Just back from a wandering in the nearest village. I think red was the last colour to go, after dark I mean. I don't know if it was the hue from the orange street lights or the red sky at night or even the colour of the cars passing me by, but it looked like one particularly vibrant shade of red (ultra-red) was definitely the last to go.
But no, I think red is the last colour to go, there. I can't remember noticing this before, so I think it's only there. Or mebbe it's not only there, but here it's noticeable, unlike say green or blue. Noticing nightfall reminded me of dusk in Sri Lanka. Less of a dusk and more of a curtain fall. I'd pop back into the hotel room for a bottle of water and walk immediately back outside to find it pitch black. Definitely no last colours there, just dark.
Actually now I think it about it more, when I refer to 'after dark', it wasn't dark. There were streetlights blinking at me, slithers of energy-efficient window lights struggle to shine further than the room in which they hung. There were car headlights, tail lights, star lights and moon light. After dark is turning out to be a bit of an illusion. It's been snowy and pavements were filled with inky puddles and mysterious dark objects and shapes. Pavement reflections worry me because I can't see what I'm stepping in.
Then I drive home and on the farm is it unquestionably after dark. Night time here makes it easier for me to look up, which is really only half a head bob from forgetting to look down. It's so dark here that there's a feeling of surrender given to the black. With nothing but a smattering of starlight and a small slice of moonlight it's easy to see the light. I think this is what is meant by 'illumination'.
Thursday, 6 January 2011
Wednesday, 5 January 2011
There's no appeal like SNOW appeal!
Coming home late tonight I was driving through yet another snow storm. Nothing too serious but enough to be covering the road. It wasn't unexpected as snowfalls and blizzards have been a hot (but chilly)topic on my favourite radio station for a couple of days.
Having been snowed in at home for a sum total of 18 days (not all consecutive days) I can say without a shadow of a doubt I'm sick of snow. However, what I'm not fed up with is the increasingly creative ways newscasters and weather forecasters have been trying to report on the same thing without saying the same thing.
Yesterday one radio announcer warned us that we should brace ourselves in the North East for another wintry weather front approaching from the chilly North bringing with it a band of organised snow. Today a different radio station reported that some parts of Aberdeenshire were experiencing a keen flurry of snowfall. The increasing personification of the weather cushions the news that more snow is scheduled to come our way in such a way that it's hard not to look forward to hearing these reports.
Once safely home, the snow had died down and the skies had cleared and I stood looking up at the stars. The sheer volume of them that are visible with the naked eye always takes my breath away. As I watched a few individual snowflakes drifted from the rooftop, I wondered - as mind boggling as the number of stars I could see was the thought that in all the annoying feet of snow I've seen just over the last few weeks is the fact that no two individual snowflakes are the same. Incomprehensible and incalculable, so perhaps Christmas miracles are all around us but we just don't take the time to recognise them.
Tuesday, 4 January 2011
The Great British blame blindness
I’ve been a single parent for the last 7 years, enduring the burden of being a stereotypical siphon on the financial purse strings of the Great British Taxpayer for as long. You could say I’m a veteran scapegoat. After watching The Great British Waste Menu aired on 18 August on BBC one, I quit.
Usually, I’m too busy earning money to pay for my stake in this Great British Nation to register any flush of indignation I feel when noticing Britain’s transition from a democratic to an irony state.
My stiff upper life is under threat of curling like a rejected lettuce leaf. Don’t get me wrong the concept of the programme was interesting, in that it highlighted the problem of food wastage in the UK and I find this in its self laudable. However, the tone of the programme and commentaries reeked like the rubbish bins the chefs rooted through. The inference that the Great British Public has too high consumer expectations has loosened my tight lips.
I am by no means oblivious to our privileged lifestyle, but frankly I refuse to feel guilty for my individual actions when there are larger issues at play which slip under the radar of media scrutiny. It surely can’t be just me that is finding it increasingly difficult to belly down the satirical pie being served up with a garnish of our own naive misconceptions.
I watched the four competing chefs peddle the idea that food saving and therefore waste reduction could easily be done, if only the public just tried a little harder. As the credits rolled, my guilt struck. How silly I thought, if only I had thought of it before being shamed by this TV programme.
I’d have surely jumped into my refrigerated van, filled with fuel for which I’ve happily paid 60% tax, in order that I might spend a day away from my usual employment to spread, essential fossil fuel emissions around the countryside to foraging for free or cheap salvaged seasonal ingredient (all sprayed liberally with no choice, free with every purchase pesticides and chemicals), to rustle up a gastronomic delight that has to be prepared and eaten that same day, without the aid of high-tech food safety checking equipment so that my family can bask in the self righteousness of our new frugal lifestyle - all the while ignoring the fuel consumption, flagrant overuse of my road tax allocation and wage less day sacrificed as homage to the ideology.
