... sucks like Nancy Reagan (i.e. big time - allegedly) . I loathe having to acknowledge/deal with shit like this. I am one of those people who never actually opens anything that looks dull (i.e. in a standard-sized white or brown envelope with black type visible through the window); unless, of course, it is my birthday in which case I open everything including the neighbours' mail and my curtains. I tend to pile boring-looking letters on my desk and then throw them in a drawer after a few weeks or moments before my parents arrive (depending on what comes first). This causes less problems these days in that I do all my boring/important stuff via the internet so am less likely to miss something major. I have even asked a few of the orgainsations I have dealings with to communicate with me solely via the internet; which is great because it causes me less personal inconvenience but I can pretend I'm doing it for the environment. Some organisations are really proactive in this area (non-paper comms not the environment - although if they're smart they can pretend it's for the environment too). In fact, my old friends in the international arms trade positively refuse to communicate with me via letters - I love those guys; they really, y'know, get me.
I forced myself to tackle the whole paper work/clutter thing this week and I've done a pretty good job so far. I learned that I only need (loosest sense of the word) to keep wage slips for 3months, and bank/credit card statements for 6months - this meant that there was a lot to discard. Normally, I discard bank/credit card statements, and in fact all sorts of personal mail, into the bin rarely opened and never torn - not even in half. I've been led to believe that this is fucking stupid and I should commence shredding. Although, that said, I did see a trailer for the new Harrison Fogey movie and it showed a shredded document being painstakingly stuck back together by the baddies with a pair of tweezers and a big light so I'm not convinced my identity is totally safe. Mog lent me her shredder (she used to be an auditor so I knew she'd have one) and I must admit there was something disturbingly pleasurable about running certain things through it.
I read somewhere that a half-assed cleaning/clearing job is worse than no effort at all, so I felt compelled to organise and file all the remaining stuff that is actually important. Someone recommended I head out to Big W to buy some box files, storage boxes and other crap like that. I duly obliged, but immediately regretted it. The place was massive and almost devoid of people. The rows of (what can only be described as) stuff went on and on and on. This weird music/noise that sounded like dead souls moaning was playing quietly as I nervously walked down to the stationery area. I got everything I needed at a very excellent price so in that respect at least Ican't complain. But it was a very, very odd place with very, very big bags of sweeties.
I've also been advised that I should be saving 10-20% of my net salary each month. I'm pretty sure that's what I've been spending on my credit/storecards each month, so I'm going to have to sit down and budget and basically get my ass sorted.
I realise that this seems so anal and boring and, therefore, nothing like the girl you know, but needs must people, and I'm pretty hopeful that once I get this rubbish fixed out, I'll be even more fun and relaxed than ever before. Bet you can't wait!
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Thursday, February 23, 2006
(reluctant) Observations on Quincy M.E
My week of leisure found me, much the same as my student days, tucking into lunch in front of the TV. Most unlike my student days, the lunch I was tucking into comprised poached egg, parma ham and capers on a slice of sunflower and honey toast. To add gold leaf to such a luxurious scene, the egg was one of those pastel-coloured, free-range, organic affairs that they don't stock in Tesco Metro. Yes, I measure my progress in life by the food I eat and, on the whole, am happy with my development over the last four years. Today, it may be Laurent-Perrier and boudin noir truffles that take my fancy; you just never know.
Anyway, I was enjoying said lunch and reading the newspaper with the TV on in the background. Normally I wouldn't stand for having the TV on whilst reading but the remote control was all the way over on the other sofa and my butler had popped out to get some more pastel-coloured eggs. At some point TV won the battle for my attention (no I'm not proud) and I began to watch Quincy M.E. Whether or not Quincy had M.E is unclear, but he was markedly sluggish in all action scenes. The belligerent Californian (is that an oxymoron?) coroner is an old favourite from my uni days and I remembered him well. Each episode goes roughly like this:
Dead body turns up on Quincy's slab; Quincy suspects foul play and rushes off to play detective; Sam works 24hours in the lab to establish proof; Quincy fights with his boss; Quincy fights with the murderers/blase parents/reluctant eye witness; Quincy mulls things over on his boat; Quincy makes a pass at a barley-legal teen (optional); Quincy fights with his boss again; Quincy makes plea to young people of America to give-up the drugs/sex/alcohol/punk rock music; Quincy makes clear his suspicions and threatens to resign if he is not believed; Sam finds the proof; Quincy makes big declaration; Quincy is hailed as a hero; Quincy celebrates on his boat with many weeeeemin (although many wee-men would have been funnier, albeit politically incorrect).
