Things that make me go "Arrrghggh"

Now that we are at home every day trying to grow a business from zero to successful in as short a time as the wolves at the door will allow, I have a little more time to surf the Internet, and a lot more time to complain. My delicate state [that is: being poor, having bills to pay, stagnation of the brain from having daytime TV on-hand, and atrophying of the muscles caused by not wanting to leave house since it would require me to wear more than my pants] lowers my rage threshold to the point of ridiculousness and makes me act like the grand mistress of the grumpiest of the grumpy old women.

Who cares that the local 6th form students leave lunch debris all over the Common every day. I DO!! Why? I don't know why, just because I do! My Loved One told me that it's my war. And he is right, but at this time I am choosing to let rage wash over me.

What else makes me go mental that didn't make me go mental before? Cold calls. Do you know that people really do phone up and try to sell you double-glazing. I honestly thought this was a quaint English joke: it's not, they called not 10 minutes ago. I live in a managed block, the tiniest bit of research would have told them that. No one in this building owns their flat. Don't phone us, phone the managing agent. But instead of saying that, I bark something like "I.SAID.NO.NOT.INTERESTED." What's happening to me? Someone please give me some business please, it's in society's best interests.

And then there's the recruitment consultants (and their associated agencies). My wrath cannot be contained in this posting. I am, in my head, compiling a special posting for you horned devils which I will unleash in due course. (Except Richard O, I like him.)

Disturbed much?

Does anyone else, anyone at all, find this sexy lady bunny disturbing? I said 'sexy' and 'bunny' in the same sentence. Tell me I am not alone here: disturbing.

I found these and liked them

1. Fuck you, Penguin. Laughed out loud. Poverty-induced hysteria? Maybe. Don't let this confuse you: I am in no way a fan of cute animals/cute animal blogs. This is just funny, simples....

.....which leads me nicely to the next one:


2. I have always appreciated the Meerkat and this made me smile indulgently. (Thanks to Peter the Great, because I nicked it from his blog.)

Why does it have to be so difficult?

Foraying into the field of service provision, I now have a well-formed view of "what it should be like" to give good customer service. It's not hard, it really isn't. Why then have I spent the past two days "dealing" with an Internet service provider? Tiscali, let's make it clear.

Having blown off BT for abominable customer service, I gave Tiscali a chance. (If I am to be entirely honest, I wanted to give Virgin Media a chance but they don't "service" our area). Nevertheless, lessons learned from BT made me wiser and more assertive about my extraordinarily reasonable service provision expectations. On the phone to the Tiscali Sales - a promptly answered call - I felt that I had all bases covered.

"Can I please put My Boyfriend, whom I live with and who uses the service, as a named person so that should there be any faults or queries, he is also able to phone you directly."
"Absolutely!" came the reply. "Why don't I just go ahead and take his information down for our records?"

Wonderful.

You can see it coming, can't you? The day dawns, a Tuesday, when My Boyfriend has to make that call. He got as far as: "We'll need to send an engineer out to your house." Excellent, he says, please do. "Erm, well, actually, I can't take that instruction from you." You what? "Erm, data protection (voice becomes muffled) so you are erm, not authorised."

I won't bore you with the rest, although I feel I should: as a warning. It's taken two of us, two days talking to four different people, to send someone between 11 and 1 p.m. They have yet to arrive. Time of posting: 2.15 p.m.

Do you recommend Sky? Are they good?

Overheard

On the tube. Girl, probably 23 or 24 years old, says to boy, probably 19 or 20 years old:

"I'm sorry to hear about your friend."

Boy nods sadly, "She died on her birthday."

"That's a bit shit. But, hey, at least her parents will only have one day of the year to feel sad."

Verbatim.

Things I like: Flings

Not of the 'brief casual relationship kind' but of the 'baked not fried' kind.

They're from South Africa, made from maize (corn) and taste wonderous.

My Loved One says they taste like Wotsits.

They do not.

Rodchenko and Popova at the Tate

This is what the blurb says:

"This exhibition explores work by two of Russia's most influential avant-garde artists, Alexandr Rodchenko and Liubov Popova. Charting their evolution from abstract painting to graphic designs, the show includes cinema and theatre poster designs, books and costumes as well as paintings and sculpture. "



This is what I said (standing in front of a Liubov Popova fabric design):

"I like this one."

My Loved One rolled his eyes and walked away. Such an expression of personal taste without any explanation is apparently uninteresting, I later learned.


