I know I write about letting agencies and landlords A LOT. This is because they are the lowest form of scum living on this planet.
Our latest agency has not returned our deposit after two months, nor are they taking our calls. We get told we'll be called back, that Twatface* is in a meeting, that she's on the phone, that she's left. She even pretends to be someone else when she answers the phone.
Twatface: Hello, Crap Letting Agency, how may I help?
Me: Hello, may I speak with Twatface please?
TF: I’m afraid she’s not here.
Me: Well I’ve been trying to get hold of Twatface all day.
TF: I’m sorry, it’s been really really hectic here all day. And Twatface is in a meeting tomorrow.
Me: What, all day?
TF: No, of COURSE not.
Me: Well I’d appreciate a callback as soon as she gets out of her meeting.
TF: I’ll pass on the message.
Me: Just to let you know, we will be calling until we speak to her tomorrow.
TF: Ok, thanks, bye.
*Not her real name
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Bestival 2008
I know it’s been a week since Bestival, but I’ve literally only just finished cleaning the mud off me. Seriously. Okay, maybe not. But it did take a long time and I have also sadly reached the conclusion that perhaps I am not as young as I used to be because it took me a good three days to properly recover from three days of fun, mud, music and random happenings. Still, that doesn’t stop me from wanting to buy my early bird tickets for Bestival next year.
So, after my copious amounts of fruit smoothies and milk thistle tablets to get me on the mend, I can finally positively reflect on what was a bloody awesome weekend. After a comic session of wading through the mud-river that was the road to the campsite and then setting up our tents in an equally hilarious manner (to any onlookers not hiding in their tents) we gave up hope of ever being dry and warm, and sat and got drunk on rose boxed wine instead.
Monday night started off poptastically perfectly with Alphabeat, and continued with Chromeo. We were gutted when Sam Sparro and Black Kids were cancelled, however. Something about the BBC Introducing stage being too muddy – um, what? Why not cancel the whole festival then? Bloody squares. (I later found out that Sam did do a set to a small crowd at the X-Box tend, but with no way of communicating this to the crowds, we all missed out.) Anyway we tottered along to CSS instead who were awesome, (although I think sound technician was on acid) and then we headed to the Bollywood tent for a DJ set.
Saturday was never going to be dry so we decided to hide in the Restival section instead and after a few games of Shithead, we were treated to some brilliant poetry performances from Hammer & Tongue. Seriously, if you live in London or Brighton or somewhere where they perform regularly, check them out. It’s a night you won’t forget.
Why I even bothered wasting my time going to see Amy Winehouse on Saturday, I don’t know. Hot Chip were awesome and well worth pushing our way to the front for, but after that we had over an hour of waiting for Miss Amy should-go-to-Rehab-immediately Winehouse to pratt about on stage and manage to sing about 4 recognisable songs. It was pretty funny at the time, but looking back, it meant that I was so knackered after standing around in the cold I had no energy left to dance.
Miracle of miracles, it didn’t rain on Sunday and we made the most of it by finding all the places we hadn’t been to. Bramble FM was a highlight – a seemingly imaginary radio station which appears at all the festivals and gets the crowds dancing around in a circle or cheesy tunes – true story. And actually, it was awesome fun. Which is what festivals are all about – being just plain silly sometimes.
We kept our blood pumping after a brilliant set by Six Nation State by heading to the ‘come dancing’ tent and showed ourselves up by being the only ones dancing to RnB. After the organisers realised that no true festival goer lowers themselves to enjoying RnB music, let alone dancing to it, they started a dance lesson, teaching us the ‘cha-cha’. That got everyone on the dance floor and after working up a suitable sweat, we watched a performance reminiscent of an early Skunk Anansie by cocknbullkid.
As it had finally stopped raining, we actually managed to have a meal outside our tent for the first time all weekend, and refuelled we headed to the main arena, having a bit of a boogie in the X-Box tent (Bournemouth clubs come to Bestival – hurray! – please note the sarcasm) and then checked out the Cockney Knees Up tent, which was supposed to have some drag acts on, but was actually just a bunch of trannies dancing around to eighties music. Not really what we were looking for.
The Rizla arena was awesome, and we ended the night in true Bestival style by meeting some randoms and bringing them back to our tent for pointless conversation and more alcohol.
Getting off the island was less than pleasant – after a muddy session of packing up our tents we struggled with our backpacks up numerous mudslides and eventually made it back to land of solid ground.
So, after my copious amounts of fruit smoothies and milk thistle tablets to get me on the mend, I can finally positively reflect on what was a bloody awesome weekend. After a comic session of wading through the mud-river that was the road to the campsite and then setting up our tents in an equally hilarious manner (to any onlookers not hiding in their tents) we gave up hope of ever being dry and warm, and sat and got drunk on rose boxed wine instead.
Monday night started off poptastically perfectly with Alphabeat, and continued with Chromeo. We were gutted when Sam Sparro and Black Kids were cancelled, however. Something about the BBC Introducing stage being too muddy – um, what? Why not cancel the whole festival then? Bloody squares. (I later found out that Sam did do a set to a small crowd at the X-Box tend, but with no way of communicating this to the crowds, we all missed out.) Anyway we tottered along to CSS instead who were awesome, (although I think sound technician was on acid) and then we headed to the Bollywood tent for a DJ set.
Saturday was never going to be dry so we decided to hide in the Restival section instead and after a few games of Shithead, we were treated to some brilliant poetry performances from Hammer & Tongue. Seriously, if you live in London or Brighton or somewhere where they perform regularly, check them out. It’s a night you won’t forget.
Why I even bothered wasting my time going to see Amy Winehouse on Saturday, I don’t know. Hot Chip were awesome and well worth pushing our way to the front for, but after that we had over an hour of waiting for Miss Amy should-go-to-Rehab-immediately Winehouse to pratt about on stage and manage to sing about 4 recognisable songs. It was pretty funny at the time, but looking back, it meant that I was so knackered after standing around in the cold I had no energy left to dance.
Miracle of miracles, it didn’t rain on Sunday and we made the most of it by finding all the places we hadn’t been to. Bramble FM was a highlight – a seemingly imaginary radio station which appears at all the festivals and gets the crowds dancing around in a circle or cheesy tunes – true story. And actually, it was awesome fun. Which is what festivals are all about – being just plain silly sometimes.
We kept our blood pumping after a brilliant set by Six Nation State by heading to the ‘come dancing’ tent and showed ourselves up by being the only ones dancing to RnB. After the organisers realised that no true festival goer lowers themselves to enjoying RnB music, let alone dancing to it, they started a dance lesson, teaching us the ‘cha-cha’. That got everyone on the dance floor and after working up a suitable sweat, we watched a performance reminiscent of an early Skunk Anansie by cocknbullkid.
As it had finally stopped raining, we actually managed to have a meal outside our tent for the first time all weekend, and refuelled we headed to the main arena, having a bit of a boogie in the X-Box tent (Bournemouth clubs come to Bestival – hurray! – please note the sarcasm) and then checked out the Cockney Knees Up tent, which was supposed to have some drag acts on, but was actually just a bunch of trannies dancing around to eighties music. Not really what we were looking for.
The Rizla arena was awesome, and we ended the night in true Bestival style by meeting some randoms and bringing them back to our tent for pointless conversation and more alcohol.
Getting off the island was less than pleasant – after a muddy session of packing up our tents we struggled with our backpacks up numerous mudslides and eventually made it back to land of solid ground.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Attack of the chavs
Bournemouth’s a relatively safe town, and as I don’t have a car (environmental but mostly economical reasons thanks to New Labour) I tend to walk most places as the buses in Bournemouth are pretty crap if you don’t live in Charminster, Winton or Town.