On second thoughts, perhaps I’ll take the bus next time. Paying excessive ticket prices for a poor public service which doesn’t seem to offer me any discount, reflecting the fact that I’ve subsided the service with my non-voluntary taxes. Travelling routes prescribed by a commercial company reporting annual profits higher than my own annual pay increase this year, in the vain hope that it happens to run past food scavenge venues more than once a day.
It’s hard not resorting to bitter ranting and pointing my own ironic finger when I thinking about how much the public in Britain is expected to keep giving and saving and how little they complain about those expectations.
It is increasingly hard for the average Joe to slow down long enough to think about the irony behind these cultural expectations. Take the bucket emptying tax (otherwise known as the Council tax). The average household pays £100 per month to have their rubbish bins collected? I say rubbish bins because I am reminded by my bin collectors that ‘if it ain’t in the bin, it ain’t getting taken away’. So I pay £50 per visit to have as much refuse as I can squeeze into a wheelie bin removed. On top of this I am expected to separate my own waste before even putting it into the wheelie bin to save the environment. This means that I do half the work and still pay. Rumour has it, that some Local Authorities around Britain just dump the lovingly collected recycled waste into the same landfill as the non-recyclable waste. The irony doesn’t stop there because based on my own local authority it’s cheaper to have a large piece of household waste removed. I can have up to two items removed for £35. Bargain! All I need is two massive rubbish containers retailing for less than a fiver; an opening for some dragons den investment perhaps?
What irks me the most about the whole ‘waste’ issue is my lack of options in the matter. As a consumer I have little choice in the volume and nature of packaging that comes with my shopping. The cost of which is factored into the overall price I pay for the goods. So I have no choice but to pay once because it comes attached to my produce and then I pay again to have the packaging removed from my house. And if I don’t separate it out for recycling I’m made to feel guilty for not being responsible, when manufacturers and retailers refuse to take any responsibility and the same government that pays lip service to environmental issues does nothing to share out accountability.
The most entertaining part of the programme was that the producers had invited representatives from Supermarkets to dine. The pointlessness of which made me laugh. Everyone knows that Supermarket are rip offs with more spin than the major political parties. There was a quiet suggestions they introduce an ‘eat today section’. Surely anyone with any business acumen knows this would be consumer genocide. Retailers know that cash strapped shoppers previously forced through lack of choice to purchase a tray of juicy tomatoes (presented in a free plastic tray) at the normal retail price would obviously opt to buy from the cheaper ‘eat today’ selection. The result of this frugal move would mean they’d actively be pouring profits down the drain instead of putting it in the bin.
Where else can supermarket spin be seen clearer than the concept of BOGOF and BOGOHP? Knowing that supermarkets are in the business of making money it is therefore obvious that this is not an altruistic money loss idea. The price advertised for one item (with another free or half price) is inflated to cover the actual cost of two items – consumer spends more money than they intended and the supermarket makes a modest profit. Should a cash strapped consumer opt to just buy the one they need without the other at half price and the supermarket makes significant profit at the expense of British people who can least afford it. So how come more people aren’t saying Bog-off to the supermarket hype?
It’s not just the cash strapped shopper that’s being ripped off. Money matters to us all and most of us are responsible with our cash. I know my conscious is clear in terms of the economic climate. Each year I earn a little more, I am taxed both directly and indirectly more, I am spending more and as the programme just pointed out I’m wasting more. So I’m left with the question – how come I have to pay 20% tax next year? I didn’t do anything wrong. I know, I know what you’re thinking. I’ve read the papers, sifted through the newspapers (all with extra supplements full of adverts that companies have paid to produce that I have to pay £50 per visit to be uplifted) but it doesn’t negate the facts that bad poor business management by inept fat cats has gotten us where we are today.
With the legislative calls for equality and in the interest of fairness I feel that it is somewhat unfair that if I get into debt, I should be expected to pay it back myself. There ought to be an opportunity for me to present my case to the local authority claiming that if they don’t help me sort out my debt then they will suffer as I shall not be able to pay my council bin emptying tax which will mean less locally derived income. Or I might appeal to the government, pointing out that my debt is really just a single person’s portion of the country’s overall debt and not really just mine. By rights I should be able to claim the same financial support that our country’s financial institute have been offered. After all I was only doing my duty in spending the country out of recession why should I be penalised for not being very good at it. It’s not like I’ve been adequately trained for the job.
It is quite obvious that my debt is really part of the whole country’s deficit and should therefore be absorbed back into the main debt figure to be paid by those people too apathetical to notice or care. And in the continued spirit of equal treatment and because of my mis-management of my national debt allocation I should probably be ‘let go’ with a comparable handsome financial gratuity awarded to those money mis-managers before me and never expected to contribute to the financial well-being of this Great Nation again.
Upon which I will then begrudgingly castigate myself from society and henceforth live the alternative life style adopted by many travelling people. Rooting, hunting and foraging for seasonal produce whilst enduring the media reported distain at having quit.
