone away from the barriers, and put mum and me in a great position to see the Pope walk past at the end of mass.
Alitalia - you ruined my mum's Christmas Midnight Mass. Bastards
* Dear God: Please don't send me to hell for thinking, whilst in the Vatican, oh angels in heaven this security guard is seriously cute and seriously nice. I won't hold it against you for not returning my clothes, if you don't hold it against me that I was thinking about flirting in your house. Thank you for your time.
The Alps
Ahh, the Southern Tirol Alps. The autonomous region of Italy, where German and Italian are both the official language. If you go from the border of Austria and Italy in South Tirol, there is a massive sign up that says "South Tirol is NOT Italian". We stayed in Eggen, a fantastic place to ski, enjoy the 2km toboggan slope, be in the -5 degree crisp weather. Not so good if all your COLD WEATHER GEAR AND SKI CLOTHES ARE IN YOUR SUITCASES ENJOYING THEIR OWN ROMAN ADVENTURE SOMEWHERE IN ITALY, NOT WITH YOU.
ALITALILA YOU BASTARDS. Everything. Snow pants, gloves, hats, thermals, everything. Somewhere, anywhere, but not with us. So Alitalia, on you I blame the fact that I still can't ski. I was going to go and learn. But no. I got to freeze my arse off in my jeans in -5 degree temperatures. No tobogganing. No skiing. No apres skiing!! Nothing.
However, we did have lots of time to go off exploring other parts near South Tirol, like Switzerland, Innsbruck, snow fields near Obbereggen. Unfortunately, since all my nice clothes were, I don't know, in Sicily basking in the 13 degree warmth, I got to visit St Moritz in my scummy jeans, whilst all the women were in their Bulgary, Prada and fur coats. The looks we got from the "bootiful people" which were withering at best. Distainful at worst.
So the holiday in general. How was it? Totally enjoyable isn't quite right. Relaxing wouldn't be quite right either. Frustrating might be a better word for it. Though, as I maintain some holidays just blend into each other, being so relaxing and enjoyable. Having to wash all your clothes in the bathroom sink with stolen hotel shampoo was a phase of travelling I had hoped I'd outgrown. Let's say: frustrating, unexpected, yet still strangely entertaining. And now I know I can at least survive with only 1/3 of the stuff I travel with. Who needs to change clothes everyday? That's just an unnecessary luxury.
"Yeah, thank god".
So where the have I been for the last 3 weeks? C and I went to Italy for 10 days for a Christmas holiday with my parents, who came all the way from Australia. We went to Naples, met my folks in Rome, then travelled north to the South Tirol Alps in Italy, for a bit of Christmas cheer, a visit to the Vatican to see old Popey and to try our hands at skiiing.
But fate, Alitalia and BAA it would seem would have none of it.
I knew from the very first hour of my holiday that it was not going to go quite my way when I was on the Heathrow Express on my way to my flight, I went to take my travel card out of my pocket, and heard the the gut wrenching "tinkle" - the delightful sound of the key to my suitcase padlock falling into the heating grate. Calling Dr D in a giggling panic his helpful suggestions consisted of:
1) Breaking open the grate of the heater. Which would require either a blow torch or electric drill.
2) Use a sharp implement to break open the padlock. Like a screwdriver or a hacksaw. I had to then point out that "um, I'm going to THE AIRPORT. They don't let you take that sort of thing on the plane anymore you know".
Fearing for my clothes being stuck in my case for the next 10 days, I finally managed to get my spindly fingers in the grate and painfully fish out the key and believe me, never have I been so happy to see one small piece of metal before. I then got to the airport, dropped my bags off at the check-in. And that was the last time I saw my beautiful red suitcase for the next 12 days.
Ah yes, holiday ruination thy name is Alitalia.
When C & I got to Naples, Alitalia and BAA managed to not only lose C's suitcase but mine as well. And the lack of suitcases was to last pretty much the entire holiday. Like every good girl, I'd brought everything I'd ever need with me on holiday and more: my digital cameras (yes cameraS. Two), ipod charger, camera charger, phone charger, laptop charger, hair dryer, snow gear to go skiing with - gloves, pants, jumpers, scarves, beanie, my laptop, nice going out clothes, loungy night time clothes, t-shirts, shirts, underwear, shampoo, conditioner, face wash, moisturiser, hair brush, hair products, elastics, band aids, medicine, socks, cool new jeans, big long black coat, and my lovely brown boots. Everything. Gone. Vamooshed. Disappeared. Where? No one, and I mean no one in the whole of Italy could tell us.
Alitalia. My god never has an name been more cursed than Alitalia. I blame every single mini crisis/disappointment/disaster to Alitalia:
Naples
At least we got to see Pompeii. Because of Alitalia and our lost bags did we get to see any of Naples? Well yes if you count the main shopping street and the airport. Did we see the museum housing all the interesting artifacts from Pompeii? No. Did we get to go to Vesuvius? No. Sorento? Hell no. We had to spend our time shopping. For clothes. And shampoo and conditioner and face wash. C & I became bag ladies whose entire worldly possessions were encased in plastic shopping bags.
Rome
My parents met C & I in Rome. I think they got the shock of their lives when they C met them in the baggage hall. Why? We frantically followed a tip off that the bags might have come in from London to Rome that day. Did we look at any sights in Rome? Not really. Did I spend time with my parents in Rome? No not really. What did we do the rest of the time? Shop for more clothes.
Don't get me wrong. I have the 2 perfectly functioning X chromosomes. But when it comes to shopping, especially forced shopping which comes with knowing that holiday insurance will only pay £100 and the only thing I wanted to buy in Italy where leather gloves, shopping for clothes that I know I have in my lost suitcase is not a great incentive. And at the end of it all, what did I have to show for it? 3 shirts, 2 jumpers, 2 pairs of under pants, some socks. I'll tell you what though, it dide make getting dressed in the mornings a heck of a lot easier. "I think I'll wear my jeans. Again. And which of the 3 shirts do I want to wear?"
The Vatican
My mum somehow got us tickets in to St Peter's for midnight mass with the Pope. I have no idea how she did it but she did. She was so excited about this, being quite a big catholic. However, thanks to Alitalia and our lost bags C & I spent all day shopping. Which meant we were knackered when we got back to the hotel. Which meant we left the hotel late, had dinner late, got to the Vatican late, were 4 people off from being seated for midnight mass. My mum was so upset, she went to the back of the cathedral and sat on the floor. I've never seen her so angry and disappointed in my life. It didn't help that if she had waited near where they were seating people eventually we would have got a seat. She stubbornly sat at the back, refusing to listen to me. When it came for communion she was openly questioning what sort of church requires you to have VIP tickets to be seated to hear mass, and starting to doubt her faith. I had to drag her up promising it would make her feel better. Little did I know this was would turn a bad night even worse. When as she got communion she went to walk away and the official grabbed her arm and started loudly telling her off in Italian and shaking her. Apparently, you have to take communion there and then in front of the priest as they are frightened that people, I don't know, are giving the bread to non catholics? Gasp. That's surely a worse sin than murder that will get you sent straight to firey hell and damnation don't you know. Whatever the random reason, it was the last straw for my mum, and she went to the back and started crying. Which in turn was the absolute last straw for me. No one makes my mum cry. I marched up to official and started politely but very firmly telling him off. When he indicated he didn't speak English, I just ranted at him in French. He thought I was speaking bad Italian of course so he got a security guard to come over who had to very slowly translate to the official that I was demanding he apologise to my mum for making her cry. To be fair, when the official realised what he had done, he became extremely remorseful, and he, the security guard and myself all went and found my mum, where he profusely apologised. Obviously in Italian. This made her cry even more, which then made me cry, which then had the security guard try to comfort me*. In the end, the official dragged my mum from the back of St Peters, forced everyone away from the barriers, and put mum and me in a great position to see the Pope walk past at the end of mass.
Alitalia - you ruined my mum's Christmas Midnight Mass. Bastards
* Dear God: Please don't send me to hell for thinking, whilst in the Vatican, oh angels in heaven this security guard is seriously cute and seriously nice. I won't hold it against you for not returning my clothes, if you don't hold it against me that I was thinking about flirting in your house. Thank you for your time.
