I'm off to France for a weekend of champagne tasting and have a camion-load of things to get done before I leave bright and early tomorrow morning.
If the Amazon gods are smiling on me, I'll be reading Jules Renard while I'm away. Otherwise, I'll be taking the second Stieg Larsson, which I'm looking forward to reading (having finally made it through the difficult first few chapters of Girl With the Dragon Tattoo and going on to like it a lot, just like everyone said I would), but which doesn't quite match the surrounds quite as well. At the time of writing, today's post hasn't arrived, so there is still hope. Amazon gods, I'm counting on you.
If, unlike me, you're in the UK for the weekend and are stuck for entertainment, do try and catch Five Daughters, which is on the iPlayer until Tuesday. In fact, even if your weekend is going to be quite the whirlwind of social activity, I'd strongly suggest trying to find three spare hours to squeeze this in.
The subject matter isn't exactly frothy: it's a drama dealing with the murders of five Ipswich women in 2006, who you may remember hitting the headlines back then for the fact that they were all sex workers. Their stories are told with incredible sensitivity and humanity; I saw the first two installments last night and am saving the last one for when I get back. Really, if you get the chance, watch it. It is insanely good.
Have a lovely-bubbly Bank Holiday. See you on Tuesday, or thereabouts.
(UPDATE: I am no longer speaking to the Amazon gods. Post has just arrived but sadly Jules has not. It would seem more than a little churlish to moan about this for too long, and I wouldn't mention it at all, except for the fact that for the last half an hour or so, ever since I spotted the postman down the road I have been running up and down four flights of stairs every five minutes to check. At least I didn't run up the road to meet him, which was my first inclination.)
Friday 30 April 2010
Thursday 29 April 2010
Wednesday 28 April 2010
Read this, while you still can
Call me Lady Chatterley and forever catch me some rye. I've been BANNED. My mother would be so proud.
I use a 3G dongle for internet access, and my telecomunication provider of choice (let's call them T-orangaphone2, just to keep you guessing) has a default filtering policy. In other words, until I specifically tell them that I want to, I'm not allowed to access websites which they think are dodgy.
This seems fairly reasonable to me; especially since I could, as an over-18 year old, get the filter removed by filling out an online form. I tried doing this once (no, not for whatever reason you are thinking, thank you - go and wash your imagination out with soap this instant) and it wasn't actually quite as simple as they said it would be, but that's by the by, except for it means I still have the filter switched on. I keep meaning to get around to emailing the company to say their online form isn't working, but partly because the filter isn't causing me any major problems, and mainly becuase I have an innate tendency just to put up with things that aren't working properly until they really cause me a major problem, I haven't.
I may have to now, though, because today when I tried to access my sweet little innocent blog, I got this:
"Good golly gosh and fiddlesticks" I thought to myself (although perhaps not in quite those words, unless you're from the internet filtering company in which case they are exactly the words I used.)
Yup, apparently I'm a bit dodgy. Or at least, my blog is. As you may have spotted, I can still post, but I can't view the blog in the way that you can see it, and nor (I assume) can anyone else using the same mobile broadband service, which is a pain in that-body-part-I-dare-not-name-just-in-case-the-filter-picks-this-post-up-too.
I've been trying to work out what I've written which might have trigged this. Any guesses? The only explanation I can come up with is that last night my Twitter feed, over on the right there, would have included a comment about, er, women's top bits. (I was watching Heston Blumemthal on the telly and he was making some out of chocolate). This seems an unlikely culprit though, unless the filter is properly, properly sensitive. I'd genuinely be interested to know if anyone has any other ideas.
I use a 3G dongle for internet access, and my telecomunication provider of choice (let's call them T-orangaphone2, just to keep you guessing) has a default filtering policy. In other words, until I specifically tell them that I want to, I'm not allowed to access websites which they think are dodgy.
This seems fairly reasonable to me; especially since I could, as an over-18 year old, get the filter removed by filling out an online form. I tried doing this once (no, not for whatever reason you are thinking, thank you - go and wash your imagination out with soap this instant) and it wasn't actually quite as simple as they said it would be, but that's by the by, except for it means I still have the filter switched on. I keep meaning to get around to emailing the company to say their online form isn't working, but partly because the filter isn't causing me any major problems, and mainly becuase I have an innate tendency just to put up with things that aren't working properly until they really cause me a major problem, I haven't.
I may have to now, though, because today when I tried to access my sweet little innocent blog, I got this:
"Good golly gosh and fiddlesticks" I thought to myself (although perhaps not in quite those words, unless you're from the internet filtering company in which case they are exactly the words I used.)
Yup, apparently I'm a bit dodgy. Or at least, my blog is. As you may have spotted, I can still post, but I can't view the blog in the way that you can see it, and nor (I assume) can anyone else using the same mobile broadband service, which is a pain in that-body-part-I-dare-not-name-just-in-case-the-filter-picks-this-post-up-too.
I've been trying to work out what I've written which might have trigged this. Any guesses? The only explanation I can come up with is that last night my Twitter feed, over on the right there, would have included a comment about, er, women's top bits. (I was watching Heston Blumemthal on the telly and he was making some out of chocolate). This seems an unlikely culprit though, unless the filter is properly, properly sensitive. I'd genuinely be interested to know if anyone has any other ideas.
Tuesday 27 April 2010
Best. Birthday Message. Ever.
Via email, from my little brother:
HeySis,happybirthday!!!!Myspacebarisnotworkingsohopeyoucanreadthisok!Haveagreatdaywillbethinkingofyou.LoveSimon
(Today's not my birthday, but I came across this clearing out some old emails this morning and six months after the event, it still cracks me up).
HeySis,happybirthday!!!!Myspacebarisnotworkingsohopeyoucanreadthisok!Haveagreatdaywillbethinkingofyou.LoveSimon
(Today's not my birthday, but I came across this clearing out some old emails this morning and six months after the event, it still cracks me up).
Monday 26 April 2010
Question
If the application deadline for the job I still think I really, really want was last Wednesday, interviews are being held this week and I still haven't heard anything, what are the chances I've been shortlisted?
On second thoughts, don't answer that.
Still. Things aren't all bad. Man flu has gone. I've just been for a run. Had some excellent spring vegetable and pesto soup for lunch. I'm going to Champagne for the weekend (geographically speaking, to be clear, not just going to be drowning my sorrows in it, although I expect my sorrows will be more than a little soggy by Sunday). Things could be a lot worse.
*pep-talk to self over*.
Sorry this is so uninteresting and self indulgent. Do not adjust your TV sets, normal service will return shortly. I just really really wanted that job.
On second thoughts, don't answer that.
Still. Things aren't all bad. Man flu has gone. I've just been for a run. Had some excellent spring vegetable and pesto soup for lunch. I'm going to Champagne for the weekend (geographically speaking, to be clear, not just going to be drowning my sorrows in it, although I expect my sorrows will be more than a little soggy by Sunday). Things could be a lot worse.
*pep-talk to self over*.
Sorry this is so uninteresting and self indulgent. Do not adjust your TV sets, normal service will return shortly. I just really really wanted that job.
Sunday 25 April 2010
Guilty Pleasures
We all have them, and one of mine is Elaine Page's Sunday afternoon slot on Radio 2.* I switched on today just in time to hear the second half of Try to Remember, which is one of those songs I always forget about until I hear it and remember how great it is. (Best lyric: "without a hurt, the heart is hollow").
There's a few different versions floating around on Youtube: this one is Jerry Orbach, who was a Broadway legend long before he became Lennie Briscoe, and who was first to sing it on stage.
The song comes from a musical called The Fantasticks (yes, with a k) which is coming to London in June, something I have only just this minute discovered, and am beyond excited about.
*Also: Starbucks, Dawson's Creek, toasted bacon and egg sandwiches and the earlier works of Neil Diamond. You?
There's a few different versions floating around on Youtube: this one is Jerry Orbach, who was a Broadway legend long before he became Lennie Briscoe, and who was first to sing it on stage.
The song comes from a musical called The Fantasticks (yes, with a k) which is coming to London in June, something I have only just this minute discovered, and am beyond excited about.
*Also: Starbucks, Dawson's Creek, toasted bacon and egg sandwiches and the earlier works of Neil Diamond. You?
Saturday 24 April 2010
Surely we all have one?
I am not planning to die any time soon (current man-flu notwithstanding), but just in case, this is my favourite epitaph:
Mrs Aphra Behn
died April 16 1689
Here lies proof that wit can never be defence enough against mortality.
I knew literally nothing about Aphra Behn before I read her epitaph today (I have been at Westminster Abbey, and believe me, this is not the last you will hear about my visit). I liked it enough to want to find out more.
A cursory search is telling me that she was a writer who also worked as a spy, making her exactly what the 8 year old me wanted to be when I grew up. There's also a good chance that she invented a dead German husband (Mr Behn) just so she could say she was a widow. This one wasn't an ambition I harboured as a child, particularly, but I do like her style.
The spying didn't really work out for her; allegedly she was working for Charles II who didn't even get around to paying her expenses, let alone anything for her services, so she ended up in debtors prison. A mystery benefactor (how exciting!) saved the day by paying off her debts and she went on to become one of the first women to make her living as a writer.
Her most famous work was a short story about an African slave called Oroonoko (no connection to the Womble, sadly - I've checked) and she mainly wrote amatory fiction, which means love stories basically, but not just any love stories: Wikipedia says amatory fiction "typically depicts an innocent, trusting woman who is deceived by a self-serving, lustful man." Helpfully, the article continues: "For the women of amatory fiction, love typically ends in misery".
Aphra also wrote poems and plays: she was arrested (but got off with a warning) because one of them, Like Father, Like Son, contained an "abusive prologue". The play was a bit of a flop and was never published, which is a great shame, as an abusive prologue is something I'd very much like to read.
Mrs Aphra Behn
died April 16 1689
Here lies proof that wit can never be defence enough against mortality.