Usually, I’m too busy earning money to pay for my stake in this Great British Nation to register any flush of indignation I feel when noticing Britain’s transition from a democratic to an irony state.
My stiff upper life is under threat of curling like a rejected lettuce leaf. Don’t get me wrong the concept of the programme was interesting, in that it highlighted the problem of food wastage in the UK and I find this in its self laudable. However, the tone of the programme and commentaries reeked like the rubbish bins the chefs rooted through. The inference that the Great British Public has too high consumer expectations has loosened my tight lips.
I am by no means oblivious to our privileged lifestyle, but frankly I refuse to feel guilty for my individual actions when there are larger issues at play which slip under the radar of media scrutiny. It surely can’t be just me that is finding it increasingly difficult to belly down the satirical pie being served up with a garnish of our own naive misconceptions.
I watched the four competing chefs peddle the idea that food saving and therefore waste reduction could easily be done, if only the public just tried a little harder. As the credits rolled, my guilt struck. How silly I thought, if only I had thought of it before being shamed by this TV programme.
I’d have surely jumped into my refrigerated van, filled with fuel for which I’ve happily paid 60% tax, in order that I might spend a day away from my usual employment to spread, essential fossil fuel emissions around the countryside to foraging for free or cheap salvaged seasonal ingredient (all sprayed liberally with no choice, free with every purchase pesticides and chemicals), to rustle up a gastronomic delight that has to be prepared and eaten that same day, without the aid of high-tech food safety checking equipment so that my family can bask in the self righteousness of our new frugal lifestyle - all the while ignoring the fuel consumption, flagrant overuse of my road tax allocation and wage less day sacrificed as homage to the ideology.
On second thoughts, perhaps I’ll take the bus next time. Paying excessive ticket prices for a poor public service which doesn’t seem to offer me any discount, reflecting the fact that I’ve subsided the service with my non-voluntary taxes. Travelling routes prescribed by a commercial company reporting annual profits higher than my own annual pay increase this year, in the vain hope that it happens to run past food scavenge venues more than once a day.
It’s hard not resorting to bitter ranting and pointing my own ironic finger when I thinking about how much the public in Britain is expected to keep giving and saving and how little they complain about those expectations.
It is increasingly hard for the average Joe to slow down long enough to think about the irony behind these cultural expectations. Take the bucket emptying tax (otherwise known as the Council tax). The average household pays £100 per month to have their rubbish bins collected? I say rubbish bins because I am reminded by my bin collectors that ‘if it ain’t in the bin, it ain’t getting taken away’. So I pay £50 per visit to have as much refuse as I can squeeze into a wheelie bin removed. On top of this I am expected to separate my own waste before even putting it into the wheelie bin to save the environment. This means that I do half the work and still pay. Rumour has it, that some Local Authorities around Britain just dump the lovingly collected recycled waste into the same landfill as the non-recyclable waste. The irony doesn’t stop there because based on my own local authority it’s cheaper to have a large piece of household waste removed. I can have up to two items removed for £35. Bargain! All I need is two massive rubbish containers retailing for less than a fiver; an opening for some dragons den investment perhaps?
What irks me the most about the whole ‘waste’ issue is my lack of options in the matter. As a consumer I have little choice in the volume and nature of packaging that comes with my shopping. The cost of which is factored into the overall price I pay for the goods. So I have no choice but to pay once because it comes attached to my produce and then I pay again to have the packaging removed from my house. And if I don’t separate it out for recycling I’m made to feel guilty for not being responsible, when manufacturers and retailers refuse to take any responsibility and the same government that pays lip service to environmental issues does nothing to share out accountability.
The most entertaining part of the programme was that the producers had invited representatives from Supermarkets to dine. The pointlessness of which made me laugh. Everyone knows that Supermarket are rip offs with more spin than the major political parties. There was a quiet suggestions they introduce an ‘eat today section’. Surely anyone with any business acumen knows this would be consumer genocide. Retailers know that cash strapped shoppers previously forced through lack of choice to purchase a tray of juicy tomatoes (presented in a free plastic tray) at the normal retail price would obviously opt to buy from the cheaper ‘eat today’ selection. The result of this frugal move would mean they’d actively be pouring profits down the drain instead of putting it in the bin.
Where else can supermarket spin be seen clearer than the concept of BOGOF and BOGOHP? Knowing that supermarkets are in the business of making money it is therefore obvious that this is not an altruistic money loss idea. The price advertised for one item (with another free or half price) is inflated to cover the actual cost of two items – consumer spends more money than they intended and the supermarket makes a modest profit. Should a cash strapped consumer opt to just buy the one they need without the other at half price and the supermarket makes significant profit at the expense of British people who can least afford it. So how come more people aren’t saying Bog-off to the supermarket hype?