The Alps
Ahh, the Southern Tirol Alps. The autonomous region of Italy, where German and Italian are both the official language. If you go from the border of Austria and Italy in South Tirol, there is a massive sign up that says "South Tirol is NOT Italian". We stayed in Eggen, a fantastic place to ski, enjoy the 2km toboggan slope, be in the -5 degree crisp weather. Not so good if all your COLD WEATHER GEAR AND SKI CLOTHES ARE IN YOUR SUITCASES ENJOYING THEIR OWN ROMAN ADVENTURE SOMEWHERE IN ITALY, NOT WITH YOU.
ALITALILA YOU BASTARDS. Everything. Snow pants, gloves, hats, thermals, everything. Somewhere, anywhere, but not with us. So Alitalia, on you I blame the fact that I still can't ski. I was going to go and learn. But no. I got to freeze my arse off in my jeans in -5 degree temperatures. No tobogganing. No skiing. No apres skiing!! Nothing.
However, we did have lots of time to go off exploring other parts near South Tirol, like Switzerland, Innsbruck, snow fields near Obbereggen. Unfortunately, since all my nice clothes were, I don't know, in Sicily basking in the 13 degree warmth, I got to visit St Moritz in my scummy jeans, whilst all the women were in their Bulgary, Prada and fur coats. The looks we got from the "bootiful people" which were withering at best. Distainful at worst.
So the holiday in general. How was it? Totally enjoyable isn't quite right. Relaxing wouldn't be quite right either. Frustrating might be a better word for it. Though, as I maintain some holidays just blend into each other, being so relaxing and enjoyable. Having to wash all your clothes in the bathroom sink with stolen hotel shampoo was a phase of travelling I had hoped I'd outgrown. Let's say: frustrating, unexpected, yet still strangely entertaining. And now I know I can at least survive with only 1/3 of the stuff I travel with. Who needs to change clothes everyday? That's just an unnecessary luxury.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
A-voting, a-voting, a-voting we will go
C and I are off to Australia House, the Australian High Commission in London, to vote in Australia's general election, held back home this Saturday.
As opposed to Britain, voting in Australia is compulsory, and to be honest I believe it should be. Everyone should have their say in how their country is run, even if it is misinformed, self-helping, or wrong, rather than the slack arse apathetic way that causes only 32% of Londoners to have voted in the last local elections.
So why are we going? 3 reasons:
1) I truly believe that everyone should vote. Don't get me started, I've had many a screaming, stand up, finger in face pointing argument about this point. I don't care. It's my point, so just deal with it.
2) To vote against Little Johnny Brown Nose, and get his team of cronies out of office. Voted into everlasting power in 1996, Australia has been in the grip of a coalition government for the last 11 sodding years. Holy Sweet Baby Jesus I don't think I can articulate just how much I hate him.
It's John Howards racist, lap dog following, lack of spine, knee jerk reactions and frankly childish attitude that have caused me many an embarrassing and angry moment. The most memorable no doubted being when Australia lost to England in the 2003 Rugby World Cup, and Little Johnny Brown Nose had to hand the English team the trophy. Now don't get me wrong I was pretty annoyed when England won, but honest to god if I was the Prime Minister, I would NOT have had a face like a smacked arse whilst handing the winning team their trophy. I mean he's the Prime Sodding Minister. He's supposed to be representing our nation on the world stage. How did he act? Like a spoilt 5 year old that was ready to throw his toys out of the pram, fall on his face, start screaming, kicking and punching the ground. It was his frankly embarrassing and pathetic behaviour which was the direct cause for me screaming at the tele "JOHN HOWARD YOU'RE A FUCKING C*NT" at the exact same moment The Ex-Flatmate came up the stairs whilst on the phone with his Dad, who said "umm.. yes, John Howard is quite bad isn't he".
3) I'm hoping they'll be dishing out free lamingtons in the voting queue.
In other news: The Ex-Flatmate is coming back to London tomorrow morning!! I have to get up at 5.30 am to get him from the airport. No he's not had enough of Australia, he's just here for a holiday. More to follow...
As opposed to Britain, voting in Australia is compulsory, and to be honest I believe it should be. Everyone should have their say in how their country is run, even if it is misinformed, self-helping, or wrong, rather than the slack arse apathetic way that causes only 32% of Londoners to have voted in the last local elections.
So why are we going? 3 reasons:
1) I truly believe that everyone should vote. Don't get me started, I've had many a screaming, stand up, finger in face pointing argument about this point. I don't care. It's my point, so just deal with it.
2) To vote against Little Johnny Brown Nose, and get his team of cronies out of office. Voted into everlasting power in 1996, Australia has been in the grip of a coalition government for the last 11 sodding years. Holy Sweet Baby Jesus I don't think I can articulate just how much I hate him.
It's John Howards racist, lap dog following, lack of spine, knee jerk reactions and frankly childish attitude that have caused me many an embarrassing and angry moment. The most memorable no doubted being when Australia lost to England in the 2003 Rugby World Cup, and Little Johnny Brown Nose had to hand the English team the trophy. Now don't get me wrong I was pretty annoyed when England won, but honest to god if I was the Prime Minister, I would NOT have had a face like a smacked arse whilst handing the winning team their trophy. I mean he's the Prime Sodding Minister. He's supposed to be representing our nation on the world stage. How did he act? Like a spoilt 5 year old that was ready to throw his toys out of the pram, fall on his face, start screaming, kicking and punching the ground. It was his frankly embarrassing and pathetic behaviour which was the direct cause for me screaming at the tele "JOHN HOWARD YOU'RE A FUCKING C*NT" at the exact same moment The Ex-Flatmate came up the stairs whilst on the phone with his Dad, who said "umm.. yes, John Howard is quite bad isn't he".3) I'm hoping they'll be dishing out free lamingtons in the voting queue.
In other news: The Ex-Flatmate is coming back to London tomorrow morning!! I have to get up at 5.30 am to get him from the airport. No he's not had enough of Australia, he's just here for a holiday. More to follow...
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
What is that smell?
A friend of mine in Sydney has this theory about the laws that attract men and women. She thinks it has little to do with people having having things in common, or people enjoying each others company. She's not even that convinced it's about fancying the way someone looks, and no, it has nothing to do with someones subconscious knowing that someone elses subconscious is a perfect match. Subconsciously.
No, my friends theorem is that attraction to the opposite sex is all based on their smell. She thus sees a correlation of the rate of divorce and the number of perfumes and aftershaves sold in the world: someone smells different to what they really do, you may inadvertently fall for them because they smell like CKOne (or Christine Aguilera, hey who am I to judge?), have a whirlwind romance, get married, then the inevitable day arrives when your partner gives up making an effort for you and stops wearing that scent that made you see them as the future father of your child, and you realise you have in fact nothing in common at all with this beer swilling, TV watching, Ed Bundy, belching lout.
Now don't get me wrong. I don't actually endorse this at all. In fact, I actually think her theorem is a load of bullshit. However, what I do believe in smelling nice and I do fully endorse people wearing perfume, aftershave, what have you. I also fully endorse people wearing deodorant. Especially if you are stuck on an crowded Hammersmith and City Line train, so squashed you are practically in a strangers armpit. It's at that moment that I am a card carrying member of the "Don't Stink" party. If you think you could end up on a train this full, I implore you, for the good of the nation WEAR DEODORANT. Failing that AT THE VERY LEAST WASH AND USE SOAP. Because when a girl is squashed up against you, turning blue because she's clearly NOT breathing anymore, giving you evils, holding her hand in front of her nose, it has nothing to do with you invading her personal space and has everything to do with you giving off the odor of something akin to a small rodent crawling into a your smelly, rancid armpit, dying, and rotting. How can a healthy person make that sort of smell?
Good citizens of London: This isn't the 16th century. WASH. PLEASE. Average height and shorter women all over this big town will thank you for it.
No, my friends theorem is that attraction to the opposite sex is all based on their smell. She thus sees a correlation of the rate of divorce and the number of perfumes and aftershaves sold in the world: someone smells different to what they really do, you may inadvertently fall for them because they smell like CKOne (or Christine Aguilera, hey who am I to judge?), have a whirlwind romance, get married, then the inevitable day arrives when your partner gives up making an effort for you and stops wearing that scent that made you see them as the future father of your child, and you realise you have in fact nothing in common at all with this beer swilling, TV watching, Ed Bundy, belching lout.