The episode playing this particular day saw Quincy admitted as a member of the jury in a murder case (yeah, like that would ever happen. Everybody knows that people with medical or legal knowledge, or any hint of knowledge at all, are never admitted to a jury, duh!). Quincy asks expert medical questions of every witness (because jurors on TV are allowed to do that people) and nobody minds much for the first 20 minutes. The prosecution is, understandably, getting a little pissed off with the esteemed doctor and requests he be removed from the jury. The Judge appeases the prosecution by supplying a character reference for Quincy. She says: "I know Dr Quincy and he is one of the most objective people I know". At this point, I actually started shouting loudly at the TV (always a bad sign). "What are you talking about?" I asked desperately, "Quincy is the most subjective person I know. He becomes emotionally-involved in every single case he works. You don't know Dr Quincy at all. I move for dismissal."
I was so disturbed by the fervour of my response that I have decided there will be no more daytime TV for the remainder of my days off. Damn you Quincy!
Anyway, I was enjoying said lunch and reading the newspaper with the TV on in the background. Normally I wouldn't stand for having the TV on whilst reading but the remote control was all the way over on the other sofa and my butler had popped out to get some more pastel-coloured eggs. At some point TV won the battle for my attention (no I'm not proud) and I began to watch Quincy M.E. Whether or not Quincy had M.E is unclear, but he was markedly sluggish in all action scenes. The belligerent Californian (is that an oxymoron?) coroner is an old favourite from my uni days and I remembered him well. Each episode goes roughly like this:
Dead body turns up on Quincy's slab; Quincy suspects foul play and rushes off to play detective; Sam works 24hours in the lab to establish proof; Quincy fights with his boss; Quincy fights with the murderers/blase parents/reluctant eye witness; Quincy mulls things over on his boat; Quincy makes a pass at a barley-legal teen (optional); Quincy fights with his boss again; Quincy makes plea to young people of America to give-up the drugs/sex/alcohol/punk rock music; Quincy makes clear his suspicions and threatens to resign if he is not believed; Sam finds the proof; Quincy makes big declaration; Quincy is hailed as a hero; Quincy celebrates on his boat with many weeeeemin (although many wee-men would have been funnier, albeit politically incorrect).
The episode playing this particular day saw Quincy admitted as a member of the jury in a murder case (yeah, like that would ever happen. Everybody knows that people with medical or legal knowledge, or any hint of knowledge at all, are never admitted to a jury, duh!). Quincy asks expert medical questions of every witness (because jurors on TV are allowed to do that people) and nobody minds much for the first 20 minutes. The prosecution is, understandably, getting a little pissed off with the esteemed doctor and requests he be removed from the jury. The Judge appeases the prosecution by supplying a character reference for Quincy. She says: "I know Dr Quincy and he is one of the most objective people I know". At this point, I actually started shouting loudly at the TV (always a bad sign). "What are you talking about?" I asked desperately, "Quincy is the most subjective person I know. He becomes emotionally-involved in every single case he works. You don't know Dr Quincy at all. I move for dismissal."
I was so disturbed by the fervour of my response that I have decided there will be no more daytime TV for the remainder of my days off. Damn you Quincy!
Monday, February 20, 2006
Who's afraid of ...
some time off - finally!
I certainly packed it in last week. Much the same as I do at the self-service olive bar in Sainsbury's, I added more and more and stubbornly forced down the lid. A few people looked on astounded as I, somewhat more harassed than usual, got it all together - eventually.
Work was busy. I am truly a magnet for loose ends. In every job, I accumulate masses of them, and always in addition to a messy desk - a really messy desk. At 5pm on my last day my colleagues expressed concern (does it still qualify as concern if they are laughing heartily?) when they noticed I hadn't even started to clear my desk. Employing my trademark tidying move (large bin bag in one hand; full-span, catch-all sweeping manoeuvre with the other arm), I was done by 7pm.
Crazily, I'd arranged to meet Duncan and Moranna for a bite to eat before heading to an 8'clock appointment I'd made months ago. As I locked up the office for the last time at 7pm, I realised I had one hour in which to get from Leith to the west end - eat something - and then get to Marchmont. It was certainly ambitious (pronounced stew-pid).
I was in Pizza Express by 7.15 and managed to fit in a diet coke and some bruschetta before it was time to leave. I was sitting in traffic trying to head up Lothian Road when a man driving a van in the opposite direction rolled down his window and tried to tell me something. I spent about 30 seconds pressing the button to lower my window without any success, only to discover that I was repeatedly locking and unlocking the doors. I figured he was trying to tell me the hold-up was serious so I jumped into action. After a concerning number of illegal driving manoeuvres and repetitive strain injury in the middle finger of my right hand, I arrived at my appointment slightly late and excessively agitated.
I was far more organised the next day as I flew down to London to spend the weekend with Andrew. I was starving by the time I arrived at Paddington and decided to get a breakfast bagel. I sat down and began to eat it when I realised the man sitting opposite was watching me intently. He started rocking back and forward in his seat before leaving. I relaxed - a little - and then spotted him coming back. He sat down opposite me again, outstretched his arms and held the front cover of the magazine out towards me whilst continuing to stare intently. It was not the most comfortable eating experience I've ever had.