It’s not just the cash strapped shopper that’s being ripped off. Money matters to us all and most of us are responsible with our cash. I know my conscious is clear in terms of the economic climate. Each year I earn a little more, I am taxed both directly and indirectly more, I am spending more and as the programme just pointed out I’m wasting more. So I’m left with the question – how come I have to pay 20% tax next year? I didn’t do anything wrong. I know, I know what you’re thinking. I’ve read the papers, sifted through the newspapers (all with extra supplements full of adverts that companies have paid to produce that I have to pay £50 per visit to be uplifted) but it doesn’t negate the facts that bad poor business management by inept fat cats has gotten us where we are today.
With the legislative calls for equality and in the interest of fairness I feel that it is somewhat unfair that if I get into debt, I should be expected to pay it back myself. There ought to be an opportunity for me to present my case to the local authority claiming that if they don’t help me sort out my debt then they will suffer as I shall not be able to pay my council bin emptying tax which will mean less locally derived income. Or I might appeal to the government, pointing out that my debt is really just a single person’s portion of the country’s overall debt and not really just mine. By rights I should be able to claim the same financial support that our country’s financial institute have been offered. After all I was only doing my duty in spending the country out of recession why should I be penalised for not being very good at it. It’s not like I’ve been adequately trained for the job.
It is quite obvious that my debt is really part of the whole country’s deficit and should therefore be absorbed back into the main debt figure to be paid by those people too apathetical to notice or care. And in the continued spirit of equal treatment and because of my mis-management of my national debt allocation I should probably be ‘let go’ with a comparable handsome financial gratuity awarded to those money mis-managers before me and never expected to contribute to the financial well-being of this Great Nation again.
Upon which I will then begrudgingly castigate myself from society and henceforth live the alternative life style adopted by many travelling people. Rooting, hunting and foraging for seasonal produce whilst enduring the media reported distain at having quit.
Monday, 3 January 2011
Ships Ahoy! Blind Date overboard!
There is a saying, that one should never judge a book by its cover. I don’t know where it started or indeed who keeps passing it down from generation to generation giving it an air of authority and probability by association of age. But I’m a recent convert to the diametrically opposite adage of ‘go with your gut instincts’. If I had, I’d have buttoned back up my coat and flicked my scarf over my shoulder as a symbolic white flag to Mother Nature that I surrender to spinsterhood.
But curse my sense of convention and deference to politeness, two of the very few sacrosanct tenets bestowed from my parents, inherited no doubt from one of the Saturday night popular TV show they themselves paid particular homage to with unswerving worship.
Minutes waited as the clock hands dangled like fisherman’s line. I drew breath, as he looked at me and I blinked back. What a long day it’s been I thought even though it had only been 1.5 minutes. He clearly didn’t hear the prison doors being swung closed behind me with a stereotypical echoing slam, because he was still smiling. It gave me a notion that he must be deaf and with characteristic optimism I unrealistically hoped he’d be dumb too. A savage stick poked me from behind my own eyes, as a voice in my head chuckled ‘be careful what you wish for’. Sometimes I really don’t like my vivid imagination. The clouds were darkening. Oh yes there was a storm brewing and I had a sinking feeling that l was woefully ill-equipped to weather this particular storm.
“Hi I’m Tony. Anthony, but people call me Tony. You can call me Tony” he said ejecting his hand at me. Mustn’t say what I want to say. Must keep bad thoughts to myself - Must be nice - Must be NICE. I flashed a wide closed lipped smile back at him, keeping my tongue and teeth firmly in check and eventually the hysteria melted enough for me to blurt out ‘Ellie’ and bobbed in a very unnatural bow. In my head it was a suave move to avoid touching Tony, a silky feminine misdirection which would go unnoticed, but it looked more like reality had kicked me in the shins and I was socially crippled.
Having earned my socially inept title early on, my subconscious is on a mission to retain it. “So, it’s Tony, right?” I clarified after we were shown to our table. By the blank look on his face he didn’t even have a sense of humour for me to fall back on. The clock judged me cruelly by refusing to tick time, as bless him, Tony made allowances. Unlike me he’d come prepared with random conversation topics and sensing my apparent lack of preparation he took the helm and began steering me into the unchartered waters of trains and airshows. I glanced at the clock. Five minutes? What? That can’t be right. It must’ve stopped. “That can’t be right” I mumbled aloud.
As I was looking over in the general direction of the bar, Tony assumed that I was referring to the inattentive service and keen to maintain his claim to the honourable high ground, he started to windmill his arms around in a distressed manner. He reminded me of a kid I went to school with called Andrew Buchanan. Smartest person at our school including many of the teachers, but given the location and social status of our school that wasn’t really as impressive an accolade as it sounds. Highest gesticulator? Yikes that’s even worse. My mind was off again and I wondered if Andrew now introduced himself as ‘Hi, I’m Andy. Andrew, but people call me Andy. You can call me Andy’. I couldn’t help but smile and count my blessings that I wasn’t called Mandy. If I had been so ill fortuned, I doubt introductions would’ve been the same after meeting Tony. Hey at least I was smiling now. Hooray for arm shaped lifebuoys. Actually, to hell with keeping afloat, I needed rescuing.
