Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Sixth
Suddenly, there is a noise in the office. We half-heartedly look for the source and decide maybe it's the ducts, or something. Something up in that area. Then a female colleague says "it's so NOISY". Which is true, but so clearly true as to not really warrant the saying of. But then she says it again, and again. And at five-minute intervals for the rest of the day. So there are now two annoying noises in the office.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Fifth
Carter's difficult day
I forgot I had a driving lesson again. I got a call at 8.20 when I was in my pants, watching TV. I had to pretend I hadn't forgotten, so I ran into the shower, took a tartrazine piss and jumped in my clothes. I didn't brush my teeth, and I didn't take my customary shit, so I felt pretty bad in the car. I also couldn't find my glasses case, but I decided I would wear my specs all day and that would be fine.
Driving lesson was OK, Gus, my instructor gave me an extra 20 minutes on the end and I had a lovely time sailing around London with dual control insurance.
Then I realised I didn't have my work pass, which cocked up lunch because I phoned my lunch buddies during an emotional office address and neither of them could answer. I couldn't buy lunch on site without my card, so I went up the road. Then it started to rain hard, and I had to hide in a doorway and missed the chance to photograph a really top-drawer mad woman in her skirt and socks.
Then I went to a sandwich shop and my lens fell out of my glasses. But I've got no glasses case, this one day of my life, so I have to spend the rest of the day with my broken goggles in my hand, squinting at people to make out their features.
By this time I was pretty stinky, with my cursory wash and missing my shit and all. I always smell bad when I miss that morning shit. Much worse from the right armpit than the left, too. I had to keep my anorak zipped up to keep the smell in.
Then, with no glasses still, I watched Inland Empire, a pretty gruelling three-hour film by David Lynch. Really great, by the way, but it felt like a busy end to a busy day, brainwise.
I forgot I had a driving lesson again. I got a call at 8.20 when I was in my pants, watching TV. I had to pretend I hadn't forgotten, so I ran into the shower, took a tartrazine piss and jumped in my clothes. I didn't brush my teeth, and I didn't take my customary shit, so I felt pretty bad in the car. I also couldn't find my glasses case, but I decided I would wear my specs all day and that would be fine.
Driving lesson was OK, Gus, my instructor gave me an extra 20 minutes on the end and I had a lovely time sailing around London with dual control insurance.
Then I realised I didn't have my work pass, which cocked up lunch because I phoned my lunch buddies during an emotional office address and neither of them could answer. I couldn't buy lunch on site without my card, so I went up the road. Then it started to rain hard, and I had to hide in a doorway and missed the chance to photograph a really top-drawer mad woman in her skirt and socks.
Then I went to a sandwich shop and my lens fell out of my glasses. But I've got no glasses case, this one day of my life, so I have to spend the rest of the day with my broken goggles in my hand, squinting at people to make out their features.
By this time I was pretty stinky, with my cursory wash and missing my shit and all. I always smell bad when I miss that morning shit. Much worse from the right armpit than the left, too. I had to keep my anorak zipped up to keep the smell in.
Then, with no glasses still, I watched Inland Empire, a pretty gruelling three-hour film by David Lynch. Really great, by the way, but it felt like a busy end to a busy day, brainwise.
Fourth
Dirty thieving vermin
Living in London can be a full-blooded pain in the arse in lots of ways, and people always mention crime as one of the top ones. But it's not violent crime that constantly oppresses you - you only get reminded of that in suddenly sobering moments on your way home, or by big yellow boards on the street. It's the steady downward drag of small, almost pointless crimes that go unpunished and at the same time almost unrewarded. Bag thieves in pubs, coat thieves at parties, phone thieves, thieves from cars, pickpockets, gutless, heartless opportunistic thieves who sell your stuff for a meaningless amount of money, but drop a big miserable bomb in the middle of your month.
What makes me most angry about these people is that the amount of benefit they get is such a minute fraction of the cost you pay. You have to replace what they took, cancel credit cards, enter all your numbers in a new phone, contact the police, all of that. And the benefit to them: £10. Maybe. Or maybe £15.
Dirty, thieving vermin, nibbling at the edges of life in the city and making it crap for everyone.