Now don't get me wrong. I don't actually endorse this at all. In fact, I actually think her theorem is a load of bullshit. However, what I do believe in smelling nice and I do fully endorse people wearing perfume, aftershave, what have you. I also fully endorse people wearing deodorant. Especially if you are stuck on an crowded Hammersmith and City Line train, so squashed you are practically in a strangers armpit. It's at that moment that I am a card carrying member of the "Don't Stink" party. If you think you could end up on a train this full, I implore you, for the good of the nation WEAR DEODORANT. Failing that AT THE VERY LEAST WASH AND USE SOAP. Because when a girl is squashed up against you, turning blue because she's clearly NOT breathing anymore, giving you evils, holding her hand in front of her nose, it has nothing to do with you invading her personal space and has everything to do with you giving off the odor of something akin to a small rodent crawling into a your smelly, rancid armpit, dying, and rotting. How can a healthy person make that sort of smell?
Good citizens of London: This isn't the 16th century. WASH. PLEASE. Average height and shorter women all over this big town will thank you for it.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
SATC and sleeplessness
It's now 2.06 am. I have just spent the last 2 hours watching every single tiny non-episode video about Sex and The City on YouTube. And I entirely blame Li and Superscout. If she hadn't sent me a link to the new S&TC movie, I wouldn't have turned on my laptop in bed at midnight to quickly watch it (since I can't watch it from my work pc), to then find not only all the deleted scenes, but documentaries, people's vidoes of them filming the movie, and yes, ( and I watched it), the Oprah Winfrey Sex and the City special.
So Li, this post is for you. When I am at work yawning tomorrow, you can bet your skinny, cosmo drinking arse I'm blaming you!!
So Li, this post is for you. When I am at work yawning tomorrow, you can bet your skinny, cosmo drinking arse I'm blaming you!!
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Another day, another party, another rant.
Here are my top 5 reasons why I am sick to the gut with this fucking summer party. If you're a bit sensitive to swearing you might want to look away. Oh fuck! I've already said 'fuck' haven't I? Sweet damnation.
1) Ticket Stress:
Having gone through trying to make sure that everyone who says they are coming is in fact coming, I had, over the last 4 days, 4 cancellations. You'd think that with a guest list of 20 odd people that wouldn't be a problem right? Wrong. I've spent the last 2 days emailing and emailing and emailing people. I give them deadlines for when they have to tell me if they want to come. They ignore me. Like some sort of self flagillating, 'just abuse me' idiot I extend those deadlines. I even call them up to find out if they want to come.. I get lots of "yes I'm coming" then "oh, um, sorry, no can't make it". You'd think after all the "why can't I get a ticket" bullshit I had, I wouldn't have had any problem shifting those ticket eh? 30 emails, tons of phone calls and 3 days of the run around and only at 5pm today did I finally manage to do it. Yes
2) Inevitable "I have nothing to wear" Stress:
Girl from work: "so what are you wearing Friday night?"
Me: "I'm not sure why? What are you wearing?"
Girl From Work: "Well... i bought a black pencil skirt, and I'm wearing a satin black top. E is wearing a black skirt with a fish tail, and sequined satin top too. We'll both probably wear stilletos I guess"
Me: "Oh. Bugger".
Now I have 36 hours to find something to wear. And because recently it's been raining heaps (hey, we've had floods here, full on "God want's to smite thee" floods), I've not been cycling to work as much cause I am truly a baby when it comes to skidding on slippery areterial roads in London and dying horribly by having my brains smashed in by a lorry. So I've obviously chubbed up a bit. And now I think nothing I own looks good enough to me. Fuck Fuck Fuck. I complained to Li, who, like some sort of fashionista fairy god mother sent me what seemed like hundreds of links to different clothes and shops I could go to. Fabulous. Problem solved? Well.... haven't managed to make it to any shops yet... Hey I've got 1 shopping night left.... How hard can it be to come up with the perfect "I look cool, but I'm not trying to hard" outfit?
Yeah I know. I'm screwed.
3) Body Stress:
Number 2 obviously leads me straight to number 3. So in the next 36 hours I have to make sure I've exfoliated, body brushed, plucked, pruned, conditioned, moisturised and done whatever sort of agricultural cultivation I need to do. Obviously I had big plans to do some serious exercise this week. Ok Ok, ok so that didn't quite materialise. Still, it's great eyebrows that you get remembered for. Not being a size 0 model lookalike with perfect hair, makeup, and skin, who looks amazing in the skin tight, Posh Spice type clothes, who can attract every man they see. At least that's what all those fashion magazines with their size 0 models splashed across them keep telling us. Of course I know it's not what you look like, it's who you are. But who I am would be greatly enhanced with gravity defying breasts, toned abs, killer legs, and the latest Dior whathaveyou outfit. Personlity. That's what I'm going to keep telling myself I have. And hopefully great eyebrows.... Who the fuck am I kidding?
4) Guest List Stress
Grrrr. I have said over and over and over again that this venue works on a guest list system. I give out tickets, but their nothing more than a piece of cardboard with the address and time on them. Guest list: simple concept: you're not on it, you don't go in. Do people listen to me? Fuck no! I've heard in round about ways loads of people who have swapped their tickets with other people. Have they told me? Hell no. If they can't follow simple, easy, a CHILD would get it, instructions, then to hell with them.
5) Bitch Stress
The killer. The reasons why it is all so bleak.
I had yet another phone call from the woman from downstairs saying she heard people on the waiting list are getting tickets, and where did they come from? When I pointed out that these were the ones that had been returned (see point 1), she came back with "why was I not asked if I wanted a ticket?" - well, that's because she'd already bought one from the venue (that I had to fucking organise it for her myself), and did I mention that organising her social life isn't actually my job, with java developer as a neat side line? When I said this she told me "well you know I wanted to go, and I would have cancelled my own ticket". When I said I was working through the waiting list, and she wasn't on it and I had specifically asked her friend if they wanted to go on, she said "well you still should have asked us first. I demand that I should have been asked first" WOAAAH there woman. You're not on the list. You already had a ticket. YOU WEREN'T ON THE LIST. I went through the people who patiently waited for a ticket. Was I supposed to jump all those people and ask her? Is she supposed to be the Messiah or something? After a 5 minute conversation where I told her I was flabergasted at what else I could possibly have done for her, and besides she couldn't have cancelled because she wouldn't have got her money back, she screamed at me like a child, and she hung up on me like an adult. Oh yes, this is what I have to contend with.
She might think I'm some sort of push over that she can try to bully, who will just roll over and do what she wants because she seems to try to do this with everyone else, but that's going to hell change come Monday, when I put in a complaint about her behaviour. Oh yes my friends. Complaint. I am going to tattle on her to teacher like a kid in primary school whose being bullied by kids for lunch money. And I'm going to do this because I know on Friday night she's going to say something bitchy to me and you know what I say? "BRING IT ON". Come and fucking get me girl. Just. Do. It. I know it sounds childish, but one word, one wrong look, so much as a huff or sigh in my direction from these middle aged, high maitenance women and I am SO up for the fight come Monday.
Now my only problem is that I may need to get me some minders. Not to protect me from them, but to protect me from myself. A few drinks, and I am angry and upset enough (I was physically shaking this afternoon after that phone call), that I sincerly hope I do not say something stupid.
God I am sick of this fucking party. I do not want to go anymore. Staying at home, curled up on the couch with East Enders and a bucket of KFC sounds intensely more appealing right now. Fucking volunteering. Stupid people. Calv says he hates "people who blame everyone else for things that are their own fault" and with these people from work, I utterly agree.
1) Ticket Stress:
Having gone through trying to make sure that everyone who says they are coming is in fact coming, I had, over the last 4 days, 4 cancellations. You'd think that with a guest list of 20 odd people that wouldn't be a problem right? Wrong. I've spent the last 2 days emailing and emailing and emailing people. I give them deadlines for when they have to tell me if they want to come. They ignore me. Like some sort of self flagillating, 'just abuse me' idiot I extend those deadlines. I even call them up to find out if they want to come.. I get lots of "yes I'm coming" then "oh, um, sorry, no can't make it". You'd think after all the "why can't I get a ticket" bullshit I had, I wouldn't have had any problem shifting those ticket eh? 30 emails, tons of phone calls and 3 days of the run around and only at 5pm today did I finally manage to do it. Yes
2) Inevitable "I have nothing to wear" Stress:
Girl from work: "so what are you wearing Friday night?"