I knew literally nothing about Aphra Behn before I read her epitaph today (I have been at Westminster Abbey, and believe me, this is not the last you will hear about my visit). I liked it enough to want to find out more.
A cursory search is telling me that she was a writer who also worked as a spy, making her exactly what the 8 year old me wanted to be when I grew up. There's also a good chance that she invented a dead German husband (Mr Behn) just so she could say she was a widow. This one wasn't an ambition I harboured as a child, particularly, but I do like her style.
The spying didn't really work out for her; allegedly she was working for Charles II who didn't even get around to paying her expenses, let alone anything for her services, so she ended up in debtors prison. A mystery benefactor (how exciting!) saved the day by paying off her debts and she went on to become one of the first women to make her living as a writer.
Her most famous work was a short story about an African slave called Oroonoko (no connection to the Womble, sadly - I've checked) and she mainly wrote amatory fiction, which means love stories basically, but not just any love stories: Wikipedia says amatory fiction "typically depicts an innocent, trusting woman who is deceived by a self-serving, lustful man." Helpfully, the article continues: "For the women of amatory fiction, love typically ends in misery".
Aphra also wrote poems and plays: she was arrested (but got off with a warning) because one of them, Like Father, Like Son, contained an "abusive prologue". The play was a bit of a flop and was never published, which is a great shame, as an abusive prologue is something I'd very much like to read.
Friday 23 April 2010
Quick history update
I conquered the Romans before breakfast this morning, and have spent the last hour or so knee-deep in Saxon drugs and rock'n'roll. (The second part of that sentence is not my joke, by the way, it's a chapter title in one of the books I'm reading, but I thought it was a particularly good one). Hagist and Horsta, the seven kingdoms, Roman v Celtic Christians, the Synod of Whitby, and that nasty old King Offa are just some of the things I know much more about now than I used to. Bring on the Vikings.
The very crude, potted-history-of-Britain timeline I have constructed in my head, and which I'm working from, goes roughly like this:
Ancient times; Romans; Dark ages and Anglo Saxons; Norman Conquests and 1066; Middle Ages (incl Black Death); Tudors and Stuarts; Golden Age aka Elizabethan times aka Renaissance; the next bit which I don't have name for but quite a lot happened; Victorian Era; Twentieth Century
I think that covers it, speaking in the broadest sense. Happy to be told otherwise.
The very crude, potted-history-of-Britain timeline I have constructed in my head, and which I'm working from, goes roughly like this:
Ancient times; Romans; Dark ages and Anglo Saxons; Norman Conquests and 1066; Middle Ages (incl Black Death); Tudors and Stuarts; Golden Age aka Elizabethan times aka Renaissance; the next bit which I don't have name for but quite a lot happened; Victorian Era; Twentieth Century
I think that covers it, speaking in the broadest sense. Happy to be told otherwise.
Thursday 22 April 2010
"The Daily Mail, not usually noted for its coverage of archaeology..."
I am swotting up on English History at the moment, for reasons that I don't really have time to go into now because I need to be done by some time next week and so far I am only up to the Romans.
Growing up in Australia, I learned a lot about bushrangers, explorers and the Snowy Mountain Scheme in history lessons. We also did some bits about ancient Greece and Rome, and the Chinese got a look in, but as far as British history goes, what we learned about (and this seems odd, in hindsight) can be boiled down to three things: Medieval crop rotation systems, the Battle of Hastings and World War II. Why only these three? Who knows.
Over the years I've filled in quite a few of the gaps, but I have always meant to get around to trying to put the bits I do know into some kind of order and work out what is missing, which is what I'm finally doing now. One of the books I'm using is The Tribes of Britain by David Miles, who, today in particular, I am loving for no other reason than this:
The Daily Mail, not usually noted for its coverage of archaeology, asked "Is this the King of Stonehenge?"
(It's not all that relevant here, but for the record he is talking about the Amesbury Archer, who is a guy who was burried with lots of stuff, beakers* mainly, around the same time Stonehenge was constructed.)
I know the Daily Mail can be an easy target, but really, they do ask for it sometimes, and today is definitely one of those times. (If you are reading this sometime in the future, or are not in the UK, or have just been under a rock today, by the way, they ran a spectacularly stupid smear story this morning which more or less called Nick Clegg a Nazi).
Nick Clegg, while I remember, was the punchline to the best election related joke I have seen so far (from Popbitch): How do you make Heather Mills angry?
(It's wrong, I know. But it's funny.)
*Beakers: more significant than you might think in prehistoric Britain. They are quite the bone of contention.
Growing up in Australia, I learned a lot about bushrangers, explorers and the Snowy Mountain Scheme in history lessons. We also did some bits about ancient Greece and Rome, and the Chinese got a look in, but as far as British history goes, what we learned about (and this seems odd, in hindsight) can be boiled down to three things: Medieval crop rotation systems, the Battle of Hastings and World War II. Why only these three? Who knows.
Over the years I've filled in quite a few of the gaps, but I have always meant to get around to trying to put the bits I do know into some kind of order and work out what is missing, which is what I'm finally doing now. One of the books I'm using is The Tribes of Britain by David Miles, who, today in particular, I am loving for no other reason than this:
The Daily Mail, not usually noted for its coverage of archaeology, asked "Is this the King of Stonehenge?"
(It's not all that relevant here, but for the record he is talking about the Amesbury Archer, who is a guy who was burried with lots of stuff, beakers* mainly, around the same time Stonehenge was constructed.)
I know the Daily Mail can be an easy target, but really, they do ask for it sometimes, and today is definitely one of those times. (If you are reading this sometime in the future, or are not in the UK, or have just been under a rock today, by the way, they ran a spectacularly stupid smear story this morning which more or less called Nick Clegg a Nazi).
Nick Clegg, while I remember, was the punchline to the best election related joke I have seen so far (from Popbitch): How do you make Heather Mills angry?
(It's wrong, I know. But it's funny.)
*Beakers: more significant than you might think in prehistoric Britain. They are quite the bone of contention.
Wednesday 21 April 2010
Sick
I am pretty sure I have man flu. By which I mean I still have exactly the same rotten cold I had yesterday, I am just feeling more miserable about it.
After spending most of the day wrestling with an application, due at 4pm, for a job I think I might really really want ( which, of course, made the application really really hard to write) I'm now wallowing on the couch with my duvet, lots of fluids and a copy of Pride and Prejudice. Yes, I know it's a cliche, but given the absence of flatmates, significant others and whisky-toting St Bernards round these parts, sometimes cliches are all a girl can hope for. Woe is me etc etc.
I only mention this because the particular edition of P+P that was in my local library (I know, I can't believe I don't own my own copy either) has an introduction by someone called Viviene Jones, whose first name I read as Vinnie. For longer than I should have been, I was quite suprised.
After spending most of the day wrestling with an application, due at 4pm, for a job I think I might really really want ( which, of course, made the application really really hard to write) I'm now wallowing on the couch with my duvet, lots of fluids and a copy of Pride and Prejudice. Yes, I know it's a cliche, but given the absence of flatmates, significant others and whisky-toting St Bernards round these parts, sometimes cliches are all a girl can hope for. Woe is me etc etc.
I only mention this because the particular edition of P+P that was in my local library (I know, I can't believe I don't own my own copy either) has an introduction by someone called Viviene Jones, whose first name I read as Vinnie. For longer than I should have been, I was quite suprised.
Tuesday 20 April 2010
New York Stories
Due to various circumstances (rotten cold, application deadline looming, and the Sopranos box-set I've just been loaned flirtatiously peering at me from my bookshelf ) I'm struggling to come up with words today, let alone assemble them in some kind of order that might be considered sensible. Which makes this as good a time as ever for some New York photos.
This is the Alamo cube sculpture, at Astor Place in East Village. I stumbled over it quite by accident, and I fear it may be one of those things which looks more impressive in real life than in a photo. Maybe it will help to say that it weighs around 1000kg and each side is about 8ft long (This is assuming, of course, that you are the sort of person who is impressed with big heavy stuff. I am open to the possibility that not everyone is.)
I have just found out that if you push it hard enough, it spins around. There are no words to explain how gutted I am to have discovered this now, rather than before I went.
I got off the subway at Astor Place on my way here:
Unless you are as obsessed with a certain film as I am, the name of this deli probably won't mean much. This is what it looks like on the inside:
Can you pick the film yet? No? This might help:
Yep, it's where *that* scene from When Harry Met Sally was filmed. I don't have a photo of the actual table they used, because at the time it was being occupied by a very serious looking Goth couple who, despite not looking like your average chick-flick fans, were on a pilgrimage of their own and had settled in for the afternoon with trays of sandwiches and sodas. I didn't like to disturb them.
A few more pictures for WHMS fans:
Washington Arch, where S drops H off when they first arrive. "Well, have a nice life"
You need to use your imagination for this one, but, zoom in a bit, add a few autumn leves, and look:
Hmmm. On second thoughts, you know what? You may just have to take my word on this one. Anyway, it's Central Park, which also looks like this:
A little known fact about New York: Customs staff check your camera at the airport, and if the photos on it do not include one like this, a night shot of the Empire State Building, and a picture containing a yellow cab, the cliche-police won't let you leave.
Monday 19 April 2010
Bad form
Someone refused to give me a reference today. To soothe the savage rage which I can only assume is now burning a hole deep in your heart on my behalf, let me explain something: she is a Head Teacher I worked for 7 years ago, and haven't had anything to do with since. So I can't say I blame her, really. I mean, I could have been up to all kinds of no good in the last seven years. (If you are reading this because you're considering employing me and are doing background checks, then please note: I have not. I promise.).
What I'm really annoyed about is the fact that I know perfectly well she was the most inappropriate person to ask (I'm not stupid) but I didn't have a choice, thanks to the world's stupidest online form.