Andrew and I met outside his workplace (the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square) and he told me I was just in time to see the 'crazy pigeon-feeding woman'. As if by magic, she appeared armed with two large bags of grain. She scooped some up in her hand and about 3,000 pigeons descended on her - it was horribly fascinating. She walked round in a circle letting the grains fall through her fingers and the pigeons continued to land on top of the trail. It would have made an excellent Art-Attack. The wind generated by the pigeons' wings caused her skirt to flap. It took Andrew .000025 seconds to point out that she was wearing red knickers. I hadn't noticed at first, so spent a few moments with my head tilted trying to get a better view. I can now confirm she was wearing red knickers. We also had a bit of a discussion about whether or not she was really a man, or at least had been at some point. It was hard to get a good look at her face through the fog of pigeons but I noted she was wearing alarmingly bright red lipstick (surely the true travesty of the transvestite/transexual). Andrew suggested that she was maybe just trying to accessorize with the knickers. We remain undecided.
That night I slept in a tented room with a cat on my head. It was not the most comfortable sleeping experience I'd ever had (but it was still better than the time that guy died on top of me). Andrew and I sailed down to Greenwich swigging on our Red Bulls like a right pair of chavs (or pikeys as they say 'dan sath'). We headed to the Apollo Theatre that night with Lulu (the older woman Andrew lives with - she has a jewellery empire). We saw Kathleen Turner in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. It's undoubtedly the finest piece of theatre I've ever seen. Bill Irwin played George to Turner's Martha and stole the show. Go see it! We got the tube home debating how depressing the ending really is (for me - not really, for Andrew and Lulu - somewhat more).
On Sunday Andrew took me to Tate Britain to see the Gothic Nightmares exhibition. It was really busy which made it quite difficult to get round things properly. I liked a few of the paintings but found the display quite repetitive. Andrew decided to embarrass me while I was looking at the erotic section by loudly exclaiming that he knew he'd find me checking out the dirty stuff. To be honest, it was my favourite bit. I also liked Chris Ofili's Upper Room which consists of thirteen large paintings of the same monkey in a different colour. The pictures stand on elephant dung supports. I thought it was funky and cool and pretty fantastic as far as modern art goes. Andrew thinks I'm a philistine. We did agree on how much we both hated Constable though. Andrew pointed out that Constable influenced the impressionists and I said that I could see that they had copied his blurry style but they were better cause at least their landscapes and people were bright and colourful and less depressing. I'm so glad none of the Tate's hard-core faithful overheard me. I may have been thrown out for embarrassing them with such a high-level and intellectual analysis.
I caught the late flight home on Sunday night, looking forward to a whole week off. Sheer bliss.
I certainly packed it in last week. Much the same as I do at the self-service olive bar in Sainsbury's, I added more and more and stubbornly forced down the lid. A few people looked on astounded as I, somewhat more harassed than usual, got it all together - eventually.
Work was busy. I am truly a magnet for loose ends. In every job, I accumulate masses of them, and always in addition to a messy desk - a really messy desk. At 5pm on my last day my colleagues expressed concern (does it still qualify as concern if they are laughing heartily?) when they noticed I hadn't even started to clear my desk. Employing my trademark tidying move (large bin bag in one hand; full-span, catch-all sweeping manoeuvre with the other arm), I was done by 7pm.
Crazily, I'd arranged to meet Duncan and Moranna for a bite to eat before heading to an 8'clock appointment I'd made months ago. As I locked up the office for the last time at 7pm, I realised I had one hour in which to get from Leith to the west end - eat something - and then get to Marchmont. It was certainly ambitious (pronounced stew-pid).
I was in Pizza Express by 7.15 and managed to fit in a diet coke and some bruschetta before it was time to leave. I was sitting in traffic trying to head up Lothian Road when a man driving a van in the opposite direction rolled down his window and tried to tell me something. I spent about 30 seconds pressing the button to lower my window without any success, only to discover that I was repeatedly locking and unlocking the doors. I figured he was trying to tell me the hold-up was serious so I jumped into action. After a concerning number of illegal driving manoeuvres and repetitive strain injury in the middle finger of my right hand, I arrived at my appointment slightly late and excessively agitated.
I was far more organised the next day as I flew down to London to spend the weekend with Andrew. I was starving by the time I arrived at Paddington and decided to get a breakfast bagel. I sat down and began to eat it when I realised the man sitting opposite was watching me intently. He started rocking back and forward in his seat before leaving. I relaxed - a little - and then spotted him coming back. He sat down opposite me again, outstretched his arms and held the front cover of the magazine out towards me whilst continuing to stare intently. It was not the most comfortable eating experience I've ever had.