When I was a student, I was mostly walking with friends so I didn’t notice it as much, but over the last year or so I’ve been walking on my own to and from work.
Now I need to make a point here. I’m young, I’m not fat and I like to wear pretty clothes. Mostly dresses when I can get away with it. Usually I wear leggings under these dresses unless it’s exceptionally hot. I try not to dress like a slut if I can help it although sometimes I do misjudge my neckline on occasion. Not often, though.
So when I walk to work, I do NOT expect to be treated like a cheap prostitute doing my nightly rounds. This treatment includes:
Hooting (I recently discovered that even my boyfriend has been known to do this. Obviously, now he’s with me all other women are vile in comparison so he doesn’t do it anymore. Also, I told him not to.)
Shouting ‘Hello darlin’ out the car window
Wolf Whistles
Asking ‘how much?’ – this on an occasion when I was wearing jeans
And my favourite one: ‘Cheer up darling, it might not happen.’This one is particularly annoying because
a) my face just looks like that when I’m thinking about stuff and
b) maybe it just did you stupid, fat, bald, ugly twatwithatinypenis
I have to say, I have become surprisingly accustomed to such behaviour from the male species and although I find it annoying, I suppose I’ll have to start worrying when the hooting stops. However, on Saturday I had a little incident which really was the last straw.
It was partly my fault. Saturday was very hot, and I was wearing a short dress.
However, I don’t think I deserved having a little chav call after me – and I quote - ‘I’d like to bone you all night long darlin.’
I turned around. Oops, there were six of them. About fifteen. All drunk. Probably all stupid. But harmless enough – or so I hoped. I’d committed myself now (they’d stopped walking and were staring).
‘Do you little pricks have nothing better to do with yourselves than harass women walking on your own?’
Evidently not. They responded by jeering something in a language that can only be described as Chavglish (sparse use of consonants at the end and in the middle of words with more than one syllable)
‘Calm down darlin’ said the perpetrator. ‘Come ‘ome wi’ me’.
I pulled myself away. ‘You know what?’ I said.
‘I bet you’ve all got tiny cocks’.
How very mature of me. They jeered at me again and crossed the street, but despite the childish nature of my retort, I smiled the whole way home.
When I was a student, I was mostly walking with friends so I didn’t notice it as much, but over the last year or so I’ve been walking on my own to and from work.
Now I need to make a point here. I’m young, I’m not fat and I like to wear pretty clothes. Mostly dresses when I can get away with it. Usually I wear leggings under these dresses unless it’s exceptionally hot. I try not to dress like a slut if I can help it although sometimes I do misjudge my neckline on occasion. Not often, though.
So when I walk to work, I do NOT expect to be treated like a cheap prostitute doing my nightly rounds. This treatment includes:
Hooting (I recently discovered that even my boyfriend has been known to do this. Obviously, now he’s with me all other women are vile in comparison so he doesn’t do it anymore. Also, I told him not to.)
Shouting ‘Hello darlin’ out the car window
Wolf Whistles
Asking ‘how much?’ – this on an occasion when I was wearing jeans
And my favourite one: ‘Cheer up darling, it might not happen.’This one is particularly annoying because
a) my face just looks like that when I’m thinking about stuff and
b) maybe it just did you stupid, fat, bald, ugly twatwithatinypenis
I have to say, I have become surprisingly accustomed to such behaviour from the male species and although I find it annoying, I suppose I’ll have to start worrying when the hooting stops. However, on Saturday I had a little incident which really was the last straw.
It was partly my fault. Saturday was very hot, and I was wearing a short dress.
However, I don’t think I deserved having a little chav call after me – and I quote - ‘I’d like to bone you all night long darlin.’
I turned around. Oops, there were six of them. About fifteen. All drunk. Probably all stupid. But harmless enough – or so I hoped. I’d committed myself now (they’d stopped walking and were staring).
‘Do you little pricks have nothing better to do with yourselves than harass women walking on your own?’
Evidently not. They responded by jeering something in a language that can only be described as Chavglish (sparse use of consonants at the end and in the middle of words with more than one syllable)
‘Calm down darlin’ said the perpetrator. ‘Come ‘ome wi’ me’.
I pulled myself away. ‘You know what?’ I said.
‘I bet you’ve all got tiny cocks’.
How very mature of me. They jeered at me again and crossed the street, but despite the childish nature of my retort, I smiled the whole way home.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Nanny state and sob stories
There are a number of things that have annoyed me this week. One of them has actually been annoying me for a while, but came to a head on Saturday when I was selecting a book as a birthday present. It's the kind of books that actually now are so numerous that they have a special section in Asda. Yes, the 'tear jerkers'.
These are books that are written by people who have been abused as children. Now I know child abuse is a horrible and horrific thing, but it does seem to me like everyone is jumping on the literary bandwagon and spaffing out a book about their horrid existence as a child. Maybe it's therapeutic for them to re-live their most sordid moment of their lifetime, but there's no denying that it's also a massive money spinner.
What annoys me even more is the un-imaginative titles given to these books which leave nothing to the imagination, per example:
Don't tell Mummy
Ugly:The story of a loveless childhood
Not Without My Sister: The True Story of Three Girls Violated and Betrayed by Those They Trusted:
Please, Daddy, No: A Boy Betrayed
And so on and so forth. It's trite voyeurism and shouldn't be encouraged.
The other thing that's got my goat is the government's intention to reclassify cannabis.
No, I'm not one of those heavy weed smokers who claim that it makes life worth living, I just hate the way that illegal drugs have been segregated from legal ones, and the judgment that is bestowed upon them as result. The concept reeks of small-mindedness, policy over practice and of course nanny-statism (if that is a word) that every day seeks to violate our freedoms, our rights and our decisions:
Their reason for reclassification is this: Mental illness linked to the heavy and frequent use of the drug. Now, everyone knows that drugs, be they legal or illegal, are bad for you. Smoking can cause cancer, heart disease, emphysema, decreases your taste and smell sensation and makes you a social outcast (unless all your friends smoke, which means you can all die an early death together - everyone's a winner).
Drinking too much gives you a hangover. It also increases heart disease, and alcoholism makes for broken families. Oh, and drink driving can kill.
So let's look at tobacco and alcohol policy: It's bad for you. So what do the government do? They put up the tax - and hide behind the pretence that it will discourage over-indulgence. The same goes for smoking, although at least with that we know that second-hand smoke causes health problems too. Perhaps the one good thing they've done in the last five years or so.
They can't up the tax on cannabis so they reclassify it, making the prison sentence change from a 2-year to five-year sentence. My opinion: If you want to smoke weed, do it in the knowledge it might make you go a little crazy, that you might get caught, but the risk is yours. And you know that without the government spoon-feeding you all this classification nonsense that really, doesn't mean a thing to dealers or regular users.
These are books that are written by people who have been abused as children. Now I know child abuse is a horrible and horrific thing, but it does seem to me like everyone is jumping on the literary bandwagon and spaffing out a book about their horrid existence as a child. Maybe it's therapeutic for them to re-live their most sordid moment of their lifetime, but there's no denying that it's also a massive money spinner.
What annoys me even more is the un-imaginative titles given to these books which leave nothing to the imagination, per example:
Don't tell Mummy
Ugly:The story of a loveless childhood
Not Without My Sister: The True Story of Three Girls Violated and Betrayed by Those They Trusted:
Please, Daddy, No: A Boy Betrayed
And so on and so forth. It's trite voyeurism and shouldn't be encouraged.
The other thing that's got my goat is the government's intention to reclassify cannabis.