Reacting to Tony’s subtle plea, a straw approached… I mean the waiter. And I clutched desperately. ‘Wine. Wine please’ I whined and hoped he could read my mind like I had the menu. I stared wide eyed up at him as he dutifully scribbled my order being placed by Tony, who had apparently decided what I’d like to eat.
I mornfully watched my chance of escape dwindle with ever step the waiter took back to his station before turning to look back at Tony. “Is it me or is it getting hot in here”, he quipped leaning forward. Misreading sexual arousal in my fear dilated pupils which were accentuated by my flush of indignation at being left behind by our waiter.
“I can tell you’re independent and passionate. I like a woman who respects herself. Something sexy about someone who’s not afraid to admit what she likes and then goes and gets it” he smears in an oily tone.
Oh my God, he was on a roll he and went on until I was feeling crushed from wearing his attention like a snowsuit whilst ploughing my own, through his gritted vapidity. If only I had some smooth words to skim over the mounds for a guaranteed homerun, but my whole vocabulary had gotten early release and were off on parole. My ears were incarcerated with me and this served to clear the way for his relentless advances. And advance he did. On and on to the same march as…. What was that? Sounds like a choir raining somewhere ‘Onwards Christian soldiers’ and I swear I could hear a tambourine. I couldn’t be sure because the low lighting was reflecting off his wind chaffed brow and distorted my view. But no amount of temporary blindness was saving me from his leering eyes which crept over my skin. Jabbing like a hundred million hailstones. The song was building to a crescendo.
I needed to distract my mouth so I pick up the salt seller and twiddle nervously. Its one eye gaped at me like it had all the answers but was keeping schtum. If I stared hard enough I felt sure that I’d find a way to make it squeal. I stared into the vent like it’s some sort of crucible, trying to spot something meaningful inside it. But it was too difficult this close up and the white noise dripping from Tony was making it hard to concentrate. Life is a story best told in the present. But this current present wasn’t a story I wanted to narrate nevermind live in. Left with no choice I surrender.
“So”, I interrupted with authority giving Tony the benefit of my full focus for the first time so far. “I’m the sort of woman who gets what she wants heh? “ Our gazes lock, I raised an enquirying eyebrow. Tony swallowed hard and his blackening eyes answer for his mouth. A wicked smile danced over my lips and I saw him now the one caught on the clock hands. “You, are a very perceptive man”, I purred. Leaning forward I rose to my feet, freed myself and my coat and holding my handbag like a get out of jail free card I walk with purpose out the restrauant door. Happy I love you day, I whisper to myself.
But curse my sense of convention and deference to politeness, two of the very few sacrosanct tenets bestowed from my parents, inherited no doubt from one of the Saturday night popular TV show they themselves paid particular homage to with unswerving worship.
Minutes waited as the clock hands dangled like fisherman’s line. I drew breath, as he looked at me and I blinked back. What a long day it’s been I thought even though it had only been 1.5 minutes. He clearly didn’t hear the prison doors being swung closed behind me with a stereotypical echoing slam, because he was still smiling. It gave me a notion that he must be deaf and with characteristic optimism I unrealistically hoped he’d be dumb too. A savage stick poked me from behind my own eyes, as a voice in my head chuckled ‘be careful what you wish for’. Sometimes I really don’t like my vivid imagination. The clouds were darkening. Oh yes there was a storm brewing and I had a sinking feeling that l was woefully ill-equipped to weather this particular storm.
“Hi I’m Tony. Anthony, but people call me Tony. You can call me Tony” he said ejecting his hand at me. Mustn’t say what I want to say. Must keep bad thoughts to myself - Must be nice - Must be NICE. I flashed a wide closed lipped smile back at him, keeping my tongue and teeth firmly in check and eventually the hysteria melted enough for me to blurt out ‘Ellie’ and bobbed in a very unnatural bow. In my head it was a suave move to avoid touching Tony, a silky feminine misdirection which would go unnoticed, but it looked more like reality had kicked me in the shins and I was socially crippled.
Having earned my socially inept title early on, my subconscious is on a mission to retain it. “So, it’s Tony, right?” I clarified after we were shown to our table. By the blank look on his face he didn’t even have a sense of humour for me to fall back on. The clock judged me cruelly by refusing to tick time, as bless him, Tony made allowances. Unlike me he’d come prepared with random conversation topics and sensing my apparent lack of preparation he took the helm and began steering me into the unchartered waters of trains and airshows. I glanced at the clock. Five minutes? What? That can’t be right. It must’ve stopped. “That can’t be right” I mumbled aloud.