Rodchenko & Popova: Defining Constructivism

Unexpected item in the bagging area

A little more than a year ago, I wrote with some fervour about a style of speed-dating that encouraged a 3-minute rant, as opposed to the style which involves pouting and syrupy tones. You can read it here. I have something to add. Not about speed-dating, rather about things to rant about.

Have you ever used the self-service scanners at Tesco? Great idea! A few items to buy and no queue, or not a very long one if there is. Some may say that it's robbing a British worker of a British job...but is it? I ask, because about 9 times out of 10, I have a forced interaction with a Tesco-uniformed individual whilst using the "self-service" scanners. At any point, from arrival at the scanner - before any button pressing or bag rustling begins - through to removing my paid for lentil and bacon soup and triangle seed roll, bagged or not, I am affronted by that voice, that voice! "Unexpected item in the bagging area." No there is not, no there bloody is not. I haven't even started, and if I have, and I've finished and paid: no there bloody is not! I did not surreptitiously add a packet of nuts or bottle of Lightly Sparkling mineral water to my stash. I just didn't. But apparently that disembodied lady has a different view. Did your coat brush against the bagging area? "Unexpected item". Did you open that difficult-to-open bag a little too vigorously? "Unexpected item". So I wait for the Tesco-appointed, Tesco-uniformed investigator to come over and ensure that there isn't a cheeky chocolate bar smuggled into the bag; that there isn't a packet of condoms nestled between my Strawberry Muller Light yogurt and Royal Gala apple. I wait for them to identify themselves to the accuser by scanning their tags to say Hey, it's OK, I'm from Tesco, and EVERYTHING IS OK. There is no thievery going on over here. Here, let me enter my special code so that our valued customer can be on there way with their PAID FOR items.

Come on Tesco, is there something else you could be too sensitive about? Perhaps the chickens?

Songs with the word "dance"

Or any variation of "dance". This is what happens when you can't sleep and the person next to you has an equally competitive spirit coupled with a reasonably populated mental song-database.

The rules:

• name the song, and the artist and SING the referenced line
• no long pauses
• no obscure songs "that you have downloaded from MySpace" (unless it's a shared reference)
• Praising one's opponent is appropriate for most excellent quotes

Dancing in the Dark (Bruce Springsteen): "You can't start a fire, you can't start a fire without a spark, this gun's for hire, even if we're just dancing in the dark."
Le Freak (Chic): "Have you heard about the new dance craze, listen to us, I'm sure you'll be amazed."
Dancing on the Ceiling (Lionel Richie): "Oh, what a feeling! When were dancing on the ceiling!"
Private Dancer (Tina Turner):"I'm your private dancer, a dancer for money, I'll do what you want me to do, I'm your private dancer, a dancer for money, any old music will do."
Tiny Dancer (Elton John): "Hold me closer tiny dancer, count the headlights on the highway."
I Don't Feel Like Dancing (Scissor Sisters): "Don't feel like dancin', dancin', even if I find nothin' better to do, don't feel like dancin', dancin', why'd you break it down when I'm not in the mood?"
Flashdance - What a Feeling (Irene Cara): "Pictures come alive, you can dance right through your life."
Careless Whisper (George Michael): "Never gonna dance again, guilty feet have got no rythym..."
Dancing in the Street (Rolling Stones): "Summer's here and the time is right, for dancing in the streets."
Dancing in Heaven (Q-Feel): "Dancing in heaven, I never thought I could get my feet this far..."
You Should Be Dancing (Bee Gees): "What you doing on your back, aah? You should be dancing, yeah, dancing, yeah."
I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Whitney Houston): "Oh I wanna dance with somebody, I wanna feel the heat with somebody, yeah I wanna dance with somebody, with somebody who loves me."
Cheek to Cheek (Frank Sinatra): "And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak, and I seem to find the happiness I seek when were out together dancing cheek to cheek."
Let's Dance (David Bowie): "Let's dance put on your red shoes, and dance the blues."
I Can't Dance (Genesis): "I can't dance, I can't talk, only thing about me is the way I walk. I can't dance, I can't sing, I'm just standing here selling everything."
Square Dance (Eminem):"Y'all c'mon now, let's all get on down, lets do-si-do now, we gon' have a good ol' time. Don't be scared, cus there ain't nuttin' to worry 'bout, let your hair down, and square dance with me!"
I Don't Wanna Dance (Eddie Grant): "I don't wanna dance, dance with you baby no more, I'll never do something to hurt you, though oh but the feeling is bad, the feeling is bad."