My friend had his bike stolen. People will make you feel naive at times like that, but it should be OK to just lock your bike up on the street. You should be able to feel confident that it will still be there. You should be able to relax, and trust your fellow
Londoners not to steal your stuff just because they can get away with it.
Dirty thieving vermin make that impossible, sadly.
Living in London can be a full-blooded pain in the arse in lots of ways, and people always mention crime as one of the top ones. But it's not violent crime that constantly oppresses you - you only get reminded of that in suddenly sobering moments on your way home, or by big yellow boards on the street. It's the steady downward drag of small, almost pointless crimes that go unpunished and at the same time almost unrewarded. Bag thieves in pubs, coat thieves at parties, phone thieves, thieves from cars, pickpockets, gutless, heartless opportunistic thieves who sell your stuff for a meaningless amount of money, but drop a big miserable bomb in the middle of your month.
What makes me most angry about these people is that the amount of benefit they get is such a minute fraction of the cost you pay. You have to replace what they took, cancel credit cards, enter all your numbers in a new phone, contact the police, all of that. And the benefit to them: £10. Maybe. Or maybe £15.
Dirty, thieving vermin, nibbling at the edges of life in the city and making it crap for everyone.
My friend had his bike stolen. People will make you feel naive at times like that, but it should be OK to just lock your bike up on the street. You should be able to feel confident that it will still be there. You should be able to relax, and trust your fellow
Londoners not to steal your stuff just because they can get away with it.
Dirty thieving vermin make that impossible, sadly.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Third
Just got back from Cyprus. I might write something about that later, but one thing at a time. I want to write about the flights there and back.
Thomas Cook. Thomas shitting Cook. The flight out was bad. At first they put us in seats right in front of the toilets, with about 8 inches of leg room. I shit you not. My knees were up around my ears. When we showed the air host how cramped we were, he found us seats with 9 inches of leg room, and the option to recline. (Option to recline declined, as usual.)
It felt like being in a crate, and my legs didn't stop itching for two days afterwards (I meant to look up the symptoms of DVT, but I forgot.) But it got worse because these tiny screens came down and we got the soundtrack to some corporate videos starring staff members in uniform and a management gimp in an open-necked shirt piped into the whole cabin. Thomas Cook clearly don't want you to miss out on their brand message just because you're too tight to stump up for headphones.
During the flight they offered food (does peperami count?), beverages, gifts and fragrances, and scratch cards. So desperately naff and down-at-heel. The average age of the travellers, by the way, was well up in the sixties. I felt young. I was waiting to be invited into the cockpit to sit on the pilot's lap.
There's more, but it's too dull. Eight days later we arrive at Paphos airport for the return leg. What happened is not all Thomas Cook's fault, but I'm still never going to fly with them again. The computers were down. After a while of standing still in raggedy lines, we were organised into a check-in free-for-all. London first, then Manchester, then Newcastle, as it should be. Our luggage went into the hold without any purple stickers on, so the luggage dude had to run round the back and stick some on. There were no signs about taking liquids on board, so me and Ching Li were talking about how security varies from airport to airport. Then we had our olive oil and balsamic vinegar impounded. Gutted. I felt like such a noob, and here am I, a seasoned traveller. Funnily enough, I realised when we landed in London that I had my penknife in my jacket pocket. Balsamic vinegar, no. Knives, yes.
Stroke of luck then. We were randomly allocated the seats by the emergency exit. This was like a dream come true. We could sit like normal people all the way home. Of course it was too good to be true. We could hear one of the cabin crew talking about double bookings, then he came over and told us some people had paid extra for these seats, and we had been given them by mistake. Normally, I would curse my luck, and accept the free drink he offered. But I feel more able to say no to stuff as I get older, and I became quite passive assertive. I didn't look him in the eye or anything, but I did sort of whine about how unfair it was, and how shit the leg room was. Eventually, he got tired of my bleating and went and offered some sort of deal to the displaced extra-payers. It seems they sucked up the free booze offer, because the doors closed and we set off for home.
Apart from a pair of oompa-loompa wrestling champions grappling us from behind whenever they got up for the toilet, the flight was bloody lovely. I had my shoes off any my legs all over the place, and I soon forgot about feeling bad for the people who should have had our seats.