As I was looking over in the general direction of the bar, Tony assumed that I was referring to the inattentive service and keen to maintain his claim to the honourable high ground, he started to windmill his arms around in a distressed manner. He reminded me of a kid I went to school with called Andrew Buchanan. Smartest person at our school including many of the teachers, but given the location and social status of our school that wasn’t really as impressive an accolade as it sounds. Highest gesticulator? Yikes that’s even worse. My mind was off again and I wondered if Andrew now introduced himself as ‘Hi, I’m Andy. Andrew, but people call me Andy. You can call me Andy’. I couldn’t help but smile and count my blessings that I wasn’t called Mandy. If I had been so ill fortuned, I doubt introductions would’ve been the same after meeting Tony. Hey at least I was smiling now. Hooray for arm shaped lifebuoys. Actually, to hell with keeping afloat, I needed rescuing.
Reacting to Tony’s subtle plea, a straw approached… I mean the waiter. And I clutched desperately. ‘Wine. Wine please’ I whined and hoped he could read my mind like I had the menu. I stared wide eyed up at him as he dutifully scribbled my order being placed by Tony, who had apparently decided what I’d like to eat.
I mornfully watched my chance of escape dwindle with ever step the waiter took back to his station before turning to look back at Tony. “Is it me or is it getting hot in here”, he quipped leaning forward. Misreading sexual arousal in my fear dilated pupils which were accentuated by my flush of indignation at being left behind by our waiter.
“I can tell you’re independent and passionate. I like a woman who respects herself. Something sexy about someone who’s not afraid to admit what she likes and then goes and gets it” he smears in an oily tone.
Oh my God, he was on a roll he and went on until I was feeling crushed from wearing his attention like a snowsuit whilst ploughing my own, through his gritted vapidity. If only I had some smooth words to skim over the mounds for a guaranteed homerun, but my whole vocabulary had gotten early release and were off on parole. My ears were incarcerated with me and this served to clear the way for his relentless advances. And advance he did. On and on to the same march as…. What was that? Sounds like a choir raining somewhere ‘Onwards Christian soldiers’ and I swear I could hear a tambourine. I couldn’t be sure because the low lighting was reflecting off his wind chaffed brow and distorted my view. But no amount of temporary blindness was saving me from his leering eyes which crept over my skin. Jabbing like a hundred million hailstones. The song was building to a crescendo.
I needed to distract my mouth so I pick up the salt seller and twiddle nervously. Its one eye gaped at me like it had all the answers but was keeping schtum. If I stared hard enough I felt sure that I’d find a way to make it squeal. I stared into the vent like it’s some sort of crucible, trying to spot something meaningful inside it. But it was too difficult this close up and the white noise dripping from Tony was making it hard to concentrate. Life is a story best told in the present. But this current present wasn’t a story I wanted to narrate nevermind live in. Left with no choice I surrender.
“So”, I interrupted with authority giving Tony the benefit of my full focus for the first time so far. “I’m the sort of woman who gets what she wants heh? “ Our gazes lock, I raised an enquirying eyebrow. Tony swallowed hard and his blackening eyes answer for his mouth. A wicked smile danced over my lips and I saw him now the one caught on the clock hands. “You, are a very perceptive man”, I purred. Leaning forward I rose to my feet, freed myself and my coat and holding my handbag like a get out of jail free card I walk with purpose out the restrauant door. Happy I love you day, I whisper to myself.
Sunday, 2 January 2011
Jobsworth #1 – How the Post Office use adverse weather as a convenient opportunity to hold the Great British public to ransom.
On average I’m getting my mail delivered about once a week. Given the current wave of seasonal weather, obviously snow interruption is to be expected and the unpredictability of weather makes it very difficult to forecast windows of delivery opportunity. I get that. No really, I really do.
Being a helpful citizen and full of the Christmas spirit, I decided that it was probably easier for me to collect my mail from the local depot, so I phoned and got more than I bargained for.
I explained that I’d like to collect my post, but was informed that I couldn’t because it was in the van. Great! So you’re going to attempt to deliver today? But no, apparently the Health & Safety risks meant it was unlikely the van would make it up the farm track to my house and drivers had been informed not to put themselves at any unnecessary risk by attempting snow bound roads.
“So what you’re saying is that your rural posties are pointlessly driving up and down the main roads with fully loaded post vans, containing mail for people like myself who are willing to dig themselves a path to the Depot, for no other reason than to prevent self collection. And to make absolutely sure of the success of this letter retention scheme, they only return to the depot after closing hours?” She didn’t laugh.
She continued instead, to inform me that our farm track was found to be particularly snowy when the postman had allegedly tried the day before. The van just couldn’t get enough traction to make it all the way up the hill. I politely asked if the postman’s legs didn’t work when he left his vehicle thus making a traditional mode of delivery also impossible. She didn’t laugh and there then followed an awkward pause.
