The title up there? That's the same title as one I just used for a review of a product on Amazon.
The product in question: my Epson Stylus S22.
Click the link to see the review, but if you don't feel like a click, I'm just going to copy & paste it here, so you can enjoy my ire.
Thus, my review:
I loathe this printer with so much venom it's not even normal.
You
must be very precise in the amount sheets you put in the paper feed, one
more than it likes and it'll jam, one less and it'll jam.
Unfortunately, the precise amount it wants changes with every use. This printer is the epitome of fickle.
You will have thoughts of violence that you didn't believe you were capable of.
But then, when you've spent the best part of an hour trying to print half a dozen documents, it's to be expected.
Print quality? Ha!
It'll
slap a few gaps into the printing, you'll go off and clean the print
heads and then you'll realise this was a foolish errand as it has now
swallowed all the ink remaining in your cartridge.
Oh, and if you
thought you might try a compatible cartridge instead of remortgaging
your life to purchase a genuine Epson cartridge? Well more fool you,
because Epson have jolly well outfoxed you there too. It'll just flat
out refuse to do a damn thing.
And there's more...so you want to
print a document, entirely with black ink, but you've run out of magenta
ink? Well, frankly, at this point it sucks to be you, because if any
one cartridge runs out, you will not be able to print a single thing.
Nothing. Full stop. Actually, not even a full stop.
But I want to print in black you say, not magenta! I don't need your magenta! Tough doo-doo! No printing for you my dear.
If
I lived in a fictional world where I had accrued enemies, I might
actually foist this upon them, but not even a Bond villain actually
deserves to be tortured with this atrocity.
Shame on you Epson!
Just to be clear, I really don't like this printer. At all.
Showing posts with label On The Soapbox. Show all posts
Showing posts with label On The Soapbox. Show all posts
Saturday, 22 March 2014
Tuesday, 11 March 2014
Lyrics
I got a new tattoo last year:
It had been a while since I'd indulged my love of ink so it was time.
These words come from a song by Frank Turner, the whole lyric is "If that's your road then take it, but it's not the road for me"
The first time I ever heard the song and that line, it really spoke to me, to be honest the entire song is filled with lyrics that speak to me, like "I'm happy and I'm settled in the person I've become" and then there's "And I won't sit down, And I won't shut up, And most of all I will not grow up". I feel like parts of it are about me, but isn't that often the way with music?
We find songs that speak to us, songs that appear to accurately reflect our lives, songs that seem as though the writer was talking directly to us.
If that's your road then take it but it's not the road for me...I like how that infers that we all get to do what we want to do and it's okay if we don't want to do the same thing, we get to live our own lives, making our own choices. It all boils down to live and let live in it's simplest sense.
In a deeper way it speaks to me about how, during my journey of body acceptance & feminism, I'm learning to be non-judgemental.
Somehow we're all taught to judge things that just aren't important...they shouldn't be wearing that, their make-up is wrong, that outfit isn't flattering, they must be an idiot to be reading that book, that's a terrible tattoo, that's a boring hobby to have, they're too fat, they're too thin, the list goes on and on.
I've spent so many years making those judgements that I still do it sometimes, but I catch myself in my mind and make myself consciously accept that someone else's choices do not have to mirror my own, and good on them for living their life the way they want to. I find myself silently celebrating it every single time.
The knock-on effect has been that I'm happier in my own skin, if I don't judge others harshly, I don't judge myself harshly and let me tell you, that's a far happier way to live!
Just a few words, arranged on my back, that I wanted with me forever, to remind me of a happier way to live.
These words come from a song by Frank Turner, the whole lyric is "If that's your road then take it, but it's not the road for me"
The first time I ever heard the song and that line, it really spoke to me, to be honest the entire song is filled with lyrics that speak to me, like "I'm happy and I'm settled in the person I've become" and then there's "And I won't sit down, And I won't shut up, And most of all I will not grow up". I feel like parts of it are about me, but isn't that often the way with music?
We find songs that speak to us, songs that appear to accurately reflect our lives, songs that seem as though the writer was talking directly to us.
If that's your road then take it but it's not the road for me...I like how that infers that we all get to do what we want to do and it's okay if we don't want to do the same thing, we get to live our own lives, making our own choices. It all boils down to live and let live in it's simplest sense.
In a deeper way it speaks to me about how, during my journey of body acceptance & feminism, I'm learning to be non-judgemental.
Somehow we're all taught to judge things that just aren't important...they shouldn't be wearing that, their make-up is wrong, that outfit isn't flattering, they must be an idiot to be reading that book, that's a terrible tattoo, that's a boring hobby to have, they're too fat, they're too thin, the list goes on and on.
I've spent so many years making those judgements that I still do it sometimes, but I catch myself in my mind and make myself consciously accept that someone else's choices do not have to mirror my own, and good on them for living their life the way they want to. I find myself silently celebrating it every single time.
The knock-on effect has been that I'm happier in my own skin, if I don't judge others harshly, I don't judge myself harshly and let me tell you, that's a far happier way to live!
Just a few words, arranged on my back, that I wanted with me forever, to remind me of a happier way to live.
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
It's A Soapbox Moment
Yesterday morning Mifford woke me at 3.30am. That would be bad enough, except she woke me up by throwing up. In the bed.
Ah, you have to love having pets.
I thought that surely had to be a bad omen, but actually it wasn't a wholly bad day at all.
Later on when I logged into twitter the number one Trending Topic was "fatpeoplearesexier".
I was immediately suspicious and wondered what sort of piss-take was going on, but was really pleased to see that most of the tweets were positive. People agreeing or relishing something that wasn't negative being said about overweight people.
Obviously there were exceptions. What was refreshing was that they were in the minority.
They were still of the mindset that it's ok to be ignorant and rude.
There's an old saying that if you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all.
Maybe you shouldn't jump at any opportunity that presents itself to be offensive.
This is lovely "gent" is one such example.
Apparently you have to BE fat to find anyone who IS fat attractive.
I guess those men who are thin and going out with fat women are unable to think for themselves.
But wait, he goes on to say, you can only be sexy IF you're not fat any more. He's a great guy.
Then Miss Cherry Pie steps into the mix. She's ever so funny. See what she did here?
She made a whale joke.
That's one of the funniest things I've ever seen.
It's never been done before.
Oh the originality.
Sigh.
Ah, you have to love having pets.
I thought that surely had to be a bad omen, but actually it wasn't a wholly bad day at all.
Later on when I logged into twitter the number one Trending Topic was "fatpeoplearesexier".
I was immediately suspicious and wondered what sort of piss-take was going on, but was really pleased to see that most of the tweets were positive. People agreeing or relishing something that wasn't negative being said about overweight people.Obviously there were exceptions. What was refreshing was that they were in the minority.
They were still of the mindset that it's ok to be ignorant and rude.
There's an old saying that if you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all.
Maybe you shouldn't jump at any opportunity that presents itself to be offensive.
This is lovely "gent" is one such example.
Apparently you have to BE fat to find anyone who IS fat attractive.
I guess those men who are thin and going out with fat women are unable to think for themselves.
But wait, he goes on to say, you can only be sexy IF you're not fat any more. He's a great guy.
Then Miss Cherry Pie steps into the mix. She's ever so funny. See what she did here?
She made a whale joke.
That's one of the funniest things I've ever seen.
It's never been done before.
Oh the originality.
Sigh.
I actually feel a little sorry for them. If you don't have some body - that the media/fashion world has defined as perfect, then you cannot be attractive.
One must be thin to be pretty.
What utter bullshit.
And yet, people like the example below, again, have been brainwashed into believing it to be true.
It's sad to me. 
This isn't what defines you.
Your weight doesn't define who you are as a person.
To my mind, your actions define you.
What kind of person thinks it's nice to mock others? For any reason, be it weight, colour, religion, disability, musical preference, whatever major or minor thing.
What kind of person finds outright insults amusing? I just don't get it.
How anyone functions with a mind so small is beyond me.
The vaguely amusing point is that the whole hashtag trending topic thing, started out because of this guy, Shane Dawson, and his video:
The whole point was that he doesn't understand why people are mean and narrow minded. As if to prove the exact thing this guy is talking about people have to jump on, what they assume to be, an offensive bandwagon but in the process make themselves look foolish.
While I'm on the soapbox...
I drove home from town last night, the traffic was nose to tail as we moved through traffic lights and I spotted in my wing mirror a large van driving quickly up to the merging point. All other cars were in the inside lane as there was clearly no room to overtake anyone. This van got his nose just in front of my car, indicated and pushed his way in, forcing me to literally stand on my brakes to avoid a collision. I may have gesticulated in anger, just a little.
A moment or two later the road bears to the left, it's a pretty serious bend, you can't see beyond it.
The van? It has decided the appropriate road placement is in the other carriageway, directly facing any possible oncoming traffic. Not just nosing over the line, hell no, his entire vehicle in the oncoming lane. I like to talk to myself and yelled "that's a bend you idiot!" Once clear of the bend he overtakes, I suspect there was just enough room, I also suspect that the car in that lane had to brake rather to allow the van time to make its pass.
I travelled along, at the speed limit, watching this van accelerate away from me, clearly breaking the speed limits.
I felt that satisfaction that every road user feels when I realised he was stuck behind some slower moving traffic with no chance of overtaking.
However, a few minutes later there is a very brief short stretch of road, before a sharp right hand bend. He chose this spot to overtake, rather brilliantly this is also where a large, bright red sign has been erected, warning about the dangers of this road.
My route from home to town is known as a red route, it denotes a dangerous road, this year it would probably average out to nearly a death a week on that road.
This guy is driving dangerously, endangering the rest of us.
You know the worst part?
Guess what it said on the back of the van?
POLICE. COLLISION INVESTIGATION.
I'm composing a letter of complaint to the Chief Constable later today.
That's actually not my nature, but seriously, if we can't get away with driving like that, why in the hell should they?
Especially when there are no sirens and no flashing lights.
Were it an emergency we'd all have let him pass, I just object to him being the one in danger of causing the emergency.
Monday, 4 May 2009
Lincoln County Hospital
I got a call from my Dad yesterday to say he'd been having chest pains, had rung the Out of Hours service who had in turn rung an ambulance for him.