Then we landed, and waited for the little guy with the steps to show up. He took ages. This rough bird like Janice from The Sopranos, only without the grace and with some horrible sunglasses, became the spokeswoman of the moaning set. Loudly, she wondered when they were going to let us off the plane. Then there was a tap at the door (I liked that) and we were ready to get off. Janice tried to muscle past me to the door, but I dropped a shoulder and kept her at bay.
Sorry this is so long. Just one more chapter to go.
No bags. Steps. Buses. No luggage. We waited for yonks. Absolute yonks. Finally, a self-appointed delegation went to the luggage people's desk and watched them make phone calls and complain about their day. A woman said they should make an announcement, even if they didn't have anything to announce. I wholeheartedly agreed, and would have told her so, but she was foreign and I didn't want to encourage her.
An announcement was made. There had been an incident on the plane and they had had to stop unloading. Incident? Snake infestation? Scooby Doo ghost? We got our bags nearly three hours late. Bloody crap.
Side note: people stand too close to the baggage carousel. You should stand back so everyone can see the luggage, then move forward in an orderly and dignified fashion when your cases appear. It seems obvious to me, but the instinct to press forward as much as possible - in traffic jams, at tube train doors - is as hard to break as the urge to fart when you piss, it seems.
I think that's it. Thomas Cook. Absolute rubbish. Never going to fly with them again. Ever.
Thomas Cook. Thomas shitting Cook. The flight out was bad. At first they put us in seats right in front of the toilets, with about 8 inches of leg room. I shit you not. My knees were up around my ears. When we showed the air host how cramped we were, he found us seats with 9 inches of leg room, and the option to recline. (Option to recline declined, as usual.)
It felt like being in a crate, and my legs didn't stop itching for two days afterwards (I meant to look up the symptoms of DVT, but I forgot.) But it got worse because these tiny screens came down and we got the soundtrack to some corporate videos starring staff members in uniform and a management gimp in an open-necked shirt piped into the whole cabin. Thomas Cook clearly don't want you to miss out on their brand message just because you're too tight to stump up for headphones.
During the flight they offered food (does peperami count?), beverages, gifts and fragrances, and scratch cards. So desperately naff and down-at-heel. The average age of the travellers, by the way, was well up in the sixties. I felt young. I was waiting to be invited into the cockpit to sit on the pilot's lap.
There's more, but it's too dull. Eight days later we arrive at Paphos airport for the return leg. What happened is not all Thomas Cook's fault, but I'm still never going to fly with them again. The computers were down. After a while of standing still in raggedy lines, we were organised into a check-in free-for-all. London first, then Manchester, then Newcastle, as it should be. Our luggage went into the hold without any purple stickers on, so the luggage dude had to run round the back and stick some on. There were no signs about taking liquids on board, so me and Ching Li were talking about how security varies from airport to airport. Then we had our olive oil and balsamic vinegar impounded. Gutted. I felt like such a noob, and here am I, a seasoned traveller. Funnily enough, I realised when we landed in London that I had my penknife in my jacket pocket. Balsamic vinegar, no. Knives, yes.
Stroke of luck then. We were randomly allocated the seats by the emergency exit. This was like a dream come true. We could sit like normal people all the way home. Of course it was too good to be true. We could hear one of the cabin crew talking about double bookings, then he came over and told us some people had paid extra for these seats, and we had been given them by mistake. Normally, I would curse my luck, and accept the free drink he offered. But I feel more able to say no to stuff as I get older, and I became quite passive assertive. I didn't look him in the eye or anything, but I did sort of whine about how unfair it was, and how shit the leg room was. Eventually, he got tired of my bleating and went and offered some sort of deal to the displaced extra-payers. It seems they sucked up the free booze offer, because the doors closed and we set off for home.
Apart from a pair of oompa-loompa wrestling champions grappling us from behind whenever they got up for the toilet, the flight was bloody lovely. I had my shoes off any my legs all over the place, and I soon forgot about feeling bad for the people who should have had our seats.