Andrew and I met outside his workplace (the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square) and he told me I was just in time to see the 'crazy pigeon-feeding woman'. As if by magic, she appeared armed with two large bags of grain. She scooped some up in her hand and about 3,000 pigeons descended on her - it was horribly fascinating. She walked round in a circle letting the grains fall through her fingers and the pigeons continued to land on top of the trail. It would have made an excellent Art-Attack. The wind generated by the pigeons' wings caused her skirt to flap. It took Andrew .000025 seconds to point out that she was wearing red knickers. I hadn't noticed at first, so spent a few moments with my head tilted trying to get a better view. I can now confirm she was wearing red knickers. We also had a bit of a discussion about whether or not she was really a man, or at least had been at some point. It was hard to get a good look at her face through the fog of pigeons but I noted she was wearing alarmingly bright red lipstick (surely the true travesty of the transvestite/transexual). Andrew suggested that she was maybe just trying to accessorize with the knickers. We remain undecided.
That night I slept in a tented room with a cat on my head. It was not the most comfortable sleeping experience I'd ever had (but it was still better than the time that guy died on top of me). Andrew and I sailed down to Greenwich swigging on our Red Bulls like a right pair of chavs (or pikeys as they say 'dan sath'). We headed to the Apollo Theatre that night with Lulu (the older woman Andrew lives with - she has a jewellery empire). We saw Kathleen Turner in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf. It's undoubtedly the finest piece of theatre I've ever seen. Bill Irwin played George to Turner's Martha and stole the show. Go see it! We got the tube home debating how depressing the ending really is (for me - not really, for Andrew and Lulu - somewhat more).
On Sunday Andrew took me to Tate Britain to see the Gothic Nightmares exhibition. It was really busy which made it quite difficult to get round things properly. I liked a few of the paintings but found the display quite repetitive. Andrew decided to embarrass me while I was looking at the erotic section by loudly exclaiming that he knew he'd find me checking out the dirty stuff. To be honest, it was my favourite bit. I also liked Chris Ofili's Upper Room which consists of thirteen large paintings of the same monkey in a different colour. The pictures stand on elephant dung supports. I thought it was funky and cool and pretty fantastic as far as modern art goes. Andrew thinks I'm a philistine. We did agree on how much we both hated Constable though. Andrew pointed out that Constable influenced the impressionists and I said that I could see that they had copied his blurry style but they were better cause at least their landscapes and people were bright and colourful and less depressing. I'm so glad none of the Tate's hard-core faithful overheard me. I may have been thrown out for embarrassing them with such a high-level and intellectual analysis.
I caught the late flight home on Sunday night, looking forward to a whole week off. Sheer bliss.
Monday, February 13, 2006
And so I face the final curtain
Today was the last Monday morning I will ever spend in my current place of work. Deep joy people, deep joy. My boss is on holiday this week so I'd anticipated a rather laissez-faire approach to the duties of the day. Alas, I was foiled by two clients requesting greased-lightning quick turnarounds, and 10 call-centre shackeled Indians who wanted to talk about my phone bill. I was sooooo not in the mood to discuss anything telephonic (although the Indians may well have made more English-sounding words and, therefore, more sense than my current phone provider). You see, I had to get serious with those bastards at Telewest last week after they unexpectedly disconnected my phone and internet service. I used the words "ridiculous", "ludicrous", "unbelievable", "unacceptable" and, finally, "OK, I'll pay you". Bastards!
Last Friday afternoon descended into a right Royal farce when I found I couldn't get the songs from Oliver! out of my head. I ended up rewriting most of the lyrics to (loosely) fit a musical based around the people in my office. My crowning glory saw 'Food, Glorious Food' become 'Food, Perilous Food' in a nod to my psycho colleague who doesn't eat anything. On Friday evening I painted my nails a beautiful colour known as 'Hi Lily Hi Lo'. Discussing this any further would be about as interesting as watching paint dry, so I'll spare you.
Saturday morning's reading revealed that I was onto something with the whole 'why have babies thing'. According to the Economist, research suggests that, after decades of low fertility, a quarter of young German men and a fifth of young women say they have no intention of having children and think that this is fine. When Eurobarometer repeated its poll about ideal family size in 2001, support for the two-child model had fallen everywhere. Parts of Europe, then, may be entering a new demographic trap. People restrict family size from choice. But social, economic and cultural factors then cause this natural fertility decline to overshoot. This changes expectations, to which people respond by having even fewer children." I feel distinctly less 'freak-like' (if a little more German) now.
I picked Sinead up from the station on Saturday night and drove to Tapas Ole for some delicious nosh. We got stuck in about the vino tinto and elected to leave the car at the bottom of the hill and (pub) crawl our way back up. Sinead told me about the new project she's about to start working on. Allegedly, travelling people (pronounced theev-in-gyp-pose) are complaining that local authorities do not provide enough services for them. Sinead said her initial investigations have revealed that travelling people do not pay any council tax, so she's not going to get her knickers in a twist over their complaints. They also refuse to deal with anyone wearing a suit or anyone who is a woman. Women wearing suits are a definite no-no. As little is known about the travelling culture, Sinead may well have to infiltrate a band of travellers to get the real story. How terribly covert and exciting.