Unsure of what was going to happen and assured he didn't want me to meet him at the hospital, I waited a while and rang the hospital.
They'd decided to keep him overnight and do some tests, getting ill on a weekend is one thing, but getting ill on a Bank Holiday weekend is a different adventure. Doctors? Few and far between.
Everything slows to a halt.
Dad informed me today that the pharmacy was closed. In a hospital. Where they never need any kind of pharmaceuticals. I'm lost for words.
Anyway, I popped in to see Dad, find out what had been said and just keep him company for a little while.
We sat and chatted and after a little a strange noise started from behind the curtains of the patient across the ward.
It was like two glasses touching and the table on which they were sitting was being repeatedly shaken. After a few minutes I started to become concerned, the noise wasn't abating and there were no nurses heading in his direction.
I squinted across the ward, trying to see through the small gap in the curtain, becoming concerned that whoever was in there was convulsing or something.
Eventually I made out that they were sitting upright, but still the shaking noise continued.
Several minutes later a voice came from behind the curtain "Nurse!"
It was clear something was wrong.
His bed was maybe 12 feet from the nurses station. They were all standing and talking, they had to have heard him, but no-one responded.
Half a minute later he shouted again.
Still no-one responded.
At this point I'm wondering if I should interfere, does this make me a nosy old bat?
He shouted again for a nurse.
He was ignored again.
Finally, after another minute he shouted for the fourth time for help.
This time he got a response. A barely concealed angry response of "You'll have to bear with us for a minute!"
At this point it's probably a good ten minutes since the noise of shaking started.
No-one has been anywhere near him.
Minutes pass. At what point, do you interfere?
He shouts again and someone new has entered the ward, she pulls back the curtain in response to his shout.
The gentleman is leaning against the table, his whole body shaking violently as if frozen to the bone.
A shout goes out for help, another shout goes out for an ECG, they ask him if he's had a heart attack before. Maybe he's having a heart attack. The only word he can get out is "cold".
So there he has been, shouting for help, for at least ten minutes, and now they're worried he's having a heart attack.
When they're helping him, finally, it's not an appropriate time to go and smash their heads together, but damn they need it.
This was the Emergency Assessment Unit, which means they have been admitted, as emergencies to be assessed as to what the cause of their complaint is. As such, when you don't know what's wrong, is it appropriate to ignore not one, or two, but four pleas for help?
After the abysmal care I witnessed in the weeks I spent in hospital, working my way round, seemingly, most of the wards there, I don't know how I manage to remain surprised. But I am. Sometimes I just don't understand the choice of career.
I can honestly say, that in all the time, in all the wards, I can count on one hand the number of good nurses I came across. And I don't even need to use all the fingers on that hand.
I spent time on a ward where the nurses kept patients waiting up to 80 minutes for morphine. Morphine, not paracetamol. Morphine. People dealing with serious pain, barely able to move or speak and denied pain relief because nurses had a bed to make.
I'm grateful that the NHS exists, I truly am, but the standard of care saddens me more often than I'd like.
Hopefully I'll get to take Dad home tomorrow, once the Bank Holiday is over and the world returns to normal, he'll be able to get some answers and get out of there and finally make a full recovery.
I just hope his biggest concern tonight is whether there's a snorer on his ward or not.
Unsure of what was going to happen and assured he didn't want me to meet him at the hospital, I waited a while and rang the hospital.
They'd decided to keep him overnight and do some tests, getting ill on a weekend is one thing, but getting ill on a Bank Holiday weekend is a different adventure. Doctors? Few and far between.
Everything slows to a halt.
Dad informed me today that the pharmacy was closed. In a hospital. Where they never need any kind of pharmaceuticals. I'm lost for words.
Anyway, I popped in to see Dad, find out what had been said and just keep him company for a little while.
We sat and chatted and after a little a strange noise started from behind the curtains of the patient across the ward.
It was like two glasses touching and the table on which they were sitting was being repeatedly shaken. After a few minutes I started to become concerned, the noise wasn't abating and there were no nurses heading in his direction.
I squinted across the ward, trying to see through the small gap in the curtain, becoming concerned that whoever was in there was convulsing or something.
Eventually I made out that they were sitting upright, but still the shaking noise continued.
Several minutes later a voice came from behind the curtain "Nurse!"
It was clear something was wrong.
His bed was maybe 12 feet from the nurses station. They were all standing and talking, they had to have heard him, but no-one responded.
Half a minute later he shouted again.
Still no-one responded.
At this point I'm wondering if I should interfere, does this make me a nosy old bat?
He shouted again for a nurse.
He was ignored again.
Finally, after another minute he shouted for the fourth time for help.
This time he got a response. A barely concealed angry response of "You'll have to bear with us for a minute!"
At this point it's probably a good ten minutes since the noise of shaking started.
No-one has been anywhere near him.
Minutes pass. At what point, do you interfere?
He shouts again and someone new has entered the ward, she pulls back the curtain in response to his shout.
The gentleman is leaning against the table, his whole body shaking violently as if frozen to the bone.
A shout goes out for help, another shout goes out for an ECG, they ask him if he's had a heart attack before. Maybe he's having a heart attack. The only word he can get out is "cold".
So there he has been, shouting for help, for at least ten minutes, and now they're worried he's having a heart attack.
When they're helping him, finally, it's not an appropriate time to go and smash their heads together, but damn they need it.
This was the Emergency Assessment Unit, which means they have been admitted, as emergencies to be assessed as to what the cause of their complaint is. As such, when you don't know what's wrong, is it appropriate to ignore not one, or two, but four pleas for help?
After the abysmal care I witnessed in the weeks I spent in hospital, working my way round, seemingly, most of the wards there, I don't know how I manage to remain surprised. But I am. Sometimes I just don't understand the choice of career.
I can honestly say, that in all the time, in all the wards, I can count on one hand the number of good nurses I came across. And I don't even need to use all the fingers on that hand.
I spent time on a ward where the nurses kept patients waiting up to 80 minutes for morphine. Morphine, not paracetamol. Morphine. People dealing with serious pain, barely able to move or speak and denied pain relief because nurses had a bed to make.
I'm grateful that the NHS exists, I truly am, but the standard of care saddens me more often than I'd like.
Hopefully I'll get to take Dad home tomorrow, once the Bank Holiday is over and the world returns to normal, he'll be able to get some answers and get out of there and finally make a full recovery.
I just hope his biggest concern tonight is whether there's a snorer on his ward or not.
Sunday, 26 April 2009
Bad Taste
The sun is shining, it's perfect for sitting in the garden.
You go to hang out your washing in the lovely Spring air, only to realise that this is the time of year that some people need to show everyone else in the neighbourhood exactly how bad their taste in music is.
For some reason they are never playing anything that you enjoy listening to, or in fact judging by the reaction of other neighbours, that those people enjoy listening to either.
But these folks with bad taste in music persevere. They must let the world know that their thinking remains inside the box and if it hasn't been on an Ibiza album, well then, it's just not worth listening to.
Why do they never see the sunshine and think that maybe they'll go for a bit of blues. I'd be happy to wander into my garden and hear my neighbours playing a bit of Eric Bibb, maybe some Keb Mo, although if I came out and they were playing the Levellers I'd be super happy (and likely to be leaping around).
To be fair, I live in a peaceful little village, I do love it here. The only downside is the mongrel that bought a little house to renovate very near by.
He's upset everyone in our little patch.
His delivery lorries have managed to hit my Sky dish three times, which I'm overjoyed about.
As for the utter mess he's created. Broken panes of glass stick up vertically from the ground, just begging for a big jugular accident.
And today he's playing goodness knows what rubbish which blares beautifully into my garden.
I'm beginning to loathe him. Deeply.
It's quite a considerate neighbourhood. The most noise you tend to hear is the sound of lawn mowers or a bit of DIY, none of which you ever mind, they're the sounds of summer!
Anyway, his house is still empty, still undergoing renovation, the surrounding area of building site slowly encroaching onto everyone else's space. Rumour has it he plans to live there himself when it's finally completed. I hope not. I sincerely hope we get someone with a good taste in music.
You go to hang out your washing in the lovely Spring air, only to realise that this is the time of year that some people need to show everyone else in the neighbourhood exactly how bad their taste in music is.
For some reason they are never playing anything that you enjoy listening to, or in fact judging by the reaction of other neighbours, that those people enjoy listening to either.
But these folks with bad taste in music persevere. They must let the world know that their thinking remains inside the box and if it hasn't been on an Ibiza album, well then, it's just not worth listening to.
Why do they never see the sunshine and think that maybe they'll go for a bit of blues. I'd be happy to wander into my garden and hear my neighbours playing a bit of Eric Bibb, maybe some Keb Mo, although if I came out and they were playing the Levellers I'd be super happy (and likely to be leaping around).
To be fair, I live in a peaceful little village, I do love it here. The only downside is the mongrel that bought a little house to renovate very near by.
He's upset everyone in our little patch.
His delivery lorries have managed to hit my Sky dish three times, which I'm overjoyed about.
As for the utter mess he's created. Broken panes of glass stick up vertically from the ground, just begging for a big jugular accident.
And today he's playing goodness knows what rubbish which blares beautifully into my garden.
I'm beginning to loathe him. Deeply.
It's quite a considerate neighbourhood. The most noise you tend to hear is the sound of lawn mowers or a bit of DIY, none of which you ever mind, they're the sounds of summer!
Anyway, his house is still empty, still undergoing renovation, the surrounding area of building site slowly encroaching onto everyone else's space. Rumour has it he plans to live there himself when it's finally completed. I hope not. I sincerely hope we get someone with a good taste in music.
Friday, 6 March 2009
A Lot To Say
I'm feeling in an organised sort of mood today so I'm putting my thoughts out there in an organised manner. Tomorrow I'll be back to flitting, hell it might be this afternoon. I'm an unpredictable sort.
So:
So:
- Mum and Tim are in New Zealand. They're vacationing. And they're blogging it here. Just to make sure you feel the envy. Although, the sun is shining and the sky is blue here. It's just that if you were to try flip-flops you'd risk frostbite. Damn it.
- I'm going to a ceilidh tonight. I've never been or seen a ceilidh where there hasn't also been an injury. To date the injured person has not been me, which in itself is a minor miracle, so I'm wondering if my time has come.