The winner? An obscure song downloaded from MySpace.
Dance Like Ordinary People (Hella Cholla):"You just don't dance like ordinary people, but neither do I."

http://www.myspace.com/hellacholla

My corruption is in progress

I went to see Russell Brand at the Roundhouse last night. I don’t think I am a prude. I really don’t. Inexperienced and with simple tastes, but prudish, no I don’t think so. He’s a funny man. A dinky, skin-tight all black clad, messy haired man with rootin tootin boots. The population of the world who has heard of Russell Brand, I assume has also heard about his sex addiction. A large part of his act is about that - very graphically so. I don’t mean a visual of his bits, no indeed not, but an energetic display of how he goes about his sexual business. With many, many details that perhaps my mind was unable to process fast enough to laugh. When it comes to pornography (I really didn’t intend that pun) I am almost virginal. Of course I’ve seen some, but not very much and most of it pretty standard.

Apart from his own sexual tales – apparently he will shag anything that his human, female and still breathing – he did enlighten us about other acts of deviancy. One such act is called “seagulling”. Now, I know I am not the only one to have not heard of this, because I asked around! Allow me. It’s when a boy, usually in a school environment but not limited to this, ejaculates into his hand and flings it into the face of an unsuspecting passerby. Grim.

As happens when you are alerted to something, you begin to notice it around you. And so today, when I was running mindlessly on the treadmill, music blaring at me to keep going because one day it will be worth the effort, I looked out of the window at the activity on the street below. My eyes wandered over the Christmas market marquee set up in the very sad excuse for a square, over the working people out on their lunch breaks, the mothers with their infuriating lack of pram-driving skills and/or consideration, into the shop window of ______. Therein, a school boy was looking out, his friends milling around the shop behind him. I was about to move my eyes along, trying to soak up as much of the outside world as I could, when I noticed that his movements were a bit, well, odd. I went back to the window and looked a bit more closely, only to see that he was in fact rubbing himself, rather frenetically. ‘Himself’ being a euphemism for ‘his penis’. See how bold I am becoming? With my new found knowledge I allowed myself to speculate, with a certain worldly-wisenessness, that perhaps the shop assistant was to be the unsuspecting recipient of something very unwelcome.

Everything in my world was so pretty before this. Russell bloody Brand.

Things to rant about...in 3 minutes.

Scottish Housemate and I, and others along the way, have been debating the concepts of speed dating, internet dating and other types of arranged dating activities - as well as the would you/wouldn't you conversation.

The most frequently repeated comment from men and women alike is that they have done it or would do it "for a laugh". My retort is always, "That's not fair!" Someone is genuinely looking for a possible partner and is most likely placing a great deal of faith and hope [and some serious angst] in the process. In my eyes, it's just plain mean to enter into this dating fray if your intentions are not honorable. I imagine how hurt I would feel [and possibly humiliated if I actually quite liked him] if I shared my time allotted self only to find out that he was there for a laugh. I object!

Observation tells me that internet dating to the majority is nothing more than a grown up version of 'Hot or Not'. Let's not pretend that the hopeful lads consider qualities, interests and hobbies. In my office internet dating and subsequent dates are discussed openly. Those women who never make it to the actual date stage are displayed on the monitor for all to see because they dared to express some level of interest and are mocked mercilessly for it. With comments such as "what a minger" the boys rule them out one by one based on looks: and looks alone. Let me point out that these "boys" are aged 28 and upwards, and as the idiom goes, are no oil paintings themselves. God help us.

Now there is another kind of arranged dating activity, one which was the original purpose of this post. Scottish Housemate tells me, courtesy of the London Lite, that there is a new phenomenon sweeping the bars of London town. That was for dramatic effect...one bar somewhere in South Ken is hosting something called Down With Dating. An anti-speed dating if you will. People can go and legitimately take the piss. On the dreaded wall of faces, photos are replaced by your own hand-drawn-with-crayons self-portrait...and your 3 minutes of me me me is an opportunity for you both to talk about things that really piss you off. This I could do. I shall start making a list right now: things high up on shelves in shops; American English; people who walk really slowly in front of you; the fact that Quality Streets come in giant tins; phone contracts; customer services "your call is important to us" on hold mesasges; South African accents....This is too easy. Suddenly "for a laugh" sounds very appealing to me.