No, I'm not one of those heavy weed smokers who claim that it makes life worth living, I just hate the way that illegal drugs have been segregated from legal ones, and the judgment that is bestowed upon them as result. The concept reeks of small-mindedness, policy over practice and of course nanny-statism (if that is a word) that every day seeks to violate our freedoms, our rights and our decisions:
Their reason for reclassification is this: Mental illness linked to the heavy and frequent use of the drug. Now, everyone knows that drugs, be they legal or illegal, are bad for you. Smoking can cause cancer, heart disease, emphysema, decreases your taste and smell sensation and makes you a social outcast (unless all your friends smoke, which means you can all die an early death together - everyone's a winner).
Drinking too much gives you a hangover. It also increases heart disease, and alcoholism makes for broken families. Oh, and drink driving can kill.
So let's look at tobacco and alcohol policy: It's bad for you. So what do the government do? They put up the tax - and hide behind the pretence that it will discourage over-indulgence. The same goes for smoking, although at least with that we know that second-hand smoke causes health problems too. Perhaps the one good thing they've done in the last five years or so.
They can't up the tax on cannabis so they reclassify it, making the prison sentence change from a 2-year to five-year sentence. My opinion: If you want to smoke weed, do it in the knowledge it might make you go a little crazy, that you might get caught, but the risk is yours. And you know that without the government spoon-feeding you all this classification nonsense that really, doesn't mean a thing to dealers or regular users.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Damages
The latest American legal drama to hit our screens, Damages is without a doubt the best TV drama I've had the pleasure of watching.
A star-studded cast guarantees its success, (Glen Close, Ted Danson, Rose Byrne) but the writing in itself is first-class. Damages takes you on a rollercoaster of emotions and assumptions, and delivers a gut-dropping twist in every episode.
It begins at the end. Hot-shot young lawyer Ellen Parsons (Byrne) is found covered in blood, and her finace is found dead in their bathtub at home. They don't give too much away, but by the end of the pilot, we assume that Ellen's boss, hugely successful litigator, Patti Hewes is behind it.
It's not even that interesting a case. Billionaire Arther Frobisher is being sued by his 500 employees who have lost everything after an accouting fraud bankrupts one of his many businesses. The twist is that Frobisher took his shares out the day before the company went under. The case falls on one weekend in Florida - where it is thought by Hewes that he met with his Broker. Prove that, and win the case.
Even though it's a complicated lawsuit, it's made in such a way that the viewer understands every turning point, every significance and that's what makes it successful. Perhaps more importantly though, are the characters. We see their every side, we make assumptions, we're proved wrong, we make new ones, again, we question our thoughts. Glenn Close, as always, delivers a fantastically chilling performance as Hewes and Danson makes a very convincing Frobisher.
If I go on about it too much I'll ruin it, but do yourself a favour and watch it. You'll be marking the time until Season 2.
A star-studded cast guarantees its success, (Glen Close, Ted Danson, Rose Byrne) but the writing in itself is first-class. Damages takes you on a rollercoaster of emotions and assumptions, and delivers a gut-dropping twist in every episode.
It begins at the end. Hot-shot young lawyer Ellen Parsons (Byrne) is found covered in blood, and her finace is found dead in their bathtub at home. They don't give too much away, but by the end of the pilot, we assume that Ellen's boss, hugely successful litigator, Patti Hewes is behind it.
It's not even that interesting a case. Billionaire Arther Frobisher is being sued by his 500 employees who have lost everything after an accouting fraud bankrupts one of his many businesses. The twist is that Frobisher took his shares out the day before the company went under. The case falls on one weekend in Florida - where it is thought by Hewes that he met with his Broker. Prove that, and win the case.
Even though it's a complicated lawsuit, it's made in such a way that the viewer understands every turning point, every significance and that's what makes it successful. Perhaps more importantly though, are the characters. We see their every side, we make assumptions, we're proved wrong, we make new ones, again, we question our thoughts. Glenn Close, as always, delivers a fantastically chilling performance as Hewes and Danson makes a very convincing Frobisher.
If I go on about it too much I'll ruin it, but do yourself a favour and watch it. You'll be marking the time until Season 2.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Spooks:Code Splat.
I was delighted to see an advert on BBC 3 yesterday afternoon advertising the beginning of a new series of Spooks. It's one of the only BBC dramas I make a point of watching, but as the advert progressed, I noticed that there was a new cast, (younger, pimplier, and most importantly, missing the nothing short of gorgeous Danny Hunter) and a new location - Manchester. Call me a snobbish southern-dweller, but MI5 dramas just don't work in Manchester. When the London Eye is missing from the skyline, it's not MI5.
But I decided to give it a chance anyway - it was a Sunday night after all, and the Olympic coverage for the day was over. Five minutes on, as always, I was proved right.
Script: Optional. Narrative: Non-existent. Acting Ability: None whatsoever.
Set in 2012, the story goes something like this. Olympics-Bombs-Mass Evacuation of London - recruitment of younger spies-who typically save the day. With lots of guns, blood and fast-paced plot collapse, Spooks Code 9 falls flat on its face in terms of being the next big thing.
Perhaps they set the bar too high by twinning it with Spooks. If you've got a good series, don't do a spinoff. This has only worked once in history - and that was Cheers, and Frasier - which had a character in common. Code 9 has nothing in common with Spooks, and is more of a 'Grange Hill with Guns' (Jordan, 2008) which could work quite well if it was marketed as such.
But I decided to give it a chance anyway - it was a Sunday night after all, and the Olympic coverage for the day was over. Five minutes on, as always, I was proved right.
Script: Optional. Narrative: Non-existent. Acting Ability: None whatsoever.
Set in 2012, the story goes something like this. Olympics-Bombs-Mass Evacuation of London - recruitment of younger spies-who typically save the day. With lots of guns, blood and fast-paced plot collapse, Spooks Code 9 falls flat on its face in terms of being the next big thing.
Perhaps they set the bar too high by twinning it with Spooks. If you've got a good series, don't do a spinoff. This has only worked once in history - and that was Cheers, and Frasier - which had a character in common. Code 9 has nothing in common with Spooks, and is more of a 'Grange Hill with Guns' (Jordan, 2008) which could work quite well if it was marketed as such.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Writing for the sake of it
I've decided to exercise my writing muscle a bit more, and start posting every day (well, every work day at least). It's the only thing that will keep me sane in what is, at times, a very frustrating job. I am counting down the days to my Egyptian holiday and then Australia. Three months with no work is going to be the best thing in the world.
What if no one worked? What if we all worked on the land, ploughed the fields, milked the cows, drank the cows milk and lived happily ever after? There would be no offices, no mobile phones, no need to slave away day after day at what is a completely pointless job, if you really think about it. Sometimes I'd really like to live in a commune. And with rising oil prices, fuel poverty and the credit crunch, it looks like it may even be a viable option.
But then I think about it some more. What, no facebook? No endless updates of who is doing what, who is enagaged to whom? No Ebay? No pointless searching for concert tickets that I can't afford, no selling of things that I have no use for (and probably no one else does either). And most importantly, no mobiles? Yes, I know I've just wished for an existence without them, but the truth is that my relationship with my mobile is a love-hate one. I feel helpless without it, yet hate that I am contacable at all times.
Switch it off, I hear you say? Well, see, you don't have a mum like mine. She'll assume the worst (car accident followed by kidnapping, then rape, followed by being hung naked from a cliff on the Isle of Purbeck) so I need to have it on. At least if it rings she assumes I'm alive. Then again, if I take an hour to reply to a text, my boyfriend worries about me too. I'm obviously someone likely to have got myself into some kind of predicament of some sorts, with all these people worrying about me all the time.