- I went in a chatroom last week, for the first time in years and years. I'm regularly complaining about the world of txtspk, I do loathe it so, but anyway, so there I am in the chatroom, receiving a few private messages. To be honest, over the course of the evening I probably had about 30 guys contact me to say hello. No wait, with just a couple of exceptions they contacted me to say ASL. Some of them didn't bother to say hello. Just straight in there with the Age/Sex/Location. Personally I'd have thought that the 'Lady' part of the moniker I was using would have given the middle part of that set of questions away. But it seems not. I pointed out that I thought it was generally considered bad manners to ask a lady her age, to which one responded that he had to check I wasn't underage. Which is a fair point, but it doesn't really excuse it, unless he also believes that each and every person on the planet tells the truth all the time. Hmm, I think not. Seriously though, what's up with that? No small talk? No, Hi, how are you, have you had a good day? Do they approach people in the real world and say "How old are you, are you really a chick and where do you live?" No, they would get short shrift. (I just looked up shrift and it wasn't a definition I expected). There's something about the 'virtual world' that makes people feel they can be less polite, that it's ok to just say "Hi, what are you wearing?" It's weird, because real world or virtual world, I'm not telling someone I don't know the colour of my underwear. I guess I'm just old-fashioned.
- Or not. I did go and get another tattoo after all. I am having difficulties obtaining a photograph. I used an assistant last night and his photographic abilities sucked. I have been outskilled in the blurry photo ability. On the upside, I do love my tattoo, which is a bonus really as it's never going away!
- I have a question about smelly people. Why do they always stand so close to you? I like my personal space, I do, I hate it when you're in a queue and they're almost pressed against you, but when they also smell bad it's just dreadful. The other day I stood in a local shop waiting to be served and a lady joined the queue behind me, almost immediately I smelt her and took a step forward, slightly turning to place my basket between her and I, to better protect my poor nose. This didn't help, I assumed the usual posture, free hand moved to just below the nose as you pretend to stroke/play with your lip and try not to breathe. I glanced behind me and saw that the lady behind the smelly one had assumed an identical posture. The people being served were taking a while, I toyed with the idea of leaving the queue, feigning having forgotten something, but maybe I'd be served any second, did I have time to stand again at the end of a queue of increasing length?
The thing is, the smell is so often of unwashed clothes and unwashed body. It's not a smell of exercise just completed, it's a smell that has accumulated for days and I hesitate to say weeks, and it saddens me. Do they know? Do they care? I think most of us would be horrified to discover that people around us thought we smelt bad. - One more thing about people. The TV channel Living have been screening the original CSI, beginning from Season One every night of the week, it's not on till late evening so I prefer to record it. As a result when I sit down to grab some lunch or just chill out for half an hour and turn on the TV, it is set to Living, daytime Living shows a lot of Jerry Springer and Maury. I want to know, is any of it real? It is all fictional? Because honestly, some of those stories, they just don't compute. One chick: "Hi Maury, I'm here for the third time to test three more men, because I'm sure one of them HAS to be the father of my child." On this occasion, it was taking her tried total to 7. Seven men that could potentially be the father of her child. I mean, she's been wrong four times already, what if she's wrong three more times, exactly how high a number can she even achieve? It gives me the fear. I need soothing and reassuring they're all actors.
- I think I have an addiction to store loyalty cards. No really. My friend Harriet, my niece Chloe and I compare how many Dividend Points we have on our Co-Op cards. When I got my letter from the Co-Op telling me what I'd earned and how much of a bonus they were going to give me, I was genuinely excited. It has become like a competition. Harriet sent me a text to tell me she'd broken the £15 mark and was irrationally excited. I'm just pence away from hitting £30. I'm a terrible saver, but these points, which are, in essence, free money, well I take pride in them. I can't bring myself to spend them. I must hoard them, see how high I can make that figure. When the offers come out I'm there, getting my 5X points on local produce or fair trade, just so I can see how much more I've accumulated. Yesterday I got an email, telling me about my Nectar card - which I use in Sainsburys - saying I could sign up for more points, just spend £5 on fruit & veg and 100 extra points would be mine. There was also a link to show me what I could spend my points on. Now I have a Nectar card obsession, I have to choose what I can save for! I have gone beyond sad, to lands undiscovered. I'd say I needed to get a life, but I actually quite like the one I have. Even with its loyalty card addiction.
- This weekend is one of Lincoln's Free Weekends. It's a brilliant idea, you can visit the tourist attractions and get free entry. So, I'm heading to Doddington Hall with Rachael. Despite it being almost on my doorstep and driving past it regularly, I've never visited the actual hall. I was even there this week at the farm shop & cafe with Harriet.
She and I went to have lunch there, when we arrived it was a bit pricey so we weren't sure if we should stay, both of us being short of cash, but we thought we'd brave it. I ordered a Jerusalem artichoke risotto and was told it was gone but I could have mushroom risotto instead. As the only veggie option on the menu I couldn't argue. Harriet had a burger and when they came both meals were lovely, but we both felt overpriced. Our table was near the till which meant we could be surrounded by customers at times, so it wasn't a private dining situation. We're both cake fiends so we opted for dessert which was beautifully presented. We went to pay, Harriet handed over her card and I handed her half of the bill in cash. As we left Harriet swept ahead of me, I'd been intending to meander through the farm shop and have a browse but Harriet seemed to be in a hurry. She turned back to me and hurried me a little. We got to the car and she explained. I hadn't realised but we'd thought the meals were overpriced, then they undercharged us, so she'd been in a hurry to make a swift exit. Are we terrible? Sometimes I like to believe Karma bites you in the ass and sometimes it smiles on you.
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
Miscellanea
I have to note two things.
Well maybe three.
The first is that it's only just gone 9.30am and I have already had two achievements.
I'm a high achiever. For today only.
Anyway, I went for a blood test this morning and you know what the nurse got that vein first time. First time I tell you! That never happens!
Normal events are like this:
"Sharp scratch coming up, oh no, I didn't get it/the veins collapsed/I'm sure I felt it, etc, etc, etc"
Repeat 4 - 5 times per arm.
Then attempt back of the hand.
Then send to County Hospital to let the phlebotomists there have at me.
See 1 or 2 or 3 (occasionally more) phlebotomists who attempt to take blood.
At this point I think they start to believe I am some kind of scientific miracle that exists without blood. (If only I didn't have so many injuries to disprove that theory!)
The worst, worst, worst place for a blood test - the inside wrist. Horrible.
Anyway, first bloody time! I'm so happy.
So happy in fact that I came home and the second thing was achieved.
I went up a ladder.
Nothing major I know, I mean people are up and down ladders every day!
It's just that since the time I went up a ladder and came back down without using the rungs, I have been a little afraid of them.
I did break into a cold sweat it's true, but I did it.
Check. Me. Out.
Word to the wise. Always use the rungs. Don't land on the ladder after it slips and leaves you to fall from the attic. That shit hurts. And breaks your ribs. I got a totally awesome ladder-shaped bruise though!
~
I have some things on my mind as well. Not important things, but maybe if I share them they'll stop going round in my overstuffed mind.
Mascara adverts. Somewhere in fine print during the ads are the words "Filmed with lash inserts and enhanced in post production". What? Why? Is your mascara so terrible that the product on its own is not worth seeing?
This bugs me. I mean I can't be enhanced in post production. Oh, I wish.....
But seriously. I don't have time for lash inserts, I want mascara that doesn't need lash inserts damn it.
I bought some drawing pins the other day, when I got them home I noticed that the back of the packet had this note:
Well maybe three.
The first is that it's only just gone 9.30am and I have already had two achievements.
I'm a high achiever. For today only.
Anyway, I went for a blood test this morning and you know what the nurse got that vein first time. First time I tell you! That never happens!
Normal events are like this:
"Sharp scratch coming up, oh no, I didn't get it/the veins collapsed/I'm sure I felt it, etc, etc, etc"
Repeat 4 - 5 times per arm.
Then attempt back of the hand.
Then send to County Hospital to let the phlebotomists there have at me.
See 1 or 2 or 3 (occasionally more) phlebotomists who attempt to take blood.
At this point I think they start to believe I am some kind of scientific miracle that exists without blood. (If only I didn't have so many injuries to disprove that theory!)
The worst, worst, worst place for a blood test - the inside wrist. Horrible.
Anyway, first bloody time! I'm so happy.
So happy in fact that I came home and the second thing was achieved.
I went up a ladder.
Nothing major I know, I mean people are up and down ladders every day!
It's just that since the time I went up a ladder and came back down without using the rungs, I have been a little afraid of them.
I did break into a cold sweat it's true, but I did it.
Check. Me. Out.
Word to the wise. Always use the rungs. Don't land on the ladder after it slips and leaves you to fall from the attic. That shit hurts. And breaks your ribs. I got a totally awesome ladder-shaped bruise though!
~
I have some things on my mind as well. Not important things, but maybe if I share them they'll stop going round in my overstuffed mind.
Mascara adverts. Somewhere in fine print during the ads are the words "Filmed with lash inserts and enhanced in post production". What? Why? Is your mascara so terrible that the product on its own is not worth seeing?
This bugs me. I mean I can't be enhanced in post production. Oh, I wish.....
But seriously. I don't have time for lash inserts, I want mascara that doesn't need lash inserts damn it.
I bought some drawing pins the other day, when I got them home I noticed that the back of the packet had this note:
Apologies for the terrible photo, but really, now we're being told drawing pins have sharp points? How idiotic as a society have we become that we need to have this spelled out to us? I'm only surprised some of those words have more than one syllable.
Yesterday I logged on to AOL and was greeted with the headline "Wildcat strikes set to increase".
I thought it was referring to incidents like this but was disappointed to discover it actually meant this. Which is not nearly as exciting.
I mean it's serious and all, but it's just not as exciting.
Lastly, I wanted to illustrate why so many think I am a picture of elegance and grace.
Mum & Tim were packing up ready to leave their house in the village and as I had a sudden unexpected free day I went to help. I found a number of small poles and I thought it would be a good idea to keep them all together so found some elastic bands which I placed round my wrist as I gathered the poles in my hand. Now, these were quite large poles and I could only just hang onto them, being small of hand. I carefully held them with one hand whilst (cleverly) slipping the bands from the wrist over the poles, in what was designed to be one fluid motion.