Undeterred and sensing my cabin fever induced black humour was falling on deaf ears; I asked if I could collect my mail tomorrow instead. Again, the reply was a flat negative. It would be loaded onto the van as a matter of procedure and if I wanted my letters to be retained at the Depot for collection, I would have to phone and inform them. I pointed out that I was on the phone right now and ergo phoning to inform them. “I’m afraid you’ll have to phone at 7am on the day”, she said, swatted my pointing out the obvious with a flat tone. Can’t you just take a note of this call and my request and then not put my mail into the van tomorrow? “NO”, she replied without missing a heartbeat.
“I just want my mail”, I persisted. “What about I do the walking and meet the postman at the bottom of the farm track and ‘I’ collect my mail from the van?” “Oh, no, you can’t do that. It’s the law that we have to deliver mail to the address of the recipient” “But”, I object. “That’s my point. You aren’t delivering my mail! Does your boss know that your depot is purposely breaking the law?” She didn’t laugh.
I summarised. “So let me get this straight, a postman is driving around with my post in his van; he won’t walk up the farm track and he won’t let me meet him at the bottom. You simply won’t let me have my own post unless I meet your demands of phoning at 7am and come to the pick up point at a designated time? Your ransom note must be stuck in the post too!
She dryly replied “All our customers are having to make allowances under the circumstances and I can assure you that the staff at this depot are bending over backwards to get your mail to you as quickly as possible”. And then she hung up.
Update
Two days have passed since that phone call and I’ve just returned from a visit to the same Post Office depot. I couldn’t have arrived there any earlier as a van had been stuck on the track and the farmer had to tow the van out before ploughing the track. To be honest, I was triumphant at having got to the depot at all, particularly in light of the fact the Postman hasn’t managed in over 10 days! Trouble is that I’d arrived after the depot closing time.
Hearing voices around the back, I wander around to ask if one of those bending over backwards staff members might help. “Hello, can you help me? I know you’re closed, but I’ve been 10 days without post, any chance of me picking it up now?”
I felt my eye brows and hairline frizzle under the glares of the two depot workers. “We’re closed”. The reply was as clipped at the looks it accompanied. “Yes I know, but I’ve just managed to get here for the first time and I just want my post. Couldn’t one of you pop into the depot for me?”
“Look mate, we’ve got stuff to do when we close the office. You’ll have to come back when we’re open”. My frustration bubbled over like porridge out of the magic porridge pot. “Just a suggestion, but making allowances work both ways. Could you just not waste time loading and unloading the same bundles of undelivered mail and stop pointlessly driving around the main roads all day confirming that the side roads are indeed impassable? You could then open for longer and have enough time to do your admin in between bending over backwards to provide a revised adverse weather service to the same customers you expect to just accept their lack of a service!
Being a helpful citizen and full of the Christmas spirit, I decided that it was probably easier for me to collect my mail from the local depot, so I phoned and got more than I bargained for.
I explained that I’d like to collect my post, but was informed that I couldn’t because it was in the van. Great! So you’re going to attempt to deliver today? But no, apparently the Health & Safety risks meant it was unlikely the van would make it up the farm track to my house and drivers had been informed not to put themselves at any unnecessary risk by attempting snow bound roads.
“So what you’re saying is that your rural posties are pointlessly driving up and down the main roads with fully loaded post vans, containing mail for people like myself who are willing to dig themselves a path to the Depot, for no other reason than to prevent self collection. And to make absolutely sure of the success of this letter retention scheme, they only return to the depot after closing hours?” She didn’t laugh.
She continued instead, to inform me that our farm track was found to be particularly snowy when the postman had allegedly tried the day before. The van just couldn’t get enough traction to make it all the way up the hill. I politely asked if the postman’s legs didn’t work when he left his vehicle thus making a traditional mode of delivery also impossible. She didn’t laugh and there then followed an awkward pause.
Undeterred and sensing my cabin fever induced black humour was falling on deaf ears; I asked if I could collect my mail tomorrow instead. Again, the reply was a flat negative. It would be loaded onto the van as a matter of procedure and if I wanted my letters to be retained at the Depot for collection, I would have to phone and inform them. I pointed out that I was on the phone right now and ergo phoning to inform them. “I’m afraid you’ll have to phone at 7am on the day”, she said, swatted my pointing out the obvious with a flat tone. Can’t you just take a note of this call and my request and then not put my mail into the van tomorrow? “NO”, she replied without missing a heartbeat.
“I just want my mail”, I persisted. “What about I do the walking and meet the postman at the bottom of the farm track and ‘I’ collect my mail from the van?” “Oh, no, you can’t do that. It’s the law that we have to deliver mail to the address of the recipient” “But”, I object. “That’s my point. You aren’t delivering my mail! Does your boss know that your depot is purposely breaking the law?” She didn’t laugh.
I summarised. “So let me get this straight, a postman is driving around with my post in his van; he won’t walk up the farm track and he won’t let me meet him at the bottom. You simply won’t let me have my own post unless I meet your demands of phoning at 7am and come to the pick up point at a designated time? Your ransom note must be stuck in the post too!