I seem to attract this kind of attention actually. For example, take this morning. My friends mum (and my landlady as it happens) insisted (by this I mean she practically dragged me by my hair to the kitchen table) that I eat pancakes. 'I give you lift to work. You eat,' she said, beckoning to the stack of pancakes. It was hardly an offer I could refuse. I think she thinks I don't eat.
Anyway, back to the mobile phone debate. The worst thing is, when you get back to your mobile phone after leaving it on its own all day (poor thing) to find that NOT ONE person has called or sent you a pointless text message. NOT ONE! That is the definition of rejection. But then again, mobile phones have other ways of making you feel rejected too.
Lynne Truss (the best, most grumpy author ever and I hope to be exactly like her in about ten years) in 'Talk To The Hand: The complete and utter rudeness of everyday life' sums up my feeling about mobiles in about three pages (I have a lot of feelings about them)when she explains the problem of them ringing when you're with someone else. It's just plain rude to have a conversation when someone else is there. It's like saying 'I'd rather talk to someone I can't see than have a face to face conversation with you'. Now that's rejection.
Speaking of which, I have to go. My phone is ringing.
What if no one worked? What if we all worked on the land, ploughed the fields, milked the cows, drank the cows milk and lived happily ever after? There would be no offices, no mobile phones, no need to slave away day after day at what is a completely pointless job, if you really think about it. Sometimes I'd really like to live in a commune. And with rising oil prices, fuel poverty and the credit crunch, it looks like it may even be a viable option.
But then I think about it some more. What, no facebook? No endless updates of who is doing what, who is enagaged to whom? No Ebay? No pointless searching for concert tickets that I can't afford, no selling of things that I have no use for (and probably no one else does either). And most importantly, no mobiles? Yes, I know I've just wished for an existence without them, but the truth is that my relationship with my mobile is a love-hate one. I feel helpless without it, yet hate that I am contacable at all times.
Switch it off, I hear you say? Well, see, you don't have a mum like mine. She'll assume the worst (car accident followed by kidnapping, then rape, followed by being hung naked from a cliff on the Isle of Purbeck) so I need to have it on. At least if it rings she assumes I'm alive. Then again, if I take an hour to reply to a text, my boyfriend worries about me too. I'm obviously someone likely to have got myself into some kind of predicament of some sorts, with all these people worrying about me all the time.
I seem to attract this kind of attention actually. For example, take this morning. My friends mum (and my landlady as it happens) insisted (by this I mean she practically dragged me by my hair to the kitchen table) that I eat pancakes. 'I give you lift to work. You eat,' she said, beckoning to the stack of pancakes. It was hardly an offer I could refuse. I think she thinks I don't eat.
Anyway, back to the mobile phone debate. The worst thing is, when you get back to your mobile phone after leaving it on its own all day (poor thing) to find that NOT ONE person has called or sent you a pointless text message. NOT ONE! That is the definition of rejection. But then again, mobile phones have other ways of making you feel rejected too.
Lynne Truss (the best, most grumpy author ever and I hope to be exactly like her in about ten years) in 'Talk To The Hand: The complete and utter rudeness of everyday life' sums up my feeling about mobiles in about three pages (I have a lot of feelings about them)when she explains the problem of them ringing when you're with someone else. It's just plain rude to have a conversation when someone else is there. It's like saying 'I'd rather talk to someone I can't see than have a face to face conversation with you'. Now that's rejection.
Speaking of which, I have to go. My phone is ringing.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Boys (and their obsession with toys)
What is it about men and their insatiable appetite for the latest Playstation, TV screen, drumset, Macbook? I mean honestly. When a woman wants something, she goes out and buys the damn thing. No browsing for hours on the internet, no humming and harring about the best deal, no. We go out and get the damn thing. Yes, we may not know anything about the brand apart from the fact that it's a 'red one' (to use the old cliche) but we're happy. In short, we don't waste time.
Men, however, are a different kettle of fish. My dearest boyfriend is a prime example. Buying things is his favourite thing to do it seems. But it's not only the buying of objects, but the entire process itself. Firstly, he gets it into his head that he wants a particular item. A new duvet, for example. Not a particularly manly example there, but he likes his creature comforts. Now that's all very well, but he (and this is no joke)took about three weeks from the initial process of research, pricing, reading reviews on whether a duck feather duvet is better than a goose feather one, (and emailing me constantly at work to ask my opinion) to actually buying it. He finally settled on a good old M&S combi duvet. You'd think it would have ended there. But no, he then proceeded to get excited about the fact that it was a combi duvet and proceed to demonstrate it to me for the first three nights we slept under it.
He does this for everything. TV's, TV brackets (he actually sent me a link so I could see it, asking me my opinion. I replied 'it's a lovely bracket dear') and actually, anything you can think of. He's the internet shopkeeper's dream come true.
I had to buy him a duvet cover the other day. Guess what happened? I went to the shop, saw one that looked nice and bought it. Simple as.
Men, however, are a different kettle of fish. My dearest boyfriend is a prime example. Buying things is his favourite thing to do it seems. But it's not only the buying of objects, but the entire process itself. Firstly, he gets it into his head that he wants a particular item. A new duvet, for example. Not a particularly manly example there, but he likes his creature comforts. Now that's all very well, but he (and this is no joke)took about three weeks from the initial process of research, pricing, reading reviews on whether a duck feather duvet is better than a goose feather one, (and emailing me constantly at work to ask my opinion) to actually buying it. He finally settled on a good old M&S combi duvet. You'd think it would have ended there. But no, he then proceeded to get excited about the fact that it was a combi duvet and proceed to demonstrate it to me for the first three nights we slept under it.
He does this for everything. TV's, TV brackets (he actually sent me a link so I could see it, asking me my opinion. I replied 'it's a lovely bracket dear') and actually, anything you can think of. He's the internet shopkeeper's dream come true.
I had to buy him a duvet cover the other day. Guess what happened? I went to the shop, saw one that looked nice and bought it. Simple as.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
My Military Conversion
I called my boyfriend yesterday morning. 'I Hate You' I said, as he answered with his incredibly cheery, (and very annoying) 'hello darling!'. 'I really, really, really hate you'. He laughed. 'Well I'm not making you do it - go on - stay in bed, watch telly all day, it's fine. I don't mind,' 'Now I really REALLY hate you' I said, and put down the phone. I walked over to the window. Yep - still the same. Pouring rain, howling winds. Bank holiday monday, perfect for curling up in bed with Sex and The City, but instead I was being made to go outside and walk in the rain with a bunch of marine reservists and their supportive girlfriends. Ugh.
However, I knew it meant a lot to Soldier Boy that I go with him, and it was too late to back out now. Sighing, I got myself ready and waited to be picked up. Soldier Boy jumped out the car with a huge military waterproof, listened to me complain for ten minutes while he pulled and prodded, and fitted the jacket to me. I surveyed myself in the mirror, and almost sort of liked the way I looked in uniform.
'You do know that I look like a massive lesbian, don't you?' I said. Soldier Boy just laughed. Actually, that's how reacts to most of my moods which is even more annying than him getting annoyed with them.
So anyway. We set off to the New Forest. Soldier Boy and his friend had plotted the route on an ordinance survey map, and were improving their map-reading skills by following the bearing - or something. There were eight of us in the group, with two 'navigators'. We started walking through the forest - and yes, it was still pouring with rain. Luckily, the wind had stopped howling and my government-issue waterproof was doing its job - unlike the sods who issue it. But my combats weren't doing so well. As we clambered through kneee-high shrubbery, I got more and more soaked from the waist down, but concentrated on keeping my feet dry.