It all began a couple of weeks ago, when I applied to mark Key Stage 2 SATs tests this summer. The application process involves an online form, which kicks you off the system if you can't provide certain information about some of the basic criteria you need to meet to be a marker. I can see why this makes sense. They want people who have a teaching qualification, for instance, so if you can't furnish the details of the institution where you studied, or the degree you obtained, there is no point carrying on answering the rest of the questions. Saves time and heartache for everyone.
Another essential criteria for markers is having had some UK teaching experience, so one piece of information which the form asks for is the details of your most recent teaching post. As it happens, I haven't been a permanent, full-time teacher since I worked at this particular Head Teacher's school seven years ago. I did do bit of supply work after I left and then worked for a couple of private companies doing advisory/consultancy work with schools, but didn't work directly for any of them. So, technically speaking, her school is my 'most recent' teaching post, and those were the details I put down.
The problem came when, several questions later the computer helpfully auto-filled the 'references' section with these details, and wouldn't let me change them. Even though I had filled in lots of other questions about more recent periods of employment, there was no way to tell the form "don't ask her, ask one of these people instead".
Trying to make the best of a bad situation, I decided, out of courtesy more than anything else, to send a quick email to this woman, explaining what had happened, and that I hoped she didn't mind, and that she might hear from the company running the tests, and how I realised it was a bit odd to have to be asking someone I knew so long ago for a reference. (At least, I thought I had explained all of that: the email I got from her today, saying she felt reluctant to provide one, and why, suggests I didn't do as good a job as I thought I had.)
Basically what I am saying is, it was a pretty stupid online form. There must be lots of people in my situation: advisors, school improvement partners, retired teachers, independent consultants and the like, who are perfectly qualified to mark test scripts but haven't been in a classroom for a while. In fact, if memory serves me correctly, and I could be wrong about this because I don't have time right now to check, I *think* they actually target people exactly like this in their advertisments.
I can see that it would be necessary to verify that I did actually teach at this particular school, and if the 'reference check' was just a fact checking mission, rather than a request for a comment about my abilities, I would be perfectly OK with that. But if it is anything more than that, which I suspect that it is, then it's a pretty stupid form. Why not let you choose who you want to nominate as your reference?
In happier, and totally unrelated, news: I have been working at Royal Festival Hall today and this morning wrote something to that effect on Twitter. Within half an hour, I had two festivals following me. I am now looking for any opportunity to shoehorn the words "attractive, eligible, kind, smart, and funny men" into all future tweets.
What I'm really annoyed about is the fact that I know perfectly well she was the most inappropriate person to ask (I'm not stupid) but I didn't have a choice, thanks to the world's stupidest online form.
It all began a couple of weeks ago, when I applied to mark Key Stage 2 SATs tests this summer. The application process involves an online form, which kicks you off the system if you can't provide certain information about some of the basic criteria you need to meet to be a marker. I can see why this makes sense. They want people who have a teaching qualification, for instance, so if you can't furnish the details of the institution where you studied, or the degree you obtained, there is no point carrying on answering the rest of the questions. Saves time and heartache for everyone.
Another essential criteria for markers is having had some UK teaching experience, so one piece of information which the form asks for is the details of your most recent teaching post. As it happens, I haven't been a permanent, full-time teacher since I worked at this particular Head Teacher's school seven years ago. I did do bit of supply work after I left and then worked for a couple of private companies doing advisory/consultancy work with schools, but didn't work directly for any of them. So, technically speaking, her school is my 'most recent' teaching post, and those were the details I put down.
The problem came when, several questions later the computer helpfully auto-filled the 'references' section with these details, and wouldn't let me change them. Even though I had filled in lots of other questions about more recent periods of employment, there was no way to tell the form "don't ask her, ask one of these people instead".
Trying to make the best of a bad situation, I decided, out of courtesy more than anything else, to send a quick email to this woman, explaining what had happened, and that I hoped she didn't mind, and that she might hear from the company running the tests, and how I realised it was a bit odd to have to be asking someone I knew so long ago for a reference. (At least, I thought I had explained all of that: the email I got from her today, saying she felt reluctant to provide one, and why, suggests I didn't do as good a job as I thought I had.)
Basically what I am saying is, it was a pretty stupid online form. There must be lots of people in my situation: advisors, school improvement partners, retired teachers, independent consultants and the like, who are perfectly qualified to mark test scripts but haven't been in a classroom for a while. In fact, if memory serves me correctly, and I could be wrong about this because I don't have time right now to check, I *think* they actually target people exactly like this in their advertisments.
I can see that it would be necessary to verify that I did actually teach at this particular school, and if the 'reference check' was just a fact checking mission, rather than a request for a comment about my abilities, I would be perfectly OK with that. But if it is anything more than that, which I suspect that it is, then it's a pretty stupid form. Why not let you choose who you want to nominate as your reference?
In happier, and totally unrelated, news: I have been working at Royal Festival Hall today and this morning wrote something to that effect on Twitter. Within half an hour, I had two festivals following me. I am now looking for any opportunity to shoehorn the words "attractive, eligible, kind, smart, and funny men" into all future tweets.
Sunday 18 April 2010
If you are dieting, do not read this
I have never quite worked out what Posterous is for, but Daniel Young, the guy who runs youngandfoodish.com (great name, no?) clearly has. I'm glad, because otherwise I would never have known about this:
That, cholesterol fans, is a plate of Cadbury Creme Eggs Benedict. I am deadly serious. Those things which look like hash browns are FRIED CAKE. If you are feeling brave (or are just insane) here are the full instructions, courtesy of cakespy.
(One person says in the comments: I can't decide whether to throw up or make this for lunch. Good point well made, I think.)
I am reminded of a poster I saw in New York:
That, cholesterol fans, is a plate of Cadbury Creme Eggs Benedict. I am deadly serious. Those things which look like hash browns are FRIED CAKE. If you are feeling brave (or are just insane) here are the full instructions, courtesy of cakespy.
(One person says in the comments: I can't decide whether to throw up or make this for lunch. Good point well made, I think.)
I am reminded of a poster I saw in New York:
This was at Eleni's cupcake shop, at Chelsea Market, which is brilliant and well worth a visit if you are in the Big Apple. Americans, as you may already know, take their cupcakes very, very seriously.
Here's another picture:
This is not a cupcake; it's the burger and fries at The Spotted Pig, also in New York. If you are going to New York and ask people you know for suggestions of what you should do there, chances are EVERY SINGLE PERSON YOU SPEAK TO will tell you about the Spotted Pig. At least that's what happened to me: three friends, a New Yorker I met at a wedding in Sydney, and two different in-flight magazines recommended it. I'm extremely glad I listened to them.
If you have not been put off Cadbury Creme Eggs completely by the idea of Bennedicting them, you might like this, which comes courtesy of http://www.pimpthatsnack.com/:
Just to be clear, that's a normal sized creme egg in the bottom corner.
Pimp That Snack (fans of intellectual property law might be interested to know it used to be called something else) is the kind of website you shouldn't start to explore unless you have some time on your hands. My friend Suse told me about it: she also pointed me towards whatnottocrochet.com, which could also chew up lot of your time, if you are anything like me. Here is a taster:
I mean, who *wouldn't* want a zebra head made of wool?
Saturday 17 April 2010
Yesterday
Big day yesterday. I got up at 5am and didn't get to bed until just after 4, so it was nearly like living through an entire series of 24, in real time. Except for the significantly reduced body count. Also, no helicopters. Otherwise, exactly the same.
The early start was because I had a job interview not very near where I live. I'm not going to say too much about it just now for various reasons. One thing I will say, is that there are many questions to which the answer "not much" would be entirely appropriate:
"Do you like cucumber?"
"How much have you had to drink?"
"What did you think of Damien Rice's second album?"
"More new shoes? What did they cost?"
"Is this going to hurt?"
But when you're in a job interview, and someone says "So, you finished working for your last company in January. What have you been doing since then?" well, let's just say that's not one of those questions.
On a brighter note, I also started a creative writing course yesterday and the first lesson, last night, was great. Among other things, we had to interview someone else in the class and write up what we learnt about them as if it was one of those little author blurbs you read on the back of books. Becky, the girl I interviewed, asked afterwards if she could have a copy of what I'd written about her, so that was kind of nice. Should be a fun course, I think.
It wasn't the writing class which kept me out until 4am: I went to meet friends afterwards, who were in a wine-bar in Victoria, and when we got kicked out at closing time the idea of going to find a late-night comedy club seemed eminently sensible. Don't ask me why. There is a small possibility I was clinically sleep deprived by this point.
The early start was because I had a job interview not very near where I live. I'm not going to say too much about it just now for various reasons. One thing I will say, is that there are many questions to which the answer "not much" would be entirely appropriate:
"Do you like cucumber?"
"How much have you had to drink?"
"What did you think of Damien Rice's second album?"
"More new shoes? What did they cost?"
"Is this going to hurt?"
But when you're in a job interview, and someone says "So, you finished working for your last company in January. What have you been doing since then?" well, let's just say that's not one of those questions.
On a brighter note, I also started a creative writing course yesterday and the first lesson, last night, was great. Among other things, we had to interview someone else in the class and write up what we learnt about them as if it was one of those little author blurbs you read on the back of books. Becky, the girl I interviewed, asked afterwards if she could have a copy of what I'd written about her, so that was kind of nice. Should be a fun course, I think.
It wasn't the writing class which kept me out until 4am: I went to meet friends afterwards, who were in a wine-bar in Victoria, and when we got kicked out at closing time the idea of going to find a late-night comedy club seemed eminently sensible. Don't ask me why. There is a small possibility I was clinically sleep deprived by this point.
Thursday 15 April 2010
We're FAH-mily (even the guppies)*
Best thing I have overheard in a long time:
"Gosh, sometimes it's just like Eastenders, your fishtank"
The mind boggles.
*There *has* to be a better Eastenders/fish joke than this, but I'll be darned if I can see it. Answers on a postcard, please.