Then we landed, and waited for the little guy with the steps to show up. He took ages. This rough bird like Janice from The Sopranos, only without the grace and with some horrible sunglasses, became the spokeswoman of the moaning set. Loudly, she wondered when they were going to let us off the plane. Then there was a tap at the door (I liked that) and we were ready to get off. Janice tried to muscle past me to the door, but I dropped a shoulder and kept her at bay.
Sorry this is so long. Just one more chapter to go.
No bags. Steps. Buses. No luggage. We waited for yonks. Absolute yonks. Finally, a self-appointed delegation went to the luggage people's desk and watched them make phone calls and complain about their day. A woman said they should make an announcement, even if they didn't have anything to announce. I wholeheartedly agreed, and would have told her so, but she was foreign and I didn't want to encourage her.
An announcement was made. There had been an incident on the plane and they had had to stop unloading. Incident? Snake infestation? Scooby Doo ghost? We got our bags nearly three hours late. Bloody crap.
Side note: people stand too close to the baggage carousel. You should stand back so everyone can see the luggage, then move forward in an orderly and dignified fashion when your cases appear. It seems obvious to me, but the instinct to press forward as much as possible - in traffic jams, at tube train doors - is as hard to break as the urge to fart when you piss, it seems.
I think that's it. Thomas Cook. Absolute rubbish. Never going to fly with them again. Ever.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Second
Definitely drunk now. Want to edit my first post. Not quite ready to do it until tomorrow,
Today: drove to work with my dual control instructor, Gus. He is quite severe when I overshoot his imaginary mapped lines, but I like him. I trust him not to let me kill anyone, or to take the blame if I do.
On the last turn into work I saw my colleague, Sticky D. I thought about asking Gus if I could run him over but I don't think Gus has a sense of humour about that sort of thing.
Met two firemen tonight. They were not gay, despite what CeeLee and Guy said. I talked to them for a long time and they were not gay.
EDIT: Final observation deleted after objection from subject. I was threatened with reprisals. It's like communist Russia or something.
Today: drove to work with my dual control instructor, Gus. He is quite severe when I overshoot his imaginary mapped lines, but I like him. I trust him not to let me kill anyone, or to take the blame if I do.
On the last turn into work I saw my colleague, Sticky D. I thought about asking Gus if I could run him over but I don't think Gus has a sense of humour about that sort of thing.
Met two firemen tonight. They were not gay, despite what CeeLee and Guy said. I talked to them for a long time and they were not gay.
EDIT: Final observation deleted after objection from subject. I was threatened with reprisals. It's like communist Russia or something.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
First
11pm Thursday.
In a good mood.
Had lovely dinner.
Today I realised that I did not fall asleep on the bus yesterday. Actually it was on a diversion. Yesterday I found myself in an unfamiliar part of town, jumped off the bus and got a taxi to work, all bewildered. Today I kept my cool and waited for the bus to make a big loop. I sauntered to work whistling a jaunty tune.
IKEA. Latest on my list of companies I hate. Like HSBC. You phone the poor canaries in the call centre and they're so nice and helpful. Then they contact the real people on the ground - the ones who can actually help you, the ones you're not allowed to call direct - and those absolute bastards do nothing. They don't phone, they don't deliver your damn bookcase. I'd like to grab them by their boiler suits and shake them until their teeth rattle.
I left my bag on the bus. I was texting. Today I learnt that I can't text and remember to pick up my bag at the same time. One or the other, but not both.
In a good mood.
Had lovely dinner.
Today I realised that I did not fall asleep on the bus yesterday. Actually it was on a diversion. Yesterday I found myself in an unfamiliar part of town, jumped off the bus and got a taxi to work, all bewildered. Today I kept my cool and waited for the bus to make a big loop. I sauntered to work whistling a jaunty tune.
IKEA. Latest on my list of companies I hate. Like HSBC. You phone the poor canaries in the call centre and they're so nice and helpful. Then they contact the real people on the ground - the ones who can actually help you, the ones you're not allowed to call direct - and those absolute bastards do nothing. They don't phone, they don't deliver your damn bookcase. I'd like to grab them by their boiler suits and shake them until their teeth rattle.
I left my bag on the bus. I was texting. Today I learnt that I can't text and remember to pick up my bag at the same time. One or the other, but not both.
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