Except I had the poles a little too close to my face.
And gathered a good portion of my hair into the elastic band, thus joining the poles to my wrist, hand and hair.
Oh yes, this is no simple skill.
I'll have you know, in my time of need, Tim laughed from the back of the trailer.
Wait, this is the last thing. I've started chitting my seed potatoes.
Oh yes, check me out, I know the lingo and everything.
Saturday, 27 December 2008
Christmas And All That Went Before
It has been a while!
I have been both poorly and busy. Which is not an ideal combination.
Christmas came at a very inconvenient time to be fair.
I managed to pick up a mean cold/cough type of bug and was laid out for a whole weekend. On the upside I got through lots of lovely television that I had recorded on the hard drive so it was a good use of time really.
When's all said and done though, I'd rather the snot monster went next door in future.
Anyway! It is a testament to what a good girl I am that I was very lucky at Christmas, Santa looked fondly on me.
In fact our whole house appeared to have been good all year judging by Santa's kindness.
All manner of lovely gifts had my name on them, I've been able to reduce the size of my wishlist somewhat and am very grateful!
I'm also planning to finally get some new tattoos done, which is quite exciting, although it'll take time as the tattooist is renowned for being booked up for ages and ages.
What am I saying? I'm really bloody excited about getting them done and talking to the tattooist about some designs I have in mind that I haven't been able to draw up myself.
I'm just taking a moment to jump up on my soapbox.
This morning I popped downstairs, remembering the men were coming to empty the bins and that I had several sacks of recycling in the boot that needed to go into my bins.
I ran downstairs and upon going outside realised that someone had moved my bins which I though was odd. Thinking little more of it, I opened the boot and took out the sacks. I hauled them to my bins. Opened my bins, which I knew to be virtually empty and discovered them to be full to the brim. It's just bloody rude. Everyone has their own bin, so why the hell do they think they have the right to fill mine up too? I hope they get nits. And other itchy ailments, preferably ones I won't catch. They're going on the list.
But seriously, how hard is it to knock on my door and ask if I mind them shoving all their crap in my bins. Maybe I should give them a key so they can use my fridge if they run out of room in theirs?
And breathe.
I've just finished reading The Llama Parlour by Kathy Lette.
What I most regret is that I'll never get back the time I wasted on that book.
What I also regret is that I am also hating the current book I'm reading, but after 300 pages I still feel an obligation to finish it, despite the fact the central characters are two of the most shallow women I've ever read about. There were a few funny lines at the beginning, but now I just hope it bucks a trend and there's a terribly unhappy ending. I can but hope.
I need some fire bricks so that I can put a grate in my fireplace, so that I can make kindling from these 'novels'.
As a belated Christmas gift to the world I am giving you these:
I admit I have a celebrity crush on Adam Savage. I can't help it. He makes me laugh!
And that has to be my favourite explosion.
I have been both poorly and busy. Which is not an ideal combination.
Christmas came at a very inconvenient time to be fair.
I managed to pick up a mean cold/cough type of bug and was laid out for a whole weekend. On the upside I got through lots of lovely television that I had recorded on the hard drive so it was a good use of time really.
When's all said and done though, I'd rather the snot monster went next door in future.
Anyway! It is a testament to what a good girl I am that I was very lucky at Christmas, Santa looked fondly on me.
In fact our whole house appeared to have been good all year judging by Santa's kindness.
All manner of lovely gifts had my name on them, I've been able to reduce the size of my wishlist somewhat and am very grateful!
I'm also planning to finally get some new tattoos done, which is quite exciting, although it'll take time as the tattooist is renowned for being booked up for ages and ages.
What am I saying? I'm really bloody excited about getting them done and talking to the tattooist about some designs I have in mind that I haven't been able to draw up myself.
I'm just taking a moment to jump up on my soapbox.
This morning I popped downstairs, remembering the men were coming to empty the bins and that I had several sacks of recycling in the boot that needed to go into my bins.
I ran downstairs and upon going outside realised that someone had moved my bins which I though was odd. Thinking little more of it, I opened the boot and took out the sacks. I hauled them to my bins. Opened my bins, which I knew to be virtually empty and discovered them to be full to the brim. It's just bloody rude. Everyone has their own bin, so why the hell do they think they have the right to fill mine up too? I hope they get nits. And other itchy ailments, preferably ones I won't catch. They're going on the list.
But seriously, how hard is it to knock on my door and ask if I mind them shoving all their crap in my bins. Maybe I should give them a key so they can use my fridge if they run out of room in theirs?
And breathe.
I've just finished reading The Llama Parlour by Kathy Lette.
What I most regret is that I'll never get back the time I wasted on that book.
What I also regret is that I am also hating the current book I'm reading, but after 300 pages I still feel an obligation to finish it, despite the fact the central characters are two of the most shallow women I've ever read about. There were a few funny lines at the beginning, but now I just hope it bucks a trend and there's a terribly unhappy ending. I can but hope.
I need some fire bricks so that I can put a grate in my fireplace, so that I can make kindling from these 'novels'.
As a belated Christmas gift to the world I am giving you these:
I admit I have a celebrity crush on Adam Savage. I can't help it. He makes me laugh!
And that has to be my favourite explosion.
Now I have to think about New Years Resolutions......
Tuesday, 4 November 2008
A O Hell
Last night, as I disconnected from the internet, a little window flashed up. AOL were about to install some upgrades. I greeted this with a groan. Every single time this happens does it totally screw with my internet connection.So, this morning, with a sense of trepidation I turned on my computer.
I clicked on the wee AOL icon. Nothing.
I clicked again. Nothing.
Again and again and again. Nothing.
I rebooted.
On this reboot AOL informed me it needed to install more files. I doubted the veracity of this but I clicked OK as I had no other option.
Nothing.
Imagine this repeated a dozen, two and three dozen times.
My temper. It flared.
I couldn't locate a helpline number.
No, because those can be found on AOL. Assuming the stupid program even bloody well opens.
I finally relented and called Directory Enquiries, or one of those services, dependent on who pays the most for advertising and which number sticks in your brain. It was so much easier when it was just 192. Which reminds me of a totally unrelated tale that I need to relate.
Anyway, I rang AOL. I got through to India. Which seems to be the norm of late and I know more and more people are frustrated by it.
I explained my predicament, that this wasn't the first, second or third time this had happened. That I wanted it restoring to exactly as it had been, that I did not want to delete and reinstall, that there was information I couldn't afford to lose. I explained I was really very cross and that I was doing my best to remain calm and civil.
She said she'd help me try to restore it but if she couldn't it would need reinstalling. Frayed temper did not respond well to this little statement.
She spent a while on the phone to me.
And you know what.
She went and bloody fixed it.
I did not need to scream and stamp my feet.
I did however need to thank her for putting up with my very cross voice.
Carphone Warehouse have taken over/bought AOL. And what a downhill slide that has been.
They absolutely suck.
AOL Pictures, which they spent time advertising? Closed down.
AIM? Profiles deleted.
AOL Journal? Gone.
Ability to view all websites? Not a chance.
I am beginning to wonder why I'm paying for a glorified way to check my email.
But... the big question remains, are the other ISPs any better?
Sunday, 28 September 2008
Out To Get Me
I'd been having this weird feeling I was going to have a car accident.
I haven't had a car accident, but I am starting to feel that the universe is conspiring to scare me on the roads as many times as possible.
Check this out.
I drove to collect my Dad from hospital in Nottingham, on the way there I reached a cross roads that I use regularly. The view to the left is clear for a long, long way and I could see no traffic, the road straight ahead was also clear, I turned my head to the right, there was a queue of traffic, at the front of which were two lorries slowly turning into my road, heading for the quarry. I went to move but caught sight of movement. A genius had decided that on a junction would be the best place to overtake. It's a pretty sure thing it would have been lights out if I'd made the manoeuvre.
Just 15 minutes or so later, I sat in the outside lane of the dual carriageway, overtaking a number of vehicles, about to overtake a white van and lorry. Only, the white van decided that as I drew level with its rear bumper it should pull out. I mean, it had mirrors, why check there was nothing there? I sat on the horn and made it clear I was displeased. On the upside Mrs White Van Driver did have the courtesy to apologise as I glowered at her on finally passing.
So, Dad collected, we commence the journey home. We enter a roundabout, clearly signalling, only someone thought this would be an excellent time to pull out in front of me. And then change their minds. Blocking my lane and forcing some serious fast thinking as there was traffic in the next lane too. I gave him a forceful beep and you know what? The bastard beeped me back. Upon telling my friend Harriet, she immediately spoke the thought in my mind: "The injustice of it!" He did wrong and I got beeped. Pfft, I hope he gets piles.
You'd think that would suffice right?
Then yesterday, I'm driving round the block in my village. I reach my own road, I see a car coming towards me. Which decides to turn. Immediately in front of me. No signal, just a turn. My handbag left the front seat and slammed into the dashboard as I squealed to the most serious emergency stop I can remember completing in a while, even surpassing the previous three events. I sat for a few moments, shaking quite violently. Before the road rage overcame me, I leapt out of my car and the damn woman ran in her house before I could have words. Grrr.
I went for drinks last night with friends, as I don't drink it was pineapple juice and lemonade for me. I drove my friends home quite late and as I drove, doing the speed limit, I noticed a taxi behind me, closely examining my rear bumper. Clearly contemplating giving it a kiss. I drew close to my friends road, I indicated, that I was intending to turn right, across the carriageway. The taxi decided that this would be an appropriate time to overtake. Had I made the turn, he would have completely slammed into the side of my car. I sat on my brakes and horn. Again.
I pulled up outside Rachael's house, turned to her and said "Seriously, is it me or are they out to get me?!"
I won't even mention how foggy it's been the past few mornings and that people aren't switching on their lights. Pulling out of my village feels like taking your life in your hands as they suddenly loom out of the mist, invisible to the last moment. I hope they all get piles too.
And I wish a slightly lesser punishment on those that go too far and never turn off their ruddy fog lights. When you're behind them, feeling your vision slowly slipping away as the light blinds you more and more each second.