"Gosh, sometimes it's just like Eastenders, your fishtank"
The mind boggles.
*There *has* to be a better Eastenders/fish joke than this, but I'll be darned if I can see it. Answers on a postcard, please.
Wednesday 14 April 2010
Great News!
The job hunt is off. I was emptying out my spam folder this morning, and thank goodness I don’t like to throw anything away without checking what it is first. Otherwise, I would have missed this:
ANTI-TERRORIST AND MONITARY CRIMES DIVISION
FBI HEADQUARTERS IN WASHINGTON, D.C.
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION
J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING 935
PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, NW WASHINGTON,
D.C. 20535-0001
TEL+1-202-324-3447
ATTENTION: Beneficiary
This Is An Official Advice From The FBI, Foreign Remittance/Telegraphic Dept. (FRTD), It Has Come To Our Notice That The (Central Bank of Nigeria) C.B.N and there local Banks in Nigeria Has Released Your Full Inheritance/Contract Payment Of 10,000,000 U.S Dollars Into Bank Of America In Your Name As The Beneficiary as there Corresponding Bank USA.
TEN MILLION DOLLARS!!! Excellent. That would certainly take some of the pressure off.
The Bank In Africa Knowing Fully Well That They Do Not Have Enough Facilities To Effect This Payment From Europe To Your Account and they Used What We Know As A Secret Diplomatic Transit Payment S.T.D.P To Pay This Fund Through Wire Transfer.
Wait a minute.....Europe? But I thought the money was coming from Nigeria. Still, who am I to argue. I mean, come on, it’s TEN MILLION DOLLARS!
They Are Still Waiting For Final Confirmation From You On The Already Transferred Funds, To Enable Them Crediting Into Your Account Accordingly.
No problem. What do they need to know?
Secret Diplomatic Transfer Payment Are Normally Funds Related To Drug/Terrorist And Money Laundry System Of Payment
Oh. Thanks for the heads-up.
Silly question, maybe, but if they are *secret* diplomatic transfer payments, how do you kn......? Wait, never mind. I forgot you’re the FBI. Of course you're meant to know about secret stuff.
Why Must Your Payment Be Made In Such Secret Transfer, If Your Transaction Is Legitimate And Not Related To Drug/Terrorist And Money Laundry, Why Can't The Bank In Africa Via Europe Effect Direct Transfer Into Your Account Than Secret Diplomatic Payment Transfer.
That's a very good question. Although I’m not sure I like your tone.
Due To The Increased Difficulties And Unnecessary Scrutiny By The American Authorities When Funds Come From Through Such Payment Process From Europe, Africa And Middle East, Based On The Records We Had In The Past Always Identified Such Method Of Payment As Drug/ Terrorist/Money Laundry Funds, To Avoid Problem With The Us Government
Better safe than sorry, I suppose, although it does seem a little unduly harsh on all of the legitimate secret diplomats.
As Soon As These Funds Reflect In Your Account In The U.S.A, It Is Our Mandatory Obligations To Ascertain The Documentation And Certification Of This Funds Before The Final Crediting Into Your Account.
Well, since it’s mandatory.......
We Advice You Contact Us Immediately, As The Funds Have Been Stopped And Held In Our Custody Pending When You Were Able To Provide Us With A Diplomatic Immunity Seal Of Transfer (Dist) and letter of indemnity Clearance Certificate Within 24hours From The United Nation International Fund Monitory Unit (UNIFMU) That Authorize The Transfer And Certified That The Funds Originated From Africa And Middle East Is Free From Terrorist/Drug And Money Laundry Or We Shall Confiscate The Payment.
Good advice. Let me see if I can remember where I put those.
We Will Allow the Funds to Be Release into Your nominated Account Immediately You Make Provision the Required Document. You Will Be Directed Where and How To Get the Document If It Is Not In Your Possession.
YOURS FAITHFULLY,
FBI Director ROBERT S. MUELLER III
Whoa, how did you know I might not have the document in my possession? Oh yeah, I forgot: you’re the FBI. You guys are good.
ANTI-TERRORIST AND MONITARY CRIMES DIVISION
FBI HEADQUARTERS IN WASHINGTON, D.C.
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION
J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING 935
PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, NW WASHINGTON,
D.C. 20535-0001
TEL+1-202-324-3447
ATTENTION: Beneficiary
This Is An Official Advice From The FBI, Foreign Remittance/Telegraphic Dept. (FRTD), It Has Come To Our Notice That The (Central Bank of Nigeria) C.B.N and there local Banks in Nigeria Has Released Your Full Inheritance/Contract Payment Of 10,000,000 U.S Dollars Into Bank Of America In Your Name As The Beneficiary as there Corresponding Bank USA.
TEN MILLION DOLLARS!!! Excellent. That would certainly take some of the pressure off.
The Bank In Africa Knowing Fully Well That They Do Not Have Enough Facilities To Effect This Payment From Europe To Your Account and they Used What We Know As A Secret Diplomatic Transit Payment S.T.D.P To Pay This Fund Through Wire Transfer.
Wait a minute.....Europe? But I thought the money was coming from Nigeria. Still, who am I to argue. I mean, come on, it’s TEN MILLION DOLLARS!
They Are Still Waiting For Final Confirmation From You On The Already Transferred Funds, To Enable Them Crediting Into Your Account Accordingly.
No problem. What do they need to know?
Secret Diplomatic Transfer Payment Are Normally Funds Related To Drug/Terrorist And Money Laundry System Of Payment
Oh. Thanks for the heads-up.
Silly question, maybe, but if they are *secret* diplomatic transfer payments, how do you kn......? Wait, never mind. I forgot you’re the FBI. Of course you're meant to know about secret stuff.
Why Must Your Payment Be Made In Such Secret Transfer, If Your Transaction Is Legitimate And Not Related To Drug/Terrorist And Money Laundry, Why Can't The Bank In Africa Via Europe Effect Direct Transfer Into Your Account Than Secret Diplomatic Payment Transfer.
That's a very good question. Although I’m not sure I like your tone.
Due To The Increased Difficulties And Unnecessary Scrutiny By The American Authorities When Funds Come From Through Such Payment Process From Europe, Africa And Middle East, Based On The Records We Had In The Past Always Identified Such Method Of Payment As Drug/ Terrorist/Money Laundry Funds, To Avoid Problem With The Us Government
Better safe than sorry, I suppose, although it does seem a little unduly harsh on all of the legitimate secret diplomats.
As Soon As These Funds Reflect In Your Account In The U.S.A, It Is Our Mandatory Obligations To Ascertain The Documentation And Certification Of This Funds Before The Final Crediting Into Your Account.
Well, since it’s mandatory.......
We Advice You Contact Us Immediately, As The Funds Have Been Stopped And Held In Our Custody Pending When You Were Able To Provide Us With A Diplomatic Immunity Seal Of Transfer (Dist) and letter of indemnity Clearance Certificate Within 24hours From The United Nation International Fund Monitory Unit (UNIFMU) That Authorize The Transfer And Certified That The Funds Originated From Africa And Middle East Is Free From Terrorist/Drug And Money Laundry Or We Shall Confiscate The Payment.
Good advice. Let me see if I can remember where I put those.
We Will Allow the Funds to Be Release into Your nominated Account Immediately You Make Provision the Required Document. You Will Be Directed Where and How To Get the Document If It Is Not In Your Possession.
YOURS FAITHFULLY,
FBI Director ROBERT S. MUELLER III
Whoa, how did you know I might not have the document in my possession? Oh yeah, I forgot: you’re the FBI. You guys are good.
Tuesday 13 April 2010
Just Not Cricket
This conversation happened last night:
Me (looking out of the window): Gosh, Lord's really is a lot smaller than I thought it would be.
My friend Tim: Er, that's not the actual pitch. It's just where they practice.
Me: Oh. (long pause) So, this wine is nice, isn't it?
which tells you all you need to know, I think, about my grasp of cricket.
If you know Lord's, incidentally, we were in the Nursery Pavillion, which overlooks the Nursery Ground. If you don't know Lord's, the Nursery Ground is where they do drills and things (what do you mean, that's not a proper cricketing term?) and some minor club teams play there sometimes. It looks like this:
This picture doesn't do anything to show how small it was, in fact it looks bigger here than it did in real life. Stupid picture. Or, more accurately, badly chosen picture which I don't have time to replace. You'll just have to believe me when I say: the Nursery Ground is pretty small. (Yes, yes, I know: the clue is in the name. I see that now. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.).
Anyway, back to the wine. It was all from Portugal, where they make nicer wine than you might think, but don't export a lot of it (nearly all of the producers I spoke to were still trying to find UK agents to sell on their behalf) which is a shame. Did you know, by the way, that Cliff Richard owns a vinyard in Portugal? Me neither. I do now, although I didn't get to try any of his wine. I am now fighting the urge to make a lame joke about mistletoe. I did try lots of other wine, and some particularly spectacular white port. (Still fighting the urge, with every fibre of my being, but it's a struggle. Be warned.)
So, I saw less interesting parts of Lord's than I thought I would last night, but 'less interesting' is a relative term and the wine was less 'less interesting', so I'm not too worried. Plus, the media centre, which looks a bit like a giant space-ship, is quite cool.
Here's a photo:
Me (looking out of the window): Gosh, Lord's really is a lot smaller than I thought it would be.
My friend Tim: Er, that's not the actual pitch. It's just where they practice.
Me: Oh. (long pause) So, this wine is nice, isn't it?
which tells you all you need to know, I think, about my grasp of cricket.
If you know Lord's, incidentally, we were in the Nursery Pavillion, which overlooks the Nursery Ground. If you don't know Lord's, the Nursery Ground is where they do drills and things (what do you mean, that's not a proper cricketing term?) and some minor club teams play there sometimes. It looks like this:
This picture doesn't do anything to show how small it was, in fact it looks bigger here than it did in real life. Stupid picture. Or, more accurately, badly chosen picture which I don't have time to replace. You'll just have to believe me when I say: the Nursery Ground is pretty small. (Yes, yes, I know: the clue is in the name. I see that now. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.).