Then we came to what was marked on the map as a 'stream'. Obviously with the overnight rain, this little stream was now a raging torrent. Without a bridge, there was no way of crossing it without getting soaked - so we had to walk up along the stream and cross where it was possible. Which meant that we lost our bearing and our place on the map. We eventually found a big log and clambered across it, but now we had to find out where we were.
And so we continued. But now, in addition to the pouring rain, we had to stop, for what seemed like every five minutes, and watch while Navigator 1 and Navigator 2 examined the map, pointed their compass around, walked one direction, then stopped, looked at the mao, walked another direction, and so on. Every time Navigator 1 decided on a direction, Navigator 2 called him back, ummed and arred, checked the points, argued the toss and then proceeded in the same direction. I was getting more and more grumpy, and wet, and Solider Boy had noticed. 'Morale low? he asked. 'It's the rain, isn't it?' I glowered at him.
'No, it's not the rain, Solider Boy. Stopping every five minutes and examining that fucking map for half an hour - that's what's making my 'morale' low.'
To top it all off, as we started making track to the pub, we came across what can only be described as a swamp. Disguised as a grassy patch, I step right in it. 'Squelch'. So there go my feet, wet as can be, for the next two hours of the trail.
But it did get better. It stopped raining for one, we reached the pub where I changed into dry socks and trousers, and we started finding our way a bit better as well. The sun even came out.
Not that I enjoyed it, mind you.
However, I knew it meant a lot to Soldier Boy that I go with him, and it was too late to back out now. Sighing, I got myself ready and waited to be picked up. Soldier Boy jumped out the car with a huge military waterproof, listened to me complain for ten minutes while he pulled and prodded, and fitted the jacket to me. I surveyed myself in the mirror, and almost sort of liked the way I looked in uniform.
'You do know that I look like a massive lesbian, don't you?' I said. Soldier Boy just laughed. Actually, that's how reacts to most of my moods which is even more annying than him getting annoyed with them.
So anyway. We set off to the New Forest. Soldier Boy and his friend had plotted the route on an ordinance survey map, and were improving their map-reading skills by following the bearing - or something. There were eight of us in the group, with two 'navigators'. We started walking through the forest - and yes, it was still pouring with rain. Luckily, the wind had stopped howling and my government-issue waterproof was doing its job - unlike the sods who issue it. But my combats weren't doing so well. As we clambered through kneee-high shrubbery, I got more and more soaked from the waist down, but concentrated on keeping my feet dry.
Then we came to what was marked on the map as a 'stream'. Obviously with the overnight rain, this little stream was now a raging torrent. Without a bridge, there was no way of crossing it without getting soaked - so we had to walk up along the stream and cross where it was possible. Which meant that we lost our bearing and our place on the map. We eventually found a big log and clambered across it, but now we had to find out where we were.
And so we continued. But now, in addition to the pouring rain, we had to stop, for what seemed like every five minutes, and watch while Navigator 1 and Navigator 2 examined the map, pointed their compass around, walked one direction, then stopped, looked at the mao, walked another direction, and so on. Every time Navigator 1 decided on a direction, Navigator 2 called him back, ummed and arred, checked the points, argued the toss and then proceeded in the same direction. I was getting more and more grumpy, and wet, and Solider Boy had noticed. 'Morale low? he asked. 'It's the rain, isn't it?' I glowered at him.
'No, it's not the rain, Solider Boy. Stopping every five minutes and examining that fucking map for half an hour - that's what's making my 'morale' low.'
To top it all off, as we started making track to the pub, we came across what can only be described as a swamp. Disguised as a grassy patch, I step right in it. 'Squelch'. So there go my feet, wet as can be, for the next two hours of the trail.
But it did get better. It stopped raining for one, we reached the pub where I changed into dry socks and trousers, and we started finding our way a bit better as well. The sun even came out.
Not that I enjoyed it, mind you.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Food For Thought
I've been looking into different kinds of social networking recently, Twitter being my latest fad, and it's started me thinking about what all these networks actually mean for us as a society. Looking back on the Facebook trend that, for me, started about 18 months ago, it was a novelty. MySpace came before it, but didn't have quite the same impact that Facebook has had. I remember being a little creeped out by the fact that I could stalk everyone's activities - who they spoke to, where they'd been, what they'd been doing, and how they were feeling at the particular moment in time - if they chose to share it with the world, that is.
Now Facebook has become a way of life - well for my generation at least. We plan parties on it, we entertain ourselves at work on it, share photos and basically let it run our lives. It has proved to be a very useful tool for my close group of friends to keep in contact with each other despite the fact that two of us are in different countries at the moment. In a way, it feels like they've never gone.
While, when you think about it, it is a bit weird to be so closely connected with each other's lives - knowing who's doing what, and more importantly, who's doing who, it's not actually all that different from society a few decades ago. We used to live our lives quite openly - people would drop round for cups of tea, women would gossip openly about their neighbours, and there was a real sense of community in neighbourhoods and schools. I don't think you can say that this is true today - we hide behind our front doors and drawn curtains and in our cars, and it's not a rarity to know nothing about your neighbours. In this new society, we choose to interact in other ways - instead of face to face, we sit in front of screens and show a virtual picture of our lives. We're selective about who we interact with, but we're as open as ever... go figure....
Now Facebook has become a way of life - well for my generation at least. We plan parties on it, we entertain ourselves at work on it, share photos and basically let it run our lives. It has proved to be a very useful tool for my close group of friends to keep in contact with each other despite the fact that two of us are in different countries at the moment. In a way, it feels like they've never gone.
While, when you think about it, it is a bit weird to be so closely connected with each other's lives - knowing who's doing what, and more importantly, who's doing who, it's not actually all that different from society a few decades ago. We used to live our lives quite openly - people would drop round for cups of tea, women would gossip openly about their neighbours, and there was a real sense of community in neighbourhoods and schools. I don't think you can say that this is true today - we hide behind our front doors and drawn curtains and in our cars, and it's not a rarity to know nothing about your neighbours. In this new society, we choose to interact in other ways - instead of face to face, we sit in front of screens and show a virtual picture of our lives. We're selective about who we interact with, but we're as open as ever... go figure....
Monday, March 17, 2008
Child Support
My friend Sahar has been getting random money into her account from the government for the past few months. Being a sensible and good citizen, she called them, and told them that she had hundreds of pounds of government money in her account and can she please give it back.
Of course, they had no idea what she was on about. And it didn't help that her Jewish mum of Persian descent was sitting in the corner of the room shouting 'You shouldn't tell them you stupid girl, you're stupid, you know, you're stupid!'
I find out today that the mystery was solved, via an email from Sahar on a Facebook thread:
'Woe i have no money either, it turns out it was my mums money from Child support years ago and she took it all off me in a flash... didnt even leave me a penny of it!
In fact she literally dragged me to the bank demanding i take it out for her and then just left me there as she sped off in the car to meet her friend...twas such a sad day.'
Meanwhile, Rosie was getting her own back.
There's a lady who Rosie works with who we refer to as 'Never ask for Satnav'. This is because years ago, Rose did work experience at a certain production company. She asked for satnav because she was told to go to a certain place in a hurry and couldn't map read and drive at the same time. Bitchface wrote 'never ask for Satnav' on Rosie's appraisal form and gave her an E in 'self-motivation'.
So turns out Rosie is now working with satnav again - and guess what, she's still a bitter old cow. But apparently, karma does exist - as i discover when I get a text from Rose today:
'Burriliant. The bitch PM has had her her 'done' - think awful highlights/dye job-mutton-dressed-as-lamb which is straightened at the front but straggly at the back. Done by a health and beauty student who was trained, apparently, by Helen Keller.'