The evening was full of trademark no-nonsense advice, hilarious stories from the Kingdom and further afield, business banter and fiery political chat. After drinks in Smithy's, Mezz and the Outhouse, we bumped into Alex and his mate Simon and headed for some drinks in The Street. Alex was in the mood for some dancing (and, quite possibly, a fine young filly for the evening) at Ego or Mood. Apparently, Mood had one of those 'traffic-light' nights going on and the consensus was that I, sporting a brilliant green top, should steer well clear, unless I wanted barrel-loads of unsavoury attention. So pretty much a typical night at a club then ladies.
On Sunday morning I woke up with a disturbing need for drawing pins and bluetack. I decided the best thing to do would be to drive out to WH Smith at Fort Kinnaird (sometimes I disturb myself and think it best to remove myself from acceptable society). Once there, I decided to treat myself to the Hollywood-edition of Vanity Fair; to read whilst enjoying a hot chocolate and a muffin at Costa. I was flicking through the Appointments section of the Scotland on Sunday when I noticed a former employer was advertising in the hope of securing "two stars for five-star organisation". The article ended with the words: "not so much stars then, as supernovae." Honestly, you could smell the cheese a mile-off. I laughed until I cried (in the way that people who crave drawing pins and bluetack are wont to do).
Having worked for this organisation for two years, the idea of two burnouts existing within a black hole seemed so very fitting.
Last Friday afternoon descended into a right Royal farce when I found I couldn't get the songs from Oliver! out of my head. I ended up rewriting most of the lyrics to (loosely) fit a musical based around the people in my office. My crowning glory saw 'Food, Glorious Food' become 'Food, Perilous Food' in a nod to my psycho colleague who doesn't eat anything. On Friday evening I painted my nails a beautiful colour known as 'Hi Lily Hi Lo'. Discussing this any further would be about as interesting as watching paint dry, so I'll spare you.
Saturday morning's reading revealed that I was onto something with the whole 'why have babies thing'. According to the Economist, research suggests that, after decades of low fertility, a quarter of young German men and a fifth of young women say they have no intention of having children and think that this is fine. When Eurobarometer repeated its poll about ideal family size in 2001, support for the two-child model had fallen everywhere. Parts of Europe, then, may be entering a new demographic trap. People restrict family size from choice. But social, economic and cultural factors then cause this natural fertility decline to overshoot. This changes expectations, to which people respond by having even fewer children." I feel distinctly less 'freak-like' (if a little more German) now.
I picked Sinead up from the station on Saturday night and drove to Tapas Ole for some delicious nosh. We got stuck in about the vino tinto and elected to leave the car at the bottom of the hill and (pub) crawl our way back up. Sinead told me about the new project she's about to start working on. Allegedly, travelling people (pronounced theev-in-gyp-pose) are complaining that local authorities do not provide enough services for them. Sinead said her initial investigations have revealed that travelling people do not pay any council tax, so she's not going to get her knickers in a twist over their complaints. They also refuse to deal with anyone wearing a suit or anyone who is a woman. Women wearing suits are a definite no-no. As little is known about the travelling culture, Sinead may well have to infiltrate a band of travellers to get the real story. How terribly covert and exciting.
The evening was full of trademark no-nonsense advice, hilarious stories from the Kingdom and further afield, business banter and fiery political chat. After drinks in Smithy's, Mezz and the Outhouse, we bumped into Alex and his mate Simon and headed for some drinks in The Street. Alex was in the mood for some dancing (and, quite possibly, a fine young filly for the evening) at Ego or Mood. Apparently, Mood had one of those 'traffic-light' nights going on and the consensus was that I, sporting a brilliant green top, should steer well clear, unless I wanted barrel-loads of unsavoury attention. So pretty much a typical night at a club then ladies.
On Sunday morning I woke up with a disturbing need for drawing pins and bluetack. I decided the best thing to do would be to drive out to WH Smith at Fort Kinnaird (sometimes I disturb myself and think it best to remove myself from acceptable society). Once there, I decided to treat myself to the Hollywood-edition of Vanity Fair; to read whilst enjoying a hot chocolate and a muffin at Costa. I was flicking through the Appointments section of the Scotland on Sunday when I noticed a former employer was advertising in the hope of securing "two stars for five-star organisation". The article ended with the words: "not so much stars then, as supernovae." Honestly, you could smell the cheese a mile-off. I laughed until I cried (in the way that people who crave drawing pins and bluetack are wont to do).
Having worked for this organisation for two years, the idea of two burnouts existing within a black hole seemed so very fitting.