Me: "I'm not sure why? What are you wearing?"
Girl From Work: "Well... i bought a black pencil skirt, and I'm wearing a satin black top. E is wearing a black skirt with a fish tail, and sequined satin top too. We'll both probably wear stilletos I guess"
Me: "Oh. Bugger".
Now I have 36 hours to find something to wear. And because recently it's been raining heaps (hey, we've had floods here, full on "God want's to smite thee" floods), I've not been cycling to work as much cause I am truly a baby when it comes to skidding on slippery areterial roads in London and dying horribly by having my brains smashed in by a lorry. So I've obviously chubbed up a bit. And now I think nothing I own looks good enough to me. Fuck Fuck Fuck. I complained to Li, who, like some sort of fashionista fairy god mother sent me what seemed like hundreds of links to different clothes and shops I could go to. Fabulous. Problem solved? Well.... haven't managed to make it to any shops yet... Hey I've got 1 shopping night left.... How hard can it be to come up with the perfect "I look cool, but I'm not trying to hard" outfit?
Yeah I know. I'm screwed.
3) Body Stress:
Number 2 obviously leads me straight to number 3. So in the next 36 hours I have to make sure I've exfoliated, body brushed, plucked, pruned, conditioned, moisturised and done whatever sort of agricultural cultivation I need to do. Obviously I had big plans to do some serious exercise this week. Ok Ok, ok so that didn't quite materialise. Still, it's great eyebrows that you get remembered for. Not being a size 0 model lookalike with perfect hair, makeup, and skin, who looks amazing in the skin tight, Posh Spice type clothes, who can attract every man they see. At least that's what all those fashion magazines with their size 0 models splashed across them keep telling us. Of course I know it's not what you look like, it's who you are. But who I am would be greatly enhanced with gravity defying breasts, toned abs, killer legs, and the latest Dior whathaveyou outfit. Personlity. That's what I'm going to keep telling myself I have. And hopefully great eyebrows.... Who the fuck am I kidding?
4) Guest List Stress
Grrrr. I have said over and over and over again that this venue works on a guest list system. I give out tickets, but their nothing more than a piece of cardboard with the address and time on them. Guest list: simple concept: you're not on it, you don't go in. Do people listen to me? Fuck no! I've heard in round about ways loads of people who have swapped their tickets with other people. Have they told me? Hell no. If they can't follow simple, easy, a CHILD would get it, instructions, then to hell with them.
5) Bitch Stress
The killer. The reasons why it is all so bleak.
I had yet another phone call from the woman from downstairs saying she heard people on the waiting list are getting tickets, and where did they come from? When I pointed out that these were the ones that had been returned (see point 1), she came back with "why was I not asked if I wanted a ticket?" - well, that's because she'd already bought one from the venue (that I had to fucking organise it for her myself), and did I mention that organising her social life isn't actually my job, with java developer as a neat side line? When I said this she told me "well you know I wanted to go, and I would have cancelled my own ticket". When I said I was working through the waiting list, and she wasn't on it and I had specifically asked her friend if they wanted to go on, she said "well you still should have asked us first. I demand that I should have been asked first" WOAAAH there woman. You're not on the list. You already had a ticket. YOU WEREN'T ON THE LIST. I went through the people who patiently waited for a ticket. Was I supposed to jump all those people and ask her? Is she supposed to be the Messiah or something? After a 5 minute conversation where I told her I was flabergasted at what else I could possibly have done for her, and besides she couldn't have cancelled because she wouldn't have got her money back, she screamed at me like a child, and she hung up on me like an adult. Oh yes, this is what I have to contend with.
She might think I'm some sort of push over that she can try to bully, who will just roll over and do what she wants because she seems to try to do this with everyone else, but that's going to hell change come Monday, when I put in a complaint about her behaviour. Oh yes my friends. Complaint. I am going to tattle on her to teacher like a kid in primary school whose being bullied by kids for lunch money. And I'm going to do this because I know on Friday night she's going to say something bitchy to me and you know what I say? "BRING IT ON". Come and fucking get me girl. Just. Do. It. I know it sounds childish, but one word, one wrong look, so much as a huff or sigh in my direction from these middle aged, high maitenance women and I am SO up for the fight come Monday.
Now my only problem is that I may need to get me some minders. Not to protect me from them, but to protect me from myself. A few drinks, and I am angry and upset enough (I was physically shaking this afternoon after that phone call), that I sincerly hope I do not say something stupid.
God I am sick of this fucking party. I do not want to go anymore. Staying at home, curled up on the couch with East Enders and a bucket of KFC sounds intensely more appealing right now. Fucking volunteering. Stupid people. Calv says he hates "people who blame everyone else for things that are their own fault" and with these people from work, I utterly agree.
Friday, August 03, 2007
My 4 Point Plan to Becoming the most despised woman in your company
Sick of being liked at work? Want completely bitchy people to bitch about you and abuse you on the phone for something that is entirely their own fault? Want to feel like shite about yourself? If you too want to feel like this, then follow my 4 point, guaranteed or your money back, plan. Trust me, unlike fad diet pills, this plan will get you results in 4 weeks or less!
- Volunteer to help run social committee or club. A social club at work which takes every employees contribution of a WHOPPING £4 per month. For this £4 per month, the social club will organise events like theatre trips, quiz nights, nights at the races with dinner, a huge open bar and dinner Christmas party AND a summer party. Yup, for only £4 a month, they can go to ALL of these events if they say they want to go to them in time, because for only £4 a month, the budget is pretty tight, and if you're one of the organisers, you have to try to get the best deal possible for the tiny amount of cash you get to organise these events. Remember though: to make this plan work properly you have to VOLUNTEER to do this, so this isn't part of your job, you don't get paid extra and you do all the work, like finding venues, making tickets, creating posters on your own time.
- Organise the summer party. Don't just organise it at a crappy bar. Try to do something really cool, like go to the Roof Gardens in west London. Know that, because this is an expensive venue, there is a limit to the number of people who can go. Also realise that you've broken the 3 cardinal rules of social events: having it on a Friday, having it far from the office, asking people to pay £10 to come. Realise that the number of people that can go to this year's party is only 6 less than last year's summer party. To make it fair, ask people months in advance if they prefer an expensive venue, with limited number of people, or a cheaper venue where everyone can go. When everyone says "EXPENSIVE VENUE EXPENSIVE VENUE!", go on ahead an organise it. Make everyone aware they have to get tickets early because not everyone can go. Everyone will say that's fine.
Find out after you've started organising, that the venue is owned by Richard Branson, and is the haunt to many celebrates on Friday nights. Find out after you've organised it for some reason it's in loads of London papers and is getting brilliant reviews for it's multi million pound refurbishment.
Careful: You'll be stressed because a) you hope people will come and you've not just spunked the limited resources on an event no one will go to because of the 3 broken cardinal rules. Allow guests to come because guests can always go to the summer party, and what if you don't sell enough tickets? Careful: You may also start to feel kinda good you're organising a really cool do for your company... hope fervently people will like it. - Run out of tickets. Oh yes. It's a popular event now. People request tickets thick and fast. Run out of tickets within 3 weeks. Reneg on your flatmate after she offers to give up her ticket and you say "no don't worry about it, guests can come, so you can be my guest", and ask her if she can give up her ticket for someone else. Feel bad you have to do that. Tell people who ask now they have to go on a waiting list. Scrimp and save and try to find money for extra tickets. Find only enough money for 3 more places.
- Have people call you on the phone to yell at you. You're almost there! Answer calls from women on other floors who are livid there aren't any tickets for them. Have them scream that you should not have allowed guests. Have them yell and say "why are we subsidising other people?". Point out that even if all 10 guests don't come, they still couldn't go because they did ask for a ticket early enough, and all the people on the waiting list would have got those tickets first. Remember: they're now going to be irrational and say things like "well, I work on site 3 days a week so didn't see my email". Point out they've had 3 weeks to ask for tickets. Don't point out you yourself worked on site for 4 bloody years, one of which was overseas so you never went to social events that year, and that not being in the office doesn't mean you can't read your fucking emails, because you managed to do it. Don't point out they must be completely unprofessional if they don't check their emails on site. Don't point out they must be completely lazy for not getting in early enough. Don't point out the world doesn't revolve around their arses, so just because they want a ticket doesn't mean they can get one. Don't call them back when they slam the phone down on you mid conversation to ask them "I'm sorry, are you 6 years old? Grow up".