Stars in my eyes

A while back I expressed something hopeful about horoscopes and such. I was promised a good year that year and I thanked the stars for that. Since it proved to be completely the opposite, 2006 being an almost complete pile of poo, I turned my back on the wish-wash.

Enter Facebook.

Horoscope and Tarot applications telling me my fortune every day. I am supposed to have found love many times over by now. Why is it then that of late, the only man to have shown any sort interest at all is the manager at Pizza Go Go? At 2 o'clock in the morning. Flirting with me whilst waiting for my fries to become golden and delicious. To go with my large pizza. OK, nevermind, I just answered that. I need new hangouts, clearly.

I think I am going to remove them from my page. Or simply stop reading them. Reading into them.

But hark! Tomorrow my Money and Love are BOTH sunshiny...

Interpol @ Alexandra Palace

Arcade Fire at Alexandra Palace, Wood Green

I do not want a bench

From time to time I think about how I want to be remembered when I die. I don’t much like talking about me dying because I plan to live a very long and healthy life. Apart from how people will think of you, or speak about you, things happen in the very important few days after that I think we should all have a say in.

I do not want a bench. Those ones that you see in parks. “How softly the river flows…” “In memory of…” “You will be missed” and so on. The river walk from Surbiton to Kingston, as I discovered this weekend, is a very pleasant one…but there was a certain distraction that I could not acclimatise to. Bench after bench after bench of the aforementioned variety. I thought to myself, most definitively, I do not want a bench.

Upper lip hair

I was determined to write something tonight, but was distracted by this blog, the link to which appears below. It pleased me greatly to find it, and have instead spent my writing time giggling. It's impossible not to get caught up in the unashamed appreciation of the mustache.

"Ah, the pleasing symmetry of a delicate gullwing swoop in hair, mustache, and tie."

Mustaches of the Nineteenth Century

Have you found Jesus?

Those of you who know me will know why I am posting this and yes, I am probably going to hell in a handbasket.

(non-essential) [explantory]

The difference between brackets and parentheses has never really concerned me until recently. It was upon receipt of some communications where the square bracket was in use which caused me to ponder whether or not its use was technically correct.

I am particularly fond of the parentheses as I have a neverending supply of thoughts, offhand remarks and justifications which cannot be left unstated so I chuck them into a round bracket and keep going.

This is what I found out: use the parentheses () to provide non-essential information, to mark off a part of your sentence that is not part of the main thought; and the bracket [] to insert a clarifying word or phrase.

You'd never believe I used to work as a copy editor and proofreader, would you?

Bookshop Blues

I love browsing bookshops. Rarely do I have an intention to buy something...Amazon is cheaper after all. But when I am thinking about buying a book, I can't skip the part of looking for it, finding it, picking it up and paging through it. There is something so base about smelling the smell of paper printed and bound. Even though the book I will eventually buy will arrive in the post, at least I've had a good look at it first, albeit somewhere else.

Yesterday, because it's impossible to walk past a bookshop without going in or at least looking in the window, I spent some time browsing in one of the more commercial bookshops. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, sometimes I wait for something to catch my eye before lifting it from the shelf for a flick through. This time I happened upon a book on the 3 for 2 table. It wasn't the title or the cover that grabbed me, it was the tag line: "You're nobody until somebody dumps you." Ouch. It made me smile in acknowledgement.

I skipped to the 'It's not you, it's me' bit. Turns out it's probably true. Not comforting, but true.

I did not need to know that

Maybe it's the interested look on my face. Maybe it's the bored look on my face. Whatever it is that encourages people to come into my office, ensconce themselves in a chair and proceed to tell me the most intimate details about their medical issues, I obviously exude it. Note: I am not a doctor. Such visits are thrust upon me, I am the unwillingly party. These people always, always take me by surprise: even when I see them coming. Inevitably they leave my office, their burden unloaded, their problem shared, completely oblivious to the fact that I am left feeling bilious.

James (name not changed). Infection of the urethra. "My ass hurts. It burns when I pee! I don't know how you women do it!" Do what James? "Sit on your bits all day, it's so uncomfortable, it hurts! I had to go for, like a test where they blah blah blah blah...so in case you were, like, wondering why I look so down, this is why. Blah blah." James, I wasn't, like, wondering.

Seriously. Do not. Want. To know.