Anyway, back to the wine. It was all from Portugal, where they make nicer wine than you might think, but don't export a lot of it (nearly all of the producers I spoke to were still trying to find UK agents to sell on their behalf) which is a shame. Did you know, by the way, that Cliff Richard owns a vinyard in Portugal? Me neither. I do now, although I didn't get to try any of his wine. I am now fighting the urge to make a lame joke about mistletoe. I did try lots of other wine, and some particularly spectacular white port. (Still fighting the urge, with every fibre of my being, but it's a struggle. Be warned.)
So, I saw less interesting parts of Lord's than I thought I would last night, but 'less interesting' is a relative term and the wine was less 'less interesting', so I'm not too worried. Plus, the media centre, which looks a bit like a giant space-ship, is quite cool.
Here's a photo:
It's not the media centre at Lord's (you'll have to Google that) but it does also looks a bit like a spaceship, and it reminded me that I have a ton of 'here's a cool building / sign / whatever ' photos from New York I still haven't got around to posting yet.
Monday 12 April 2010
Tonight (Matthew) I'm going to be.....
.......tasting wine (and by 'tasting' I mean 'drinking', because my Mum always taught me it was rude to spit) at Lord's Cricket Ground. Which is a much nicer and all together more sensible thing to be doing at Lords than watching cricket is, if you ask me, but that's just me.
No particular reason for mentioning this, really, but I'm in a rush. Also, since blogging is proving quite a handy distraction from doing the boring but necessary tasks which it was meant to be keeping me accountable for in the first place, I'm keeping it brief this week. At least that's the plan.
No particular reason for mentioning this, really, but I'm in a rush. Also, since blogging is proving quite a handy distraction from doing the boring but necessary tasks which it was meant to be keeping me accountable for in the first place, I'm keeping it brief this week. At least that's the plan.
Sunday 11 April 2010
Anyone know a good tattoo artist?
Spotted this on goodreads.com earlier today, and I think it may just be my favourite review of anything, ever: "Requires some skimming, but still, I would have parts of this book tattooed on my body."
The book in question is The Journal of Jules Renard and I haven't read it but I really want to. Jules Renard was a French writer, more specifically this one:
Somerset Maugham was a fan: he enjoyed the journal so much that it inspired him to publish A Writer's Notebook, but not so much that he got a tattoo. Like most of what I know about Jules Renard, which is not much so far, I read this on Wikipedia, so I suppose I ought to say (through grittted teeth, becuase I like Wikipedia and think it gets a bad rap, but that's for another time) that you may want to double check if you are relying on the information in a life-or-death situation (unlikely). Also, I'm only guessing about the tattoo.
What I do know about Jules Renard is that I like some of the things he has to say about writing. I've mentioned this before, but today I saw him quoted again, which got me curious enough to find out more about him, which is how I discovered he published a journal, and why I looked at goodreads.com, and.....well, now here we are, talking about tattoos. There are more of his quotes here, if you're planning on getting inked any time soon.
I had forgotten how much I like good quotes. I first started collecting them (metaphorically, not on various body parts) as a teenager, embroiled in the heady and ultra-competitive world of interschool debating. At 15 we took our debating, like most things, very,very seriously: it was more or less a blood sport and some carefully chosen witty words from someone dead famous (sorry, dead and famous) were our weapons of choice. Even better if she was a dead and famous woman (we were feminists, after all).
The bloodiest battles of all were waged against a team from the local boys' school, who raised the stakes when they literally invented an entirely fictional 19th century Baron. He had quite a back story, which developed as time went on, but his main occupation seemed to be making wise and profound statements which, coincidentally, summed up their entire argument in one foul (and, I can't emphasise this enough, fictional) swoop. Geography and hormones alone probably would have made for a fair amount of friendly rivalry, but with the invention of the Baron, those boys became our nemesises (nemesee? nemesii? whatever...) It still irks me, ever so slightly, that they used to win more than us. Also, that they had the idea first.
The book in question is The Journal of Jules Renard and I haven't read it but I really want to. Jules Renard was a French writer, more specifically this one:
Somerset Maugham was a fan: he enjoyed the journal so much that it inspired him to publish A Writer's Notebook, but not so much that he got a tattoo. Like most of what I know about Jules Renard, which is not much so far, I read this on Wikipedia, so I suppose I ought to say (through grittted teeth, becuase I like Wikipedia and think it gets a bad rap, but that's for another time) that you may want to double check if you are relying on the information in a life-or-death situation (unlikely). Also, I'm only guessing about the tattoo.
What I do know about Jules Renard is that I like some of the things he has to say about writing. I've mentioned this before, but today I saw him quoted again, which got me curious enough to find out more about him, which is how I discovered he published a journal, and why I looked at goodreads.com, and.....well, now here we are, talking about tattoos. There are more of his quotes here, if you're planning on getting inked any time soon.
I had forgotten how much I like good quotes. I first started collecting them (metaphorically, not on various body parts) as a teenager, embroiled in the heady and ultra-competitive world of interschool debating. At 15 we took our debating, like most things, very,very seriously: it was more or less a blood sport and some carefully chosen witty words from someone dead famous (sorry, dead and famous) were our weapons of choice. Even better if she was a dead and famous woman (we were feminists, after all).
The bloodiest battles of all were waged against a team from the local boys' school, who raised the stakes when they literally invented an entirely fictional 19th century Baron. He had quite a back story, which developed as time went on, but his main occupation seemed to be making wise and profound statements which, coincidentally, summed up their entire argument in one foul (and, I can't emphasise this enough, fictional) swoop. Geography and hormones alone probably would have made for a fair amount of friendly rivalry, but with the invention of the Baron, those boys became our nemesises (nemesee? nemesii? whatever...) It still irks me, ever so slightly, that they used to win more than us. Also, that they had the idea first.
Saturday 10 April 2010
I don't care much for Torry-Ann (pt 2)
I've worked out why, now.
Early in my teaching career, a boy who I'll call Jamie (not his real name) joined my class. He was brought into the classroom on his first day of school by his Aunty Alice (also not her real name) who told me that Jamie, age 9, was one of a set of triplets. His parents had just decided that three children were harder work than they thought, and that they'd keep the girls, thank you very much, but they didn't really fancy being Jamie's parents any more. Alice, who wasn’t actually his Aunt, but knew the family, was looking after him instead.
It wasn't an official adoption or fostering arrangement, for reasons I can't quite remember and am not sure I ever really knew in the first place. Nevertheless, Jamie lived with Alice and she was the one who brought him to school, and picked him up, and packed his lunch, and took him to the doctor, and made him do his homework and took on all of the other duties and decisions that are part of parenthood. If there was an issue, or Jamie got into trouble, it was Alice who came in to see me.
Alice came in to see me a lot that year. Jamie, you see, had fairly severe attention deficit disorder, plus a very short temper, and a tendency to hit anyone who annoyed him. A killer combination. It meant that the other kids in the class learnt quite quickly (certainly a lot more quickly than they learnt most of the things I was trying to teach them) that they could get a reaction out of him. And, because that’s exactly the kind of thing that nine-year-olds, especially en masse, tend to find hilariously funny, Jamie had a tough time.
I am not saying that he was never at fault, or that he was easy to manage. He was, a lot of the time, a complete pain in the neck. But, after teaching hundreds of kids (and by teaching I mean sorting out arguments between, which is something you spend a lot more time doing than you might think as a primary school teacher) I don’t think I have seen one as genuinely sorry for his behaviour as Jamie was when he realised that he had done something wrong. Usually the penny dropped much too late, but once he had calmed down after whatever catastrophe had erupted, the realisation that he had done the wrong thing would smack him in the face, and he’d become distraught, often devastated by his own actions. He accepted punishments graciously, and did his best to make amends. Jamie was hard work, but he was a good kid.
He was particularly good, or at least he tried to be, if it was a Friday. On Fridays he would arrive at school almost bouncing out of his skin with excitement, and all day long he walked a bit taller, almost fell over himself to be helpful and polite, and practically turned purple from the extra effort he was making to concentrate on his work and stay out of trouble. The strain would be written all over his face. The reason for this was simple: Friday was the day that Alice took Jamie to go and stay with his parents and sisters for the weekend.
The weekend never went as planned, and inevitably the Jamie who arrived at school most Monday mornings was, at only nine years old, a broken man. He would arrive silently and trail slowly behind Alice, wearing his disappointment like a weighted vest. Alice would tell me that she’d taken Jamie to his mum and dad’s house, and that he’d managed to get into trouble or that he’d fought with his sisters too much, or something else had gone wrong, and that his parents had sent him back to her early. She’d leave, looking anxious, and we’d try and cope with the rest of the day.
Some Mondays, Jamie was just a bit sad and forlorn, other times he was a tense, simmering ball of anger and resentment. Either way, it was a rare Monday if he hadn’t managed to get into some kind of scrape or bust-up with someone before morning break. We’d deal with it, and he’d face the consequences and move on, and by the time the following Friday had arrived, he’d be bouncing with excitement and full of expectation all over again. As he left school you could practically see the big thought bubble appearing over his head: If I’m really good this time, they might let me stay.
We muddled through the rest of the school year like this, and he came back the following year to muddle through year 6, all the while still living with his Aunty Alice. Thanks to her, he coped. But it couldn’t have been easy, and it certainly wasn’t fair.
I thought about Jamie when I read the story of Torry-Ann Hansen, and the little Russian boy she decided she didn’t want any more. I can accept that it must have been a difficult decision to make, and that she may have had her reasons, and that there could me more to the story than we’ve been told. But I can’t accept that it is, in any sense, fair.