I hate you all damn it! You're all going on The List.
I haven't had a car accident, but I am starting to feel that the universe is conspiring to scare me on the roads as many times as possible.
Check this out.
I drove to collect my Dad from hospital in Nottingham, on the way there I reached a cross roads that I use regularly. The view to the left is clear for a long, long way and I could see no traffic, the road straight ahead was also clear, I turned my head to the right, there was a queue of traffic, at the front of which were two lorries slowly turning into my road, heading for the quarry. I went to move but caught sight of movement. A genius had decided that on a junction would be the best place to overtake. It's a pretty sure thing it would have been lights out if I'd made the manoeuvre.
Just 15 minutes or so later, I sat in the outside lane of the dual carriageway, overtaking a number of vehicles, about to overtake a white van and lorry. Only, the white van decided that as I drew level with its rear bumper it should pull out. I mean, it had mirrors, why check there was nothing there? I sat on the horn and made it clear I was displeased. On the upside Mrs White Van Driver did have the courtesy to apologise as I glowered at her on finally passing.
So, Dad collected, we commence the journey home. We enter a roundabout, clearly signalling, only someone thought this would be an excellent time to pull out in front of me. And then change their minds. Blocking my lane and forcing some serious fast thinking as there was traffic in the next lane too. I gave him a forceful beep and you know what? The bastard beeped me back. Upon telling my friend Harriet, she immediately spoke the thought in my mind: "The injustice of it!" He did wrong and I got beeped. Pfft, I hope he gets piles.
You'd think that would suffice right?
Then yesterday, I'm driving round the block in my village. I reach my own road, I see a car coming towards me. Which decides to turn. Immediately in front of me. No signal, just a turn. My handbag left the front seat and slammed into the dashboard as I squealed to the most serious emergency stop I can remember completing in a while, even surpassing the previous three events. I sat for a few moments, shaking quite violently. Before the road rage overcame me, I leapt out of my car and the damn woman ran in her house before I could have words. Grrr.
I went for drinks last night with friends, as I don't drink it was pineapple juice and lemonade for me. I drove my friends home quite late and as I drove, doing the speed limit, I noticed a taxi behind me, closely examining my rear bumper. Clearly contemplating giving it a kiss. I drew close to my friends road, I indicated, that I was intending to turn right, across the carriageway. The taxi decided that this would be an appropriate time to overtake. Had I made the turn, he would have completely slammed into the side of my car. I sat on my brakes and horn. Again.
I pulled up outside Rachael's house, turned to her and said "Seriously, is it me or are they out to get me?!"
I won't even mention how foggy it's been the past few mornings and that people aren't switching on their lights. Pulling out of my village feels like taking your life in your hands as they suddenly loom out of the mist, invisible to the last moment. I hope they all get piles too.
And I wish a slightly lesser punishment on those that go too far and never turn off their ruddy fog lights. When you're behind them, feeling your vision slowly slipping away as the light blinds you more and more each second.
I hate you all damn it! You're all going on The List.
Friday, 19 September 2008
NHS
I'm appalled by the current state of the National Health Service.
Well, I say current, it's been this way for some time.
My Dad is still in hospital, but thoughtfully they transferred him to another hospital on Thursday to have angioplasty. Then they cancelled it and decided to do it today instead. Then they cancelled that too.
So, there he is, in another hospital in another town which makes travelling and visiting very difficult.
Not only that, he's been told he shouldn't leave his room, which explains why the bitch nurse this afternoon told me I wasn't talking to him, she didn't explain, she just plain refused. That conversation didn't end well.
There's no TV in his room. It's a room he has all to himself. So there's no one to talk to. Just the walls, and their conversational ability is about zero.
I sense prisons have a little more interaction.
The best part about moving him to another hospital, now this is my absolute favourite part. They take him there, then he has to make his own way back. I kid you not. Here look, we're going to do some minor heart surgery, hop on a bus after won't you?
What to do? I have to drive over there to pick him up after the procedure - which has been re-booked for Monday, although Dad has little faith that anything is going to come of that. Another drive at the weekend to make sure he's not alone?
None of his friends and family are over there, going day after day without a familiar face is soul destroying, which isn't great when you're trying to get well in the first place.
I suppose petrol prices are the lowest I've seen in a while. I spotted 106.9 yesterday. It's still ridiculous and the Beastie is a hungry girl.
You can't believe that hospitals only really fully function Monday to Friday. I suppose those surgeons trained a long time and don't fancy working weekends.
I'm just so cross at this system, which just seems to have so many flaws.
And Nottingham City Hospital - your phone skills suck. No, that's not fair the skills on Morris Ward suck. To be fair if they even practiced answering the bloody phone once in a while that'd be great. Dad insists there are some lovely nurses there so I'm not aiming this at them... I'm aiming it at the bitch nurse I spoke to and the other damn folk that ignored the ringing phone. Multiple times.
You're going on the list!
Well, I say current, it's been this way for some time.
My Dad is still in hospital, but thoughtfully they transferred him to another hospital on Thursday to have angioplasty. Then they cancelled it and decided to do it today instead. Then they cancelled that too.
So, there he is, in another hospital in another town which makes travelling and visiting very difficult.
Not only that, he's been told he shouldn't leave his room, which explains why the bitch nurse this afternoon told me I wasn't talking to him, she didn't explain, she just plain refused. That conversation didn't end well.
There's no TV in his room. It's a room he has all to himself. So there's no one to talk to. Just the walls, and their conversational ability is about zero.
I sense prisons have a little more interaction.
The best part about moving him to another hospital, now this is my absolute favourite part. They take him there, then he has to make his own way back. I kid you not. Here look, we're going to do some minor heart surgery, hop on a bus after won't you?
What to do? I have to drive over there to pick him up after the procedure - which has been re-booked for Monday, although Dad has little faith that anything is going to come of that. Another drive at the weekend to make sure he's not alone?
None of his friends and family are over there, going day after day without a familiar face is soul destroying, which isn't great when you're trying to get well in the first place.
I suppose petrol prices are the lowest I've seen in a while. I spotted 106.9 yesterday. It's still ridiculous and the Beastie is a hungry girl.
You can't believe that hospitals only really fully function Monday to Friday. I suppose those surgeons trained a long time and don't fancy working weekends.
I'm just so cross at this system, which just seems to have so many flaws.
And Nottingham City Hospital - your phone skills suck. No, that's not fair the skills on Morris Ward suck. To be fair if they even practiced answering the bloody phone once in a while that'd be great. Dad insists there are some lovely nurses there so I'm not aiming this at them... I'm aiming it at the bitch nurse I spoke to and the other damn folk that ignored the ringing phone. Multiple times.
You're going on the list!
Monday, 11 August 2008
Lip Smacking
Now, steady yourself.
The deliciousness you are about to behold will have you smacking your lips.
It doesn't matter if you've already eaten, hunger will overcome you.
Forget doughnuts, chocolate, your favourite flavour of crisps, the best cake in the world; this will surpass it all.
Actually.
I lied.
You may instead experience a feeling of revulsion.
Below you will find what, in Lincolnshire, passes for food.
But more than that, hospital food.
A place where health is paramount, or rather you regaining your health.
To do this you need a balanced diet.
See:
The deliciousness you are about to behold will have you smacking your lips.
It doesn't matter if you've already eaten, hunger will overcome you.
Forget doughnuts, chocolate, your favourite flavour of crisps, the best cake in the world; this will surpass it all.
Actually.
I lied.
You may instead experience a feeling of revulsion.
Below you will find what, in Lincolnshire, passes for food.
But more than that, hospital food.
A place where health is paramount, or rather you regaining your health.
To do this you need a balanced diet.
See:
Food must appear to have been retched up earlier in the day, caked in fat, microwaved to within an inch of its life and most importantly have zero substance and no taller than a pancake.
This, my friends, is cheese, leek and onion bake. No really, it said so on the menu.
I love hospital food. I love that this particular dish has a distinct aura of grease, you can see it deep on the plate.
The government recommends "5 a day". But not in its hospitals. If you want that in hospital, you'd damn well better have one of two things.
1. Enough fitness and mobility to go to the shop/canteen to buy it for yourself.
2. Relatives willing to bring in food with nutritional value.
I remember being in hospital, the one thing I regularly pleaded for was fruit. Taking grapes to the ill is a standing joke - but damn it, if you want a vitamin or two it's essential.
Orange juice is on the menu. I have concluded that this refers only to the colour of the liquid you are supplied, not to any fruit content.
In the times I was in hospital, waiting for surgery to remove my gallbladder I had an incredibly limited menu. Ok, I'm vegetarian, so that meant that virtually all of the 2 week rotating menu was off for me, so I turned to the patient information folder and the vegetarian menu. There were about a dozen choices on the vegetarian menu. Great! Not so much, because were they also low-fat? No.
It shouldn't be hard to eat a low-fat diet in a hospital. Should it?
It wasn't through choice, but fat + gallstones = a serious need for morphine.
I remember ordering peach slices for a pudding one day. You know how many peach slices I got? Three. The actual NHS guidelines state 2 halves. 3 slices doesn't even make one half! The NHS doesn't even follow it's own guidelines.
As I look back, I'm so furious with myself for not making a formal complaint.
However, on the upside, the ice cream is gorgeous!
Thursday, 1 May 2008
Name Calling
From the book 'The 122 Turn-Offs':
I appreciate I have a long name.
Nothing like Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, I realise that. But then I'm not a place in Wales.
I have nine letters in my name. Just nine.
But that seems to be four too long.
I understand it when you've known me a long time, before I really fully preferred the whole thing. Whilst I still prefer my full name, I can forgive.
What really bugs me is when people that have literally just met me shorten my name, there's no asking what I prefer, or if I even mind. Just four letters thrown to the wind.
I do mind!
Stephanie is a nice name. It could have been much, much worse. Trust me, I used to work in a dental surgery. I've seen names, that even shortened would be an abomination. I've heard of people giving their children names that seriously teeter on the brink of pure evil. I'm not even talking about your stars either, I'm talking the folks next door who think that Jellybean-Coco is an appropriate moniker for their child. I have a list of many. But unfortunately changing the names to protect the innocent would rather ruin the point.