She dryly replied “All our customers are having to make allowances under the circumstances and I can assure you that the staff at this depot are bending over backwards to get your mail to you as quickly as possible”. And then she hung up.
Update
Two days have passed since that phone call and I’ve just returned from a visit to the same Post Office depot. I couldn’t have arrived there any earlier as a van had been stuck on the track and the farmer had to tow the van out before ploughing the track. To be honest, I was triumphant at having got to the depot at all, particularly in light of the fact the Postman hasn’t managed in over 10 days! Trouble is that I’d arrived after the depot closing time.
Hearing voices around the back, I wander around to ask if one of those bending over backwards staff members might help. “Hello, can you help me? I know you’re closed, but I’ve been 10 days without post, any chance of me picking it up now?”
I felt my eye brows and hairline frizzle under the glares of the two depot workers. “We’re closed”. The reply was as clipped at the looks it accompanied. “Yes I know, but I’ve just managed to get here for the first time and I just want my post. Couldn’t one of you pop into the depot for me?”
“Look mate, we’ve got stuff to do when we close the office. You’ll have to come back when we’re open”. My frustration bubbled over like porridge out of the magic porridge pot. “Just a suggestion, but making allowances work both ways. Could you just not waste time loading and unloading the same bundles of undelivered mail and stop pointlessly driving around the main roads all day confirming that the side roads are indeed impassable? You could then open for longer and have enough time to do your admin in between bending over backwards to provide a revised adverse weather service to the same customers you expect to just accept their lack of a service!
Saturday, 1 January 2011
2011 Challenge Ellie
The gauntlet has been thrown down ... a blog post every day for a year huh?
Count me in!
p.s... you were a little hazy on the publishing every day part (so multiple back logging must surely be allowed!)
Count me in!
p.s... you were a little hazy on the publishing every day part (so multiple back logging must surely be allowed!)
Thursday, 9 September 2010
BEHIND THE HEADLINES
I heard on the news this morning that some cress obsessed scientists have isolated a gene that appears to help plants grow in the cold. Handy for Scotland without a doubt, now all we need is one for excessive rain and drizzle and our farmers might start to smile again.
The next news item was similar about another breakthrough. It seems that another set of clever scientist have made a significant link between brain degeneration and vitamin B. I always marvel at these types of stories. I imagine individuals who are persistent, determined and slightly geeky in their passion.
As admiral as I find all this research there’s a little cynical part of me that can’t help but think that logical has left the building. You see what I didn’t mention is the news item before the cress growth outcome. The headline on the local news was the announcement that we (the taxpaying public) should brace ourselves for a big fat budget cut in the healthcare we currently enjoy. Even if you haven’t enjoyed it yet! All I can say is it’s your own fault for eating healthily, living sober and taking regular sensible exercise.
Bit of a digression, but is it just me or does the slow feed media circus annoy anyone else? It’s all patterned like a piss poor 80’s power point presentation:
• Tell them what you’re going to tell them.
• Tell them
• Tell them what you’ve told them and pretend it’s necessary
(and if it’s political – say it’s not our fault)
I have a deep dislike of the way that bad news is delivered to me and the public at large. Dressing it up with ‘it’s coming’ … ‘get ready’… ‘you’re not going to like it’ … ‘it’s a necessary measure’ doesn’t make it easier. All it does is imply that as a collective we’re too stupid to be treated like grown ups. But what do I know!
Back to the news, what occurs to me taking the news as a whole is that those higher echelons of society don’t know how to spend our money wisely.
Let me explain.
The 1st news story says in plain speak
Politicians – ‘we do got no money’
The 2nd & 3rd news story says in plain speak
Scientist – ‘we do got a way of helping, but it’s gonna cost ya’
= we got a problem
But once upon a time, even before that problem there was another. Let me explain.
Scientist – ‘we do got a good idea, give us money to do it good’
Politicians – ‘we do got no money. Oh ok. Here you go’
You’re seeing my point now right? I’m not saying that research should stop and that the help that some research findings aren’t invaluable to mankind and therefore Nobel Prize worthy. What I am saying is think about it from an individual human perspective.
Hello, this is the news. You have been suffering. Scientists have been worried. So we found something to help. That’s good huh?
You’re imagining the joy, relief and the gratitude to those who cared enough to help.
Then comes the crushing – I’m sorry we know lots of Vitamin B will slow does your brain degeneration by 50% but we can’t give it to because if we give it to you, everyone will want it and we simply can’t afford it.
It’s as cruel as offering a child a sweetie only to hold it just out of reach whilst laughing in their face. Someone surely needs to question the validity of funding research projects with public funds without factoring ethical questions regarding the managing the repercussions of findings. In business its called project sustainability. Unlike the science behind these projects being responsible surely is NOT rocket science.
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