Now that is what I call a fair trade.
Of course, they had no idea what she was on about. And it didn't help that her Jewish mum of Persian descent was sitting in the corner of the room shouting 'You shouldn't tell them you stupid girl, you're stupid, you know, you're stupid!'
I find out today that the mystery was solved, via an email from Sahar on a Facebook thread:
'Woe i have no money either, it turns out it was my mums money from Child support years ago and she took it all off me in a flash... didnt even leave me a penny of it!
In fact she literally dragged me to the bank demanding i take it out for her and then just left me there as she sped off in the car to meet her friend...twas such a sad day.'
Meanwhile, Rosie was getting her own back.
There's a lady who Rosie works with who we refer to as 'Never ask for Satnav'. This is because years ago, Rose did work experience at a certain production company. She asked for satnav because she was told to go to a certain place in a hurry and couldn't map read and drive at the same time. Bitchface wrote 'never ask for Satnav' on Rosie's appraisal form and gave her an E in 'self-motivation'.
So turns out Rosie is now working with satnav again - and guess what, she's still a bitter old cow. But apparently, karma does exist - as i discover when I get a text from Rose today:
'Burriliant. The bitch PM has had her her 'done' - think awful highlights/dye job-mutton-dressed-as-lamb which is straightened at the front but straggly at the back. Done by a health and beauty student who was trained, apparently, by Helen Keller.'
Now that is what I call a fair trade.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Builder's Tea
This is just one, of a long list of stories, from my dearest Persian-bred, London-born friend, that never fails to entertain me.
She's currently working in TV, and she's in between contracts, so spends much of her time doing, well nothing. One day she's sitting at her computer and gets a call from her dear friend Kessie. The rest of the story will be in her words, relating the conversation, as I just can't tell it like she can:
'Sahar are you on the internet?'
I say, 'why yes I am'
She says, 'some guy at work asked me to make a builders tea, can you look it up for me?'
I didnt know what the hell she was on about so i googled it and told her I'll ring her back when I find out.
5 mintues later i ring her back and apparently there's an actual brand called 'Builder's Tea' (in a black and yellow box) so I said,
'Kessie, yr work place must have bought the tea brand, 'Builders tea' so find it and just make him that'
......then a long pause....
'Kessie? ..... Kessie? ..
Nothing.
Kessie? you there?
Then she finally speaks....'Oh woe, i couldn't wait for you to ring back so I had to take a guess and made him a herbal tea with 2 sugars..'
She's currently working in TV, and she's in between contracts, so spends much of her time doing, well nothing. One day she's sitting at her computer and gets a call from her dear friend Kessie. The rest of the story will be in her words, relating the conversation, as I just can't tell it like she can:
'Sahar are you on the internet?'
I say, 'why yes I am'
She says, 'some guy at work asked me to make a builders tea, can you look it up for me?'
I didnt know what the hell she was on about so i googled it and told her I'll ring her back when I find out.
5 mintues later i ring her back and apparently there's an actual brand called 'Builder's Tea' (in a black and yellow box) so I said,
'Kessie, yr work place must have bought the tea brand, 'Builders tea' so find it and just make him that'
......then a long pause....
'Kessie? ..... Kessie? ..
Nothing.
Kessie? you there?
Then she finally speaks....'Oh woe, i couldn't wait for you to ring back so I had to take a guess and made him a herbal tea with 2 sugars..'
Saturday, February 16, 2008
I don't care about your status, please keep it to yourself and leave me alone
I have been growing increasingly annoyed by the 'status' tool on Facebook. Possibly because there is now a sidebar that updates you every time one of your friends changes their status.
Let's bear in mind that a large amount of people on my Facebook are not, in fact,my friends. They are all people I know, all people I have met, in fact, but that does not mean that I am friends with them. They are merely acquaintances. Thusly, I do NOT wish to know whether or not they are 'having a great time in Australia but are upset because the seal trip was cancelled'. Nor do I wish to know that someone is planning a romantic meal for two. especially when that person is a lizard-face bitch who never handed an assignment in on time at uni (on a JOURNALISM course - a profession known for the importance of DEADLINES?) and still passed with the same grade as me.
Even updates about my true friends can get a little tiresome. For example, I don't really want to know my cousin's baby is 'jumping around'. That's the other thing that gets to me - it's like she's the only person in the world who has ever been pregnant ever. Pictures of her bump. Drawing attention to the fact that she's pregnant by refusing to eat anything but apples. Typically, she's the perfect granddaughter in the family - first to get married, has a medical degree and is good at doing things like crafty cards and metal work. I, however, am somewhat of a disappointment. I've had way too many boyfriends in the last four years, all of them called Mark, I've got a British accent and I'm untidy (I prefer to call it creative but that's essentially what it is). Never mind that I've got a degree in Journalism, I'm extremely well-read and I'm up to date on political affairs and that I have my own opinions, no, that simply doesn't cut it with my extended family. Women (well, women/girls my age anyway) are meant to supply beer, help around the house and not express a political view on anything, according to my uncle, anyway.
But I'm moaning for no reason, really. I've got a fantastic family, who have always listened to what I have to say, encouraged me to argue and question, and are incredibly supportive in whatever I want to do.
Back to Facebook. I also really hate when people upload their amazing photos of traveling because it just makes me jealous and bitter. And then when they have the audacity to complain about things, like being stuck in a bus station in a tropical country. Being stuck in a bus station in Leeds would be excusable. But Brazil? Shut up already.
Let's bear in mind that a large amount of people on my Facebook are not, in fact,my friends. They are all people I know, all people I have met, in fact, but that does not mean that I am friends with them. They are merely acquaintances. Thusly, I do NOT wish to know whether or not they are 'having a great time in Australia but are upset because the seal trip was cancelled'. Nor do I wish to know that someone is planning a romantic meal for two. especially when that person is a lizard-face bitch who never handed an assignment in on time at uni (on a JOURNALISM course - a profession known for the importance of DEADLINES?) and still passed with the same grade as me.
Even updates about my true friends can get a little tiresome. For example, I don't really want to know my cousin's baby is 'jumping around'. That's the other thing that gets to me - it's like she's the only person in the world who has ever been pregnant ever. Pictures of her bump. Drawing attention to the fact that she's pregnant by refusing to eat anything but apples. Typically, she's the perfect granddaughter in the family - first to get married, has a medical degree and is good at doing things like crafty cards and metal work. I, however, am somewhat of a disappointment. I've had way too many boyfriends in the last four years, all of them called Mark, I've got a British accent and I'm untidy (I prefer to call it creative but that's essentially what it is). Never mind that I've got a degree in Journalism, I'm extremely well-read and I'm up to date on political affairs and that I have my own opinions, no, that simply doesn't cut it with my extended family. Women (well, women/girls my age anyway) are meant to supply beer, help around the house and not express a political view on anything, according to my uncle, anyway.
But I'm moaning for no reason, really. I've got a fantastic family, who have always listened to what I have to say, encouraged me to argue and question, and are incredibly supportive in whatever I want to do.
Back to Facebook. I also really hate when people upload their amazing photos of traveling because it just makes me jealous and bitter. And then when they have the audacity to complain about things, like being stuck in a bus station in a tropical country. Being stuck in a bus station in Leeds would be excusable. But Brazil? Shut up already.