- Have same people bitch to everyone in company. Now you'll get other people coming and asking you the same questions. You'll get managing directors asking you "so, what's happening with the summer party? I hear things aren't going well?". Have people talk about you behind your back to other people on the social committee, who of course tell you what's being said. Have them get into heated arguments in pubs about how poorly organised it was, because they can't get a ticket. Have people call you up every single fucking day to talk about it. Start to feel worse and worse about yourself. Very quietly cry at desk.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Tower Depresssing
After coming home tonight from another shopping trip of house stuff (how much more stuff we can get in here?), C & I found a documentary called "The Tower, a Tale of Two Cities" on BBC1. This is based on an ex-council high rise tower, situated right on the river overlooking Canary Wharf, bought off Lewisham Council and has been refurbished and is now being flogged off as luxury apartments to wealthy city types. The whole idea of selling these apartements off is part of Lewisham Council's hope to regenerate the area, by brining in wealty people, which I guess means to just force poor people out. The documentary shows the juxtaposition of this brand "new" tower to it's sister tower, still a council estate, and still full of poor tenants, and the juxtaposition of these people's lives. Where one group argue about where to put their high def TVs, the other group battle with losing their businesses, dead beat fathers of their children, poverty and drug abuse. Showing these two completely different worlds, one ultra rich, and one ultra poor, living right next to each other, in identical towers, albeit for a splash of paint, is amazing, but also incredibly harrowing and depressing. It is especially interesting to me because the ex-flatmate and I used to live about 1 mile from these two apartments, and we watched them rip the guts out of the old council block, and refurbish it. So whilst there is an element of watching all these poor people's lives as they are being forced out of the area, and watching all the rich people as they come in, total naive of the area they are about to become a part of, I have to confess there is also an element of "oh look that's the pub across the road from the Asian supermarket" and "I wonder if you can see us speeding past in our car, doors locked, windows up so we don't get robbed?".
Tenants from the sister tower
The 'new' tower.
If you want to watch it, check it out on BBC1 at 11pm. I can't stress how good this documentary is. Well, by good I mean 'interesting, saddening, non life reaffirming'...
Afterwards though, I was so fucking depressed, that I honestly couldn't sleep, so to perk myself up, I had to watch some light, no brain content fluff, with lots of pretty people being upset about stupid things, rather than anything really life threatening like say, making sure that their daughters don't get raped on their way to school. Naturally that meant digging out an episode of "Sex and The City". Of course, being me, that completely back fired because in my attempt to make myself feel better, I ended up watching the episode where Samantha gets breast cancer. Just fucking great.
Tenants from the sister tower
The 'new' tower.If you want to watch it, check it out on BBC1 at 11pm. I can't stress how good this documentary is. Well, by good I mean 'interesting, saddening, non life reaffirming'...
Afterwards though, I was so fucking depressed, that I honestly couldn't sleep, so to perk myself up, I had to watch some light, no brain content fluff, with lots of pretty people being upset about stupid things, rather than anything really life threatening like say, making sure that their daughters don't get raped on their way to school. Naturally that meant digging out an episode of "Sex and The City". Of course, being me, that completely back fired because in my attempt to make myself feel better, I ended up watching the episode where Samantha gets breast cancer. Just fucking great.
Friday, July 06, 2007
British Summer = Cricket + Rain
We went to Lords on Tuesday to watch a 20 20 match with Middlesex vs Surrey. As a non-cricket watcher, I really only go for 3 things:
Instead of hot summer cricket at Lords we were subjected to this:
with somtimes TEASING sun like:
I WANT THE CANCER INDUCING SUN BACK! I am CRAVING the possiblity of getting sunburnt. I am vitamin D deficient!!! On top of that, I keep listening to the soundtrack to the Ex-Flatmate's and my holiday to St Maarten last year, all the songs from Radio Calypso that they kept playing whilst we were hooning around going from sundrenched beach to sundrenched beach, and this has made me even more desperate for some hot weather, so much so that I am seriously thinking of going on a holiday, even if no one wants to come with me! So this is a shout out, an open invitation, a plea to the universe: if YOU are thinking of going somewhere where we can take our pasty bodies out on a beach, in swimsuits that no one wants to see us in, drink cocktails with little umbrellas in them, and eat bbq's every day, let me know, because I am sick of this crappy weather:
- Lounging in the hot summer sun, drinking beer/wine/champagne
- Picnic food
- The party atmosphere
Instead of hot summer cricket at Lords we were subjected to this:
with somtimes TEASING sun like:
I WANT THE CANCER INDUCING SUN BACK! I am CRAVING the possiblity of getting sunburnt. I am vitamin D deficient!!! On top of that, I keep listening to the soundtrack to the Ex-Flatmate's and my holiday to St Maarten last year, all the songs from Radio Calypso that they kept playing whilst we were hooning around going from sundrenched beach to sundrenched beach, and this has made me even more desperate for some hot weather, so much so that I am seriously thinking of going on a holiday, even if no one wants to come with me! So this is a shout out, an open invitation, a plea to the universe: if YOU are thinking of going somewhere where we can take our pasty bodies out on a beach, in swimsuits that no one wants to see us in, drink cocktails with little umbrellas in them, and eat bbq's every day, let me know, because I am sick of this crappy weather:
Friday, June 22, 2007
Mother Plucking
I have just come home from a night out at the theatre (christ how posh do I sound??!). Despite having spent the last 1/2 hour bitterly complaining to C about how tired I was and how I wanted to go to sleep, it still has taken 30 minutes between getting in the door and collapsing under my duvet. Why? Because recently I have been reading and watching and listening to too many bloody guides that have the opposite effect of making me feel motivated for how to look good, act good, be good, eat right, drink well, blah blah blah, and instead have made me paranoid and anxious. There is this constantly and annoyingly stream of information, with advice and helpful hints for making us all be more feminine and 'beautiful', like How to Look Good Naked, Trinny and Susanna's What Not to Wear, Trinny and Susanna's What to Wear, How to Walk In High Heels, How to Look Fabulous Without Making it Look Like You're Trying to Look Fabulous Even Though It's CLEARLY Taken You 2 Hours to Get Ready To Go Out To Ensure You're Looking Fabulous. Plus hanging out with my girlfriends who are all annoyingly pretty, with their annoying ability to walk in stiletto heels, have the right hair cuts, have the perfect cool clothes and be exceptionaly well put together, that recently are making me feel downright inadequate. On top of that, if I wasn't getting enough advice on my physical appearance, I am also recently being barraged with their advice for how to "be a single girl in London": I've been put aside and told I need to 'act single and start flirting' with bartenders/waiters/any man with a pulse. The entire world seems to be conspiring against me right now, that instead of making me feel motivated, upbeat and attractive, I just feel unattractive, depressed, unhappy and all other adjectives describing 'ugly'.
So tonight, rather than just falling straight into bed and sleeping, I've stayed up extra late to pluck my mother fucking eyebrows. This, only a few weeks after having unleashed a plucking on them that skinned the poor little buggers within a inch of their lives. I have learned the ultra hard way that the difference between looking tidy and looking constantly surprised, or even worse, bald just above your eyes, really is a total of about 5 hairs.
Why is it that woman feel that if they aren't making a consistent effort they are some how failing in society, destined to be alone in the world, possibly looking after hoards of cats? I have realised that being a size zero isn't the way forward (depressingly, as a size 12, I am far and away the largest girl in my team, and there are a few of us. They range from a size zero to a size 8. Then there's me. If that isn't enough of a kick to your self esteem, I don't know what is). Why do we feel the need to always be pruning, exfoliating, cleansing, toning, weazing through exercise classes, or exercise in general, epilating legs, filing nails, massaging cellulite, tinting eyelashes, dying hair, pumicing feet, watching what we eat, checking what we're wearing, and all the rest of the bloody crap that seems to be thrown at us? Why can men get away with doing frankly chuff all other than showering and possibly wearing deoderant if they remember, but if we haven't attacked ourselves with every possible beautifying device, potion, lotion, miracle cure for wrinkles, spots, and lines, known to man, we're not taking care of ourselves because "we're worth it"?