Friday, February 10, 2006
Tapas, tadpoles and tea
Decleor joy! - my 'official' invitation for an aromatherapy facial arrived in the post at the start of this week. I say 'official' because last week I went to the Decleor counter in John Lewis to complain about my AWOL new year's invitation. The kind Decleor lady apologised profusely and wrote me out an impromptu invitation. I now have luxury facials booked for February and March (ooooh, the extravagance!). The fact that the cost of the facial is redeemable against two or more products also means I will have to buy things on both occasions (well, it'd be foolish not to now, wouldn't it?).
I called Sinead on Monday night; she was making soup (very homely). She told me she would come through on Saturday and we could catch up and make a night of it (I have a feeling that carbs and black coffee will be required on Sunday). She'd been to see Brokeback Mountain and gave me her no-nonsense review of the film. It went exactly like this: "Saw Brokeback Mountain but wasn't convinced of the love story and there were too many sheep and hillside shots for me. Gyllenhall was a babe though."
Dinner at Tapas Ole with Leanne on Tuesday was great fun. It's the first time it's been just us since Ella (her beautiful baby) was born in November. I think Ella is the best baby I've ever met, but I do feel under pressure to mind my language whenever she's around (I'd hate for it to emerge in Ella's future therapy sessions that her ASBO stemmed from my four-letter rants during her infancy. Not that that's necessarily going to happen. Like I said, she's an excellent baby). It was good to be able to put my question (why do people have children anyway?) to Leanne in her new-found state of motherhood. Normally when I ask people that, they look at me like I'm some sort of freak. I'm not saying I don't want to have kids (I'm assuming the desire will hit me at some point - it just never has so far) or that I think it's wrong or anything - I'm just interested in people's conscious decisions to procreate (the unconscious decision to procreate is far more common and, for that reason, completely uninteresting to me). I totally get the desire to make love (thank the Lord!), I'm just a bit more shaky around the desire to make babies. I understand that people want to have kids, what I want to know is why they want them. Leanne got where I was coming from and feels kind of the same when it comes to having another. She said that people just assume that she'll want to have more, but she really can't see why she would want another one. Anyway - good chat!
Some prospective clients for my 'leisure-time' freelance venture flew up from London and took me out to dinner on Wednesday night. We went to the Living Room and I thoroughly enjoyed the food - though the house champagne left a lot to be desired. We talked business and they didn't hit on me - step up from last week (see 'Networking?'). I was firing on all cylinders and actually astounded myself. I had a bit of an out-of-body moment when I looked at myself, listened to what I was saying and wanted to laugh at how grown-up and knowledgeable I sounded. Anyway, I offered my services as a consultant for a few days and they were most receptive. Ka-ching!
I popped round to see Sam on Thursday night. It was freezing outside and the cup of tea he made me was delightful. I told him about my week; my ups and downs, triumphs and irritations. He told me about his week; his visa/passport issues, proteins, genes and bio-informatics. I am chuffed with myself because I have set-up a website and have been teaching myself how to build it (in the most basic of ways naturally). I was even more chuffed because Sam seemed chuffed at my being chuffed with myself because I wrote a little bit of HTML. Then he offered to give me a copy of Dreamweaver (an HTML cheat). Cool. I left Sam's place feeling ten times better than I had when I went in.
Bring on the weekend!
I called Sinead on Monday night; she was making soup (very homely). She told me she would come through on Saturday and we could catch up and make a night of it (I have a feeling that carbs and black coffee will be required on Sunday). She'd been to see Brokeback Mountain and gave me her no-nonsense review of the film. It went exactly like this: "Saw Brokeback Mountain but wasn't convinced of the love story and there were too many sheep and hillside shots for me. Gyllenhall was a babe though."
Dinner at Tapas Ole with Leanne on Tuesday was great fun. It's the first time it's been just us since Ella (her beautiful baby) was born in November. I think Ella is the best baby I've ever met, but I do feel under pressure to mind my language whenever she's around (I'd hate for it to emerge in Ella's future therapy sessions that her ASBO stemmed from my four-letter rants during her infancy. Not that that's necessarily going to happen. Like I said, she's an excellent baby). It was good to be able to put my question (why do people have children anyway?) to Leanne in her new-found state of motherhood. Normally when I ask people that, they look at me like I'm some sort of freak. I'm not saying I don't want to have kids (I'm assuming the desire will hit me at some point - it just never has so far) or that I think it's wrong or anything - I'm just interested in people's conscious decisions to procreate (the unconscious decision to procreate is far more common and, for that reason, completely uninteresting to me). I totally get the desire to make love (thank the Lord!), I'm just a bit more shaky around the desire to make babies. I understand that people want to have kids, what I want to know is why they want them. Leanne got where I was coming from and feels kind of the same when it comes to having another. She said that people just assume that she'll want to have more, but she really can't see why she would want another one. Anyway - good chat!