Monday, January 21, 2008
I Lick My Cheese
I don't actually - this is the title of a book given to me by a very dear friend who is possibly the funniest woman I have the pleasure of knowing. It's a very 'her' gift and it's all about flat sharing. As you may have come to realise, I do live in an interesting house with a lot of interesting people, but often these interesting events get a little bit tiresome, and sometimes make me wish to write notes such as this:
Dear ....
Hope you don't mind me cleaning your damp wank rag off the table. It's just that I was expecting friends round for dinner and they probably think that it's a fucking disgrace that someone would have the audacity to wank in my living room, then wander off like they'd just finished work for the evening. This note serves to close your grubby little episode. It's also your notice to leave the house. In the meantime, put one foot wrong and I'll set fire to your stuff, not even kidding.
Fortunately for me, I haven't had to deal with this sort of shit. However, it comes pretty damn close. Take this evening, for example. I'd been away for the weekend, I'd spent the weekend relaxing, cooking and eating. I also spent a little part of it cleaning up - yes, I'd helped my boyfriend clean his house and do the washing up after having friends round for dinner. Isn't that nice of me? Aren't I a nice person?
Well, no, not really, I just have a bit of decency. Something that, surprisingly, a great number of people seem to lack. I grew up with someone cleaning up after me, which is probably why I am quite a messy person. However, I do know that it's common courtesy to clean up in someone else's home when you make a mess, or at least offer to. Which is why I was pretty pissed off when I got home tonight to find the lounge looking like a modern art exhibition - in a bad way. Dry muesli, bits of Connect Four, empty Subway bags and, strangely, sultanas, were scattered all across the living-room floor like it's the perfectly normal place for them to be. It wasn't my mess, but I cleaned it. It wasn't my other housemate's mess, but she did the washing up. That's normal. What's not normal is to completely ignore the fact that the lounge that YOU or YOUR FRIENDS left in a mess has been cleaned by SOMEONE ELSE and not even bother to acknowledge them.
And here's another note I'd like to write:
I pay the bills. What do you do? This isn't a doss house so could you give me the rent.
It's fair enough to struggle for money when you're a student. You're too busy putting off doing your dissertation and painting props for your student film project to get a job. That's obvious. But when you're a graduate, it's just a little bit pathetic to a) not be working or b) not be actively seeking a job. And, hey, there's always option c) - go on the dole. Yes, I hate it as much as the next guy, but not as much as I hate not being able to pay my electricity because some idiot can't be arsed to do anything constructive with his life.
I actually do love my flatmates (some more than others, admittedly) but it's true what you say about never living with friends. While it's not always a disaster, it's better to stick with what you know, live with people who you've lived with before, people you can scream and shout at and know that they'll love you anyway. And living with people who have been brought up to respect other people is essential too, but sadly, in my four years of experience, a rarity indeed.
Dear ....
Hope you don't mind me cleaning your damp wank rag off the table. It's just that I was expecting friends round for dinner and they probably think that it's a fucking disgrace that someone would have the audacity to wank in my living room, then wander off like they'd just finished work for the evening. This note serves to close your grubby little episode. It's also your notice to leave the house. In the meantime, put one foot wrong and I'll set fire to your stuff, not even kidding.
Fortunately for me, I haven't had to deal with this sort of shit. However, it comes pretty damn close. Take this evening, for example. I'd been away for the weekend, I'd spent the weekend relaxing, cooking and eating. I also spent a little part of it cleaning up - yes, I'd helped my boyfriend clean his house and do the washing up after having friends round for dinner. Isn't that nice of me? Aren't I a nice person?
Well, no, not really, I just have a bit of decency. Something that, surprisingly, a great number of people seem to lack. I grew up with someone cleaning up after me, which is probably why I am quite a messy person. However, I do know that it's common courtesy to clean up in someone else's home when you make a mess, or at least offer to. Which is why I was pretty pissed off when I got home tonight to find the lounge looking like a modern art exhibition - in a bad way. Dry muesli, bits of Connect Four, empty Subway bags and, strangely, sultanas, were scattered all across the living-room floor like it's the perfectly normal place for them to be. It wasn't my mess, but I cleaned it. It wasn't my other housemate's mess, but she did the washing up. That's normal. What's not normal is to completely ignore the fact that the lounge that YOU or YOUR FRIENDS left in a mess has been cleaned by SOMEONE ELSE and not even bother to acknowledge them.
And here's another note I'd like to write:
I pay the bills. What do you do? This isn't a doss house so could you give me the rent.
It's fair enough to struggle for money when you're a student. You're too busy putting off doing your dissertation and painting props for your student film project to get a job. That's obvious. But when you're a graduate, it's just a little bit pathetic to a) not be working or b) not be actively seeking a job. And, hey, there's always option c) - go on the dole. Yes, I hate it as much as the next guy, but not as much as I hate not being able to pay my electricity because some idiot can't be arsed to do anything constructive with his life.
I actually do love my flatmates (some more than others, admittedly) but it's true what you say about never living with friends. While it's not always a disaster, it's better to stick with what you know, live with people who you've lived with before, people you can scream and shout at and know that they'll love you anyway. And living with people who have been brought up to respect other people is essential too, but sadly, in my four years of experience, a rarity indeed.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Edible Science
In an attempt to educate myself in the matters of science, I have started reading New Scientist. This new hobby is borne of having a boyfriend who knows everything about everything, and I am sick and tired of asking what he terms as ‘stupid questions’ (well I can tell that’s what he thinks anyway) about the scientific realm, which, as it happens, covers most things.
Never mind that I know everything there is to know about Noam Chomsky, the Frankfurt School theory, Political Economy, Liberalism, our good friend Karl (Marx) and coached two of my best friends for their politics and media law exams because I was the star student. They didn’t too well, but I don’t take it personally – my beautiful but incredibly ditzy blonde friend was surprised when I gently informed her that ‘no, Hayley, John Major was not Margaret Thatcher’s son.’
Anyway, I digress, as usual. I’ve been attempting to read up on science so that M and I can have interesting conversations about the latest life-changing scientific breakthroughs. (He’s not interested in Media Theory). But to be honest, it all goes a little bit over my head. Although I did find it rather fascinating that, according to research in Indonesia, Male macaque monkeys are apparently ‘paying’ for sex from females by grooming them for a certain amount of time. I also learned that certain crops lock carbon away for years, thereby cutting greenhouse gas levels in the atmosphere and averting us all from, it seems, a certain death.
Apparently, crops such as wheat and sorghum are the thing to grow. However, one of the problems I can see is this: With more and more health scientists (okay, Gillian McKeith) telling us that wheat is ‘bad’ for us (well, bread), less people are eating it. This may be total rhubarb, but it does lead me smoothly onto my next point: Stupid diets. Yet another of my housemates has succumbed to the ridiculous idea of becoming a vegetarian. We’ve already got one veggie, another one who doesn’t eat ‘carbs’ (she doesn’t know that carbs are short for carbohydrates, incidentally) and another one who eats only chicken and fish. However, we do have two boys who eat anything that’s put in front of them (and then steal from other people’s plates when they haven’t yet finished their dinner.) Their most common way of doing this is ‘have you finished that?’ while simultaneously picking up the last piece of chicken on my plate and putting it in their fat gobs.
However, that’s not the worst eating habit. No, what takes the cream is people who prefer not to eat with their mouths, using the teeth and saliva that God gave them to chew and masticate their food. Instead, they blend their food into liquid (usually made up of horrible green strange vegetables) and then place it into a bag and, get this, administer an enema. Yes, that’s right – they take their food up the arse. Quite literally. In fact, they even have ‘coffee’ enemas and take that up their bum too. I didn’t catch the beginning of the programme, so I didn’t find out their bizarre reason for doing this, but my conclusion is that they are sick. In the head. Following closely with weird eating habits would have to be the hippy mum (a bit like Marcus’ mum in About A Boy but weirder, and less depressed, although heaven knows why) who feeds her children on a diet of raw food. She also doesn’t give them bread. She does, however, give them pollen and plenty of strange looking things in jars, that are apparently very good for them. The poor kids have never had a cooked meal or sandwich in their lives.