Anyway, I got Stephanie. I did well (Thanks Mum & Dad!)
So why, why, why does the world persist in calling me Steph?
Is the utterance of the extra 'anie' just too much hard work?
I know we're essentially a lazy breed, but really it's only a couple of syllables.
I do accept that some people prefer to be Dave, not David, Matt, not Matthew, Dick, not Richard (although I'll never quite understand that one), Dan, not Daniel, Sam, not Samantha, Bob, not Robert (although why Mr Sleigh chose to be referred to as Bob will never, ever be something I can comprehend).
So all I'm asking is for 9 letters.
It's a small thing.
(Interestingly as I clicked the spellchecker, the only name it objected to was Steph. I find humour in that!)
And by the way, both Jellybean-Coco & Mr Sleigh. Real people. Really.
I appreciate I have a long name. Nothing like Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, I realise that. But then I'm not a place in Wales.
I have nine letters in my name. Just nine.
But that seems to be four too long.
I understand it when you've known me a long time, before I really fully preferred the whole thing. Whilst I still prefer my full name, I can forgive.
What really bugs me is when people that have literally just met me shorten my name, there's no asking what I prefer, or if I even mind. Just four letters thrown to the wind.
I do mind!
Stephanie is a nice name. It could have been much, much worse. Trust me, I used to work in a dental surgery. I've seen names, that even shortened would be an abomination. I've heard of people giving their children names that seriously teeter on the brink of pure evil. I'm not even talking about your stars either, I'm talking the folks next door who think that Jellybean-Coco is an appropriate moniker for their child. I have a list of many. But unfortunately changing the names to protect the innocent would rather ruin the point.
Anyway, I got Stephanie. I did well (Thanks Mum & Dad!)
So why, why, why does the world persist in calling me Steph?
Is the utterance of the extra 'anie' just too much hard work?
I know we're essentially a lazy breed, but really it's only a couple of syllables.
I do accept that some people prefer to be Dave, not David, Matt, not Matthew, Dick, not Richard (although I'll never quite understand that one), Dan, not Daniel, Sam, not Samantha, Bob, not Robert (although why Mr Sleigh chose to be referred to as Bob will never, ever be something I can comprehend).
So all I'm asking is for 9 letters.
It's a small thing.
(Interestingly as I clicked the spellchecker, the only name it objected to was Steph. I find humour in that!)
And by the way, both Jellybean-Coco & Mr Sleigh. Real people. Really.
Wednesday, 23 April 2008
St Georges Day
I've lost St. George and the Union Jack
It's my flag too and I want it back
- Roots by Show of Hands
Today is St Georges Day.
Not that you'd really know it. I'm not really very political but I do sincerely believe that it should be a national holiday. I'm English and I'm proud to be so. It seems such a shame that we don't celebrate it.
I was over at StGeorgesDay.com and I added my vote to the count.
As I voted yes the current results came onto screen, over one million people want it to be recognised. Approximately 45,000 don't. I'd love to know why not.
Upon reading a little today about St Georges Day, I noted that it used to be a day of major feasting, not unlike Christmas. So what happened?
Come on, the dude slayed a dragon. Let's give him some respect!
But seriously, as the song Roots up there at the beginning talks about, we do need to know about our roots; where we came from.
I am currently reading a biography of Boudica and it's fascinating, but it has brought about in me a deeper dissatisfaction for the education system. Not nearly enough is taught about our history, or at least it wasn't in my schooldays and I think that's a terrible shame. We have so much history, going back so many thousands of years and it is being neglected.
It saddens me.
I'm on a mission to, slowly, learn more. Boudica has been fascinating. And obviously the fact she was a strong red haired women doesn't hurt in endearing her to me.
So... Happy St Georges Day!
Tuesday, 20 November 2007
Solitary Shoes & Sirens
I didn't slide down the stairs on the big flattened box and I sorely wish I had. Which is better than being sore I suppose!
I was very good, took all my boxes for recycling and then decided to pop and do some shopping, but as I had a chore to do in town, I parked at the supermarket and walked in. I have to say, it's bloody cold out there today and whilst my tights are damn funky, the fact that they're not unlike cobwebs means they don't keep your legs too toasty.
Anyway, I digress (again)!
As I sauntered into town I noticed a single, solitary shoe. Really, why did I just write single and solitary. The word solitary doesn't really need that addition! Tautology! One of my new favourite words. Thank you to the lovely person that taught me it!
Oh! Digression!
So, this shoe got me to thinking. Why is it always a single shoe? When do you ever see an abandoned pair of shoes? And this shoe was all moccasin-like, I'm sure before it got rained on that it was toasty-warm. Why did its owner decide that they'd rather have one warm foot and one cold foot? Did it drop off in the car park as they stepped into their vehicle and they failed to notice that they were driving with a bare foot? If that's the case, exactly how much beer would you have to consume not to notice a thing like that?
Also, you always see a single trainer by the side of the road. Where does it come from? There you are driving down your country lane and a bright white trainer sits staring at you. Did I disturb it from some deed? Are all these single shoes having affairs with the single socks that run away from the washing machine? Are they eloping off into the sunset together?
It has to be said that a sunset made from escaped socks and shoes might not be a particularly fragrant affair.
And on a note that is totally unrelated apart from the fact it was also a thought that spent some time in my mind today, I saw three ambulances making their way through town centre traffic this afternoon as I walked back to the supermarket. As long as I live I don't think the sound of the sirens will cease to send shivers down my spine or create a feeling of nausea deep in my stomach. I find myself looking to see how many are riding up front, wanting to know if they're going to help someone or are on their way to the hospital.
I instantly find myself imagining being in the position of the person needing help and the sense of urgency you must feel. Every second drags as you wait for help. I want to go and shake the people in the cars who fail to move when the ambulance closes in behind them. The same is true of fire engines.
I want to shake them, what if it was your house on fire? What if it was you, your parents, your children, your partner, your friend in or waiting for that ambulance? What then? How you'd curse that ignorant driver then.
I was very good, took all my boxes for recycling and then decided to pop and do some shopping, but as I had a chore to do in town, I parked at the supermarket and walked in. I have to say, it's bloody cold out there today and whilst my tights are damn funky, the fact that they're not unlike cobwebs means they don't keep your legs too toasty.
Anyway, I digress (again)!
As I sauntered into town I noticed a single, solitary shoe. Really, why did I just write single and solitary. The word solitary doesn't really need that addition! Tautology! One of my new favourite words. Thank you to the lovely person that taught me it!
Oh! Digression!
So, this shoe got me to thinking. Why is it always a single shoe? When do you ever see an abandoned pair of shoes? And this shoe was all moccasin-like, I'm sure before it got rained on that it was toasty-warm. Why did its owner decide that they'd rather have one warm foot and one cold foot? Did it drop off in the car park as they stepped into their vehicle and they failed to notice that they were driving with a bare foot? If that's the case, exactly how much beer would you have to consume not to notice a thing like that?
Also, you always see a single trainer by the side of the road. Where does it come from? There you are driving down your country lane and a bright white trainer sits staring at you. Did I disturb it from some deed? Are all these single shoes having affairs with the single socks that run away from the washing machine? Are they eloping off into the sunset together?
It has to be said that a sunset made from escaped socks and shoes might not be a particularly fragrant affair.
And on a note that is totally unrelated apart from the fact it was also a thought that spent some time in my mind today, I saw three ambulances making their way through town centre traffic this afternoon as I walked back to the supermarket. As long as I live I don't think the sound of the sirens will cease to send shivers down my spine or create a feeling of nausea deep in my stomach. I find myself looking to see how many are riding up front, wanting to know if they're going to help someone or are on their way to the hospital.
I instantly find myself imagining being in the position of the person needing help and the sense of urgency you must feel. Every second drags as you wait for help. I want to go and shake the people in the cars who fail to move when the ambulance closes in behind them. The same is true of fire engines.
I want to shake them, what if it was your house on fire? What if it was you, your parents, your children, your partner, your friend in or waiting for that ambulance? What then? How you'd curse that ignorant driver then.
Monday, 15 October 2007
Words
It doesn't take a talent to be mean,
Words can crush things that are unseen.
- Jewel
I've rattled on about my love of words before and I adore those lyrics from Jewel's song 'I'm Sensitive'. Words are such a powerful thing. I know that they make up a tiny portion of a face to face conversation, with the rest coming from body language, tone of voice, etc.
There are, however, for me some words that no matter how they're spoken, I just can't abide.
And to be honest, swear words don't even register to me. They certainly don't make my list of hated words.
Top of my list is 'stupid'. Personally, I find it to be the most offensive word in the English language. If I hear it the hair on the back of my neck stands on end and I stiffen, wanting to admonish the user. It's a damaging word and a cruel word. I remember hearing one lady tell me that they had banned it in their house and feeling grateful I wasn't alone in my hatred of it. I think it has to be the biggest insult anyone could lay at my door.
Next comes 'nice'. Is there a more mediocre word in the English language? What does it express? Really? Almost nothing. Which is what it's worth. It has no passion, it screams 'I couldn't be bothered to think of anything better to say'.
Many years ago (more than I like to admit) when I was at primary school, we had to write a poem. We had to take the word 'insect' and create a poem where each line started with the letters from the word. I know there's a name for those but it has escaped my memory for the moment. Anyway, the word nice was banned, but I used it in my poem and my teacher insisted I rewrite it. I never understood her hatred of that word, but I've grown to agree with her.
I hear it fall out of my own mouth and cringe, desperately searching for something to replace it. It's just so non-committal.
Also on the list is 'cute'. Although it's the application of the word I object to, more than the word itself. Kittens, puppies, baby seals - all undeniably cute. Small children, also guilty of cuteness on occasion.
Adults? Not so much. We grow to be attractive, handsome, pretty, beautiful. To me, you get to an age, where being called cute is no longer complimentary, it starts to feel like 'I couldn't think of anything else to say' is what it really means.
If I'm wrong, which is eminently possible, I just want to know: What makes an adult cute?
On the flip side. I really love the word tegulated. Not because it means anything special, just because I like how it sounds and how it rolls in the mouth.
Words can crush things that are unseen.