Why can't sitting on a couch, eating bags of pork scratchings and watching EastEnders be a perfectly acceptable way of life? Or is it it's not necessarily society that's to blame for women being ultra high maintenance, but ourselves? Are we our own worst enemy? Ugh.
So tonight, rather than just falling straight into bed and sleeping, I've stayed up extra late to pluck my mother fucking eyebrows. This, only a few weeks after having unleashed a plucking on them that skinned the poor little buggers within a inch of their lives. I have learned the ultra hard way that the difference between looking tidy and looking constantly surprised, or even worse, bald just above your eyes, really is a total of about 5 hairs.
Why is it that woman feel that if they aren't making a consistent effort they are some how failing in society, destined to be alone in the world, possibly looking after hoards of cats? I have realised that being a size zero isn't the way forward (depressingly, as a size 12, I am far and away the largest girl in my team, and there are a few of us. They range from a size zero to a size 8. Then there's me. If that isn't enough of a kick to your self esteem, I don't know what is). Why do we feel the need to always be pruning, exfoliating, cleansing, toning, weazing through exercise classes, or exercise in general, epilating legs, filing nails, massaging cellulite, tinting eyelashes, dying hair, pumicing feet, watching what we eat, checking what we're wearing, and all the rest of the bloody crap that seems to be thrown at us? Why can men get away with doing frankly chuff all other than showering and possibly wearing deoderant if they remember, but if we haven't attacked ourselves with every possible beautifying device, potion, lotion, miracle cure for wrinkles, spots, and lines, known to man, we're not taking care of ourselves because "we're worth it"?
Why can't sitting on a couch, eating bags of pork scratchings and watching EastEnders be a perfectly acceptable way of life? Or is it it's not necessarily society that's to blame for women being ultra high maintenance, but ourselves? Are we our own worst enemy? Ugh.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Pre Concert Nerves
Yes, I am still hacking away at the cello. For the past 8 months now, C, The Magic and I have been going to ELLSO (East London Late Starters Orchestra) to learn our respective instruments (2 cellos and a violin. We could almost make a band with that!), and even though our very kind teacher says that we're coming along really well, I still can't help thinking I sound like I'm taking a cat, stretching it out, and making it screech. Though I guess with a cello, that's more of a cow like screeching noise.. either way, it's not the beautiful, deep, non-scratchy tones of a cello that I fell in love with. In fact, sometimes when I play I feel like I'm actually offending the very instrument I'm trying to learn.
ARGH.
I've been told continuously that whilst it's not best to blame your instrument, the one I've hired from Guiviers is in fact, how do you put it, shite. As a beginners cello from a place that holds such prestige, I definitely wasn't expecting it to be the best one in our class, but I certainly wasn't expecting to be told it's the worst one in the class either. My cello teacher has finally realised his pleas for me to spend around £1000 on an instrument was falling on very deaf (and very mortgage laden) ears, so a few weeks ago he brought in a very inexpensive cello for me to try, and see if I wanted to buy. It's weird, because there's something about it that has me intrigued, as I keep finding myself smelling it. In orchestra rehearsal I find my nose pressed against it, taking deep breaths. It's got this really strange, sweet smell to it. I tend to do this mostly whilst being bored listening to first violins being told again and again how to play (as an aside: why not just play the way the conductor tells you? I don't get it? Why do they constantly need to be told two, three, four THOUSAND times what to do? Just do it. Please. The rest of us are ageing here). The thing is whilst I will probably buy it, I'm a bit disappointed that I haven't fallen in love with this new cello like I was expecting to. I'm wondering if it's because my teacher borrowed it to use in orchestra to show us how to play this really strange piece where we have to hit our instruments, play past the bridge, use the back of the bows to make noises. He then kept saying things like "hmm, this really is a terrible cello! I'm sure all of yours sound better than this! Wow, this bow is rubbish as well! I'm glad I'm using my worst instrument to show you how to play this piece. Now if any of you have better instruments, do not, I repeat, do NOT do this" - then he'd go ahead and smashes the bow against the bridge. Yeah that feeling of deflation that kicks in after your teacher, who is selling you the instrument, tells 30 odd people that it's crap is something that people should not have to go through. Consumer confidence is not riding high with this girl.
Tomorrow night we're playing at a pub in Greenwich. Our entire orchestra have split up into little performance groups to basically show off to each other, since in an orchestra only the selected soloists really get to stand out from the rest of the punters. So 5 of us in stage 1 cello (that's like the toddler school of the orchestra) are playing 2 pieces (well, playing could be a bit of an exaggeration. Hacking is another synonym. Crimes against music could be another), tomorrow night. When I practice alone, I think it sounds terrible, but there must be something about constantly being hungover at orchestra on Saturday mornings that makes me think as a collective, we could actually sound ok. Am I kidding myself? I guess we'll see tomorrow, when at the end of our two pieces people either give us a standing ovation as cello prodigies, or clap quietly and politely in that very British manner... C & I are also playing 2 other pieces, both composed by people from ELLSO. I am secretly chuffed we're allowed to play, since some of the people who are with us have been playing for years and years, and we've only been at it for 8 months. Plus, no one in the audience will really know which notes we don't actually know how to play yet, and that all my back extensions are just completely made up. 2 words for tomorrow night: Air bowing. Much like air guitar, in that no noise is made, but with an actual instrument between your legs. Oooh sounds a bit rude eh?
So wish me luck. I'm sure it will be fine. Besides, everyone there will be performing, so there is no real audience as such, so no one is really going to care what a bunch of first year cello students sound like. I might be a bit jaded but I don't really think anyone is going to care what anyone else sounds like, as long as they themselves don't hideously fuck up. Here's hoping I don't either!
ARGH.
I've been told continuously that whilst it's not best to blame your instrument, the one I've hired from Guiviers is in fact, how do you put it, shite. As a beginners cello from a place that holds such prestige, I definitely wasn't expecting it to be the best one in our class, but I certainly wasn't expecting to be told it's the worst one in the class either. My cello teacher has finally realised his pleas for me to spend around £1000 on an instrument was falling on very deaf (and very mortgage laden) ears, so a few weeks ago he brought in a very inexpensive cello for me to try, and see if I wanted to buy. It's weird, because there's something about it that has me intrigued, as I keep finding myself smelling it. In orchestra rehearsal I find my nose pressed against it, taking deep breaths. It's got this really strange, sweet smell to it. I tend to do this mostly whilst being bored listening to first violins being told again and again how to play (as an aside: why not just play the way the conductor tells you? I don't get it? Why do they constantly need to be told two, three, four THOUSAND times what to do? Just do it. Please. The rest of us are ageing here). The thing is whilst I will probably buy it, I'm a bit disappointed that I haven't fallen in love with this new cello like I was expecting to. I'm wondering if it's because my teacher borrowed it to use in orchestra to show us how to play this really strange piece where we have to hit our instruments, play past the bridge, use the back of the bows to make noises. He then kept saying things like "hmm, this really is a terrible cello! I'm sure all of yours sound better than this! Wow, this bow is rubbish as well! I'm glad I'm using my worst instrument to show you how to play this piece. Now if any of you have better instruments, do not, I repeat, do NOT do this" - then he'd go ahead and smashes the bow against the bridge. Yeah that feeling of deflation that kicks in after your teacher, who is selling you the instrument, tells 30 odd people that it's crap is something that people should not have to go through. Consumer confidence is not riding high with this girl.
Tomorrow night we're playing at a pub in Greenwich. Our entire orchestra have split up into little performance groups to basically show off to each other, since in an orchestra only the selected soloists really get to stand out from the rest of the punters. So 5 of us in stage 1 cello (that's like the toddler school of the orchestra) are playing 2 pieces (well, playing could be a bit of an exaggeration. Hacking is another synonym. Crimes against music could be another), tomorrow night. When I practice alone, I think it sounds terrible, but there must be something about constantly being hungover at orchestra on Saturday mornings that makes me think as a collective, we could actually sound ok. Am I kidding myself? I guess we'll see tomorrow, when at the end of our two pieces people either give us a standing ovation as cello prodigies, or clap quietly and politely in that very British manner... C & I are also playing 2 other pieces, both composed by people from ELLSO. I am secretly chuffed we're allowed to play, since some of the people who are with us have been playing for years and years, and we've only been at it for 8 months. Plus, no one in the audience will really know which notes we don't actually know how to play yet, and that all my back extensions are just completely made up. 2 words for tomorrow night: Air bowing. Much like air guitar, in that no noise is made, but with an actual instrument between your legs. Oooh sounds a bit rude eh?