Early in my teaching career, a boy who I'll call Jamie (not his real name) joined my class. He was brought into the classroom on his first day of school by his Aunty Alice (also not her real name) who told me that Jamie, age 9, was one of a set of triplets. His parents had just decided that three children were harder work than they thought, and that they'd keep the girls, thank you very much, but they didn't really fancy being Jamie's parents any more. Alice, who wasn’t actually his Aunt, but knew the family, was looking after him instead.
It wasn't an official adoption or fostering arrangement, for reasons I can't quite remember and am not sure I ever really knew in the first place. Nevertheless, Jamie lived with Alice and she was the one who brought him to school, and picked him up, and packed his lunch, and took him to the doctor, and made him do his homework and took on all of the other duties and decisions that are part of parenthood. If there was an issue, or Jamie got into trouble, it was Alice who came in to see me.
Alice came in to see me a lot that year. Jamie, you see, had fairly severe attention deficit disorder, plus a very short temper, and a tendency to hit anyone who annoyed him. A killer combination. It meant that the other kids in the class learnt quite quickly (certainly a lot more quickly than they learnt most of the things I was trying to teach them) that they could get a reaction out of him. And, because that’s exactly the kind of thing that nine-year-olds, especially en masse, tend to find hilariously funny, Jamie had a tough time.
I am not saying that he was never at fault, or that he was easy to manage. He was, a lot of the time, a complete pain in the neck. But, after teaching hundreds of kids (and by teaching I mean sorting out arguments between, which is something you spend a lot more time doing than you might think as a primary school teacher) I don’t think I have seen one as genuinely sorry for his behaviour as Jamie was when he realised that he had done something wrong. Usually the penny dropped much too late, but once he had calmed down after whatever catastrophe had erupted, the realisation that he had done the wrong thing would smack him in the face, and he’d become distraught, often devastated by his own actions. He accepted punishments graciously, and did his best to make amends. Jamie was hard work, but he was a good kid.
He was particularly good, or at least he tried to be, if it was a Friday. On Fridays he would arrive at school almost bouncing out of his skin with excitement, and all day long he walked a bit taller, almost fell over himself to be helpful and polite, and practically turned purple from the extra effort he was making to concentrate on his work and stay out of trouble. The strain would be written all over his face. The reason for this was simple: Friday was the day that Alice took Jamie to go and stay with his parents and sisters for the weekend.
The weekend never went as planned, and inevitably the Jamie who arrived at school most Monday mornings was, at only nine years old, a broken man. He would arrive silently and trail slowly behind Alice, wearing his disappointment like a weighted vest. Alice would tell me that she’d taken Jamie to his mum and dad’s house, and that he’d managed to get into trouble or that he’d fought with his sisters too much, or something else had gone wrong, and that his parents had sent him back to her early. She’d leave, looking anxious, and we’d try and cope with the rest of the day.
Some Mondays, Jamie was just a bit sad and forlorn, other times he was a tense, simmering ball of anger and resentment. Either way, it was a rare Monday if he hadn’t managed to get into some kind of scrape or bust-up with someone before morning break. We’d deal with it, and he’d face the consequences and move on, and by the time the following Friday had arrived, he’d be bouncing with excitement and full of expectation all over again. As he left school you could practically see the big thought bubble appearing over his head: If I’m really good this time, they might let me stay.
We muddled through the rest of the school year like this, and he came back the following year to muddle through year 6, all the while still living with his Aunty Alice. Thanks to her, he coped. But it couldn’t have been easy, and it certainly wasn’t fair.
I thought about Jamie when I read the story of Torry-Ann Hansen, and the little Russian boy she decided she didn’t want any more. I can accept that it must have been a difficult decision to make, and that she may have had her reasons, and that there could me more to the story than we’ve been told. But I can’t accept that it is, in any sense, fair.
Friday 9 April 2010
I don't care much for Torry-Ann
There's probably a snappy title somewhere in this, along the lines of no return policies or similar. But I'm not in the mood for jokes. It's my own fault, really, and I should have known better to click on this headline. My blood is still boiling.
Basically, an American woman called Torry-Ann Hansen adopted a seven-year old Russian boy and he went to go and live with her in Tenessee. So far so good. Then, six months later she decided she couldn't cope with his bad behaviour, and didn't want to be his mother after all. So she sent him back. On a plane, on his own, with a note. Also with (and I include this information purely in the interests of fair reporting, which is more than Torry-Ann deserves, if you ask me) some colouring pencils and snacks.
The snacks and stationery don't do a lot to change my opinion of Torry-Ann, but maybe that's just me. There's also a reason that this particular story has hit a raw nerve, which I am still sorting out in my head and which I may post later. For now let it be known: I don't know that much about Torry-Ann Hansen. But I do know that I don't care for her much.
Basically, an American woman called Torry-Ann Hansen adopted a seven-year old Russian boy and he went to go and live with her in Tenessee. So far so good. Then, six months later she decided she couldn't cope with his bad behaviour, and didn't want to be his mother after all. So she sent him back. On a plane, on his own, with a note. Also with (and I include this information purely in the interests of fair reporting, which is more than Torry-Ann deserves, if you ask me) some colouring pencils and snacks.
The snacks and stationery don't do a lot to change my opinion of Torry-Ann, but maybe that's just me. There's also a reason that this particular story has hit a raw nerve, which I am still sorting out in my head and which I may post later. For now let it be known: I don't know that much about Torry-Ann Hansen. But I do know that I don't care for her much.
Thursday 8 April 2010
Swans *probably* have teeth
I was talking to a friend last night who swears they do. Now I'm not saying I didn't believe her, but I have just Googled "do swans have teeth". Just because, you know, I was curious.
The first result was from WikiAnswers, where someone had conveniently asked the exact same question that I had (I love it when a plan comes together!). This was the answer:
Yes swans do have teeth. i have a picture with a swans mouth open trying to bite and it clearly shows they have teeth.
I would dearly love to see that picture.
The first result was from WikiAnswers, where someone had conveniently asked the exact same question that I had (I love it when a plan comes together!). This was the answer:
Yes swans do have teeth. i have a picture with a swans mouth open trying to bite and it clearly shows they have teeth.
I would dearly love to see that picture.
Wednesday 7 April 2010
Zombies, balloons and the NHS have more in common that you might think
Edited: May 2020
I wrote this post a long, long time ago. At the time, it did accurately reflect my feelings about Twitter, and various other people who were using it as a platform.
A lot has changed since then. Twitter is a very different place than it once was, and there are certain individuals in particular who use it in ways I feel very uncomfortable about, and certainly would never condone.
In fact, at the start of this year, I would have told you that this post was describing a version of Twitter which was completely unrecognisable to me. It definitely wasn't a place I could say I really, really loved. It was no longer even a place I even liked, very much, and was somewhere I was starting to actively avoid.
And then the Covid-19 pandemic hit. If there are any silver linings to be found in the current situation - and I do think it's important to seek those out - one of them is that Twitter has, in very broad terms, become a lot less toxic again. I don't think we're anywhere near that warm, lovely heyday from over a decade ago, but over the last few months I have started to witness, and become directly involved in, the types of conversations I used to know and love - full of wit, wisdom, joy, generosity, kindness, and sometimes just downright silliness. It has been really, really, nice.
So I do stand by most of what I wrote in this post. But not all of it. In particular, the specific Twitter account I mention in the final paragraph is being used in a very different way now from how it once was, and is an account I not only no longer follow but have also muted. Of all of the changes I've seen on Twitter in the last decade, I think this is the one I find most baffling, and which I am the saddest about. And while I know it's unlikely that anyone will read, or care about, how I felt about this over a decade ago - even if they do stumble across this post - I'd still like to distance myself from the sentiments expressed in that final paragraph.
I discovered the other day, through means which will eventually become clear, that this blog has an actual, proper, someone-who-isn't-me reader. (Hello Paul, if you are still here.) I was quite excited.
The means-which-will-soon-become-clear involved the wonderful world of Twitter. "Wonderful world of" might sound a bit glib, but it isn't meant to. I genuinely do really, really love Twitter. A lot. Partly I love the fact that it has given clever, creative people a new platfom to play with, and as a result they've made lots of silly things. (I imagine (and really, really, hope) there are more of these I have yet to discover. The possibilities are endless.)
Also, hashtag games are fun. And through people I follow I've picked up some brilliant recomendations for films, and music, and blogs, and books, and articles, and restaurants and iPhone apps, and......well, you get my point. I follow some very funny people, and I've laughed out loud at their tweets and RTs. I've seen behind the scenes of some of my favourite TV shows. I've found some great writing advice. I've heard about work opportunities and bought my current favourite t-shirt. (If you clicked, that's not my actual t-shirt by the way. There's a different design each day and for all I know the one you have just looked at could have been horrible. The one I bought was *much* cooler (probably)).
Becuase there are, unbelievably, more important things in the world than the contents of my wardrobe, I'm also really glad that stuff like the #WeLoveTheNHS campaign and, to a lesser extent, the Jan Moir/Stephen Gately backlash, happen on Twitter. These, in my book, were both Very Good Things. (For the most part, anway, in the case of JM/SG).
Basically, from what I've seen, Twitter is bursting at the seams with Very Good Things. As a general rule, people who tweet seem to be kind, and witty, and wise, and warm, and helpful, and generous, and funny, and in posession of a fair amount of common sense. (What would an unfair amount of common sense be, I wonder?)
I know that I'm making a massive generalisation (always dangerous, making generalisations, absolutely always) and that there are some exceptions to this. And yes, there have been some well documented and pretty unpleasant 'Twitter Wars', (I'm not linking to them here: what's the point?) and yes, sometimes people set up fake accounts claiming to be other people and the other people they are claiming to be don't like that very much (who can blame them?).
I've noticed, though, that the people who do try and inject the occasional bit of nastiness tend to get shouted down pretty quickly. Usually, more politely than in some other online environments. (Once again, I know I'm generalising massively here. It's still always wrong to do so. Are we sick of this joke yet? No? That's lucky.)