- Jewel
I've rattled on about my love of words before and I adore those lyrics from Jewel's song 'I'm Sensitive'. Words are such a powerful thing. I know that they make up a tiny portion of a face to face conversation, with the rest coming from body language, tone of voice, etc.
There are, however, for me some words that no matter how they're spoken, I just can't abide.
And to be honest, swear words don't even register to me. They certainly don't make my list of hated words.
Top of my list is 'stupid'. Personally, I find it to be the most offensive word in the English language. If I hear it the hair on the back of my neck stands on end and I stiffen, wanting to admonish the user. It's a damaging word and a cruel word. I remember hearing one lady tell me that they had banned it in their house and feeling grateful I wasn't alone in my hatred of it. I think it has to be the biggest insult anyone could lay at my door.
Next comes 'nice'. Is there a more mediocre word in the English language? What does it express? Really? Almost nothing. Which is what it's worth. It has no passion, it screams 'I couldn't be bothered to think of anything better to say'.
Many years ago (more than I like to admit) when I was at primary school, we had to write a poem. We had to take the word 'insect' and create a poem where each line started with the letters from the word. I know there's a name for those but it has escaped my memory for the moment. Anyway, the word nice was banned, but I used it in my poem and my teacher insisted I rewrite it. I never understood her hatred of that word, but I've grown to agree with her.
I hear it fall out of my own mouth and cringe, desperately searching for something to replace it. It's just so non-committal.
Also on the list is 'cute'. Although it's the application of the word I object to, more than the word itself. Kittens, puppies, baby seals - all undeniably cute. Small children, also guilty of cuteness on occasion.
Adults? Not so much. We grow to be attractive, handsome, pretty, beautiful. To me, you get to an age, where being called cute is no longer complimentary, it starts to feel like 'I couldn't think of anything else to say' is what it really means.
If I'm wrong, which is eminently possible, I just want to know: What makes an adult cute?
On the flip side. I really love the word tegulated. Not because it means anything special, just because I like how it sounds and how it rolls in the mouth.
Wednesday, 10 October 2007
Jinxed
Well, it's my own fault really.
I shouldn't have brought it up.
You know what I heard this evening?
Frosty the Snowman. I ask you. It's fricking October.
Went to the music quiz tonight. It's once a month and it's a damn cool quiz. There was a chap sitting on his own and took a quiz sheet as they were being handed out. I was a little amazed he was going to have a solo attempt and in a moment of generosity lent him a pen. Which, by the way, he didn't return. I admit I may have taken that pen from Barclays myself, but even so. Anyway, Gary and I attempted the CD covers part of the quiz and realised we recognised an exact total of zero. We normally get around half. It was getting to off an abysmal start. It has to be said that we were mediocre and at the end elected to swap with the chap sitting on his own. To my mind at least we'd be able to mark a sheet that would be worse than our own.
How wrong we were.
We swapped sheets, he'd answered almost every question and he'd completed a couple of the album covers.
So, marking started and we realised we had been beaten, by 30 points no less.
Not only that.
He won the whole damn quiz! Fifteen teams and he was on his own.
I suspect he was wearing one of those ear devices and being fed answers secretly from the outside.
After prompting Gary suggested to him that maybe he'd like to join us next time and be on our team.
When his winning was announced the team on the next table suggested that maybe he'd like to be on their team, to which Gary and I squealed that we'd already bagsie'd him.
Turns out, he lives in Nottingham and isn't likely to be here again, so quite frankly he should have shared out his winning beer tokens if you ask me.
On the upside, Gary did get to go home with a lovely polo shirt as a prize for our being quite crap. But only third from bottom. Oh yes, we weren't worst. Amazing really.
I have hiccups.
That's not relevant apart from the fact it's currently really annoying me.
Another thing that was annoying was the owl outside my window at 4am. How do you go about making a catapult from a pair of fishnets? It's not that I wish the wee owl any kind of misfortune, I'd just like to attempt to persuade him to roost elsewhere.
And, as I'm on a roll of random blatherings...
I would like to ask why some people see very faint patchy mist and feel the need to switch on their fog lights? You end up driving behind them being slowly blinded. Whilst I'm sure they think they're being super-safe. However, if you can turn on your full beam and not have it reflected in the 'fog' in front of you, it's a sure bet that it's not that foggy, if you can see the car in front of you (a quarter mile in front of you), also a sure bet you don't need fog lights. You can clearly make out the junction you want to take? Then turn off your bloody fog lights! I'm sure that you're supposed to turn them off as soon as someone is behind you anyway, a bit like dipping your headlights. Grumble, grumble.
Actually, one last motoring related grumble. What is it with people not indicating? It's like a phase half the motoring population are going through. They get to a t-junction and nothing, you are left to guess which way they're going. Sometimes their lane placement gives it away and you assume that because they've pulled to the left that they're going to turn left. But one cannot be fooled, because the non-indicators change their minds and turn right when you least expect it. I especially enjoy driving down the road, pootling along at sixty when the car in front of me slows, I look around the car, there appears to be nothing in front and nothing in the road. Is he going to stop? Is there a problem with his car? Should I overtake? Who can say. At that point you realise there is a junction ahead. Maybe he's planning a turn, but he's choosing to surprise you. I just love that. If I overtake is he going to choose to turn right and demolish my car? Or, is he going to turn left and leave me cursing I didn't overtake? Ah but I guess that's why the horn is so beautifully located near the steering wheel, so that it may provide your own bleeping as you hoot and curse.
Road rage? Moi?
I shouldn't have brought it up.
You know what I heard this evening?
Frosty the Snowman. I ask you. It's fricking October.
Went to the music quiz tonight. It's once a month and it's a damn cool quiz. There was a chap sitting on his own and took a quiz sheet as they were being handed out. I was a little amazed he was going to have a solo attempt and in a moment of generosity lent him a pen. Which, by the way, he didn't return. I admit I may have taken that pen from Barclays myself, but even so. Anyway, Gary and I attempted the CD covers part of the quiz and realised we recognised an exact total of zero. We normally get around half. It was getting to off an abysmal start. It has to be said that we were mediocre and at the end elected to swap with the chap sitting on his own. To my mind at least we'd be able to mark a sheet that would be worse than our own.
How wrong we were.
We swapped sheets, he'd answered almost every question and he'd completed a couple of the album covers.
So, marking started and we realised we had been beaten, by 30 points no less.
Not only that.
He won the whole damn quiz! Fifteen teams and he was on his own.
I suspect he was wearing one of those ear devices and being fed answers secretly from the outside.
After prompting Gary suggested to him that maybe he'd like to join us next time and be on our team.
When his winning was announced the team on the next table suggested that maybe he'd like to be on their team, to which Gary and I squealed that we'd already bagsie'd him.
Turns out, he lives in Nottingham and isn't likely to be here again, so quite frankly he should have shared out his winning beer tokens if you ask me.
On the upside, Gary did get to go home with a lovely polo shirt as a prize for our being quite crap. But only third from bottom. Oh yes, we weren't worst. Amazing really.
I have hiccups.
That's not relevant apart from the fact it's currently really annoying me.
Another thing that was annoying was the owl outside my window at 4am. How do you go about making a catapult from a pair of fishnets? It's not that I wish the wee owl any kind of misfortune, I'd just like to attempt to persuade him to roost elsewhere.
And, as I'm on a roll of random blatherings...
I would like to ask why some people see very faint patchy mist and feel the need to switch on their fog lights? You end up driving behind them being slowly blinded. Whilst I'm sure they think they're being super-safe. However, if you can turn on your full beam and not have it reflected in the 'fog' in front of you, it's a sure bet that it's not that foggy, if you can see the car in front of you (a quarter mile in front of you), also a sure bet you don't need fog lights. You can clearly make out the junction you want to take? Then turn off your bloody fog lights! I'm sure that you're supposed to turn them off as soon as someone is behind you anyway, a bit like dipping your headlights. Grumble, grumble.
Actually, one last motoring related grumble. What is it with people not indicating? It's like a phase half the motoring population are going through. They get to a t-junction and nothing, you are left to guess which way they're going. Sometimes their lane placement gives it away and you assume that because they've pulled to the left that they're going to turn left. But one cannot be fooled, because the non-indicators change their minds and turn right when you least expect it. I especially enjoy driving down the road, pootling along at sixty when the car in front of me slows, I look around the car, there appears to be nothing in front and nothing in the road. Is he going to stop? Is there a problem with his car? Should I overtake? Who can say. At that point you realise there is a junction ahead. Maybe he's planning a turn, but he's choosing to surprise you. I just love that. If I overtake is he going to choose to turn right and demolish my car? Or, is he going to turn left and leave me cursing I didn't overtake? Ah but I guess that's why the horn is so beautifully located near the steering wheel, so that it may provide your own bleeping as you hoot and curse.
Road rage? Moi?
76 days...
Did you know there are 76 shopping days till Christmas?
Oh yes indeed.
Last Wednesday I saw a big blackboard announcing there were 83 shopping days left and it sent me into a momentary panic. I almost felt obliged to start writing cards. Or else arrange sale of a kidney to pay for all the gifts that need buying.
My mother was requesting Christmas wishlists and making cards, the shops are full of decorations and calendars for 2008. I've quoted Loudon Wainwright III before but his song about Christmas is brilliant:
Suddenly it's Christmas,
The longest holiday.
When they say "Season's Greetings"
They mean just what they say:
It's a season, it's a marathon,
Retail eternity.
It's not over till it's over
And you throw away the tree.
How long is it going to be before the strains of carols start being heard being pumped through supermarket speakers? Before everyone starts flooding the shops, desperate to get the best gift?
I'm starting to feel a sense of dread about the whole thing. And I can't get the damn countdown out of my mind.
It won't be much longer before the competition to see who can complete their Christmas shopping first commences. Where's the fun gone? By the time Christmas comes around I'm so sick of it that I'm rather looking forward to being able to go to the shops and not be confronted by endless images of Santa and his ho-ho-ho'ing. I'm turning into Scrooge!
No, that's not true, I'm just a little nostalgic for when it felt less mercenary. When the build-up didn't last for three months.
Ah well, can't fight consumerism.
And, because I love it so, I'm posting the whole song before I go.
SUDDENLY IT'S CHRISTMAS
Loudon Wainwright III
Suddenly it's Christmas,
Right after Hallowe'en.