So wish me luck. I'm sure it will be fine. Besides, everyone there will be performing, so there is no real audience as such, so no one is really going to care what a bunch of first year cello students sound like. I might be a bit jaded but I don't really think anyone is going to care what anyone else sounds like, as long as they themselves don't hideously fuck up. Here's hoping I don't either!
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Britishness. 11 hours and counting.
Tonight is my last night as a citizen of only 1 country. Tomorrow at 1pm, I will be finally swearing an oath to Queen and country (how very James Bond), and becoming British. Right after the ceremony, I intend to get my British passport and standard issue, possibly Nike, track suit, obviously in bright pink (ooh sexy). I then intened to quit my job and start collecting my benefit cheques which everyone's tax money is paying for, start wearing Burberry with some real conviction, talk about those f’in imigrants comin’ to ma country and takin’ our bleedin’ jobs, and spend my first giro cheque. Also, according to the press, as a British woman, I should be drinking 110 units of alcohol a week, get into fist fights with other women, try to smash someone's face with a bottle and get arrested for GBH.
Hurrah! What exciting things to look forward to eh!
Tomorrow, I have to stand infront of some official at the local town hall. I have to swear an oath to the Queen (which I've already done just by being born in Australia for fucks sake). I get a little certificate (I'm tempted to hang it in the toilet, because, heck, everyone will see it then won't they?), get my photo taken, and get a gift whose origin is "local to the region". Now since I'm swearing allegience to Liz in Peckham Town Hall, I've been trying to think what this gift could be. Not a bowler hat I'm thinking. Since Peckham is in South London (pronounced "sauff london"), and it's all a bit dodge here, I'm torn between expecting one of the following: velour track suit, contraceptives or a baby pram.
Christ, I can't believe tomorrow I will be British. I've only been waiting for this for the last 5 years now, and now that it's less than 12 hours away, I kindof feel a bit, well, aprehensive about it. It's not that I'm unhappy to have made my decision to stay here, but it's not without some guilt and pain at leaving my friends, family, but mostly my parents, thousands of miles away, for such a long time. It's especially wierd since percurment of British citizenship has been my main reason for staying. And now that I've got it, it's just so, well, wierd. Like wishing for Christmas as kid, only to find that it's infact just another day, but with more food and shouting.
I guess all in all I'm happy about this. It's what I've said I've wanted, and now I've got it. I guess I just don't know what I'm supposed to want next... I suppose there's nothing else for it really. I'll just have to now start wanting a manor in the country, long to wear flat caps, breed horses and start fox hunting with hounds. Tally-ho old chaps.
Hurrah! What exciting things to look forward to eh!
Tomorrow, I have to stand infront of some official at the local town hall. I have to swear an oath to the Queen (which I've already done just by being born in Australia for fucks sake). I get a little certificate (I'm tempted to hang it in the toilet, because, heck, everyone will see it then won't they?), get my photo taken, and get a gift whose origin is "local to the region". Now since I'm swearing allegience to Liz in Peckham Town Hall, I've been trying to think what this gift could be. Not a bowler hat I'm thinking. Since Peckham is in South London (pronounced "sauff london"), and it's all a bit dodge here, I'm torn between expecting one of the following: velour track suit, contraceptives or a baby pram.
Christ, I can't believe tomorrow I will be British. I've only been waiting for this for the last 5 years now, and now that it's less than 12 hours away, I kindof feel a bit, well, aprehensive about it. It's not that I'm unhappy to have made my decision to stay here, but it's not without some guilt and pain at leaving my friends, family, but mostly my parents, thousands of miles away, for such a long time. It's especially wierd since percurment of British citizenship has been my main reason for staying. And now that I've got it, it's just so, well, wierd. Like wishing for Christmas as kid, only to find that it's infact just another day, but with more food and shouting.
I guess all in all I'm happy about this. It's what I've said I've wanted, and now I've got it. I guess I just don't know what I'm supposed to want next... I suppose there's nothing else for it really. I'll just have to now start wanting a manor in the country, long to wear flat caps, breed horses and start fox hunting with hounds. Tally-ho old chaps.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Travels in China: The Great Wall
I am still in awe of the Great Wall of China. To be honest, everyday so far I keep thinking I am in awe of something here.
The Great Wall of China, started by the Qin Dynasty, and continued on until the Ming, was one of the largest man made constructions in the world, and frankly, is worth the 9 hour flight from London to see.
What struck me as amazing was just the sheer size of it. As you get up on the wall, you can see it stretching out to the horizon, unfaltering, and amazing. Myself and another guy, Sonny, were the only 2 people to climb the highest point of the wall (admittedly, my competitive streak meant that I practically ran up the wall to get there before anyone else in my tour, because, well, that's the girl that I am). Once up there, I was kindof shocked to see that there was a gift stand, and a monument stating this is the highest point of the wall, and a dude ready to take your picture next to it, obviously for a price. I don't know why I was surprised, since I'd an hour earlier gotten myself a skimmed milk cappuccino from the freakin Starbucks opposite the Great Wall's tourist entry spot.... hmmmm... when the very essence of all things capitalist, like Starbucks, makes it into heartland communist China, I think they might as well sell of all their governmental assets and just proclaim themselves as a capitalist state.
Others might disagree I suppose.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Humph
People constantly bring goodies from their holidays into our kitchen at work, for everyone to enjoy, and to show off the fact they've been on holiday, and not in our damned office. Today, someone brought in nougat and biscuits.
When I went this afternoon to try my first bit of nougat, someone walked into the kitchen just as I was about to put a piece in my mouth, and said "You know the first place that's going to don't you? Straight to your hips".
Humph... I know I'm carrying a little bit of holiday weight, but honestly...
When I went this afternoon to try my first bit of nougat, someone walked into the kitchen just as I was about to put a piece in my mouth, and said "You know the first place that's going to don't you? Straight to your hips".
Humph... I know I'm carrying a little bit of holiday weight, but honestly...
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Damned House
So, we've moved in. In fact, we've now been living here in my new flat for almost a month now..
So far, it's been going pretty well, except for the fact that we seem to be living in a constant state of "we've just been hit by a junk exploding bomb". I seem to be in a constant state of either: moving stuff, cleaning stuff, buying flat packed furniture to put stuff in, putting together said pieces of furniture, or standing back and watching the never ending circus of people try to fix my washing machine.
Below is the before and after shots of my house: The "before" shots are from the estate agent's brochure. The "after" shots are from last night:
Living Area Before:
Living Area After:
I believe the technical term is "lived in".
I feel so embarrased having people round. On Sunday, Dr D and Calv brought our friend D around. I kept seeing their eyes look at all the piles of books, and crap, and clothes (all for good will, not just in a pile cause I feel like it), and I just felt, well, ashamed. At the time, pieces of an ikea cabinet where on the floor, which was taking C and I about 2 hours to assemble (when did Ikea furniture turn from flat packed easiness to requiring Jesus like carpentry skills?).
Brochure Version:
Our Version:
Speaking of Ikea, I also feel kindof ashamed that so much of my furniture seems to have come from there... I mean, it's not a like page 7 of the Ikea magazine or anything. For example, there aren't any fresh faced young couples, looking lovingly at their well behaved toddlers, playing on the floor, with their billy cabinets, in beech of course, proudly displaying pictures of them fishing, and 18 volumes of Tolstoy on the shelves. But I do seem to have aquired, over the years, and awful lot of Swedish furniture. Which is another cause of shame in my eyes... A friend of mine will wait until he's got exactly what he wants, spending weeks going from designer boutique to designer boutique, looking for one offs, like proper grown ups wanting to make their house look stylish and beautiful. I want my house to be beautiful too, but I don't fancy waiting for years to get there. Clearly I've been fully indoctrinated in the "instant satisfaction" society we live in. But still... I'd love to spend years scouring flee markets and tiny shops for the exact right one off pieces of furniture. Or at the very least, I'd like to buy stuff from Habitat. If only I could afford it.