Speaking of which, I’m off to make one - a big fat ham sandwich with lots of cheese. Wheat, meat and dairy all in one. Right after I’ve finished reading the rest of New Scientist.
Never mind that I know everything there is to know about Noam Chomsky, the Frankfurt School theory, Political Economy, Liberalism, our good friend Karl (Marx) and coached two of my best friends for their politics and media law exams because I was the star student. They didn’t too well, but I don’t take it personally – my beautiful but incredibly ditzy blonde friend was surprised when I gently informed her that ‘no, Hayley, John Major was not Margaret Thatcher’s son.’
Anyway, I digress, as usual. I’ve been attempting to read up on science so that M and I can have interesting conversations about the latest life-changing scientific breakthroughs. (He’s not interested in Media Theory). But to be honest, it all goes a little bit over my head. Although I did find it rather fascinating that, according to research in Indonesia, Male macaque monkeys are apparently ‘paying’ for sex from females by grooming them for a certain amount of time. I also learned that certain crops lock carbon away for years, thereby cutting greenhouse gas levels in the atmosphere and averting us all from, it seems, a certain death.
Apparently, crops such as wheat and sorghum are the thing to grow. However, one of the problems I can see is this: With more and more health scientists (okay, Gillian McKeith) telling us that wheat is ‘bad’ for us (well, bread), less people are eating it. This may be total rhubarb, but it does lead me smoothly onto my next point: Stupid diets. Yet another of my housemates has succumbed to the ridiculous idea of becoming a vegetarian. We’ve already got one veggie, another one who doesn’t eat ‘carbs’ (she doesn’t know that carbs are short for carbohydrates, incidentally) and another one who eats only chicken and fish. However, we do have two boys who eat anything that’s put in front of them (and then steal from other people’s plates when they haven’t yet finished their dinner.) Their most common way of doing this is ‘have you finished that?’ while simultaneously picking up the last piece of chicken on my plate and putting it in their fat gobs.
However, that’s not the worst eating habit. No, what takes the cream is people who prefer not to eat with their mouths, using the teeth and saliva that God gave them to chew and masticate their food. Instead, they blend their food into liquid (usually made up of horrible green strange vegetables) and then place it into a bag and, get this, administer an enema. Yes, that’s right – they take their food up the arse. Quite literally. In fact, they even have ‘coffee’ enemas and take that up their bum too. I didn’t catch the beginning of the programme, so I didn’t find out their bizarre reason for doing this, but my conclusion is that they are sick. In the head. Following closely with weird eating habits would have to be the hippy mum (a bit like Marcus’ mum in About A Boy but weirder, and less depressed, although heaven knows why) who feeds her children on a diet of raw food. She also doesn’t give them bread. She does, however, give them pollen and plenty of strange looking things in jars, that are apparently very good for them. The poor kids have never had a cooked meal or sandwich in their lives.
Speaking of which, I’m off to make one - a big fat ham sandwich with lots of cheese. Wheat, meat and dairy all in one. Right after I’ve finished reading the rest of New Scientist.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Christmas Newsletters
Don't you just hate those sickening round-robin letters that people write to all their friends and acquaintences, telling you all about their wonderful year, their fantastic children and their newly acquired possessions? Well, I do, anyway. And with the dawn of email it makes it even easier for people to invade your inbox and attach disgusting photographs of their daughter's wedding and their son's new car. I mean, honestly. Some people have no shame.
But imagine EVERYONe wrote a round robin letter over Christmas. I would probably enjoy the letters then. You'd get letters like this, for example:
'2007 has been an interesting year. Our wonderful son Noah has told us he was gay and has since been introducing us to countless boyfriends, most of whom last about a week and are from northern europe. Meanwhile, Sarah has turned to heroin as an escape from her mundane job at Tesco and has been impreganted by her pimp. However, he is very suportive and comes round each morning to inject her eyeballs with the highly addictive substance. Dennis is having an affair with our window-cleaner, who is a transsexual, and I'm currently undergoing therapy after I tried to jump down three flights of stairs. My doctor sent me straight to the shrink after I explained the incident by saying 'If it was good enough for Princess Di, it's good enough for me.'
However, being the hypocrite that I am, I will be subjecting you to a little 'round robin' of my own, by telling you all about my Christmas holiday. So here goes.
The usual family time is always good. I then embarked upon a trip up to Essex, to spend an entire week with my long-distance boyfriend. This was going to be a tough one.
It started off swimmingly when he gave me a 'Global Warming Mug' for Christmas. This is a rather charming little gizmo that has the ability to depress you when you have your morning mug of tea. How it works is this: You pour hot water into the mug and watch as 'valuable seafront property disappears before your very eyes'. M was incredibly impressed by his gift and spent the rest of the week demanding he be served tea in it every morning. Thanks babe.
On the plus side, he did buy me a Banksy book (now out of print) and also the new Russell Brand DVD and he even pretended not to mind when I visibly dribbled while watching this comedy genius do his stuff, so I guess I'm a lucky girl, really.
I was also treated to what I now term as 'lectures of the day' which usually involve M spouting off about something or other (global warming/George Bush/the evils of capitalism/all three if I'm extremely lucky) and must say, learned quite a lot.
We also attended a mud race. Mad dogs and englishman sort of event, rather entertaining and rounded off with a very good lunch of turkey pie. Yummy.
But imagine EVERYONe wrote a round robin letter over Christmas. I would probably enjoy the letters then. You'd get letters like this, for example:
'2007 has been an interesting year. Our wonderful son Noah has told us he was gay and has since been introducing us to countless boyfriends, most of whom last about a week and are from northern europe. Meanwhile, Sarah has turned to heroin as an escape from her mundane job at Tesco and has been impreganted by her pimp. However, he is very suportive and comes round each morning to inject her eyeballs with the highly addictive substance. Dennis is having an affair with our window-cleaner, who is a transsexual, and I'm currently undergoing therapy after I tried to jump down three flights of stairs. My doctor sent me straight to the shrink after I explained the incident by saying 'If it was good enough for Princess Di, it's good enough for me.'
However, being the hypocrite that I am, I will be subjecting you to a little 'round robin' of my own, by telling you all about my Christmas holiday. So here goes.
The usual family time is always good. I then embarked upon a trip up to Essex, to spend an entire week with my long-distance boyfriend. This was going to be a tough one.
It started off swimmingly when he gave me a 'Global Warming Mug' for Christmas. This is a rather charming little gizmo that has the ability to depress you when you have your morning mug of tea. How it works is this: You pour hot water into the mug and watch as 'valuable seafront property disappears before your very eyes'. M was incredibly impressed by his gift and spent the rest of the week demanding he be served tea in it every morning. Thanks babe.
On the plus side, he did buy me a Banksy book (now out of print) and also the new Russell Brand DVD and he even pretended not to mind when I visibly dribbled while watching this comedy genius do his stuff, so I guess I'm a lucky girl, really.
I was also treated to what I now term as 'lectures of the day' which usually involve M spouting off about something or other (global warming/George Bush/the evils of capitalism/all three if I'm extremely lucky) and must say, learned quite a lot.
We also attended a mud race. Mad dogs and englishman sort of event, rather entertaining and rounded off with a very good lunch of turkey pie. Yummy.
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