Maybe if I was a famous celebrity (I'm not) who had thousands of followers (I don't) and a constant stream of @replies (ditto) I'd come into contact with more of the ugly stuff than I do now. I'd like to think though, that proportionally I wouldn't. There is very little chance I'll ever test out this theory.
So for now, I'm very happy to keep believing that the Twitter world is, by and large, a shiny happy place, full of pretty decent people, where goodness and common sense rule the land. That's exactly my kind of town.
Mainly what I love about Twitter is this: I dip in daily, and in doing so have seen hundreds, if not thousands of tweets from people answering questions, giving advice, speaking words of encouragement, sharing jokes, offering sympathy, retweeting charity requests, and doing all sorts of other lovely, lovely things for no obvious reward. Often for people they don't know. Occasionally, for me. I know this sort of stuff goes on in the real world too. But with Twitter you get to see a lot more of it in a much shorter space of time. It's like a shot of espresso to the soul.
I have been thinking about all of this ever since Monday, when a complete stranger not only offered me advice about a fairly mundane, domestic issue I was dealing with (broken toaster, since you ask) but then went on to say some really kind words in response to some of the things I have been blogging (more to the point, moaning) about lately. Like I say, there are many Very Good Things to be found on Twitter. My first actual, proper, someone-who-isn't-me reader is definitely one of them.
The NHS campaign, by the way, was masterminded by the brilliant Graham Linehan, whose tweets were also the source of a couple of of the recommendations mentioned earlier. (See if you can spot which ones. Or don't. It's up to you, really.). I have him to thank for a lot of things, not the least of which is the ridiculous title of this post.
I wrote this post a long, long time ago. At the time, it did accurately reflect my feelings about Twitter, and various other people who were using it as a platform.
A lot has changed since then. Twitter is a very different place than it once was, and there are certain individuals in particular who use it in ways I feel very uncomfortable about, and certainly would never condone.
In fact, at the start of this year, I would have told you that this post was describing a version of Twitter which was completely unrecognisable to me. It definitely wasn't a place I could say I really, really loved. It was no longer even a place I even liked, very much, and was somewhere I was starting to actively avoid.
And then the Covid-19 pandemic hit. If there are any silver linings to be found in the current situation - and I do think it's important to seek those out - one of them is that Twitter has, in very broad terms, become a lot less toxic again. I don't think we're anywhere near that warm, lovely heyday from over a decade ago, but over the last few months I have started to witness, and become directly involved in, the types of conversations I used to know and love - full of wit, wisdom, joy, generosity, kindness, and sometimes just downright silliness. It has been really, really, nice.
So I do stand by most of what I wrote in this post. But not all of it. In particular, the specific Twitter account I mention in the final paragraph is being used in a very different way now from how it once was, and is an account I not only no longer follow but have also muted. Of all of the changes I've seen on Twitter in the last decade, I think this is the one I find most baffling, and which I am the saddest about. And while I know it's unlikely that anyone will read, or care about, how I felt about this over a decade ago - even if they do stumble across this post - I'd still like to distance myself from the sentiments expressed in that final paragraph.
I discovered the other day, through means which will eventually become clear, that this blog has an actual, proper, someone-who-isn't-me reader. (Hello Paul, if you are still here.) I was quite excited.
The means-which-will-soon-become-clear involved the wonderful world of Twitter. "Wonderful world of" might sound a bit glib, but it isn't meant to. I genuinely do really, really love Twitter. A lot. Partly I love the fact that it has given clever, creative people a new platfom to play with, and as a result they've made lots of silly things. (I imagine (and really, really, hope) there are more of these I have yet to discover. The possibilities are endless.)
Also, hashtag games are fun. And through people I follow I've picked up some brilliant recomendations for films, and music, and blogs, and books, and articles, and restaurants and iPhone apps, and......well, you get my point. I follow some very funny people, and I've laughed out loud at their tweets and RTs. I've seen behind the scenes of some of my favourite TV shows. I've found some great writing advice. I've heard about work opportunities and bought my current favourite t-shirt. (If you clicked, that's not my actual t-shirt by the way. There's a different design each day and for all I know the one you have just looked at could have been horrible. The one I bought was *much* cooler (probably)).
Becuase there are, unbelievably, more important things in the world than the contents of my wardrobe, I'm also really glad that stuff like the #WeLoveTheNHS campaign and, to a lesser extent, the Jan Moir/Stephen Gately backlash, happen on Twitter. These, in my book, were both Very Good Things. (For the most part, anway, in the case of JM/SG).
Basically, from what I've seen, Twitter is bursting at the seams with Very Good Things. As a general rule, people who tweet seem to be kind, and witty, and wise, and warm, and helpful, and generous, and funny, and in posession of a fair amount of common sense. (What would an unfair amount of common sense be, I wonder?)
I know that I'm making a massive generalisation (always dangerous, making generalisations, absolutely always) and that there are some exceptions to this. And yes, there have been some well documented and pretty unpleasant 'Twitter Wars', (I'm not linking to them here: what's the point?) and yes, sometimes people set up fake accounts claiming to be other people and the other people they are claiming to be don't like that very much (who can blame them?).
I've noticed, though, that the people who do try and inject the occasional bit of nastiness tend to get shouted down pretty quickly. Usually, more politely than in some other online environments. (Once again, I know I'm generalising massively here. It's still always wrong to do so. Are we sick of this joke yet? No? That's lucky.)
Maybe if I was a famous celebrity (I'm not) who had thousands of followers (I don't) and a constant stream of @replies (ditto) I'd come into contact with more of the ugly stuff than I do now. I'd like to think though, that proportionally I wouldn't. There is very little chance I'll ever test out this theory.
So for now, I'm very happy to keep believing that the Twitter world is, by and large, a shiny happy place, full of pretty decent people, where goodness and common sense rule the land. That's exactly my kind of town.
Mainly what I love about Twitter is this: I dip in daily, and in doing so have seen hundreds, if not thousands of tweets from people answering questions, giving advice, speaking words of encouragement, sharing jokes, offering sympathy, retweeting charity requests, and doing all sorts of other lovely, lovely things for no obvious reward. Often for people they don't know. Occasionally, for me. I know this sort of stuff goes on in the real world too. But with Twitter you get to see a lot more of it in a much shorter space of time. It's like a shot of espresso to the soul.
I have been thinking about all of this ever since Monday, when a complete stranger not only offered me advice about a fairly mundane, domestic issue I was dealing with (broken toaster, since you ask) but then went on to say some really kind words in response to some of the things I have been blogging (more to the point, moaning) about lately. Like I say, there are many Very Good Things to be found on Twitter. My first actual, proper, someone-who-isn't-me reader is definitely one of them.
The NHS campaign, by the way, was masterminded by the brilliant Graham Linehan, whose tweets were also the source of a couple of of the recommendations mentioned earlier. (See if you can spot which ones. Or don't. It's up to you, really.). I have him to thank for a lot of things, not the least of which is the ridiculous title of this post.
Tuesday 6 April 2010
They're singing our song
I'm off to the hairdresser in a bit. Now that you know that, you can probably guess that fairly recently I thought to myself "I really need to get a haircut". What you won't know, though, is that then my brain instantly and automatically went "and get a real job". Just like it always does when I think I ought to get a haircut. (If you don't know why, then clearly you are missing this in your life.)
For some reason today it tickled me more than usual, probably becuase I do, as it happens, need to get both a haircut and a job. it's not often you find yourself in a situation which can be described exactly, and literally, by a song title. Sometimes it doesn't take much to tickle me. It also made me think. Surely there must be loads more songs like this.
Imagine a short break here, while I walk half way down the hall towards where my iPod is docked, realise I could just look at iTunes on this computer without having to undock my iPod and interrupt the Stereophonics*, then turn around again and walk back to my laptop where I have a quick flick through my iTunes library for inspiration. Isn't time travel fun?
Guess what? There are.
My favourite, so far, is Sophie Ellis Bextor's Murder on the Dancefloor which, you will be glad to know, for me *isn't* a Song Title Which Exactly And Literally Describes The Situation. (I hope that's true for most people). But if I happened to be called Lola and was a showgirl-with-feathers-in-my-hair-and-a-dress-cut-down-to-there, it absolutely would be.
Others I have spotted so far, leaving aside the obvious ones (I Don't Like Mondays too generic, You're So Vain too much of a cliche) include Everything's Not Lost by Coldplay: mainly because I sorted out the cupboard where my immersion heater is this morning so that the plumber could get to it, and found my favourite jumper and several missing shoes. Result.
Also, A Whiter Shade of Pale is the colour of my walls, which were, when I first moved into my flat, more an off-white kind of colour (because I re-painted them proper white, not because I cleaned them freakishly well or anything).
I've often thought that one of the best jobs in the world would be to be the person who gets to decide which music to play over which part of films and TV shows. I'm sure, like most jobs, it's not always as fun as it seems, but still. I'd give it a go. And I'm thinking this could be a novel approach.
Right, I'm not done with these yet, but I need to send a couple of emails before I go to the hairdresser. So, as Flight of the Conchords would say, It's Business Time. And I do mean that literally.
*Caravan Holiday, in case you were wondering, which doesn't describe what I'm doing in the slightest. Although I quite wish it was.
For some reason today it tickled me more than usual, probably becuase I do, as it happens, need to get both a haircut and a job. it's not often you find yourself in a situation which can be described exactly, and literally, by a song title. Sometimes it doesn't take much to tickle me. It also made me think. Surely there must be loads more songs like this.
Imagine a short break here, while I walk half way down the hall towards where my iPod is docked, realise I could just look at iTunes on this computer without having to undock my iPod and interrupt the Stereophonics*, then turn around again and walk back to my laptop where I have a quick flick through my iTunes library for inspiration. Isn't time travel fun?
Guess what? There are.