So that's where my house is at the moment. My bedroom is sporting a very minimal, almost, japanese in nature look, with very little furniture in it. Well, what it lacks in furniture, it more than makes up for in big black garbage bags full of linen and clothes, piled on top of each other on the floor because I have no where to put them yet... The living room has a half built cabinet, and books, dvds, cds, and general junk, all around the floor in piles (organised piles darling, we aren't complete animals yet). The bathroom doesn't as of yet have a toilet roll holder, and the little nook where a desk will one day reside, is currently diplaying a lovely post modern installation, which I like to call "crap load of boxes, waiting to be recyled".
Home owner bliss/Home owner hell. Not sure which yet.
So far, it's been going pretty well, except for the fact that we seem to be living in a constant state of "we've just been hit by a junk exploding bomb". I seem to be in a constant state of either: moving stuff, cleaning stuff, buying flat packed furniture to put stuff in, putting together said pieces of furniture, or standing back and watching the never ending circus of people try to fix my washing machine.
Below is the before and after shots of my house: The "before" shots are from the estate agent's brochure. The "after" shots are from last night:
Dining Area Before:
Dining Area After:
Kitchen Before:
Kitchen After:
Desk Area Before:
Desk Area After:
Dining Area After:
Kitchen Before:
Kitchen After:
Desk Area Before:
Desk Area After:
Living Area Before:
Living Area After:
I believe the technical term is "lived in".
I feel so embarrased having people round. On Sunday, Dr D and Calv brought our friend D around. I kept seeing their eyes look at all the piles of books, and crap, and clothes (all for good will, not just in a pile cause I feel like it), and I just felt, well, ashamed. At the time, pieces of an ikea cabinet where on the floor, which was taking C and I about 2 hours to assemble (when did Ikea furniture turn from flat packed easiness to requiring Jesus like carpentry skills?).
Brochure Version:
Our Version:Speaking of Ikea, I also feel kindof ashamed that so much of my furniture seems to have come from there... I mean, it's not a like page 7 of the Ikea magazine or anything. For example, there aren't any fresh faced young couples, looking lovingly at their well behaved toddlers, playing on the floor, with their billy cabinets, in beech of course, proudly displaying pictures of them fishing, and 18 volumes of Tolstoy on the shelves. But I do seem to have aquired, over the years, and awful lot of Swedish furniture. Which is another cause of shame in my eyes... A friend of mine will wait until he's got exactly what he wants, spending weeks going from designer boutique to designer boutique, looking for one offs, like proper grown ups wanting to make their house look stylish and beautiful. I want my house to be beautiful too, but I don't fancy waiting for years to get there. Clearly I've been fully indoctrinated in the "instant satisfaction" society we live in. But still... I'd love to spend years scouring flee markets and tiny shops for the exact right one off pieces of furniture. Or at the very least, I'd like to buy stuff from Habitat. If only I could afford it.So that's where my house is at the moment. My bedroom is sporting a very minimal, almost, japanese in nature look, with very little furniture in it. Well, what it lacks in furniture, it more than makes up for in big black garbage bags full of linen and clothes, piled on top of each other on the floor because I have no where to put them yet... The living room has a half built cabinet, and books, dvds, cds, and general junk, all around the floor in piles (organised piles darling, we aren't complete animals yet). The bathroom doesn't as of yet have a toilet roll holder, and the little nook where a desk will one day reside, is currently diplaying a lovely post modern installation, which I like to call "crap load of boxes, waiting to be recyled".
Home owner bliss/Home owner hell. Not sure which yet.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Svalbard Weather Watch
Ok, I'll admit it. Despite the fact that
So, I'm going to keep you updated, for the next 3 days, of the temperature in Svalbard, to appreciate the slight apprehension I'm feeling as a soft southern Sydney girl, going as far north as a girl should go:
Temperature at 6am this morning (with windchill) : -30C
Current Temparture in Longyearbyen : -9.6C
Current Temparture in Longyearbyen (with windchill) : -21.1C
-21.1C!!!! In Sydney, if it dips below 10C people start going worrying about the ensuing cold snap, destined to take down the city and start wearing thermals underwear and long johns.. This is going to be weird.
- I've paid close to £500 in hard weather gear for this trip to Svalbard
- Distressingly, I've realised that despite the years of coca-cola propaganda, polar bears are in fact not our friends
- I could die in a horrid plane accident when our 2 stroke, probably made of MDF, light aircraft tries to land on, what can essentially be called an ice rink
So, I'm going to keep you updated, for the next 3 days, of the temperature in Svalbard, to appreciate the slight apprehension I'm feeling as a soft southern Sydney girl, going as far north as a girl should go:
Temperature at 6am this morning (with windchill) : -30C
Current Temparture in Longyearbyen : -9.6C
Current Temparture in Longyearbyen (with windchill) : -21.1C
-21.1C!!!! In Sydney, if it dips below 10C people start going worrying about the ensuing cold snap, destined to take down the city and start wearing thermals underwear and long johns.. This is going to be weird.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Makes you want to smash your head repeatedly against a wall
AAARRGGHH.
After 5 freaking months, I am still not the owner of my god damned flat.
I was expecting to be able to exchange early this week, but lo and behold, it's Thursday and still no joy. My solicitor called me today to say that as far as they were concerned they have all the necessary paperwork, and asked for which dates I would like to complete on (i.e. which day do I want to get the keys to my first flat). After much deliberation and thought, I replied back with "I want the keys yesterday or sooner". So I call the estate agent, a sleazy little man, who if I ever hear his voice or see him from now until the end of time, it will be too soon, to tell him that I want my house now, and to this he says:
"Well, because this whole process has taken so long, it seems that the vendors original mortgage offer has fallen through, so he is in the process of getting a new one approved. We don't think it will take too long, and hopefully he will not need another survey done. This will obviously put a delay on completion."
FUCKING WANKING BASTARD HELL
I am not the very soul of a good human as I am fuming, angry, and want everyone involved with this house sale to get into a car, cover themselves with petrol, light a match, and drive off a cliff.
So when I tell the estate agent that I can't believe that this is happening, and that the sale of this house is going to fall through, he says in his sleazy, disgusting little way:
"Don't get stressed. Go and drink some camomile tea or something". - No, why don't you go and shove your camomile tea up your arse you nonce.
I am not impressed. I am now waiting to see if the vendor his gets his new mortgage offer, and am now planning on moving to my new place, ooh, I dunno, March, 2008. I wouldn't want to be too optimistic about the date now would I?
On the vaguest of vague plus sides, I'm off to Brussels tonight, which is my spiritual home, for the weekend, so I won't be back until Monday. I'm sure I'll have lots of pics of us eating gaffres and chocolate. To the minus side, my stomach is still going crazy, so right after I eat the gaffre and chocolate, I'll probably need to go run for a loo to not injest calories again. Damn damn damn.
After 5 freaking months, I am still not the owner of my god damned flat.
I was expecting to be able to exchange early this week, but lo and behold, it's Thursday and still no joy. My solicitor called me today to say that as far as they were concerned they have all the necessary paperwork, and asked for which dates I would like to complete on (i.e. which day do I want to get the keys to my first flat). After much deliberation and thought, I replied back with "I want the keys yesterday or sooner". So I call the estate agent, a sleazy little man, who if I ever hear his voice or see him from now until the end of time, it will be too soon, to tell him that I want my house now, and to this he says:
"Well, because this whole process has taken so long, it seems that the vendors original mortgage offer has fallen through, so he is in the process of getting a new one approved. We don't think it will take too long, and hopefully he will not need another survey done. This will obviously put a delay on completion."
FUCKING WANKING BASTARD HELL
I am not the very soul of a good human as I am fuming, angry, and want everyone involved with this house sale to get into a car, cover themselves with petrol, light a match, and drive off a cliff.
So when I tell the estate agent that I can't believe that this is happening, and that the sale of this house is going to fall through, he says in his sleazy, disgusting little way:
"Don't get stressed. Go and drink some camomile tea or something". - No, why don't you go and shove your camomile tea up your arse you nonce.
I am not impressed. I am now waiting to see if the vendor his gets his new mortgage offer, and am now planning on moving to my new place, ooh, I dunno, March, 2008. I wouldn't want to be too optimistic about the date now would I?
On the vaguest of vague plus sides, I'm off to Brussels tonight, which is my spiritual home, for the weekend, so I won't be back until Monday. I'm sure I'll have lots of pics of us eating gaffres and chocolate. To the minus side, my stomach is still going crazy, so right after I eat the gaffre and chocolate, I'll probably need to go run for a loo to not injest calories again. Damn damn damn.
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