Some prospective clients for my 'leisure-time' freelance venture flew up from London and took me out to dinner on Wednesday night. We went to the Living Room and I thoroughly enjoyed the food - though the house champagne left a lot to be desired. We talked business and they didn't hit on me - step up from last week (see 'Networking?'). I was firing on all cylinders and actually astounded myself. I had a bit of an out-of-body moment when I looked at myself, listened to what I was saying and wanted to laugh at how grown-up and knowledgeable I sounded. Anyway, I offered my services as a consultant for a few days and they were most receptive. Ka-ching!
I popped round to see Sam on Thursday night. It was freezing outside and the cup of tea he made me was delightful. I told him about my week; my ups and downs, triumphs and irritations. He told me about his week; his visa/passport issues, proteins, genes and bio-informatics. I am chuffed with myself because I have set-up a website and have been teaching myself how to build it (in the most basic of ways naturally). I was even more chuffed because Sam seemed chuffed at my being chuffed with myself because I wrote a little bit of HTML. Then he offered to give me a copy of Dreamweaver (an HTML cheat). Cool. I left Sam's place feeling ten times better than I had when I went in.
Bring on the weekend!
Monday, February 06, 2006
Ask and you will receive
What an unexpectedly fab weekend!
Once upon a time, I dreamt of a more interesting life. In recent months this has been working out nicely. My life seems to have fallen into a pattern whereby I am booked up every night of the week and totally 'free' at weekends. You'd think this might make my weekends a little dull and boring, but it's just the opposite. What usually happens is that on Friday night I get at least one call to say "well do you, do you, do you, do you wanna go ...". The offer usually involves alcohol and chat, so I tend to 'wanna go' more often than not. On Saturdays, I get to the gym before heading off with the Economist (that's the paper rather than Gordon Brown or someone of a similar ilk) for a few coffees.
This Friday I called my mum; who told me that she and my dad were coming over to see me on Saturday afternoon. I was most pleased about this as I have some trousers that need to be re-hemmed and some bed covers that could do with an iron. I also enjoy my parents' company. After that I called my Gran to wish her a happy holiday; she's off to Zambia for a month. By the time I got off the phone it was rather late, so I decided not to go out and opted instead to purge my wardrobe of clothes that were a)too big, b) far too small, c) hideous (and, thank God, unworn) and d) the wrong colour. This stems from the fact that I had a colour consultation last week during which I was told that I am light, cool and apparently sporting the wrong hair colour. Having just spent a small fortune having my hair done the week before, this isn't what I wanted to hear.
On Saturday I was waiting for my parents when I realised I had managed to read the Economist cover to cover. It followed that I had been there for quite some time. I called my mum to find out where the hell they were, only to have her tell me that they'd been diverted at the Forth Road Bridge and were on their way to Kincardine. Why didn't she call me to let me know you may ask? Alas, she had no credit in her phone. This is a regular thing. I refused to get annoyed and stemmed any rumblings of rage with a trip to Harvey Nick's where I bought a new perfume.
After an enjoyable (and rather hilarious) dinner with my parents, I bumped into Keith, then Jeff, then Sam, then Katie. They were all on their way to the Blind Poet to drink to Jeff's birthday and asked if I wanted to head along. I promptly did so and had a rather excellent time chatting, drinking and arm-wrestling.
I got to bed around 4am. Mog sent a text at 8am asking if I fancied doing something. I begged off until noon and we ended up going on a little jaunt to North Berwick (oooh, how elderly). We consumed copious amounts of food, bought some sweeties and had a walk along the beach before driving back home. An already fab weekend became fabber still when my Grandad called to 'give' me a car; a decent one with a year's road tax and MOT.
Sometimes life really does work out just as you'd imagined; sometimes it's even better.
Once upon a time, I dreamt of a more interesting life. In recent months this has been working out nicely. My life seems to have fallen into a pattern whereby I am booked up every night of the week and totally 'free' at weekends. You'd think this might make my weekends a little dull and boring, but it's just the opposite. What usually happens is that on Friday night I get at least one call to say "well do you, do you, do you, do you wanna go ...". The offer usually involves alcohol and chat, so I tend to 'wanna go' more often than not. On Saturdays, I get to the gym before heading off with the Economist (that's the paper rather than Gordon Brown or someone of a similar ilk) for a few coffees.
This Friday I called my mum; who told me that she and my dad were coming over to see me on Saturday afternoon. I was most pleased about this as I have some trousers that need to be re-hemmed and some bed covers that could do with an iron. I also enjoy my parents' company. After that I called my Gran to wish her a happy holiday; she's off to Zambia for a month. By the time I got off the phone it was rather late, so I decided not to go out and opted instead to purge my wardrobe of clothes that were a)too big, b) far too small, c) hideous (and, thank God, unworn) and d) the wrong colour. This stems from the fact that I had a colour consultation last week during which I was told that I am light, cool and apparently sporting the wrong hair colour. Having just spent a small fortune having my hair done the week before, this isn't what I wanted to hear.