My favourite, so far, is Sophie Ellis Bextor's Murder on the Dancefloor which, you will be glad to know, for me *isn't* a Song Title Which Exactly And Literally Describes The Situation. (I hope that's true for most people). But if I happened to be called Lola and was a showgirl-with-feathers-in-my-hair-and-a-dress-cut-down-to-there, it absolutely would be.
Others I have spotted so far, leaving aside the obvious ones (I Don't Like Mondays too generic, You're So Vain too much of a cliche) include Everything's Not Lost by Coldplay: mainly because I sorted out the cupboard where my immersion heater is this morning so that the plumber could get to it, and found my favourite jumper and several missing shoes. Result.
Also, A Whiter Shade of Pale is the colour of my walls, which were, when I first moved into my flat, more an off-white kind of colour (because I re-painted them proper white, not because I cleaned them freakishly well or anything).
I've often thought that one of the best jobs in the world would be to be the person who gets to decide which music to play over which part of films and TV shows. I'm sure, like most jobs, it's not always as fun as it seems, but still. I'd give it a go. And I'm thinking this could be a novel approach.
Right, I'm not done with these yet, but I need to send a couple of emails before I go to the hairdresser. So, as Flight of the Conchords would say, It's Business Time. And I do mean that literally.
*Caravan Holiday, in case you were wondering, which doesn't describe what I'm doing in the slightest. Although I quite wish it was.
Monday 5 April 2010
I am not going to moan*
Despite the evidence of the last couple of posts, I am determined not to let this become an outlet for self-pity, annoying whining, or woe-is-me tales about how crap life can be sometimes.
So with that in mind, I'm not going to tell you how today has, so far, only been marginally more productive than yesterday. Or that my toaster died this morning. Or even mention my pathetic lack of progress with DIY jobs/course application/insert-any-useful-activity-you-can-think of.
Just so you know.
Instead, here are some things that have cheered me up today:
1. David on this week's Come Dine With Me: "I'm giving Sharon a nine. Because I love Sharon, and I think she's great, and I'd give her absolutely anything. Except a ten." (I'm paraphrasing slightly, but that was the gist of it. He was quite drunk, I think.)
2. I am reading The Diary of a Provincial Lady for the first, but definitely (and I know this already) not the last time. It is literally impossible to stay in a bad mood while reading this book. I only wish I had discovered it sooner.
In a nut-shell, the PL is slightly self-depreciating, worried about what others think, and on a constant mission of self improvement. A married, 1930s upper-midle-class version of Bridget Jones, basically. The diary is full of her 'note-to-self' type memos, and brilliantly wry, witty observations about day to day country life, some of which are just glorious:
"Am asked what I think of Hariet Hume but am unable to say as I have not read it.
Have a depressed feeling that this is going to be another case of Orlando about which
was perfectly able to talk intelligently until I read it"
"Think of several rather tart and witty rejoinders to this, but not until Lady B.'s Bentley
has taken her away."
"Feel that life is wholly unendurable, and decide madly to get a new hat"
I know how she feels, sometimes.
3. The dancing duck (I think? It could be a goose or a chicken, I'm not sure. It's also not really relevant) on the Five Alive juice adverts. No particular reason, it's just funny.
Oh, I've just discovered, while searching for a video, that it's actually a dodo. For some reason I can't post the video here, but this should link to it.**
*much
** I wish to point out, this is not an endorsement. I have never actually, to my knowledge, tried 5 alive juices. They might be very nice. They also might not.
So with that in mind, I'm not going to tell you how today has, so far, only been marginally more productive than yesterday. Or that my toaster died this morning. Or even mention my pathetic lack of progress with DIY jobs/course application/insert-any-useful-activity-you-can-think of.
Just so you know.
Instead, here are some things that have cheered me up today:
1. David on this week's Come Dine With Me: "I'm giving Sharon a nine. Because I love Sharon, and I think she's great, and I'd give her absolutely anything. Except a ten." (I'm paraphrasing slightly, but that was the gist of it. He was quite drunk, I think.)
2. I am reading The Diary of a Provincial Lady for the first, but definitely (and I know this already) not the last time. It is literally impossible to stay in a bad mood while reading this book. I only wish I had discovered it sooner.
In a nut-shell, the PL is slightly self-depreciating, worried about what others think, and on a constant mission of self improvement. A married, 1930s upper-midle-class version of Bridget Jones, basically. The diary is full of her 'note-to-self' type memos, and brilliantly wry, witty observations about day to day country life, some of which are just glorious:
"Am asked what I think of Hariet Hume but am unable to say as I have not read it.
Have a depressed feeling that this is going to be another case of Orlando about which
was perfectly able to talk intelligently until I read it"
"Think of several rather tart and witty rejoinders to this, but not until Lady B.'s Bentley
has taken her away."
"Feel that life is wholly unendurable, and decide madly to get a new hat"
I know how she feels, sometimes.
3. The dancing duck (I think? It could be a goose or a chicken, I'm not sure. It's also not really relevant) on the Five Alive juice adverts. No particular reason, it's just funny.
Oh, I've just discovered, while searching for a video, that it's actually a dodo. For some reason I can't post the video here, but this should link to it.**
*much
** I wish to point out, this is not an endorsement. I have never actually, to my knowledge, tried 5 alive juices. They might be very nice. They also might not.
Sunday 4 April 2010
Sigh
Today has not been one of my finest days. In the absence of any Easter eggs, I devoured an entire box of Jaffa Cakes. This, I hasten to point out, happened over the course of the entire day, not in one sitting (which would have been far, far worse, right? Please tell me I'm right).
This wouldn't be so bad, were it not for the fact that this was quite literally the *only* thing I managed to achieve today. And when I say only, I mean it in the 'wasted the entire day doing nothing but flicking through TV channels and randomly surfing the internet, and didn't even realise until 4pm that I was still in my pyjamas' way, not in the 'only got through twelve of the twenty things on my 'to do' list' or 'still didn't get around to starting work on that award winning screenplay' kind of way.
There were lots of things I was meant to do today: finish my course application, for one, and deal with the consequences of a bookshelf that fell down last night, for another. (The constantly falling down bookshelves in my flat are a saga unto themselves, worthy of a separate post which may or may not eventually get written. And given the way today went, the latter is looking more likely).
I did pick up all of the books and put them away when the shelf came down yesterday, but there are still boring stupid DIY tasks, like filling the holes where the screws were, to do. These are just the latest additions to a growing list of boring stupid DIY tasks which need doing around my flat; none of which, it won't surprise you to learn, got done today either. I hate boring stupid DIY tasks.
So that was my day. And if you think, by blogging about it, I'm trying to shame myself back into kick-ass action mode tomorrow, you're absolutely right. On the bright side, at least there won't be any jaffa cakes left to distract me.
This wouldn't be so bad, were it not for the fact that this was quite literally the *only* thing I managed to achieve today. And when I say only, I mean it in the 'wasted the entire day doing nothing but flicking through TV channels and randomly surfing the internet, and didn't even realise until 4pm that I was still in my pyjamas' way, not in the 'only got through twelve of the twenty things on my 'to do' list' or 'still didn't get around to starting work on that award winning screenplay' kind of way.
There were lots of things I was meant to do today: finish my course application, for one, and deal with the consequences of a bookshelf that fell down last night, for another. (The constantly falling down bookshelves in my flat are a saga unto themselves, worthy of a separate post which may or may not eventually get written. And given the way today went, the latter is looking more likely).
I did pick up all of the books and put them away when the shelf came down yesterday, but there are still boring stupid DIY tasks, like filling the holes where the screws were, to do. These are just the latest additions to a growing list of boring stupid DIY tasks which need doing around my flat; none of which, it won't surprise you to learn, got done today either. I hate boring stupid DIY tasks.
So that was my day. And if you think, by blogging about it, I'm trying to shame myself back into kick-ass action mode tomorrow, you're absolutely right. On the bright side, at least there won't be any jaffa cakes left to distract me.
Thursday 1 April 2010
Been a while
I've not been here much, partly because of five days spent in Italy without any internet access, and mainly becuase the reality of having no work, and more importantly no income, has been scaring the bejesus out of me ever since I got back. I knew it would happen eventually, but panic has started to creep in and so I've been focusing on trying to sort out some actual, real, paid for work. It's not much fun. I've also been working on this; my shiny new, 'work' blog.
My job hunting efforts have included both specific applications and general enquiries, which I hate. The good news is a few balls have started rolling (I have an interview in a couple of weeks, for something I'm still not 100% sure about, but then I thought exactly the same thing going into the first interview for my most recent job, and left desperately wanting to work there. So who knows.) The bad news is that I have learnt I will do almost anything else at all instead of writing to strangers and saying "hey, wanna employ me?"
And I really do mean anything. Avoidance tactics I have deployed so far include cleaning the extractor fan in my kitchen, putting my entire CD collection into iTunes, and finally arranging a plumber to come and work out why I haven't hot water anywhere apart from in my shower for the entire three years I've owned my flat. (I still don't know yet, she is coming on Tuesday. I thought by calling a female plumber I'd feel less stupid admitting it has hever worked and has taken me this long to get around to getting it sorted out. As it turns out, I was wrong.)
My job hunting efforts have included both specific applications and general enquiries, which I hate. The good news is a few balls have started rolling (I have an interview in a couple of weeks, for something I'm still not 100% sure about, but then I thought exactly the same thing going into the first interview for my most recent job, and left desperately wanting to work there. So who knows.) The bad news is that I have learnt I will do almost anything else at all instead of writing to strangers and saying "hey, wanna employ me?"
And I really do mean anything. Avoidance tactics I have deployed so far include cleaning the extractor fan in my kitchen, putting my entire CD collection into iTunes, and finally arranging a plumber to come and work out why I haven't hot water anywhere apart from in my shower for the entire three years I've owned my flat. (I still don't know yet, she is coming on Tuesday. I thought by calling a female plumber I'd feel less stupid admitting it has hever worked and has taken me this long to get around to getting it sorted out. As it turns out, I was wrong.)
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