Forget about Thanksgiving;
It's just a buffet in between.
There's lights and tinsel in the windows;
They're stocking up the shelves;
Santa's slaving at the North Pole
In his sweatshop full of elves.
There's got to be a build-up
To the day that Christ was born:
The halls are decked with pumpkins
And the ears of Indian corn.
Dragging through the falling leaves
In a one-horse open sleigh,
Suddenly it's Christmas,
Seven weeks before the day.
Suddenly it's Christmas,
The longest holiday.
When they say "Season's Greetings"
They mean just what they say:
It's a season, it's a marathon,
Retail eternity.
It's not over till it's over
And you throw away the tree.
Outside it's positively balmy,
In the air nary a nip;
Suddenly it's Christmas,
Unbuttoned and unzipped.
Yes, they're working overtime,
Santa's little runts;
Christmas comes but once a year
And goes on for two months.
Christmas carols in December
And November, too;
It's no wonder we're depressed
When the whole thing is through.
Finally it's January;
Let's sing "Auld Lang Syne";
But here comes another heartache,
Shaped like a Valentine.
Suddenly it's Christmas,
The longest holiday.
The season is upon us;
A pox, it won't go away.
It's a season, it's a marathon,
Retail eternity.
It's not over till it's over
And you throw away the tree.
No, it's not over till it's over
And you throw away the tree;
It's still not over till it's over
And you throw away the tree.
Oh yes indeed.
Last Wednesday I saw a big blackboard announcing there were 83 shopping days left and it sent me into a momentary panic. I almost felt obliged to start writing cards. Or else arrange sale of a kidney to pay for all the gifts that need buying.
My mother was requesting Christmas wishlists and making cards, the shops are full of decorations and calendars for 2008. I've quoted Loudon Wainwright III before but his song about Christmas is brilliant:
Suddenly it's Christmas,
The longest holiday.
When they say "Season's Greetings"
They mean just what they say:
It's a season, it's a marathon,
Retail eternity.
It's not over till it's over
And you throw away the tree.
How long is it going to be before the strains of carols start being heard being pumped through supermarket speakers? Before everyone starts flooding the shops, desperate to get the best gift?
I'm starting to feel a sense of dread about the whole thing. And I can't get the damn countdown out of my mind.
It won't be much longer before the competition to see who can complete their Christmas shopping first commences. Where's the fun gone? By the time Christmas comes around I'm so sick of it that I'm rather looking forward to being able to go to the shops and not be confronted by endless images of Santa and his ho-ho-ho'ing. I'm turning into Scrooge!
No, that's not true, I'm just a little nostalgic for when it felt less mercenary. When the build-up didn't last for three months.
Ah well, can't fight consumerism.
And, because I love it so, I'm posting the whole song before I go.
SUDDENLY IT'S CHRISTMAS
Loudon Wainwright III
Suddenly it's Christmas,
Right after Hallowe'en.
Forget about Thanksgiving;
It's just a buffet in between.
There's lights and tinsel in the windows;
They're stocking up the shelves;
Santa's slaving at the North Pole
In his sweatshop full of elves.
There's got to be a build-up
To the day that Christ was born:
The halls are decked with pumpkins
And the ears of Indian corn.
Dragging through the falling leaves
In a one-horse open sleigh,
Suddenly it's Christmas,
Seven weeks before the day.
Suddenly it's Christmas,
The longest holiday.
When they say "Season's Greetings"
They mean just what they say:
It's a season, it's a marathon,
Retail eternity.
It's not over till it's over
And you throw away the tree.
Outside it's positively balmy,
In the air nary a nip;
Suddenly it's Christmas,
Unbuttoned and unzipped.
Yes, they're working overtime,
Santa's little runts;
Christmas comes but once a year
And goes on for two months.
Christmas carols in December
And November, too;
It's no wonder we're depressed
When the whole thing is through.
Finally it's January;
Let's sing "Auld Lang Syne";
But here comes another heartache,
Shaped like a Valentine.
Suddenly it's Christmas,
The longest holiday.
The season is upon us;
A pox, it won't go away.
It's a season, it's a marathon,
Retail eternity.
It's not over till it's over
And you throw away the tree.
No, it's not over till it's over
And you throw away the tree;
It's still not over till it's over
And you throw away the tree.
Thursday, 20 September 2007
Animal Magnetism
I've got my old magnetism back. When I stepped out of the barn today the air was filled with birds, I think they were swifts. I get my swallows, swifts and martins confused. I think it's the martins anyway.
There were dozens of them in the sky though, all congregating on the barn roof, the air was thick with them, almost like a swarm of midges. I stood and watched them for a while, they seemed joyous somehow.
I eventually hopped into my car and headed off for home, which is a mission on that barn road, whilst concentrating on missing all the pot holes you also have to be sure that suicidal pheasants aren't waiting in the hedgerow to throw themselves against your vehicle. As I approached the final field a hare decided to zig-zag it's way along the road in front of me. I love the way it looks like they've had their ears somewhere really dirty with those black tips. I then noticed that field was filled with pheasants, maybe a hundred of them. The thing is, they're safe in the field, but upon seeing a car they feel this need to cross. However today, it was just a partridge tempting fate, the pheasants stayed put, although I think all the wild animals are in collusion. As I passed the field of pheasants and was breathing a sigh of relief that none of the pheasants sitting proudly on the fence decided to fly at the car, a squirrel ran into the road. I'm sure I heard the pheasant chuckling behind my back.
I have never been so pleased to see the main road. I set off and whizzed along. Then a lovely ginger tomcat decided that he fancied a race with my car. Why me? Why?! He was faster than my lovely Rover thank goodness but I'm not looking forward to being out on the road tomorrow.
On a random soapbox moment: I do wish the people next door had asked if I minded if they put all their excess recycling in my bin before they did it. Now I can't get all my stuff in. It's really pissed me off! And breathe....
There were dozens of them in the sky though, all congregating on the barn roof, the air was thick with them, almost like a swarm of midges. I stood and watched them for a while, they seemed joyous somehow.
I eventually hopped into my car and headed off for home, which is a mission on that barn road, whilst concentrating on missing all the pot holes you also have to be sure that suicidal pheasants aren't waiting in the hedgerow to throw themselves against your vehicle. As I approached the final field a hare decided to zig-zag it's way along the road in front of me. I love the way it looks like they've had their ears somewhere really dirty with those black tips. I then noticed that field was filled with pheasants, maybe a hundred of them. The thing is, they're safe in the field, but upon seeing a car they feel this need to cross. However today, it was just a partridge tempting fate, the pheasants stayed put, although I think all the wild animals are in collusion. As I passed the field of pheasants and was breathing a sigh of relief that none of the pheasants sitting proudly on the fence decided to fly at the car, a squirrel ran into the road. I'm sure I heard the pheasant chuckling behind my back.
I have never been so pleased to see the main road. I set off and whizzed along. Then a lovely ginger tomcat decided that he fancied a race with my car. Why me? Why?! He was faster than my lovely Rover thank goodness but I'm not looking forward to being out on the road tomorrow.
On a random soapbox moment: I do wish the people next door had asked if I minded if they put all their excess recycling in my bin before they did it. Now I can't get all my stuff in. It's really pissed me off! And breathe....
Monday, 20 August 2007
Spelling Snobbery
Most people that know me will know how much I abhor the world of the txtspkr. But more than that, it's the really, really bad spelling that gets to me too.
I'm over on Facebook and I admit to getting carried away playing the never ending movie quiz. But the questions on there, some are written in a truly terrible way, without any grammar or even knowledge of spelling. But what bothers me most is that they don't seem to care that the spelling is so horrendous. All of the questions are user submitted and none are checked in any way shape or form.
Today I had these wonderful cases, amongst others:
Instead of 'psychic' they wrote - sycic.
Instead of 'Who's this' they wrote - whoz diis.
Instead of 'Cinderella' they wrote - cindarrela.
Instead of 'Lucy' they wrote - loosey.
What really unnerves me is that it's somehow cool to not spell, or to not use a dictionary. I know I have a passion for words that isn't always shared and that I am a stickler for spelling.
These days I find myself amazed if someone knows the differences between their, there and they're. Or between your and you're.
I do so loathe txtspk. I hate to see 'ur' or 'm8' or the equally dreadful like. We have this beautiful language that we destroy and I don't understand it. Maybe I'm old fashioned, but I just wish that real words would come back into fashion. What also bugs me (I'm almost done) is the deliberate misspellings. Why write 'fer' instead of 'for'? It's the same amount of letters! It's cool, not kool, just as it's school, not skool.
None of us write or type without spelling mistakes, my grammar leaves a lot to be desired as my knowledge of colons and semi-colons and where they belong isn't great. But isn't it worth at least trying to get it right?
This probably makes me a pedant. And I'm fine with that.
I'm over on Facebook and I admit to getting carried away playing the never ending movie quiz. But the questions on there, some are written in a truly terrible way, without any grammar or even knowledge of spelling. But what bothers me most is that they don't seem to care that the spelling is so horrendous. All of the questions are user submitted and none are checked in any way shape or form.
Today I had these wonderful cases, amongst others:
Instead of 'psychic' they wrote - sycic.
Instead of 'Who's this' they wrote - whoz diis.
Instead of 'Cinderella' they wrote - cindarrela.
Instead of 'Lucy' they wrote - loosey.
What really unnerves me is that it's somehow cool to not spell, or to not use a dictionary. I know I have a passion for words that isn't always shared and that I am a stickler for spelling.
These days I find myself amazed if someone knows the differences between their, there and they're. Or between your and you're.
I do so loathe txtspk. I hate to see 'ur' or 'm8' or the equally dreadful like. We have this beautiful language that we destroy and I don't understand it. Maybe I'm old fashioned, but I just wish that real words would come back into fashion. What also bugs me (I'm almost done) is the deliberate misspellings. Why write 'fer' instead of 'for'? It's the same amount of letters! It's cool, not kool, just as it's school, not skool.
None of us write or type without spelling mistakes, my grammar leaves a lot to be desired as my knowledge of colons and semi-colons and where they belong isn't great. But isn't it worth at least trying to get it right?
This probably makes me a pedant. And I'm fine with that.
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