On Saturday I was waiting for my parents when I realised I had managed to read the Economist cover to cover. It followed that I had been there for quite some time. I called my mum to find out where the hell they were, only to have her tell me that they'd been diverted at the Forth Road Bridge and were on their way to Kincardine. Why didn't she call me to let me know you may ask? Alas, she had no credit in her phone. This is a regular thing. I refused to get annoyed and stemmed any rumblings of rage with a trip to Harvey Nick's where I bought a new perfume.
After an enjoyable (and rather hilarious) dinner with my parents, I bumped into Keith, then Jeff, then Sam, then Katie. They were all on their way to the Blind Poet to drink to Jeff's birthday and asked if I wanted to head along. I promptly did so and had a rather excellent time chatting, drinking and arm-wrestling.
I got to bed around 4am. Mog sent a text at 8am asking if I fancied doing something. I begged off until noon and we ended up going on a little jaunt to North Berwick (oooh, how elderly). We consumed copious amounts of food, bought some sweeties and had a walk along the beach before driving back home. An already fab weekend became fabber still when my Grandad called to 'give' me a car; a decent one with a year's road tax and MOT.
Sometimes life really does work out just as you'd imagined; sometimes it's even better.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Networking?
A man called me last week. An older man. He's about fifty. He's quite short with a somewhat squishy face (I didn't elicit this from the conversation; we'd previously worked on a business project together, so I did know him). He wanted to meet me after work because he needed to 'get my opinion on something'. Rather reluctantly, I went along to meet him in the pub. He was wearing a black suit with a black polo neck on underneath. Not a good look; it made me think he was trying to hide something (another 20 years and a facelift perhaps).
He told me about his work situation and I offered my opinion. It seemed rather odd that he chose to speak to me rather than my boss as she has experience of the exact same situation and he's known her for over 10 years. I had put an immediate cap on our time together by telling him I had to be at a friend's party at 8pm. After letting him know about my new job and talking business in general, he made a few allusions to his perfect marriage.
By 7.45pm I decided it was time to leave. There was one taxi in the rank so he said we should share. On the way back he told me that I had really cheered him up. That he felt down and depressed before meeting me, and that we should meet up for drinks again. I pointed out that as I was moving to a new job there would be no need for us to meet up. He said he wasn't talking business he was talking about how he enjoyed my company. He said to me: "There are people in this world who are negative or annoying or rude. They irritate you, drag you down and drain you, but you, on the otherhand, are one of life's genuinely nice, intelligent and funny people and I really enjoy your company." It was a nice thing for him to say, but it made me feel akward and uncomfortable. The rest of journey was spent in akward and uncomfortable silence.
When I got home I contemplated things. Is it odd for a 50-year old married man to want to spend time with a 26-year old woman? Was he genuinely interested in my business opinion or did he have ulterior motives? Did my feelings of discomfort make me (unfairly) decide this guy was slightly dodgy? What was it that made me feel uncomfortable anyway? These thoughts swirled round my head for some time. I decided that I hadn't looked forward to meeting this guy, the conversation had been a drag for me and I didn't want to go out for drinks with him again. Whether he was nice, genuine, dodgy or dull, I didn't enjoy myself the way he had.
In the end, that's all I need to feel fine with saying no. It may not be the nice thing to do, but it's definitely the right thing to do.
He told me about his work situation and I offered my opinion. It seemed rather odd that he chose to speak to me rather than my boss as she has experience of the exact same situation and he's known her for over 10 years. I had put an immediate cap on our time together by telling him I had to be at a friend's party at 8pm. After letting him know about my new job and talking business in general, he made a few allusions to his perfect marriage.
By 7.45pm I decided it was time to leave. There was one taxi in the rank so he said we should share. On the way back he told me that I had really cheered him up. That he felt down and depressed before meeting me, and that we should meet up for drinks again. I pointed out that as I was moving to a new job there would be no need for us to meet up. He said he wasn't talking business he was talking about how he enjoyed my company. He said to me: "There are people in this world who are negative or annoying or rude. They irritate you, drag you down and drain you, but you, on the otherhand, are one of life's genuinely nice, intelligent and funny people and I really enjoy your company." It was a nice thing for him to say, but it made me feel akward and uncomfortable. The rest of journey was spent in akward and uncomfortable silence.
When I got home I contemplated things. Is it odd for a 50-year old married man to want to spend time with a 26-year old woman? Was he genuinely interested in my business opinion or did he have ulterior motives? Did my feelings of discomfort make me (unfairly) decide this guy was slightly dodgy? What was it that made me feel uncomfortable anyway? These thoughts swirled round my head for some time. I decided that I hadn't looked forward to meeting this guy, the conversation had been a drag for me and I didn't want to go out for drinks with him again. Whether he was nice, genuine, dodgy or dull, I didn't enjoy myself the way he had.
In the end, that's all I need to feel fine with saying no. It may not be the nice thing to do, but it's definitely the right thing to do.
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